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Thread started 10/14/09 5:44pm
Huggiebear
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Trap rap should be banned
I heard about this form of rap called Trap music which is all about guys who sell crack and live in trap houses. Its like crunk rap and has artists like Gucci Mane and Plies (I think). I watched a video by a guy denouncing it, and I agree, its all about glamorising drug dealing and the crudest ghetto stereotypes around, rims, hos, cash, guys with gold teeth and tacky pimp style bling. This video even said that these guys were paid millions by white racists to sell this lifestyle to young black men to keep them like that.
Does anyone else know about this form of crude rap and want it banned as well.
How can anyone get angry with the man who gave us Adore and the Dirty Mind album?
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Reply #1 posted 10/14/09 5:51pm
missfee
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Huggiebear said:
I heard about this form of rap called Trap music which is all about guys who sell crack and live in trap houses. Its like crunk rap and has artists like Gucci Mane and Plies (I think). I watched a video by a guy denouncing it, and I agree, its all about glamorising drug dealing and the crudest ghetto stereotypes around, rims, hos, cash, guys with gold teeth and tacky pimp style bling. This video even said that these guys were paid millions by white racists to sell this lifestyle to young black men to keep them like that.Does anyone else know about this form of crude rap and want it banned as well.
eek
2010 is here, 2010 is here, 2010 is here!!! excited
What does this definition signify? the condition of being small in stature but aggressively ambitious and seeking absolute control hmmm
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Reply #2 posted 10/14/09 9:02pm
Huggiebear
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Oh the video was by some guy called blackmilitant
How can anyone get angry with the man who gave us Adore and the Dirty Mind album?
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Reply #3 posted 10/14/09 9:32pm
TheBoyfromtheB
and
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Ayyyyy
Gucci!
yea, i know...
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Reply #4 posted 10/14/09 9:51pm
Sandino
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Huggiebear said:
I heard about this form of rap called Trap music which is all about guys who sell crack and live in trap houses. Its like crunk rap and has artists like Gucci Mane and Plies (I think). I watched a video by a guy denouncing it, and I agree, its all about glamorising drug dealing and the crudest ghetto stereotypes around, rims, hos, cash, guys with gold teeth and tacky pimp style bling. This video even said that these guys were paid millions by white racists to sell this lifestyle to young black men to keep them like that.
Does anyone else know about this form of crude rap and want it banned as well.
BRR
BRRRR
BRRRRR
GUCCI!!!
Did Prince ever deny he had sex with his sister? I believe not. So there U have it..
http://prince.org/msg/8/327790?&pg=2
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Reply #5 posted 10/14/09 10:07pm
PurpleDiamond2
009
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missfee said:
Huggiebear said:
I heard about this form of rap called Trap music which is all about guys who sell crack and live in trap houses. Its like crunk rap and has artists like Gucci Mane and Plies (I think). I watched a video by a guy denouncing it, and I agree, its all about glamorising drug dealing and the crudest ghetto stereotypes around, rims, hos, cash, guys with gold teeth and tacky pimp style bling. This video even said that these guys were paid millions by white racists to sell this lifestyle to young black men to keep them like that.Does anyone else know about this form of crude rap and want it banned as well.
eek
and this is whats wrong with the black community today disbelief our people need to wake up
rainbow may u live 2 see the dawn rainbow
a yo prince im really happy for you imma let you finish but Michael Jackson had one of the best records of all time!
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Reply #6 posted 10/14/09 11:15pm
ernestsewell
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Wow, you mean rap music has NEVER glorified drugs before????? rolleyes
Ernest L Sewell, IV
Confessions Of A Prince Realist. You might want to sit down for this.
Pseudo fact #72: At 3:16 in "Get On the Boat", Prince samples the "Sex and the City" theme song.
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Reply #7 posted 10/14/09 11:32pm
TonyVanDam
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Huggiebear said:
I heard about this form of rap called Trap music which is all about guys who sell crack and live in trap houses. Its like crunk rap and has artists like Gucci Mane and Plies (I think). I watched a video by a guy denouncing it, and I agree, its all about glamorising drug dealing and the crudest ghetto stereotypes around, rims, hos, cash, guys with gold teeth and tacky pimp style bling. This video even said that these guys were paid millions by white racists to sell this lifestyle to young black men to keep them like that.
Does anyone else know about this form of crude rap and want it banned as well.
Ever heard of a rap style created in the late 1980's known as gangsta rap?!?
Tupac "Makaveli" Shakur (RIP 1971-1996) & Michael Jackson (RIP 1958-2009)
2 men that had their lives taken away the moment they were speaking out AND rebelling against the dark side of the music industry once too often.
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Reply #8 posted 10/15/09 1:16am
Huggiebear
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Yes I know, but this artist and music was even more debased and deprived than gangsta rap. Why do people get into this shit?
How can anyone get angry with the man who gave us Adore and the Dirty Mind album?
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Reply #9 posted 10/15/09 6:29am
vainandy
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Huggiebear said:
Yes I know, but this artist and music was even more debased and deprived than gangsta rap. Why do people get into this shit?
Because they have no fucking taste. And not only are they making the white racist happy by degrading themselves, but they also are making music that entertains him since they have about as much rhythm as a white racist, which is none.
Andy has spoken dammitt.
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Reply #10 posted 10/15/09 6:32am
vainandy
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TonyVanDam said:
Huggiebear said:
I heard about this form of rap called Trap music which is all about guys who sell crack and live in trap houses. Its like crunk rap and has artists like Gucci Mane and Plies (I think). I watched a video by a guy denouncing it, and I agree, its all about glamorising drug dealing and the crudest ghetto stereotypes around, rims, hos, cash, guys with gold teeth and tacky pimp style bling. This video even said that these guys were paid millions by white racists to sell this lifestyle to young black men to keep them like that.
Does anyone else know about this form of crude rap and want it banned as well.
Ever heard of a rap style created in the late 1980's known as gangsta rap?!?
Yeah, hip hop turned into shit hop a long time ago. The early 80s rap was great but most of it after that, hell naw.
Andy has spoken dammitt.
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Reply #11 posted 10/15/09 8:18am
TonyVanDam
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vainandy said:
Yeah, hip hop turned into shit hop a long time ago. The early 80s rap was great but most of it after that, hell naw.
But in this thread, we're talking about lyrical references to selling drugs & drug abuse. Some of the gangsta rap artists had touch on this subject long before these Trap rap artists came along.
Tupac "Makaveli" Shakur (RIP 1971-1996) & Michael Jackson (RIP 1958-2009)
2 men that had their lives taken away the moment they were speaking out AND rebelling against the dark side of the music industry once too often.
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Reply #12 posted 10/15/09 8:41am
DakutiusMaximu
s
"This video even said that these guys were paid millions by white racists to sell this lifestyle to young black men to keep them like that.Does anyone else know about this form of crude rap and want it banned as well?"
Flippin through the channels last night I landed on a special about drugs and how the US Govt. during the Iran / Contra scandal employed the CIA to import coke into the ghettos of LA not just to fund Reagan's secret and illegal military actions in the middle east but to deliberately hamstring the black community by hooking them on crack.
They spotlighted a dealer named Freeway Ricky Ross who was taught by a CIA operative named Blandon' how to increase profitability (and thereby addict many more people) by turning expensive flake into cheap rock).
Ricky would sometimes make $3 million in a day!
And when the local cops were about to raid his locations Ricky would receive intel ahead of time so he could stay ahead of the law. Hmmmm... now who would would have that kind of insider information AND want to keep Ricky in business?
They interviewed Ricky (in jail now) and to his way of thinking he was just lucky to find a great source who would front him huge quantities of product so he could go to work on a grand scale. He never really thought too much about all these lucky warnings he was getting on a regualr basis.
But now that all this shit has been revealed aboout how Oliver North was at the head of all this evil Ricky sees that he was totally played as the key man to ruin a people and "keep darky down." The CIA was pushing Ricky's ego buttons (I'm the BIGGEST dealer that ever lived!) like an accordian.
There was some incredible footage of a scrupled (is that a word?) 18 year law enforcement vet confronting the national drug czar at a public meeting about this terrible scourge in LA attended by thousands of concerned citizens about how it was a deliberately planned act by the US government to create and release crack into the community.
Of course the main investigative journalist (a guy named Wade, I think) was found dead of "an apparent suicide" and the official congressional inquiry into Iran Contra and its downsteam by-products in the ghetto absolved the CIA of any wrong-doing.. Surprise, surprise.
So now Oliver North has his own show on FOX and so many brothers are in prison and so many other peoples lives have been ruined.
Many areas in LA were so devastated by the crack epidemic that once upwardly mobile people lost their homes on such a scale that entire neighborhoods were abandoned due to inability to make the mortgage payments anymore thanks to the effects of crack cocaine, either directly on their own lives as users, or because of the crime and dangers rampant on their streets they had to leave.
Now these same areas have been gentrfied by white real estate speculators who swooped in and picked up the burned out and boarded up properties for pennies on the dollar. Houses that were once affordable for the local people now run $300K, keeping the money in the hands of those it should be in, right?
A job well done thanks to Ronald Reagan and his thugs.
So do I believe that a powerful group of white racists paid millions to keep a certain demographic dumbed down?
Absolutely, but it was done as a highly sophisticated covert operation by the world's best experts who played guys like Ricky Ross as patsys. They built Ricky up as a legendary figure who many others then emulated and spread the epidemic even faster and farther to other cities. It was a brilliant strategy and it worked.
Local police forces were totally overwhelmed and kept busy picking up the small time players but the Ricky Rosses were being taken care of by the very people who engineered this evil mess.
So no, it wasn't a matter of a simple phone call from a white music industry executive offering million dollar contracts to anyone who would write rap songs glorifying drugs and the gangbanger lifestyle, it was far more insidious than that.
[Edited 10/15/09 9:05am]
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Reply #13 posted 10/15/09 11:34am
Timmy84
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The drug thing is bigger than hip-hop.
Soul music, wake up, create more legends! RIP Teddy!
(SUBSCRIBE) http://www.youtube.com/user/timmy841212
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Reply #14 posted 10/15/09 11:50am
Chic35
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So they have put a label on it now...it's all ridiculous, but that is neither here nor there. hammer
The message you are about to hear are not meant for transmission. Should ONLY be accessed in the privacy of your mind. Words are so intense so if you dare to listen.Take off your clothes and meet me between the lines. wildsign
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Reply #15 posted 10/15/09 12:00pm
Timmy84
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Chic35 said:
So they have put a label on it now...it's all ridiculous, but that is neither here nor there. hammer
I'm saying! The fuck is "trap rap"? It ain't us that are giving these "styles" their names. Makes me sick. It's all hip-hop to me.
Soul music, wake up, create more legends! RIP Teddy!
(SUBSCRIBE) http://www.youtube.com/user/timmy841212
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Reply #16 posted 10/15/09 12:12pm
vainandy
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TonyVanDam said:
vainandy said:
Yeah, hip hop turned into shit hop a long time ago. The early 80s rap was great but most of it after that, hell naw.
But in this thread, we're talking about lyrical references to selling drugs & drug abuse. Some of the gangsta rap artists had touch on this subject long before these Trap rap artists came along.
Trap rap, gangsta rap, crunk junk....it's all shit hop and it's all shit. The different names just describe the type of shit it is....long turds, diarrrhea, or constipated chunks.
Andy has spoken dammitt.
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Reply #17 posted 10/15/09 12:43pm
TonyVanDam
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vainandy said:
Trap rap, gangsta rap, crunk junk....it's all shit hop and it's all shit. The different names just describe the type of shit it is....long turds, diarrrhea, or constipated chunks.
THE SOLUTION:
Clean the system out without questions. nod lol
[Edited 10/15/09 15:43pm]
Tupac "Makaveli" Shakur (RIP 1971-1996) & Michael Jackson (RIP 1958-2009)
2 men that had their lives taken away the moment they were speaking out AND rebelling against the dark side of the music industry once too often.
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Reply #18 posted 10/15/09 12:49pm
Timmy84
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I'll say it again, the fuck is trap rap? lol
Soul music, wake up, create more legends! RIP Teddy!
(SUBSCRIBE) http://www.youtube.com/user/timmy841212
The soulful moods of Timothy Pernell - http://twitter.com/glamfunk84
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Reply #19 posted 10/15/09 1:57pm
Sandino
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well since I'm of this generation and regularly socialize with people that enjoy this kind've music(and btw it's not only black people, I don't think i could tell you how many people of ALL races...except asians, who enjoy gucci mane & houston choppped & screwed etc) people enjoy this music because it is the "cool thing" simple as. Why did people 30 years like funk & disco & rock even though it isn't as musically sophisticated as classical & jazz? because it's the cool thing. It was the taste of the time. The only thing that truly differentiates between that kinda music and this is their is no real substantive or stylistic evolution in rap music atm. At least FUNK branched off into synth funk, techno, or disco, and disco became house, electro and pop music. I can't foresee what the hell rap like this with no original musical contribution could branch off into.
Did Prince ever deny he had sex with his sister? I believe not. So there U have it..
http://prince.org/msg/8/327790?&pg=2
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Reply #20 posted 10/15/09 8:25pm
Huggiebear
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Timmy84 said:
I'll say it again, the fuck is trap rap? lol
Timmy, its a name I heard on the Blackmilitant video, apparently a trap is a crack house, and trap rap is about crack and meth dealers who also are players, gangsters, pimps and they rap about it. Their songs glamorise getting paid and moving rock etc. The music apparently is a mixture of dirty rap, southern Lil Jon style crunk rap and pure gangsta thug rap (Ie it is shit), Plies, Gucci Mane and Houston are seen as their main artists.
Nearly all of these "artists" have criminal records and are from very ghetto backgrounds
How can anyone get angry with the man who gave us Adore and the Dirty Mind album?
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Reply #21 posted 10/15/09 8:41pm
Timmy84
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Huggiebear said:
Timmy84 said:
I'll say it again, the fuck is trap rap? lol
Timmy, its a name I heard on the Blackmilitant video, apparently a trap is a crack house, and trap rap is about crack and meth dealers who also are players, gangsters, pimps and they rap about it. Their songs glamorise getting paid and moving rock etc. The music apparently is a mixture of dirty rap, southern Lil Jon style crunk rap and pure gangsta thug rap (Ie it is shit), Plies, Gucci Mane and Houston are seen as their main artists.
Nearly all of these "artists" have criminal records and are from very ghetto backgrounds
Gangster rap and crunk rap are "names" too, lol
But I guess when you talk about selling crack and shooting and all that shit, you have to have a name for it, that's irritating. Then again I'm glad I don't know their music.
[Edited 10/15/09 20:43pm]
Soul music, wake up, create more legends! RIP Teddy!
(SUBSCRIBE) http://www.youtube.com/user/timmy841212
The soulful moods of Timothy Pernell - http://twitter.com/glamfunk84
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Reply #22 posted 10/15/09 10:25pm
BenaimanBawkah
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Huggiebear said:
Oh the video was by some guy called blackmilitant
so i wonder why he's blaming it on white racists.
i don't doubt that it's in part due to money hungry white assholes, but seriously, people need to realize that if no one wanted to be a part of it, it wouldn't exist. don't blame it solely on one group. there had to be willing participants.
let us enjoy ourselves, this rhythm is ill. i want to sit on your penis
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Reply #23 posted 10/15/09 10:30pm
NightwalkerDNB
Gucci !!!!!
I like his stuff, and no Trap shouldn't be banned, if anything, all this emo fucking electro pop bullshit should be.
I finally figured out why they call it the 'Wonder Bra'... coz when she takes it off you wonder where her tits went.
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Reply #24 posted 10/15/09 10:35pm
JarviusLovesex
y
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ernestsewell said:
Wow, you mean rap music has NEVER glorified drugs before????? rolleyes
Not the way 'Trap-music" is glorifying it.
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Reply #25 posted 10/15/09 11:08pm
ernestsewell
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JarviusLovesexy said:
ernestsewell said:
Wow, you mean rap music has NEVER glorified drugs before????? rolleyes
Not the way 'Trap-music" is glorifying it.
Bullshit. MFers been rapping about selling drugs and making money from it for ages, and not just week.
Ernest L Sewell, IV
Confessions Of A Prince Realist. You might want to sit down for this.
Pseudo fact #72: At 3:16 in "Get On the Boat", Prince samples the "Sex and the City" theme song.
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Reply #26 posted 10/16/09 12:49am
Paris9748430
O.K., so rappers making songs about selling drugs is wrong and should be banned.
But it's OK for countless rockers like Mick Jagger to make songs like Sister Morphine?
Or a funk artist like Rick James to have a Quaalude reference in his biggest hit?
Or pretty much every artist in Music history?
The countless Blues Artists.
Everybody!!!
So you're saying one genre of music should be banned for talking about selling drugs, but it's perfectly fine for ALL the rest of music to talking about using drugs?
So singing about DOING Drugs is OK.
But rapping about SELLING Drugs is not OK.
What I'm hearing is that you can talk about drugs all you want as long as you sing about it but don't rap.
JERKIN' EVERYTHING IN SIGHT!!!!!
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Reply #27 posted 10/16/09 2:34am
Huggiebear
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Paris9748430 said:
O.K., so rappers making songs about selling drugs is wrong and should be banned.
But it's OK for countless rockers like Mick Jagger to make songs like Sister Morphine?
Or a funk artist like Rick James to have a Quaalude reference in his biggest hit?
Or pretty much every artist in Music history?
The countless Blues Artists.
Everybody!!!
So you're saying one genre of music should be banned for talking about selling drugs, but it's perfectly fine for ALL the rest of music to talking about using drugs?
So singing about DOING Drugs is OK.
But rapping about SELLING Drugs is not OK.
What I'm hearing is that you can talk about drugs all you want as long as you sing about it but don't rap.
Not at all, songs that sing about glamorising drugs and drug abuse by rock groups are just as bad (In fact even worse than rap, because it reaches a wider group of people than trap rap would)
I am anti drugs period, I also agree there are willing participants who love their fucked up lifestyles so much, that if they can rap or sing about it, thats great cos theres more money for the drugs they use. But I think a lot of people only sing that shit because they are being paid money too. You must know a lot of pushers actually aren't users. Remember the number of early 90s rappers who went on about the hard streets who came from middle class homes like Vanilla Ice, Young MC and apparently Coolio was also from a good home.
How can anyone get angry with the man who gave us Adore and the Dirty Mind album?
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Reply #28 posted 10/16/09 2:40am
Christopher
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vainandy said:
The early 80s rap was great but most of it after that, hell naw.
thats classic period. cant be touched.
but no its not the best ever lol
"here we go...."
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Reply #29 posted 10/16/09 6:21am
vainandy
avatar
Paris9748430 said:
O.K., so rappers making songs about selling drugs is wrong and should be banned.
But it's OK for countless rockers like Mick Jagger to make songs like Sister Morphine?
Or a funk artist like Rick James to have a Quaalude reference in his biggest hit?
Or pretty much every artist in Music history?
The countless Blues Artists.
Everybody!!!
So you're saying one genre of music should be banned for talking about selling drugs, but it's perfectly fine for ALL the rest of music to talking about using drugs?
So singing about DOING Drugs is OK.
But rapping about SELLING Drugs is not OK.
What I'm hearing is that you can talk about drugs all you want as long as you sing about it but don't rap.
I don't care if they're singing about selling ass on the corner as long as it's not shit hop. Any excuse to get rid of shit hop, I'm for. evillol
Andy has spoken dammitt.
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Hot Slut Of The Day!
Amanda Palmer, one half of The Dresden Dolls, Neil Gaiman's fiancee and the half-nekkid fairy of the Golden Globes.
While getting fancy for the Golden Globes on Sunday night, Amanda decided that slips are not for her, so she wore her dress without one. The likes of Martin Scorsese and Morgan Freeman got ten eye fulls of her Julia Roberts pits and silicone nipples (silence tribute to Heidi Montag?).
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Submitted by givemethegun on Fri, 01/22/2010 - 9:49pm.
Uh, sure.
This is Amanda Fucking Palmer, people. Performance artist, incredibly talented singer/songwriter, and a strong woman who doesn't give a shit what people think about her. She's amazing, unique, clever and sweet, and doesn't conform to the same standards as all the other Hollywood vapids that appear on this site.
Also, grow up - not all women shave.
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Mmmm, classy!
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OK, I don't feel half as bad about my drunken antics now.
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Submitted by Belial on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 6:48am.
She's a genius, he's a genius. Love him, love her. That would be one awesome threesome...
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Submitted by LASux on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 5:42am.
I can smell her yeast from here.
Throw this fish back in the ocean.
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Submitted by literarylioness on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 2:44am.
I am French American and I shave and wax. I am proud of my hairless bits. I smell good too.
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Submitted by Oyster on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 2:41am.
This woman's eyebrows are magically fugly.
If a chola's eyebrows say:
"I'm going to fucking stab you"
then this lady's brows are screaming:
"I'm going to stick a sewing needle in your ear while you sleep trustingly next to me because my depakote has worn off."
Its too bad she sings about sandwiches and the show Law & Order with what sounds like a bad head cold but its probably her deluded idea of bluesy singing, because the music behind all that lunacy is pretty decent:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i62UF7uROGU
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Submitted by Kelli B on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 1:16am.
drugs do bad things to stupid people
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Submitted by Melody1980 on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:18pm.
OK that's gross. Not only is she HAIRY but she's built like a man. Huge shoulders, big feet, even her face is gigantic. Ick!
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Submitted by LayLow on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:11pm.
Engaged? Ah.
So does this mean she's becoming a Scientologist now?
"BOYCOTT LENO."
- People who are funny.
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Submitted by Condi the ingro... on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:31pm.
Her husband-to-be, novelist Neil Gaiman, was nominated for a GG for Coraline, but of course she made it all about her. Nice way to support your partner, lady. As the Fug Girls said, there's always someone like this at these things, trying to make A Statement about something or other, but usually it's just a famewhore such as Phoebe Price or Sally Kirkland.
This was really, really obvious and sort of pathetic, actually: LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT MEEEEEE.
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Submitted by Erika_Leigh28 on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 7:41pm.
i'm all for being a feminist but why can't we be CLEAN feminists that's just plain nassty. if i can't shave my pits they SMELL.... and that's just GROSS ppl and leg shaving i don't do it for guys who doesn't like the feel of smooth legs i do it for me cuz i can't stand myself if i don't shave. i mean jeez at least do the opposite. shave ur pits and legs and go natural down there at least the only person who has to smell u then is that dude ur with
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Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 6:47pm.
@delirio:
I put her at famewhore status because she's an Internet exhibitionist from the way that article read and because she knew damn well that doing that in front of a sea of paps while escorted by Neil G. was going to make waves. She's more than aware enough to know that her antics would make people want to know who she was and that would get Dresden Dolls music out to a larger audience via You Tube, etc. She's got talent, no question, but she's also got an eye on being bigger, badder, better. Too bad it took two days for Michael K, whose opinion is all that matters, to take notice. Not a good sign for a famewhore looking to maximize their exposure. Also, interesting that she doesn't shave the pits or legs but the twit pics she posted that are linked to in the article show that she weedwacks the gash.
__________________________________________________
I am not a pussy.
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Submitted by Style_Grrrrl on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 5:51pm.
Ewww that is sick/nasty/gross/horrifying...why would you not shave?!?!?! Or wear real clothes?!??! TO THE GOLDEN GLOBES NO LESS!!! At least she has silicone nipple covers on...that is one nip slip I def don't want to see.
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Submitted by _meh_ on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 5:39pm.
I don't know about feminist agendas or fairness or nonconformist and what not, I just know that looks extremely unattractive and dirty and just plain WRONG
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Submitted by flamefan on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 5:12pm.
Bitch is wearing my wedding dress!!! Different color but still my wedding dress.
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delirio's picture
Submitted by delirio on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 4:19pm.
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:02am.
A Google search on this chick answered my question. Famewhore.
http://bostonist.com/2010/01/18/amanda_palmer_parties_at_the_golden_glob...
Interesting.
I really like Neil Gaiman and I don't care if she doesn't shave, I don't have to smell her anyway.
I don't think she's a famewhore but she does look like someone who likes to get people's attention
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Lipstick's picture
Submitted by Lipstick on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 4:06pm.
She's actually very talented:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TgIgYFX6ZY
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paris herpes's picture
Submitted by paris herpes on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 3:58pm.
Wow, Neil is such the enabler, this woman is obviously drunk and crazy. Good times.
"When dick is rancid, you know as soon as you pull the fly down. Seriously, you can smell it right away. It's like a week-old grilled cheese sandwich lying on a hot subway seat in the middle of August."
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Submitted by onthefringe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 3:41pm.
I like non-conformists, when it's genuine.
I don't like famewhores.
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loisvt's picture
Submitted by loisvt on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 3:05pm.
I just cannot believe that french women are said to be hairy!!!
take this one AND the Precious actress both on red carpet sporting more hair than the entire PARIS!!!
Bloody hypocrites!
Toujours agité, jamais abattu
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putas's picture
Submitted by putas on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:50pm.
Foul shit that should be done in private = EDGY. Wow. She's so different.
Shave the pits, bitch. Hair traps more bacteria and thus leads to SMELL more. I don't care if europeans don't do it, that's fine. I do it myself b/c I like to smell good. If that's compulsive to some people good. I don't want to hang out with hairy fucking hippies anyway.
This woman is gross.
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Die gelangweilte Gräfin's picture
Submitted by Die gelangweilt... on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:42pm.
Who the fuck cares, it's only hair, for chrissakes.
Unfortunately, it's mostly hair on places that start to smell really badly and also really quickly if you don't shave it. I think women and men should shave their arm pits and their private parts. And I also think men should shave their chest and their back in the summer because otherwise they stink like skunks.
♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬
Rrridiaouw woo oo rrri-ou!
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MuffinAmy's picture
Submitted by MuffinAmy on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:35pm.
I'm with Trashy. Shaving sucks and it's only in America where a denuded-of-all-hair body is the preference/ideal. For all those raising their voices over shaved man-chests there should be an equal amount of bitching about the "necessity" of womern-folk shaving. The double-standard irritates the shit out of me. Who the fuck cares, it's only hair, for chrissakes.
__________________________________________________
"Kirsten suspected she might be knocked up when her monthly batch of menstrual berries weren't delivered to her vagina dock. " -- Michael K.
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Neverevenknewhim's picture
Submitted by Neverevenknewhim on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:34pm.
Whatever chick - shave your armpits.
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Gigi-A-GoGo's picture
Submitted by Gigi-A-GoGo on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:27pm.
Phht! Unique my culo. Clearly, someone is on drugs. How man lines of coke does it take for one to start stripping?
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little_rascal's picture
Submitted by little_rascal on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:10pm.
Gross, she has hairy armpits!
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letinstar's picture
Submitted by letinstar on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:50pm.
fugly and tacky...
_____________________________________________
what you gonna do? tell mom and dad I put your dick sucking list on facebook?” – "i love facebook like you love cock..."
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Perezs Nemesis's picture
Submitted by Perezs Nemesis on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:38pm.
Is not shaving your legs and pits the new black in Hollyweird?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I'm bluffin with my muffin."
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Disraeli_Ears's picture
Submitted by Disraeli_Ears on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:25pm.
Vidz - I suggested it to my current paramour...and he did and likes it. Yay!
=================================================
And the National Rifle Association says that, "Guns don't kill people, people do,” but I think the gun helps, you know?
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Cara's picture
Submitted by Cara on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:25pm.
If you're getting naked at one of these celeb events you need to be one of three things -
A) really fucking hot
B) a comedian
C) have the last name of Spears, Lohan, or Hilton
This chick is none of the above.
p.s. Neil, when you get tired of miss hairy pits, call me.
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Zorba-the-Geek's picture
Submitted by Zorba-the-Geek on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:23pm.
Gross, nasty coke whore!!
Actually, I don't really know her, she could be a nice girl. ha!!
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vidz's picture
Submitted by vidz on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:20pm.
Disraeli_Ears
Pit shaving is awesome! I really think men should do it too. I find it really sexxy, that you can nuzzle them w/o getting a whiff of BO.
THAT IS A GORGEOUS DRESS.
And what is more interesting than this trick, is how much Neil Gaiman looks like Jeff Goldblum here. And in a creepy coincidence, I just finished reading Good omens for the 567th time.
************************************************************
"I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way."
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Disraeli_Ears's picture
Submitted by Disraeli_Ears on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:14pm.
I can see the dress/not-shaving-the-pits thing as being "different" and "offbeat." But the underwear changing and other buffoonery desperately scream "Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!"
=================================================
And the National Rifle Association says that, "Guns don't kill people, people do,” but I think the gun helps, you know?
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Green Is Good's picture
Submitted by Green Is Good on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:12pm.
How demure. Way to keep it classy.
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tojo's picture
Submitted by tojo on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:07pm.
Her parents must be so proud...
================================================
On Angelina Jolie... If I want something with a big shiny forehead and throbbing vein, I'll play with my pecker...
jazzfish_77
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Submitted by Bunny Rabbit on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:02pm.
Submitted by cattitude on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:05am.
She's not a famewhore at all, just unique, and I admire how non-conforming she is.
----------------------------------------------
I don't know about that. Let's see...taking panties off in public, wearing a deliberately see through dress, exposing hairy armpits...that makes her a famewhore of the Hilton/Lohan/Spears variety. A non-conformist, non-famewhore would have been more mysterious and restrained. I think she's mentally ill, and if you read up on her and her bad experiences of rape, abortion, etc, you'd agree she's acting out.
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rotten_egg's picture
Submitted by rotten_egg on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:50pm.
Is that a dude dressed up as a chick? or is that a really fugly and manly chick?. From the back to the feet, that's way too broad for a woman.
Anyway, whatever this creature's gender is, that's a way too tacky show. If it wants to make a splash with its hairy self, it should look for a job at a circus. Attention whore asshole.
And it's sad how this creature is the only mate Neil Gaiman could find. He must hate himself badly.
**************
-"I am not about to deal with unstable people" - HEART ANGELINA.
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Submitted by SueCalico on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:40pm.
That's a nice dress.
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Rdeadline's picture
Submitted by Rdeadline on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:16pm.
The dress is beautiful.
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SuperJ's picture
Submitted by SuperJ on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:11pm.
Love him. Love her. To each their own.
..................................................
Always look on the bright side of life
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Submitted by Zambonie on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:02pm.
Notice how they don't show her from the back?
If her pits are that hairy
Her ass probably looks like a herd of tarantulas are crawling out of it
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timeywimey's picture
Submitted by timeywimey on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:00pm.
SOMEONE NEEDS TO SHAVE THIER PITS BAAAAAD! that pic is gross
-----------------------------
goes ding when there's stuff!
-----------------------------
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madam s.'s picture
Submitted by madam s. on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:54am.
I'm really, really surprised Neil Gaiman is engaged to her. If he's not already tired of her, I suspect he will be very soon.
____________________
FIST PUMP!!
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Submitted by freshfacestripper on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:28am.
that's fucking stoopid.
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TrashyWilma's picture
Submitted by TrashyWilma on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:25am.
My legs and pits totally look like this now. I'm not in a relationship and there's nobody to impress. Shaving fucking sucks.
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Submitted by dementa on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:07am.
She's a great singer, engaged to a freaking genius.
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Submitted by Zambonie on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:03am.
She's lettin the Stank out
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azgirl's picture
Submitted by azgirl on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:02am.
Neil Gaiman is a genius. But he is also a little weird so I am not surprised to see him with a weird chick.
I don't care about the hair but the whole underwear thing is just stupid. She could have done that in the bathroom but because she is "edgy" she does on the red carpet. Stupid.
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Nyah's picture
Submitted by Nyah on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:54am.
Neil Gaiman <3
I like The Dresden Dolls and the fact that she has my name gives her cool points.
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Wednesday, January 20th 2010
Hot Slut Of The Day!
Amanda Palmer, one half of The Dresden Dolls, Neil Gaiman's fiancee and the half-nekkid fairy of the Golden Globes.
While getting fancy for the Golden Globes on Sunday night, Amanda decided that slips are not for her, so she wore her dress without one. The likes of Martin Scorsese and Morgan Freeman got ten eye fulls of her Julia Roberts pits and silicone nipples (silence tribute to Heidi Montag?).
And later at an after-party, Amanda had enough with her funeral bloomers, so she ripped them off on the red carpet and let her coochie take in the fresh air!
Somebody had to get nekkid on the red carpet at the Globes, and since Bai Ling was attending a more prestigious event out of town (the opening of a planetarium in Boise), Amanda had to take the lead!
*
*
*
*
(For Deb H)
Posted by: Michael K
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Hot Slut of the Day
melmez's picture
Submitted by melmez on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:51am.
I don't know who this skank is and I don't care, I don't think is fair we have to be submited to her disguting-ness.
And I don't give a flying fuck if she thinks she is original because she doesn't own a TV, hell don't get a TV if you don't want to, how about a fucking razor.
And changing your underwear in public is NOT being genuine and original. It's called being a dirty, disgusting, desperately shameless crazy ho.
http://diaryofanillegalimmigrant.blogspot.com/
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moomarse's picture
Submitted by moomarse on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:40am.
who is this person??? so irrelivant she's got to strip on the carpet walk? boring......
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cattitude's picture
Submitted by cattitude on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:35am.
Helena:
I love AFP and Neil Gaiman too!!! And they are so adorably in love. She's not a famewhore at all, just unique, and I admire how non-conforming she is. She didn't even know anyone at the GG, she doesn't even own a television. I think it's awesome how she doesn't give a flying fuck what others think and does what's comfortable for her.
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kittycatastrophe's picture
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:32am.
A Google search on this chick answered my question. Famewhore.
http://bostonist.com/2010/01/18/amanda_palmer_parties_at_the_golden_glob...
_with_neil_gaiman.php
__________________________________________________
I am not a pussy.
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kittycatastrophe's picture
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:25am.
Calculated move on her part. Any woman that has dressed in a slip knows within minutes whether its comfortable or not. I don't knock this trick for her hairy bits but looking to get your picture posted on gossip sites/blogs like a Katie Price knock-off lowers you on the fame foodchain. Is she a druggie, crazy or just famewhoring?
__________________________________________________
I am not a pussy.
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kanderso's picture
Submitted by kanderso on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:24am.
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:45am.
*********************
True, true. She looks very try-too-hard-y. There's "crazy talented" and then there's just "crazy"...she looks like the latter.
And I don't fucking care if a man wants me to shave or not. I PERSONALLY like the feel of shaved legs and pits, and would be totally uncomfortable and disgusted with myself if I looked like a Sasquatch. Feminism, shmeminism, shave your gottdam legs, hos.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Kanye west is the biggest piece of shit on earth. Quote me." ~ Pink
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muffintops's picture
Submitted by muffintops on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:22am.
ah the mess of Amanda Palmer and her eyebrows - how i do love them so.
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Hekki's picture
Submitted by Hekki on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:18am.
No idea who she is. Based on these photos, I half like her, half eyeroll.
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jack-n-the-hat's picture
Submitted by jack-n-the-hat on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:17am.
*baaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrffffssssssssss*
_____________________________________________
"poor jacko, trying to struggle thru this world with one eye and the womenz just keep fucking his shit UP!" snowpiece 11/25/09
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DESIGNER GENES's picture
Submitted by DESIGNER GENES on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:16am.
I give her props.
People have been conditioned for so long to believe that women absolutely have to shave everything because...of men. And for her to be on the stroll showing off, that takes balls. And unshaved underarms (on women) do NOT smell if you use the right stuff, like soap and water and a good deodorant. A real man won't care if you shave, ladies.
"SHE'S BLIND, YOU JACKALS!"
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kittycatastrophe's picture
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:15am.
Trying to bump up her relevancy game is what it looks like to me. I've heard that she's talented but attention whoring is not the exclusive realm of the Heidi Montag-Pratt's of this world.
__________________________________________________
I am not a pussy.
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Bree's picture
Submitted by Bree on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:02am.
This woman is crazy talented, and also a little crazy. Effin love her!!!
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david Letterman- Staff fucker's picture
Submitted by david Letterman... on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:02am.
Submitted by snowpiece on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:08am.
ok so a couple pf nerds, LOL
DAVID LETTERMAN! As if there was enough gross in this thread
****************************
I know, right!?
I wouldn't drink it, but I am soooo tired from taking a valium last night, and Starfucks or Dunkin Donuts is no where near where I work!
*dips coffee cup into toilet* REFILL!
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kanderso's picture
Submitted by kanderso on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:57am.
I love, love, LOVE Neil Gaiman and think he's a genius. However, this trick is straight up nasty. It's not cool, sweetheart. It's just gross. And it looks like it smells bad.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Kanye west is the biggest piece of shit on earth. Quote me." ~ Pink
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Submitted by orwecould on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:57am.
she's amazing. have you seen her eyebrows?!
http://11.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kuehyn53Ij1qza60co1_500.jpg
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Helena's picture
Submitted by Helena on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:51am.
I ♥ Amanda "Fucking" Palmer! And Neil Gaiman. Gawd, I'd love to hang out with these two.
_________________________________
I like boring things.
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Submitted by Whamo on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:49am.
WTF is it with nasty chicks today MK? What with the Octo pussy and this wretched looking thing I'll have to scrub my eyes for a week.
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ScarfnBarf's picture
Submitted by ScarfnBarf on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:48am.
NasT. Skank. Barf.
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Squash Posh's picture
Submitted by Squash Posh on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:47am.
wow, what a charming young lady
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ISprainedMyUvula's picture
Submitted by ISprainedMyUvula on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:44am.
If she ignores the pits and legs, imagine the state her bush is in.
**************************************
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Possum's picture
Submitted by Possum on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:40am.
MY EYES.
Unshaven pits sweat more. They do. And few things are grosser than sweaty pits. Hence my use of the expensive 'clinical' deodorants. I'll sweat everywhere else, but by God I am not going around with sweat stank pits.
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putsomestankonit's picture
Submitted by putsomestankonit on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:40am.
Um while this is all kinds of wrong, Amanda is very talented.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dealbreakers: Man He No Good For You by Lesbian Yellow Sourfruit
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snowpiece's picture
Submitted by snowpiece on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:38am.
ok so a couple pf nerds, LOL
DAVID LETTERMAN! As if there was enough gross in this thread
****************************
"This is MK. He started it" angel_i
"The Falcon and the Snowpiece?" Plecostomus
"snowpiece is officially to be known as hopiece from here on out." TheBreakdown
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Anonymous101's picture
Submitted by Anonymous101 on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:28am.
Never mind her pits!! Look at her legs!! You can see a forest growing through her hosery.
Mo'Nique must be jealous :P
------------------------------------------------
Max-Arthur and Sharky for Hot Sluts of the Millenium!!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vf9wHkkNGUU
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Disraeli_Ears's picture
Submitted by Disraeli_Ears on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:26am.
I thought Neil Gaiman was married to someone else?
Anyway, to each his own - but, honestly, I think pit-shaving is one of the greatest things ever. I think everyone should shave their pits...yes, men too.
=================================================
And the National Rifle Association says that, "Guns don't kill people, people do,” but I think the gun helps, you know?
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super martian robot girl's picture
Submitted by super martian r... on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:22am.
Nasty pits.
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Eileenie McMeanie's picture
Submitted by Eileenie McMeanie on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:21am.
Yucky
"motherfucker, I lick pits for a living." Submitted by suckandfuck 12/14/2009 - 3:05pm.
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moriah's picture
Submitted by moriah on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:19am.
It's Amanda "fucking" Palmer, get it right.
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angel_i's picture
Submitted by angel_i on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:16am.
That's all kinds of awesome. I don't even know where to begin.
♥ Threadkilla!
Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them. ~ Joseph Heller
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cattitude's picture
Submitted by cattitude on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:15am.
Oh, and for whoever was asking, Neil Gaiman is a famous author of graphic novels, science fiction, short stories and films who wrote Coraline, Stardust, The Graveyard Book, American Gods and The Sandman series among many other wonderful works.
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Jill-The-Ripper's picture
Submitted by Jill-The-Ripper on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:13am.
I really had to look (even though I did not want to) to try and figure out if she has hairy legs to match the pits, or fishnet stockings, or both.
Blecch.
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cattitude's picture
Submitted by cattitude on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:05am.
hee!!! thanks, Michael.
She has brows you would envy too, y'know!! (shaves them and draws in weird designs for eyebrows"
;)
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david Letterman- Staff fucker's picture
Submitted by david Letterman... on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:04am.
Eww!
On a different note, my coffee this morning tastes like clean toilet water smells.
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Auntie Mame's picture
Submitted by Auntie Mame on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:04am.
Stanky lookin' heifer.
"Jesus and God really need to file a joint lawsuit against bitches for dragging their good names into unadulterated fuckery!" MK 2/15/09
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Submitted by applehead on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:03am.
Oohhh so edgy...NOT
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Albatross's picture
Submitted by Albatross on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:02am.
Eww, what the fuck???
**********
"No escapin' when I start
Once I'm in, I own your heart"
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MtlMama's picture
Submitted by MtlMama on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:54am.
Her legs look hairy as all fuck, too.
Poseur.
=-=-="Wah wah wah, I was attacked!"=-=-=-
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grindcoregore's picture
Submitted by grindcoregore on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:51am.
hmm. she's a man, right? right.
♥ save a pig - eat a vegetarian ♥
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snowpiece's picture
Submitted by snowpiece on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:45am.
who????? Fiancé of who? She's
not hot at all
****************************
"This is MK. He started it" angel_i
"The Falcon and the Snowpiece?" Plecostomus
"snowpiece is officially to be known as hopiece from here on out." TheBreakdown
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ISprainedMyUvula's picture
Submitted by ISprainedMyUvula on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:44am.
In that first thumbnail, it looks like she whipped her dick out to pee on the carpet a la Steve-O.
**************************************
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Submitted by shelfbeast on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:43am.
Oh Christ, don't get me started. I know she's beloved by the "Nightmare Before Christmas" lunchbox-carrying set. And as a working artist, she's very shrewd, I'll give her that.
But come on now.
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LunaChick's picture
Submitted by LunaChick on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:41am.
I saw her open for NIN, with The Dresden Dolls - she was an attention whore back then too. She was dropped off right in front of the line waiting outside and pranced around, hoping for people to fawn over her. It didn't work.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"...We don't exist for the beautiful people of the world...We're there for the oddball, the rebel, the outcast, the geek!"
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loozer's picture
Submitted by loozer on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:37am.
lol I knew this was Sucky's kind of woman.
************************************************
When I find a new man, that I want for mine
He always breaks my heart into, it happens every time. Oh, I've been cheated, been mistreated,
When will I be loved?
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loozer's picture
Submitted by loozer on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:36am.
Say something nice........hmmmmmm 'nice pit hair'.
************************************************
When I find a new man, that I want for mine
He always breaks my heart into, it happens every time. Oh, I've been cheated, been mistreated,
When will I be loved?
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suckandfuck's picture
Submitted by suckandfuck on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:35am.
Class. Grace. Sophistication. This bitch has it all! OH FUCK AND HAIRY PITS!!!
************************************************
Submitted by xerquina on Thu, 11/12/2009 - 1:59pm.
suckandfuck you are by far the most vile person here
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Wednesday, January 20th 2010
Hot Slut Of The Day!
Amanda Palmer, one half of The Dresden Dolls, Neil Gaiman's fiancee and the half-nekkid fairy of the Golden Globes.
While getting fancy for the Golden Globes on Sunday night, Amanda decided that slips are not for her, so she wore her dress without one. The likes of Martin Scorsese and Morgan Freeman got ten eye fulls of her Julia Roberts pits and silicone nipples (silence tribute to Heidi Montag?).
And later at an after-party, Amanda had enough with her funeral bloomers, so she ripped them off on the red carpet and let her coochie take in the fresh air!
Somebody had to get nekkid on the red carpet at the Globes, and since Bai Ling was attending a more prestigious event out of town (the opening of a planetarium in Boise), Amanda had to take the lead!
*
*
*
*
(For Deb H)
Posted by: Michael K
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Hot Slut of the Day
Submitted by givemethegun on Fri, 01/22/2010 - 9:49pm.
Uh, sure.
This is Amanda Fucking Palmer, people. Performance artist, incredibly talented singer/songwriter, and a strong woman who doesn't give a shit what people think about her. She's amazing, unique, clever and sweet, and doesn't conform to the same standards as all the other Hollywood vapids that appear on this site.
Also, grow up - not all women shave.
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HoityToity's picture
Submitted by HoityToity on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 9:29pm.
Mmmm, classy!
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PurpleNeon's picture
Submitted by PurpleNeon on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 11:28am.
OK, I don't feel half as bad about my drunken antics now.
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Belial's picture
Submitted by Belial on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 6:48am.
She's a genius, he's a genius. Love him, love her. That would be one awesome threesome...
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LASux's picture
Submitted by LASux on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 5:42am.
I can smell her yeast from here.
Throw this fish back in the ocean.
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literarylioness's picture
Submitted by literarylioness on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 2:44am.
I am French American and I shave and wax. I am proud of my hairless bits. I smell good too.
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Oyster's picture
Submitted by Oyster on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 2:41am.
This woman's eyebrows are magically fugly.
If a chola's eyebrows say:
"I'm going to fucking stab you"
then this lady's brows are screaming:
"I'm going to stick a sewing needle in your ear while you sleep trustingly next to me because my depakote has worn off."
Its too bad she sings about sandwiches and the show Law & Order with what sounds like a bad head cold but its probably her deluded idea of bluesy singing, because the music behind all that lunacy is pretty decent:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i62UF7uROGU
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Kelli B's picture
Submitted by Kelli B on Thu, 01/21/2010 - 1:16am.
drugs do bad things to stupid people
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Submitted by Melody1980 on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:18pm.
OK that's gross. Not only is she HAIRY but she's built like a man. Huge shoulders, big feet, even her face is gigantic. Ick!
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LayLow's picture
Submitted by LayLow on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:11pm.
Engaged? Ah.
So does this mean she's becoming a Scientologist now?
"BOYCOTT LENO."
- People who are funny.
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Condi the ingrown toenail's picture
Submitted by Condi the ingro... on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:31pm.
Her husband-to-be, novelist Neil Gaiman, was nominated for a GG for Coraline, but of course she made it all about her. Nice way to support your partner, lady. As the Fug Girls said, there's always someone like this at these things, trying to make A Statement about something or other, but usually it's just a famewhore such as Phoebe Price or Sally Kirkland.
This was really, really obvious and sort of pathetic, actually: LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT MEEEEEE.
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Erika_Leigh28's picture
Submitted by Erika_Leigh28 on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 7:41pm.
i'm all for being a feminist but why can't we be CLEAN feminists that's just plain nassty. if i can't shave my pits they SMELL.... and that's just GROSS ppl and leg shaving i don't do it for guys who doesn't like the feel of smooth legs i do it for me cuz i can't stand myself if i don't shave. i mean jeez at least do the opposite. shave ur pits and legs and go natural down there at least the only person who has to smell u then is that dude ur with
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kittycatastrophe's picture
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 6:47pm.
@delirio:
I put her at famewhore status because she's an Internet exhibitionist from the way that article read and because she knew damn well that doing that in front of a sea of paps while escorted by Neil G. was going to make waves. She's more than aware enough to know that her antics would make people want to know who she was and that would get Dresden Dolls music out to a larger audience via You Tube, etc. She's got talent, no question, but she's also got an eye on being bigger, badder, better. Too bad it took two days for Michael K, whose opinion is all that matters, to take notice. Not a good sign for a famewhore looking to maximize their exposure. Also, interesting that she doesn't shave the pits or legs but the twit pics she posted that are linked to in the article show that she weedwacks the gash.
__________________________________________________
I am not a pussy.
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Submitted by Style_Grrrrl on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 5:51pm.
Ewww that is sick/nasty/gross/horrifying...why would you not shave?!?!?! Or wear real clothes?!??! TO THE GOLDEN GLOBES NO LESS!!! At least she has silicone nipple covers on...that is one nip slip I def don't want to see.
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Submitted by _meh_ on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 5:39pm.
I don't know about feminist agendas or fairness or nonconformist and what not, I just know that looks extremely unattractive and dirty and just plain WRONG
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Submitted by flamefan on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 5:12pm.
Bitch is wearing my wedding dress!!! Different color but still my wedding dress.
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delirio's picture
Submitted by delirio on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 4:19pm.
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:02am.
A Google search on this chick answered my question. Famewhore.
http://bostonist.com/2010/01/18/amanda_palmer_parties_at_the_golden_glob...
Interesting.
I really like Neil Gaiman and I don't care if she doesn't shave, I don't have to smell her anyway.
I don't think she's a famewhore but she does look like someone who likes to get people's attention
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Lipstick's picture
Submitted by Lipstick on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 4:06pm.
She's actually very talented:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TgIgYFX6ZY
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paris herpes's picture
Submitted by paris herpes on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 3:58pm.
Wow, Neil is such the enabler, this woman is obviously drunk and crazy. Good times.
"When dick is rancid, you know as soon as you pull the fly down. Seriously, you can smell it right away. It's like a week-old grilled cheese sandwich lying on a hot subway seat in the middle of August."
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Submitted by onthefringe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 3:41pm.
I like non-conformists, when it's genuine.
I don't like famewhores.
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loisvt's picture
Submitted by loisvt on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 3:05pm.
I just cannot believe that french women are said to be hairy!!!
take this one AND the Precious actress both on red carpet sporting more hair than the entire PARIS!!!
Bloody hypocrites!
Toujours agité, jamais abattu
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putas's picture
Submitted by putas on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:50pm.
Foul shit that should be done in private = EDGY. Wow. She's so different.
Shave the pits, bitch. Hair traps more bacteria and thus leads to SMELL more. I don't care if europeans don't do it, that's fine. I do it myself b/c I like to smell good. If that's compulsive to some people good. I don't want to hang out with hairy fucking hippies anyway.
This woman is gross.
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Die gelangweilte Gräfin's picture
Submitted by Die gelangweilt... on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:42pm.
Who the fuck cares, it's only hair, for chrissakes.
Unfortunately, it's mostly hair on places that start to smell really badly and also really quickly if you don't shave it. I think women and men should shave their arm pits and their private parts. And I also think men should shave their chest and their back in the summer because otherwise they stink like skunks.
♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬
Rrridiaouw woo oo rrri-ou!
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MuffinAmy's picture
Submitted by MuffinAmy on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:35pm.
I'm with Trashy. Shaving sucks and it's only in America where a denuded-of-all-hair body is the preference/ideal. For all those raising their voices over shaved man-chests there should be an equal amount of bitching about the "necessity" of womern-folk shaving. The double-standard irritates the shit out of me. Who the fuck cares, it's only hair, for chrissakes.
__________________________________________________
"Kirsten suspected she might be knocked up when her monthly batch of menstrual berries weren't delivered to her vagina dock. " -- Michael K.
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Neverevenknewhim's picture
Submitted by Neverevenknewhim on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:34pm.
Whatever chick - shave your armpits.
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Gigi-A-GoGo's picture
Submitted by Gigi-A-GoGo on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:27pm.
Phht! Unique my culo. Clearly, someone is on drugs. How man lines of coke does it take for one to start stripping?
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little_rascal's picture
Submitted by little_rascal on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 2:10pm.
Gross, she has hairy armpits!
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letinstar's picture
Submitted by letinstar on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:50pm.
fugly and tacky...
_____________________________________________
what you gonna do? tell mom and dad I put your dick sucking list on facebook?” – "i love facebook like you love cock..."
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Perezs Nemesis's picture
Submitted by Perezs Nemesis on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:38pm.
Is not shaving your legs and pits the new black in Hollyweird?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I'm bluffin with my muffin."
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Disraeli_Ears's picture
Submitted by Disraeli_Ears on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:25pm.
Vidz - I suggested it to my current paramour...and he did and likes it. Yay!
=================================================
And the National Rifle Association says that, "Guns don't kill people, people do,” but I think the gun helps, you know?
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Cara's picture
Submitted by Cara on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:25pm.
If you're getting naked at one of these celeb events you need to be one of three things -
A) really fucking hot
B) a comedian
C) have the last name of Spears, Lohan, or Hilton
This chick is none of the above.
p.s. Neil, when you get tired of miss hairy pits, call me.
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Zorba-the-Geek's picture
Submitted by Zorba-the-Geek on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:23pm.
Gross, nasty coke whore!!
Actually, I don't really know her, she could be a nice girl. ha!!
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vidz's picture
Submitted by vidz on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:20pm.
Disraeli_Ears
Pit shaving is awesome! I really think men should do it too. I find it really sexxy, that you can nuzzle them w/o getting a whiff of BO.
THAT IS A GORGEOUS DRESS.
And what is more interesting than this trick, is how much Neil Gaiman looks like Jeff Goldblum here. And in a creepy coincidence, I just finished reading Good omens for the 567th time.
************************************************************
"I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way."
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Disraeli_Ears's picture
Submitted by Disraeli_Ears on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:14pm.
I can see the dress/not-shaving-the-pits thing as being "different" and "offbeat." But the underwear changing and other buffoonery desperately scream "Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!"
=================================================
And the National Rifle Association says that, "Guns don't kill people, people do,” but I think the gun helps, you know?
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Green Is Good's picture
Submitted by Green Is Good on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:12pm.
How demure. Way to keep it classy.
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tojo's picture
Submitted by tojo on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:07pm.
Her parents must be so proud...
================================================
On Angelina Jolie... If I want something with a big shiny forehead and throbbing vein, I'll play with my pecker...
jazzfish_77
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Submitted by Bunny Rabbit on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 1:02pm.
Submitted by cattitude on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:05am.
She's not a famewhore at all, just unique, and I admire how non-conforming she is.
----------------------------------------------
I don't know about that. Let's see...taking panties off in public, wearing a deliberately see through dress, exposing hairy armpits...that makes her a famewhore of the Hilton/Lohan/Spears variety. A non-conformist, non-famewhore would have been more mysterious and restrained. I think she's mentally ill, and if you read up on her and her bad experiences of rape, abortion, etc, you'd agree she's acting out.
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rotten_egg's picture
Submitted by rotten_egg on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:50pm.
Is that a dude dressed up as a chick? or is that a really fugly and manly chick?. From the back to the feet, that's way too broad for a woman.
Anyway, whatever this creature's gender is, that's a way too tacky show. If it wants to make a splash with its hairy self, it should look for a job at a circus. Attention whore asshole.
And it's sad how this creature is the only mate Neil Gaiman could find. He must hate himself badly.
**************
-"I am not about to deal with unstable people" - HEART ANGELINA.
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Submitted by SueCalico on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:40pm.
That's a nice dress.
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Rdeadline's picture
Submitted by Rdeadline on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:16pm.
The dress is beautiful.
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SuperJ's picture
Submitted by SuperJ on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:11pm.
Love him. Love her. To each their own.
..................................................
Always look on the bright side of life
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Submitted by Zambonie on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:02pm.
Notice how they don't show her from the back?
If her pits are that hairy
Her ass probably looks like a herd of tarantulas are crawling out of it
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timeywimey's picture
Submitted by timeywimey on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 12:00pm.
SOMEONE NEEDS TO SHAVE THIER PITS BAAAAAD! that pic is gross
-----------------------------
goes ding when there's stuff!
-----------------------------
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madam s.'s picture
Submitted by madam s. on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:54am.
I'm really, really surprised Neil Gaiman is engaged to her. If he's not already tired of her, I suspect he will be very soon.
____________________
FIST PUMP!!
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Submitted by freshfacestripper on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:28am.
that's fucking stoopid.
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TrashyWilma's picture
Submitted by TrashyWilma on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:25am.
My legs and pits totally look like this now. I'm not in a relationship and there's nobody to impress. Shaving fucking sucks.
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Submitted by dementa on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:07am.
She's a great singer, engaged to a freaking genius.
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Submitted by Zambonie on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:03am.
She's lettin the Stank out
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azgirl's picture
Submitted by azgirl on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 11:02am.
Neil Gaiman is a genius. But he is also a little weird so I am not surprised to see him with a weird chick.
I don't care about the hair but the whole underwear thing is just stupid. She could have done that in the bathroom but because she is "edgy" she does on the red carpet. Stupid.
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Nyah's picture
Submitted by Nyah on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:54am.
Neil Gaiman <3
I like The Dresden Dolls and the fact that she has my name gives her cool points.
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Wednesday, January 20th 2010
Hot Slut Of The Day!
Amanda Palmer, one half of The Dresden Dolls, Neil Gaiman's fiancee and the half-nekkid fairy of the Golden Globes.
While getting fancy for the Golden Globes on Sunday night, Amanda decided that slips are not for her, so she wore her dress without one. The likes of Martin Scorsese and Morgan Freeman got ten eye fulls of her Julia Roberts pits and silicone nipples (silence tribute to Heidi Montag?).
And later at an after-party, Amanda had enough with her funeral bloomers, so she ripped them off on the red carpet and let her coochie take in the fresh air!
Somebody had to get nekkid on the red carpet at the Globes, and since Bai Ling was attending a more prestigious event out of town (the opening of a planetarium in Boise), Amanda had to take the lead!
*
*
*
*
(For Deb H)
Posted by: Michael K
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Hot Slut of the Day
melmez's picture
Submitted by melmez on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:51am.
I don't know who this skank is and I don't care, I don't think is fair we have to be submited to her disguting-ness.
And I don't give a flying fuck if she thinks she is original because she doesn't own a TV, hell don't get a TV if you don't want to, how about a fucking razor.
And changing your underwear in public is NOT being genuine and original. It's called being a dirty, disgusting, desperately shameless crazy ho.
http://diaryofanillegalimmigrant.blogspot.com/
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moomarse's picture
Submitted by moomarse on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:40am.
who is this person??? so irrelivant she's got to strip on the carpet walk? boring......
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cattitude's picture
Submitted by cattitude on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:35am.
Helena:
I love AFP and Neil Gaiman too!!! And they are so adorably in love. She's not a famewhore at all, just unique, and I admire how non-conforming she is. She didn't even know anyone at the GG, she doesn't even own a television. I think it's awesome how she doesn't give a flying fuck what others think and does what's comfortable for her.
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kittycatastrophe's picture
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:32am.
A Google search on this chick answered my question. Famewhore.
http://bostonist.com/2010/01/18/amanda_palmer_parties_at_the_golden_glob...
_with_neil_gaiman.php
__________________________________________________
I am not a pussy.
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kittycatastrophe's picture
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:25am.
Calculated move on her part. Any woman that has dressed in a slip knows within minutes whether its comfortable or not. I don't knock this trick for her hairy bits but looking to get your picture posted on gossip sites/blogs like a Katie Price knock-off lowers you on the fame foodchain. Is she a druggie, crazy or just famewhoring?
__________________________________________________
I am not a pussy.
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kanderso's picture
Submitted by kanderso on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:24am.
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:45am.
*********************
True, true. She looks very try-too-hard-y. There's "crazy talented" and then there's just "crazy"...she looks like the latter.
And I don't fucking care if a man wants me to shave or not. I PERSONALLY like the feel of shaved legs and pits, and would be totally uncomfortable and disgusted with myself if I looked like a Sasquatch. Feminism, shmeminism, shave your gottdam legs, hos.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Kanye west is the biggest piece of shit on earth. Quote me." ~ Pink
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muffintops's picture
Submitted by muffintops on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:22am.
ah the mess of Amanda Palmer and her eyebrows - how i do love them so.
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Hekki's picture
Submitted by Hekki on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:18am.
No idea who she is. Based on these photos, I half like her, half eyeroll.
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jack-n-the-hat's picture
Submitted by jack-n-the-hat on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:17am.
*baaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrffffssssssssss*
_____________________________________________
"poor jacko, trying to struggle thru this world with one eye and the womenz just keep fucking his shit UP!" snowpiece 11/25/09
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DESIGNER GENES's picture
Submitted by DESIGNER GENES on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:16am.
I give her props.
People have been conditioned for so long to believe that women absolutely have to shave everything because...of men. And for her to be on the stroll showing off, that takes balls. And unshaved underarms (on women) do NOT smell if you use the right stuff, like soap and water and a good deodorant. A real man won't care if you shave, ladies.
"SHE'S BLIND, YOU JACKALS!"
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kittycatastrophe's picture
Submitted by kittycatastrophe on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:15am.
Trying to bump up her relevancy game is what it looks like to me. I've heard that she's talented but attention whoring is not the exclusive realm of the Heidi Montag-Pratt's of this world.
__________________________________________________
I am not a pussy.
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Bree's picture
Submitted by Bree on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:02am.
This woman is crazy talented, and also a little crazy. Effin love her!!!
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david Letterman- Staff fucker's picture
Submitted by david Letterman... on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 10:02am.
Submitted by snowpiece on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:08am.
ok so a couple pf nerds, LOL
DAVID LETTERMAN! As if there was enough gross in this thread
****************************
I know, right!?
I wouldn't drink it, but I am soooo tired from taking a valium last night, and Starfucks or Dunkin Donuts is no where near where I work!
*dips coffee cup into toilet* REFILL!
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kanderso's picture
Submitted by kanderso on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:57am.
I love, love, LOVE Neil Gaiman and think he's a genius. However, this trick is straight up nasty. It's not cool, sweetheart. It's just gross. And it looks like it smells bad.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Kanye west is the biggest piece of shit on earth. Quote me." ~ Pink
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Submitted by orwecould on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:57am.
she's amazing. have you seen her eyebrows?!
http://11.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kuehyn53Ij1qza60co1_500.jpg
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Helena's picture
Submitted by Helena on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:51am.
I ♥ Amanda "Fucking" Palmer! And Neil Gaiman. Gawd, I'd love to hang out with these two.
_________________________________
I like boring things.
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Submitted by Whamo on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:49am.
WTF is it with nasty chicks today MK? What with the Octo pussy and this wretched looking thing I'll have to scrub my eyes for a week.
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ScarfnBarf's picture
Submitted by ScarfnBarf on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:48am.
NasT. Skank. Barf.
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Squash Posh's picture
Submitted by Squash Posh on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:47am.
wow, what a charming young lady
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ISprainedMyUvula's picture
Submitted by ISprainedMyUvula on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:44am.
If she ignores the pits and legs, imagine the state her bush is in.
**************************************
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Possum's picture
Submitted by Possum on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:40am.
MY EYES.
Unshaven pits sweat more. They do. And few things are grosser than sweaty pits. Hence my use of the expensive 'clinical' deodorants. I'll sweat everywhere else, but by God I am not going around with sweat stank pits.
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putsomestankonit's picture
Submitted by putsomestankonit on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:40am.
Um while this is all kinds of wrong, Amanda is very talented.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dealbreakers: Man He No Good For You by Lesbian Yellow Sourfruit
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snowpiece's picture
Submitted by snowpiece on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:38am.
ok so a couple pf nerds, LOL
DAVID LETTERMAN! As if there was enough gross in this thread
****************************
"This is MK. He started it" angel_i
"The Falcon and the Snowpiece?" Plecostomus
"snowpiece is officially to be known as hopiece from here on out." TheBreakdown
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Anonymous101's picture
Submitted by Anonymous101 on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:28am.
Never mind her pits!! Look at her legs!! You can see a forest growing through her hosery.
Mo'Nique must be jealous :P
------------------------------------------------
Max-Arthur and Sharky for Hot Sluts of the Millenium!!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vf9wHkkNGUU
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Disraeli_Ears's picture
Submitted by Disraeli_Ears on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:26am.
I thought Neil Gaiman was married to someone else?
Anyway, to each his own - but, honestly, I think pit-shaving is one of the greatest things ever. I think everyone should shave their pits...yes, men too.
=================================================
And the National Rifle Association says that, "Guns don't kill people, people do,” but I think the gun helps, you know?
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super martian robot girl's picture
Submitted by super martian r... on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:22am.
Nasty pits.
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Eileenie McMeanie's picture
Submitted by Eileenie McMeanie on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:21am.
Yucky
"motherfucker, I lick pits for a living." Submitted by suckandfuck 12/14/2009 - 3:05pm.
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moriah's picture
Submitted by moriah on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:19am.
It's Amanda "fucking" Palmer, get it right.
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angel_i's picture
Submitted by angel_i on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:16am.
That's all kinds of awesome. I don't even know where to begin.
♥ Threadkilla!
Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them. ~ Joseph Heller
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cattitude's picture
Submitted by cattitude on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:15am.
Oh, and for whoever was asking, Neil Gaiman is a famous author of graphic novels, science fiction, short stories and films who wrote Coraline, Stardust, The Graveyard Book, American Gods and The Sandman series among many other wonderful works.
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Jill-The-Ripper's picture
Submitted by Jill-The-Ripper on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:13am.
I really had to look (even though I did not want to) to try and figure out if she has hairy legs to match the pits, or fishnet stockings, or both.
Blecch.
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cattitude's picture
Submitted by cattitude on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:05am.
hee!!! thanks, Michael.
She has brows you would envy too, y'know!! (shaves them and draws in weird designs for eyebrows"
;)
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david Letterman- Staff fucker's picture
Submitted by david Letterman... on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:04am.
Eww!
On a different note, my coffee this morning tastes like clean toilet water smells.
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Auntie Mame's picture
Submitted by Auntie Mame on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:04am.
Stanky lookin' heifer.
"Jesus and God really need to file a joint lawsuit against bitches for dragging their good names into unadulterated fuckery!" MK 2/15/09
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Submitted by applehead on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:03am.
Oohhh so edgy...NOT
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Albatross's picture
Submitted by Albatross on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 9:02am.
Eww, what the fuck???
**********
"No escapin' when I start
Once I'm in, I own your heart"
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MtlMama's picture
Submitted by MtlMama on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:54am.
Her legs look hairy as all fuck, too.
Poseur.
=-=-="Wah wah wah, I was attacked!"=-=-=-
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grindcoregore's picture
Submitted by grindcoregore on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:51am.
hmm. she's a man, right? right.
♥ save a pig - eat a vegetarian ♥
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snowpiece's picture
Submitted by snowpiece on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:45am.
who????? Fiancé of who? She's
not hot at all
****************************
"This is MK. He started it" angel_i
"The Falcon and the Snowpiece?" Plecostomus
"snowpiece is officially to be known as hopiece from here on out." TheBreakdown
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ISprainedMyUvula's picture
Submitted by ISprainedMyUvula on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:44am.
In that first thumbnail, it looks like she whipped her dick out to pee on the carpet a la Steve-O.
**************************************
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Submitted by shelfbeast on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:43am.
Oh Christ, don't get me started. I know she's beloved by the "Nightmare Before Christmas" lunchbox-carrying set. And as a working artist, she's very shrewd, I'll give her that.
But come on now.
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LunaChick's picture
Submitted by LunaChick on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:41am.
I saw her open for NIN, with The Dresden Dolls - she was an attention whore back then too. She was dropped off right in front of the line waiting outside and pranced around, hoping for people to fawn over her. It didn't work.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"...We don't exist for the beautiful people of the world...We're there for the oddball, the rebel, the outcast, the geek!"
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loozer's picture
Submitted by loozer on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:37am.
lol I knew this was Sucky's kind of woman.
************************************************
When I find a new man, that I want for mine
He always breaks my heart into, it happens every time. Oh, I've been cheated, been mistreated,
When will I be loved?
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loozer's picture
Submitted by loozer on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:36am.
Say something nice........hmmmmmm 'nice pit hair'.
************************************************
When I find a new man, that I want for mine
He always breaks my heart into, it happens every time. Oh, I've been cheated, been mistreated,
When will I be loved?
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suckandfuck's picture
Submitted by suckandfuck on Wed, 01/20/2010 - 8:35am.
Class. Grace. Sophistication. This bitch has it all! OH FUCK AND HAIRY PITS!!!
************************************************
Submitted by xerquina on Thu, 11/12/2009 - 1:59pm.
suckandfuck you are by far the most vile person here
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As I Wrote In My Mind
Senin, 18 Januari 2010
Life Is
Life can be hard
Life can be painful
But life is filled with possibilities
And men are blessed with the chances they've been given
To make it precious
And worth to live for
Posted by Faradila Azka at 20:27
Labels: deep thought
4 comments:
The Miracle mengatakan...
And Time is changing...
We're heading for something
Not only about rainbow
in black and white we trust
about something
the meaning of life
haha...punten lagi gak pararuguh ^_^
19 Januari 2010 02:39
Faradila Azka mengatakan...
beautiful light is born of darkness,
so the faith that springs from conflict is often the strongest and the best
- R. Turnbull
19 Januari 2010 02:52
The Miracle mengatakan...
here, there, and everywhere
I need something
To lead a better life
in my idealism...in my faith...in my passion
yeah, something.
The beautiful light
terimakasih nasehatnya
^_^
19 Januari 2010 03:05
Faradila Azka mengatakan...
my pleasure ;)
19 Januari 2010 03:16
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o ► September (1)
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Life Is
Life can be hard
Life can be painful
But life is filled with possibilities
And men are blessed with the chances they've been given
To make it precious
And worth to live for
Posted by Faradila Azka at 20:27
Labels: deep thought
4 comments:
The Miracle mengatakan...
And Time is changing...
We're heading for something
Not only about rainbow
in black and white we trust
about something
the meaning of life
haha...punten lagi gak pararuguh ^_^
19 Januari 2010 02:39
Faradila Azka mengatakan...
beautiful light is born of darkness,
so the faith that springs from conflict is often the strongest and the best
- R. Turnbull
19 Januari 2010 02:52
The Miracle mengatakan...
here, there, and everywhere
I need something
To lead a better life
in my idealism...in my faith...in my passion
yeah, something.
The beautiful light
terimakasih nasehatnya
^_^
19 Januari 2010 03:05
Faradila Azka mengatakan...
my pleasure ;)
19 Januari 2010 03:16
Poskan Komentar
Posting Lebih Baru Posting Lama Halaman Muka
Langgan: Poskan Komentar (Atom)
About Me
Foto Saya
Faradila Azka
I enjoy the last bite of bitter sweets and I would love to dance in the rain. It's both literally and metaphore ;)
Lihat profil lengkapku
Archive
* ▼ 2010 (4)
o ▼ Januari (4)
+ Luka
+ Life Is
+ Foggy Images
+ Metaemotion: Perasaan Tentang Perasaan
* ► 2009 (6)
o ► Oktober (2)
+ You Gotta Change, Girl!
+ When You're Losing It
o ► September (1)
+ Journal - 23.07.2009
o ► Juli (3)
+ As I Wrote In My Happy Journal
+ Pemandangan Di Balik Jendela Angkot
+ O-oh, I've just made another new blog!
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Tuesday, January 26, 2010
lyrics
ZGeek > Specialty forums > Music > Hilltop Hoods -- The Nosebleed Section
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View Full Version : Hilltop Hoods -- The Nosebleed Section
Tintin
14-02-2004, 12:05 AM
I'm listening to this song at the moment, and thought I'd put the lyrics on the web, since they don't seem to be there already. Should be good for some hits on ZGeek. The band is from Australia too (Adelaide)! Beware though, these lyrics are probably mostly mis-heard, as they are transcribed by ear!
Let me know how I did. :D
-----------------
Hilltop Hoods -- The Nosebleed Section
For my people in the front
in the nosebleed section
this for the heads that's loving the mix
my people in the front all covered in spit
lighters in the box (uh) suffer the pitch (wah)
Hilltop Hoods all hoppin this bitch
so we are funk leaders
punks who can't beat us
we bump from pump meters
we drunk you chumps need us
so
jump with us
down the front if it's
(if it's your flava) your flava
come get drunk with us (woo)
This life turned out nothing like I had planned
Why not?
By now I shoulda' had some land,
some money in my hand,
'round about fifty grand
but I got nothin' (nothin')
I write rhymes on the bus
I keep sufferin' (sufferin')
But the lines of the dust
You keep sniffin'
That shit is for the punk crows
This shit is for my bro's
My people in the front row
chorus
You know I looked around, the faces I'd know, I fell in love with the people in the front row
You know I looked around, the faces I'd know, I fell in love with the people in the front row
check it out
I've got hip-hop taste buds
I wanna hear that bass when I make love
Wanna hear some lyrics when I wake up
Write rhymes to get me through a break-up (BITCH!) :swear:
Rough a whiskey straight, no chaser
Win 350 breaks, no flava
Till I found this one
And may the
bass hook with the drum
my saviour
This is a come-back
Tongue that
Sharp like a thumb tack
So-tight chains the same
Get my foot back
One track, eight track
Gaydab residual
Noise band, funk that
We claim with the digital
toys, from the apache,
You're failin' to match me
Throw you're hands in the air
Like you're hailin' a taxi (TAXI!)
And move to the front
thro you steppin'
are you drunk bro?
This is for my peeps and the freaks in the front row
chorus
people don't complain if suffers in here
and you're in the front row
all covered in beer
and club owners don't say the place is wrecked 'it's your fault' (uh uh)
If the roof is on fire it's an electrical fault
Man, I bet you will baulk, when I
Bring it live like Friday night
Footy in my hoodie I can high di
get lie from the brakes on the bass one
lads if you're heading to the bar grab you're mate's one
ladies come chill
come up on me honey o girl I
got half a mil' in monopoly money
There's no stopping me honey
So you can take my hand
We can lay on the beach
And count grains of sand
Take a plane to Japan
And drink sake with the mafia
Fly to Libya for some Bacardi with Ghaddafi-a
Dinner date followed by a funk show (uh)
We rip off our tops and drop a round in the front row
Chorus
Put me here, and I'm all yours
Not for the money and it's not for the applause
No, oh no, no, no, no (it's for the nosebleed section)
Chorus
spaceFAG
14-02-2004, 01:16 AM
nice job! except, like, hilltop hoods suck. they suck monumentally. they're fucking TERRIBLE. it's like listening to the attempted artistic outpouring of 8 year olds. these people are DUMB human beings. just LOOK at that shit - it doesn't MEAN anything. it's so blisteringly inane that i feel physically drained, it's stupifyingly banal.
it's. so. fucking. bad. i actually feel embarrased for them. unless, of course, and this is entirely possible, they're simply not trying. did the gentleman responsible for this song sit down, ponder for a few minutes, finally throw his hands up in the air and go "well I can't think of anything!"
i really do feel sorry for some people.
SOC
14-02-2004, 01:23 AM
you're not a happy little vegemite today, are you spacefag.
spaceFAG
14-02-2004, 01:25 AM
it's not a matter of being happy or not, i just feel ethically compelled to point out crippling stupidity whereever it may be found.
i have my work cut out for me.
rosamund
14-02-2004, 01:28 AM
Awww, he thinks he's Utopian. :)
polite
14-02-2004, 01:50 AM
I hate to be the skeleton at the feast but I agree with SpaceFag. That was so inane and stupid.I know nobody in Adelaide who talks like that except weirdos who wear beanies when it's 40 degrees.For Adelaide lads to be aping Americans so un-ashamedly seems to me like the imagination and originality factor has gone right out the window.Feel free to comment.
(got to go hang out with my peep's and my bro's:rolleyes: )
spaceFAG
14-02-2004, 02:09 AM
i'd like also to note that my comments should not be misconstrued as coming from someone who simply "doesn't like rap". as it so turns out, basically the only fucking thing i listen to any longer is hip hop, i just have selective tastes.
here is a track called Dr Moonorgun by Themselves - who are a collaborative effort between Dose One and Jel.
a B, an I, an O P S Y
how'd they break it to you
you've got cancer of the hope
did you pray
did you make yourself sick
did you paint your mirrors out
that dr moonorgun
he tells you you're dead
like he tells you the time of day
and you ate down to your pit
and you rapped, and rapped, and rapped
you were out scoping bridges and boosting turks
and so you missed the call
it was a false laugh alarm
you had comedic cancer
a funny skinny cancer of the pants
it's something to really quick go out and have some kids about
or something to go see branden and ask about a book about
and you didn't even have a first worst movie yet
or your first small heart attack
or a drivers licence even
all in my outrageously B don coscarelli dreams
all in my outrageously B don coscarelli dreams
all in my outrageously B don coscarelli dreams
all in my outrageously B don coscarelli dreams
notice the difference? it doesn't suck. check out their work if you're interested in genuinely creative, new, interesting music.
SOC
14-02-2004, 02:33 AM
who is to say what sucks and what doesn't suck? i personallly can't stand britney, busted or s club 7, but all of them have sold millions of albums.
polite
14-02-2004, 02:57 AM
Originally posted by SOC
who is to say what sucks and what doesn't suck? i personallly can't stand britney, busted or s club 7, but all of them have sold millions of albums.
In response to that SOC, whoever thinks something sucks or doesn't suck is qualified to say what they think.For myself, me, I, personally like lyrics like the following. If that means someone thinks I am"blisteringly inane" that's the way it is.We can't all think the same otherwise we'd have cloning......err...oops:p
I saw a newspaper picture from the political campaign
A woman was kissing a child, who was obviously in pain
She spills with compassion, as that young child’s
Face in her hands she grips
Can you imagine all that greed and avarice
Coming down on that child’s lips
Well I hope I don’t die too soon
I pray the lord my soul to save
Oh I’ll be a good boy, I’m trying so hard to behave
Because there’s one thing I know, I’d like to live
Long enough to savour
That’s when they finally put you in the ground
I’ll stand on your grave and tramp the dirt down
When england was the whore of the world
Margaret was her madam
And the future looked as bright and as clear as
The black tarmacadam
Well I hope that she sleeps well at night, isn’t
Haunted by every tiny detail
’cos when she held that lovely face in her hands
All she thought of was betrayal
And now the cynical ones say that it all ends the same in the long run
Try telling that to the desperate father who just squeezed the life from his only son
And how it’s only voices in your head and dreams you never dreamt
Try telling him the subtle difference between justice and contempt
Try telling me she isn’t angry with this pitiful discontent
When they flaunt it in your face as you line up for punishment
And then expect you to say thank you straighten up, look proud and pleased
Because you’ve only got the symptoms, you haven’t got the whole disease
Just like a schoolboy, whose head’s like a tin-can
Filled up with dreams then poured down the drain
Try telling that to the boys on both sides, being blown to bits or beaten and maimed
Who takes all the glory and none of the shame
Well I hope you live long now, I pray the lord your soul to keep
I think I’ll be going before we fold our arms and start to weep
I never thought for a moment that human life could be so cheap
’cos when they finally put you in the ground
They’ll stand there laughing and tramp the dirt down
See!, people will judge and laugh at this also.Difference of opinion makes a horse race! m.t
spaceFAG
14-02-2004, 03:22 AM
see, that's the thing - you CAN quantify these things, given a few generalisations that have more to do with assigning meaning to language than anything.
let us assume for a moment that in any given society, there exists two sets of qualities that through definition and connotation are polarised.
as an example of this, you can say "good" qualities of any given object or being are - powerful, kind, intelligent, bold, compassionate, understanding, proud, strong, creative, productive, generous, etc. next, let us say that there exists a set of qualities that are defined as being "bad" - cheap, greedy, violent, poor, stupid, lazy, uneducated, weak, etc.
so, we have established that there are positive and negative terms that can be applied arbitrarily to... whatever, and these terms are as a general rule universally agreed upon in meaning - the important thing here is it is the application of them that is argued.
as a side note, within the definition of these terms comes the implicit existance of it's opposite. you cannot be "rich" unless there is "poor" to compare it against, hence both terms rely on each other in order to even be conceptually viable.
thus we reach the long winded point of my poorly formed argument - in the same way we can say "this brick is stronger than this flower" we can say "this piece of music is better than this other piece of music" - we look at a brick, and we look at a flower, and analyze their various properties, and make an informed decision - the brick is physically more robust than the flower. noone would argue this, it is "obvious".
so, is it possible for one person to analyze the properties of a piece of music and make comparisons against another? of course it is. i can say that "Why?'s music is more intelligent than Britney Spears' music", given an examination of the elements it is comprised of. "intelligent" is commonly defined, we have two objects to compare, and the sentence is meaningful in as significant a way as saying "this stop sign is redder than this banana". to argue anything else you would be redefining the very meaning of "red", and hence being, at best, facetious, or at worst, as equally worthy of accusations of stupidity as Britney herself.
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PDA
View Full Version : Hilltop Hoods -- The Nosebleed Section
Tintin
14-02-2004, 12:05 AM
I'm listening to this song at the moment, and thought I'd put the lyrics on the web, since they don't seem to be there already. Should be good for some hits on ZGeek. The band is from Australia too (Adelaide)! Beware though, these lyrics are probably mostly mis-heard, as they are transcribed by ear!
Let me know how I did. :D
-----------------
Hilltop Hoods -- The Nosebleed Section
For my people in the front
in the nosebleed section
this for the heads that's loving the mix
my people in the front all covered in spit
lighters in the box (uh) suffer the pitch (wah)
Hilltop Hoods all hoppin this bitch
so we are funk leaders
punks who can't beat us
we bump from pump meters
we drunk you chumps need us
so
jump with us
down the front if it's
(if it's your flava) your flava
come get drunk with us (woo)
This life turned out nothing like I had planned
Why not?
By now I shoulda' had some land,
some money in my hand,
'round about fifty grand
but I got nothin' (nothin')
I write rhymes on the bus
I keep sufferin' (sufferin')
But the lines of the dust
You keep sniffin'
That shit is for the punk crows
This shit is for my bro's
My people in the front row
chorus
You know I looked around, the faces I'd know, I fell in love with the people in the front row
You know I looked around, the faces I'd know, I fell in love with the people in the front row
check it out
I've got hip-hop taste buds
I wanna hear that bass when I make love
Wanna hear some lyrics when I wake up
Write rhymes to get me through a break-up (BITCH!) :swear:
Rough a whiskey straight, no chaser
Win 350 breaks, no flava
Till I found this one
And may the
bass hook with the drum
my saviour
This is a come-back
Tongue that
Sharp like a thumb tack
So-tight chains the same
Get my foot back
One track, eight track
Gaydab residual
Noise band, funk that
We claim with the digital
toys, from the apache,
You're failin' to match me
Throw you're hands in the air
Like you're hailin' a taxi (TAXI!)
And move to the front
thro you steppin'
are you drunk bro?
This is for my peeps and the freaks in the front row
chorus
people don't complain if suffers in here
and you're in the front row
all covered in beer
and club owners don't say the place is wrecked 'it's your fault' (uh uh)
If the roof is on fire it's an electrical fault
Man, I bet you will baulk, when I
Bring it live like Friday night
Footy in my hoodie I can high di
get lie from the brakes on the bass one
lads if you're heading to the bar grab you're mate's one
ladies come chill
come up on me honey o girl I
got half a mil' in monopoly money
There's no stopping me honey
So you can take my hand
We can lay on the beach
And count grains of sand
Take a plane to Japan
And drink sake with the mafia
Fly to Libya for some Bacardi with Ghaddafi-a
Dinner date followed by a funk show (uh)
We rip off our tops and drop a round in the front row
Chorus
Put me here, and I'm all yours
Not for the money and it's not for the applause
No, oh no, no, no, no (it's for the nosebleed section)
Chorus
spaceFAG
14-02-2004, 01:16 AM
nice job! except, like, hilltop hoods suck. they suck monumentally. they're fucking TERRIBLE. it's like listening to the attempted artistic outpouring of 8 year olds. these people are DUMB human beings. just LOOK at that shit - it doesn't MEAN anything. it's so blisteringly inane that i feel physically drained, it's stupifyingly banal.
it's. so. fucking. bad. i actually feel embarrased for them. unless, of course, and this is entirely possible, they're simply not trying. did the gentleman responsible for this song sit down, ponder for a few minutes, finally throw his hands up in the air and go "well I can't think of anything!"
i really do feel sorry for some people.
SOC
14-02-2004, 01:23 AM
you're not a happy little vegemite today, are you spacefag.
spaceFAG
14-02-2004, 01:25 AM
it's not a matter of being happy or not, i just feel ethically compelled to point out crippling stupidity whereever it may be found.
i have my work cut out for me.
rosamund
14-02-2004, 01:28 AM
Awww, he thinks he's Utopian. :)
polite
14-02-2004, 01:50 AM
I hate to be the skeleton at the feast but I agree with SpaceFag. That was so inane and stupid.I know nobody in Adelaide who talks like that except weirdos who wear beanies when it's 40 degrees.For Adelaide lads to be aping Americans so un-ashamedly seems to me like the imagination and originality factor has gone right out the window.Feel free to comment.
(got to go hang out with my peep's and my bro's:rolleyes: )
spaceFAG
14-02-2004, 02:09 AM
i'd like also to note that my comments should not be misconstrued as coming from someone who simply "doesn't like rap". as it so turns out, basically the only fucking thing i listen to any longer is hip hop, i just have selective tastes.
here is a track called Dr Moonorgun by Themselves - who are a collaborative effort between Dose One and Jel.
a B, an I, an O P S Y
how'd they break it to you
you've got cancer of the hope
did you pray
did you make yourself sick
did you paint your mirrors out
that dr moonorgun
he tells you you're dead
like he tells you the time of day
and you ate down to your pit
and you rapped, and rapped, and rapped
you were out scoping bridges and boosting turks
and so you missed the call
it was a false laugh alarm
you had comedic cancer
a funny skinny cancer of the pants
it's something to really quick go out and have some kids about
or something to go see branden and ask about a book about
and you didn't even have a first worst movie yet
or your first small heart attack
or a drivers licence even
all in my outrageously B don coscarelli dreams
all in my outrageously B don coscarelli dreams
all in my outrageously B don coscarelli dreams
all in my outrageously B don coscarelli dreams
notice the difference? it doesn't suck. check out their work if you're interested in genuinely creative, new, interesting music.
SOC
14-02-2004, 02:33 AM
who is to say what sucks and what doesn't suck? i personallly can't stand britney, busted or s club 7, but all of them have sold millions of albums.
polite
14-02-2004, 02:57 AM
Originally posted by SOC
who is to say what sucks and what doesn't suck? i personallly can't stand britney, busted or s club 7, but all of them have sold millions of albums.
In response to that SOC, whoever thinks something sucks or doesn't suck is qualified to say what they think.For myself, me, I, personally like lyrics like the following. If that means someone thinks I am"blisteringly inane" that's the way it is.We can't all think the same otherwise we'd have cloning......err...oops:p
I saw a newspaper picture from the political campaign
A woman was kissing a child, who was obviously in pain
She spills with compassion, as that young child’s
Face in her hands she grips
Can you imagine all that greed and avarice
Coming down on that child’s lips
Well I hope I don’t die too soon
I pray the lord my soul to save
Oh I’ll be a good boy, I’m trying so hard to behave
Because there’s one thing I know, I’d like to live
Long enough to savour
That’s when they finally put you in the ground
I’ll stand on your grave and tramp the dirt down
When england was the whore of the world
Margaret was her madam
And the future looked as bright and as clear as
The black tarmacadam
Well I hope that she sleeps well at night, isn’t
Haunted by every tiny detail
’cos when she held that lovely face in her hands
All she thought of was betrayal
And now the cynical ones say that it all ends the same in the long run
Try telling that to the desperate father who just squeezed the life from his only son
And how it’s only voices in your head and dreams you never dreamt
Try telling him the subtle difference between justice and contempt
Try telling me she isn’t angry with this pitiful discontent
When they flaunt it in your face as you line up for punishment
And then expect you to say thank you straighten up, look proud and pleased
Because you’ve only got the symptoms, you haven’t got the whole disease
Just like a schoolboy, whose head’s like a tin-can
Filled up with dreams then poured down the drain
Try telling that to the boys on both sides, being blown to bits or beaten and maimed
Who takes all the glory and none of the shame
Well I hope you live long now, I pray the lord your soul to keep
I think I’ll be going before we fold our arms and start to weep
I never thought for a moment that human life could be so cheap
’cos when they finally put you in the ground
They’ll stand there laughing and tramp the dirt down
See!, people will judge and laugh at this also.Difference of opinion makes a horse race! m.t
spaceFAG
14-02-2004, 03:22 AM
see, that's the thing - you CAN quantify these things, given a few generalisations that have more to do with assigning meaning to language than anything.
let us assume for a moment that in any given society, there exists two sets of qualities that through definition and connotation are polarised.
as an example of this, you can say "good" qualities of any given object or being are - powerful, kind, intelligent, bold, compassionate, understanding, proud, strong, creative, productive, generous, etc. next, let us say that there exists a set of qualities that are defined as being "bad" - cheap, greedy, violent, poor, stupid, lazy, uneducated, weak, etc.
so, we have established that there are positive and negative terms that can be applied arbitrarily to... whatever, and these terms are as a general rule universally agreed upon in meaning - the important thing here is it is the application of them that is argued.
as a side note, within the definition of these terms comes the implicit existance of it's opposite. you cannot be "rich" unless there is "poor" to compare it against, hence both terms rely on each other in order to even be conceptually viable.
thus we reach the long winded point of my poorly formed argument - in the same way we can say "this brick is stronger than this flower" we can say "this piece of music is better than this other piece of music" - we look at a brick, and we look at a flower, and analyze their various properties, and make an informed decision - the brick is physically more robust than the flower. noone would argue this, it is "obvious".
so, is it possible for one person to analyze the properties of a piece of music and make comparisons against another? of course it is. i can say that "Why?'s music is more intelligent than Britney Spears' music", given an examination of the elements it is comprised of. "intelligent" is commonly defined, we have two objects to compare, and the sentence is meaningful in as significant a way as saying "this stop sign is redder than this banana". to argue anything else you would be redefining the very meaning of "red", and hence being, at best, facetious, or at worst, as equally worthy of accusations of stupidity as Britney herself.
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Default NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
Nasa - Sunrise from the West
The science of astronomy states that the speed of planet Mars has been decreasing in its course toward the eastern direction in the past few weeks to the level we notice the "waver" between the east and the west..and on Wednesday the 30th of July the planet movement stopped going toward the eastern direction.. Then in the months of August and September...Mars changed its course in the opposite direction to the West- and that until the end of September..which means the sun will rise now from the west on Mars!!
And this weird phenomena of the opposite movement called "Retrograde Motion" Most scientist state that all the planets will go through the same once at least and our planet Earth is one of them. Planet Earth will move in the opposite direction some day and the sun will rise from the west!!
This might occur soon and we are unaware! The rise of the sun from the west is mentioned in the hadith and this is the major sign of the day of judgment, most if not All, the minor signs have occurred. Wake up.
Our beloved messenger Mohamed (Peace Be Upon Him) said: "One of the signs of the hour..the sun will rise from the west, where no longer tauba(forgiveness) will be granted" !!And the strange thing..most of our Shariah scholars mentioned that the rise of the sun from the west occurs only once..on that day..the sun will rise from the west..then again from the east..and continues until Allah wishes..and this is similar to what is happening to Mars..it stops, then it changes its course of direction for a short period of time..then returns to way once it was.
And Abdullah Bin Amro (R.A.) said: (I memorized from the messenger (SAW) a hadith I will never forget..I heard the messenger of Allah (SAW) say: The first aya to come the rise of the sun from the west) [Ahmad]
And the messenger SAW "Allah (SWT) places HIS hand at night to forgive his morning sinners, and places in the morning to forgive his night sinners until the sun rises from the west" [Muslim]
This piece of news is very important as it brings with it a great sign of warning and remembrance of the coming of a new WORLD - the world of he Hereafter When we show this hadith that was told 1400 years ago about this miracle..you will see InshaALLAH, a lot will rivert to right path...And the muslims if they see this phenomena happening in
Mars..who knows maybe it would bring them closer to our CREATOR.
May Allah (swt) keep all of us in the Right path and provide us with
success in this world as well as in the hereafter.
__________________
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
Sis, do you have the link? JAK
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
Didn't this happen a few years ago or somethin? I remember hearing about it but I forget when.
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
Quote:
Originally Posted by Kai85 View Post
Didn't this happen a few years ago or somethin? I remember hearing about it but I forget when.
That's what I thought...2004ish if I recall properly. I remember reading it was fake news (and I'm still waiting for the link )
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
Yea I was trying to look it up and apparently it never happened. I just got through reading one of those astronomy forums. From what I'm understanding, the only way this is going to happen is due to something disrupting the rotation (ex. planet getting hit by a meteor). I'm not big with astronomy so I can't really explain it. After reading 5 posts I had to go lay down
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
http://javeria.wordpress.com/2007/06...-west-on-mars/
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
^^ BarakAllahu feekum
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Default NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
Nasa - Sunrise from the West
The science of astronomy states that the speed of planet Mars has been decreasing in its course toward the eastern direction in the past few weeks to the level we notice the "waver" between the east and the west..and on Wednesday the 30th of July the planet movement stopped going toward the eastern direction.. Then in the months of August and September...Mars changed its course in the opposite direction to the West- and that until the end of September..which means the sun will rise now from the west on Mars!!
And this weird phenomena of the opposite movement called "Retrograde Motion" Most scientist state that all the planets will go through the same once at least and our planet Earth is one of them. Planet Earth will move in the opposite direction some day and the sun will rise from the west!!
This might occur soon and we are unaware! The rise of the sun from the west is mentioned in the hadith and this is the major sign of the day of judgment, most if not All, the minor signs have occurred. Wake up.
Our beloved messenger Mohamed (Peace Be Upon Him) said: "One of the signs of the hour..the sun will rise from the west, where no longer tauba(forgiveness) will be granted" !!And the strange thing..most of our Shariah scholars mentioned that the rise of the sun from the west occurs only once..on that day..the sun will rise from the west..then again from the east..and continues until Allah wishes..and this is similar to what is happening to Mars..it stops, then it changes its course of direction for a short period of time..then returns to way once it was.
And Abdullah Bin Amro (R.A.) said: (I memorized from the messenger (SAW) a hadith I will never forget..I heard the messenger of Allah (SAW) say: The first aya to come the rise of the sun from the west) [Ahmad]
And the messenger SAW "Allah (SWT) places HIS hand at night to forgive his morning sinners, and places in the morning to forgive his night sinners until the sun rises from the west" [Muslim]
This piece of news is very important as it brings with it a great sign of warning and remembrance of the coming of a new WORLD - the world of he Hereafter When we show this hadith that was told 1400 years ago about this miracle..you will see InshaALLAH, a lot will rivert to right path...And the muslims if they see this phenomena happening in
Mars..who knows maybe it would bring them closer to our CREATOR.
May Allah (swt) keep all of us in the Right path and provide us with
success in this world as well as in the hereafter.
__________________
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God, the Eternal source and support
Of everything;
He begets not, and neither is He begotten;
And none is His equal.’(al-Ikhlas 112: 1-4)
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
Sis, do you have the link? JAK
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
Didn't this happen a few years ago or somethin? I remember hearing about it but I forget when.
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
Quote:
Originally Posted by Kai85 View Post
Didn't this happen a few years ago or somethin? I remember hearing about it but I forget when.
That's what I thought...2004ish if I recall properly. I remember reading it was fake news (and I'm still waiting for the link )
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And look at the one who collects the wealth of this Dunya in abundance, will he depart from this world bearing other than the death shroud and embalmment? Take from the dunya that which suffices you and be contented with that even if you were to have naught but good health- Zain Alabdeen
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
Yea I was trying to look it up and apparently it never happened. I just got through reading one of those astronomy forums. From what I'm understanding, the only way this is going to happen is due to something disrupting the rotation (ex. planet getting hit by a meteor). I'm not big with astronomy so I can't really explain it. After reading 5 posts I had to go lay down
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
http://javeria.wordpress.com/2007/06...-west-on-mars/
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Default Re: NASA Confirms Sun Rise from the West (Signs of the Day of Judgement) - 01-30-2009
^^ BarakAllahu feekum
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Saturday, January 16, 2010
Family Instructor 1
THE
Family Instructor
IN FIVE PARTS;
I. Respecting Parents and Children
II. Masters and Servants
III. Husbands and Wives
[IV. Relating to Family Breaches]
[V. Management of Children;]
AND A
VARIETY OF CASES
ON THE NECESSITY OF
SETTING PROPER EXAMPLES
TO CHILDREN AND SERVANTS
WITH A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.
BUNGAY:
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY BRIGHTLY AND CHILDS.
1816.
PREFACE.
THE first Edition of this Work was so ill printed, and by reason of the author's absence from the press, was so incorrect, that it stood more than ordinarily in need of help of a good Introduction; yet it is hoped the work has not dishonoured the Reverend person, who did it the favour to give it the first recommendation.
The usefulness of the subject, and honesty of the design, has prevailed to give it a good reception in the world: and notwithstanding the casual imperfections of the first part, some good men have been pleased to accept the performance, to usher it into the World much to its advantage, and to recommend it as well from the pulpit as from the press.
The unworthy author earnestly desired, and to his utmost endeavoured to be for ever concealed; not that he was ashamed of the work, or sees any reason yet to be so; professing to have a firm belief, that be was not without a more than ordinary presence and assistance of the divine Spirit in the performance. But being fully satisfied with the prospect of doing good by it, he desired that his praise might not be of men, but of God.
To this end he took such measures at first for effectually preserving the secret, and for his intire remaining in the obscurity he desired, that for time after the publication, he continued unguessed at, and he flattered himself for a while, that the author would be no farther enquired into: But Satan hindered.
The success of the work, and the many testimonies given to the good effect it has had in families, notwithstanding their knowledge of the author, has fully delivered him the discouragement he was under on that occasion this alone prevailed with him for a second edition, which he had for some time resolved against. It was not without reason that he had great apprehensions, lest some men, suffering their prejudices to prevail even over their zeal for public good, might be tempted to lay the imperfections of the author of this book, as a stumbling-block in the way of those who might otherwise receive benefit by it, and so the good effects of his labours might be in part obstructed.
But God, who as before, he firmly believes, directed his hand in the work, has given his visible blessing to it; and has thereby from heaven owned the author, to his inexpressible satisfaction and joy. To his name be all the praise!
After this, let who will reject him or his book, it is not possible to give him the least disturbance.
After this, if any man will rob himself, or any one else, of the good this work might otherwise do, at his door be the sin.
The present edition is more carefully corrected, and the errors of the press are so few, and of so small consequence, that an ordinary judgment will correct them in reading.
The author in revising it, has made no additions, thinking his first design fully exhausted, and also esteeming it injurious to those, who have bought the first, to let editions vary so much from it, as to make them think their money lost, and to oblige them to buy it over again.
Some few things are omitted indeed, but not considerable, and those principally in the Notes; from the mere sense the author had of the comments being less beautiful than the text; and that others are able to make better annotations than himself
The whole Work being designed both to divert and instruct, the author endeavoured to adapt it as much as possible to both those uses, from whence some have called it A religious play.
It would more have answered that title, had the author's first design been pursued, which was to have made it a dramatic poem: but the subject was too solemn, and the text too copious, to suffer the restraint on one hand, or the excursions on the other, which the decoration of a poem would have made necessary.
As to its being called a play, be it called so if they please; it must be confessed, some parts of it are too much acted in many families among us: the author wishes, that either all our our Plays were as useful for the improvement and entertainment of the world, or that they were less encouraged.
THE
Family Instructor
PART I.
THE INTRODUCTION.
CATECHISING of children, and instructing them in the principles of the Christian religion, has been a practice in the church as antient as religion itself; and, the nature of the thing which requires it, was deduced from that strict injunction laid upon the children of Israel, Deut. vi. 7. "And thou shalt teach them diligently to thy children;" speaking of the laws and statutes which God then commanded Moses; and again, Deut. iv. 19. "But teach them to thy sons, and thy sons' sons."
It is not the design of this undertaking to give a list of authorities in Scripture for catechising and instructing of children, or the commendations and given there to those who did instruct their children in the knowledge and practice of religion. That eminent text is sufficient to this, being the blessed character given to Abraham from God himself: "I know Abraham (says the Lord, Gen. xviii. 19,) that he will command his children, and his household after him," &c.
But we live in an age that does not want so much to know their duty, as to practise it; not so much to be taught, as to be made obedient to what they have already learned; and therefore I shall take up no time in proving this matter to be a duty; there is hardly a wretch so hardened, but will readily acknowledge it. But we are, I say, arrived at a time in which men will frankly own a thing to be their duty which at the same time they dare omit practice of: and innumerable arts, shifts, and turns, they find out to make that omission easy to themselves, and excusable to others.
One part of this work is pointed at such, if possible, to make them blush at their unaccountable rashness, and to shame them out of such a sordid inconsistent course, as that of living in the allowed omission of what they acknowledge to be their duty.
The way I have taken for this is entirely new, and at first perhaps it may appear something odd, and the method may be contemned. But let such blame their own more irregular tempers, that must have every thing turned into new models, must be touched with novelty, and have their fancies humoured with the dress of a thing; so that if it be what has been said over and over a thousand times, yet if it has but a different coloured coat, or a new feather in its cap, it pleases and wins upon them; whereas the same truths, written in the divinest style in the world, would be flat, stale, and unpleasant, without it.
If, then, after all the pains which have been taken by ministerial labour and instruction, and by the pressing exhortation and moving arguments of eminent divines, even of all opinions, in their writings on this subject, this mean and familiar method should by its novelty prevail, this will be a happy undertaking, and at the same time be no reproach at all to the labours of others.
In the pursuit of this book, care is taken to avoid distinction of opinions as to the church of England, or Dissenters; and no offence can be taken here either on the one side or the other. As I hope both are Christians, so both are treated here as such; and the advice impartially directed to both, without the least distinction.
If those who call themselves Christians and will not instruct their children and servants, here they will find their children and servants instructing them, and reproving them too; and both they and their children may here meet with instructions together.
The father represented here, appears knowing enough; but seems to be one of those professing Christians who acknowledge God in their mouths, yet take no effectual care to honour him with their practice; that live in a round of religion, as a thing of course; have not the power of godliness, nor much of the form; a kind of negative Christian, a God-I-thank-thee Pharisee; sound in knowledge, but negligent in conversation; orthodox in opinion, but heterodox in practice. And that I have found out such a person, is to signify, that let him be where he will, and who he will, this work is calculated to reprove and admonish him.
The mother here represented, is likewise a formal, loose living Christian, a Protestant professor of religion the practice of it; but yet she is a professor, one knows how to talk of religion, and makes a show to belong to it. But, alas, for the rest! the consequence will appear in the book, in which I doubt a great many may see their own pictures drawn. May the sight of it have the same healing, convincing efficacy as appears upon the persons here, whose story is therefore brought for an example to them.
May they see it, and blush, like the father here mentioned; like him, may they be ashamed of their likeness: may they see it, and, like him, effectually reform the dreadful practice. This would completely answer the end and the design of the author of this book, and rejoice the hearts of all serious Christians in the nation.
The Child who is here made the inquirer, has no questions put into his mouth but what are natural and rational, consistent with principle, and, as near as could be, are such as are proper even to a child: none but what the author wishes every body would put seriously to themselves as often as they look about them in the world, and none but what even a child is capable to inquire into. The author has endeavoured to produce the questions with an air of mere nature, innocence, and childhood; yet such as, being naturally adapted to the general state of things, may be apposite and direct: such as being the mere product of the most common reasonings, and even the understandings of children, a child's understanding may justly be supposed to have proposed them.
Though much of the story is historical, and might be made appear to be true in fact; yet the author, resolving not to give the least hint that should lead to persons, has been obliged to leave it uncertain to the reader, whether it be a history or a parable; believing it may be either way adapted to the sincere design; which is (1) to reprove those parents who neglect the instruction of their children and (2) to direct young persons in their first reflections, guiding them to inquire about themselves, their original. their state, their progress in this world, the reason of their being born into it, their passing out of it, and, which is the main cogitation, their condition beyond it.
The method is new, as is said above, but perhaps may be the more pleasing. Any thing, or any method, if we may but bring the main end to pass, viz. to bring young and old to set earnestly and heartily about the great work of serving, glorifying, and obeying the God that made them.
The child is supposed to come up to such years as to be thinking and inquiring, suppose about five or six years old; and as nature is always prompting the soul to be searching after something which it did not know before, so that inquisitive temper is in some sedater than in others. However, our little child asks but very little of his father but what a child of that age may be very capable of asking.
The scene of this little action is not laid very remote, or the circumstances obscure. THe father, walking in a field behind his garden, finds one of his children wandered out, all alone, under a row or walk of trees, sitting upon a little rising ground by itself, looking about, and mighty busy, pointing this way and that way, sometimes up and sometimes down, and sometimes to itself: so that the father, coming unperceived pretty near, found the little creature very busy about something, he could not tell what; whne the father, after much observation, and some surprise, discovering himself, asks the child what he was doing, and so sits down by him; which question begins
THE FIRST DIALOGUE.
I was looking up there (says the child; pointing up in the air.)
Fath. Well, and what did you point thither for, and then point to the ground, and then to yourself afterwards? what was that about?
Child. I was a wondering, father.
Fath.At what, my dear?
Child. I was wondering what place that is.
Fath. That is the air, the sky.
Child. And what is beyond that, father?
Fath.Beyond, my dear; why, above it all there is heaven.
Child. Who lives there, father? My nurse talks of heaven sometimes, and says God is in heaven. Is that the place up there?
Fath.Yes, my dear.
Child. Why, father, does God dwell there? Sure it is a fine place. How do we know that he dwells there? Have you been there, father?
Fath.No, my dear; but we know it two ways. 1. The scriptures tell us heaven is his throne; that he has spoken from heaven, and has been seen come down from heaven; and the Son of God was seen to ascend into heaven. 2. Besides, child, he made heaven for his eternal habitation; and the making of, and preserving all things, is a token of his being, and of his being God.
Child. But, dear father, my nurse tells me that God made me too; and that was it I was pointing to myself about. If God made me, how did I come from thence hither, father? I was a wondering, for it is a huge way.
Fath. Child, God made you by the course of nature. Having made the whole world, at first, and all the things therein, he gave a command, and with that command gave a power, to nature to grow and increase. By virtue of that command, every thing increases, and every creature is produced by its own kind. But at first all was made by his infinite power who made the whole world.
Child. Why father, did God make all those creatures we see about us, this grass, and the trees, and these cows and horses, and the dogs and cats, and every thing?
Fath. Yes, my dear; he "made heaven and earth, and the sea, and all that in them is," as you read in your commandments, child.
Child. And what a creature am I, father? I an't like them; I can speak; they can't speak, father.
Fath. No, child, you are not like them. God has made you a rational creature, and given you a soul.
Child. A soul, father! what is that?
Fath. It is a part of his own image stamped upon you, and the breath of an invisible power, by which you can think of things to come, and remember things past; reflect, argue, and know both yourself and him that made you.
Child. Why, dear father, cannot the horses and cows do so too?
Fath. No, child, not at all.
Child. Why, has he made me a better creature than they?
Fath. Yes, he has, and has given them to you for food and service. Don't you see that we eat them, and ride upon them, and the like?
Child. I am glad I am made a better creature than they. I'd thank him for it, if I knew how. Should I not do so, father?
Fath. Indeed you should, child.
Child. But you never told me so before, father, as I remember.
Fath. Not so often as I should have done, child; but remember it now, my dear [and kisses him].
Child. So I will -- But how must I thank him for it, father?
Fath. You must pray to him to bless you, child, and then give thanks to him for your creation and preservation.
Child. Do you do so, father?
Fath. Yes, child.
Child. O, Ho; because I never heard you do so, father.
Fath. Well, but you have been taught.
Child. Yes, my mother and my nurse taught me to say my prayers; but I don't see a word there that thanks God for making me a boy, not a horse or a cow, or giving me a soul, father.
Fath. But it included, child, when in the beginning of your prayers you say, "Our Father" -- For God is a father in giving you a soul, as well as a creator in making your body.
Child. But may I not say so in my prayers then?
Fath. Yes, child, if you were taught.
Child. Indeed I can say that without teaching; I can thank God for giving me a soul, and making me better than the horses and the cows, without my nurse. I wish I had known it sooner, father. Won't God be angry I never thanked him for it yet?
Fath. I hope not, child, since you did not know it.
Child. Dear father, won't God be angry with you that you never told me before?
Fath. Indeed he has reason.
Child. Dear father, why did not you tell me?
[Here the child cries, and the father blushes, or at least ought to have done so.]
Fath. Well, child, do not cry: come, take care you thank God for it, now you do know it.
Child. Indeed I'll thank him for it; for my heart jumps within me, to think he has made me better than other creatures.
Fath. My dear child!
[The father is moved with the child's expression, and kisses him.]
Child. But, dear father, if God should be angry with me for thanking him, will he not take this soul away again, and turn me into a horse or a cow?
Fath. No, child; God does not punish that way. It is true, God may take away the use of it, take away the reason, or the speech, or the senses, and leave you in some kind worse than if you had no soul at all; he may do all these things, and more.
Child. Then should not I, when I say my prayers, remember to pray, that God would not be angry that I never thanked him for it before?
Fath. Your nurse will teach you to do so.
Child. Indeed, father, I'll do that, whether my nurse teaches me or no. Sure, if God made me, I may pray to him not to be angry with me. If you were angry with me, father, I don't want my nurse to teach me to come and say, My dear father, do not be angry. Besides, if God has made me so much better than other things, won't he teach me to thank him for it?
Fath.I hope he will, child.
Child. But, dear father, wherefore has God made me better than other creatures? Had he not some reason for doing so?
Fath. No reason, child, on thy side.
Child, But does not God expect then that I should something that the cows and horses cannot do? Is there not something for me to do for it?
Fath. Yes; indeed there is, child.
Child. What is that, father? for I have been wondering what my business is in this world, as well as how I came hither. What am I to do here?
Fath.You are to live here to the glory of him that made you.
Child. How's that, father?
Fath.You must fear God, and keep his commandments.
Child. What, the ten commandments, father?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. Truly, if God has made me, and made me better than the rest of his creatures, and can take from me, as you said, father, all that he has given me, and make me worse than the and horses, sure I should do what he commands me.
Fath. That's true, child.
Child. But mayn't I do more than that? Mayn't I love him too, father? for sure he loves me, or else he would not have made me and given me all this.
Fath. Yes, child, you must love him too.
Child. But, father, that is not in my commandments; won't God be angry with me if I should love him?
Fath. No, child, to obey God, and to fear God, is to love God; for to fear him as your father, and to serve him as your father, to fear him and to serve him a child; and that is to love him. Don't love me, my dear?
Child. Yes, dear father.
Fath. Why do you do what I bid you? and do you cry when I am angry with you?
Child. Because I love you, dear father.
Fath. So, if you fear God, and serve God as your father and as his child, that is, loving him; for "they that love him keep his commandments."
Child. Indeed I think it need not be put into my commandments; for sure when we know what he has done for us, to make us souls, and not make us like the horses and cows, we must needs love him. Don't you love him, father?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. And do not body else love him, father?
Fath. No, child; a great many wicked children, and wicked people, don't love him.
Child. And has he given them souls too, father, and made them better than the beasts, as he has done for me?
Fath.Yes, child.
Child. But sure they do not know it then?
Fath. They do not think of it as thou dost, my dear.
Child. It may be their fathers and mothers never told them of it, as you do me now.
Fath. They don't so much as they should, nor so soon as they should.
Child. I wish you had told me of it sooner, father.
Fath. I hope 'tis not too late now, child.
Child. But, father, if these wicked children do not love God, nor thank God, for giving them souls, and making them better creatures than the horses and cows, is not God angry with them for it?
Fath. Yes, my dear, God is very angry with them.
Child. But why does he not take away their souls again, and turn them into horses and cows, or take away the use of their reason, and leave them worse than the beasts, as you said he could do, father? Sure God is not angry with them at all.
Fath. Yes, my dear, God is angry with them for all that; he lets them go on; sometimes till they amend and repent, and turn to God again, and then he forgives them; other times he lets them go on, and grow worse, and punishes them for all together at last.
Child. That's a sad thing, father; sure God is very angry when he lets them go on, and takes no care of them, father, isn't he?
Fath. Yes, indeed, it is a sign of his severest anger when he lets them go on, and does not punish them till the last; for it is a signal that he has no thought of mercy in store for them.
Child. And when God leaves them so, are they not sorry for it, father?
Fath.No, no; they always grow worse and worse, till they grow mere reprobates, and hardened against him that made them.
Child. They are sad folks indeed. But, father, does not God destroy them at last?
Fath. He does worse, child; he punishes them ever-lastingly in hell.
Child. Dear father, don't let me make God angry with me, as they do; won't you tell me what I must do to save me from God's being angry?
Fath.Yes, I will, child.
Child. But you never did yet, father? I am afraid he is angry with me already: for I am almost six years old, and never thanked him, nor loved him. nor feared him, nor nothing, father: he has let me alone, and has let me go just as you say be does the wicked folks; I am sure he must be angry with me, and he will punish me everlastingly in hell, aw you said, father. O what must I do?
[Here conviction works in the child, the child weeps.]
Fath. Why, child, did you not do all this?
Child. Dear father, I never knew what God was, or what he had done for me; you never told me a word of him in all my life till now! I never heard you pray to him in all my life! I know nothing of him! How should I, father?
Fath. But, child, your nurse and your mother taught you that God made you.
Child. Yes; but they never told me what God was, and what he had done for me, and what I was to do again. I thought nothing, not I, father; I lived just as I saw you live, father; I never prayed to God in all my life, father.
Fath. Why, child, did not your mother teach you to say your prayers every night and morning?
Child. Yes, father, I said the prayers over, but I never thought a word what they meant; I only said them by rote. Sure God does not take notice of that; does he father? If he does, our parrot can pray as well I.
Fath. True, child, God requires the heart, and no prayers but what the heart joins in.
Child. You say, I may pray to God for what I want, and I may thank him for making me, and for making me better than the horses and cows.
Fath. Yes, I do say so.
Child. But, father, am I to do nothing else? Did God make me for nothing? Have I no other business now I am made? What do other folks do that are made as I am?
Fath. Yes, child, you are made to serve him. You know your catechism.
Child. What's that, the questions and answers my nurse taught me?
Fath. Yes, the questions and answers. There you are told, your business here is to serve God.
Child. Dear father, did God make me to serve him?
Fath. Yes, child, he made you to serve him.
Child. And do you serve him, father? What is it to serve him? how must I do it? I would fain serve him; because he has made me, and made me better than the horses and cows.
[Here the father weeps, and, speaking to himself with a sigh, says, Lord, how this child is made to sting my soul to the quick! God knows, I have neither served him, nor taught this dear little creature to do it, as I should have done.]
[The father was so struck with the child's question, viz. Do you serve him, father? that he gives no present answer; and the little inquisitive creature goes on again.]
Child. Dear father, may not I be taught how to serve God?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. Will you teach me, father?
Fath. Yes, child.
Child. Why, you never did it yet, father: may be, I ben't big enough yet; when shall I be big enough, father! when I am a man?
Fath. You may learn to serve God, though you are a child.
Child. Does my brother know how to serve God, father? He is a great boy, and I never saw you teach him. Can you teach me, father?
Fath. God will teach you himself, child.
Child. God teach me himself! How can that be?
Fath. He has many ways of teaching, child, viz. by his word, his ministers, and his Spirit.
Child. What are they, father? you said just now, you would teach me.
Fath. I may teach you too, child; but the word of God is given to teach you; ministers are sent to instruct by that word; and parents are ministers of God to instruct and children; and the Spirit of God is given to seal the instruction, and make it effectual.
Child. Do the fathers teach their children?
Fath. It is their duty to do so.
Child. And be they ministers to their families?
Fath. So far as to instruct and teach their children, they are, my dear.
Child. And when will you be a minister, father, that I may be instructed how to serve God?
Fath. My dear, I am so much a minister at any time.
Child. I wonder.
Fath. What do you wonder at, my dear?
Child. Dear father, you say the fathers are to teach their children, and are ministers to their families, and you are a minister, and yet I was never taught. I wonder what all this is; for I have never been taught any thing, but to play, and sing the songs my nurse teaches me, and read in my sister's song book.
Fath. Well, my dear, you shall not want teaching.
Child. Will you teach me to serve God, father?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. I am glad of it; I would fain serve God, father; for I love him already dearly.
[Conviction of sin thus working up to a love to God, a fear of God, and a desire of serving God, which is holiness, may be very well allowed here to be an appearance of converting grace in the heart of a little one.]
[The father takes notice of it as such.]
Fath. That's a true principle to begin to serve God from, my dear; for God accepts no fear but what is founded in our love to him; pray, then, my dear, that he will increase your love to him, that you may serve him acceptably.
Child. But, dear father, you say God dwells up there in heaven; how can he hear what I say? I can't speak loud enough to be heard so far; and then, though God could hear me, how does he know when I speak as my means?
Fath. Yes, child, God can hear and know, for he is infinite.
Child. What is that, father?
Fath. Why, child, it takes in all the attributes of God.
Child. I don't know these hard words, father. Pray, who is God, and what is he? Can't you tell me, father, so I may understand it?
Fath. It is very hard to give a description of God to thy understanding, my dear.
Child. And that is the reason you never said any thing of him to me, father; is it not? Must not I know who God is till I am a man, father?
Fath. Yes, child; the scripture says, "Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth."
Child. But, dear father, how shall I remember him? I never heard any thing of him, you never told me a word of him yet; may be I an't a youth yet; I long to be a youth, father; then you'll tell me who God is, that I may remember him, father, won't you?
Fath. Dear child! you ought to have been told who God is before now; indeed I have neglected to instruct thee as I ought to have done; but I'll tell thee now, my dear.
Child. Isn't it too late, father? O why would you neglect it, father? Was you angry with me, and would not instruct me, father? What if God should let me go now, and punish me everlastingly, as you said? I wish you had not neglected it, father.
Fath. No, child, it is not too late, as you shall know by and by.
Child. Tell me then, father, what is God? I would fain know God. Can't I see him? To be sure I should know him if I could see him.
Fath. No, child, you cannot see him: "No mortal eye hath seen God at any time."
Child. How shall I know then what he is?
Fath. You most know God by the scriptures, by reading and by meditating on the revelation he has given of himself there; you must read of him in your Bible.
Child. But, father, I can't know him by reading my book; I have read my book often, but I know nothing about God: can't you tell me what God is, father?
Fath. No words can express his being, or describe him.
Child. How shall I know then by reading, father?
Fath. I mean, child, no words can express it fully; but the Spirit of God expounds the word of God to us, and by he that Spirit he teaches us the knowledge of himself.
Fath. But you can tell me something of him, father? You say he dwells up there: what is he like, father?
Fath. God is one, infinite, eternal, incomprehensible, invisible being; the first cause of all things; the giver of life and being to all things; existing prior, and therefore superior to all things; infinitely perfect, great, holy, just, wise, and good.
Child. These are hard words, father; how shall I understand them? What do you mean by the word infinite, for I see you put that in among the rest over and over?
Fath. Why, child, infinite is a word to signify something beyond all that is known, and can only be described in thought; and those thoughts only describe it by acknowledging that they cannot describe it. But thus much you may understand by it:-- That which was before all things, and shall continue after them; that he hath power to make all things, and the same power preserves and maintains all things, and at last will put all things to an end. Of the particulars, you may understand thus: that he is infinitely great, signifies, that he has made thee, my dear, and all people in the world; that he is infinitely wise signifies, that he knows every thought in the heart, and that implies, that he hears every word that is spoken, and sees every action that is done, though ever so secret; that he is infinitely holy and just, signifies, that he hates all that is evil, and will punish it; that he is infinitely good, signifies, that he loves every good action, and will reward it; that he is infinitely powerful, signifies, that all other powers move and act by him; "for by him we live, and move, and have our being." Dost thou know him, child, by this description?
Child. I am wondering! father, I don't say I know, but I wonder! I am afraid, I tremble! father, sure God is very dreadful!
Fath. He is so, child.
Child. Does be ever speak, father? Can't I bear him speak?
Fath. His voice is terrible, and is a consuming fire, thou canst not hear him speak, my dear.
Child. My nurse said, father, that when it thundered, it was God spoke. What is the thunder and lightning, father? Is that God?
Fath. No, my dear, it is the work of God, as all the rest of the creation is his work, but no otherwise; the voice God is compared to thunder, indeed, but God speaks to us in another kind of voice than that.
Child. What voice is that, father?
Fath. The voice of the gospel, and the voice of his creatures.
Child. What is that, father? I never heard it; may I hear that voice? I would fain hear God speak, father; for I would do what he bids me, and never make him angry.
Fath. The gospel is the word of God, the message of life sent from heaven, revealed in the scriptures, and preached by his servants, the ministers; this is the voice I mean, child.
Child. I don't understand it, father.
Fath. Why the Bible is the word of God, it was dictated by the inspiration of the Spirit of God; when read in the Bible, you are to believe that God speaks to you in the words you read; this is his voice.
Child. Why! doth God speak to me when I read my book, father
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. But then, what if I do not understand it? then it nothing to me; how shall I do to know what I read?
Fath. You shall be taught, my dear.
Child. Who should teach me; won't God make me understand what he says when I read my hook?
Fath. Indeed I should have taught thee, my dear, that is true.
[The Lord pardon me, I have too much neglected it, says the father aside; and turning away his head, cannot refrain tears.]
Child. Dear father, tell me, what does my book say? what shall I learn there of God?
Fath. You will learn that God is from the beginning, and to the end; from everlasting to everlasting; has created all things, and knows all things.
Child. Knows all things! that's strange father; does God know all things?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. If God knows all things, he knows how old I am, and that all this while I never thought of him, nor served him, and never knew any thing of him till now; and he knows father, you never told me any thing of him before now: sure he is very angry, and will punish me; what must I do?
Here the child weeps again.]
Fath. But God is merciful too.
Child. What is that, father?
Fath. Why, to those that repent of their sins past, reform their lives, he is merciful; that is, upon their repentance he forgives them, for the sake of Jesus Christ, and is reconciled to them, as though they had not sinned against him.
Child. Jesus Christ! father, who is that?
Fath. He is God.
Fath. Why, father, you said, God was one first being, is there more Gods than one? is there two firsts? my commandments say there is but one God.
Fath. No, child, there is but one God; yet Jesus Christ is essentially God, though in a second person; he is God coequal, co-eternal, that is the same in being, nature, and attributes; "God manifested in the flesh," sent from heaven to redeem a lost world.
Child. I don't understand a word of all that, father; what does it mean?
Fath. Why, child, you are to understand, that when the first man and the first woman in the world were created, God having made a covenant or agreement of holiness and life with them, and in them, with all that should be born of them, they broke that covenant, and so involved all their posterity in their guilt, the punishment of which was eternal death: but God, who as I told you, child, was infinitely good, though provoked utterly to destroy the whole race for that sin, and being under the engagement of that covenant to do it, yet, in the mere operation of his own goodness, determined to recover sinful men from the gulf of death: to make this adequate or suitable to his own infinite justice and holiness, he incarnated, by a miraculous birth, the divine nature into the human, and caused this blessed con...nation to appear in the world in the likeness of sinful flesh; so being infinite God on the one band, and man the other, he became capable of being a complete sacrifice for the satisfaction of God's justice; and afterwards suffering the divine wrath, made peace for us by the blood of his cross; was crucified, dead, and buried, as you say in creed, rose again, is ascended into heaven, sits at the right hand of power, and shall come again to judge us all: and this, child, is called our Saviour, the Son of God, and is indeed God himself.
Child. I don't know how to understand all this, father.
Fath. You most understand it gradually, my dear, a little at a time; you can understand this, that we are all under the sentence of death for the first man's sin: "By one man sin entered into the world, and death by Sin." Rom. v. 12.
Child. That is a strange thing, father! what, are we condemned to suffer for that man's transgression?
Fath. The scripture is plain in it-- "By the offence of one, judgment came upon all men to condemnation," Rom, v. 18.
Child. But, father, you said just now, God would be reconciled to me, if I repented, and was sorry for my sins.
Fath. Yes, child, I did so.
Child. But how can that be, when you say I shall be condemned for another man's transgression?
Fath. It is very plain, that the effect of that man's first sin is a corrupt taint which we all bring into the world with us, and which we find upon our nature, by which we find a natural propensity in us to do evil, and no natural inclination to do good; and this we are to mourn ever, and lament, as the fountain of sin, from whence all our wicked actions do proceed; and this is called indwelling sin.
Child. Have I this in me, father?
Fath. Yes, child; did you not say, how should you do this, or that, for you were not taught? you can be a naughty boy without teaching, to sin is natural. But you must be instructed and laboured with to be a good child. "To will, is present with me, but how to perform that which is good, I know not; in me, that is, in my flesh, dwelleth no good thing," Rom. vii. 18.
Child. What will become of me then, father, if I was wicked when I was born?
Fath. This, my dear, is that which I named Jesus Christ for.
Child. Why, what will he do for me?
Fath. He will deliver thee from this body of death:-- "Who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank God, through [or for] Jesus Christ our Lord," Rom. vii. 24, 25.
Child. How can he do this?
Fath. "He hath delivered us from the curse of the law, by being made a curse for us;" and whereas we are not able to perform any thing, he hath "fulfilled all righteousness for us, [if we believe in him;] for being justified by faith, we have peace with God; and so as by the disobedience of one man, many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one, [Christ] shall many be made righteous," Rom. v. 19.
Child. But, father, will Jesus Christ answer for me for that first transgression, and take away the sentence you say I was under? for if he does not, I am undone; to be sure I can't do it myself.
Fath. Yes, my dear, "the blood of Christ cleanseth from all sin," as well of nature, as of life; "and there now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus," Rom. viii. 1.
Child. And now we are all saved again by this new Saviour's satisfaction; an't we, father?
Fath. No, child, not all! We cannot say all are saved, but all those who are saved, are so saved, viz. by the satisfaction of the blessed Redeemer, being chosen from eternity by the mere grace and good-will of God; to whom, after they come into the world, God of the same grace gives repentance and faith, sanctifies and justifies them, and then accepts them for the sake of the Saviour of the world.
Child. So then are none saved, bus such as God has chose again out of the rest?
Fath. We have no warrant to say any other are saved, and yet we dare not say who shall not be saved.
Child. But who then are they that are chosen, father? don't you know their names?
Fath. No, child, God has left that uncertain to us.
Child. But, dear father, I would fain know if my name be among them; for what will become of me, if I should not be one of them?
Fath. I hope you are, child: God has not let us know who are shut out, but by shutting out themselves.
Child. But is there no way to know, father?
Fath. Why, it may be presumptively known by this, that since to all that God has thus chosen, he, by his Spirit, gives faith and repentance, sanctification in heart, and justification of person, whoever the Spirit of God worketh this faith and repentance in, have a very good assurance that they are not in the number: "the Spirit witnessing with their spirits, that they are the children of God," Rom. viii. 16.
Child. But how shall I know if I have faith and repentance? what are they, father? I never heard of them in my life: you never told me a word of them before.
Fath. Repentance, child, is a sense of, and sincere sorrow for sin, in all its parts, as well original, as actual; and this sorrow must be always attended with a sincere desire of pardon and sanctification, and earnest endeavours after reformation and amendment. And faith, child, is a fiducial, filial confidence in the promises of God, and consequently in God himself; thereby humbly realizing, and appropriating to ourselves, the whole purchase of the death of Jesus Christ, with a relying upon his merits, resting on him, and adhering to him for life and salvation.
Child. I shall never remember all this, father, how did you come to remember it? did your father only tell it to you, as you do me? are there no books to teach me? if not, won't you write it down for me, father? you know I can read.
Fath. It is all written down already, child, and you have it every word in your Bible.
Child. I do remember something, father, of Adam and Eve; were they the folks that sinned first?
Fath. Yes, child, and han't you read of Jesus Christ?
Child. Yes, father, but I do not understand a word of him, nobody ever taught me; besides, I have heard my brother cry, O Jesus! and O Christ! at his play, and nurse chide him for it, and said it was a naughty word.
Fath. Your brother is a naughty boy, and should be whipt when he uses those words.
Child. Who should whip him, father, you don't?
Fath. But I shall, if I hear him say so again.
Child. But why, father, if Jesus Christ be God, how is it a naughty word?
Fath. It is a naughty, profane thing, to name his name on slight occasions; that name should only be named with fear and reverence, and, on a serious occasion, as we use it now, my dear: your commandments say, you must not take the Lord's name in vain; that is, upon common occasions, such as passion, play, imprecation, profane cursing, swearing, and the like.
Child. But who is this Jesus Christ, father? I have never heard any thing of him before, but only by his name.
Fath. He is "God manifested in the flesh," and the Son of God sent down from heaven to die for sinners, and to save us from eternal death.
[Here the child is silent, and tears fall from its eyes.]
Fath. Don't cry, my dear, why dost thou cry?
Child. I must cry, dear father, there is something bids me cry! I cannot tell what you say at all, father; but my heart beats, I am affrighted, -- die for sinners! Jesus Christ God! God, and yet die! and die for sinners! what is all this? am I a sinner?
Fath. Yes, my dear, all of us are sinners.
Child. What, and did God die for me? Jesus Christ die for me!
[The child trembles and cries; the father weeps too, and kisses it, moved to see the Spirit of God visibly working in the heart of the little creature.]
Fath. Yes, my dear, and will save thee, I hope: for he is thy Redeemer.
Child. Then God is not angry with me for my fault in not knowing of him sooner?
Fath. No, my dear, he is reconciled by Jesus Christ, who died to bring thee to God, to make peace for thee by the blood of his cross, and procure pardon for all thy faults.
Child. How does he do it?
Fath. He gives repentance and remission. Have you not read in your Bible of repentance, my dear?
Child. I don't know, I believe I have; but nobody told me any thing what it is, and I do not remember, father: is all that in my book too?
Fath. Yes, my dear, I will show it thee there, and explain it to thee: thou shalt not want teaching any longer, if thou wilt but learn.
Child. Indeed I'll learn it, father, with all my heart: shall I know what God is, and what Jesus Christ is, if I learn my book, father?
Fath. Yes, child, all that I have told thee, and a great deal more is there, my dear; and you must read the Bible, and there you will learn it all.
Child. Did you learn it all there, father?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. But did your father never show you where to find it, and tell you what it meant? for I have read a deal in that book, father; but I never knew what it meant, and you never showed it me, father: you know it was not my fault; dear father; was it? you know I am but a child.
[Pages 24 and 25 missing here.]
Fath. Do that, child! the Spirit of God is God, and therefore can do all things. But it is the peculiar work of the Spirit in this cane. The Spirit is your sanctifier; it is the light of your path; it works faith and gives repentance; it puts every good thing into you, and works every good work for you: it gives a saving efficacy to every ordinance, and it brings you to Christ, to rely on him for salvation; he brings you to God the Father, whose acceptance in is your life.
Child. And will this Spirit be had by praying to God for it?
Fath. Yes, child; for you cannot pray to God in faith without the help of the Spirit; and when the Spirit works in you a disposition to pray, it cannot but answer its own image, and the breathings of the soul, which itself has created: "for the longing soul shall be satisfied."
Child. But, father, you say the Spirit of God has given the word, which you say is the Bible, for my teaching; and yet you say the Spirit teaches: what, do they both teach the same thing?
Fath. Child, the Bible is your rule of life. Though the Spirit is the secret instructor, the scripture is the key of instruction. There you are to learn how God is to be worshipped: how to order your conversation aright: how to perform your duty, and "what it is the Lord thy God requires of thee." There you have an historical account of the whole world: of its creation, the fall, the first condemnation of it to a general deluge, typical of the great deluge of God's wrath, which shall drown all ungodly men for ever. There you have the history of God's church, from the beginning to the fulness of the time, and the fulfilling Old Testament types, and Old Testament promises. There you have the history of our Saviour, of his miraculous conception and birth, holy life, wondrous doctrine, stupendous miracles; his death, passion, resurrection, and glorious ascension. There you have an account of the first mission Holy Ghost, and at last the whole doctrine of the gospel of truth founded on the redemption purchased by Christ. There you have the whole mystery of godliness unfolded; the great wonder of wonders! the immortal to die! and the eternal to begin! the great destruction of sin, the condemnation of the devil, and the salvation of the world. All this is to be seen in the Bible: which being the word of God, you are to read it with reverence, regard it with faith as the word of God, and obey it as your rule.
Child. And to pray for the Spirit to help me to do so, must I not, father? for you told me I could not believe or understand it without the Spirit to assist me.
Fath. That is true, child.
Child. But, father, are you sure that the Bible is the word of God?
Fath. Yes, child, very sure of it.
Child. And that the Spirit of God can only teach us to understand it?
Fath. Yes, child.
Child. Why, don't the ministers understand it, and teach folks to understand it? What do they go to church for?
Fath. The ministers are called ministers of the word, that is, expounders of the scriptures; and the preaching of the gospel is one of the ordinary means, as the reading of the word is another, by which the blessed Spirit of God instructs the hearts of his people, and turns them to himself. Reading the word written, that is, the Bible, and hearing the word preached, that is, the sermons preached by God's ministers, are the common methods appointed, by which the knowledge of God is conveyed to us.
Child. Then I must go to church, and hear the ministers preach, as well as read the Bible?
Fath. Yes, child.
Child. Why, father, my mother has carried me to church a great many times; but I thought I was carried there only to show my new coat, and my fine hat. I don't know what the man said, when I went.
Fath. But you were a naughty boy then: you should have minded what he said; you were not carried there to show your fine clothes.
Child. Why, father, I thought so; for when it ruined, and I could not wear my best clothes, my mother would not let me go out; or when the wind blowed the powder out my hair, my mother would not let me go. And I heard you say, father, last Sunday, that you could not go to church, because the barber had not brought your new perriwig home: and another Sunday, for want of a pair of gloves, you stayed at home, and played with me Sunday long, or lay down on the couch to sleep. I thought father, I had gone thither for nothing but to show my fine clothes.
Fath. No, child, there is other work to be done there.
Child. What, father, to remember what fine clothes other folks have on, is not that it? I know my sisters go to church, and they do nothing but look about them, to see how every body is dressed; and when they come home, my mother and they, you know, father, take up the whole night in telling one another what every body had on: and they do it so well, I wondered, father, and I thought I'd try if I could do so too: but I could not remember half of it.
Fath. They might have been better employed, my dear.
Child. What, my mother? Indeed, father, I thought it had been all they went for; and I could not think any thing else, you know, when my mother did so too. I am sure my mother would not have done so, if it had not been good: for 'tis my dear mother, and I love her dearly; and I am sure she would not do a naughty thing.
[O see here the mischief of evil examples in parents.]
Fath. Well, child, thou wilt know better in time. The business of going to church is quite of another nature. It is to hear the word of God expounded and preached; and it is hearing for thy life. It is a duty in the ministers to preach: they were first sent by our Saviour himself, who appointed apostles and prophets for the work of the ministry, and gave them their errand in his command, "Go, preach the gospel to every creature:" and it is a duty to us to hear, and to hear diligently, and not to forsake assembling ourselves together.
Child. Why, father, you seldom go yourself. It is only for little boys to learn then, is it?
Fath. No, child, it is every one's duty to hear the word preached, and to mix it with faith in the hearing.
Child. Then you will let me go to church: won't you father? for sometimes my mother won't let me go to church, if it be but a little ill weather, and if a little wind does but blow: and if God requires me to go, and my mother won't let me, what must I do? Won't God be angry with me for not going to hear his word preached?
Fath. If your mother won't let you go, then, child, it none of your fault.
Child. But will not God be angry with my mother, dear father, for not letting me go? that's all one.
Fath. Well, child, be not troubled at that: thou shalt go to church every day, and not be hindered. Come, my dear, thou wilt catch cold to be so long out; let us go home to your mother.
The father, as may be well imagined, warmed with the various thoughts that occurred to him upon this surprising discourse, was willing to get the child away, that be might give vent to his own mind: and bringing the child in, walks out again, till he was got to retirement, and then breaks out in a most passionate manner upon himself, giving full vent to convictions in such a manner as this:
"What an ungrateful creature have I been to the goodness and bounty of God! that goodness and bounty which have given me so much advantage, and so many ways to glorify him and honour him in the world, and to whom I owe my life, my being, and well-being in the world! And how has God reproved me in this little dear!
"Wretch that I am! how I have lived as without God in the world, and in my family! that I have not so much as told my children who made them, or let them know or guess, by my behaviour, that there is such a thing as a God in the world, or that any worship is due to a sovereign Almighty Being! How has the little lamb complained to me, that he has never heard me pray to God in all his life! and is but too true! How did it reproach me when I spoke to it of Jesus Christ, to hear the little creature say, 'Who is that, father?' and of the Holy Ghost, 'Who is that, father?' and of serving God, 'Do you serve him, father?'
"What a life have I led! Good Lord, what have I been doing! How shall I account to thee for the souls committed to my charge! that I should have the blessing of children given to me, and my children have the curse of a prayerless uninstructing father to them!"
Tears followed the parent's speech; and he prays earnestly to God to forgive him the neglect and omission of his duty to his children and family; and enters into a engagement between God and his own soul, and that for the future he will set up the due and daily worship of God in his family, and will diligently and carefully instruct his children, teaching them the knowledge of God, and how to serve him, and walk in his ways.
After some composure of mind upon this resolution, a new trouble breaks in upon him. He had elder children than this; and he had lived in a continual neglect of duty, either in teaching them the knowledge of God, or showing them a religious example. These children had contracted a profane habit, both in words, manners, and constant practice: had little inclination to religion; less knowledge, and no thoughts at all about their souls; and began to be too old and too big to be wrought upon by instruction, or persuasion, much less by violence and correction.
When this reflection came upon the parent's thoughts, after the convictions he had met with from the little inquirer aforesaid, it brought a second flood of tears from him, and he breaks out thus:
"Lord, what will become of my poor wretched family; my other children, my uninstructed, unreproved children! What an instrument have I been in the ruin of their souls! How does it all lie upon me as a weight never to be removed! They are grown up, yet they know nothing of God but to take his name in vain! They neither call upon him, nor have I taught them to do so! If this poor lamb reproaches me with having never prayed with it, or for it: and too true it is, God knows! what these may say to me, that have let them go on thus far in a loose, profane, ignorant, irreligious life, and have neither reproved nor instructed them either by word or example, prayed with them, or taught them to pray for themselves? Merciful God! why have I not been removed, and in mercy to them, as well as in judgment to myself, been snatched from them, that some other person might have been set over them for the good of their souls?"
Upon these convictions the man prays earnestly to the Lord to pardon the heinous offence of his neglecting his duty to his children; that God would supply, by the teaching of his blessed Spirit, that great want of family instruction in his children, which he had been the cause of: that he would work convictions upon them, and would continue to stir him up to his duty in the future, directing, teaching, and governing his family.
But what a hard task he has with his other children, and how difficult a work it is to bring children to a sense of God and religion, after their green and tender years are past, in which they are moulded like wax to a seal, to receive such first impressions as the persuasion and example of parents are apt to make, will be apparent in the following dialogues.
Notes on the First Dialogue.
The observing reader will see here, that the author, to keep a just equality between all opinions, and in order to make the work generally useful and acceptable to all denominations of Christians, and to all among them who seriously apply themselves to the great business of their eternal salvation, has kept himself in the answers to this little child's inquiry, to the plain general principles of the Christian religion: wherein he has neither prescribed himself, in method or in words, to the catechisms of either the church of England, the Assembly's catechism, or any other; but laid down the principles of religion consonant to them all, as plainly as he could, as they are deduced from the holy scriptures: and as they agree with the several confessions of faith, and doctrinal articles, as well of the church of England, as of all the Protestant churches and congregations in Europe, who profess the same faith, believe the same God, and hope for eternal life through faith in the same for ever blessed Intercessor and Redeemer.
If any particular Christian's opinions may carry them further, or not so far as the author has expressed himself here in the doctrines of original sin, election, of grace, repentance, and faith in Christ: he prays, that while they can allow what is laid down here to be orthodox in the substance, they will extend the same charity to his design he does to their opinion, viz. to leave room for further explanations, to judge the best, and to consider, that as part is spoken to a child, and is for children to read for their instruction, it requires to be plain and concise, and so be it, that it be essentially right: the more adapted it is to the meanest understandings, the better it answers the design of this undertaking.
Some may think, the child here is brought in too often falling upon the father with a charge of not instructing him, and not praying with him, and not telling him these things sooner. But to such it may be sufficient to say, that as this is one of the great designs of this work, and is not spoken so directly to in any other part, it required to be more than ordinarily pointed out here: especially, because that upon these little reprehensions of this infant, are grounded the several most considerable parts of the dialogues which follow in the first part: as particularly the convictions wrought by it upon the father, mentioned at the end of the dialogue: where he is brought in retiring himself to give vent to his soul, and reflecting on the breach of his duty, and in prayer to God; also the concurring convictions wrought by the same method, and by the same instrument upon the mother, as in the second dialogue; and more especially the resolution of both to reform themselves, and to do their duties more effectually in their families.
These appearing, as is observed, to be the main design of this first part, and indeed something of this running through the whole course of the work, it could not but be needful to let those little sharp reproofs, innocently expressed by the little child in the first dialogue, be often repeated; especially where the sense brought them in with a kind of natural, unconstrained innocence in the expression, as is generally carefully ordered wherever those proofs are to be met with; nor indeed could the expressions of parents, either in their private ejaculations, or mutual conversing upon that part, one with another, have been consonant with the rest of the work, or the cadence of things preserved, if this had not been laid as a foundation.
These notes are not designed to talk over again whole subject of every discourse. If the part deserve any comment, every considering Christian will make it to themselves as they go; but where the case is particular, a word may be said, which in the dialogues would have been digressing too long, and have made it tedious.
From the inquiries of the child may be observed, how naturally connection of the gospel truths one with another appears; I mean those essential to our salvation. How bright a chain, and how closely hanging one upon another, in a climax that cannot but be admirable to observe, is the great mystery of man's fall and recovery; sin entering into the world, death by sin; nature corrupted by the fall, sanctified by redeeming grace; by the offence of one man many made sinners; by the obedience of one many made righteous; justice offended by sin, eternal death denounced as the punishment; justice satisfied by a Redeemer, eternal life the consequence; "no condemnation to them who are in Christ." These things lie so plain, so natural, and in so exact an order, that nature seems to direct the child, who knows nothing of them to force them from the father, by the power of the most innocent uninstructed inquiries.
How unaccountably to blame are those parents, who let their children know nothing of these things, till their own little innocent inquiries extort it from them!
How naturally does the discourse of this little child reprove parents for their neglect of the Sabbath-day's work, viz. of attending the public worship of God! and how could the child but suppose, that going to church was only a light matter, since his father went very seldom himself, and home upon the most frivolous occasions?
The child's discourse about going to church only to his fine clothes, and his mother and sisters being employed there, to observe the fashions and dresses of neighbours, with the conversation they have of those things after they come home, needs no enlargement here. THe consciences of most young people in their own families, will teach them to apply that part to themselves; and the author is content to leave it out, if it is not generally acknowledged to be a needful reproof. The child is brought in here several times saying to his father, when he speaks of serving, loving, and praying to God. "Do you do so, father?" This puts me in mind of a story not improper to be related. A wicked boy that had been addicted to swearing and ill words, was reproved by his father with more seriousness than usual; and his father told him, "That God heard him." The father, it seems, was a man of no religion, or at least of very ill morals himself; but what he happened to say to the boy, struck him so deeply, that it was a means of conviction in the child. But ignorance having been the boy's greatest unhappiness, when he came to consider of what his father had said, he asks one of the family, whether God could see as well as hear? When he was answered, yes, that God was infinite, and could hear and see all things, he told them he could not believe it; "for my father was drunk last," says he: "sure he would not have been drunk if God could see him, else why did he tell me I should not swear, because God could hear me?"
If parents knew, or at least considered, the influence their evil examples have upon their children, and how fatal an encouragement to sin it is to children to be able to say, My father does so himself," the of their children would be a greater restraint to conscientious parents, even in things really sinful, than it is possible the presence and awe of the parents can be to the children. It is enough that religious parents have to struggle with in the perverse and wicked inclinations of their children; but they find, those liberties their children take from the encouragement of their parents' example, will be ten times more difficult to restrain afterwards, than those they have from their own inclination, or example of others. It enervates all the exhortations of a father, takes the edge off from their reprehension, makes their resentment seem unjust and unreasonable, and makes the child rather apt to retort the practice of the parents upon themselves, than receive patiently and meekly the admonition.
I humbly recommend this thought to those parents who indulge themselves in any vanity or excess, such as in passion, in hasty expressions, in expenses, in waste of time, in ill words, in gaming, nay, or any of those things which the world are apt to call lawful and innocent. If such things must be indulged, and you will allow yourselves in them, upon a presumption that you can do them innocently; at least, then, conceal them from your children, lest what you can use with moderation, they fall into with excess, and justify the practice from your example.
It will be a very uncomfortable reflection, and will fill the mind with bitter reproaches, if ever God pleases to try parents, when they shall see the introduction to their children's ruin, formed and begun in their (the parents) example. Nor will it be any alleviation to their sorrow, to say I used those diversions moderately, and kept myself within compass; it was but very seldom I used an ill word; played at cards but very moderately, and never for much money; I seldom drank hard; and the like. If our moderation in diversion shall introduce our children's excess, and if the apostle, rather than offend a weak brother, would wholly abstain even from part of his necessary sustenance, viz. eating of flesh, how much more should parents refrain their excesses, nay, even their lawful diversions, rather than lay a foundation for the ruin of their children, and prompt them to sin, by giving them a pretence from, or encouragement by, their father's example?
From the whole of this dialogue, parents may see, besides their duty to God, what they owe to their children, in timely and early instructing them; how much instructing our children is a debt to them; and how unjust and injurious we are to our children in omitting to instruct them. What moving expressions of the child to the father are these: "Dear father," says the child, "why would you not tell me of it before? Was you angry with me, father? And what if it should be too late now? Will God punish me everlastingly now, because I have not known sooner?" How cutting must it be to a parent that has any sense of eternity, to think that his dear children should be lost by his example, or remain blind by his omission?
These and many other observations, might be made here, from the particulars of this first dialogue, but it is hoped the reading the dialogue itself will cause many of them to occur: and the brevity of this work admits our notes not to be too long.
THE SECOND DIALOGUE.
THIS dialogue begins upon the following occasion. The next day after the former discourse with the father, the child was carried to church, and the minister happened to be preaching upon the death of our Saviour. His text was, "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son," &c. And the minister giving some historical account of the death and sufferings of Christ, and making some practical improvements of it in his discourse: the child, when be came home, was found crying in a room by itself; and the mother being called, begins the dialogue thus:
Moth. Child! what dost cry for?
After some difficulty, the child answers, The minister made me cry.
Moth. How so! why, what did he say?
Child. He said that God was dead.
Moth. Child, he did not say my thing you have forgot what be said.
Child. No I han't, mother. I am sure he said Jesus Christ was dead; and my father told me yesterday that Jesus Christ was God.
Moth. But, child, Jesus Christ is risen again.
Child. I know that, he said that too; but he was dead first, and the wicked Jews killed him. Sure they were sad folks, mother. Why did they kill him?
Moth. You will read it in your Bible, my dear.
Child. But, mother, the minister says be died for as, and my father he died for me. Did the Jews kill him for me, mother?
Moth. He died for thee, my dear, and me, and every body else that believes in him.
Child. Why did he die for me, I don't know what you mean? Tell me, dear mother, did I make him die?
Moth. My dear, he died to save his people from their sins, and I hope thou art one of them.
Child. Why, mother, have I any sins? What are they, mother?
Moth. We are all sinners, child; sin is offending God in thought, word, and deed, at which he is angry.
Child. When I do a fault, is God angry for that? Is that a sin, mother?
Moth. Every fault you do, my dear, is not a sin against God.
Child. When did I make God angry then?
Moth. When you break any of God's commandments, then you sin against God; when you take God's name vain, when you disobey your father and mother, and the like: these are sins against God, and these he is angry at.
Child. I never take God's name in vain, mother, nor never disobey you, mother. I love you dearly, and do every you bid me; don't I, dear mother?
Moth. Well, my dear, and I hope God is not angry with thee: be a good boy then, I am not angry with thee, my dear.
[Hitherto the mother speaks coldly, and makes light of the thing; and having no other view at first than only quieting the child, was for going away, at which the child cries again.]
Moth. Why dost cry, my dear? I tell thee I am not angry with thee. Do not cry.
Child. God may be angry with me for all that, mother.
Moth. No, no: God is not angry with thee. Do not cry, my dear.
[Still the mother is insensible of the work of God in the heart of the child, and takes all this for common talk; but she soon sees with other eyes.]
Child. Why, mother, will God never be angry with but when you are angry? I am afraid God is angry with me, though you kiss me, and be friends with me, and love me.
Moth. Why so, my dear?
Child. Why, dear mother, my father told me yesterday that God has done a great many things for me, and given me a great many good things; and I never thanked him, nor loved him for it yet, nor served him, nor prayed to him yet: and is not God angry with me then?
[The child weeps.]
Moth. That is very true, my dear; but I hope God is not angry. Do not cry, my dear.
Child. But should not I have thanked God for all that? Is it not a fault, mother?
Moth. But how should I have done it, mother? I did not know, and you never told me, and my father never told me, nor showed me how. Will God be angry that I did not thank him, when I could not tell how to do it?
[The mother was but cold and indifferent all the time; but now she found herself touched, and was confounded with the child's discourse; and taking the child in her arms, she kissed it, and wept, but could not speak to it a great while: at last she said, with great tenderness--]
Moth. My dear child, it is not thy fault, it is our fault, it is my fault, and it is thy father's fault: we have not shown thee, nor taught thee, nor given any good example to thee how thou shouldst thank God, or serve, or know God.
Child. Yes, my father did it last night.
Moth. Alas, poor child! thy father, and I too, should have done it many nights and years ago: more shame for that we have neglected it till thou should reprove us for it thyself.
Child. But my father said it was not too late now, mother.
Moth. I pray God it may not: but that's no thanks to us, my dear; thou mayest have cause to blame us to thy dying day.
Child. But is it too late for me then, mother?
[Here the mother finds the heart of the child is touched; and it immediately entered into her thoughts, that she might be made a temptation to the child to despair, and cast off convictions: this alarms the mother, on the other hand, and therefore she adds--]
Moth. No, my dear, God forbid! the sin has been our's, not thine; but it is never too late to pray to God.
Child. What must I do when I pray to God?
Moth. You must confess your sins to him, pray to him to forgive your sins, to bless you, and sanctify you, and preserve you: you must pray to him to give you your daily bread, and keep you from all evil, you must give thanks him for all mercies, and all the good things he has done for you.
Child. Must I thank God when I pray, mother? How can I do so? Is that praying
Moth. Yes, my dear, praising God for mercies received, is part of the duty of prayer, as well as seeking to him for mercies we want; for so God has commanded, "in every thing by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, making our requests known unto God.
Child. But if I have made God angry, how can I ask him for forgiveness? Will God forgive me?
Moth. Yes, my dear, he will forgive thee: he is a merciful God; it is his nature and property ever to have mercy and to forgive.
Child. How do you know it? Are you sure, mother, that God will forgive me my fault, if I ask him forgiveness?
Moth. He has promised to do so, my dear.
Child. Promised, mother! How is that? I never heard him speak. Did he tell you so, mother?
Moth. My dear, he has promised in his word: it is in your Bible, which is the word of God.
Child. O! I am glad if it is there. My father told me that God speaks to me, and I hear him speak when I read my book. Show it me there, mother.
Moth. There it is, my dear.
[Here the mother shows the child the several texts following:-- Whoso confesses and forsakes, shall find mercy. If we confess and forsake our sins, he is just and faithful to forgive as our sins. The blood of Christ cleanseth from all iniquity.]
Child. The blood of Christ, mother! what is that?
[Interrupting her.]
Moth. Why, my dear, this is that the minister made the cry about God. Jesus Christ is that great Saviour, which the minister told thee shed his blood for our sins, died, and was crucified, to save a lost world.
Child. But, dear mother, my father told me Christ was God. Can God die?
Moth. My child; Christ was God eternal, one with the Father; but Christ, to fulfil the great purpose of man's redemption, according to the eternal counsel of God, before the world began, in the fulness of time became man, took upon him, not the nature of angels, but the seed of Abraham: and this he did that he might be God-man, and therefore be a Mediator between God and man, partaking of the nature of both, and laying his hand upon both, to make peace for us through the blood of his cross."
Child. I cannot understand this, it is all wonderful! a 'wonderful mystery!
Moth. It is so, my dear: "This is the great mystery of godliness, God manifest in the flesh."
Child. And did this God-man die for me, mother? How is that?
Moth. He died for the sins of all that believe on him.
Child. But what is it you mean by dying for sin, and dying for me, mother? I do not understand it.
Moth. Sin, my dear, is offending God, or making angry: and this sin, or this anger of God, would end in death; "for the wages of sin is death:" but God, in his own original love to us, sent his Son to die in our stead, "that whosoever believeth on him might not perish, but have everlasting life."
Child. So, if I sin, I most die, mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear.
Child. And must you die, if you sin mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear.
Child. But you never sinned, I hope then?
Moth. Alas, my dear, I am a great sinner.
Child. Why, you must not die, mother; you shall not die, mother. Shall you?
[The child weeps.]
Moth. We must all die, my dear; but this is meant of eternal death, -- going to hell, child, -- dying for ever. This is that which is the wages of sin.
Child. Must all that sin go to hell, mother?
Moth. No, my dear: this is what I was saying before, that God being thus angry with sinners, and the wages of their sin being death, this blessed Son of God, this man, the Mediator, came into the world, and taking on our nature, died for us. There 'tis, my dear, your Bible, Rom. v. 6 -- "That while we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly;" and there again, 1 Tim. i. 15 -- "This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners:" and abundance of other places.
Child. Let me see it, mother; for my father said God spoke in my Bible, and I shall be sure it is true, if it be there.
Moth. I'll turn the leaf down at it, my dear, that you may find it again.
[The child reads again -- " died for the ungodly!" and looking up to its mother, asks this very affecting question.
Child. Dear mother, did Jesus Christ die for me? what, for me! I did not know him! I have done nothing to make him die! nor have I done any thing to please him! I loved him! how should he love me! and love me so as to die for me! why for me, mother?
Moth. This, my dear, is the groat thing for which we should praise, and love, and adore God and Jesus Christ, that all this should be done for as, before we had either done good or evil; as thou hast said, my dear, thou hast done nothing to please aim, nor hast loved him, it is all his own love to as, not our love to him.
Child. Why, would God love me, whether I loved him or no, mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear, see in your Bible, John iii. 16 -- "For God so loved the word, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life." And again, 1 John iv. 10, "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that be loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.
Child. But may not I love God now, for all his love to me, mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear; his love to us moves us to love him: 1 John iv. 19, "We love him, because be first loved us."
Child. Indeed I will love God. Sure I must love him, if he will not be angry, though I sin against him? Don't you love him, mother?
Moth. I desire to love, and fear, and serve him, as long as I live, my dear.
Child. And may I not do so too, mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear.
Child. And did you so before, mother?
Moth. I hope I did, my dear.
Child. But I have not done it before, mother: was not that a fault in me, mother? and is not God sorry at that?
Moth. Well, child, but you have heard that Jesus Christ died to turn away God's anger for that and all other sins.
Child. Indeed, dear mother, I did not know I must love God, and fear God before. I never heard any thing of it in my life.
[Here the mother is stung again, and reproaches herself with having neglected the instruction of her child, and weeping, says to the child--]
Moth. My dear, that is my sin, and thy father's sin, and thine; we ought to have taught thee long ago; and we have reason to mourn for it, and repent of it as long as we live.
Child. But may I not love God now, mother?
Moth. You must love God, and love Jesus Christ, and serve and fear him; this is the end of your creation.
Child. How can I love Jesus Christ now, mother? you say he is dead, can I love him now be is dead?
Moth. He is risen again, child, from the dead
Child. Risen again, mother! How is that?
Moth. My dear, as I told thee before, it was necessary for him to be man as well as God, that he might in our nature satisfy divine justice; so likewise it was necessary, that he that was to be Mediator should be God as well as man, that he justify us before God, and intercede with God for us for ever.
Child. How is this? I wonder at it, but do not understand it. How is it, mother? Dead! and live again! and risen! and intercede! What is it all? I do not understand it.
Moth. As man, he could die, child; but, as God, could not remain dead.
Child. Is this in my Bible too, mother: Does God say this there too?
Moth. Yes, my dear, look here, Acts ii. 24 -- "Whom God hath raised up, having loosed the pains of death, because it was not possible he could be holden of it."
Child. But is he risen again for me too?
Moth. Yes, my dear, he hath both died for thee, and is risen again for thee too.
Child. Show me that in my book, mother?
Moth. Hero it is child, Rom. iv. 25 -- "Who was delivered for our offences, and is risen again for our justification."
[Here the child, in a little ecstasy of soul, moved by the blessed Spirit of God, grasps the book, and kisses the leaf eagerly, and clapping it to its breast: at which mother, surprised, says--]
Moth. Why dost thou do that, my dear?
Child. I love him, dear mother, I love him.
Moth. Dost thou know why thou lovest him, my dear?
Child. I love God, dear mother, that has loved me so much before I knew him; and I love Jesus Christ, because he has died for me, and is risen again for me. May not I love him, dear mother? But though I love him, I am afraid; for my father told me he is God.
Moth. It is true, he is a consuming fire to sin, and the workers of it; but to those who love and fear him, he is a faithful Creator, and a merciful Redeemer.
Child. Then I may love him for that.
Moth. May! my dear, you not only may, but must, Matt. xxii. 37, 38 -- "Jesus Christ said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great command."
Child. Will he not be angry, mother, if I don't love him?
Moth. Yes, my dear; for he has commanded to love him, John xv. 9 -- "Continue ye in my love;" and Gal. v. 22, he saith -- "The fruit of the Spirit is love." And he has promised a blessed return to those that love him, John xiv. 22 -- "He that loveth me, shall be loved of my Father: and I will love him, and will manifest myself unto him."
Child. I wish I could love him more, dear mother,
Moth. You will, my dear, as you grow up.
Child. How, mother?
Moth. Why, the longer you live, the more you will know him; and the knowledge of God, and the experience of his goodness, will increase your love.
Child. How shall I know him more?
Moth. I hope he will fill your heart with knowledge, according to the promise of the covenant of grace.
Child. What is that, mother?
Moth. It is the blessed declaration of God in his word, wherein he has engaged himself, and his faithfulness, to his believing people, both to be their God, and to preserve them in his fear.
Child. And has he promised me that I shall know him, mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear.
Child. Is that in my book too, mother?
Moth. Yes my dear; here it is, Jer. xxxi. 34 -- "And they shall teach no more every man his neighbour, and every man his brother, saying, Know the Lord; for they shall all know me, from the least of them unto the greatest of them, saith the Lord: for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.
Child. And what shall I do when I know him?
Moth. Knowing him, you will believe on him; and, believing, you will have life through his name, John xx. 31.
Child. When shall I do this, mother?
Moth. As thou growest up, my dear.
Here some family occasions calling off the mother, dialogue ends.
Notes on the Second Dialogue.
First, observe of the child's being carried to church. That by the word church, or going to church, in all these dialogues, is to be understood the place, and going to the place, of public worship, whether by the church of England people to their parish churches, or Dissenters to their several meeting-houses, particular distinctions one way or being studiously avoided here; the subject, as the author humbly conceives, being not at all concerned in our diversity of opinions, sects, or separate assemblies, but equally instructing to all who call themselves Christians, and especially Protestant Christians. He believes it would be very wrong to lay a stumbling-block at the threshold, and to put any prejudice in the minds of the serious readers, which also might prevent, by partiality to opinions, the benefit which may otherwise be universal to Christians of all opinions whatsoever: and this latitude in his charity, and in his design of doing good to all, he hopes none will be offended at.
The father and mother of this little child appear here to be no ignorant persons in the principles or duties of Christianity. But as to the rest, it may be observed, (1) what a wretched irreligious life some of those who have the greatest share of knowledge in matters of religion do lead, especially in their families; (2) what regret it brings upon their minds, when they are convinced of their wickedness in the neglect of their families, and when, as in this case, much of it may be too late to be retrieved; (3) what bitter reproaches such children oftentimes cast back upon parents, when they (the children) come to find what they have lost, for want of a godly, religious education, and early instruction.
If the children prove sober and religious without the helps of instruction, for the Spirit of God is not confined to, or constrained by, these outward helps, how are they ashamed of, and a shame to, their parents! And how must the parents blush, when they may upon any occasion be told, that the knowledge, the piety, the fear of God, which is found in their children, is no product of planting, no fruit of what they had sown! Religious children, of profane or negligent parents, are a double testimony to powerful invincible grace, but a dreadful reproach their parents.
This may be a thought worthy the consideration of any Christian parents that have neglected the instruction of their families, and have neglected teaching and praying with or for their children. What a just contempt will those children naturally have for those parents, especially if God comes to enlighten their hearts, and open their eyes, as he sometimes does without the help of paternal instruction? When the children come to reflect how their parents totally neglected the salvation of their souls, to which the provision made for their bodies was but of little value, the disgust at the omission of the former will be too apt to take off all the gratitude and affection due for the latter.
Nothing but mere duty can be supposed to preserve the respect, and even common civility to its parents, when he comes to he sensible how unnaturally they abandoned his immortal part, how unchristianly they exposed his better, his intellectual part, to eternal destruction; as if the duty of a parent had ended in, or been restrained to, the narrow compass of a of a nurse, or a school-master; and that they had no obligation upon them to regard the eternal happiness of that part of their posterity which can never die.
Such parents are certainly the most unnatural, and may justly be reproached by their children, not with neglect of their duty only, but with their being without natural affection; and consequently can by no means expect suitable returns of affection from their children, when they come to be made sensible of the treatment they have received from them. If they show them common respect, as above, it must be all owing to that very grace which, in spite of the obstruction of the godless education, has been planted in the heart by powerful influence and invincible operation of the Spirit of God.
For parents to pretend love to their children, and natural affection, as they are the fruit of their bodies, and as it is vulgarly expressed, their own flesh and blood, and at the same time neglect to instruct them, or educate them, either in human learning or religious knowledge, is just as if, when their children are taken sick, they should employ themselves in mending or making them clothes, or dressing up fine banquets or entertainments for them, and wholly omit the necessary cordials or applications for the recovery of their health: only with this difference, that the soul to the body has infinitely a greater disproportion, than the health and the daily food.
But our case extends yet farther, viz. that the defect complained of here is not the want of education and instruction, from the ignorance or incapacity of the parent, for this had been the hand of God immediately in bringing forth the child from parents that knew not God; but the case here is yet more aggravated, in that this happens in families where the parents have the knowledge, and have the capacity, and know and acknowledge it to be their duty to instruct their children, and yet entirely neglect it, which adds to the crime in the parents, and will be ground of astonishment and reflection in the children, if they ever come to the knowledge of God without the due assistance of their parents. Nor will the reflections of the parents be less bitter on themselves than those of their children, as will be more lively represented in the other dialogues of this part.
But this subject may also be of present use to children who have not the blessing of godly parents to instruct them: and for this it is also designed; and these, as well as those whose parents neglect the great duty of instructing them, are desired to consider, from the example of this little child, these few things.
1. That the most plain, most natural, and most easy questions that it is possible a child can ask, will lead them to both their Creator, and their duty to him; such as
Who made me?
What am I made for?
What am I?
What business have I here?
How came I hither?
Whither am I going?
What is my end?
What is good?
What is evil?
The little babe here presented, infers, by the mere power of natural reasoning,
1st, That he was made better than the brutes.
2dly, That it was the goodness of his Maker which distinguished him so.
3dly, That fear, service, love, and obedience, were natural returns for that goodness. Thus the meanest capacity, and the youngest children, may supply the defect of education, if they think but a little seriously of themselves and the original of their being.
2. It is also observable, that as soon as ever the soul is but able to inquire rationally about itself, nature and reason concur to lead him to the knowledge of God, a cause, a chief good, and an ultimate end; "of whom, and for whom, and to whom are all things." And these impulses go on, till natural religion, joined with revealed religion, discovers Christ, "and God in Christ reconciling us to himself, not imputing our trespasses," which is the sum and substance of the Christian religion.
This is the great end of these dialogues, as they respect children, viz. that they may, where perhaps family instruction has been wanting, guide themselves to the knowledge of God, and of their duty, by these familiar steps which nature itself will be most certain to concur with. As they respect parents, their end is plain, viz. they are a satire upon their neglect of duty, and a reproof to them in order to amendment.
THE THIRD DIALOGUE.
The mother of this pretty infant, sensibly affected with the discourse she had had with him in the last dialogue, and in teacher her child, being particularly taught how she had neglected her duty before, appears under a great and more than ordinary concern. Her husband was under the same convictions, and both were very desirous to unbosom themselves to one another, though utterly ignorant of the respective circumstances. This occasions the following dialogue or discourse between the husband and wife. The rest of the family being withdrawn, the husband, perceiving his wife melancholy, and that she had been weeping, and being a very tender, loving husband, begins with her thus:--
Husb. My dear, what is the matter? I believe something troubles thee.
Wife. I cannot deny it; and if I did, you see I cannot conceal it.
[The wife weeps, and is backward to tell the occasion; but her husband presses her to tell him.]
Husb. Tell me, my dear, what afflicts thee. If it be in my power to relieve it, you have no reason to doubt, but as in duty I ought, so in affection I am inclined to give you all the comfort, all the advice, and all the assistance I am able.
Wife. Alas! you cannot assist in my case; no, nor any one in world: and the reason why I am backward in telling it is, because when I do you will perhaps be so far from easing my grief, that you will add to it, by falling into the same yourself; for my affliction equally concerns you and myself.
Husb. My dear, there is no affliction can befall thee, but either I must have an equal share in it, or be wanting in affection to thee, which I never was yet, or want a concern for my own happiness; seeing, ever since we have been one by consent, or by contract, I have but one interest, one wish, sad one desire with you; and this not by duty only, but by inclination.
Wife. I have experience of that, and thought my happiness always complete in it; and the more, in that I have not been to charge myself with the least breach on my part, to render that affection less pleasing to you, or less satisfying to me. But we have both been wanting in one thing, and I fear have nothing to excuse or to accuse one more than another. And this is my present grief.
[The husband, touched before, answers with blushes in his face.]
Husb. I know not what you can mean, unless it be want of performing some duties which we owe to God and our children.
Wife. O you have touched it! there it lies! And if you had had such a messenger sent God to reprove you for it as I have had to-day, I question not but it would have touched you as nearly as it does me.
Husb. I know not what thou hast had to-day; but I had such a lecture preached to me yesterday by a little infant, even our own youngest child, that has almost broke my very soul within me; and you may know part of it by this, that you know I slept not a wink all last night.
Wife. O, my dear! the same is my instructor! He has certainly been sent from God to me.
Husb. And to me too. Whether it be for a blessed restoring end, or for judgment, and the terrible part of conviction, he only knows.
[Here they repeat to one another the circumstances of the former dialogues with the child, and the effects which the surprise of it had upon both their minds severally.]
Husb. It is impossible to express to you how the little creature moved me. It was a dagger struck into my very heart, to hear the dear lamb ask me -- "Father, will not God be angry with me that I have not thanked him, and loved him, and prayed to him before? And how should I know it, father? you never told me." When I told him he must pray to God, was it not cutting me to the heart to hear him say -- "Do you pray to him, father?" and when I told him yes, to hear him say -- "I never heard you, father," I was not able to bear it, I was fain to stop and turn away from him.
Wife. I believe we may both say as the disciples at Emmaus -- "Did not our hearts burn within us, while he talked to us by the way?" For my part, I am amazed when I look upon the child. But when I look in, and reflect how I have neglected the great duty of instructing, not this child only, but all my children, I am confounded, and not able to lift up my head. How justly may my children reproach me, not only with omitting to teach them to do good, but with abominably encouraging them to vanity, and neglect of God, by my example! O I have ruined all my children!
Husb. No, no, you have not ruined them; it is I have ruined them; for it was my duty to have exercised the authority of a father, and of a governor of a house, or have set up the worship of God in my family; to have prayed with them, and instructed them to pray for themselves. They could not have asked me then, whether they might pray to God, or whether ever I prayed to God or no?
Wife. And I have been a great cause of your neglecting that part too; for I have slighted it, and ridiculed it in others, and thought it mere ostentation and form, as if none but persons of higher quality should have prayers in their family, and thought it looked too big for us?
Husb. Ay, but my temptation has been of another kind. I have thought it a solemnity I was not fit for; I have questioned my own performance: I have often thought, if I were a nobleman, I would keep a chaplain. I was ashamed to pray in the hearing of my and children, as if that were dishonourable and mean which was my natural duty; or, as if I were ashamed to own that which is the glory of a Christian, viz. to worship and call upon Him that made him: as if nature, which dictates to the least child, to call and cry to its father and mother for bread when when it is hungry, did not dictate to me, and to every rational creature, to worship that God in whom we live, move, and have our being!
Wife. And what course shall we take now?
Husb. There is no difficulty in resolving what course to take with this little infant. He is taught from Heaven, and the Spirit of God is visibly working in him. If we do not instruct him, he will every day instruct us, and reprove us too. But what shall we do with our other children, who are grown up, and have imbibed a course of vanity and levity without any restraint? There will be our difficulty.
Wife. And who are very likely to be impatient of restraint, and perhaps not so easy to be governed now. For my part, I do not think I shall ever be able to break my daughter from her foolish habits; such as, playing all night at cards, going to the play-house, wearing patches, reading foolish romances, singing idle songs, taking God's name in vain, and an intolerable looseness of behaviour, which I have too much given her a liberty in, and encouraged her also from my own example.
Husb. I shall have as hard a task with my elder sons. They have got a habit of company, of ill words, and of idleness. It is impossible to reclaim them! They are gone too far! What shall be done! They are lost through my neglect! and justly may they lay their ruin at my door, both of body and soul.
Wife. My dear, we are in a sad condition; and mine is worse still; for I have not only neglected my duty to my children, and praying with my children, but my duty to God too; I mean my private duty; for I neither prayed with them nor for them, nor by myself, nor for myself; the common going to the public worship excepted, which I have passed over as slightly and unconcerned also, as if it were only a thing of course.
Husb. This touches me too, my dear; for it was my duty not only to have prayed with my children, and with my family, both in private with you, and for you; but we both ought mutually to have assisted, encouraged, and exhorted one another in and to our duty. I ought to have watched over you, and moved you, and persuaded you to our duty, and you me, both as to private and family worship. It all lies at my door; and at my hand will God require the souls of those he has put under my roof.
Wife. I have been as guilty as you, for I have shown a general contempt of this duty. I have never encouraged you to it, or shown you in the least that I desired it, or would be willing to join in it: on the contrary, you have always seen me as wild, and as vain, as if I were not the mother of a family, but a single person, without any relative obligations on me.
[Here both and wife, not able to refrain tears, from the power of their conviction, the discourse breaks off for a time, till the husband reviving it, goes on.]
Husb. Well, it must be done, however difficult, however seemingly fruitless and to no purpose. By how much the greater it has been a sin in us both to neglect it, by so much stronger is the obligation upon us both to undertake it. The poor children are well nigh undone already. It is never too late. Who knows but God may bless instruction, though begun at an unseasonable time. It may be we may meet with success in the way of our duty. If not, we must leave that to God: we must begin and go on; for as we both know it is our duty, our children may be still lost, notwithstanding our endeavour; but we are sure to be lost if we wilfully neglect it.
Wife. Alas! what can we do? Where can we begin now? Which of our children will mind what we say? How will they humble us, by throwing our own example in our way, and object our former practice, as an answer to all our future instructions? I think verily it is too late now. It will be all to no purpose to go about it; it will have no effect at all.
Husb. My dear, you say you are sensible it has been a sin that you have not encouraged me in it, and joined with me in it before. It must therefore still be a sin to to do so, and a greater sin than before, by how much we are convinced not that it was our sinful neglect before.
Wife. Nay, I will not obstruct it. God forbid! I only say, I fear in the event it will not answer; and I am at a loss which way to go about it.
Husb. I'll tell you, my dear, which way we will go about it. Let us first join together sincerely to God in prayer, acknowledging, with a deep humility, and hearty repentance, our great sin in neglecting his worship in our family, as well as in private, and our dishonouring him in our conversation: imploring, for the sake of Jesus Christ, our only Mediator and Advocate, pardon for those our past sins of omission and commission; seeking his blessing upon our resolution and amendment; and begging, that our instructing our family and children, however late and long omitted, may yet be successful, and have a double effect, to the salvation of the souls of our children, and to the glory and honour of sovereign grace.
Wife. My dear, however doubting I am of the success, yet I'll join with you with all my heart in that, and in every thing else that I can, which may serve to reform, reclaim, and restore our poor children, whose danger is so plainly occasioned by our neglect.
Husb. As to my family, I'll tell you what I purpose to do. I desire you to let your daughters know, that we are resolved to reform several practices which we do not like in their behaviour; that their father dislikes their general conduct, expects they'll use more modesty in their dress and conversation, will have them wear no more patches, go to no more plays, spend no more precious time at cards, nor walk out in the park or fields any more on the Lord's day; but, on the contrary, that they apply themselves to reading the Scriptures, and to think of worshipping God after a different manner than they have hitherto done. And I shall take care to do the same by my sons.
Wife. I will do all I can with them, though I fear their compliance.
Husb. Then, as soon as they come home next Sabbath-day from the sermon, I will call them all together; and, to best of my capacity, tell them their duty in general, both to God, themselves, and their parents; and that whereas I have thought they have taken too much liberty for the time past, because I have not restrained them, and showed them their duty, they shall have no reason for the future to make that excuse from me; but that from time I resolve to oblige all my family to serve God both publicly and privately, as much and as well as I can, that they may both incline to pray to God themselves, and know how to do it. I shall, beside the public worship of God, which I shall expect they constantly attend, always have proper times set apart for worshipping God together in the family, I will pray with them and for them as well as I am able; and having said thus, I will begin with reading the word of God to them; and then, as well as I can, will go to prayer with them myself.
Wife. My dear, I'll be glad of this with all my heart, and rejoice at the thoughts of it. But, O! my soul trembles for the poor vain creatures, our children, especially our two eldest, son and daughter. I am certain they will but laugh at it, and despise it; they are run on too far; we should have begun this when they were young. I know it by their temper and carriage in other things.
Husb. My dear, it is our duty to do it, and it is our duty to make them observe it; and though they are too old to correct, yet I assure you, if I don't find a ready compliance with it, I shall find ways to show my resentment; for we have too long dallied our duty already; and as God will not be mocked by us, so we must not be mocked by our children.
Wife. My dear, I am most desirous of the thing, only my heart fails in case of success.
Husb. We must do our duty. If God will bless us in doing it, he will bless the work too, and will cause such an awe of his majesty to go with the performance, as that they shall not dare to despise it, or to show any contempt of us for it.
Wife. The God of heaven give it such a blessing, if it be his will! I go as willing about it as you, but with many discouraging thoughts for the event; but, however, I'll do all my part according to your direction.
Notes on the Third Dialogue.
What a great deal of work have those people behind hand, who do not begin to instruct and restrain their children till they are too big for correction! "Folly that is bound up in the heart of a child," says Solomon, "is driven thence by the rod of correction." But when it remains in the child, and neither the rod of correction, nor the voice of instruction is made use of to drive it out, till the child grows up to be a man, it is very hard, nay impossible, unless supernatural assistance, to drive it out. What this folly is, needs no description here, other than an allowed custom in doing evil: a natural propensity we all have to evil. With this we are all born into the world. The soul is originally bent to folly: this bent or inclination must be rectified, or driven out either by instruction, or if that proves insufficient, by correction. And it is to be done while the person is young, while he is a child, and then it may be done. The child may be wrought upon. Nature, like some vegetables, is malleable when taken green and early; but hard and brittle when condensed by time and age. At first it bows and bends to instruction and reproof, but afterwards obstinately refuses both.
The temper of a child, misled by vice or mistake, like a dislocated bone, is easy to be reduced into its place, if taken in time; but, if suffered to remain in its dislocated position, a callous substance fills up the empty space, and, by neglect, grows equally hard with the bones, and resisting the power of the surgeon's skill, renders the reduction of the joint impossible.
The heart of the tender youth, by forbearance of instruction, grows opinionated, and obstinately embraces the follies he has been indulged in, not being easily convinced of the criminal quality of what he has been so long allowed the practice of by his negligent parents; and this renders late instruction fruitless. Then as to correction, the heart being hardened, as before, by opinion and practice, and especially in a belief that he ought not to be corrected, the rod of correction has a different effect: for, as the blow of a stripe makes an impression on the heart of a child, as stamping a seal does upon the soft wax, the reproof even of words, on the same heart, when grown up and made hard, is like striking upon steel, which, instead of making an impression on the metal, darts sparks of fire in your face.
As this whole work is chiefly designed to convince parents of the necessity of beginning early the great work of instructing and managing their children, so two things will run more visibly through every part of it.
1. For their encouragement, the examples of the easiness and advances of early instruction will be seen. How soft! how pliable the minds of little children are! how like wax they lie, ready to be moulded into any form, and receive any impression, that the diligent application of parents thinks fit to make upon them! From whence, also, parents are warned to be very careful, that, by their example or negligence, those first softened circumstances of their children's minds are not passed over, without suitable applications to forming them aright, filling them with learning and knowledge, and with just principles, both religious and moral: above all, that they receive no bad impressions from the practice of their parents, whose example, especially in evil, takes such deep root in their children, that nothing is more difficult to remove.
2. For warning and serious caution, by letting them see the dreadful effects of the neglecting their children when young,-- what work it makes for repentance in both,-- what breaches it makes in families, when necessity drives them to begin that work late,-- what treatment they are like to meet with from their children,-- how these will think it hard to be instructed when grown up,-- count it imposing upon them in their parents,-- reject the arguments their parents shall use,-- despise and contemn their reproofs,-- themselves past correction,-- turn their backs not only upon the methods their parents shall take with them, but even upon the parents themselves, when they attempt by government and discipline to retrieve the error they have committed.
In this last dialogue, the husband and wife appear sensible of their mistakes this way; and the difficulties they have before them in retrieving it, justly appear terrible, almost drive them to despair of the success, and to give over any thoughts of the attempt. In the subsequent part of this work, we find they were not mistaken in the prospect they had of the difficulty before them, or of the obstinacy and opposition which they should meet with from their children.
As to their being so discouraged as not to make the attempt, the husband argues wisely, that it is not less their duty for its having been delayed; that it must be set about, let the difficulty be what it will; and that therefore he is resolved to attempt it, and, if possible, go through with it, leaving the success to God.
This is a wise and Christian resolution, and argues, that the convictions the parents were under were sanctified by the Spirit of God, and carried on to effectual conversion, for all convictions of sin that do not go on to reformation, and effectual application to our duty, are ineffectual convictions; like waking in a dream, while the heart is asleep, when slumbering on, we fall into the same dream again.
For the encouraging parents to pursue these convictions, and to hope for some success in their work, though begun late, and under some weighty discouragement, the following part of this work will show how far he met with success in his family reformation and instruction, as well as what obstruction he met with from his eldest children, for all were not alike obstinate and refractory, as the two eldest were; and the mother was but too true a prophetess of the consequence from their obstinacy.
From the discourse between the husband and wife, under their convictions, may be seen something of the duty of such relations.
1. To communicate to one another their griefs, and most inward afflictions of mind, as well as their common disasters and troubles in the world. This is one part of the duty of husband and wife to one another, though understood by few, meant and included in that phrase, an help-mate. And it is observable, when such near relations do affectionately communicate to one another, their souls' concerns in such a manner as I speak of now, God is often pleased so variously to act in the minds of such by his Spirit, that they shall in their turns be mutually able to assist, comfort, direct, and counsel one another. This, if it were well observed, would be very useful and encouraging to Christian relations, in their most serious and reserved reflections; where they might take notice how that party that is discouraged and dejected to-day, and receives support and encouragement, relief and direction, from the counsel and comforting assistance of the other, shall be restored and comforted, and perhaps enabled the next time to give the same encouragement, counsel, advice, and comfort to the other, who may in like manner be sunk under his own fears and temptations!
This I thought fit to recommend in the most earnest terms, and, from just experience, to the consideration of Christian relations, as an useful observation, in hope it may be improved by the experience of others, to the glory of God, and their own comfort.
2. The duty of parents may be seen here, an it respects the necessity of setting about the great work of family reformation, however late, and whatever the discouragement may be. The father here expresses this affectionately to his wife:-- "Our children," says he, "may be lost, notwithstanding our endeavour; but we are sure to be lost, if we continue to neglect it."
From these considerations, the father resolves to see about the work, and immediately gives his wife an account of the method he proposes to himself to go upon: in which method, like a prudent man, and a good Christian, be proposes a serious mutual humiliation to his wife, for their former neglect of their duty, and a fervent praying to God for his blessing upon their endeavours in their family reformation.
Hence it is intimated, and seriously recommended to parents and heads of families, the great work which is so much neglected, or rather so little regarded, of a family joining in confession of those sins, I mean of husband and wife, which they have joined in the committing. Would husbands and wives join seriously in humbling themselves together before God, for those family sins which they joined in the guilt of, family reformation would be set about with much more and application, than we now see it is, and many obstructions to it, which happen by our willingness to excuse ourselves, would be removed.
From the manner of the husband and wife's discourse here, may be noted, that where thorough conviction works in the mind, both parties are, as it is here, forwardest to accuse themselves; whereas, in most family cases, the heads of families seem always forward to shift off the fault from themselves, though they acknowledge the error, and see plainly the defect and consequences of it also in the ruin of their children; yet they are diligent, like Adam and Eve, in throwing the guilt of it off from themselves, either upon one another, or upon accidents and circumstances, which they think may serve to excuse themselves. But if they were thoroughly touched with the thing itself, with the guilt of it upon themselves, and the fatal consequences of it upon their children, they would mutually own the first, and deprecate the last, as our two penitent parents do here. "O! I have ruined all my children, says the mother. "No, no, you have not ruined them; it is I that have ruined them," says the father. "I have neglected my duty to them." "But I have been the cause of your neglecting your duty," says the mother.
Here is a complete view for parents, both of the error, the repentance, and the reformation;-- the disease, the effects of it, and the manner of the cure. And as these are the foundation of what follows, so the following dialogues are an exemplification of most of the things contained in these discourses of the two parents, and the connection of them will be taken of throughout the whole work.
THE FOURTH DIALOGUE.
For the better understanding this discourse, it is to understood, that the father and mother, according to their resolution in the last dialogue, had set effectually about the reformation of their family, and about proper methods for reducing their children to an obedience to and sense of their duty.
Their children were most of them grown up and had run a great length; they had been indulged in all possible levity, such as plays, gaming, looseness of life, and irreligious behaviour: not immodest nor dishonest. These they were not yet arrived to. But they were bred up in gaiety and gallantry, as being of good and fashion, but nothing of religion more than just the common course of going to church, which they did because it was the custom and fashion, rather than with any other view. And being thus unhappily educated, we shall find the instruction they are now to bear met with the more opposition in them; and we shall see how it had a various effect, according to the different tempers and constitutions of children.
Their eldest daughter was about eighteen year old; and her mother, it seems, began with her first. Her mother found it a very difficult matter to deal with her; for when she came to tell her of laying by her foolish romances and novels, of which she was mighty fond,-- leaving off her patches and play-books,-- refusing her going to the park on the Sabbath-days, and the like,-- she flew out in a passion, and told her mother, in plain words, that she would not be hindered, she was past a child, she would go to the park, and to the play, and the like, aye, that she.
But the mother, whose resolution was too well fixed, after such an occasion as has been said, to be conquered by her daughter, having tried softer methods to no purpose, took her roundly to task, and told her, that as she took those measures with her for her good only, and that she could not satisfy her own conscience, to see her ruined, body and soul together, so she was resolved to be obeyed; and that, since she would not comply by fair means, she would take another course. This course, it seems, beside other things, which will appear in the following part of dialogue, was particularly, that it being Sabbath-day, after they came from church, when her mother began this course, her daughter called for her coach to go to the park, as their custom, it seems, had always been; but her mother would not suffer her to stir out; and, upon her being a little stubborn or resolute, had used some little violence with her in showing her resentment, and threatened her, as will appear presently.
Upon this repulse, she flings up stairs into her chamber, where she sat crying; when her elder brother, whom the father, it seems, had not yet begun with, came to her; between which couple begins the following dialogue.
Bro. Sister! what, in tears: what's the matter now?
[She cries on, but makes no answer.]
Bro. Dear sister, tell me your grievances? I say, tell me what is it troubles you?
[And pulls her by her clothes.]
Sist. I won't. Don't trouble me: I won't tell you: let me alone.
[Sobs and cries still.]
Bro. Pr'ythee, what is the matter, sister? Why, you will spoil your face, you won't be fit to go to the park. Come, I came to have you go out, we will all go to the park.
Sist. Ay, so you may if you can.
Bro. If I can! what do you mean by that? I have ordered Thomas to get the coach ready.
Sist. 'Tis no matter for that, I assure you he won't do it.
Bro. I'll cane the rascal if he don't, and that presently, too. Come, do you wipe your eyes, and don't pretend to go abroad with a blubbered face.
Sist. I tell you, Thomas will not obey you, he is otherwise ordered. You will find, that neither you nor I are to go out to-night.
Bro. Who will have the impudence to hinder us?
Sist. I have been hindered already; and my mother told me in so many words, I not only shall not go to-night, but never any more on a Sunday; though I think I shall fail her.
Bro. What does my mother mean by that? Not go to the park! I must go, and will, as soon as sermon is done. What harm is there in't? I warrant you we will go. Come, get ready, and wipe your eyes.
Sist. You'll find yourself mistaken in my mother. I'll assure ye, I told her I would go, as you do me; and she was in a passion with me, she struck me, which she never did in all her life before, and then read me a long lecture on the Sabbath-day, and being against her conscience, and I know not what; things I never heard her talk of in my life before. I don't know what ails her to be in such an humour.
Bro. Conscience! What does my mother mean by that? Why, have we not gone every Sunday to the park, and my mother always gone with us? What, is it against her conscience now, and never was against her conscience before! that's all nonsense. I'll warrant you I'll go for all this new bustle you make about it.
Sist. I'd go with all my heart; but I tell you she is in such a passion, you had better let her alone; it will but make her worse.
Bro. Pr'ythee don't tell me: I will go to the park if the devil stood at the door. What, shan't I have the liberty to go out when I please? Sure I am past a boy, an't I?
Sist. I tell you my mother is very positive, and you had better let her alone: you will but provoke her. You may do as you will.
Bro. Not I, I won't provoke her at all, for I won't ask her: I'll go without her.
Sist. Then you will go without a coach too; for I assure you, as I said before, you won't get Thomas to go.
Bro. Then I'll take a hackney, and go to the Mall.
Sist. Come, brother, we had better let it alone for once, my mother will be better conditioned another time,-- I hope this will be over.
Bro. Nay, I don't care. Come, let us read a book then. Have you never a play here? Come, I'll read a play to you.
Sist. Ay, what will you have?
[She runs to her closet for a play-book, and finds plays, novels, song-books, and others of that kind, taken all away.]
Sist. Oh, thieves! thieves! I am robbed!
Bro. Robbed! What do you mean, sister?
[He runs to her.]
Sist. All my books are gone! they are all gone! all stole! I have not a book left!
[Here you may suppose her taking God's name in vain very much, and in a great passion.]
Bro. What, all your books?
Sist. Every one that are good for any thing. Here's nothing but a Bible, and an old foolish book about religion, I don't know what.
[Her brother looks.]
Bro. I think, as you say, they are all gone. No, hold, here's a Prayer-book, and here's the Practice of Piety,-- and here's the Whole Duty of Man.
Sist. Pr'ythee what signifies them to me? But all my fine books are gone. I had a good collection of plays, all the French novels, all the modern poets, Boileau, Dacier, and a great many more.
Bro. What's the meaning of this?
Sist. I'll lay a hundred pounds this is my mother.
Bro. I believe so too. I wish my mother be not mad. This is horrid. What can my mother mean?
[The sister falls in a great passion of crying; the second brother comes up to them, and the father had been talking to him.
2 Bro. What is the matter with my sister? What, is she not well?
1 Bro. I don't know what's the matter very well; but my mother has been ruffling her a little, and put her out of humour.
2 Bro. What has she done?
1 Bro. Why, she won't let her go to the park; and when she said she would go, my mother struck her; and we find she has taken away all her books. I can't imagine what the meaning of all this is. I think my mother is mad.
2 Bro. No, no, brother, my mother is not mad. If she is mad, my father is so too. You will not wait long to know what the meaning of it is; for you will hear of it quickly too yourself, that I can assure you.
1 Bro. I hear of it! What, from my father?
2 Bro. Yes, from my father. He has told me his mind already, and the reason and occasion of it; and I know he is inquiring for you, to do the like.
1 Bro. He may talk what he will to me; but I'll do what I please for all that.
2 Bro. Hark! you are called just now; you will be of another mind when you come back, I'll warrant you.
[The eldst son is called to come to his father.]
1 Bro. Never, as long as I live.
[Goes out.]
2 Bro. If my father's reasons do not persuade him, I can assure him his authority will, for he is resolved upon the thing.
Sist. What thing is it, brother? What is our father and mother going to do with us? For my part, I cannot imagine what they mean.
2 Bro. Why, really, sister, I find they have begun with the youngest first; for my father has been upon me, and my mother has begun with my sister Betty; but, you will have your turn too.
Sist. I think my mother has begun with me already; for I was but humming over a new song this afternoon, though church was done, and all over, and every body come home, but my mother was in such a passion with me that I never had many words with her in my life. She would not let me go to the park, and had much ado to keep her hands off me.
2 Bro. I heard she was angry with you: but it seems you answered her rudely.
Sist. I said nothing but that I would go to the park.
2 Bro. Well, but you told her you would go to the park whether she would or not.
Sist. Why, was that such a crime? And so I would say again.
2 Bro. Well, but if you did, you would not say it was well done, would you? And it seems she told you then, so I can satisfy you now, she would not take it from you, nor none of us, as she has done.
Sist. It may be so, and I have found it otherwise already.
2 Bro. What, has she not taken some books out of your closet?
Sist. Some! Nay, she has only taken all my books away.
2 Bro. I warrant she has left your Bible and books, and such as those.
Sist. Ay, those! What does that signify? She has taken away all my plays, and all my songs, and all the books that I had any pleasure in.
2 Bro. Yes, I have heard of it.
Sist. But I will have them again, or I'll lead her such a life, she shall have little comfort of me.
2 Bro. Truly, sister, you may fancy you may have them again; but I can satisfy you, most of them are past recovery; for I saw them upon the parlour fire before I came up.
Sist. The fire! I'll go and pull them out before her face.
[Here she is raging, and in a violent passion at her mother, and makes as if she would ran down stairs.]
2 Bro. Come, sister, you had as good be easy; for I find both our father and mother are agreed in the thing: and I must own I begin to see they have reason for it. For my part, I am inclined to submit to all the measures; for I think in my conscience we have all been wrong; and if my father and mother see reason to have me alter my conduct, and especially when I am convinced it is to be the better too, I think it my part to submit.
Sist. I'll never submit.
[The sister cries again.]
2 Bro. Perhaps you will be persuaded, when my mother talks a little calmly to you. I believe my sister Betty is of another mind already.
Sist. I have had talk enough already. My mother tells me I shall not go to the park, nor to the play-house, nor patch, nor play at cards; I think this is talk enough. What, does my mother think to make a nun of me?
2 Bro. No, I dare say she does not.
Sist. No; and if she does, she will be mistaken; for I shall not be hindered of my innocent diversions, let my mother do what she pleases.
2 Bro. But, sister, I do not think you find my mother unreasonable in what she desires, if you will but allow yourself leisure to think of it a little.
Sist. Unreasonable in her desires! Pr'ythee can you tell me what it is she does desire; for I cannot imagine what my mother would be at?
2 Bro. As for my mother I cannot be particular; but if you are willing to hear me, I'll tell you what my father said to me.
Sist. You may tell me if you will, though I don't much care; I won't be made a fool of. What, I an't a baby to go to school again.
2 Bro. Why, look you sister, you may stand out, if you will, a great while; but I warrant you must be content at last, for I do not see how you will help yourself.
Sist. I warrant you I'll help myself.
2 Bro. Then you must renounce your father and mother, and leave the family: and I do not see what good that will do you, for I am satisfied my father is resolute. I was going to tell you the short history of it, if you would have patience.
"Early this morning, before we went to church, my father called me up into his chamber, and, after inquiring several things of me about my learning, my company, my behaviour in the world, to which I made as good an answer as I could, he told me, with a great deal of tenderness, that he loved me so dearly, that he intended to do very well for me, and that he had a particular kindness for me, that he had but one thing he desired of me, and that was for my own good too, and desired to know if was disposed to comply with him. I told him, I very willing to do any thing to oblige him, who had so good a father to me. He told me all he desired of me was this:-- He had observed, that his family in general were running on into all kinds of levity and looseness, which he was satisfied would be their ruin: that he had been remiss in his duty of instruction and reproof to his children; but that he begged God's pardon for that omission, and would do his best to make us all amends. He concluded with asking me whether I had rather be a rake or a sober man? I answered, I hoped he did not expect any reply from me to that, and that I hoped I had not gone so far as to make him doubt in the least that I did not design to be a sober man. Why, son, replies my father, you have no other way to do this, but to conclude, that if there was no divine law, no future state, no rewards or punishments; yet, regarding the honour and character which you expect in the world, you ought to be sober, if it were only to preserve your reputation. He told me, that I knew he had designed me for the practice of the law; that though he would do what he could for me, yet, as he had a great many other children, I must expect to live, or at least to advance myself, by my own merit and industry; and that a lawyer, like a virgin, having once lost the reputation of his virtue or sobriety, no body will meddle with him.
"I not only listened very attentively to my father's discoarse, but, looking steadily upon him, I thought I saw more than usual tenderness and affection in him, all the while he was speaking. Whenever he mentioned his having omitted his duty to his family, I thought I saw tears in standing in his eyes; and to hear him say, he begged God's pardon for the neglect of it, brought tears into mine. When be told me he would make us all amends for the future, it suggested to my mind, that my father supposed that this want of more early instructing us, who are his children, was our loss, as well as his fault, and that we were not such children as we should have been if we had been better taught. I must own to you, sister, these thoughts have since made a great disturbance in my mind. I thought I saw the two young ladies at the next door, and their brother too, look quite another sort of people than we did; they appear so modest, sober, and yet so decently and genteelly affable and pleasant, that I think they live quite another life than we do; they never swear, nor use lewd and profane words in discourse; they never sit up all night at cards, or go a visiting on Sundays, nor do a hundred foolish things that our family makes a trade of; and yet they live as merrily, comfortably, sociably, and genteelly as we do.
I must own to you, though I have often laughed at them, and ridiculed them before, yet my thoughts often told me they lived a more rational life than we did: and when I heard my father talk thus, it presently came into my thoughts, that if my father took the new course with his family as he talked of, we should begin to like them, and I thought that would be very well for us all.
"Well, after my father had gone on thus, and passed awhile, I suppose to hear whether I would say any thing to it or not, I told him I would be glad to do any thing to answer his end, and desired to know what it was he expected of me. My father said, the chief end of his discourse then was to convince me of the reasonableness and necessity of an alteration in my life, and of the advantages of a religious family, and of a sober and religious education; and for rest, if I was first satisfied of the general, he knew it would be easy to bring me to comply with all the measures he should take to bring it about.
"We had a great deal more such discourse; but I told him I was very well satisfied that he designed nothing but our good, and I should be ready to observe all the injunctions he should lay on me. And truly, sister, now I begin to reflect upon it, I find a great deal of satisfaction in it; for, upon my word, I think we have lived very oddly all along; whether it were my father's fault, or our own, I don't inquire; but if we know no more, none of us, of the town, than we do of religion, we should be a very unfashionable family."
Sist. Pr'ythee don't fill my head with all this canting stuff; I don't value it a farthing.
2 Bro. Why, sister, have you no manner of inclination to live religiously, and like a Christian, or to listen to what your father may say to you?
Sist. I think I am religious enough in all my conscience; and I don't intend to disturb my thoughts with any more religion than needs must.
2 Bro. You talk wildly now; I hope you will be a good Christian.
Sist. A Christian! Why, what do you take me for a Mahometan? I think I am a very good Christian.
2 Bro. Why, suppose that too; yet, if it were no more than that my father desires it, and says, he resolves to have it so, you will hardly persuade yourself not to submit to him. You know, besides, that he is our father, and we ought in duty to obey him; and not only that, but he has been the kindest, tenderest, obligingest father in the world to us; and it would be very ungrateful to show yourself rude to such a father, as it would be wicked to disobey him. I am sure you would not be a Christian if you should.
Sist. Don't tell me; I think myself as good a Christian as any of you; but I won't be made a fool of, for all that. I had rather you think me no Christian, than you should think me a fool. Sure I am past my horn-book.
2 Bro. And what, because you are past your horn-book, do you think you are past teaching? Have you nothing to learn but your A B C?
Sist. No, no, I'll learn any thing too: but I won't be taught to be a hermit. If they have a mind to breed me for an abbess, let them send me to a monastery. I'd rather be in a real cloister, than be cloistered up at home. Use none or your new cant with me. I tell you, brother, my mother may ruffle me as much as she will, I'll have my own way still.
2 Bro. Sister! sister! you may talk, and huff, and flounce about as much as you will, but you will have the worst of it at last; for if both father and mother set upon it, as I find they are both of a mind, they will conquer you at last: and perhaps it may mortify you more than you think of.
Sist. I am not so soon conquered as my father may think. If they will not let me be quiet at home, I'll take another method, I am not so much to seek.
2 Bro. Pray, sister, don't be angry with me for my good will. I am not threatening you, nor my father by me.
Sist. No, no, I won't be threatened neither. Sure I'm too old for correction.
2 Bro. But not for advice, I hope, sister, nor for instruction; and if my father should think you deserve correction, do you think there is no way for him to show his resentment, but laying his fingers on you?
Sist. You may all do your worst. I won't trouble myself about it. 'Tis vain to threaten me.
2 Bro. Nay, sister, I think you are not so above my father's threatening you. Would you be willing my father should hear you?
Sist. You may tell him, if you please.
2 Bro. Though it is very disobliging, sister, yet I love you too well to go on that errand, or to obey a command that would be so much to your prejudice.
Sist. I care not a farthing if you did.
2 Bro. It is a satisfaction to me that I know you will be of another mind hereafter.
Sist. Not I, I defy you all. I'll go as far as my legs can carry me, before I'll he confined, or made a fool of.
2 Bro. Wherever you go, I would have you take this hint along with you, that you leave your reputation behind you, and especially the Christian will be left behind you.
Sist. Don't you trouble your head about that, I shall take care of my own reputation.
2 Bro. While it is in your own keeping, I hope you will, sister; but you talk foolishly enough of going away from your father. If you once go out of your father's doors, take my word for it, your character is at every body's mercy.
Sist. For what, pray?
2 Bro. Why should you ask for what? Pray what will you say, or what would you have said to any that should ask you, or ask us, why you are gone away from your father? You won't venture to say, that you came away because your father was about to reform his family! That you came away because you would not submit to be instructed by your father! That you came away because your father and mother would have you more religious than you were before! And if you will not say that, pray what can you say, or whan can any body say for you?
Sist. I warrant you I shall have enough to say; and as for what you or others shall say, you may say your worst of me, I don't care.
2 Bro. Truly, the greatest misfortune will be, that when we say the worst, we shall say the truth; and that when we say the truth, we must say the worst of you that can be spoken; and, upon that account, I hope you will consider what you do, when you think of going from your father's house, though it were to the best friend you have.
Sist. Indeed, if they put hard upon me, I shall make no scruple of it.
2 Bro. I cannot tell what you will say then to bring yourself off. Pray what do you call putting hard upon you? Will you call my father's desire to reform your life a putting hard upon you? I hope you will first prove, that he designs to press you to some wicked thing, some forbidden unlawful course; but to call my father's desire to regulate your conduct, and reform your life, I say, to call this putting hard upon you, every body that hears it will reflect upon you.
Sist. No matter for that, I won't be confined, not I.
2 Bro. Not from the worst wickedness. Do you mean you will not be confined so?
Sist. I desire no wickedness; I don't know what you mean. I have never exposed myself yet, to be charged with any wickedness.
2 Bro. But you will do it now, it seems, your father requires you to be sober.
Sist.v Pr'ythee what do you mean by sober? I think I am sober enough, and want no more reforming than any of you. What would you have?
2 Bro. I am no way taxing your sobriety, but should be very glad you should increase the stock, and improve it; and I believe my father means no other.
Sist. Can't I be sober as well with all my books my mother has taken away, as without them? What can you tax me with that is not sober, that there is such a rout about?
2 Bro. Dear sister! I do not find that my father or mother is inclined to tax you in particular any more than all of us, but all of us together; nay, even our father and mother themselves have been negligent, godless, and graceless; and if they now resolve to repent, and turn, and to carry it after another manner, and to have us do the same, pray what taxing can you call this? Does not my father say, he confesses he has been negligent, and has not done his duty as well as all of us? And what is all he desires of us, but only that as he begs pardon of Almighty God for himself, so we should ask the same for ourselves;-- that as he resolves to reform his practice, so we should do also;-- that so at last we may be a sober family, a reformed family, and may serve God for the future after another manner than we have done. Pray where's the hardship in all this?
Sist. Well, you may go on with your reformation, and confessions, and all that, if you have a mind: for my part, I'll have nothing to do with it, I'll let you all go your own way.
2 Bro. Well, sister, I am sorry for you. If you hold in this mind, we are like to have a foul house with, quickly, for I know my father will go thorough stitch what he has begun.
Sist. My father may go on with what he will. I shan't hinder him. He may let me alone, and reform the rest of you, can't he? I need no reformation that I know of.
2 Bro. I am not so sorry for the difficulty my father will meet with, as for the hazard you will run for yourself, and the breach you will make in your own happiness. But here comes my sister Betty, I see by her looks she has some thing to say upon the same subject.
2 Sist. How long have you two been together?
2 Bro. A great while.
2 Sist. I suppose I know something of your discourse; at least, I guess at it by your looking so grave. Pray how long have you been here?
2 Bro. I told you a great while. But since you would be answered particularly, I believe we have been here just as long as you have been with my mother; for I know she has been talking to you.
2 Sist. That's true, my mother and I have been talking.
1 Sist. Talking! do you say? or fighting?
2 Sist. Fighting! What do you mean, sister? Do you think I fight with my mother
1 Sist. No, but it may be your mother may fight with you. Why not with you, as well as with your eldest sister?
2 Sist. My mother never struck me in her life, and I never gave her any cause that I know of.
1 Sist. That's more than I can say, yet I think I never gave her any more cause than you did.
2 Sist. If my mother struck you, certainly you must have given her more cause than I have done; for every body knows she loves you to a distinction above every child she has.
1 Sist. I don't believe a word of it, nor do I desire such love.
2 Bro. Well, sister, but you may tell us at little how you like things, and what discourse my mother has had with you, for we all know the subject already.
2 Sist. My mother said nothing to me but what I like very well, and am very willing to comply with.
2 Bro. I am very glad to bear you say so, I wish we were all of the same mind.
2 Sist. I hope we shall. I think what she proposes is so rational, and the reasons of it so unanswerably good; that I see no room to object against it in the least; nor do I see any thing designed in it at all, but what is for our good.
2 Bro. I am perfectly of your opinion, and am glad to find you of mine. But here is my sister Mary;, quite of different sentiments from us all.
1 Sist. And with a great deal of reason, for I have not been treated with the same kindness as you have been treated with.
2 Sist. Wherein, pray?
1 Sist. Why, I suppose my mother has not been in your chamber, and rifled your closet, and taken all your choice books, and your plays, and your songs, and your novels, &c. and carried them away, and thrown them into the fire.
2 Sist. No, no, my dear; for what my mother said to me was so affecting, so fully convincing, and so unanswerable, that I immediately fetched them all down myself, and put them into the fire with my own bands, before her face.
1 Sist. A pretty, complying easy fool! I warrant she kissed thee, and called thee dear child, and cried over for thy pains. Did she not, my dear?
2 Sist. I am ashamed to hear you talk so of my mother, sister. Sure you han't lost your manners and duty, as well as respect and religion. Sister, I beseech you what is the matter with you?
1 Sist. And have you really burnt all your plays to please a humour?
2 Sist. Indeed I have burnt them, but not to please a humour. I have done it to oblige the best mother in the world: and I have done it from a sense of its being very fit to be done.
1 Sist. A fine child! and are not you a deal the wiser for it? Do you not repent it already?
2 Sist. No, sister: so far from repenting it, that I never did any thing in my life that gave me more satisfaction; and if it were to do again, I should do it with ten times the pleasure I did it then; and if God give me grace to keep my resolution, I never design to see a play, or read a play more.
1 Sist. Pretty child! thoroughly reformed at once! this is a mighty sudden conversion, and may hold accordingly, I suppose, as most such hasty things do.
2 Sist. It will hold, I hope, longer than your obstinacy against it.
1 Sist. When it has as good reasons, I may think so too.
2 Sist. I shall debate that with you hereafter, when you have heard the same reasons for it that I have heard.
1 Sist. Well, but come, pray let's have a few of reasons just now, if you can spare them. Pray, what harm is there in seeing or reading a play? Is there any sufficient mischief in them to justify your burning them, and to justify mother's using me about them as she has done?
2 Sist. In the first place, sister, the time we have before us, compared to the eternity that is to be prepared for, is so little and so short, that, if it be possible to employ it better, there is none to spare for what has so little good in it as a play.
1 Sist. I have learned a great deal of good from a play.
2 Sist. But might you have learned more from the scriptures?
1 Sist. It may be not.
2 Sist. You would have been a bad scholar then.
1 Sist. Well, and what's next?
2 Sist. In the second place, the little good which you can pretend is to be found in them, is mixed with so much evil, attended with so much lewd, vicious, and abominable stuff, that no sober person will bear with the wicked part for the sake of the good part; nor can any one justify it, that the good part is such, or so great, that so much hazard should be run for it.
1 Sist. Very well; so you are afraid you should be in every thing that is right, more especially in every thing that is for my own good, and, most of all, where my duty to God joins with it. If you think it below you to do so, I am tempted when you go to the play; I suppose that is because you are so tempting yourself.
2 Sist. No, sister, I am in no more danger, I hope, than another; but sure, if I am to pray to God, as in the Lord's prayer-- "Lead me not into temptation," I must not lead myself into it.
1 Sist. And is this all you have to say for throwing the best collection of plays the whole town had into the fire?
2 Sist. I have many more reasons which I shall bestow on you, when you have answered these. But there is one more which I will bestow upon you now, which you may give an answer to before the rest, if you please, viz. that it is my mother's desire and resolution that I should do so; and that she declares it is against her conscience to permit me the use of these things as formerly,-- and therefore desires, and in one kind commands, that I should do thus: and I am bid in the scriptures many ways to obey:-- "Children obey your parents in all things," &c.
1 Sist. That is the best reason you have given yet.
2 Sist. I think not, neither; for the other reasons are better, as they are drawn from the nature and authority of God, and this but from the authority of my mother; which, though it is great, and ought to be very prevalent with me, and ever shall be so, yet not quite equal, or up to the authority of him that made us all: nor will my mother think hard that I say so.
2 Bro. Sister, indeed I think my sister Betty has fully answered you there.
1 Sist. Yes, yes, you are two fine new converts.
2 Bro. Which I hope we shall never be ashamed of.
1 Sist. Well, and pray what said you to her about going to the park on Sundays? Had you nothing to say about that?
2 Sist. Yes, yes, my mother showed her dislike of it, and said it was a plain violation of the commands of God. I mused a little while about it; and being convinced that it was so, I presently resolved never to go any more.
1 Sist. So, and you had not a box on the ear then, as I had?
2 Sist. I gave my mother no occasion for that, sister, as I understand you did.
1 Sist. No, no, you are a mighty good obedient thing.
2 Sist. I am not ashamed to own, that I obey my mother, and am willing to do so in every thing, especially sorry for it. I cannot follow you in that example; for the scripture says expressly-- "Children, obey your parents all things," much more where the command of God, and the command of our parents concur together, as it does in this case.
1 Sist. You preach nicely, sister. You shall marry a parson; and, when you turn Quaker, you shall be a speaking sister.
2 Sist. Any thing rather than a rebel to God and my parents;-- break the commandments of the first, and abuse the tenderness of the last.
1 Sist. You are mighty mannerly to your sister.
2 Sist. Much more to you than you to my mother. I love my sister very well; but I know neither brother nor sister when they rise up against my mother, and that such a mother as our's is; who, I must tell you, sister, deserves other things at your hands: and, unless you behave better, you will find the whole family against you, as well as I; for every body says you treated my mother rudely. The very servants speak of it with abhorrence, and of you with contempt. Every body must despise you, if you carry it so to your mother.
1 Sist. With all my heart. If every body I'll despises me, I'll every body, and so I'll be even with you all.
2 Sist. You'll soon be of that.
1 Sist. If I am, I bear my affliction with patience.
2 Sist. You are like to be a martyr in the worst cause that ever a saint suffered in: no doubt but you will suffer for conscience sake. Two excellent points in divinity you maintain, viz. contempt of God, and rebellion against your parents. I wonder what evil spirit is your instructor.
1 Sist. You are very pert, madam, and show abundance of affection and respect.
2 Sist. I follow your example still, sister; but I'll be very honest to you. I'll never have respect nor affection to you, nor any body that shall carry it to my as you have done. I would not load you, nor add to your sorrows, but no body in this house can do otherwise, who have such a father and such a mother as we have.
1 Sist. I have no sorrow about it, and I am resolved I will have none.
2 Sist. I think the best way to deal with you is to leave you,-- your crime will be your sufficient punishment. But I must tell you, before I go, which I should have told at first, that my business was not to visit you now, but to call you to my father and mother, who want to speak with you in the parlour, and where, I suppose, you will hear more of it.
1 Sist. I will not go.
2 Sist. As you please, sister, for that; I have delivered my message.
1 Sist. And you may carry that for an answer.
2 Sist. No, sister, I'll have no hand in your misfortunes: besides, I believe here comes another messenger from them.
[A servant comes up stairs, and tells the eldest lady that her father and mother wait to speak with her.]
1 Sist. I am indisposed, tell my mother, I cannot come, I am upon the bed.
Serv. If you won't go, madam, I doubt they will come to you.
1 Sist. Go and deliver your message.
2 Sist. And are you so resolute against yourself, sister? Can nothing persuade you to your own good? Certainly you will be wiser.
1 Sist. What would have me do, what is the matter with you all?
2 Sist. Nay, sister, I am not fit to give you advice, who are my eldest sister: but methinks you do not want advice to go down to your father, when you are sent for.
1 Sist. I won't.
2 Sist. What shall I say to them? I dare not say you won't, for your own sake.
1 Sist. Tell them I an't well, can't you? that I am upon the bed, and have shut my door, and won't be spoke with. Tell them any thing. Don't you see I am not fit to be spoke to?
2 Sist. As the maid said, I am certain they'll come up to you, for they know your distemper. I would fain have you go down. I dare say you will be treated very tenderly and kindly, perhaps better than you expect, especially if you do not force them to treat you ill.
1 Sist. Yes, after they have burnt all my books,-- robbed me of what they knew was my delight,-- refused me the liberty of going abroad, and given me a blow on the face for nothing,-- now they'll treat me kindly, will they? I desire none of their kindness. I won't go.
2 Sist. Well, sister, then they must wait upon you, I suppose.
1 Sist. If they do, I will not speak to them, nor open the door.
[She cries vehemently.]
2 Sist. I hope you will alter your mind, I'll leave you to think of it.
[The second sister withdraws, and the other claps the door after her.]
This dialogue needs no observation, save on the different tempers between children, dutifully submitting to family government, and affectionately complying with their parents' just desires; and, on the other hand, children, obstinately adhering to the dictates of their passions. And this will appear to every common reader. Besides, much of the first part being historical, and the family known, I forbear further observations on the particular conduct of the persons. The design of this work being rather to instruct other families, than to reproach those who may think themselves concerned, the author leaves these dialogues, therefore, without particular remarks, and leaves room for abler hands to annotate upon them hereafter, when the persons concerned may be gone off the stage: and then it may a general reproach to those that are guilty, rather than a particular satire upon persons or families, and this he conceives will also tend more to the usefulness of work.
THE FIFTH DIALOGUE.
The last dialogue is a kind of sketch or draught of the whole family we are speaking of. The eldest son and daughter, as their father and mother had suggested, being grown up in the long allowed course of looseness of behaviour, all manner of having been given them, without any family restraint, without government, and rather encouraged by their parents than limited either by example or command, proved, as might well be expected, very obstinate and refractory' especially the daughter, who being hot and insolent, her mother, at the first attempt, was so provoked, as to use her somewhat roughly. The other children, who were grown up, being also a son and a daughter, are not only brought to submit to the reformation proposed by their parents, but embrace it with willingness and cheerfulness, and make their duty their choice, to the great satisfaction of their parents.
The following dialogue is between the father and mother, with their sons and daughters respectively, and apart, which are the same that are referred to in the former discourses.
The mother, it seems, began with their eldest daughter upon something in her behaviour about breaking the Sabbath, and this, by the imprudence of the daughter, ended rougher than she (the mother) designed it.
The father began with the second son, and finding him very tractable, proceeded to the eldest son, but met with great difficulties and discouragements in him.
The mother found the second daughter sensibly affected with her discourse, and cheerfully willing to submit to her instructions; which was a great comfort to her, and encouraged her to deal the better with her obstinate sister.
The other children were younger, and rather to be governed by authority than persuasion. The dialogue with the eldest daughter began thus. After sermon, every Lord's day, it had been their custom to walk abroad, to go to the park, or a visiting, and so to wear off the evening, and then come home to supper. But the case being now altered, the father had let the servants know they must all stay at home; and had told his younger son, with whom he had discoursed in the morning, that he would have no more going to the park on the Lord's-day. But the daughter had not yet heard of it, nor the eldest son, or, if they had, they did not believe their father was in earnest; so that, according to their usual custom, they were preparing to go abroad, and the son had bid their coachman get ready to carry them out. The mother perceiving the daughter to putting on her gloves, calls to her thus:
Moth. What are you dressing for, child?
Daugh. To go to the park, madam.
Moth. I would not have you go to-night, my dear.
Daugh. Why, madam?
Moth. I have a reason which I had rather tell you another time.
[Note.-- The mother having designed to have a serious discourse with her daughter, did not think fit to enter into particulars now, but her daughter's carriage forced her to it.]
Daugh. I must go, madam, I have appointed company.
Moth. Well, however, disappoint them for once, at my desire.
Daugh. 'Tis impossible, madam, I can't do it.
Moth. O, the impossibility is not so very great as you make it. I warrant you, you can excuse it.
Daugh. I never did such a thing in my life: 'tis rude, madam, to the last degree. I cannot look my lady Lighthead in the face.
Moth. Lay the fault on me, my dear, I'll bear the blame.
Daugh. I'll even lay the fault on nobody, nor ask body's pardon, but go myself.
Moth. I wonder, child, you should force me to the necessity of telling you, that you must not go.
Daugh. Why, madam, I must go; I can't put it off.
Moth. But I tell you, mistress, since you will be put off no other way, you shall not go.
Daugh. Shan't I?
Moth. No, you shan't.
Daugh. But I will go.
Moth. I never thought to have had such language as that from you, daughter, and I assure you I shall not take much of it.
Daugh. Why should I not go out then, as well now as at another time?
Moth. Why, daughter, since I must come to particulars with you, I assure you, that you shall not only not go to the park to day, but never any more on a Sabbath-day, as long as I have the troublesome office of being your mother.
Daugh. What have I done to be used so?
Moth. Nothing more than the rest, nor was I blaming you: but you have been all guilty of profaning the Lord's-day; and to the best of my power you shall do it no more.
Daugh. Why, han't you don't it yourself? and have you not always with us?
Moth. Though that is very unnatural and unmannerly in you to reproach me with it; yet I confess, it is but too just, and I deserve it; however, I pray God forgive me, that I have done it, and especially, that I have let you all do it. Well may you upbraid me with it; and I desire to be ashamed, that you have had my example to encourage you to it: but it is the more my duty to reform it, and I expect your compliance with the more willingness.
Daugh. I see no harm in it, not I.
Moth. What, not on the Lord's-day?
Daugh. No, when the sermon is over, and church is done.
Moth. Why, does not the commandment say-- "Remember the Sabbath-day, to keep it holy, therefore God blessed the Sabbath-day, and hallowed it?"
Daugh. Why, don't I keep it holy enough? Don't I go to church every Sunday?
Moth. Well, and do you think that the Sabbath-day is over when you have been at church?
Daugh. Over! Why, what would you have us do after we have been at church?
Moth. I shall take a time to let you know, what is your duty on the rest of the day: but I did not design to talk of that now, nor of this neither, if you had not moved to it by your undutiful language.
Daugh. I don't trouble myself about it.
[Here the daughter turns away, and with a kind of humming low voice sings the tune of a new play-house song.]
Moth. Unsufferable insolence! Have I been telling you of the command of God to keep holy the Sabbath-day, and of my resolution to do it myself, and to cause you to do it, and do you despise God and your mother at this rate? It is not to be borne with.
[She first apparently laughs at her mother, and turning away from her, sings on.]
Moth. Your contempt of your mother I place to my account; but, for your contempt of your Maker, that that on god's account.
[Strikes her a box on the ear.]
Daugh. Ha! is it come to that?
[The daughter flies away in a rage, and goes up stairs towards her chamber.]
Moth. Only take this with you in your fury, that I'll have no going out of doors.
Daugh. But I will, for all this.
Moth. I advise you to provoke me no farther.
Daugh. You have done your worst.
[The mother, provoked highly by her tongue, follows her, and goes into her chamber; but she had gone into another room, and the mother, seeing the closet door open in her chamber, goes in and takes away all her books, plays, songs, &c. leaving only her Bible, prayer-books, and two or three good books in their room.]
Moth. These are the cursed roots from whence this blessed fruit grows up! Here's her Sabbath-day's study! and the bait of all her pleasures! These shall be the first sacrifice to the blessed resolution I have taken of reforming my family.
[The mother brings them all down stairs, and, after looking over the particulars, threw them all into the fire.]
[THe daughter going afterwards into her chamber, and finding what her mother had done, occasioned the dialogue already set down, between her and her eldest brother.]
This little adventure being over, and the mother having composed herself, she sends for her second daughter, about fifteen years old, and begins the following dialogue with her.
Moth. Child, where are you going? What, are you bespoke to-night too?
2 Daugh. No, madam: who should bespeak me?
Moth. Why, your sister, to go to the park.
2 Daugh. No, indeed, madam, I know nothing of it; and if she had, I have no inclination to it.
Moth. How so?
2 Daugh. I don't know, but I never cared for it on Sundays; but when you go, and every body, then I must.
Moth. Dear child, don't cut me to the heart, by telling me of my going! Your sister has upbraided me with it just now, in her fury; but your innocent way of telling me of it sinks deeper still.
2 Daugh. Upbraid you, madam! 'tis impossible! I hope my sister is not gone mad. Sure you won't call my speaking so upbraiding you with any thing. I abhor it.
Moth. But, my dear, I upbraid myself with it.
2 Daugh. God forbid I should do it, dear mother. But was there any harm in your going?
Moth. Only the wickedest thing in me that I was capable of doing; especially as it was an example to you, my dear, and to your brothers and sisters.
2 Daugh. But if it was a wicked thing, mother, it so in me too, was it not?
Moth. Most certainly.
2 Daugh. I cannot tell what it was, but I had always some uneasiness when I was out at the park, or a visiting on the Sabbath-day; but I considered my mother was with me, and sure it could not be made wrong then, and that carried me on. But, dear mother, do not call this upbraiding you with it. It would break my heart to have you think so.
Moth. I don't, my dear; but I cannot help upbraiding myself with it, though nobody in the world was to upbraid me with it, for I have run the risk of ruining thee, my dear, and all the rest of my children, both soul and body; and I am afraid some of them are quite ruined already.
2 Daugh. I won't be one of them, mother. I'll do any thing you shall direct me to.
Moth. I would be glad to direct you for the best, my dear; but the work has been so long neglected, I am almost discouraged, and know not where to begin, or how to hope for success.
2 Daugh. Why, dear mother, I hope I am not so hard to be instructed, or so backward to learn. I am sure I am willing to change my coarse of life for a better, not only out of obedience to you, as you are my mother, but out of mere inclination and choice; for I have often thought were not in the way to do ourselves good, and that the life we led was not as it should be.
Moth. I thank God for that foundation laid in thee, my dear, and hope the rules of amendment will be the more agreeable.
2 Daugh. Dear mother, all your rules shall be agreeable to me, but more especially such rules as shall deliver me from the evil of an irregular life. Sure I cannot be so ungrateful as to neglect the directions you shall give, so much to my own advantage.
Moth. My dear, it is true, that bare amendment of life is not all the duty that is before us; it is not enough that we forbear the follies which we have so long committed, but we must perform the duties we are commanded. A Christian's life consists, as well in discharging commanded duties, as in avoiding forbidden evils. Both must be done, and both submitted to cheerfully.
2 Daugh. I have been uneasy a great while at the life we live. I always thought it was not right; but I did not know what course to take to alter it, nor what I ought to do, or not to do; besides, I thought if I should refuse going to the play, and refuse going abroad on the Sabbath-day, I should anger you, madam; for I always found you were for them, and yet I cannot say I took any pleasure in them; but saw other families did not do so, and I thought they looked soberer, and lived better than our's. I thought myself in heaven last winter, when you let me stay at my aunt's a few weeks.
Moth. And yet these are the very things your sister calls the pleasures of her life.
2 Daugh. Much good may they do her.
Moth. And puts so value upon them, that she will affront her mother at any time, rather than deny herself the least satisfaction of that kind.
2 Daugh. She will have all my share in the pleasure at a very low price.
Moth. Indeed, she provoked me just now to the highest degree. When I saw her preparing to go to the park, and desired her to put it off, she told me 'twas impossible, and her honour was engaged; because, forsooth, she had made an appointment to meet the young Lady Lighthead.
2 Daugh. Her honour engaged! What, her honour engaged to break God's commandments? Sure, madam, you did not tell her, as you do me, of the fourth commandment-- "Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath-day."
Moth. Yes, I did several times; and when at last I added my own authority, and told her, she should not go, she told me flat and plain she would go.
2 Daugh. I am amazed!
Moth. Nay, I ought not to wonder; for, when she had laughed at its being a breach of God's command, how could I expect she would lay any weight upon mine?
2 Daugh. It is impossible! Certainly she could never do it in contempt of the commandments: she must rather pretend it was lawful, and that it did not break the command.
Moth. No, my dear, nobody breaks the commandments of God avowedly and obstinately, as God's command. Nobody is so absurdly wicked as to say, I will break God's commandments in defiance of him: but she pretended there was no harm in it, because sermon was done; as if God, who hallowed the Sabbath-day, had only hallowed so much of it as was taken up in the public worship, and no part of the Sabbath was to be kept holy but sermon time.
2 Daugh. That's the divinity of the day, madam.
Moth. Nay, and which is still more ridiculous, as if one part of the day, being dedicated to the best things, the worst were to come just at the heels of them. I must own, I think people had better open their shops as soon as sermon is done, and fall to their business every Sabbath evening; for sure it would be less sin to spend the day in lawful employments than in sports and recreations. Worship and diversion are putting two extremes next to one another; and it seems a contempt of the day, to set one piece of it apart for the best things, and the other for the meanest, for recreation is the meanest lawful thing that can be done: but your sister thinks her pleasure the reason of her life, and end for which she was born.
2 Daugh. Then she seems to be born for very little purpose. I hope I am born for something else, madam.
Moth. Yes, she thinks seeing and reading plays, visiting the park, and the Mall, such material points of life, and so essential to her happiness, that she will not only contradict my authority, but God's command, rather than not enjoy them.
2 Daugh. I know plays and romances have been too much my sister's study and mine too, but I confess I see nothing in them now so diverting as I have thought of them; but if I did, if I thought it were displeasing to you, mother, if I thought it were an error, or an enemy to religion and virtue, I would soon let you see what my real value far is.
Moth. How dear they are to your sister, you will know to her just reproach, when you come to hear how she treats me for taking them from her; and how dear they are to me, you may guess, by my having put them into the fire just now.
2 Daugh. I am sorry for my sister, and especially, dear mother, that you should meet with so much affliction from your children; but depend upon it, madam, you shall meet with nothing from me, to add to it; and as to play-books and novels, I hope, if they were no way offensive on a religious account, I could sacrifice them all, to give satisfaction to my mother.
Moth. My dear, can you do so?
[The mother weeps for joy.]
2 Daugh. I'll soon put you out of that doubt, madam, if you'll have patience till I fetch them.
[She runs up stairs to her closet.]
Moth. Well, how said my husband to me, that if we began this work heartily, it would perhaps be blessed and succeeded from above, beyond our expectation! how does this dear child close cheerfully with the very first motion of a reformation! Who knows, but God in time will mollify the obstinacy of her sister! This shall, however, encourage me to go on with my work; to continue instructing and exhorting her, and not despair of a blessing, though the difficulties, by reason of a long delay and neglect, have been doubled upon me.
[The daughter returns with a servant, and full of songs, plays, novels, romances, and such stuff, and throws them down on the table.]
2 Daugh. Here, madam, is the willingest sacrifice I ever made in my life.
Moth. And do you do this freely, my dear?
2 Daugh. With more pleasure, madam, than ever I read them; and I resolve them to the fire.
Moth. I think, my dear, thou art the only qualified person to be trusted with them; because, if there be any such thing as good in them, which I will not say there is, thou alone art able to pick it out, without touching, or being tainted with the bad, of tasting what has any relish, without being soiled with the dirt, or infected with the disease of the other.
2 Daugh. Well, madam, but were I so capable, I am not above being enticed; and, besides, other of my brothers and sisters may make my example their rule, or may claim to use them, though in my possession. I had rather them follow my sister's, and therefore make it my desire, madam, in order to put an argument into your mouth, from my example, that I may put them all into the fire my own hand.
[She throws them in.]
Moth. The blessing of thy father and mother be upon thee, my dear child. Thou hast made my heart rejoice, that was almost sunk before, for fear lest all my children were irrecoverably lost, by my neglect of their more early instruction.
2 Daugh. My dear mother! I am happier in that blessing, than in all that ever you gave before.
Moth. What wilt thou say, my dear, to thy sister, when she hears of it?
2 Daugh. Nay, madam, what will my sister say to me, when she shall know that I have heard how she used my mother for a few ballads and play-books?
Moth. She will mock and flout thee, my dear.
2 Daugh. Then I'll pity her, madam; for I am sure she is in a worse condition thanI. I have your blessing and affection, madam, which I value above all the world; and she has a heap of plays and novels in the room of it.
2 Daugh. My blessing, my dear! Alas, what is that? May He be thy blessing, whose blessing "maketh rich, and addeth no sorrow to it!" If God give thee grace to go on, thou wilt be a blessing to me, rather than I to thee; for I have been the ruin of you all, and have brought you into the danger of being never recalled, for want of instructing you before.
2 Daugh. Dear mother, do not load yourself with that; I hope it is not too late for us to learn now.
Moth. It is very late, my dear, very late; and what would have been easily taught, and easily learned before, will be hard now both ways. I fear, my dear, you do not see what other things are necessary to be done.
2 Daugh. What things are they, madam?
Moth. Why, my dear, on our part, thy father and I, we must set up a family government entirely new;-- we must be angry now at what we were pleased at before, and pleased now with what we were angry at before;-- what we laughed at, and made a jest of in our children before, we must now mourn over, and correct them for;-- what we not only allowed to be done, but even did ourselves before, we must forbid now;-- what we accounted pleasant before, must be frightful now;-- and what we delighted in before, must be dreadful to us now: in short, every part of our government, or of our children's obedience, must be altered. O the task that I have to go through! O the difficulty of a late reformation in a family!
2 Daugh. I cannot understand what all this mighty change must be, madam, or wherein there will be so much difficulty, sure none of the family can be backward to listen to such directions as you will give them. Will any of my brothers or sisters be against being made better, or render your task difficult, when it may be made so easy, and so much for their own good? I am sure I will not, mother.
Moth. I know the mortification must be great on your side too, I mean, all of you. It is not an easy thing to bring children off from their levities and pleasures, which are become so natural to them, by a long uninterrupted allowance of their parents and governors; nay, it is not easy for children themselves to bring their humours and inclinations, fancies and passions, off from the pleasures of life, which perhaps they have, as all mine had, an unrestrained enjoyment of. The work is very hard, my dear.
2 Daugh. I believe it will not be half so hard to me to deny myself any, or all those diversions and criminal enjoyments you speak of, mother, as to guide myself to those things which are necessary to be done, or engaged in afterwards.
Moth. My dear, a religious conversation is not the easiest thing in the world.
2 Daugh. But I believe it is the pleasantest thing in the world, mother.
Moth. Child, I wonder to hear thee say so, for thou hast never seen any thing of it at home.
2 Daugh. 'Tis true, I have not at home, but I have abroad, madam, when you sent me to my aunt's, where you know I was nine or ten weeks. I thought I was in heaven there, to what I was at home; every one there was so sober, so pretty, so grave, so exact, and so regular, and yet so cheerful, so pleasant, so innocently merry, and withal so pious, and so religious, that I thought nothing so happy in my life, nor did I ever spend so many weeks so well in my life.
Moth. Child, your aunt is a Dissenter, you know.
2 Daugh. But, madam, my uncle is a churchman; and let them be what they will, I see no difference in their conversation. They all agree to be a religious, sober, pious family: the children are all under such government, do all things so prettily, and their behaviour is so agreeable, they love one another so entirely, and enjoy one another so perfectly, that I believe they are the pattern of all the town. My uncle every night and morning calls them all together to prayers. My aunt takes all her daughters together once a day, and makes one of them read a chapter, and then she says any thing she finds occasion to say to them, by way of reproof or direction; and I observed, when I went up stairs at night, not one of my cousins would go to bed till they had retired into their closets to their prayers by themselves.
Moth. Poor child! that was a strange way of life to thee, believe.
2 Daugh. I thought it strange indeed at first; but I was soon able to recollect myself, and was ashamed to know that I thought it strange, much less that I did not do so myself.
Moth. Poor child! if thou hadst been taught as well as they, thou wouldst have done so too.
2 Daugh. Indeed, madam, as I was almost left alone, I could not but say my prayers too; and this kind of life began to be so pleasant and agreeable to me, that I never enjoyed myself like it in all my life.
Moth. And didst thou not think thy father's family a kind of hell, when thou camest home again, my dear?
2 Daugh. No, madam, I confess it was odd at first, when, instead of a regular family, I came home to all manner of looseness, and liberty; but it soon began to be natural to again, and I forgot my good aunt's instructions, ay, and uncle's too, who used to say a great many good things to me, and gave me a great deal of good advice.
Moth. How seldom is good instruction lost or thrown away! I am persuaded the little good advice they gave thee was the foundation of that willingness to be governed and reformed which appears in thee now. My blessing on her heart for doing thee so much good!
2 Daugh. I believe it has done me no harm, madam.
Moth. How then would good instruction have wrought upon thee, if I had begun it ten or twelve years ago?
2 Daugh. Dear mother, I hope it is not too late.
Moth. Well, my dear, how do they spend the Sabbath at your aunt's? Not as we do, I dare say.
2 Daugh. No, indeed, madam, after quite another fashion. The young ladies are obliged to be down stairs half an hour after nine in the morning, ready dressed; then my uncle calls to prayers, and soon after they go all away, either to church or to the meeting-house; but whichsoever it is, they are almost sure to meet together after sermon, sometimes at the very door, and then children and servants, not one stirs from home. In the evening my uncle calls them all together, reads to them in some good book, and then sings psalms, and goes to prayers. When that is over, they go to supper; then they spend an hour perhaps or two in the most innocent and pleasant discourse and and conversation imaginable,-- it is always about something religious; and then every one retires to their apartment, and the young ladies spend their time in closet devotions, till they go to bed.
The sons, you know, madam, are grown up; and those young gentlemen are the very picture of their father,-- sober, virtuous, religious, and modest; and yet are really gentlemen, and behave themselves as much like gentlemen, as any men do. Dear mother, when I came home, and heard my brother damn the coachman, and curse the maids; when I heard the noise, the clamour, the profane words that our servants have in their daily conversation, it amazed me. I thought at first all gentlemen had been like my brother; but I was soon convinced when I had been a while at my aunt's.
Moth. All this, my dear, is the consequence of the difference of education, and signifies, my dear, that your aunt has done her duty, and I have not done mine; nothing else has made the difference, indeed, God's grace excepted.
2 Daugh. Dear mother, do not afflict yourself with what is past. Sure none of us will be such refractory creatures, as to resist your good design of reforming us now.
Moth. O, it is too late to bring your brothers to government now.
2 Daugh. I hope not, madam; if they are grown up, and thereby may think themselves past government, yet sure they are not past persuasion; they may want judgment when little, and are then rather to be taught by compulsion and correction; but as they are now masters of more reason, they will the sooner submit to the affectionate persuasions of a tender father and mother, especially in a thing so apparently and convincingly for their own good, soul and body.
Moth. I have a great deal of reason to fear the contrary, as well in your father as in your brothers.
2 Daugh. I think my sister is passionate, and very fond of pleasure and gaiety; but, madam, time and your authority, I hope, will prevail upon her to reflect upon her own interest, as well as duty.
Moth. Go to her, my dear, and see if you can work any thing upon her.
2 Daugh. Alas, madam! I shall be a very simple instructor to her, who thinks herself so wise. She reckons me but a child, fitter to come to school to her.
Moth. A less child than you, my dear, has been my instructor; why may not you be her's?
2 Daugh. I'll visit her, madam; but I question whether she will speak to me, for I know she is in a great passion.
Moth. Well go, and bid her come down into the parlour. Here's your father a coming. Tell her, your father and I want to speak to her.
2 Daugh. Yes, madam.
[She goes up to her sister.]
Notes on the Fifth Dialogue.
This dialogue chiefly discovers the difference of two families: one religiously educated, faithfully instructed, and taught both by the care and example of the heads of the family; the other abandoned to the gust of their own inclinations, and let loose in the pursuit of their pleasures, without any regard to their present duty or future happiness.
The benefit the young lady received in the religious family of her aunt, and the effects of it, shows us, 1. How pleasant a religious life; when duty conformed to, and willingly complied with, appears to be; and, 2. what convincing force it has in it, even upon the minds of those have no part in it themselves.
THE SIXTH DIALOGUE
While the mother was thus managing her daughters, the father was much engaged with the two sons; and his hardships were every jot as great as the mother's, and his encouragements the same too.
It is to be observed here, that the difficulty in this part of the education of children does not lie so much in the question what to teach them, and what principles of the Christian religion to go upon, as to bring them by reasoning and argument to be teachable; to persuade them that they have any occasion to learn, or that they are capable of teaching them, and to cause them to submit to instruction in general.
The father called his second son up to him on a Sabbath-day in the morning, before he came down stairs, and, taking him into his closet, began this dialogue with him. The son, you are to suppose, has been bred a gentleman and a scholar, was about seventeen years of age, and was newly come from the university.
The father begins thus:--
Fath. Son, I suppose you know what day this is?
Son. Yes, sir.
Fath. But perhaps you do not know, that not you only, but all the family, myself not excepted, have never taken due notice of the Sabbath-day, or of the manner in which we ought to behave on that day. The duty appointed for the day has been too much neglected; above all, the great duty of setting it apart for the worship and service of God, and keeping the Sabbath-day holy.
Son. I remember the fourth commandment, sir.
Fath. Yes, we can all repeat the commandments by rote, and do every day at church say them over and over; but the little regard we have shown to them in the week, is too plain a proof of our thinking but little of what we say: for God knows, in my house there has been little difference between a Sabbath-day and another day, unless it be, that the Sabbath-day has been spent the worst of the two; for excepting our just going to church, which also is made a mere diversion, and a kind of entertainment, all the rest spent in mere revelling, feasting, visiting, and either riding abroad, or mirth and gaiety at home; and this is so notorious, more in my family than in any other, that I am sensible it is high time to put a stop to it, and I design to tell you all my mind this evening, that the reformation may be effectual. I hope none of my children will oppose their own good.
Son. I hope not, sir.
Fath. Nay, if they oppose me never so much, I am resolved in this, if they will be foolish and wicked, they shall be foolish and wicked for themselves, not for me, or for any body else. For my part, when I look back upon my family, and consider how we have lived hitherto, I wonder that the judgments of God have not distinguished my family, and made us as public, and as much the amazement of the world for our punishment, as we have been notorious for our sin, and, therefore, if it were only for the fear of the hand of heaven, though I hope I act from another principle too, I think it concerns me to set about a family reformation, with all possible diligence and application.
Son. Indeed I never considered it, sir, till of late; but for some time past I have begun to see we have not been right. It is true, we do not live as other families do; and I have often thought so, but perhaps not with so much concern as I should have done.
Fath. Well, child, my design of altering it will be so much the more agreeable to you then, when you come to practise it.
Son. If it were not, sir, it shall be the more agreeable to me, if it be your command.
Fath. I would not command any thing that should not be agreeable, if it were not absolutely necessary. But in things indispensably our duty, the humours of any side are of no weight at all. The duty must be considered, rather than the inclination of those who are to perform it.
Son. I am not only willing to obey it, for its being your command, sir; but my own inclination concerns to set about any thing that will rectify my life, and teach me to govern myself according to my duty.
Fath. What you say, child, is very obliging, as it relates to me; and as I have always showed you, by my own conduct in your education, that I have entertained a particular affection for you more than for the rest of your brothers and sisters; so this return is so very pleasing to me, that I cannot but tell you I will not forget to show it you; and that I think myself very highly engaged by it to distinguish you in my affection, and in concern for you, as you have distinguished yourself in your duty and regard to this occasion: but the readiness you show to this work of reformation, from an inclination to the thing itself, is a particular which I rejoice in, and love you for, with an affection which I was not master of before. But tell me, child, whence came this inclination? how first came any thoughts into your mind about it? I am sure I have never before spoken a word about religion to you in my life.
Son. I won't say so, sir.
Fath. Aye, but I have too much cause to say so; and I am convinced I have not only failed of my duty, for which I heartily beg pardon of Almighty God, but have been injurious to you, child, and to all my children, in not furnishing you with the knowledge of your duty when you were young, and giving you early instruction; by which much of the follies of your lives might have been prevented, all the time you have now mis-spent had been saved, and you had all been long ago what now I doubt you will not obtain without great difficulty to me and yourselves.
Son. I am sorry to see you afflict yourself, sir, about that, I hope it shall not be too late still.
Fath. But, if not too late, the work is double, the task hard, the attempt almost desperate, and the success very doubtful.
Son. Dear sir, you shall have no difficulty with me. I am entirely resolved to be guided by your instructions, to follow your rules, obey your dictates, and submit wholly to your direction, let the difficulty be what it will to me; and, therefore, I only desire to know what the first steps are you would have me take.
Fath. The first steps, my dear, are the breaking off the ill practices of our family, and the regulating the house by rules of virtue, sobriety, and a Christian life,-- things we have all been strangers to here.
Son. This, sir, is that which I told you before I had an inclination to formerly, and 'tis with a great deal of pleasure I shall close with all your schemes of that kind; because it is sometime ago since I have seen and observed, that, as I thought, we did not live like Christians, but rather like heathens, and that other families were quite another sort of people than we; and I could not but be in love with them, and weary of our's; for I cannot but think, that nature itself dictates to a man of sense, that a life of virtue and sobriety is more agreeable to us, as men, than a vicious, wicked, profligate course, which not only ruins the estate, the conscience, health, and the good name of the person, but even his reputation, as to the world also.
Fath. I was asking you before, what first raised these just reflections in you, my dear; for as I acknowledged then, I say again, I own thou art not beholden to me for them.
Son. The first hints I had of this kind, sir, were a great while ago, from some accidental conversation with Mr. ------, our neighbour, when we were little children.
Fath. What, the old gentleman?
Son. No, the young; and afterwards with his mother, when, alter our usual recreations, he carried me home to their house.
Fath. How was it, child? for I long to hear the story. If any good person has helped me to do my work, or done it for me, I shall be very thankful.
Son. No, sir, not so much of that; but when I first began to play with that young gentleman, some years ago, his mother heard me use some ugly words, such as I was but too much given to then, and sending her son away, the old lady took me into her parlour, and gave me sweetmeats, and asked me a great many questions.
Fath. What questions?
Son. She asked me, if ever I was taught to swear? I answered, no. She asked me, if father would not chide me if he heard me swear? I told her no. But I was sorry for it, sir; for I presently thought, that to say so, reflected upon my father, whether it was true or no; and that I ought to have said, yes, he did, though it was not true.
Fath. Dear child, the sin was mine, and the shame of its being true ought to be mine, and shall for ever be mine. I am glad thou didst not speak a false thing to her. What said she then?
Son. She did not say much to me the first time; but she only told me, it was a sad thing that a pretty boy, as she said I was, should be ruined; and I thought I saw her weep.
Fath. Did you see her again after that?
Son. Yes, sir, she got me in again next day, and gave more sweetmeats, and asked me several questions about God and heaven; and I was sadly ashamed I could answer her to nothing at all,-- for I knew nothing of it but what I had heard by chance, or learned by rote. She asked me if was willing to know any thing for my own good in another world? and I told her yes, with all my heart. She told me, if I would come and visit her son every day, she would use me like her own child. But she desired me to promise one thing beforehand. I said I would promise any thing she pleased. Then she said, I must promise her not to swear, nor God's name in vain. She told me, that I was a gentleman, and my father and mother were persons of distinction;-- that it was not only a sin against God, but below me as a gentleman, to swear, and use ill words;-- that if I should swear when I grew to be a man, it would spoil all my education, and no sober would keep me company;-- that if I would not leave off swearing, and taking God's name in vain, she must not let her son play with me, for she should be afraid her son should learn such words too, and then he would be undone.
Fath. And did you promise her, my dear?
Son. Yes, sir, I promised her; but I could not forbear crying; and when I got away from her, I could not help crying a great while by myself.
Fath. What did you cry for, when you came away?
Son. I cried for shame, to think I should do any thing that need such a reproof, and that it should be counted scandalous or dangerous to any children to be permitted to play with me.
Fath. And did it not make you angry with the lady that had reproved you, and hate her?
Son. No, sir, it made me love her; and ever after that, to this day, I have several times gone to her, and made her long visits.
Fath. And does she continue to talk to you so, child, still?
Son. Yes, sir, to this hour, and calls me her son; and but that I would not dishonour my mother, I should call her mother too, for she has been better than a mother to me.
Fath. How did she go on with you?
Son. When she had gained my promise against swearing, she brought in all the wicked words I had learned among our servants, and made me promise to leave them all off; sometimes she would persuade me, other whiles give me money, and other good things. After that, she asked if I used to pray to God? I told her, I said my prayers. But, my dear, says she, do you know what prayer means? I told her yes; but gave her so weak an account of it, that she told me very affectionately she would tell me what prayer was; and after having explained the meaning of it, she gave me a few short directions what I should say when I prayed: and then told me, I ought to pray to God every morning and evening, as the Jews offered up their morning and evening sacrifice, and that God expected such a worship; and after she had for two or three times talked so to me, she made me kneel down by her, and she stood and prayed a short time over me.
Fath. This blessed woman! what does my family owe her! And what didst think of it, child?
Son. Truly it made my very heart turn within me, when I heard a stranger so earnest in her prayers to God for me, who did not belong to her; and some of her expressions cut me to the heart.
Fath. What were they, child?
Son. I fear they will trouble you, sir, if I mention them.
Fath. Well, let me hear them, however.
Son. She prayed that God would supply the want of instruction to that poor neglected child, and teach him by the powerful influence of his Spirit;-- that he would give the knowledge of himself to me, and reveal Christ in my heart, that, being taught of God, I might believe in him, and, believing, might have life through his name. She prayed that God would bless her endeavours to instruct me, though I were not committed to her charge, and that I might be convinced of sin, and then converted unto God.
Fath. How canst thou remember all this?
Son. It is written so deep in my heart, dear father, I can never forget it while I live.
Fath. What effect had it upon you, child?
Son. Why, sir, the effect was of many kinds. First, I entirely left off all the ill words I had used, according to my promise, and I went about mighty pensive and sad for some time, musing and considering what my condition was [missing word] I was prayed for as one neglected and abandoned; and what she meant by the teaching of the Spirit, and what by the work of conviction, and conversion, and the like.
Fath. And how were you informed?
Son. I was then as impatient to be with her every day, as she was to have me; and I continually harassed her with questions and importunities; and she opened and explained every thing to me in such a manner, that I soon became able to understand the most difficult points in religion.
Fath. And what effect had it upon thee, child? Didst thou not lose it all when thou camest home to thy wicked family?
Son. No, sir, not at all; I began from that time to read the scriptures, to pray by myself, and to consider to what purpose I was born, and what was to befal me in a future state.
Fath. And how long did this last, child?
Son. I thank God it is not wrought out yet, sir.
Fath. And is it possible, my dear child? Has there been such a thing as a child of mine praying to God? Has there been a creature that has thought a word of heaven and his Maker, in my uninstructed, prayerless family?
Son. Little enough, sir.
Fath. And how comes it to pass neither thy brothers nor sisters never heard of it?
Son. I knew they would but laugh at me, and mock me, and think me a fool; and they have done so as it is, when I would not go with them to plays, and to their Sabbath-day rambles.
Fath. Why, my dear, was it you that refused to go? I always thought they slighted you, and did not care to take you with them, and have been angry with them for it.
Son. No, sir, they would always have had me with them; but I durst not go, I abhorred it.
Fath. How camest thou to be against it?
Son. My new mother always persuaded me against it; told me the many Judgments of God that attended Sabbath breaking, and how many miserable lives and deaths took their beginning at a neglect of the Sabbath-day. She persuaded me too not to go to plays and balls; and bade me, if I wanted diversion, when my brothers and sisters were gone to the play, I should come and see her; and that when my brothers and sisters went out to the park, or a visiting on the Lord's-day, I should come thither, and see how they spent their time, or go up into my chamber, and pray to God.
Fath. And did you so?
Son. Yes, sir, I went to her almost every Sabbath-day evening.
Fath. What, and nobody know it?
Son. No, every body thought I had companions of own to be merry with.
Fath. And so thou hadst, blessed be God for casting thy lot in such company, when thy father's house has been a nest of profaneness and abominations. But how did they spend the Sabbath-day, child, when you were with them?
Son. Very well, sir, for they are all good people. Before supper, they were all called down to prayers: Mr. ------, their father, read a sermon, and every one of the children read a chapter, and then sung psalms, and then all kneeled down to prayers.
Fath. And did you learn to pray there, my dear?
Son. Yes, sir, Madam ------, my new mother, used to take me, and let me kneel down just in her hand as it were; and when there was any word spoken, that she thought I should remember particularly, she would touch my cheek; and then, after prayers was over, she would tell me why she did so, and how that sentence was proper for me to remember, and to make use of for myself.
Fath. She has been a mother to thee, indeed! a truer mother than she that bore thee! and has acted a truer parent to thee than either thy father or mother ever did! God, that inclined her heart to pity my children, double the blessing upon her own. I'll go and thank her for it, and acknowledge how little I have done my duty, and how much of my work she has done for me. But, my dear, how long ago was this?
Son. Eight or nine years, sir.
Fath. And how long did you do so?
Son. All along, sir, till you sent me to the university for a year and a half; and then I could not, you know.
Fath. And have you been to give her thanks for her trouble since you came home?
Son. No, indeed, sir; but I have e'en given her new trouble, for I go to her still every time I can get out, not to be seen, and as often as I can find leisure.
Fath. Still, my dear! Why, what does she teach thee now?
Son. O, sir, I find more occasion of her, the more I go to her. She has taught me all the first principles of religion, and, I hope, has put me in a way how to increase and go forward in knowledge aud experience, piety and virtue, till I come to be more able to instruct myself without help. She is a most excellent person, and all her family are like her.
Fath. Indeed they are another kind of family than ours is! Well, go on, my dear, and the Lord that has found out an instrument to do thee good, be himself thy instructor. As for me, how am I ashamed! When I look into my own house, and see what a soil I have to plant in, and have neglected to cultivate it;-- what children would these have been, if I had begun betimes to instruct them! Well, go, my dear, it is late,-- we will talk more of this another time.
Note.-- The father was so affected with the circumstances which his son had discovered to him, that he could not contain the surprise, but retired to give vent to his passions. He found that God had taken his children, as it were, out of his hand; and had supplied the defect of instruction, by good people in the neighbourhood, as if he had not been worthy to be the instrument of their good; and this affected him deeply, as will farther appear in the next discourse between the husband and his wife, when they come to talk about it.
THE SEVENTH DIALOGUE.
The father had not been so happily surprised in his course with his second son in the morning, but he is as unhappily mortified with the rencounter he meets with in his eldest son the afternoon. The young gentleman was above stairs with his eldest sister, as noted in the fourth dialogue, when his father called for him; and, being a little ruffled in his humour with the ill usage, as he thought it, that his mother had given his sister, he came down with a grave discomposed look, and appeared not very respectful in his behaviour. His father, who knew him to be hot and fiery in his disposition, was not willing to have been angry, and designed to treat him, as will appear, very kindly. But he takes up the case first, and began with his father.
Son. Sir, did you forbid Thomas letting us have the coach?
Fath. I ordered in general, that none of the servants should stir out to-day.
Son. I thought so, and told the dog, that I was sure you had not forbid him; I'll break the rascal's head this minute.
[Offers to go out.]
Fath. Hold, George, I must speak with you first.
Son. I'll come again immediately.
[Offers to go again.]
Fath. No, no, I must speak with you now. Sit you down, I'll have nobody's head broke to-day. Don't know it is Sabbath-day?
Son. Better day, better deed, sir. 'Tis never out of season to correct a rascal.
[Offers to go out a third time.]
Fath. George, sit down, I say, and be easy; perhaps you may be better satisfied presently, if you can have patience.
Son. Sir, I am satisfied from your own mouth, that the villain not only refused, when I ordered him to get the coach out, but told me a lie, and said you forbid him; which I then told him I did not believe, and promised to cane him if it were not true, and I must be as good as my word.
Fath. Well, well, but let it alone for the present, I say.
Son. I must, and will beat the villain by ------
[Swears softly, yet so that his father overhears him.]
Fath. The coachman's usage is not so rough to you, but I think your's is as rude to your father.
Son. Why, sir, what do I say? I don't speak disrepectfully to you, sir; but I speak of this same fellow.
Fath. I heard what you said, sir, and what you might be sure I did not like, and wherever you use such language, if you had any respect for your father, you would not take that freedom where I am.
Son. If it had not been in respect to you, sir, why did I speak softly?
Fath. This was a seeming respect, indeed, but you took care I should not be ignorant.
Son. I did not design you should have heard; I intended no disrespect.
Fath. Well, sit down here then, and suspend your foolish passion about the fellow, at least for the present.
Son. I suppose you don't keep servants on purpose to affront me at that rate.
Fath. If my son had as much patience with his father, as he obliges his father to have with him, he might have had an answer to that before now; but you are too hot for your father to talk with you it seems.
Son. No, sir, I am not hot; but it would provoke any body to be used so by a servant.
Fath. Then you must turn your anger this way, and quarrel with your father, for the fellow has done nothing but what I commanded him.
Son. Why, you said, sir, you did not bid him refuse me.
Fath. You must have every thing nicely explained to you, it seems. I tell you, what he said to you was the consequence of what I ordered, though perhaps the fellow did not give you the true reason; but, in general, I had bid him stay at home.
Son. He might have said so, then.
Fath. No, perhaps I commanded him otherwise too.
Son. I find I am not to know what it is, nor what it means: nor do I care whether I do or no.
Fath. In time you may.
Son. As you please, sir.
Fath. Well, in this it shall be as I please then. But if you had thought fit to have come to talk with me, with less heat in your temper, and waited a little till I had spoken what I had to say to you, all your fury at him, and indecency to me, might have been spared.
Son. I did not know what you sent for me for.
Fath. And did not design to know it, I suppose, for you gave me no time to speak.
Son. I only told you of the treatment of the coachman, I have no more to say.
Fath. Then I may take my turn, I hope, I shall tell you then, that I sent for you, as I purpose to do for all your brothers and sisters, to tell you, that whereas we have lived in an open, professed contempt of God's commands, profanation of the Sabbath-day, and omission of all religious duties, it is high time to take a new course;-- that I was convinced of what was my own duty, as a father and a master of a family;-- that hitherto the sin lay too much at my door, but for the future I would discharge myself better;-- that if my children would go on, it should be no longer through my omission, but their own. To this purpose I began with my servants, whom, as soon as I came from church, I commanded to be all at home, and that I would have no going abroad: then I resolved to tell my mind to my children, who, I expected, would not give me the trouble of commanding or using the authority of a father or governor with them; but that I might with reason and argument persuade, and with affection and tenderness invite them to a thing which must necessarily so far convince their consciences as to leave them no room to question but it was infinitely for their advantage, and for their general good, both soul and body.
Son. I knew nothing of this, sir.
Fath. Well, that's true; but, as I said, you might have known it before, if you had patience, or had thought fit to have given me time to speak to you.
Son. Nay, I do not understand it, now I do know it.
Fath. Your ignorance shall serve you but a short while. You can easily understand this part of it, that, without troubling you with any more of the reasons of it, I will have none that are under my roof, children or servants, stir out of my doors on the Sabbath-day after church is done.
Son. You will take it ill, perhaps, if your children should ask you the reason why they must so confined; and your children will not fail to think it hard to be confined so, and not know the reason of it.
Fath. I might with much more justice insist upon my undoubted right to govern my own family, without giving an account to my children of what I do; also in a case so plain as this, methinks, they need not seek for a reason for such an order; but since they pretend ignorance, let them read the commands of God to keep holy the Sabbath-day.
Son. Those commands were as strong before as they are now, and yet we never were thus confined before.
Fath. The worst of that is mine, son; and all that can be said for answer to that, is, that before I was to blame, and neglected my duty. Now I resolve, God willing, to do my duty, and neglect it no longer; and, if it be otherwise, they that are guilty shall be to blame, not I.
Son. Every body may do their own duty for themselves.
Fath. But it is my unquestioned duty, to make all that are under my command do their duty.
Son. I do not desire to be confined.
Fath. My desire, or my design, was not to confine you, but to persuade you to confine yourself by the rules of Christian duty; but you have pushed it farther than I expected; and, if you will not do it yourself, I must do it for you.
Son. I hate to be confined, or to confine myself.
Fath. That makes it more my duty to confine you; and since I think your business is to obey, and not to dispute, I desire no more of your arguments, but expect to see my orders observed, since I know they are founded upon both religion and reason.
Son. You may oblige us to stay within, but you cannot oblige us to be willing.
Fath. Then I must be content with as much of your obedience as I can get.
Son. And I hope will expect it no longer than while we cannot help it.
Fath. But I will take care that you shall not help it while you call me father, for I will not bear the title without the authority.
Son. Liberty is a native right: the brutes seek it; not a bird will be in a cage, if it can be free.
Fath. Liberty to do evil is an abandoned slavery, the worst of bondage; and confinement from doing evil, is the only true liberty. But to cut this discourse short, I can give liberty no longer to any under my roof to break God's commands, or profane his Sabbath; it is not in my power. If you will not submit to my government, you must quit my dominions. And as I foresee you will be forward enough to carry it high, you are mistaken if you think I shall wait to be told by you, that you will go abroad, or that you will not stay in the family; for, unless you will [submit] to regulate your life after a different manner than you have done, and to receive advice from your father for your conduct, (flatter not yourself with your father's affection;-- I'll love none that hate God, nor shelter none of his rebels) my doors shall be open to let you out when you please.
Son. I care not how soon.
Fath. That's what I expected from you. My answer shall be very plain. You shall be at liberty to go this hour, son, before the next; but take this with you, whenever you go, that if ever you set your foot without the door on this account, you'll never get leave to set your foot within it again, but upon your knees with the humblest repentance and submission both to God and your father; for I am not in jest with you.
Note.--No wise father ought to suffer himself to be threatened by his children with going away from him; but rather to make their being thrust from their parents the greatest punishment they have to fear.
[The father goes out of the room, but returns again immediately.]
Fath. I did not expect this treatment at your hands, son.
Son. I do not know what you would have me do.
Fath. What I would have you do, is very plain, and is nothing but what your duty to God requires, viz. to submit to the regulations and orders which I shall give in my family for the worship of God, and for regulating our morals and our way of living; and especially for restoring a general face of religion and virtue upon our conversation, that we may, according to the scripture, "live soberly, righteously, and godly in this present evil world;" and not be eminent, in the place we live in, for the loosest and most profligate family in the whole neighbourhood.
Son. I think we are religious enough. What should we do more than we do?
Fath. I think my first work is to let you know what you should not do; for if this cannot be obtained, viz. to refrain from what we do that is wrong, how shall we come to ascertain what is right? and, if we know now what evils to refuse, how shall we know what duties to perform?
Son. I know nothing we do that we ought to leave off.
Fath. That is the reason why I bewail so much your want of instruction and education, and that I am so willing to retrieve the loss. I can soon tell you what you should leave off, viz. you should leave profaning the Lord's-day in sports, diversions, visiting, riding to the park, company, and the like; and spend it, as it was appointed to be spent, viz. in acts of religious worship, in hearing and reading God's word, and in other duties proper to that purpose. Next, you should leave off the play-houses, and reading plays, as not only introductory to vice, and an extravagant misspender of time, but as they lead to engaging in such society and bad company, as will be destructive to any sober character in the world. Thirdly, that a general sobriety of behaviour be fixed upon the whole scheme of your conversation; free from passion, ill words, swearing, blaspheming God's name, and from drunkenness, and all other excesses. These are the main heads of the negatives which I speak of, and which I desire to be observed; and this is so just, so easy, and so equitable, that I cannot but expect, especially considering how my children are circumstanced, a ready compliance with it. I shall direct you to positive duties afterwards.
Son. I know not how we are circumstanced, or what would have me understand by that word.
Fath. I find your temper is such, that I am rather to let you know what I expect, than to hope for your observing it, and that you will put the hardship upon me of doing all with you by force. This is a treatment, I think, very disingenuous, and unlike a dutiful son. I am willing to indulge you in every thing that is reasonable and just; but, as I am convinced what I desire is not only your duty, but [in your] interest to comply with, I therefore cannot indulge [you] to your own ruin; and for that reason, if you will oblige me to use violent methods to restore you, and to restore my family, although I shall be sorry for it, yet, as it is my duty, I must do it. And I let you know therefore very plainly my resolution, and the reason of it. If you can give better reasons why you should not comply with these things, I am ready to hear them.
Son. What signifies giving reasons against what you resolve to do?
Fath. It might take off the scandal of disobedience from you, when you pretend to oppose your practice to my directions.
Son. I don't concern myself about scandals, not I.
Fath. You fortify yourself against every thing a wise man ought to be concerned at; and that by a general negligence of God and man, as if you were unconcerned for conscience and reputation. I hope you don't desire to be known by such a character.
Son. I don't see that I do any thing that deserves reflection.
Fath. Well, come examine a little. Is your Lord's-day conduct to be justified? Do you think you keep the Sabbath-day as you ought to do?
Son. Why, sir, do I not constantly to church?
Fath. Where do you find in God's law, that going to church is the sum of the Sabbath-day's duties. If you can show me that in the scripture, then I am put to silence.
Son. I see no harm in taking the air a little after sermon time.
Fath. If sermon time be the whole of the Sabbath-day, you are in the right; but then you must prove that the fourth commandment should have been translated thus, viz. "Remember that thou keep holy the sermon-time on the Sabbath-day."
Son. I think there is no need of so much strictness.
Fath. God and your father are of another opinion; or else neither the rules of the one, or the discourse of the other, are to be credited. I see all your arguments against these things are only in general, that you do not think thus, or you do not see that. But have you any just objections against the express commands of God? If you have, us hear them.
Son. I do not object against the commands of God; but I do not see, on the other hand, that I break the commands of God, in taking a turn in the park, or visiting a friend on a Sunday after sermon.
Fath. I'll lock up all argument on that side against you, thus:-- If you can prove that taking your pleasure on the Sabbath-day is keeping of it holy, you may justify yourself; if not, you cannot. And for that, read this text, Isa. lviii. 13. "If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day," &c. There is the word of God directly against you: would you have any further authority?
Son. I cannot dispute of these things.
Fath. They that cannot dispute, should not contradict. However, I think it my duty to let all of you know, that as I have no reason to doubt but the command of God is clear, and that I ought to see it obeyed, I join to it my command, viz. that in my family I will have no more profaning the Lord's-day, no more going to plays, no more swearing, drunkenness, or immorality whatsoever, if I can help it; and I expect to be put to as little trouble as possible, in having this order of mine submitted to.
Son. I suppose you may find some opposition besides what you think I shall make. You have more children than me.
Fath. You have the less need to make my task harder, and join with them: however, I am speaking now not of their obedience, but your's.
Son. Perhaps I may obey as much as they; but I suppose I may bear the blame of their standing out.
Fath. If you do well, you are sure to be accepted: if [missing words] lies at thy door. If you are an encouragement to their disobedience, you take your share of the guilt, whether it be by words or by example. My business, however, is not with them now, but with you; and I desire to know your mind, having now told you what I expect.
Son. I know not what you would have me say. You say you will be obeyed: then I must obey, I think. I know nothing else to be said. If you will make the house a monastery, I must turn monk, I think; but nothing is more certain, than that we shall all think it hard, and think we are not used kindly.
Fath. The commands of God are not grievous, nor are my resolutions hard or unjust; and that makes the opposition which you make the more unnatural. However, since you are not to be wrought upon to think it reasonable, I must content myself to take your outward compliance, whether willing or unwilling; though I think your behaviour highly disobliging, and shall always let you know I resent it as such.
Son. You will find all your children will think it hard as well as I.
Fath. That cannot be true; for I know some of them to whom God has given more grace.
Son. I am sure then others have not.
Fath. Yes, I know your sister has shown herself much to the disgrace of her good breeding, as obstinate as yourself; and has been very insolent to her mother; and I hear she talks at a rate of her mother that does not become her. I assure her it shall not be borne with.
Son. I think my mother used her very ill.
Fath. I find you are too partial to be judge of it; and, therefore, ought to let it alone. What has her mother done to her?
Son. She has taken away all her books of value, and not only ruffled her with hard words, but even struck her with very little provocation.
Fath. You have a truer account of the fact, I find, than of the provocation. As to striking her, I regret she had not done it sooner, and repeated it oftener. Her sauciness to her mother, and her contempt of God, were insufferable. It was her good fortune that I was not there. And as to taking her books, I have had the mortification to look them all over; and with a great deal of affliction to think children of mine should spend their time in such foolish, filthy, and abominable books.
Son. What, do you mean the plays?
Fath. Yes, I do mean the plays, songs, novels, and such like, which made up her whole study. Were they fit for a young maid's contemplation?
Son. I must own I think them very fit.
Fath. Then your sin is come up to a maturity very fit for public reformation, and it is high time you were begun with; wherefore I tell you very plainly, I shall cause you to pass the same trial with your sister: and if I find any such like books in your custody, you may be sure they shall go the same way.
Son. Then you will put me to the expense of buying more; for I cannot be without my plays: they are the study of the most accomplished gentlemen, and no man of sense is without them.
Fath. No man of vice (you may say) is without them: but I am positive against plays, as before; and I had rather have you not accomplished, than that the other inconveniencies of plays shall be your lot: but I can shew you many accomplished young gentlemen who are no ways concerned with them.
Son. What, who never see a play?
Fath. No, never.
Son. It is impossible!
Fath. No, no, far from impossible.
Son. I can never promise not to go to the play.
Fath. Then you and I shall differ to the greatest extremity.
Son. This is intolerable! I had rather you would turn me out of your door. I'll be content to go to the West Indies, or to be a foot soldier, or anything, rather than be made such a recluse. Why was I not bred like a priest? then you might have sent me to a monastery, and I might have been used to a cloister life: but to be bred up a gentleman, and then to confine me as no gentleman is confined; this is exposing me, and making me look like a fool among all company.
[He flies out in a rage.]
Fath. I had rather see you a foot soldier, or any thing, than listed in the service of the devil: but here is no need of these desperate resolutions: here is nothing required of you but what becomes a gentleman very well, and as much a gentleman as any body. Can you pretend you serve God, and be a gentleman? that you cannot live a virtuous life, and obey the commands of God, and yet be gentleman? This is a reproach upon the very name of quality, and such a slander on a gentleman, as no gentleman in his senses will allow. However, this, in short, is the case, son: and if confining you from unlawful pleasures, and from ruining your own soul, will make you desperate, and you will be a foot soldier, or ran away to the West Indies, you must. I cannot help it. I suppose you will be weary of it quickly.
Son. I care not what I do, or whither I go.
[He walks about in a great passion.]
Fath. Unhappy foolish youth! Had I extorted obedience to any unreasonable unjust thing,-- had I put you to any hardships,-- had I exposed you to any dangers, or deprived you of your lawful pleasures,-- these things might have been alleged, and you might have had some pretence for talking thus to your father: but all this for laying before you your unquestionable duty,-- for requiring nothing of you but what your great Maker commands,-- nothing but what is equal, just, and good,-- this is a deplorable instance of the woeful depravity of your judgment, and corruption of your nature. However, though I heartily pity and grieve for you; yet, the thing I desire is so just, so reasonable, so necessary, so much my duty to command, and your interest to obey, that I cannot, I will not go from it, or abate one tittle of it; and therefore you may consider of it, and act as you will. You know my resolution, and fall back, fall edge, I will have it done; so you- may take your choice, for God or the devil.
[The father goes out, and leaves him.]
FatSon. You may be as resolute as you will, you will never bring me to your beck. What! must I forsake all my mirth and good company, and turn hermit in my young days! Not I: I'll go to the galleys rather. I'll seek my fortune any where first. Not go to the Park! nor see a play! be as demure as a Quaker! and set up for a saint! what shall I look like? [Swears aloud.] I won't be a mountebank convert, not I: I hate hypocrisy and dissimulation: I have too much honour for it. Well, I'll go up to my sister: she is an honest resolute girl; if she will but stand to me, we will take our fate together. What can my father do? Sure we are too big for his correction. We will never be made fools on at this rate.
[The father had sent for his eldest daughter, and she had refused to come, as before, and the servant had just brought word she would not come.]
[The father returns.]
Fath. Will not come!
Serv. She said she would not, indeed, first; but, afterwards, she said she could not, sir.
Fath. Go to her again, and tell her from me, If she not come immediately, I'll come and fetch her.
Serv. Sir, she was laid on the bed, and said, she was indisposed, and could not come.
Fath. Well, go back then, and tell her, her mother and I will come to her.
Serv. Indeed I told her that I thought you would do so.
Fath. Well, and what said she?
Son. She said, sir, she was not fit to speak to you. I believe she is ill, for she has been crying vehemently.
Fath. I suppose you and she have conferred notes.
Son. I told you, Sir, you would have more opposition to your design, than from me.
Fath. Perhaps by your means.
Son. If that could be without my knowledge, something might be; but I said before, I shall be taxed with it, whether or no.
Fath. I'll deal with it, let it be where it will.
The son, as soon as he could get away from his father, goes up to his sister's apartment. It seems, the father, though he has resolved to talk to the daughter, had deferred it for some time, and did not go up her chamber presently.
Being then in some passion at his son's behaviour, and withal being preparing for the great work which he had resolved to begin that evening, he was unwilling to discompose himself, and make himself unfit for what was before him. The rest of the conduct both of the son and daughter, and also the history of the father's management at his first beginning his family reformation, will all be largely set down in the next dialogue.
THE EIGHTH DIALOGUE.
Being between the eldest son and eldest daughter, her brother going directly from his father's discoursing him, as in the last dialogue, up to his sister's chamber, and calling at the door, he begins thus:
Bro. Sister, where are you? Were not you sent for by my father?
Sist. Three times in vain, and ever shall be so, till they shall treat me in a better manner, or invite me by a pleasing message.
Bro. But I bear all the weight of those refusals. My father says, they all lie at my door; and angrily suggests, that you are all made rebels by me.
Sist. I know no rebellion in it. I do not understand what they would have.
Bro. They would have you come down, and be instructed.
Sist. I sent them word I was indisposed; and they cannot but believe it, when they know how they have used me: besides, I know their business, and desire no more of their instruction; at least of the kind they have already given me a taste of.
Bro. I have had a long discourse of it with my father.
Sist. Well, and what does the good reformer preach? I suppose it is much the same with what I had from my mother.
Bro. Exactly (kick and cuff excepted); and truly, though he kept his hands off from me, he has not spared abundance of threatenings, and other positive testimonies of his patriarchal authority.
Sist. Well, but what is the sum of the matter? What is the course we are to take?
Bro. I know not in the least. I have heard a great deal of stuff, of reforming the family, living after a new fashion, serving God, and I know not what. I wonder who my father thinks we have been serving all this while.
Sist. And does he not say we shall not go out on Sundays?
Bro. Aye, and a great deal more than that; we must go to no more plays or operas, nor have any of the plays brought home to read; and a new family government is to be erected, I don't know of what kind.
Sist. Well, and when are we to begin? When are we to be cloistered for the first time? Won't he give us a week to ourselves before we begin.
Bro. Not an hour.
Sist. Nay, then, I shall break the first commandment he gives me; for I have made an appointment, you know, to be at the play to-morrow with my Lady Lighthead, and it is impossible to put it off.
Bro. Aye, and I will go too, or I shall think it very strange; let him say what he pleases to it.
Sist. I suppose I shall have another slap o' the face for it; but I must venture it for once, for I will not be worse than my word to my lady.
Bro. What, do you talk of venturing it once, as if this was the last time, and we were never to go to a play again? Do you think I will be abridged of so dear a liberty? No, not I, let my father depend upon it, though I never come into his doors again, as he has threatened me.
Sist. Very well! What, did he threaten to turn you out of doors, then?
Bro. No, not directly: but I told him, I would be a foot soldier, before I would be confined so; and, in return, he told me, that if I went in a huff at this, I should never come in again, and a great deal more such as that.
Sist. Would I were a man, as you are. If I were, I'd try him. What need you care whether you come in again or not? You know you have an estate left you by your uncle, which my father cannot hinder you of. You can live without him. I wish I could.
Bro. Aye, that's true; but I suppose we shall not come that length.
Sist. It may be not with you; but I know not how far it may go with me: for I hear they are mighty hot and angry with me, which I care little for; and am resolved they shall not conquer me, whatever comes of it. I suppose they think I cannot tell where to go, or how to without them.
Bro. They may be mistaken, perhaps, in that too.
Sist. Nay, though they were not mistaken in it, I'll go as far as a pair of shoes will carry me, before I'll be made a nun of; nay, I'll go to service first.
Bro. You need not go far, you have friends enow: you will be very well received at my aunt ------'s house; and if they push these things to extremities, I would e'en have you go thither.
[The text is obscure on the following page; some words are missing or doubtful.]
Sist. ... Where will you go?
Bro. ... I warrant you. I won't ... I said so to him. I'll take me ... take my pleasure, and never ...
Sist. ... but shan't we go abroad to-night? ... at this rate, and let them think they ... already?
Bro. 'tis too late now to go to the Park. My ... is gone, to be sure: besides, we can't ... and there's no going in a hack------
Sist. ....I'll tell you what we will do, then. I am for putting the case to a trial, and see what my father will do, [when?] he thinks we have gone in spite of him; and yet [we shall?] be able to come off by it too at last, if we find him [serious?].
Bro. That's well contrived, if it can be done! but how [must we?] go about it?
Sist. I'll tell you. Let you and I go out through the ... and take a walk in the close behind, under the ... trees. When my father calls for me, my maid shall [say?] we are gone to the Park. If he hears it quietly, well and good, we will let him remain in the belief of it, that is may serve another time. If he flies out furiously we must ... again with good words, and tell him where we have been, and that we have not been any further than the ... and the garden.
Bro. Admirably well thought of; let us go immediately ... my father and mother both will be here with you ... and if you are not gone, it will spoil all the con[spiracy?].
[(They?) prepare to go down stairs, and the young lady ... with her maid.]
Sist. ...
[Maid.? ... Madam.
Mist. ... take the key of the chamber, and stay in ... to look for me from my mother.
Maid. What answer must I give them, Madam?
Mist. Tell them my brother and I are gone out together: you may say, you suppose we are gone to the Park.
Maid. Shall I say. Madam, that you said you were gone to the Park?
Mist. No, no; say you do not know whither we are gone, but that you suppose we are gone thither. Do we not use to go thither, you fool you?
Maid. If they should be very inquisitive, they may ask me what reason I have to suppose so.
Mist. Is not that a good reason for you to think so, because we used to go thither always on Sunday-nights, without saying that we told you so?
Maid. Yes, Madam, I think it is; for, indeed, if you had said nothing to me, I should have thought you had been gone thither, and have told them so of my own accord.
Bro. This is a clear thought, my dear: but now we must do it quickly, for I find we are to have a general conference here this evening; and I suppose, we, that they call children too, are to be tutored before all the servants.
Mist. Pru, if you find my father and mother make a great stir for us, slip out through the garden, and perhaps you may find somebody at the back gate to tell you where we are; and then you may come and bring us intelligence.
Maid. Yes, Madam.
[They go out together a back-way through the garden.]
Bro. Come, we are far enough here, we are quite out of sight of the house; and, if your maid comes, we shall see her at the garden-gate well enough.
[They are walking under a row of trees, just where the father found his little child in the first dialogue.]
Sist. Now I cannot but laugh to think what a fright my mother will be in when she misses me.
Bro. As bad as if you were run away with a chaplain.
Sist. She had not been without some whims of that kind in her head too; but she need not, I am not so fond of a preaching husband.
Bro. I doubt we shall discompose them for their new devotion, which they are setting up to-night.
Sist. Pray, brother, have you learned what they are to do? They treat me so oddly, they will have me comply with I know not what. I want to know what their design is, and what they pretend we are to do, or to be. It is all a heap of nonsense to me.
Bro. O! they talk of a great family reformation, and we must submit to such rules, and such orders, as they shall please to give us; and, as I told you, we two were to be called down together, to be talked to among the rest of the children.
Sist. What, are we to turn babies again, and say our catechism?
Bro. I don't know; but my father, as I hear, intends to make a long discourse of his new schemes for the management of his family, to give them all new rules, and tell them what shall be the standing-orders of his house for the future.
Sist. We have preaching enough at church, I think; cannot he let us alone at home?
Bro. I cannot tell what to say to it: but he will do it, and e'en let him go in his own way. Let him make a school of his family, turn pedagogue himself, and make all his people school-boys. Let him but let me alone, I care not what he does.
Sist. Why, that's what I said before. The servants are here to day, and gone to-morrow: if he cannot get a parcel of fools this time, he may another, and, in time, perhaps he may get a whole house full of good pious creatures, that will say as he says, and do just as he bids them. There's my brother Will, and pious Betty, they are grown mighty good things already; and for the little children, they may make them do what they please: but as we are grown up to be past it, they may e'en use the rod and the frown where it is fit to be used, and let us answer for ourselves. I think they cannot in reason deny us this.
Bro. Besides, had they done this gradually, and begun it sooner, we might, by degrees, have been brought to have liked it, or at least to have borne with it; but to be driven headlong into a thing of this kind, and forced at once to a whole change upon every part of our lives: this is the foolishest thing. What shall we look like in the world?
Sist. What, indeed. I am in a fine case already. I can say nothing to my Lady Lighthead, but make a lie, and send her word I was not well.
Bro. Yes, you may say you are but a child, and your mother boxed your ears for being a naughty girl, and would not let you go abroad.
Sist. Yes, and you may say to my Lord ------, when he asks you, why you disappointed him, that you an but under government, and your father would not let you stir out of doors.
Bro. To be sure I shall affront all the persons of quality of my acquaintance, and shall look always like a school-boy. When I am in company, they will ask me how I escaped out; if I have given my governor the slip; and if I have played truant. When I am for breaking off at night, and not willing to stay, they'll mock, and tell me, I must go home to family duty, and go say prayers like a good boy.
Sist. Yes; and that if you stay any longer, you shall be whipped, or locked out of doors when you come home.
Bro. In short, I had as good be out of the world. I am sure I shall be fit for no company in the world.
Sist. I wonder my father should not consider these things: he is no ignorant man, he knows well enough what belongs to being genteel, and has kept as good company himself as any body.
Bro. Why, that is true too; but he is so bewitched with this new whimsey of having neglected the education of his children, and the government of his family, that he is coming to a confession even to us. He talks of asking God forgiveness for it, and I know not what a deal of such stuff. I am persuaded he will bring his whole family into confusion.
Sist. I cannot tell what to make of it all; it is the oddest thing that ever I saw in my life.
Bro. However, since he will do so, and we cannot help it, I think it may be our best way to let him alone, let him go on; only let him leave us out, we are past tutelage, out of our minority; and I think they may let us alone, that is I am for asking of him.
Sist. I wish they would but hear reason; if they would let us alone, we would let their reformation go as it will.
Bro. But I see it will not be done: my father is so over submissive in his own confessions, and so warm in his proceedings, that I doubt he will also be obstinate; for nothing is more so than these enthusiastic fits of repentance.
Sist. What a tale is this! He repents, and we must perform the penance. For my part, brother, I cannot entertain any settled thoughts of the ridiculous change of life my mother talked of; there is not the least consistency in it. She says, she has sinned in neglecting to instruct us, and therefore we must all be cloistered up, upon the notion of reformation. If she has sinned, she must repent of it, I think. What is that to us? We did not make her to do it. What can we do in it? We are brought up now, she cannot educate us over again.
Bro. Yes, she says we should have been taught so and so a long time ago; and, since it was not done then, it must be done now.
Sist. What will she teach us?
Bro. Nay, do not ask me. I suppose she told you herself what she would teach you.
Sist. No, she did not, perhaps she intended it; but she flew out in a rage, and her passion would not give her leave to say it out.
Bro. She says she intended to have discoursed at large with you quietly and calmly, but you provoked her, and would not give her time.
Sist. Indeed I was vexed that we might not go out as we used to do, and I think it was reason; but that was over; and I was only humming to myself the tune of the last opera, and she flung at me, and struck me, because it was the Sabbath-day, forsooth. For my own part, I know no harm in it, not I. I did not sing the song out, as I told you, I only hummed it softly. It might be a psalm tune for aught she knew.
Bro. Well, but come, sister, what shall we do next?
Sist. We must take our measures according as the conduct of my father and mother shall direct.
Bro. Yonder's Pru; I warrant she brings some news, she stays at the garden gate.
[Her mistress goes towards her.]
Mist. Well, what is the matter, Pru?
Maid. Matter, madam! I beseech you come in! I fear my master will go distracted, and you'll be ruined.
Mist. Pr'ythee don't tell me of that. Let him be mad if he pleases. Did they ask for us? Tell me the particulars.
Maid. Ask for you, madam! Yes, you may be sure of it.
Mist. Well, how! Tell us all Pru?
Maid. Why, Madam, about half an hour after you were gone, your mother sent Mrs. Betty, your sister, up to your chamber for you: she asked for you, and I said, as you bid me, you were gone out. She asked whither; I told her, I did not know. Why, said she, she is not gone to the Park, is she? I told her -- Yes, Madam, I believe she is; for I heard her speak of it.
Mist. Well, that was right. What said Betty?
Maid. Poor young lady! She fell out into the greatest passion imaginable, weeping and crying out for her dear sister, meaning you, and that you were lost and undone both soul and body.
Mist. Poor child! what followed that scene?
Maid. She went down stairs to your mother, and the old lady came up immediately; and soon after her came your father, all into your chamber.
Mist. Very well, it works as I would have it now. What said they to you, Pr?
Maid. First, they examined me where you were; then, when you went out; and whether you were alone, or your brother with you. I told them, I believed you were gone together, but I was not sure, or you did not tell me whither you went.
Mist. Well, that was right again, Pru. What said they then?
Maid. Your father made few words; but it might easily be observed they were both very angry. Your mother said you would repent it: and I perceived, Madam, though your mother said most, yet your father seemed most provoked. He said he would not discompose himself then about it, for he had other work before him; but he would take a course to prevent his being insulted at this rate, and so went down.
Mist. And is that all, Pru?
Maid. No, no, Madam, that is not all, I assure you.
Mist. Well, go on, then.
Maid. Why, Madam, my master called all the family together, and ----
Mist. What! and made a long preaching to you, did he?
Maid. Dear Madam, do not mock at your father. I am sure there was not a child, nor a servant in the house, but wept; and I am persuaded, had you been there, you could not have refrained.
Mist. What, are they grown godly too, Pru?
Bro. Nay, sister, come, don't let us jeer them to the servants, neither.
Mist. Well, but, Pru, come tell us the whole matter.
Maid. I cannot repeat particulars, Madam. But when your father had called us all in, the minister (for my master had sent for him on purpose) made a discourse for about half an hour about family-worship, and took his text in Jer. x. 25-- "Pour out thy fury upon the heathen that know thee not, and upon the families that call not on thy name."
Mist. Why, then, you have had a sermon, Pru? What, has my father set up a meeting-house?
Maid. Good Madam, do not let me tell you any more; it grieves me for you, to hear you make a jest at good things, and your own father too.
Mist. Go on, Mrs. Pru, you were not sent to preach too, were you?
Maid. I wish you had heard what I have heard. If you had had a heart of flint, it would have moved you. But my telling you will do no good, I fear. I wish you would excuse me, Madam; and, if you love your own welfare, I beseech you come in: there is one step left you to save all still, and but one; if you miss it, I am sure you are undone.
Mist. Pr'ythee, Pru, first tell us the history, and give your advice when you are asked for it.
Maid. I will, Madam, if you will have patience with me. The minister, I told you, made a discourse about family-worship, and directed himself chiefly to us servants. He told us that our master and mistress, being sensible that they had too long neglected the instruction of their children and servants, and omitted the worship of God, and setting up good order in the family, were resolved to alter the same; and he desired us to consider the reasonableness of it, and how much it would be our advantage, that we would all yield a cheerful obedience to such orders as should now be set up in the family, and behave ourselves soberly and modestly in the house, avoiding loose profane talk, wicked words, oaths, drunkenness, and the like; and, if we were all willing and desirous to be thus reformed, he desired we would signify our willingness by standing up.
Mist. And did you stand up, Pru?
Maid. Yes, Madam, do you think I would not? And every servant in the house stood up too; but Thomas the coachman went farther than any of us.
Mist. What did be do?
Maid. He stood up, and making a bow to the minister, he said, he agreed to it with all his heart; and he thanked God that he had heard such a proposal in the house, and a great deal more that I can't remember.
Bro. He is a hypocritical rascal. I owe him a caning for all this.
Mist. Let us hear it all, brother. Well, and what then, Pru?
Maid. Why, Madam, after the minister had done, my master, directing his speech to the minister, said, he thought it his duty to acknowledge, with shame, that he had, in a great measure, been the ruin of his family; that be had totally neglected either the worship of God in his house, or the teaching and instructing his children. What he meant by what followed, I cannot tell; but he held your little brother Tommy in his hand, and lifting up the child, and kissing it, he said these words:-- This little creature been the blessed messenger from God to alarm me, and convince me of the great breach of my paternal duty, and has innocently reproached me with not praying to God for it, or with it, and with not instructing it or teaching it to pray for itself. Then turning to us all, he said, Ye have all cause to reproach me with it, as well as this child, and more too; for he is not too old to receive impressions yet, as I doubt some of you are, and as appears by their absence, my eldest children seem to be, whose ruin both of soul and body lies at my door.
Mist. Did my father say all this?
Maid. Yes, Madam, and a great deal more that I cannot repeat.
Mist. It was very moving, I confess.
Maid. It was so; and that made me say, Madam, I wish you had heard it, as I did.
Mist. It is as well from thy mouth, Pru; for I see thou art affected with it; and so am I a little too, think, in spite of my resolutions to the contrary.
Maid. How would you then, Madam, to have seen your father, when he spoke of you two that were absent? how the tears ran down his face, and he was fain to stop speaking a good while. Do you think you could contained? I assure you, Madam, there is not a servant in the house could refrain weeping.
Mist. You almost persuade me to cry, Pru, but go on.
Maid. When he had said this, Madam, he told us how he was resolved to live, and that since we had all expressed our readiness to comply with it, he was very thankful that he should have so little trouble. He told us, that all he expected was easy and reasonable, and nothing but what every one would acknowledge was most suitable to the happiness of us all, as men and women, as well as Christians; that he required nothing uneasy, nothing but that all manner of vice might be refrained, and a sober well ordered life might be our rule; that the Sabbath-day might be strictly observed; and that all his servants should attend family prayer, which he resolved to have kept up every night and morning. After this, the minister went to prayers, and after the minister, my master, Madam; but had you heard him!
Mist. What then, Pru?
Maid. I would have gone a mile on my bare knees that you had heard him.
Mist. Heard what, Pru? what should I have heard?
Maid. You would have heard what you never heard in your life.
Mist. That's true, Pru; for I never heard him pray in my life, nor nobody else, I believe.
Maid. Well, Madam, I wish you had heard it now.
Mist. What was it that would have moved me so, Pru?
Maid. Would it not have moved you, Madam, to hear your dear father pray for you at the same time that you are grieving him as you do, and beg of God to forgive you, and reclaim you, and to restore you to him, that you might still be a child to him, and he may have an opportunity to make up to you what injury he had done you by his neglect in your education, and that your ruin may not be the effect of his ommission? Would not this have moved you, Madam?
Mist. Truly, Pru, I cannot tell but it might.
Maid. If the words have not moved you, it would have made some impression on you to have seen the rest of the family.
Mist. What are they concerned in it?
Maid. Why, they are all concerned for you too.
Mist. For what, Pru?
Maid. If you will not be displeased, Madam.
Mist. No, Pru, speak freely.
Maid. And if my master will not be offended neither.
Bro. No, no, Pru, let us know it all, and speak your mind freely.
Maid. Why, really, Madam, they am concerned on several accounts, to see such a breach in the family,-- to see my master so grieved at it, and yet to see him so resolute against you, that they see plainly it will be the ruin of you both, and then to think upon how unjustifiable a ground you act. Pray pardon me, Madam, it is not fit I should talk thus.
Mist. Go on, Pru.
Maid. Why, Madam, was it ever known that a young gentleman, and a young lady, the eldest branches of the family, should break all to pieces with their father, and such a father too, and on no quarrel, but that he would them reform, and serve God? What will the world say? I beseech you, Madam, consider of it; all the house condemn you now, and all the world will condemn you as soon as you are gone.
Mist. Well, Pru, but we are not gone yet.
Maid. I am afraid of it.
Mist. Why so, Pru? I suppose that belongs to the latter part of my father's discourse.
Maid. Yes, Madam.
Mist. Tell us that too, Pru.
Maid. Why, that is it which gives me the greatest concern for you, Madam, that when my master had prayed so earnestly and so affectionately for your reclaiming and returning to your duty, he went on to pray for himself, that he might not be suffered to yield to your obstinacy; that his affection might not prevail over his duty; that if God in judgment had resolved totally to cast you off, he might be able to do so too; and that in the time he might be supported in maintaining his resolution of not receiving you again but as penitents, and on good assurance of your reformation as well as repentance. And this, Madam, made me so earnest with you: I think I shall break my heart for you.
[The maid weeps.]
Mist. Pr'ythee, don't grieve, Pru; but tell us what is to be done. What did you mean by talking of our coming in? I don't what we have done, that we must repent so much.
Maid. Why, no, Madam, I hope not, if you will but be prevailed on now; and that made me say there was one step left to save you still.
Mist. I observed you said so, Pru. Pr'ythee, good Pru, what step is that? I did not think things were come to such an extremity with my father.
[She seems to be concerned, and lets fall some tears.]
Maid. Why, Madam, all this, and more that I have not told you, is upon a firm belief that both your father and mother have, that you are both gone to the Park, as you know you bade me say.
Mist. That's true.
Maid. Now, Madam, if you will give me leave to go in, and say you are both of you here, and have been no farther, perhaps this will alter the case.
Mist. You do not know my father, Pru; he is not so soon altered.
Maid. Perhaps, Madam, you may not know him neither in this case. Do you think, if he reckons your disobedience or fault so much his affliction, he will not be glad to hear that you have not been guilty?
Mist. Guilty of what, Pru? What is the fault?
Maid. Why, Madam, my master believes that, in defiance of his command, and God's command, and on purpose to let him see you resolve not to regard what he has said to you, you are both gone to the Park, to take your pleasure now on the Sabbath-day; and on this supposition he has commanded, when you come back, none of the servants shall dare let you in till they call him; and that, though he be gone to bed, he will be called up.
Mist. Nay, I knew if he was angry, he would be very warm.
Maid. Now, Madam, here are a few minutes left. My master may be convinced you have not been any farther than this place; and you may come in the same way you went out; and I dare say my master will be glad of so just an occasion not to be severe with you. Try him, Madam, for your own sake do: you are quite undone, I am sure, if you do not.
Mist. He won't believe us now, Pru.
Maid. I shall be a witness for you, Madam. Besides, your brother there is in his gown and slippers, and that will prove he cannot have been at the Park.
Bro. Aye, aye, he cannot but be satisfied. Go, Pru, let it be so, we will follow you. I would not push things too far neither, sister.
Sist. Indeed, we have tried far enough for the first time, we'll go in after her then.
Maid. If you please to be walking a little while, I'll make you a signal when to come nearer.
Sist. Do so, Pru, we will come forward till we are in sight. If my father continues very angry, do you open my chamber window, and then we will into the garden.
Bro. Come, let us go directly in after her.
Sist. No, no, let us wait a little: that will look as if she had fetched us.
Bro. I cannot think of provoking my father too much neither.
Sist. But let us get off from this then, as well as we can.
[They continue walking.]
[Pru, being come into the house, makes as if she come down stairs from her mistress' chamber, and meeting the mother, she begins weeping.]
Pru. Oh, Madam! I am undone! 'tis I have made all this mischief!
Moth. Why, what's the matter, Pru?
Pru. Why, Madam, I told you, I though my master and my mistress were gone to the Park, and that made my master so angry with them both; and 'tis nothing like it, 'tis all my fault.
Moth. How do you know know that, Pru? I should be glad for their own sakes it was as you say, and so would their father too; for though he is resolved to resent it, as he ought to do, being master of his family; yet, as a tender father, I am sure he would rejoice if it were not so.
Pru. So, Madam, do but go up stairs to our window, you may see them walking together in the back close, under the lime trees.
Moth. That may be, Pru; then they are come back.
Pru. Nay, Madam, that is impossible too; for my master is in his gown and slippers; and I dare say, if you send up into his chamber, you will find his clothes there.
[The father coms.]
Fath. What is that Pru says? Are they come back? Has any of my servants let them in? I assure them I'll be as good as my word if they have. No such servant shall stay another day in my house.
Moth. My dear, be not too rash, we are all mistaken. Come along with me. Look, yonder they are; and Pru says they have been there all this while.
[They go up stairs, and look out of the window.]
Fath. I am not to be cheated. This is a feint. They have their intelligence within doors, and are come back, and walk there to blind us. But it will not do, I will not be imposed upon; and I hope you will not neither, my dear.
Moth. No, my dear. I will not be imposed upon neither; but if it be really so, I believe you would be as glad as well as I; for I know your resentment is the effect of your duty, and not the defect of your love to them.
Fath. Indeed, I would be so glad to know that they were not guilty, that I could let out some of my blood to have it so: but I can receive no satisfaction in being imposed upon. I never believe a thing merely because I would have it so.
Moth. Nor I neither; but Pru says, they cannot have been farther, for they are undrest; and I am going to my son's chamber, to see if it be so.
Fath. Do so, that may be some satisfaction.
[Pru throws open her mistress' chamber window and they see the signal, and come on to the garden.]
Moth. The thing is plain, I hope; for here is his hat, and sword, and coat.
[The mother returns.]
Fath. He may have come in and undressed him.
Moth. Some body must have let him in, then; and you know we have had all the servants in our view: besides, they would not have been so weak, when they had gotten in, to have gone out again, after hearing what order we had given; and that servant who has been so kind as to have let them in, would not fail to have told them of it.
Fath. That is true; I begin to hope they have not been so wicked as I feared; I'm sure I shall be very glad of it if it prove so.
Moth. Look, they are coming into the garden. It does not look as if they were guilty, I confess.
Fath. I'll go and try them before they shall come within my doom; for not to keep laws, is all one as not to make them.
[They sit down together in the garden, the father out to them.]
Fath. I desire a positive answer to a plain question from you both -- Where have you been since you went out?
[They stand up, perceiving their father very angry.]
Son. We have been walking under the lime trees, Sir.
Fath. That I know; my question implies, where else?
Son. My answer was so simple and plain, I did not think it would have been suspected, Sir; and therefore I did not add, though it is most true, we have been no where else.
Fath. Your conduct justifies the suspicion. Why was no servant acquainted with it, that when you were called for, might have answered for you?
Son. That might be an omission, but could not be a design.
Fath. Why not a design?
Son. Because it seems to answer no end, or at least that I know of.
Fath. Perhaps you are willing to try me with a belief of your being gone to the Park, contrary to my express command. I am not fond of being played with, in such things as these.
Son. It is a sign to me, Sir, that you are very angry at something, that you can suppose such a thing of me. Unless there was some great satisfaction in your displeasure, it can be none to try whether you can be angry or no.
Fath. I see no other end in your walking here so long.
Son. You have expressly forbidden our going to the Park, I could not but think our walking here ought to be taken for a compliance with your order.
Fath. While you dispute the reasonableness and justice of my order, I had the more reason to suspect your compliance.
Son. But if I complied, when I disputed the justice of the command, it would more unanswerably argue an entire obedience to it as your command only.
Fath. I had rather you had obeyed it as God's command than as mine, and then you would no more have spent your time here than at the Park.
Son. But if it be the first, Sir, your present displeasure will remove, if it was raised upon a supposition of our having been at the Park.
Fath. Your absence on another account has been offensive.
Son. But cannot be justly charged as a fault, Sir; for I had no command except a negative, not to go to the Park, which you will easily see is obeyed.
Fath. I must suppose it.
Son. Our dress will be an evidence for us, if your suspicions are not to be satisfied by the assurance of one who never prevaricated with you. Perhaps, if I could have dissembled more, as others have, I might have been less suspected.
Fath. You have much advantage, you think, in not being guilty this time. I should have been more glad to have seen your inclination reformed too.
Son. I do not see my inclination vicious, and am not a little surprised at the construction that is put upon my most innocent actions.
Fath. And I do not see that what I expect is unreasonable, and am as much concerned to see myself contradicted by my eldest son and daughter, in a proposal for their good, both for soul and body.
Daugh. I oppose nothing that I know of.
Fath. And comply with nothing.
Son. We had no command from you to stay within.
Fath. I demand of you both, whether you have been no company, or any where else, than as you say walking under the lime trees? and I expect to be answered without the least prevarication.
Son. You may be assured, Sir, we have been no where else.
Fath. I am glad for your own sakes; for the measures I had resolved to take would have been very irksome to me, though absolutely necessary. I shall say no more now; it is on the condition only that your answer is literally true, that I can admit you to come into my doors. I shall state your duty more exactly to you in the morning, and perhaps too exactly expect your compliance.
[The father goes away.]
Sist. I never saw my father look so in my life. I am affrighted.
Bro. He convinces me he is in earnest, after a manner I never expected. It falls out very well that we contrived this shift, we should have made such a breach as would never have been reconciled. I will carry the jest no farther.
Sist. What must we do, then? I cannot think of being a nun, and being abridged of those liberties and pleasures I always enjoyed. Why did they not bring us up to it from children? then it had been natural to us, and we had known no better.
Bro. I'll tell you, sister, what I'll do. My father promised me I should travel. I'll see if I can get leave to go abroad; then I shall be a little out of company, and shall not look so like a fool under government as I must do now.
Sist. And what must I do?
Bro. Ask their consent to go and live at your aunt's, as we said before.
Sist. So I will, then.
[They go in, and go up stairs, and in the chamber they meet the maid.]
Bro. Well, Pru, how stands matters?
Maid. I am glad you are come in, Sir. I trembled for fear you should quarrel, when I saw my master go to you; for he was in a great passion; and he declared, when he went out to you, that if he was not very well satisfied that you had been no farther than the lime trees, you should not come within the doors.
A short Discourse between Husband and Wife, which finishes the History of the Conduct of their Children
Husb. My dear, we have had a hard day's work; but I hope it will issue well.
Moth. Alas! how easily had all this been prevented, if we had begun well; and how great advantage have they who begin their family work when they begin to have families!
Husb. I have eased my heart in the public acknowledgment I have made of that omission; and I hope we shall testify our sincere repentance for that sin, by our exact observing our duty in time to come.
Wife. But the difficulty of our two eldest children, I doubt, will every day renew our affliction.
Husb. I must take it for a just punishment up my past neglect, but I will not for that cease to go through with my work. I will not cease to pray for their reducing, nor to use my endeavour, as well by persuasion as by severity, to oblige them to a reformed life; and I have a full dependance upon God's goodness, that he will restore them both to me yet, though they may stand out a great while; and this hope preserves my resolution to omit nothing that may reclaim them.
Wife. I see them both so wedded to their pleasures, that they think it a most intolerable burden to be abridged of them; and I find my daughter sullen and melancholy upon it. She tells me she cannot be seen among company, and she is ashamed to be seen; and desires me to let her go to her aunt's, and live with her awhile.
Husb. By all means, let her go. I think it is a step of that providence to reclaim her, that I was telling you I hope in; for my sister will allow her, or encourage her, in none of her levity, I am sure of that; and my brother keeps just such an orderly house as I ought to have kept, and hope to keep for the future.
WIfe. Indeed, I am very willing to it; for her sister owns to me she received the first impressions of religion and serious thoughtfulness at her aunt's. I'll e'en send her away.
Husb. But what shall we do with our son? for I have a secret hint given me to-day, that he designs to ask me leave to travel, and pretends that I promised him.
Wife. Yes, and I have been told, that if you refuse him, he will go without your consent, depending upon his own estate.
Husb. I shall be more willing to let him go now than ever, because as I would have no obstruction to the resolution I have taken to reform my family, so I would be very sorry to see him expose his reputation so much as to contradict me in it, and appear obstinate in doing so; which much embroil me with him, for I shall not yield to my son, especially where I am sure he is in the wrong; and, indeed, his carriage hitherto has been a very great affliction to me;-- if he proves impertinent, I shall be obliged to resent it. Therefore I shall only put in one condition, if he asks me, viz. that he take Mr. B------ for his tutor to travel with him, and he shall go when will.
Wife. That I dare say he will not do.
Husb. Then he goes without my blessing or consent.
The daughter is sent to her aunt's, where, having a sober religious family to converse with, she begins to be less fond of her old humours; and a foundation is laid there in her, by the instruction and example of her aunt and her children, which ends at last in her complete reformation, by marrying one of her cousins, a sober religious gentleman.
The son travels without his father's consent, spends his estate, gets a commission in the army, is disbanded, comes home a cripple and a beggar, and, though always very penitent for rejecting his father's government and instruction, yet never submits himself to his father, so as to be received again, and dies miserable;-- as will be seen in the last part of this work.
PART II.
THE INTRODUCTION
The first part having historically treated of a father's conduct with household, the foundation of his resolution to reform his family, instruct his children, &c. I hope it may afford suitable lessons to fathers, mothers, masters of families, &c in their duty of family instruction: as also examples and suitable hints to children, to warn them against despising and contemning the instruction of their parents, from the consequences on either side, which appear in the foregoing history of this unhappy, yet happy family.
The ensuing part will go the same length in the following cases, viz. l. Masters to servants; 2. servants to masters, and to fellow-servants; 3. companions and associates one to another: from all which may learned, some lessons to instruct us how to fill up ever relation, every occasion, every circumstance of life, and every conversation, with something useful and instructing to one another.
The scene lies now among the meaner sort of people, where the value of a religious family, the extent of its influence, and the advantage of good family government, as well to those who are out, as to those who are in the family, may be particularly observed, from the remarkable conduct of some persons belonging to two or three families, in a certain known country corporation at some distance from London.
There lived in a country town an industrious trading man, in middling circumstances, whose employment being a clothier, caused him to take several apprentices and journeymen, and who had also several children of his own. He was a man of an exact, upright conversation, of a most devout and religious behaviour, but more especially in his family; one that constantly maintained the exercise of religious worship in his house, instructing and educating his children and servants in the fear and knowledge of God, with great care and regard, as well to their good as to his own duty; and this with all possible modesty and caution, avoiding all hypocritical shows and appearances of ostentation, being a serious useful Christian in every respect; and his wife was, in her place, every way like him.
There was, in the same town, a wealthy shopkeeper, a man of great business, a magistrate, an alderman of the corporation, who had likewise a large family of children and servants. The man was bred to business, drove a great trade, and grew rich apace. He was an honest, sober man, had the reputation of a very fair dealer, the credit of what we call a good man, that would do nobody wrong; but as to religion, he made no great stir about that: he served God on Sundays, as other people did, and troubled his head very little with any thing that was religious, all the week after. Indeed, he lived in a constant hurry of business; so that he had really no time to think of, or to spare about religious affairs.
His children, as they grew up, he put honestly to school, inquired sometimes superficially if they good boys, and learned their books; and the master as superficially giving an answer, that they did pretty well, he was mighty easy at to their doing well in the world.
As to his servants, it was none of his care in the least what they did, if they minded his business; and as to idleness, he took pretty good cure to prevent that, by finding them constant employment in his warehouses, and about his business; and as to either their morals or religion, he count it none of his business, except at any time some gross indecency came in his way, which obliged him to find fault, and then his displeasure respected the neglect or obstruction of his business, or some complaints or uneasiness in the neighbourhood, rather than any thing of religion.
It appears by the story in hand, that two young lads, much about the same age, and pretty near the same time, came apprentices to these two men. The youths were very different in their behaviour, though otherwise agreeable to one another. Their conduct was, as in such cases it will be, suitable to the families of their parents, with whom they had been educated: the one a sober, well inclined, serious lad, that had been brought up by religious parents, well instructed, and formed early to desire the beat things; the other a loose, profligate, profane boy, perfectly wild, that had been taught nothing, and desired to learn nothing but his trade, given to swearing, lying, and ill words, but of good capacity enough to learn if he bad been taught in time, so that he was merely lost for want of early instruction.
The sober religious lad was unhappily put apprentice to the rich shopkeeper, who regarded no religion but his trade,-- and the wild profane boy was put apprentice to the religious tradesman, the clothier, and, being neighbours, the boys became acquainted, it seems. Although there was very little suitableness between the manner of the young men's education, yet their age, neighbourhood, and opportunity of conversation concurring, and other circumstances perhaps in their temper, or in the time of their coming to their masters, making them more agreeable to one than ordinary, they became companions, and contracted an intimate friendship, the consequences of which will appear in the follow dialogues.
THE FIRST DIALOGUE.
After, as it was noted, the two youths had contracted an intimacy, so that it was grown up to a kind of affection between them, they agreed, in the first place to call themselves brothers, and then, that every evening, when their shops were shut up, and their business over, they would spend any time they had to spare always together, either at their master's door, or walking, or as their liberty would permit; and, as may be supposed to be pretty usual in those cases, it was not the last of the questions they asked one another at these meetings, how they liked their masters, their employments, their usage, and the like. In these discourses, it fell out that they wanted no grievances to complain of on both sides, for that neither of them, though they had both gone so far as to be bound, liked their circumstances; but it seemed, that the greatest of their dislike was at their masters, and the respective management of their families, rather than at any thing in the trades they carried on, which they otherwise liked well enough.
Says Will, who lived with the old clothier, I'll tell you plainly, brother Tom, I am quite tired out with my master. I can't imagine what my father meant when he picked out such a man for me. I'm sure my father is none of those kind of people himself. Why, our house is a monastery, instead of a shop, or a work-house.
A monastery, Will! says the other, what do you mean by that? Don't we hear your people and your servants about their business every day? They don't dress cloth and comb wool in the monasteries.
Why no, brother, says Will, it is not a monastery so, I don't mean that: but we have such a world of ceremonies and religious doings among us, it is enough to weary a body off their legs. I'm sure I shall never endure it long.
Tom. Perhaps you are sooner tired with these religious doings, brother, that you speak of, than you would be with other things. Is not that it, brother Will? Speak honestly.
Will. Nay, I do not know much about it, I confess. It don't signify much, I suppose, but to torment us.
Tom. Nor do you mind it much, I suppose, when you are at it, brother, do you?
Will. No, indeed, not I. I take care to get a good sleep all the while, if I can.
Tom. Fie upon you, Will.
Will. Why, what does signify to me?
Tom. What, their prayers, brother?
Will. Aye, their prayers. Why, they pray for themselves, not for me, do they?
Tom. No doubt they pray for you too.
Will. I don't care whether they do or not.
Tom. Nay, there I think you are wrong, brother Will. Should we not be glad to have any body pray for us? I remember at church there are bills sent in for the ministers to pray for folks; they would not put up bills to be prayed for, if it was of no signification.
Will. Aye, that's when they are sick, brother; but what's that to me? I am well enough, and it is but when they desire it. Now I never desired them to pray for me; what need they trouble their heads about me in their prayers?
Tom. Well, but, brother, you say they pray for themselves,-- why should you be against that?
Will. Not I; but then they may do it by themselves, can't they? What need they keep us up at night, and raise as up in the morning? Can't they let us alone? We work hard enough all day, they ought to let us sleep at night, sure.
Tom. Why do they take up so long time at it?
Will. Aye, I think it is long for us that work hard at our morning by business all day. Here we are hales out of our beds every morning by six o'clock, to come to prayers, before we open the shop, or go into the work-house; and at night are kept up, I know not how long, to read and go to prayers, when we might be all a-bed and asleep. I tell you it is a mere, I cannot endure it.
Tom. Well, but, brother, I remember one thing by the bye. It seems this can't be much trouble to you; for you acknowledge you sleep all the while, if you can, so that you do not loose so much of your rest.
Will. Aye, that's true, but that can't be always. Besides, every now and then they catch me at it, and then there is such a noise with them. Then there is our master's son, he is such a religious monkey, he is always jogging a body, that I can't get a good sleep for him. But this is not all, brother, we have abundance of strange doings of this kind besides going to prayers.
Tom. But hark you, brother Will, about calling you up in the morning, let me hear that again; you say your master calls you up by six o'clock in the morning to come to prayers.
Will. Yes; and that is I say, just as they do in the monasteries. I know it is so, for I had a cousin that was a nun, and made her escape out of the nunnery, and she is turned Protestant; and she used to tell me they were obliged to rise at such hours in the night to go to prayers, I wonder my master don't do so too. I don't question but in a little time he will, and we shall be all monks instead of clothiers.
Tom. But, brother Will, you must do your master justice now; for, if I mistake not, you wrong him very much by your own account, as I was going to say.
Will. How, brother? I don't wrong him at all.
Tom. Why, you suppose of him he takes the time he spends in those religious things out of your sleep, or out of the time when you ought to be in bed; and you think it an injury to you, because you work hard. Pray what time do your hired journeymen come to work in the morning.
Will. At six o'clock.
Tom. Well, and do they exactly go to work by six o'clock.
Will. At six o'clock.
Tom. Yes, brother; but then you say your master does not call you up till six, and then he goes to prayers; now, if he did not go to prayers, he would go to work, and you could not expect but to be at work, who are his apprentice, as well as the journeymen; so that the time he spends at prayers he takes out of your working time, not out of your sleeping time; and the loss is his own, not your's. I think there you do your master wrong, brother
Will. What care I whose time it is? I wonder what need there is for making such a pother, I am as tired as a dog with it. I warrant they don't do so at your house.
Tom. Our house, Will! No, indeed, we are not troubled with it. I never heard a chapter read, or a word spoke of prayer, since I came into the house; and that's as much my uneasiness, as this is your's.
Will. You are very happy, brother; I wish I had been in such a place.
Tom. I cannot be of your mind, brother; what makes you talk so wickedly?
Will. What do you mean by wickedly? I say you are happy that you are not tormented as I am.
Tom. Aye, Will; but at the same time all this that torments you is, that your master calls you up in the morning, and keeps you up at night to do your duty, and what you ought to love, I mean to go to prayers, and the like.
Will. ..., aye, is not that torment enough? What ... me of their prayers and duty? I desire none [of it?].
Tom. You make me tremble, Will. I am frighted at you.
Will. Frighted! what at?
Tom. Why, if I should talk as you do, I should be afraid the devil would take me away alive. Do you know what you are talking of?
Will. Yes, sure, I speak plain enough.
Tom. ... is not all you complain of nothing but serving [God as you?] are commanded to do? and are we not all to do so too, if we would be saved?
Will. Pr'ythee, Thomas, don't thou talk Gospel too; I ben't against their serving God, not I.
Tom. But you an't for doing it yourself though, and you speak contemptibly of the thing itself.
Will. I don't know what belongs to it, not I. What need they make so much ado about it?
Tom. About what, Will! what about serving God?
Will. No, about their saying so many prayers.
Tom. You are mighty uneasy, methinks, about saying your prayers. Is not that serving God? I am amazed at you, indeed, Will.
Will. Why, but, as I told you, brother, that is not all.
Tom. No, is not that all? What then?
Will. No, nor half, for every night in the week we must read every one a chapter, and there our master tells us a long story of something or other about what we read, and asks us a great many foolish questions, that I can give no answer to; then every Sunday we are examined about what the minister said at church. I never heard of such blind doings. Why, how should I remember what he says? It may be I am at play without doors, or in the church-yard half the time.
Tom. Well, but, brother, you should not, you ought not to do so, you know that, I hope; and I suppose your master puts you to remember what the minister say, that you may be obliged to stay, and hear him, as you should do. I think he is very kind to you. I wish I had such a master, Will.
Will. I don't value such kindness, let him be kind to me in other things.
Tom. Why, can any thing be kinder than to keep you from doing what you should not do, I mean playing in the fields or streets, or church-yard, all sermon-time?
Will. Yes, I would fain have him let me go home every Sunday to my father's; that would be kind to me, but he won't let do that.
Tom. Brother, that would not mend the matter; be sure your father would take care you should go to church all the day, and to prayers again at night, and you say you cannot abide that.
Will. You are quite mistaken in my father, he is none of them. He goes church himself, indeed, but he never troubles himself to hinder us, we may all go where we will for him. If he would but let me go home to my father, I should do well enough.
Tom. Well, nor don't your father call you to prayers at night?
Will. No, indeed, nothing like it, he knows better things.
Tom. What, nor on Sunday night neither?
Will. No, nor on night neither. Prayers! I dare say nobody ever heard my father say any prayers in his life, except when his horse fell on him, and broke his thigh, and every body thought he would have died, or must have had his thigh cut off; then he sent for the minister, indeed, and they had a deal of prayers in the chamber, I remember; but as soon as that was over, and my father was well again, he never troubled his head any more with it; what should he for? there was no need of it then, you know.
Tom. For the Lord's sake, Will do not talk so.
[Thomas starts as if he was affrighted.]
Will. What do you mean? What do I talk?
Tom. Talk! why you talk blasphemy almost; you have been dreadfully educated, Will. Pr'ythee what is your father? Is he a Protestant?
Will. Talk blasphemy! what do you mean, Tom? What did I say?
Tom. Say! why I am afraid to repeat what you said.
[Tom looks earnestly upon him, and upon the ground about him.]
Will. What makes you look at me so, brother? look as if you were scared. What ails you?
Tom. Truly, Will, you have terrified me. I was looking at you, to see if you did not begin to look pale, and stagger; for I wonder God did not strike you dead when you talked so horridly.
Will. And what did you look about on the ground for?
Tom. To see whether it did not begin to cleave and part; for I expected every moment it should open, and swallow you up.
Will. You fool you, what do you mean?
Tom. Indeed I should have expected all that, if I had said so.
[Mark the tenderness of the child that was religiously educated.]
Will. What did I say, that you make such a stir about it?
Tom. Truly, Will, I wish you could consider a little yourself what you said, or, at least, what you meant when you said your father knew better than to pray to God; and that after your father had broke his thigh, and was well again, there was no need of praying to God. Are not these dreadful words, Will
Will. No, I think not; what harm is there in them? I thought no harm, not I.
Tom. But are you in earnest, Will, when you say your father never prays to God.
Will. Nay, Tom, I did not say, never; I told you he went to church on Sundays.
Tom. Well, but never else, never at home; never called his family to prayer, as your master, you say, does?
Will. No, never in his life, that ever I heard of.
Tom. Why, what is your father? Is he a heathen or a Christian? Is he a Papist or a Protestant?
Will. My father a heathen! No, I think not: be is as good a Christian as any of our neighbours.
Tom. Aye, that's strange. I thought there had been no Christians lived so, Will. Is he a Protestant or a Papist?
Will. Why, a Protestant; what should be be? Do you think my father a Papist? No, indeed; my father is as good a Protestant as any of you. Did not I tell you he went to church every Sunday? Nay, sometimes, especially when it is bad weather, he goes to the meeting-house, because the church is a good way off.
Tom. Will, Will, I never heard the like, or saw the like, till I came to my master. I thank God I have not been bred up among such Christians, or among such Protestants. I thought there had been no such in the world. Nay, there is a Papist family lives next door to my father's, and they are constantly, morning and evening, and often at other times of the day too, at their worship and prayers, serving God in their ways. Nay, I have heard that the Turks say their prayers five times a-day. Why, it is natural to pray to God, Will, did he not make us?
Will. I can't dispute, not I. What do you call serving God? Is not going to church serving God? I told you my father went every Sunday to church. I think that is serving God, is'nt it? And he may say his prayers at home too for aught I know. I suppose he does not tell folks when he does that, as my master does, who makes all the house hear of it.
Tom. But, brother Will, thou talkest as if thou hadst been bred a heathen, and not a Protestant. Pr'ythee, Will, didst thou ever read the Bible?
Will. Yes, I learned to read it at school.
Tom. Was that all? Did you never read at home? What, have you never a Bible in the house.
Will. Yes, we have a great Bible in the parlour window.
Tom. What, does nobody use it?
Will. Yes, my mother reads on it sometimes, and my father sets down how old his children are in it. There's the time when we were all born.
Tom. But were you never used to be bidden to read in it by your father or mother?
Will. Yes, my mother would sometimes call me from play, to come and read my book; but I would not come, I loved my play too well for that.
Tom. What, would you not come?
Will. No, not I.
Tom. What, not when your mother called you?
Will. Mother! no, what cared I for my mother?
Tom. I never heard the like in my life; why, 'tis a sign you never read the Bible.
Will. Why, what if I had?
Tom. Why, there you would have read, "Cursed be he that setteth light by his father or his mother," Deut. xxvii. 16. Besides, Will, cannot you say the ten commandments?
Will. Yes, I think 1 can.
Tom. Well, and don't you remember the fifth commandment-- "Honour thy father and thy mother!"
Will. Why, what's that to my going to play?
Tom. But it was something your refusing to come and read your book when your mother called you.
Will. What signified that? I knew my mother was not angry. She did not much trouble her head whether I came to read or not.
Tom. So indeed it is plain, as you said, that neither your father nor your mother troubled their head about you, whether you served God or not. I do not wonder that you think it so troublesome that your master goes to prayers, and serves God in his family, I wonder how you, that have been bred so wickedly, came to be put out to so religious a family, as your master's is!
Will. Why, I heard my father say once, before I came to my matter, that he was the willinger to put me to him, because he was a good man, and I might learn good things there; for I had never learned any at home.
Tom. So that your father owns then, Will, that these are good things, though he does not practise them himself. That is very strange, Will.
Will. Yes, yes, my father used to say he loved my master, because he was a good man, that he was a man that kept good order in his family; and one day he told me, that if I was a good boy, and followed my master's advice, I should be made a good man, better than ever my father was; and that my master went to prayers, and served God, and such as that: but I knew nothing what he meant. If I had known how it was, I should never have come.
Tom. Why, you own, that though your father did not call you to prayers himself, he liked your master the better because he did. Why should not you too?
Will. Not I, I love to live as I have been bred.
Tom. But you see your father owned that your master was a better Christian than himself; and that the orders he kept in his family was the way to make you a good man, nay, to make you better than your father too. Methinks you should believe your father.
Will. I don't know as to that; but I don't like it, not I.
Tom. You are not then for being made a good man, or else you don't believe your father.
Will. I don't see how he'll make me any better than I am. I tell you, I don't like it at all. I dare say you would not like it neither.
Tom. Would I not. I wish I was to be tried, Will.
Will. I wish you were, I am sure you would be sick of it.
Tom. Why now, brother Will, that cannot be; for my grievance is just the contrary to your's; for I have been the uneasiest boy alive. I have got a master that lives exactly like your father.
Will. My father! alas, my father is but an ordinary man, your master is an alderman.
Tom. I mean as to religion, Will; 'tis true, my master goes to the meeting-house, and my mistress goes to church, and they serve God them after their own way; and we have nothing of swearing, cursing, or drunkenness in the house, or such as that, I must do them that justice. But as to religion, I never heard a word of it in the house since I came to it.
Will. Well, now, and yet every body says your master is a very good man.
Tom. That may be.
Will. Why then, brother, you see you were mistaken before, when you fancied a man could not be a good man, without making such a pother about his praying and religion, as my master does. I do not see that my master is one jot a better man than your's.
Tom. Nay, Will, it was not I that was mistaken, it was your own father that was mistaken, who, you acknowledge, told you he loved your master, because he was a good man, and that you might learn good things there; and that if you followed your master's advice, you would be a good man too, and a better man than your father. He must be mistaken in all that, Will
Will. Well, but I a'nt talking of my father. They may be any of them better than my father, he knows that himself: but I speak of your master; every body says he is a good man, and a religious man, and he has the best reputation in the town.
Tom. Ay, Will, he is an honest man, a very fair man, he does nobody any wrong; but I have never been bred that way in my life. I have never heard any such thing as praying to God, or reading the scriptures in the house, since I came thither; and yet, when I came to him, I was told he was a mighty religious man.
Will. Why, that's what I say, he is counted a religious man, and they say he goes to the meeting-house too
Tom. So much the worse for him, if he appear religious only, and his practice makes him appear to be otherwise: however, I will not say what he is privately, but this I am sure of, it does not appear in his family; we that are his servants see nothing of it, nor his children neither.
Will. Why, that is as I would have it to be at our house: he is a very good man, every body says so, and what need he trouble you with it? I don't like this making such a show of religion; cannot they be religious, but they must trouble all the family with it? I believe your master is a very honest good man, Tom, though he makes no show of it as mine does.
Tom. You talk profanely again, Will. I am no more for making a show of religion than you; but if there be no religion where there is some show of it, to be sure there is no religion where there is no show at all of it. But what do you call show? Is it not every Christian man's duty to teach his household and family to serve God? Do you call that a show? Every one ought to make such a show of religion; and if he does not, he plainly makes a show of having very little religion himself. I might give you a great many places out of scripture for this; but it seems you have not read much of the Bible.
Will. Why, what would you have your master do? You would not have him make such a rout as my master does, would you?
Tom. I would have him serve God in his family, as other religious good people do.
Will. Well, but you say they all serve God on Sundays.
Tom. What's that to his family? We may run about where we will all for him, Sabbath-day, or any day or night, he never takes any thought of us. If we are but in the counting-house next morning when he wants us, we may serve God or the devil, 'tis all one to him.
Will. That's what I want now, I wonder you should be uneasy at it.
Tom. I have not been used to such a life, Will, though you have. It terrifies me so, I cannot bear it.
Will. Why, what would you have? What is it to you what your master does?
Tom. A great deal. God has said, "He will pour out his fury upon the families that call not upon his name," Jer. x. 25. and I am one of the family now.
Will. Well, but can you not say your prayers by yourself?
Tom. Truly I have no manner of convenience for that neither, for we all lie together in a room; and at first I used to kneel down and pray by myself, but the rest of apprentices jeered me out of it, and made such a noise at me, I was forced to leave it off; and now I go to bed and rise like a beast, as they do: but it grieves me so, I cannot tell what to do, for I am sure it is a sin to do so, and I am afraid God should show some judgment upon me for it.
Will. Why, is there any danger of that, Tom. Why, I never prayed to God in my life.
Tom. Then you are in a sad condition. Will; and so am I too. Sometimes I think it will break my heart. I think my father has put me in the devil's mouth, and I am going the straight road to hell, I am sure he does not do so himself.
Will. And so you have left off saying your prayers, Tom, now quite, han't you? and then you live as bad as I do, don't you?
Tom. No, I han't left off praying neither; for if my master does but send me an errand, I pray as I go along the streets; and sometimes I get up into the hay-loft over the stable, or any where I can be private. But this is so seldom, and it grieves me so, that when I come to pray, I can do nothing but cry, I can't speak a word hardly.
Will. I do not understand these things. Sure I am a strange creature. Why, it never troubles me. I don't know what it is to pray to God. I never knew there was any harm in not doing it. I wish I could learn, I'd say my prayers too.
[The boy begins to be touched with the discourse.]
Tom. You have a good master to teach you; I have a master will do nothing but teach me to forget all that my good father and mother have been teaching me these fifteen years.
Will. Why, if what you learned is good, what need you forget it?
Tom. Why, I'll tell you, Will, when I was at home, and had all the encouragement in the world, by the example and instruction of my father, and the exhortation of my mother, telling me my duty, and strictly charging me never to lie down and rise without praying to God, in the evening for protection, and in the morning for direction; yet I found a wicked inclination within me, of prompting me to omit my duty; and now, when I want these helps of example and instruction, and instead of them have had so many discouragements, and find it so difficult to get a retired place for it, I find that wicked inclination to omit my duty increases, and sometimes I am for persuading myself I have a sufficient excuse to leave it quite off; and I am afraid some time or other I shall do so, and grow an atheist, and then I shall live without God, like a heathen, as you do, Will.
Will. Indeed, Tom, I have lived like a heathen all days, I begin to see it now. But what must I do? How can I help it now!
Tom. Do, Will! you must leave it off, and learn to a better life.
Will. But, brother Tom, how must I do that? I am a poor ignorant wretch,-- I know nothing at all,-- I have never been taught any thing in my life. If to live as I do, is to be a heathen, my father is a heathen, and my mother is a heathen, and my brothers and sisters are all heathens.
Tom. You are in a sad condition, Will, as I said before, and I think I am in a worse.
Will. How can that be, Tom?
Tom. Why, you have been taught nothing; and I am in a fair way to lose all I have been taught; and I think my condition is worse than your's.
Will. No, no, you know what to do, and what you ought to do. You have been well educated, Tom. I have nobody to teach me any thing. Tell me, dear brother, what must I do? Teach me what is my first duty; I begin to see something very desirable in religion, that I never valued before.
[The first motions in an uncultivated mind generally are, to see a beauty in the ways of God, and to have a desire to imitate them.]
Tom. Why, Will, I am but a boy, as well as you, and can't teach you much; but I can tell you what my father used to tell me, and what he taught me to do.
Will. Do tell me that then, for I long to hear it.
Tom. Why, he used to tell me, that God made me, and that being born in sin, and liable to eternal death for sin, Jesus Christ redeemed me.
Will. All that I have heard too, though I do not understand a word of it
Tom. Then he told me, I must every day pray to God to bless me, to preserve me, and to pardon my sins for Jesus Christ's sake; that I must give thanks to him for my life, and preservation in health, and for all things that I receive; that I must pray to him for my daily bread, and to give me wisdom and direction in all I go about.
Will. How can I do this?
Tom. I remember I asked my father that very question, and he answered me thus:-- Do you not come to me, child, when you want clothes, and ask me for them; and to your mother when you are hungry, and ask for victuals; and do you not do this without teaching.?
Will. And what did you say?
Tom. What could I say? I kneeled down every night and morning, and said over the Lord's-prayer; then I got a good prayer out of a book, and said that, and sometimes a word or two would come into my thoughts, that I would say of my own head, as I thought of such things as were proper.
Will. I shall never learn: why, I can hardly say over Lord's-prayer without a book.
Tom. I'll tell you, Will, if I thought you were in earnest, I would do my endeavour to teach you; but you that have led such a wicked life, and cry out against your master and mistress so much about praying, I don't think you mean any thing but to jest with me.
Will. No, but I do not jest now: you say it is so wicked a thing, and I am in such a dangerous condition, that you looked for the ground to open, and swallow me up. Why, you can't think I would be willing to have the devil take me away, whatever I may say sometimes. But I am a poor ignorant boy, how shall I know what to do?
Tom. Truly, Will, and I also am but ignorant, as I said before, and unfit to teach you. I am but a boy, you know; but this I know, and have been taught, that God has made me. Do you believe that, Will?
Will. Yes, sure.
Tom. Well, if God made you, then he can destroy you.
Will. That is plain.
Tom. Then sure it is your interest to serve GOd, as well in thankfulness to him because he made you, as that he may not be provoked to destroy you.
Will. But what is this serving God? I thought it was nothing but going to church on Sundays.
Tom. To be sure, worshipping God at church is good, and our duty; but we must worship God otherwise than at church.
Will. What, by saying our prayers?
Tom. Nay, that is not all neither; we must fear God and keep his commandments.
Will. How shall I do all that? You know that I nothing of it.
Tom. Why, therefore, Will, your first thing, as my father told me, is to pray to God to teach you to know him and to fear him, and to keep his commandments.
Will. How do I know what his commandments are? I can say the ten commandments; but I don't understand what they mean.
Tom. Why, my father next directed me to read the Bible, which is the word of God, and is given for our instruction, that we may know his will.
Will. And will that teach me to know what to do?
Tom. Reading the scripture daily, and praying to God daily to open our understanding, to know the will of God written in his word; certainly this must be the way, Will.
Will. I can't pray. I never prayed in my life, I tell you.
Tom. You ought to tremble at the thoughts of that, Will.
Will. I begin to be afraid, indeed; it may be God won't hear me now, if I should pray.
Tom. Yes, there's a scripture for that to encourage you. "Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy." Isaiah lv. 7.
Will. Is that in the Bible?
Tom. Yes, and a great many more encouraging things. You must read the scripture diligently. Have you a Bible?
Will. No, not I, nor never had in my life.
Tom. I am not capable to direct you, Will; but I will tell you there are two things which I would have you do, pray to God to forgive your sins, and to teach you his will, and read the Bible diligently. I'll give you a Bible, Will.
Will. Indeed, brother Tom, if you will give me a Bible, I'll read it over and over. You say that will teach me. I'll read it, and thank you for it heartily; for I never had a Bible to read in yet.
Tom. But remember, Will, I said you must pray to God to teach you when you read, to open your understanding, that you may understand the scripture, and to teach you that you may know your duty; and then pray to God to guide you in the doing his will, and your duty according to the scripture, which is his own word.
Will. What will my praying to God signify? Will God do this for me, if I pray to him? And how can I pray? I don't know what praying is, not I. What must I say?
Tom. It seems you do not know what prayer is. Sure, if you remember the beginning of our discourse, and how you complained you were tormented with prayers at home, you will not say you do not know what it is.
Will. Don't tell me of that now, dear Tom. I begin to be of mind already. I wish I knew how to pray for myself.
Tom. The Spirit of God teaches us to pray, and helps our infirmities. Do you know the story of the poor publican?
Will. No, not I. What was he?
Tom. Just such another as thou art, Will, a poor wicked profane wretch, and had lived all his days in wickedness, and perhaps without prayer too.
Will. And what then? What became of him. Did he go to hell?
Tom. Why, he saw the Pharisees, and all the great professors of religion, go up to the temple to pray, and being sensible of his condition, he thought once to go up along with them: but when he considered what a wicked creature he had been, he was afraid, he durst not only not go, but not look towards the temple, nor cast his eyes up to heaven.
Will. That is my case, indeed, exactly. Pray what became of him?
Tom. Why, he stood at a distance, smote his breast, astonished and amazed at his own case, and, with a deep sigh, broke out thus-- "Lord be merciful to me a sinner!" Luke xviii. 13.
Will. Well, and was he heard? You say he durst not go up to the temple to pray.
Tom. Heard! yes, one groan, one sigh, one look, nay, a heart not daring to look, sending out but one sentence, yet, from a broken, sincere, repenting heart, is heard in heaven beyond the long and loud pretences and devotions of the self-conceited hypocrite. The scripture says expressly, "This man went away justified rather than the other." Luke xviiii. 14.
Will. And do you think, if I knew how to pray, God would hear me, and give all that teaching and knowledge you speak of to me.
Tom. Yes, Will, I do more than think so, I am sure of it.
Will. What mean you by that!
Tom. I have God's own word for it, Will; and that word is the foundation and comfort of all the prayers, and all the praying Christians in the world.
Will. How is this? explain yourself, for you speak strangely positive.
Tom. The scripture says he will, and that is my assurance, and may be yours; for it is his own word, John xvi. 28, "Whatever we ask the Father in the name of Jesus Christ, he will do it for us."
Will. But I have been a wicked boy all my days, that thought any thing of God or religion in my life, as you know very well by what I have told you: nor ever was taught any thing about it. Will God hear such an one as I, if ever I pray to him.
Tom. The same scripture says, he will, brother: and we have no reason to doubt it, for the scriptures are the word of God; and, as I told you, the scripture says, Isaiah lv. 7-- "Let the wicked forsake his way, and turn unto the Lord, and he will have mercy;" and the poor publican went away justified that sent up but one sigh.
Will. Aye, that may be to such an sin now and then a little; but I have done nothing else all my days.
Tom. But he says, in the same text, that "he will abundantly pardon."
Will. But that may not reach me.
Tom. But the scripture is full of promises, and calls to as bud as you to come to him. I could show you some if I had a Bible here. You have been so wicked but you are included in them.
Will. Tell me one of them, I intreat you. I see have a deal of them without book. Dear Tom, tell me one of them.
Tom. This is one-- "Him that comes to me, I will no wise cast out." Here is no exception: this him is all one as whosoever.
Will. Whosoever! that's a large word. Is there no exception!
Tom. None at all: whosoever, that includes how bad soever.
Will. What, and how long soever too?
Tom. Aye, and how long soever. Whosoever turns unto God, how bad they are, or how long soever they have been so bad, yet he will in no wise, or by no means cast them out.
Will. My heart revives at the word, for I have been a sad wretch. You know, brother, I have never so much as thought of my soul, or of God, of his making' me, or his power to destroy me. I have never prayed unto him, or called upon him, unless in wicked swearing and cursing by his name. Will God pardon me, brother, are you sure of it?
Tom. I cannot be sure he will pardon you, or myself either; but I am sure it is your duty to pray for pardon, and to repent of your sins; and there is another scripture which says, "If we repent and forsake, we shall find mercy."
Will. Repent! what's that Tom?
Tom. Repentance is hearty sorrow for your sins already past, and solemn, serious resolutions to commit no more; and this sorrow must proceed not only from the fear of eternal punishment, but from a hatred of sin, for its own evil nature, and as it is offensive to the holiness of God.
Will. I cannot understand this at all. Shall I learn it in my Bible, brother? How must I learn to repent?
Tom. You must pray to God to give you repentance too; for repentance is the gift of God.
Will. I will pray to God, though I do not know how, or what to say. I am amazed at myself, when I see what a wicked creature I have been. Indeed, brother Tom, I don't wonder that you looked so earnestly at me, and expected I should drop down dead, or be swallowed up alive, I am afraid I shall be so still.
[Conviction of sin seizes the boy.]
TOm. Tom. I am glad what I have said has made you sensible of it.
Will. I begin to love you, dear brother, better than ever I did. I shall be the better for you as long as I live
Tom. I wish you had some better instructor than I.
Will. Aye, brother, if I had a religious father and mother, as you have had, I might have known all this from a child; then all the past wickedness of my life had been prevented. But you say, whosoever, brother, don't you? Are you sure the words are so?
Tom. I am very sure, brother; but to make you easy, I'll go in and fetch you a Bible, and show it you presently.
[The boy goes in.]
[While he is gone, Will breaks out thus by himself.]
Will. What must I do, to know how to pray? Will God hear such a wretch? and what if not? then I am undone, lost, and damned for ever! O what a condition am I in; but whosoever.
[The boy weeps, but recovering, prays with great affection, and aloud, like the poor publican, in the following words,]
[Lord God, thou hast made me, and hast said, "Whosoever comes, thou wilt not cast out," pardon all my wickedness.]
[Tom comes, and over hears him.]
Tom. What was you saying, brother? Did you speak to me?
Will. No, no; I did not speak to you.
Tom. I heard you say something.
Will. I hardly know what I said, but my heart struck me, and I cried out.
Tom. To God, I hope.
Will. I hardly know, yet I feel a secret joy in what I said.
[Observe here, conviction was accompanied with a cleaving to the promise of God; and the Spirit of God moves the poor boy's heart to look up to God in hope, first pleading the promise, and then crying for pardon.]
Tom. Well, brother, if it was but like the publican, it may be heard.
Will. I know not what it was, but I am trembling still. Is this praying, brother?
Tom. The more your affection was engaged, the more likely it is to be from a true work of God.
Will. Have you brought the Bible? you have staid a long while.
Tom. I hove been looking some places for you.
Will. And will you show me them?
Tom. Yes, I have folded them down, and here they are. In the first place, here's that I named to you, John vi. 10, "Him that comes unto me, I will in no wise cast out." And here is another place, which is equal in its encouragements, and expressly tells us, that the word him is to be taken for whatsoever, without any exception of persons, as I said to you before, Rev. xxii. 17, "Let him that is athirst come; and whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."
Will. You have folded them down, you say; I'll read them when I come home, for it is too late for us to stay any longer.
Notes on the First Dialogue.
Though this dialogue, and indeed this whole part of the book, is more a history than the rest; and the families which it points at, if they happen to see it, may be able to see themselves in it, and to make some use of it to their advantage, if they please; yet, as even this history will be the same thing as a parable to the ages to come, in which it may, I hope, be as useful as now; and, above all, as this work is designed for a general, not a particular reproof, I am willing to let it lie hid entirely as to persons, that it may perhaps, look less by that means like a history than really it is.
If the persons whom it more really concerns may see themselves reproved, they will make not the less profitable use of it, for the civility shown them in concealing their names. If they do not, the author can never want an opportunity to expose the folly, if he sees cause.
But the design of this book is of a nature above a personal satire. The errors in family conduct are the business here, not the families themselves; and the names and persons are so entirely concealed, and the real history so couched, that it is impossible for any body, but the persons themselves, to read the people by the characters.
The first thing reproved here, and worth observing is, a good man, who had carefully educated and instructed his child, and who, he might easily see, was a sober, well inclined youth, knowing in good things, and desirous of them; yet had this religious parent forgotten himself, and so far forgotten the good of his child also, as to place him with a master who had either no religion at all, or, which was all one to the child, exercised none of it in his family, nor took any care, nor had any concern for the souls of servants, whatever he had for their bodies.
The child laments this very pathetically, though in a familiar way, to his comrade. He is at first weary of profane way of living, and then justly afraid that the interruptions he meets with to his duty should bring him to an indifference about it, and to believe the difficulties he found in his way were just excuses for him in omitting it totally at last.
Note.-- We have natural hindrances in the way of our duty, from the aversions of a corrupt nature; so that at the best we shall be often backward in, and prompted to the omission of religious performances. We have, therefore, great need to remove all occasional obstructions, lest natural inclination should plead those obstructions as a just reason for a total neglect of duty.
It was not without a just reason that the poor child entertained a jealousy of himself, lest he should grow cold in religious matters, from the general discouragement he met with in a family where all religious duties were totally neglected, and himself made a jest for attempting to do his duty.
This may be a seasonable caution for such parents who have any concern for the souls of their children, and taken any pains with them in their education.
1. Not to think their duty discharged to them in the due instructing and educating them in their infancy. The inspection of a parent does not end there; but they ought
2. To remember that all good seed which they had sown, may be choked if the child comes into bad hands afterward, and their son may be lost by a negligent master, as well as by a negligent master, as well as by a negligent parent.
3. That therefore it is their duty to take care to place children in religious families, or it may be true, that they had almost as good never have instructed them at all.
It is very strange, but too common, that religions parents, who have taken great care with their children when they were at home, wholly neglect this, and throw their children away, by placing them where the duties of religion are not at all regarded, and where the examples of their masters, and the families they live in, quite raze all the remembrance of former instruction out of the mind of the servant, and they grow hardened in that neglect by the authority of their masters.
It is remarkable here, further, how the duty of servants is entirely neglected, even in those families where they do regard religion, and where instructing of children is taken care of; as if the souls of servants were not under the inspection of the master of a family, and were none of his charge, as well as the souls of his children.
Note.-- Apprentices taken into our houses, ought, as far as respect their souls, to be reckoned as children; for as we take them from the tuition of their parents, if we act not the parent to them as well as the master, we may teach them their trade, but we breed them up for the devil.
It cannot be omitted here to observe, what impressions of religion, what awe of God, what dread of his judgments, the good instructions of the father had left on the mind of this youth.
1. In his uneasiness at being placed in an irreligious family: of which afterwards.
2. His aversion to the discourse of his comrade, when he talked profanely.
3. His terrible apprehensions when the other talked blasphemously,least he should fall down dead, or the earth should open and swallow him up.
Note.-- Though it is true, that, in the ordinary course of providence, God does not deal so with those that blaspheme and provoke him; yet since sometimes God has done so, and history, as well as scripture, is full of dreadful examples of that kind, it is not without its uses, and therefore very commendable to acquaint young children with such examples, and to fill their minds with a due fear of God's judgments in like cases.
Here is room also for a useful remark in the complaint the poor child makes, that, having no retirement for performing his duty by himself, when he went about it publicly, the other servants mocked and jeered him out of it.
Note, 1. Though separate conveniencies cannot be made for servants, yet masters should, as much as may consist with the circumstances of their families, be cautious of taking away all manner of conveniencies of retirement from their servants, lest they furnish them with excuses for not doing their duty.
Note, 2. Jeering and mocking a young man for his inclining to be religious, is too often a means to drive such quite from him.
Note, 3. One of the most necessary preservations of youth, is, that he be fortified against the scandalous banters and insults of his companions, and can bear to be jeered, and yet not be jeered out of his duty.
The other part of this dialogue affords a dreadful instance of a father and family wholly destitute of religion, living entirely without God, without scripture, without so much as a form of religion. The effects of this are especially two, and both visible in the case here laid before us.
1. Perfect ignorance of every thing that looked like religion in the child, not so much as the least sense of it, or desire to know any thing about it remaining.
Certain and never failing bitter reproaches of the child against the parent, when its eyes come to be opened.
Note.-- Such is the beauty of a religious and conscientious life in those that practise it, that those who can taste nothing of themselves, yet have a value for it in others. The profane boy's father told him he loved his master, because he was a good man; and that if he (the boy) would take his master's advice, he would make him a better man than his father.
Note.-- The aversions which want of instruction in this youth had bred in him against the religious behaviour of his master, and against the public exercises of religion in his family, were so foolishly grounded, that they would bear no weight in his discoursing it, even with a child; and therefore the religious youth presently objects against what he says, and he himself sooner sees the folly of his own discourse; and yet the author of this work is just also to the thing itself, for that really our ridiculous notions in contempt of religion will admit no better argument to excuse them.
Aversions to religious duties grow naturally, either by disuse of those duties, or by the disaster of an ill education, even where the poor hardened child may think no harm, or design any wilful rebellion against God, ignorance being the natural consequence of want of instruction.
Observe here, when the wicked boy, being convinced, asks his comrade what he must do, he goes back to tell him what his own father used to teach him. Whence note, that well instructing our children, makes them capable to instruct others, as occasion presents; and consequently their children, when they come to have families of their own.
From the beginning of the wicked boy's convictions, note, that sense of danger is the first thing that ordinarily discovers itself in conviction of sin, and this leads to inquiring after what we are next to do; as the jailor, who first came in trembling, then asks, "What must I do?>"
When the boy, after his first conviction, recollects things by himself, while his companion is gone for the Bible, he is struck with horror at his condition; but the Spirit of God working graciously in him, lays the promise of God, as it were, full in his way, in order to give him hope; and, at the first appearance of hope, he breaks out vehemently in prayer; when his comrade returns, and innocently inquires about what he said, it appears from him, that his prayer was a kind of ecstasy, moved by a supernatural power in his heart, that affected him in a violent manner, so that he hardly could give an account of it himself; but says wildly, he trembled, and cried out.
There are, no doubt, such strong impressions of the Spirit of God accompanying true convictions, and the great regenerating work of grace in the heart, as may be inexpressible, even by the persons themselves, yet far from enthusiastic or affected. Nor are these impressions to be slighted, much less ridiculed. Perhaps this may be in part signified, in regeneration being called a new birth, though the main intent of that allusion be to signify the entire change of the state.
From the whole of this dialogue may be observed, the great duty and advantage of young men spending the hours they have to spare for conversation, in religious discourses, and inquiring of one another about things relating to heaven, their duty here, and their way thither. This, no doubt, was enjoined in the same text, where the instruction of our children is commanded. Deut. vi. 7. "Thou shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way;" that is, they shall be general subject of your conversation and communication one with another.
Note.-- The advantages of religious conversation are many; the present case is brought to describe them. The young, untaught, uninstructed youth, who came out of the hands of his parents to be an apprentice, as perfectly naked of knowledge and instruction as he came naked into the world, becomes a convert by his keeping company and conversing with a religions, well-instructed companion, and became afterwards an excellent promoter of knowledge and piety in the place where he lived.
THE SECOND DIALOGUE.
The young lad who was put apprentice to the religious tradesman above mentioned, though he had no education from his parents, was, as you have heard in the past dialogue between him and the youth, his comrade, brought to a condition quite different from what he had always been brought up in. He had a full conviction of the desperate condition he was in, by reason of his sinful nature and life. He had received some light from the little instruction his young, but pious, companion was capable to give him; and his conscience was thoroughly awakened. His little instructor had been providentially made the instrument to lay a foundation of hope in him, and to encourage him to pray to God, and to read the scriptures, and to believe God would receive him, and not reject him for his sinful life, or for his sinful nature, but would grant him whatsoever he would ask: and upon this confidence, in his first agony he breaks out, as before, in a short, but vehement prayer, being the first he had ever made in his life; and which, as it was made from a heart deeply touched with the danger of his soul, so it left great impressions upon his mind, as I have noted; and having gotten a Bible from his companion, he goes away with two happy resolves -- 1. to read; and 2. to pray.
The alteration this made in the youth could not be long hid in the family where he was placed; where his wicked way of living, his profane tongue, and his contempt of religion, had made him not very well received; and made his conversation so much their aversion, that the master of the house, and the mistress too, had warned their little children from conversing with him; and they had some discourse together, about turning him away, finding him of a temper, as they thought, too refractory to be wrought upon by advice, past the benefit of example, and who had several times made a jest of, and a scoff at their attempts to instruct him.
But the boy being changed within, as it is noted above, it could not be that such a work could long conceal itself in his conversation. He appeared pensive, retired, and grave in his deportment,-- was observed to sigh very often, and look as if he had been crying. As soon as his business was over, he was never to be seen, but always hid in the dark among the work-houses, of which his master had several. He was observed to be always ready at the times of family-worship, and on the Lord's-day. When the master examined him about the sermons he had heard, they were all surprised at him, for the ready account he gave of what the minister had preached. His master and mistress, who could not but observe this alteration in the boy, took the more notice of him in his conversation the week after, where they found him diligent at his work, more than ever, but nothing of the mirth and sport his fellow-servants used to have with him. They observed he had left off all his ill words, and wicked expressions, swearing, cursing, and the like. He played none, laughed none, and hardly was seen to smile. Several of the servants and workmen that observed it also, had been jesting with him, asked him what ailed him; but he gave them no answers that were to the purpose, so that it was hardly guessed at in the family, at least among his not fellows.
But his master and mistress, who, from his behaviour, as above, had entertained some notion of it, or being willing to hope the best, had pleased themselves with some thoughts of the child's being grown rather serious than melancholy, made it their to observe him more narrowly; and seeing him one evening take a candle, and go up into a room over their workhouse, by himself, the mistress silently followed him, and placed herself so she might perceive him, and he perceive nothing of it.
As soon as he came up, he set down the candle, pulled a book out of his pocket, and turned over the leaves, folding up here, and folding down there, but not reading long in any one place. She observed him to sigh grievously all the while, and at last to throw down the book, and burst out into a fit of crying, sitting down upon the ground, wringing his hands, and the tears running down his face, but not speaking a word.
While he was in this agony, she discovered herself to have seen him, and begins as follows:
Will, what's the matter with you, child?
The boy, surprised, snatches up the book hastily, and put it in his pocket.
[His mistress speaks to him again.]
Mist. Will; what's the matter, Will? tell me.
Will. Nothing.
[Offers to go away.]
Mist. Come, Will, do not be backward to tell me what troubles thee; for I have seen all you have been doing. What book's that you had there?
Will. No book of any harm.
Mist. Child, I do not think it is a book of any harm, I believe it is a good book. Is it not the Bible, Will? Come, tell me.
Will. Yes, it is.
Mist. Let me see it, Will.
Will. You may believe me, it is the Bible; I hope you'll not be angry.
Mist. Angry, child, I am glad to see you looking in the Bible. I am not angry, I hope you are minding good things.
[So his mistress sits down by him.]
Will. Oh, it is too late now!
[Here he falls a crying again, and cannot speak for a good while.]
Mist. Too late, Will! do not talk so.
Will. Yes, 'tis too late -- too late.
[And cries vehemently.]
Mist. Child, if it be so, thy too late is much sooner than my early was. If it be too late for thee, what will become of any of us?
[The mistress weeps too.]
Will. That is all one to me, 'tis too late for me.
Mist. Let me see the Bible, child. Where hast thou been reading, that put thee into this condition?
Will. O, every where! every where!
Mist. Show me the book, Will, let me see it.
[He shows her the book, and abundance of leaves turned down, but most of them at those places which had discouraged the child.]
Mist. What are all these leaves turned down for? and who directed you to those terrible texts of scripture, child? you have found all this dreadful places where God threatens hardened sinners with his displeasure, but not one of those places which give comfort to a returning penitent.
[She turns over the leaves the child had folded down, which were such as these:]
Rom. ii. 5, 6-- "After thy hardness and impenitent heart, treasured up unto thyself wrath against the day of wrath, and revelation of the righteous judgment of God; who will render to every man according his deeds." Isa. vi. 10-- "Make the heart of this people fat, and their ears heavy, and shut their eyes; lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their hearts, and convert, and be healed." And again the same repeated, Mark iv. 12; Rev. xxi. 8-- "And all liars shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone. Rev. xxii. 11, 12-- "He that is unjust, let him be unjust still; and he that is filthy, let him be filthy still. Behold, I come quickly, and my reward is with me." 2 Thess. i. 8, 9-- "In flaming fire, taking vengeance on them that know not God, &c. who shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord." Psalm ix. 17-- "The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God," Psalm 1. 22-- "Consider this, ye that forget God, lest I tear you in pieces, and there be none to deliver." Matt. xxv. 41-- "Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels." Heb. xii. 29-- "For our God is a consuming fire." Isaiah xxxiii. 14-- "Who amongst us shall dwell with everlasting burning?"
These, and abundance more such as these, the poor boy had folded down, the reading of which had terrified him to such a degree as above.
[The mistress having looked them over, turns unto the boy.]
Mist. Child, what are all these scriptures to thee!
Will. All to me! all to me! he told me, all that was said in the book, was said to me.
Mist. He told thee, Will. Pr'ythee who told thee?
Will. He that gave me the book, my brother Tom over the way, he told me so; and he is a very good young man, and would not speak wrong. I am sure it is all said to me.
[Cries again.]
Mist. Well, Will, he is a very good young man. I am glad you have been talking with him; and he meant well, no doubt; but he is but a young lad, a boy, a child like thyself; and you may be instructed farther about it, do not be cast down. Was this it you cried about?
Will. Yes, yes, this was it; was not this enough?
Mist. Well, but you need not be discouraged, Will; let me show you some other texts.
Will. What, not to be lost for ever, and go to hell, not to be discouraged!
Mist. But are you willing to be better instructed, child?
Will. What can instruct me? Is not this the word of God? And is it not plain? Am not I such a wicked one, as is described here? And is not all that is said here true?
Mist. But, child, you must take that part of the scripture, which is a ground of hope, and set it against these terrible places. This is only an artifice of the devil to terrify you.
Will. What would he terrify me for?
Mist. That you might despair of the mercy of God, and not hope in Jesus Christ.
Will. What can I hope for, when these plain things are said, and that they shall belong to such as I am?
Mist. No, child, I hope they are not threatened to such as thee; they are all to be understood of those that are impenitent in their sins, and go on hardened, without repentance to the last. I hope you will not be found among them. Are you not sorry for your sins?
Will. What does that signify now, if I am?
Mist. A great deal; even so much, that it takes away the edge of all those dreadful scriptures that have frighted thee so much; and if that sorrow far thy sins be true and sincere, the scripture is full of encouragement for thee to hope.
Will. Aye, so he said; but he never told me a word of all those places I have found; and I can't find the promises he told me of, I can't find one of them.
Mist. That's for want of somebody to assist thee, and open and explain the scriptures to thee. Poor child! thou had but little teaching.
Will. Little! I never had any teaching at all! I never had a Bible in my life, never knew what it was till now, and I think it had been well I had not seen it now.
Mist. No, no, Will, do not say so; it the best thing ever was given thee in the world; and I hope you shall thank God as long as you live, that you met with that honest young man that gave it you. He is a godly, sober young man, and has shown thee what it is to be well educated. He came of good parents, and their instruction is seen in his very countenance. Every body loves him: his is so sober, so religious, and talks so well of good things; and it appears, I find in his talk to thee, though he is but a youth, he might not be so able to prepare thee for the right understanding of those scriptures which you were to read, as others may.
Will. Why, he told me it was the word of God, and that all was written here was true; and that it was all spoken to me, and I ought to understand it so, and bid me read it
Mist. Well, and you have read some of it, but not all.
Will. Yes, I read all the New Testament over and over; for I sat up three nights last week, and read all night long, for I promised him I would read it.
Mist. Well, and have you not found encouraging places, as well as those that terrified you in this manner.
Will. No, none at all.
Mist. How is that possible, if you have read it all over?
Will. I am sure I have read it all over three times, from the first of Matthew to the last of the Revelation.
Mist. Then your fears have so prevailed over your hopes, that your eyes have been shut to your comfort, and open only to your discouragement. This is all from the devil, Will; you must pray against it.
Will. So Tom said; but I can't tell how to pray, I never prayed in my life but once.
Mist. Once, child! when was that?
Will. That night he talked to me.
Mist. What did you pray for then, and how?
Will. I know not how, but I trembled, and cried out to God, to pardon my sins.
Mist. Poor child, what moved thee to it, then?
Will. I felt some strange notion in my heart, which I cannot describe, that made my tongue speak I almost know not what, for I thought it a dreadful thing to speak to God; and when I cried out, Lord, pardon my sins, it set me a weeping and a trembling.
Mist. Well, that was a blessed beginning. Why did you not go on, child? you should have prayed again.
Will. My heart did, but I could speak no words.
Mist. Alas, child! that's the prayer God delights in; so may I pray all my days, though I was never to speak again!
Will. But brother Tom told me I must speak too.
Mist. Yes, child, you may speak; and it is proper, for your own sake, that you speak words both to express your meaning and move your affections; but, unless your heart joins, it is not prayer. God hears no words that the heart joins not in; but he hears many a sigh from the heart, which cannot be expressed in words: as is plain from the text, Rom. viii. 26-- "The Spirit also helpeth our infirmities; for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered." I hope it was the Spirit who helped thy heart to pray, when thou couldst utter no words, child; therefore do not be discouraged.
Will. I know nothing what it was, or what the Spirit means, unless that I have served the evil spirit all my days, and now I must have my portion with the devil and his angels. This book says so, look here else.
[Here shows her the place, Matt. xxv. 41.]
Mist. Child, you must not make conclusions against yourself, any more than for yourself, from the word of God, till you are taught to understand it aright.
Will. Why, do I not understand this place aright?
Mist. No, you do not.
Will. How shall I understand it, then?
Mist. You may take the scriptures as they explain themselves; and you are bid to search the scripture, that is, to see how one place is expounded by another. You should always pray to God to open your understanding, that you may understand the scripture; and the want of this makes even those very parts of the scripture which should be our comfort, be our terror.
Will. Indeed the young man told me so, but I did not do it.
Mist. What did he bid you do?
Will. When he gave me the book, I thanked him, and promised him to read it; but he said that was not all, I must pray to God to teach me to understand his word, and to show me my duty, and to guide my heart to do it. But I did not know that I should always do this when I read the Bible.
Mist. No doubt but you may pray seasonably for that at all times, and he was a good child that taught thee to do so; but it must needs be more especially seasonable to pray so, when you are going to read the Bible, that you may be instructed to read comfort from God's word, and not terror only, as you have done.
Will. What comfort can I get from the scripture, when it speaks so dreadfully of my very case.
Mist. Why there lies your mistake. I say it is not your case, and therefore you may reap comfort from the scripture. Come, child, let us see and examine strictly what your real case is; it may be we may find reason even from this very book to make you hope that your is not included, or spoken to, in any of these texts; and if it should appear so, would you not be very glad?
Will. Yes, I should be glad; but I believe that's impossible.
Mist. No, no, child, it is not impossible: the first part of your case is this, that you have been a great sinner.
Will. As ever was born in the world.
Mist. Well, suppose so, though that is not true, neither; for, poor child, you have not sinned against light, and against knowledge, and against conscience; for thee wast never taught to know God, or his ways, or instructed in thy duty. I am a worse sinner than thou a great deal. But suppose all you say, suppose you are a great sinner; yet you say you are sorry; and if you thought God would forgive you, would it not rejoice your heart?
Will. Oh, if that were possible!
Mist. And are you willing to go on wickedly as you were before?
Will. No, I abhor and abominate it.
[He weeps here again.]
Mist. And would you serve, and obey, and please God, if he would forgive you?
Will. Aye, with all my heart. Nay, whether he would forgive me or no. I would never be wicked again if I could help it; it is the abominablest life! I hate myself for it.
Mist. But if you were assured God would pardon you, what would you do?
Will. Oh, if that were possible!
Mist. Come, child, look then into this blessed book again. You are a sinner, but you are not an impenitent sinner;-- you say you abhor and abominate your sins, and hate yourself for them;-- you say you would not go on in wickedness, nay, though God should not forgive what is past;-- you say you would serve, and please, and obey God with all your heart. If all this be true, then I will tell thee, child, not one of those terrible scriptures which have so discouraged thee, and so frighted thee, are spoken to thee, or meant of thee; no, not one of them.
Will. Why, my brother Tom said, all that was written in this book was said to me.
Mist. That is, child, if thou art so and so, as these scriptures describe; and if not, then they are spoken to give thee hope; otherwise the scriptures would contradict itself, and not be true, which is blasphemous to imagine.
Will. I don't understand what you mean.
Mist. Why, child, look here, look upon the very text you have folded down; some of these explain themselves to be just what I say, Rom. ii. 5. 6-- "After thy hardness and impenitent heart, treasured up unto thyself wrath," &c. Now, it is plain thou art not hardened and impenitent; but God has given thee a penitent repenting heart, I hope it is a sincere one; therefore, by the words themselves, thou art not one of them that "treasure up wrath against the day of wrath." So for that scripture, Isaiah vi. 10-- "Thine eyes are not shut, nor thy ears heavy, nor they heart fat;" that is, rebellious, and contemning God; for that text is plainly spoken of such whom God judicially hardens, and of no other. In like manner, all the other texts, every one of them are expressions signifying the wrath and vengeance of God, against such as die in their sins, or continue perverse, hardened, and impenitent.
Will. How shall I be sure that it is so?
Mist. By comparing those scriptures, child, with such other texts as explain their meaning, and are given to encourage our returning to God, and contain his promises of pardon to those who repent.
Will. Where are they? I have read the whole book, and cannot find them.
Mist. Look here, child, 1 John i. 9-- "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness;" Here it is plain, though you are a great sinner, yet, if you confess, he will forgive you. And you may observe, he does not say he is gracious and merciful to forgive, but just and faithful; implying, that having before, in his grace and mercy, passed to us his promise of forgiveness, it becomes, humbly speaking, a kind of demand; as he is just and faithful, therefore he must and will, nay, he cannot fail to make good those promises to us.
Will. But where are promises then? I can find none of them in the Bible.
Mist. O, the whole scripture is full of them, Prov. xxviii. 13-- "He that covereth his sins shall not prosper, but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them, shall have mercy." Isaiah lv. 7-- "Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon."
Will. That he told me of, but I cannot find it.
Mist. Here it is, child, in the prophecy of Isaiah.
Will. Is that the word of God too?
Mist. Yes, and that prophet is counted the most excellent of all the prophets for these things, and he is therefore called the Evangelical prophet.
Will. But there are more in other places, are there not?
Mist. Yes, child, especially in those places that speak of Christ in whom all are to be saved.
Will. Let me hear them; for I do not understand this being redeemed by Christ's death at all, though Tom said something of that to me.
Mist. You understand that you have been a wicked boy, a great sinner, and was born in sin, your father was a sinner before you.
Will. Yes, I understand that too well.
Mist. Well, Jesus Christ, who is the Son of God, came into the world to save such as you, nay, and worse than you; and he died to bring this to pass. This you must believe.
Will. Does the scripture say this?
Mist. Yes, look here, Rom. v. 6.-- "For when we were yet without strength, in doe time Christ died for the ungodly." 1 Peter iii. 18-- "For Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God." Acts v. 31-- "Him hath God exalted with his right hand, to be a Prince, and a Saviour, to give repentance and remission." 1 Tim. i. 15-- "This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners." Matt. ix. 13-- "I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." Are not these things plain, child?
Will. But I am afraid.
Mist. Of what, child?
Will. That it is not for me, I am not one of them: else why was I not taught to know this before?
Mist. Here is a text for that too, child, Mark v. 36-- "Be not afraid, only believe."
Will. What most I believe? and what if I do believe?
Mist. The scripture is plain, that we shall be saved by faith in him notwithstanding all the terrible scriptures you have found out. Matt. i. 21-- "His name is Jesus, for he shall save his people from their sins." Acts xiii. 39-- "By him all that believe are justified." John xx. 31-- "These things are written, that ye might believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that believing ye might have life through his name." John v. 24-- "He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation." Rom. viii. 1-- "There is therefore no condemnation to them who are in Christ Jesus." Fold all these texts down, and remember to read them over, when you are tempted to be doubting of God's mercy in Christ.
Will. But will Christ receive me now?
Mist. Yes, yes, he has made a gracious promise to thee himself for that, John vi. 37-- "Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out."
[The boy starts at these words.]
Mist. What do you start at, child?
Will. That's the blessed place that my dear teacher told me of, and that worked all; and now I can't find it.
Mist. Worked all what, child?
Will. That was the text that made my heart melt and tremble, and made me pray to God; and I have read over the whole book, and can't find it, though I made him turn down a loaf at it. I am sure it is not in the book.
Mist. Not in the book! God forbid! Why here it is, child; look at it, read it, and God give thee comfort of it.
[The boy reads, and tears from his eyes for joy, for sorrow.]
Will. Aye, here it is! here it is! I will come to him! I will pray to him!
[He kisses the place with great affection, and receives comfort from it.]
Notes on the Second Dialogue.
The impressions of the serious discourse mentioned in the first dialogue, that this young man had with his comrade, were so great that they could not be concealed.
Note.-- A change wrought in the heart will infallibly show itself in the conversation.
The master and mistress being good people themselves, received impressions of the alteration in boy, suitable to the nature of the thing; but the rest of the servants dreamed nothing of it.
Note.-- The symptoms of conversion are easily discovered by those who know the working of the Spirit of God, while they are perfectly invisible to others.
By the agony the boy was in at the reading the comminations of the scripture against sin, without the promissory part may be observed.
That mere convictions of sin drive to despair; but neither direct to, nor inquire after a remedy.
That comforting scriptures generally want explaining: terrifying scriptures explain themselves.
Here it may be worth observing,
1. The benefit of religious conversation, even among young children, and the great duty of making our society instructing to one another.
2. The advantage of placing children in religious families.
If this poor child had not fallen into such a family as this, the temptation he was under to despair, might, in all probability, have prevailed over him; and either have led him to give over inquiry after religious matters, or, if God had not restrained him, have driven him to extremities, such a distraction, and, perhaps, self-destruction, as is often the consequence too in like cases; for "a wounded spirit who can bear?"
Observe the poor child's fear of its being too late for him to find mercy, or be accepted.
If it might be too late for him, what have they to fear who run on to grey hairs in an impenitent state? Well might his mistress observe, that his too late was sooner than her early; and so it is with many.
From the good woman's applying the scriptures to him for comfort, observe how the scriptures are to be read.
1. With serious seeking God for the assistance of his Spirit to open our understandings, that we may understand the scriptures; for without his teaching, all our reading will be in vain.
2. With a due comparing one text with another, that the scriptures being their own just expositor, may reconcile the truths of God, as they ought to be understood.
3. For want of this, we rob ourselves of the comfort of the scriptures, pass over those things prepared to heal and restore the soul, and fill our hearts with distracting doubts about our own state, which are always harder to be resolved and removed, by how much they seem confirmed by the mistaken authority of the scripture.
Observe.-- The good woman finding the boy had received comfort from that blessed promise of our Lord, and that he was affectionately expressing his resolution to cast himself at the feet of Christ, crying out I will come to him; and in a kind of rapture, kissing the words which he had showed him, she wisely withdrew; believing it was a happy juncture, in which the child ought to be left alone, that he might give himself full vent, with fervency and earnestness to call upon God; and though this causes the dialogue to break off sooner, and more abruptly than it might have done, yet it is conceived, as much is here set down, as may answer the design of it, viz. the instruction of others.
Ending these notes with this observation for the reader's information -- That as far as this account is really historical, and points at any particular family, this boy or young man came to be eminent for piety, and religious life, in the place where he lived; and being settled in that country, was a very useful instrument in the propagating Christian knowledge, and supporting the interest of true religion in all the country around him, and perhaps is living still.
THE THIRD DIALOGUE.
The young lad who had been so happily instrumental in the conviction and conversion of his comrade, had thereby rendered himself so agreeable to the good people, who, as I said before, were master and mistress of the other lad, that they could not but be very willing to converse a little with him themselves; and, to that end, caused their apprentice, who called him brother, to bring him to their house; where, in time, he became very intimate, and they were much pleased and diverted with his pretty discourses, which were always about religion and serious things.
Among the rest of his discourse, he never forgot to bemoan himself for his being placed in a family of no religious order,-- without the worship of God in it,-- and where he had neither public opportunity to serve God, nor private retirement for the discharge of his duty.
The good people encouraged him to bear it, add seriously advised him not to let the sense of his own duty wear off, or to allow himself in the omission of private prayer to God, whatever obstructions he met with for want of retirement and opportunity; and invited him to come over to their house as often as he could, at their [hour?] of family-worship, and join with them.
This he not only gladly accepted, but constantly attended, and did it so avowedly, not regarding how it might interfere with his master's hours, and his own conveniences, that his master took offence at his being so often out of the way; and not knowing the least of what occasioned his absence, complained to his father of it, as if it had been some wicked course he had followed; telling him, that his son did not behave himself so orderly; that he was out of his business unseasonably; that he must have some bad haunts, for that he generally went out every morning very early (being then winter), long before day, and in the evening was absent often at supper; that on the Lord's-day evening he was to never to be found, and the like; and therefore desired his father to take some care about him, that if he went on he would be ruined. He farther acquainted his father, that the boy had appeared very melancholy and discontented; that he had often asked him if any thing ailed him, or if he was not well, and he always answered yes; that he asked him if he did not like his business, and still he answered yes, very well; so that he knew not what ailed him, and desired his father to talk with him, for if he carried it thus he could not bear it, but must send him home again.
The father, who knew his son to be a sober, religious child, and partly knew the reason of his discontent, was not at all surprised at that part of his master's complaint, which related to his appearing melancholy and dissatisfied. But the other part of his discourse alarmed him a little, about being out of the house at unseasonable hours, and giving no account of himself; and therefore readily promised to talk with his son, and examine him about it, that his conduct might be rectified.
Accordingly he finds an opportunity to talk with the lad, and lets him know all his master had laid to his charge, charging him to tell him the truth of the whole matter. The boy, not at all surprised, told his father the whole case very honestly -- how that his master had no such thing as family-worship in his house; but that they lived all like heathens there, pursuing the world as if it was their heaven, without the least regard of their duty to God, of any thing that was religious. "And you, Sir," says the boy to his father, "having always instructed me in other things, and taught me to live after another manner, it was very uneasy to me, as I have formerly hinted to you: but I have of late made myself a little easy, by getting an acquaintance in Mr. ------'s family, an honest clothier, who lives over against our house, who are very good people, and who constantly go to prayers every morning at six o'clock, and every evening at eight or nine, and I get up every day to go over there to prayer with their family, and every Lord's-day, I go thither in the evening, where the good man reads to his family, and examines his children and servants, and then prays with them. While at our house, all the evening is spent in feasting and visiting, or idle discourse, not at all to the business of the day. This is the whole case."
When the lad had ended his discourse, and the father was assured of the truth of it, he took his son in his arms, and kissed and embraced him very affectionately, and said--
"The blessing of God and thy father be upon thee, my dear, that has made so good a use of so unhappy an omission of mine. It was my sin, my dear, and an inexcusable error in me, to put thee out to a family where the name of God is not called upon, and the worship of God not regarded; by which I run the venture of thy soul's good, and of having all the pains I had taken in teaching and instructing thee in the ways of God, and in the knowledge of religion, lost and abased; and had it been so, thy ruin had been at my door, having regarded only the trade, and the prospect of worldly advantage, in placing thee there, not the good of thy soul; but, since God has given thee grace to prevent the evil, which might, through my neglect, have befallen thee, the praise be to his mercy. I am fully satisfied in what you have done; and if your master speaks of it to you, as I suppose he will, I would have you tell him the whole truth, as you now do to me; and if he dislikes you for it, offer to go back to your father; and, if he consents, I shall as gladly take you from him, as I received you from God when you were born.
The child encouraged by a father thus to deal plainly with his master, and being a lad very ready of speech, though modest in his behaviour, resolves, the first occasion his master should give him, to do it effectually; which his master not failing to do the same evening, produced the following discourse between them.
The youth, it seems, had been over at the good people's house, as usual during their family-worship, and coming in about nine o'clock at night, his master begins with him thus:
Mast. Thomas, where are you?
Tom. Here, Sir.
Mast. Have you been abroad to night?
Tom. A little, Sir.
Mast. How long have you been out?
Tom. Not above half an hour. Sir, at most.
Mast. Where have you been?
Tom. I have been no farther than at Mr. ------, over the way.
Mast. Well, but, Thomas, I must talk with you a little. I have observed it, and others have observed it here in the house, that your conduct is altered very much from what it used to be, and you seem dull and melancholy. I must know what is the matter with you. If you do like your business, tell me honestly, Thomas, though you are bound, I will not keep you against your will. I have a respect for you, and for your father, and I won't force your inclination; if you are willing to go, Thomas, you shall; and therefore I would have you speak plainly what it is you dislike the trade for?
Tom. No, Sir, I don't dislike the trade at all; but if you please to let me go, I shall be very ----
[Here his master interrupts him.]
Mast. Well, Thomas, but I am willing to know what the reason is too. What do you dislike? Do you dislike your master?
Tom. No, Sir, not in the least, I assure you; I have no reason for it.
Mast. What then? Has any body in the house ill used you?
Tom. No, indeed, Sir.
Mast. What then?
Tom. Nothing, but if you think fit to let me ---
Mast. No, never without a reason for it; that would be to have some other reasons given afterwards for it; which are not true.
Tom. If you think so, Sir, I am very willing to stay, and do my business.
Mast. Well, Thomas, but whether you go or stay, I must know the cause of your discontent
Tom. I'll be better contented, Sir, than I have been, if I can, rather than displease you.
Mast. No, Thomas, that won't satisfy me, neither; for I have some discontents as well as you, Thomas; and if you stay with me, you must remove my discontents, as well as your own.
Tom. I shall be very willing to remove any discontents you have, Sir, if I can; I hope I do not neglect your business, Sir.
Mast. I do not say my business is neglected; but you take the liberty to go out, and stay out so very often, which makes me uneasy; I must be a little satisfied, Thomas, about that.
Tom. Sir, you were pleased to tell us, when I was first bound, that if we were in the warehouse at such and such times, when your business required, you cared not whither we went at any other times; and I never have failed your business, Sir, nor your hours.
Mast. But you are out at unseasonable hours, Thomas, and that is not of good reputation to yourself.
Tom. I thought, Sir, you did not regard that, when you left us so entirely to ourselves. If it is offensive to you, I will refrain it, though I should be very sorry to be restrained.
Mast. But I must know the occasion of it, as well as of your apparent dissatisfaction also, Thomas. Sure you may be free with me. Come, let me know the truth.
Tom. You will perhaps be displeased with me, Sir, if I tell you the truth, or think I do not.
Mast. If that truth be justifiable, why should I be displeased? It not, why should I not be displeased.
Tom. There may be reason for your displeasure, though the thing be justifiable.
Mast. Let the thing then appear to be justifiable first; and, if I am unreasonable, we shall talk of that afterwards. If you can justify the thing itself, why should you be backward to let me know it?
Tom. Sir, as you are my master, and I am your servant, I was bound to give you an account of my time; but the liberty you gave all your servants to go where they pleased, provided they were at home, at such and such times, has sufficiently, as I conceived, justified my being abroad, even without giving an account.
Mast. But I did not take from myself the liberty of inquiring whither you went, or of altering that licence I had given, if I saw it abused; and since you have taken the liberty, and refuse to give me a reasonable account of it, I now recall it, and expect you to be found always at home, unless I give you leave.
Tom. As I took only the liberty you gave, Sir, I shall exactly obey you in the restraint, however hard I may think it.
Mast. But there are some other reasons why I ought to insist upon knowing where you have been, and how have spent your time at the hours you have been missing; and I think it concerns your reputation to have me satisfied.
Tom. Whether it concerns my character or not, Sir, if you command it, I think it my duty to obey it. I avoided it only that you might not be displeased with me.
Mast. Since you choose to obey it as my command, rather than comply with it as my request, you must be gratified then by telling you, I do demand an account of it.
Tom. Sir, all the time I have spent out of your house, or out of your business, except only the times I have asked you leave to see my father, has been over the way at Mr. ------'s the clothier.
Mast. What, is it there you have gone in the morning before day?
Tom. Yes, Sir.
Mast. What can the meaning of that be? Sure you have earnest business there; and I suppose it must be something he or his wife was not to know, that required you to be there with his servants every day before their master or was up.
Tom. I have told you nothing, Sir, but the truth.
Mast. Well, I shall inquire nothing of your business. I know my neighbour ------ is a good man, and it is his business to look after his servants. I shall give him notice to do so. In the mean time, I shall acquaint your father of your practice, and let him inquire after it; it is no business of mine. I don't trouble myself with what courses you take; but while you are with me, I expect you will attend your business.
Tom. I must obey you, Sir, though I think it hard. If you will not dismiss me from your business, it must be as it pleases God.
[The master goes out and leaves him. The boy's father, being impatient to know what would pass in the conference, was come to the house, though late. The master finds him waiting for him, and begins warmly.]
Mast. How do you, Sir? I doubt I have no very good news to tell you.
Fath. About what, Sir?
Mast. About your son. He and I have had a little brush this evening.
Fath. I am sorry for that. I hope he does not misbehave himself, or neglect his business.
Mast. I can't say much for that; but, as I told you formerly, he has gotten some ill haunts among our neighbour's servants; and he is out with them every night and morning, nay, in the morning before day, and every Sabbath day after sermon. I see nothing of him, at least for that night; and I can get nothing of him; but if I talk a little to him, he is for going away, and coming back to you again.
Fath. What can his business be before day?
Mast. Nay, I have nothing to do with that; take him to task about it yourself; it is your business; he is your son, he is none of mine; you said you would talk with him before.
Fath. But, Sir, though he be my son, yet he is your servant. Though I did talk a little with him, yet I said the less, because I cannot be of your opinion, that you have nothing to do with it. Is he not entirely under your government?
Mast. Aye, as to business, I have the government of him indeed; and I am to teach him his trade, and to see that he does my business; and so I will, while be stays with me. What can I do further?
Fath. But, Sir, as I put him apprentice to you, I committed him to your government entirely, soul and body. I hope you have some little concern for your servants, besides just their doing their business.
Mast. Why, what can I do more than restrain them, if I see them take bad course? And I have done so to your's; I have forbid him going there any more.
Fath. It is not for me to teach you, Sir, what to do. But if you will bear with me ----
Mast. Aye, very freely, very freely. You know I have respect enough for you to hear any thing, nay, and for your son too. I'd do any thing I can. I should be very sorry to have the boy ruined; he is a promising young man enough.
Fath. Why, as to that, Sir, in particular, I will speak afterwards: but I am first upon the general. You seem to go upon this point, that you think yourself not obliged to take any further concern upon you about your servants, than just to restrain them, if you see them take ill courses, or to acquaint their friends with it; and that your main care is to see that your business is done. If I take you right, this is what you said.
Mast. It is so. Why, what can I do more?
Fath. A great deal, Sir; and I think a great deal more is your duty as a master.
Mast. What more can be expected of me?
Fath. Really, Sir, if you will pardon me, I think you have the whole duty and authority of a parent devolved upon you for the time; and as you make your apprentices a part of your family, all the duty you owe the rest of your family, you owe to them, both as to their souls and bodies; except such as relate to estate, which is peculiar to children. I need not tell you your duty; but I'll tell you what I understood by putting my child into your hands, if you please.
Mast. Well, what's that?
Fath. Why, I understood that I put him entirely under your government, in the first place, and under your care, in the second: that this government respected, first, the authority of your command, which was to be a perfect supersede to mine; even so much, that if I had commanded him one thing, and you another that interfered with it, his obeying you was not to be accounted a disobeying me. For example, if I commanded him to meet me at any place or time, were the occasion ever so great; if you commanded him to stay at home, he ought to neglect my command and obey your's, which contradicted it; his time being your's, and not mine. And this I always told him: and therefore charged him never to come to me without asking your leave.
Mast. This is all very just, and I believe he has always done so.
Fath. Then, Sir, secondly, as I put him entirely under your government, suspending my own authority over him as a father, it becomes a necessary consequence of it, that I entirely committed him to your care, both soul and body. How could this be otherwise, since, as I reserved no power to command him, so I had of course removed him from my inspection.
Mast. Well, and do not I discharge this duty, by acquainting you of his ill courses?
Fath. No, not at all, Sir; for I may indeed take upon me to caution and advise him, and show my dislike of his conduct; but the power and authority of warning him, instructing him, reproving him, and restraining him, and, if need be, of correcting him, is all your's.
Mast. Those things are out of doors long ago. Pr'ythee, do you think I'll trouble myself with my apprentices at that rate? No, no, not I. I never struck a servant in my life; and if I should, who do you think would stay with me? Apprentices now-a-days are not like what they were when you and I were apprentices. Now we get a hundred pounds, or two or three hundred pounds a piece with them: they are too high for reproof and correction.
Fath. I know not what custom may have done, Sir, to alter the practice of masters and their apprentices; but I am sure the rule is not altered. The duty of masters to servants, and of servants to their masters, is still the same.
Mast. We don't trouble our heads with these things now.
Fath. I am sorry for it. You know best, how then can you answer to God for the souls committed to your charge. Do you think every religious parent, when be puts his child apprentice to you, does not reckon that he commits his soul to your care, as well as his body?
Mast. I do not say but, in the nature of the thing, it should be so; but, as I told you, we do not understand it so now-a-days.
Fath. I assure you I understood it so when I put my son apprentice to you; and I hope you will understand it so too, or else you will neither act like a friend, nor like a Christian.
Mast. Why, do I not act like both now, in giving you an account of this piece of your son's behaviour, that you may inquire into it?
Fath. I allow your giving me an account of it, and thereby an opportunity to join my inquiry and assistance with you to reform any thing amiss, is friendly; but we are upon another point now, which is this:-- that you think by this you discharge your part,-- that the duty lies upon me now, and you have no more to. But this I can by no means allow.
Mast. Why, what would you make of me? Must I be a father and master too?
Fath. No question of it, he is under your family care. As to his body, he is your servant; but as to his soul, I think he is as much your son as any child you have; and I cannot quit you of the obligation and duty of a parent to your servants, do you discharge your conscience of it how you please.
Mast. Why, what, would you have me catechise and instruct my apprentices, as if they were my children? Then I must turn schoolmaster. I hope you have done that already; and I think it ought to be supposed all parents have done that before they put their children apprentices. They do not put them apprentices to learn religion, but to learn their trades.
Fath. It is true, they do not put their children apprentices to learn religion; but neither do they put to them apprentices to lose their religion -- to have all the pains their parents have taken with them sunk again. There is a kind of instruction subsequent to catechisms and examinations: them are kinds of instructions suited to the age and circumstances; and such an instructor every master of a family ought to be, to his servants as well as to his children.
Mast. I do not understand what instruction you mean.
Fath. Why, suppose your own children were grown up, past saying their catechism, would you think your duty of instructing them ceased? Is there nothing for a parent say to say to his children after has done with questions and answers?
Mast. That may be, as he sees occasion, if they take ill courses.
Fath. Why, is there no previous advice to be given, no cautions to avoid company, no exhortations to preserve virtue, and to behave soberly and modestly? No pressing them to their duty to God, and to avoid those sins that will ruin their souls? Is not this a duty upon us all to our children?
Mast. Yes; but would you have me to do this to apprentices too?
Fath. Most certainly, especially when you take apprentices that you know were religiously educated, and on whom such things are likely to make due impressions. And I must own, if you do not, I think you do not discharge the duty of a master; for a master is a parent, though he is not father.
Mast. You have no scripture for this in the whole Bible.
Fath. Suppose that were true, the nature of the thing is so plain, that there needs no particular scripture to command it in express terms; and yet you will find scriptures enough for it too, in the example of good men, particularly in Joshua, who resolved to serve the Lord, he and his house. And how could that be, if he did not instruct or command his servants to do so. David says, a liar shall not dwell with him. What is more plain, than that he resolved to correct the irreligious behaviour of his whole household, a well servants as children, and to turn away those who were incorrigible? But the commandment puts it out of question, and is express in the case of keeping the Sabbath. Mark the words-- "In it thou shalt do no manner of work, thou"-- there's the master's duty for himself; the next part is his duty in seeing that his family shall perform it an well as himself-- "nor thy son, nor thy daughter,"-- there's his duty as a father-- "nor thy man-servant, nor thy maid-servant"-- there's his hired servants-- "nor the stranger that is within thy gates:" there are his apprentices. And what's the meaning of this word, nor, but this, that thou shalt do no manner of work, nor permit to suffer thy son or thy daughter, or thy servants, to do any?
This commandment expressly declares, that servants are subjected to their master's command in matters relating to their duty to God, and that masters are obliged to see that their servants perform it
Mast. Indeed you have said something in this that is new to my thoughts, and seems to give an authority to what you say. I confess I never considered that part of it before. But what can I do? If I should go about this work my servants, they would laugh at me; it would make ridiculous.
Fath. If you are to be laughed out of your duty by your servants, I am sorry for it; you are very ill qualified, then, to be a master. I hope, and am persuaded, my son would not be one of them.
Mast. I know not whether be would or not. I find him not the most complying, and particularly in my inquiry about this matter, which I now tell you of. It was a long time before he would own where he spent his time; and now he has told me I have no account of what he has been about, or what his business was there, at those unseasonable hours.
Fath. This is the very thing I complain of.
Mast. Why, how shall I help it; what would you have me do?
Fath. Do! I would have you act like a master, and oblige him to do as becomes a servant, viz. give you an exact account of his behaviour. His time is your's, and you ought to know how he spends it. If any of his time is employed out of your business, you ought to exact an account of it from him, how it has been disposed of, as much as you would of money that you had trusted him with, how he paid it.
Mast. I thought this more your work than mine.
Fath. If he was your own son, and my apprentice, I should think so too; but as it is, as I said before, his time is not mine, nor his own, but your's; and it is to you he is to give an account of it.
Mast. But pray, why do you put it off from yourself? You know I have a great hurry of business, and cannot have time, and he will be more in awe of you than of me. I think it is much better for you.
Fath. I am very far from putting it off from myself. I shall concur with you most readily in the strictest examination into his behaviour. But I am surprised to hear you put it off from yourself, as if you were not concerned in it; and by which, if his courses are evil, as you suggest, he may be ruined at any time, and I may know nothing of it; and you must allow that this ought to give me some concern as a father, whatever it does to you as a master.
Mast. I am something of your mind now, as to its being my duty to my servants, though, as I am circumstanced, I do not see how I can perform it.
Fath. If God gives you a sense of its being your duty, I leave the sense of your living in the neglect of it to his mercy, who, I hope, will open your eyes to the necessity of performing it. It is a sad thing to be in such a circumstance as renders what is your known duty impracticable to you.
Mast. What can I do?
Fath. That is for you to consider, not me. If you are convinced of what you ought to do, I have spent my time well enough.
Mast. But what would you have me to do with your son?
Fath. Do! act the master with him, and command him to give you an exact account of the time you charge him with, where he has spent it, in what company, and about what business.
Mast. If I do he will refuse it, and desire me to dismiss him; he has said as much as that already, which I took very ill from him.
Fath. What must be the occasion of that?
Mast. Why, it has been observed by all the house, as well as by me, that he has been very melancholy and discontented a great while, and I very kindly asked him the reason, but he declined to tell me. I asked him if he disliked the trade? he said, no; if he disliked his master, no. I told him, if he was uneasy at any thing, though he was bound, I would release him; for I would not keep him against his inclination. At this he seemed pleased, and mighty desirous to go. Now, what can I do? If I challenge him with his going out, and pretend to demand a strict account of his time, and he refuses, what can I do, but threaten to turn him away? And that, it seems, he desires; and yet he will not tell me the reason of it, neither, which does not show him to have much good nature, or good manners. Indeed, I took it so ill, that, but in respect to you, I had sent him home that very minute. And now I have told you of it, what would you have do?
Fath. I have said what I would have you do, viz. act the master with him, and tell him in plain terms, you will have an account of his behaviour; you may be sure he shall get nothing by complaining to me, if his case be bad; and if he refuses positively, as I believe he will not, we will inquire of your neighbour, Mr.------, for he has the character of a very good man; perhaps he may find it out for us.
Mast. I know Mr. ------ is a very pious, religious good man, and his wife is a very religious woman; and it is indeed a very sober family, which makes me wonder what the boy can be doing there, which he is so earnest to conceal; if you will, I'll go and inquire of him first.
Fath. No, I think you had better talk with the boy first. I am persuaded he will submit to you, and, I hope, tell you the truth; and if that truth be to your satisfaction, you will be better pleased to have it from the boy, than to make it more public.
Mast. Well, I will have another dialogue with him to-morrow, and you shall hear what will be the issue.
[The father goes away, and the youth coming to the door with him, the father says thus:]
Fath. Thomas, it seems your master has been talking with you about this matter.
Son. Yes, Sir.
Fath. He is very angry, and takes it very ill you should refuse to give an account of yourself, and where you used to be, when you went out in the morning and evening.
Son. I did tell him where I was, and assured him I was no where else.
Fath. But it was a long time before you would tell him that.
Son. I was so afraid he would inquire what my business was there, that I could not think of telling him.
Fath. Why, you must tell him still, child; for he is mighty earnest to know what you are there so much for; he imagines it is some wicked thing, by your being afraid to tell him. I hope the account you gave me of it is true.
Son. Dear father, I hope you do not doubt its being true, I never used to tell you an untruth.
Fath. No, child, I do not doubt of its being true; and why then should you be afraid to tell him of it?
Son. I am more ashamed than afraid to tell him of it. I think it does not become me to make my master blush at himself.
Fath. But here is a necessity now, so that I do not see you can avoid it, let him take it how he will; for it passes in the family that you have some ill correspondence, or some bad company there, and they will make a great deal of it, if you are so backward to give an account of it; and, therefore, to clear up your own reputation, you must tell your master.
Son. I would rather you would do it for me, Sir, I not fit to talk to my master about such things.
Fath. I have prepared the way, by a long dispute with your master about his duty to his servants: and I am persuaded, let what you say be never so coarse or boyish, God will bless it, so as to carry conviction along with it, that he has not done his duty to you, whatever you have done to him.
Son. I can say nothing to him of that, Sir, he will fly out in a rage at me.
Fath. No, no, you are only to answer his questions, and give an account of yourself, and of the reason why you go over to the clothier's house every morning and evening: you can do that easily enough, let the will of God be done in what shall follow, one way or other.
Son. I will do as you order me. Sir, as well as I can.
[The father leaves him, and the boy going in, his master calls him.]
Mast. Thomas, come hither.
Tom. Yes, Sir.
Mast. Well, I have given your father an account of your behaviour, and he is very much concerned, as well as I, about it.
Tom. I am sorry for it, Sir.
Mast. Well, but that is not enough; your father and I too are resolved to find out the bottom of it, if you will not confess ingenuously.
Tom. SIr, you speak of it as if I was guilty of some strange thing; I hope I have committed no crime, Sir.
Mast. It may be very well, if it appear so, Sir: however, our suspicions are justified by your being so very careful to conceal yourself; this has made me resolve to examine into it; and you might save me that labour, as I told you, by an ingenuous confession.
Tom. I never declined it, Sir.
Mast. No! Did I not press you to it before, and you declined it, and your father's coming prevented, or else, I had a flat denial?
Tom. I never denied to obey any of your commands, Sir, in my life,-- I only told you that I was backward, because I feared it might displease you: but I little thought it should be suggested that my being abroad was for any thing criminal.
Mast. How could you expect any other?
Tom. Because, being perfectly innocent, I had no thought of being inspected.
Mast. Clear up all then, Thomas, by ingenuously giving an account of yourself to me now.
Tom. Be pleased, Sir, to tell me what part you mean? whether as to my being abroad, or my being discontented; for you charged me with both?
Mast. Begin first with your being abroad. You say you were only at my neighbour's, over the way; I have examined into it yet, but I take it for granted that you speak truth.
Tom. Indeed, Sir, I was no where but there.
Mast. Well, your business there; the occasion of your going so early; how you employed yourself there; and with whom? These are the questions.
Tom. You will not take it ill, Sir, I hope then, if my answers may seem not to become me, or less dutiful or respectful to you, than you may think they ought to be.
Mast. Not at all, if you speak truth, Thomas.
Tom. I hope I shall satisfy you of that, Sir, by the consequence. You know, Sir, I have been brought up under my father, with a religious education, and in his family, where the worship of God had been constantly kept up; and coming hither, Sir, as an apprentice, where I found you were not pleased to permit me, or to let me come up when you, I doubt not, went to prayers, and reading with your family; it made me afraid, either that you did not think me worthy to be reckoned one of your family, or that it was a judgment of God upon me, to be shut out from his worship! This, Sir, made me very sad, which is the discontent you speak of; but hearing of that other good family over the way, and that Mr. ------ the clothier went constantly to prayer every morning and night, I got acquaintance with the young man, his apprentice, and got him to ask his master to give me leave to come there at those times.
Mast. Well, Thomas, this is a well contrived story truly; you want not cunning, I find. But what is this to six o'clock in the morning, Thomas? which at this time of the year is before day, and before he is up, to be sure.
Tom. If you please to inquire, Sir, into the order of his family, you will find that he is up every morning in the year by six o'clock, and calls them all to prayers, before they go to work.
Mast. And what mean you by getting that boy to do this for you? That does not hang together at all. Why, he is the most profligate young villain that ever came into any good man's house. His master was talking, in my hearing, but the other day, of sending him to the house of correction, and spoke to me for a warrant; you acquaintance with such as boy as that, is not likely to be for so good a purpose; and this part makes all the rest unlikely, and to be suspected.
Tom. He was so, Sir, that is true; but if you inquire, you will find he is another thing now. God's grace has made a strange change in that boy in a few weeks past. If you please to inform yourself of it, Sir, you may hear it from other hands.
Mast. And is this the whole truth, Thomas? Has this been your whole business there?
Tom. Indeed it has, Sir.
Mast. You must not think much if I inquire, in order to be better satisfied.
Tom. I cannot expect any other, Sir
Mast. I shall talk with your father about it, it is late now.
[The master, bitterly stung with the boy's account of himself, puts off the rest of the discourse.]
Notes on the Third Dialogue.
There seems to be more circumlocution in this dialogue, than in any of the rest: but they will be found not only useful, but necessary, at least, to preserve the cadence of things, and introduce the substance of the real story, by necessary gradations. The boy's shifting off so many ways, before he directly tells his master the whole of his business, is a mark of commendable modesty in a servant: his shyness of speaking what he knew, touched his master's behaviour more than his own, may be very instructing to servants, if they please to mark it, in things where their master's character may be concerned. But, above all, it may be noted that all these things tend to bring the conviction home with more energy and force upon the conscience of the master.
The master's discourse with the young man's father contains a great many useful hints about the duty of masters to their servants-- 1. That they ought to reckon them under their care, as well as under their government. 2. That the charge of the souls of our servants lies upon us, as well as those of our children. The just distinction between a parent and a father, is fruitful of many useful observations: the last is tied by nature, the first by the God of nature; the last by affection, the first by duty: but both are tied to discharge the part of a Christian parent to the souls under their charge, whether servants, children, or relations: that a servant, taken into the family, becomes a child of the family, and ought, equally with our children, to partake of every part of our religious duties, such as prayer, exhortation, examination, instruction, reproof, restraint, and correction. This is farther plain, from what God says to Abraham, Gen. xviii. 19-- "That he will command his children and his household;" that is, he will discharge faithfully the duty of a parent, or guide and governor of a family; which is shown in his commanding his whole house to walk in the ways of God.
Note.-- How custom has wickedly of late years seemed to discharge masters of this duty.
1. By the pride of servants, who, bringing large sums of money, much greater than formerly, seem to expect not to be so much at command as they used to be; a wicked and abominable custom, which, as no religious parent be easy in, so no religious master ought to be subjected to it.
2. By the negligence of parents who really seem less to concern themselves about the souls of their children, when they put them out as apprentices, than about their learning trades, doing their business, and the like.
3. By the universal backwardness of masters, who think, as this man did, that they have no concern upon them about their servants' souls, or any thing but just to see that their business is done, and then to let them go where they please, and do what they please.
4. Observe here a most ridiculous argument, or excuse, which the master brings, viz. that he was ashamed to go about the instructing or praying with his apprentices and journeymen, because they would laugh at him.
Note.-- We are easier to laughed out of our duty, than persuaded into it.
From the whole, masters of families may observe, the duty of instructing and religiously guiding their servants lies indisputably upon them, as much as that of instructing and educating their children. They are parents, that is, guides and governors to their whole house, though they are fathers only to their children.
THE FOURTH DIALOGUE.
The master of the young man aforesaid now makes a visit to his neighbour the clothier, who lived over against his house. Whether he had any doubt of the truth of what boy had said to him, and had a mind, as he had said to the lad himself, to find out the bottom of it; or perhaps to satisfy himself farther about the alteration of the wicked boy, which his own servant had acquainted him of, or to please his own curiosity, or directed by Providence for his farther conviction, is not material; but here discoursing of other things with the good man and his wife, he begins the following dialogue thus, talking of their servants:
I remember, neighbour, you were once complaining of a very bad servant you had, and talked as if you wanted a warrant of me to send him to the house of correction.
Clo. Yes, an't please your worship, I did so.
Ald. Well, pray, how does he behave himself now? Shall you want a warrant neighbour? You know I shall always be ready to serve you in any thing I can. It shall cost nothing if you have any occasion.
Clo. I hope not now, Sir. I think the lad is much reformed: though I have had many bad servants, I never had a worse than he was; but he is wonderfully change; however, I thank your worship for your kind offer.
Wife. You are very happy, Sir, in that part, for you have good servants.
Ald. Truly, but indifferent. I have had my share of trouble that way, as well as you.
Wife. I am sure you have some very good ones.
Ald. Well, but I am very glad to hear that your bad one is mended.
Clo. I thank you, Sir, indeed he is very much mended.
Ald. It is very rare that bad servants grow better. I have often heard of good servants that have grown worse. I am sure with me they do so.
Clo. Indeed, Sir, I hope this lad of mine will prove a very good young man.
Ald. Good! why, you represented him to me as one of the worst wretches that ever came into your house. If I remember right, you said he was given to lying, and swearing, scoffing at religion, and every thing that was good; and was himself every thing that was bad.
Clo. Indeed he was so, Sir.
Ald. I doubt not but you did all you could to reclaim him, I know you did.
Clo. I endeavoured, Sir, to discharge my conscience towards him; but I had no satisfaction in it, only so far, that I had done my duty; I could do no more, and I was quite tired out with him: indeed, I resolved to put him away; for I could not bear him among my children, he was enough to spoil the children in the parish.
Ald. You have a great advantage, neighbour, that I have not; I am in such a continual harry of business, that I cannot look after my family as I would do. I have no leisure to discharge my duty to my servants. You have leisure, neighbour, and your servants have the advantage of it.
Clo. Truly, Sir, if I have leisure it is my loss, for my livelihood depends upon my being employe, as well as my servants; but they that are taught to know their duty, will always find leisure to do it. I doubt not, Sir, but you discharge yourself better that way than I can do.
Wife. It is seen plainly in your servants themselves that you do your duty to them, Sir. Sure never any body had such servants as you have.
Ald. Nay, neighbour, I do not say I discharge my duty better than you do. God forgive me! I do not discharge it at all; I mean to my apprentices; I take no care about them.
Wife. That is then because they are so good, and so religious, and they need no inspection; for you know, Sir, we are to instruct our servants as well as our children.
Ald. Well, I cannot say that I have made that much of my concern; for our apprentices generally come of pretty good families, and bring money with them, and they think themselves above being talked to about such things.
Clo. Then they are among those who Solomon calls fools, that despise instruction; and if they reject your offers to instruct them, I cannot see you can do in that case; that was my very case with this boy.
Ald. I perceive you have had a great deal of trouble with him.
Clo. Yes, indeed, I had so; I was quite weary of him.
Ald. He had the report of being a very wicked boy.
Clo. Indeed I was ashamed to have it said such a boy was in my house. I was afraid any of the neighbour's children should come near him.
Ald. Indeed, I have a young man I believe is not much the better of him. I have been chiding him a little about it; but is he really changed and reformed, think you?
Clo. Indeed, that he is, and most wonderfully too. I bless God for it.
Ald. I question not but you have taken a great deal of pains with him; but are you not deceived? is he not a cheat, and plays the hypocrite?
Clo. If ever there was a true convert in the world, I believe he is one.
Ald. You are very happy that God has so far blessed your endeavours with the child.
Wife. Not our endeavours, Sir, at all, we were denied that blessing. It all comes from you, Sir, the blessing is from your house.
Ald. What do you mean?
Clo. It a plain case, Sir.
Wife. If I understand you right, you spoke as if some of your servants had received no good from our William. If that be so, I know not; but I am sure William has received good from some in your house.
Ald. Yes, indeed, I found that a young lad I had newly bound was acquainted with this boy of your's, and that he was often abroad with him; and it has caused some disturbance among us; for knowing your lad was so wicked a boy, I forbade him to go in his company.
Clo. Pray what do you call this lad you speak of?
Ald. His name is Thomas, he is my youngest apprentice.
Wife. I know not what harm he may have received from our boy, but can assure you our boy has received much good him.
Clo. Ay, that's the youth God has made the instrument; he is a wonderful child.
Ald. He the instrument! How is that possible?
Clo. With God, Sir, all things are possible: assure yourself, Sir, so it is; and such a convert as this child is I neither ever saw nor read of.
Ald. Why, our Thomas is a poor, melancholy, discontented boy,-- a mere child.
Clo. He is such a child, Sir, as I never met with the like. I find you do not know him.
Ald. Why, I never thought there was any thing in him. He is but young, and indeed we all thought him young in every thing. It is true, he is a sober, modest sort of a boy, and talks pretty well; but I never say any thing extraordinary in him. He is so melancholy and discontented, we thought him distempered; and I have been at the point of turning him away.
Clo. You know, Sir, the scripture says, that "out of the mouths of babes and suckling he has ordained praise." This child, as you call him, is an excellent Christian, and beyond his years capable of showing it. Perhaps, Sir, you never tried him.
Ald. No, indeed, not I, as I said to you before neighbour, I have no time to trouble my head about apprentices, I mean as to such things.
Wife. And as I said to you before, Sir, you have no need for it, for your apprentices are fit to teach others.
Ald. I am glad to hear it so; but I confess you surprise me with the thing. How are you satisfied with the truth of these things?
Clo. My wife can give you an account of the matter, if your worship pleases to have patience to hear it.
Ald. I'll hear it with all my heart.
[Here the mistress relates the whole passage, and the discourse between her and the young man in the room over the work-house.]
Ald. I am amazed at this account you give me. But pray tell me, was all this begun by his keeping company and conversing with my young man?
Clo. Yes, all of it: he was the general mocker of every thing that was good, and began to do so in your young man's company; and he was the first that reproved him for it; and he did it so seriously, and so effectually, that it has pleased God to work upon him a
Family Instructor
IN FIVE PARTS;
I. Respecting Parents and Children
II. Masters and Servants
III. Husbands and Wives
[IV. Relating to Family Breaches]
[V. Management of Children;]
AND A
VARIETY OF CASES
ON THE NECESSITY OF
SETTING PROPER EXAMPLES
TO CHILDREN AND SERVANTS
WITH A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.
BUNGAY:
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY BRIGHTLY AND CHILDS.
1816.
PREFACE.
THE first Edition of this Work was so ill printed, and by reason of the author's absence from the press, was so incorrect, that it stood more than ordinarily in need of help of a good Introduction; yet it is hoped the work has not dishonoured the Reverend person, who did it the favour to give it the first recommendation.
The usefulness of the subject, and honesty of the design, has prevailed to give it a good reception in the world: and notwithstanding the casual imperfections of the first part, some good men have been pleased to accept the performance, to usher it into the World much to its advantage, and to recommend it as well from the pulpit as from the press.
The unworthy author earnestly desired, and to his utmost endeavoured to be for ever concealed; not that he was ashamed of the work, or sees any reason yet to be so; professing to have a firm belief, that be was not without a more than ordinary presence and assistance of the divine Spirit in the performance. But being fully satisfied with the prospect of doing good by it, he desired that his praise might not be of men, but of God.
To this end he took such measures at first for effectually preserving the secret, and for his intire remaining in the obscurity he desired, that for time after the publication, he continued unguessed at, and he flattered himself for a while, that the author would be no farther enquired into: But Satan hindered.
The success of the work, and the many testimonies given to the good effect it has had in families, notwithstanding their knowledge of the author, has fully delivered him the discouragement he was under on that occasion this alone prevailed with him for a second edition, which he had for some time resolved against. It was not without reason that he had great apprehensions, lest some men, suffering their prejudices to prevail even over their zeal for public good, might be tempted to lay the imperfections of the author of this book, as a stumbling-block in the way of those who might otherwise receive benefit by it, and so the good effects of his labours might be in part obstructed.
But God, who as before, he firmly believes, directed his hand in the work, has given his visible blessing to it; and has thereby from heaven owned the author, to his inexpressible satisfaction and joy. To his name be all the praise!
After this, let who will reject him or his book, it is not possible to give him the least disturbance.
After this, if any man will rob himself, or any one else, of the good this work might otherwise do, at his door be the sin.
The present edition is more carefully corrected, and the errors of the press are so few, and of so small consequence, that an ordinary judgment will correct them in reading.
The author in revising it, has made no additions, thinking his first design fully exhausted, and also esteeming it injurious to those, who have bought the first, to let editions vary so much from it, as to make them think their money lost, and to oblige them to buy it over again.
Some few things are omitted indeed, but not considerable, and those principally in the Notes; from the mere sense the author had of the comments being less beautiful than the text; and that others are able to make better annotations than himself
The whole Work being designed both to divert and instruct, the author endeavoured to adapt it as much as possible to both those uses, from whence some have called it A religious play.
It would more have answered that title, had the author's first design been pursued, which was to have made it a dramatic poem: but the subject was too solemn, and the text too copious, to suffer the restraint on one hand, or the excursions on the other, which the decoration of a poem would have made necessary.
As to its being called a play, be it called so if they please; it must be confessed, some parts of it are too much acted in many families among us: the author wishes, that either all our our Plays were as useful for the improvement and entertainment of the world, or that they were less encouraged.
THE
Family Instructor
PART I.
THE INTRODUCTION.
CATECHISING of children, and instructing them in the principles of the Christian religion, has been a practice in the church as antient as religion itself; and, the nature of the thing which requires it, was deduced from that strict injunction laid upon the children of Israel, Deut. vi. 7. "And thou shalt teach them diligently to thy children;" speaking of the laws and statutes which God then commanded Moses; and again, Deut. iv. 19. "But teach them to thy sons, and thy sons' sons."
It is not the design of this undertaking to give a list of authorities in Scripture for catechising and instructing of children, or the commendations and given there to those who did instruct their children in the knowledge and practice of religion. That eminent text is sufficient to this, being the blessed character given to Abraham from God himself: "I know Abraham (says the Lord, Gen. xviii. 19,) that he will command his children, and his household after him," &c.
But we live in an age that does not want so much to know their duty, as to practise it; not so much to be taught, as to be made obedient to what they have already learned; and therefore I shall take up no time in proving this matter to be a duty; there is hardly a wretch so hardened, but will readily acknowledge it. But we are, I say, arrived at a time in which men will frankly own a thing to be their duty which at the same time they dare omit practice of: and innumerable arts, shifts, and turns, they find out to make that omission easy to themselves, and excusable to others.
One part of this work is pointed at such, if possible, to make them blush at their unaccountable rashness, and to shame them out of such a sordid inconsistent course, as that of living in the allowed omission of what they acknowledge to be their duty.
The way I have taken for this is entirely new, and at first perhaps it may appear something odd, and the method may be contemned. But let such blame their own more irregular tempers, that must have every thing turned into new models, must be touched with novelty, and have their fancies humoured with the dress of a thing; so that if it be what has been said over and over a thousand times, yet if it has but a different coloured coat, or a new feather in its cap, it pleases and wins upon them; whereas the same truths, written in the divinest style in the world, would be flat, stale, and unpleasant, without it.
If, then, after all the pains which have been taken by ministerial labour and instruction, and by the pressing exhortation and moving arguments of eminent divines, even of all opinions, in their writings on this subject, this mean and familiar method should by its novelty prevail, this will be a happy undertaking, and at the same time be no reproach at all to the labours of others.
In the pursuit of this book, care is taken to avoid distinction of opinions as to the church of England, or Dissenters; and no offence can be taken here either on the one side or the other. As I hope both are Christians, so both are treated here as such; and the advice impartially directed to both, without the least distinction.
If those who call themselves Christians and will not instruct their children and servants, here they will find their children and servants instructing them, and reproving them too; and both they and their children may here meet with instructions together.
The father represented here, appears knowing enough; but seems to be one of those professing Christians who acknowledge God in their mouths, yet take no effectual care to honour him with their practice; that live in a round of religion, as a thing of course; have not the power of godliness, nor much of the form; a kind of negative Christian, a God-I-thank-thee Pharisee; sound in knowledge, but negligent in conversation; orthodox in opinion, but heterodox in practice. And that I have found out such a person, is to signify, that let him be where he will, and who he will, this work is calculated to reprove and admonish him.
The mother here represented, is likewise a formal, loose living Christian, a Protestant professor of religion the practice of it; but yet she is a professor, one knows how to talk of religion, and makes a show to belong to it. But, alas, for the rest! the consequence will appear in the book, in which I doubt a great many may see their own pictures drawn. May the sight of it have the same healing, convincing efficacy as appears upon the persons here, whose story is therefore brought for an example to them.
May they see it, and blush, like the father here mentioned; like him, may they be ashamed of their likeness: may they see it, and, like him, effectually reform the dreadful practice. This would completely answer the end and the design of the author of this book, and rejoice the hearts of all serious Christians in the nation.
The Child who is here made the inquirer, has no questions put into his mouth but what are natural and rational, consistent with principle, and, as near as could be, are such as are proper even to a child: none but what the author wishes every body would put seriously to themselves as often as they look about them in the world, and none but what even a child is capable to inquire into. The author has endeavoured to produce the questions with an air of mere nature, innocence, and childhood; yet such as, being naturally adapted to the general state of things, may be apposite and direct: such as being the mere product of the most common reasonings, and even the understandings of children, a child's understanding may justly be supposed to have proposed them.
Though much of the story is historical, and might be made appear to be true in fact; yet the author, resolving not to give the least hint that should lead to persons, has been obliged to leave it uncertain to the reader, whether it be a history or a parable; believing it may be either way adapted to the sincere design; which is (1) to reprove those parents who neglect the instruction of their children and (2) to direct young persons in their first reflections, guiding them to inquire about themselves, their original. their state, their progress in this world, the reason of their being born into it, their passing out of it, and, which is the main cogitation, their condition beyond it.
The method is new, as is said above, but perhaps may be the more pleasing. Any thing, or any method, if we may but bring the main end to pass, viz. to bring young and old to set earnestly and heartily about the great work of serving, glorifying, and obeying the God that made them.
The child is supposed to come up to such years as to be thinking and inquiring, suppose about five or six years old; and as nature is always prompting the soul to be searching after something which it did not know before, so that inquisitive temper is in some sedater than in others. However, our little child asks but very little of his father but what a child of that age may be very capable of asking.
The scene of this little action is not laid very remote, or the circumstances obscure. THe father, walking in a field behind his garden, finds one of his children wandered out, all alone, under a row or walk of trees, sitting upon a little rising ground by itself, looking about, and mighty busy, pointing this way and that way, sometimes up and sometimes down, and sometimes to itself: so that the father, coming unperceived pretty near, found the little creature very busy about something, he could not tell what; whne the father, after much observation, and some surprise, discovering himself, asks the child what he was doing, and so sits down by him; which question begins
THE FIRST DIALOGUE.
I was looking up there (says the child; pointing up in the air.)
Fath. Well, and what did you point thither for, and then point to the ground, and then to yourself afterwards? what was that about?
Child. I was a wondering, father.
Fath.At what, my dear?
Child. I was wondering what place that is.
Fath. That is the air, the sky.
Child. And what is beyond that, father?
Fath.Beyond, my dear; why, above it all there is heaven.
Child. Who lives there, father? My nurse talks of heaven sometimes, and says God is in heaven. Is that the place up there?
Fath.Yes, my dear.
Child. Why, father, does God dwell there? Sure it is a fine place. How do we know that he dwells there? Have you been there, father?
Fath.No, my dear; but we know it two ways. 1. The scriptures tell us heaven is his throne; that he has spoken from heaven, and has been seen come down from heaven; and the Son of God was seen to ascend into heaven. 2. Besides, child, he made heaven for his eternal habitation; and the making of, and preserving all things, is a token of his being, and of his being God.
Child. But, dear father, my nurse tells me that God made me too; and that was it I was pointing to myself about. If God made me, how did I come from thence hither, father? I was a wondering, for it is a huge way.
Fath. Child, God made you by the course of nature. Having made the whole world, at first, and all the things therein, he gave a command, and with that command gave a power, to nature to grow and increase. By virtue of that command, every thing increases, and every creature is produced by its own kind. But at first all was made by his infinite power who made the whole world.
Child. Why father, did God make all those creatures we see about us, this grass, and the trees, and these cows and horses, and the dogs and cats, and every thing?
Fath. Yes, my dear; he "made heaven and earth, and the sea, and all that in them is," as you read in your commandments, child.
Child. And what a creature am I, father? I an't like them; I can speak; they can't speak, father.
Fath. No, child, you are not like them. God has made you a rational creature, and given you a soul.
Child. A soul, father! what is that?
Fath. It is a part of his own image stamped upon you, and the breath of an invisible power, by which you can think of things to come, and remember things past; reflect, argue, and know both yourself and him that made you.
Child. Why, dear father, cannot the horses and cows do so too?
Fath. No, child, not at all.
Child. Why, has he made me a better creature than they?
Fath. Yes, he has, and has given them to you for food and service. Don't you see that we eat them, and ride upon them, and the like?
Child. I am glad I am made a better creature than they. I'd thank him for it, if I knew how. Should I not do so, father?
Fath. Indeed you should, child.
Child. But you never told me so before, father, as I remember.
Fath. Not so often as I should have done, child; but remember it now, my dear [and kisses him].
Child. So I will -- But how must I thank him for it, father?
Fath. You must pray to him to bless you, child, and then give thanks to him for your creation and preservation.
Child. Do you do so, father?
Fath. Yes, child.
Child. O, Ho; because I never heard you do so, father.
Fath. Well, but you have been taught.
Child. Yes, my mother and my nurse taught me to say my prayers; but I don't see a word there that thanks God for making me a boy, not a horse or a cow, or giving me a soul, father.
Fath. But it included, child, when in the beginning of your prayers you say, "Our Father" -- For God is a father in giving you a soul, as well as a creator in making your body.
Child. But may I not say so in my prayers then?
Fath. Yes, child, if you were taught.
Child. Indeed I can say that without teaching; I can thank God for giving me a soul, and making me better than the horses and the cows, without my nurse. I wish I had known it sooner, father. Won't God be angry I never thanked him for it yet?
Fath. I hope not, child, since you did not know it.
Child. Dear father, won't God be angry with you that you never told me before?
Fath. Indeed he has reason.
Child. Dear father, why did not you tell me?
[Here the child cries, and the father blushes, or at least ought to have done so.]
Fath. Well, child, do not cry: come, take care you thank God for it, now you do know it.
Child. Indeed I'll thank him for it; for my heart jumps within me, to think he has made me better than other creatures.
Fath. My dear child!
[The father is moved with the child's expression, and kisses him.]
Child. But, dear father, if God should be angry with me for thanking him, will he not take this soul away again, and turn me into a horse or a cow?
Fath. No, child; God does not punish that way. It is true, God may take away the use of it, take away the reason, or the speech, or the senses, and leave you in some kind worse than if you had no soul at all; he may do all these things, and more.
Child. Then should not I, when I say my prayers, remember to pray, that God would not be angry that I never thanked him for it before?
Fath. Your nurse will teach you to do so.
Child. Indeed, father, I'll do that, whether my nurse teaches me or no. Sure, if God made me, I may pray to him not to be angry with me. If you were angry with me, father, I don't want my nurse to teach me to come and say, My dear father, do not be angry. Besides, if God has made me so much better than other things, won't he teach me to thank him for it?
Fath.I hope he will, child.
Child. But, dear father, wherefore has God made me better than other creatures? Had he not some reason for doing so?
Fath. No reason, child, on thy side.
Child, But does not God expect then that I should something that the cows and horses cannot do? Is there not something for me to do for it?
Fath. Yes; indeed there is, child.
Child. What is that, father? for I have been wondering what my business is in this world, as well as how I came hither. What am I to do here?
Fath.You are to live here to the glory of him that made you.
Child. How's that, father?
Fath.You must fear God, and keep his commandments.
Child. What, the ten commandments, father?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. Truly, if God has made me, and made me better than the rest of his creatures, and can take from me, as you said, father, all that he has given me, and make me worse than the and horses, sure I should do what he commands me.
Fath. That's true, child.
Child. But mayn't I do more than that? Mayn't I love him too, father? for sure he loves me, or else he would not have made me and given me all this.
Fath. Yes, child, you must love him too.
Child. But, father, that is not in my commandments; won't God be angry with me if I should love him?
Fath. No, child, to obey God, and to fear God, is to love God; for to fear him as your father, and to serve him as your father, to fear him and to serve him a child; and that is to love him. Don't love me, my dear?
Child. Yes, dear father.
Fath. Why do you do what I bid you? and do you cry when I am angry with you?
Child. Because I love you, dear father.
Fath. So, if you fear God, and serve God as your father and as his child, that is, loving him; for "they that love him keep his commandments."
Child. Indeed I think it need not be put into my commandments; for sure when we know what he has done for us, to make us souls, and not make us like the horses and cows, we must needs love him. Don't you love him, father?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. And do not body else love him, father?
Fath. No, child; a great many wicked children, and wicked people, don't love him.
Child. And has he given them souls too, father, and made them better than the beasts, as he has done for me?
Fath.Yes, child.
Child. But sure they do not know it then?
Fath. They do not think of it as thou dost, my dear.
Child. It may be their fathers and mothers never told them of it, as you do me now.
Fath. They don't so much as they should, nor so soon as they should.
Child. I wish you had told me of it sooner, father.
Fath. I hope 'tis not too late now, child.
Child. But, father, if these wicked children do not love God, nor thank God, for giving them souls, and making them better creatures than the horses and cows, is not God angry with them for it?
Fath. Yes, my dear, God is very angry with them.
Child. But why does he not take away their souls again, and turn them into horses and cows, or take away the use of their reason, and leave them worse than the beasts, as you said he could do, father? Sure God is not angry with them at all.
Fath. Yes, my dear, God is angry with them for all that; he lets them go on; sometimes till they amend and repent, and turn to God again, and then he forgives them; other times he lets them go on, and grow worse, and punishes them for all together at last.
Child. That's a sad thing, father; sure God is very angry when he lets them go on, and takes no care of them, father, isn't he?
Fath. Yes, indeed, it is a sign of his severest anger when he lets them go on, and does not punish them till the last; for it is a signal that he has no thought of mercy in store for them.
Child. And when God leaves them so, are they not sorry for it, father?
Fath.No, no; they always grow worse and worse, till they grow mere reprobates, and hardened against him that made them.
Child. They are sad folks indeed. But, father, does not God destroy them at last?
Fath. He does worse, child; he punishes them ever-lastingly in hell.
Child. Dear father, don't let me make God angry with me, as they do; won't you tell me what I must do to save me from God's being angry?
Fath.Yes, I will, child.
Child. But you never did yet, father? I am afraid he is angry with me already: for I am almost six years old, and never thanked him, nor loved him. nor feared him, nor nothing, father: he has let me alone, and has let me go just as you say be does the wicked folks; I am sure he must be angry with me, and he will punish me everlastingly in hell, aw you said, father. O what must I do?
[Here conviction works in the child, the child weeps.]
Fath. Why, child, did you not do all this?
Child. Dear father, I never knew what God was, or what he had done for me; you never told me a word of him in all my life till now! I never heard you pray to him in all my life! I know nothing of him! How should I, father?
Fath. But, child, your nurse and your mother taught you that God made you.
Child. Yes; but they never told me what God was, and what he had done for me, and what I was to do again. I thought nothing, not I, father; I lived just as I saw you live, father; I never prayed to God in all my life, father.
Fath. Why, child, did not your mother teach you to say your prayers every night and morning?
Child. Yes, father, I said the prayers over, but I never thought a word what they meant; I only said them by rote. Sure God does not take notice of that; does he father? If he does, our parrot can pray as well I.
Fath. True, child, God requires the heart, and no prayers but what the heart joins in.
Child. You say, I may pray to God for what I want, and I may thank him for making me, and for making me better than the horses and cows.
Fath. Yes, I do say so.
Child. But, father, am I to do nothing else? Did God make me for nothing? Have I no other business now I am made? What do other folks do that are made as I am?
Fath. Yes, child, you are made to serve him. You know your catechism.
Child. What's that, the questions and answers my nurse taught me?
Fath. Yes, the questions and answers. There you are told, your business here is to serve God.
Child. Dear father, did God make me to serve him?
Fath. Yes, child, he made you to serve him.
Child. And do you serve him, father? What is it to serve him? how must I do it? I would fain serve him; because he has made me, and made me better than the horses and cows.
[Here the father weeps, and, speaking to himself with a sigh, says, Lord, how this child is made to sting my soul to the quick! God knows, I have neither served him, nor taught this dear little creature to do it, as I should have done.]
[The father was so struck with the child's question, viz. Do you serve him, father? that he gives no present answer; and the little inquisitive creature goes on again.]
Child. Dear father, may not I be taught how to serve God?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. Will you teach me, father?
Fath. Yes, child.
Child. Why, you never did it yet, father: may be, I ben't big enough yet; when shall I be big enough, father! when I am a man?
Fath. You may learn to serve God, though you are a child.
Child. Does my brother know how to serve God, father? He is a great boy, and I never saw you teach him. Can you teach me, father?
Fath. God will teach you himself, child.
Child. God teach me himself! How can that be?
Fath. He has many ways of teaching, child, viz. by his word, his ministers, and his Spirit.
Child. What are they, father? you said just now, you would teach me.
Fath. I may teach you too, child; but the word of God is given to teach you; ministers are sent to instruct by that word; and parents are ministers of God to instruct and children; and the Spirit of God is given to seal the instruction, and make it effectual.
Child. Do the fathers teach their children?
Fath. It is their duty to do so.
Child. And be they ministers to their families?
Fath. So far as to instruct and teach their children, they are, my dear.
Child. And when will you be a minister, father, that I may be instructed how to serve God?
Fath. My dear, I am so much a minister at any time.
Child. I wonder.
Fath. What do you wonder at, my dear?
Child. Dear father, you say the fathers are to teach their children, and are ministers to their families, and you are a minister, and yet I was never taught. I wonder what all this is; for I have never been taught any thing, but to play, and sing the songs my nurse teaches me, and read in my sister's song book.
Fath. Well, my dear, you shall not want teaching.
Child. Will you teach me to serve God, father?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. I am glad of it; I would fain serve God, father; for I love him already dearly.
[Conviction of sin thus working up to a love to God, a fear of God, and a desire of serving God, which is holiness, may be very well allowed here to be an appearance of converting grace in the heart of a little one.]
[The father takes notice of it as such.]
Fath. That's a true principle to begin to serve God from, my dear; for God accepts no fear but what is founded in our love to him; pray, then, my dear, that he will increase your love to him, that you may serve him acceptably.
Child. But, dear father, you say God dwells up there in heaven; how can he hear what I say? I can't speak loud enough to be heard so far; and then, though God could hear me, how does he know when I speak as my means?
Fath. Yes, child, God can hear and know, for he is infinite.
Child. What is that, father?
Fath. Why, child, it takes in all the attributes of God.
Child. I don't know these hard words, father. Pray, who is God, and what is he? Can't you tell me, father, so I may understand it?
Fath. It is very hard to give a description of God to thy understanding, my dear.
Child. And that is the reason you never said any thing of him to me, father; is it not? Must not I know who God is till I am a man, father?
Fath. Yes, child; the scripture says, "Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth."
Child. But, dear father, how shall I remember him? I never heard any thing of him, you never told me a word of him yet; may be I an't a youth yet; I long to be a youth, father; then you'll tell me who God is, that I may remember him, father, won't you?
Fath. Dear child! you ought to have been told who God is before now; indeed I have neglected to instruct thee as I ought to have done; but I'll tell thee now, my dear.
Child. Isn't it too late, father? O why would you neglect it, father? Was you angry with me, and would not instruct me, father? What if God should let me go now, and punish me everlastingly, as you said? I wish you had not neglected it, father.
Fath. No, child, it is not too late, as you shall know by and by.
Child. Tell me then, father, what is God? I would fain know God. Can't I see him? To be sure I should know him if I could see him.
Fath. No, child, you cannot see him: "No mortal eye hath seen God at any time."
Child. How shall I know then what he is?
Fath. You most know God by the scriptures, by reading and by meditating on the revelation he has given of himself there; you must read of him in your Bible.
Child. But, father, I can't know him by reading my book; I have read my book often, but I know nothing about God: can't you tell me what God is, father?
Fath. No words can express his being, or describe him.
Child. How shall I know then by reading, father?
Fath. I mean, child, no words can express it fully; but the Spirit of God expounds the word of God to us, and by he that Spirit he teaches us the knowledge of himself.
Fath. But you can tell me something of him, father? You say he dwells up there: what is he like, father?
Fath. God is one, infinite, eternal, incomprehensible, invisible being; the first cause of all things; the giver of life and being to all things; existing prior, and therefore superior to all things; infinitely perfect, great, holy, just, wise, and good.
Child. These are hard words, father; how shall I understand them? What do you mean by the word infinite, for I see you put that in among the rest over and over?
Fath. Why, child, infinite is a word to signify something beyond all that is known, and can only be described in thought; and those thoughts only describe it by acknowledging that they cannot describe it. But thus much you may understand by it:-- That which was before all things, and shall continue after them; that he hath power to make all things, and the same power preserves and maintains all things, and at last will put all things to an end. Of the particulars, you may understand thus: that he is infinitely great, signifies, that he has made thee, my dear, and all people in the world; that he is infinitely wise signifies, that he knows every thought in the heart, and that implies, that he hears every word that is spoken, and sees every action that is done, though ever so secret; that he is infinitely holy and just, signifies, that he hates all that is evil, and will punish it; that he is infinitely good, signifies, that he loves every good action, and will reward it; that he is infinitely powerful, signifies, that all other powers move and act by him; "for by him we live, and move, and have our being." Dost thou know him, child, by this description?
Child. I am wondering! father, I don't say I know, but I wonder! I am afraid, I tremble! father, sure God is very dreadful!
Fath. He is so, child.
Child. Does be ever speak, father? Can't I bear him speak?
Fath. His voice is terrible, and is a consuming fire, thou canst not hear him speak, my dear.
Child. My nurse said, father, that when it thundered, it was God spoke. What is the thunder and lightning, father? Is that God?
Fath. No, my dear, it is the work of God, as all the rest of the creation is his work, but no otherwise; the voice God is compared to thunder, indeed, but God speaks to us in another kind of voice than that.
Child. What voice is that, father?
Fath. The voice of the gospel, and the voice of his creatures.
Child. What is that, father? I never heard it; may I hear that voice? I would fain hear God speak, father; for I would do what he bids me, and never make him angry.
Fath. The gospel is the word of God, the message of life sent from heaven, revealed in the scriptures, and preached by his servants, the ministers; this is the voice I mean, child.
Child. I don't understand it, father.
Fath. Why the Bible is the word of God, it was dictated by the inspiration of the Spirit of God; when read in the Bible, you are to believe that God speaks to you in the words you read; this is his voice.
Child. Why! doth God speak to me when I read my book, father
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. But then, what if I do not understand it? then it nothing to me; how shall I do to know what I read?
Fath. You shall be taught, my dear.
Child. Who should teach me; won't God make me understand what he says when I read my hook?
Fath. Indeed I should have taught thee, my dear, that is true.
[The Lord pardon me, I have too much neglected it, says the father aside; and turning away his head, cannot refrain tears.]
Child. Dear father, tell me, what does my book say? what shall I learn there of God?
Fath. You will learn that God is from the beginning, and to the end; from everlasting to everlasting; has created all things, and knows all things.
Child. Knows all things! that's strange father; does God know all things?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. If God knows all things, he knows how old I am, and that all this while I never thought of him, nor served him, and never knew any thing of him till now; and he knows father, you never told me any thing of him before now: sure he is very angry, and will punish me; what must I do?
Here the child weeps again.]
Fath. But God is merciful too.
Child. What is that, father?
Fath. Why, to those that repent of their sins past, reform their lives, he is merciful; that is, upon their repentance he forgives them, for the sake of Jesus Christ, and is reconciled to them, as though they had not sinned against him.
Child. Jesus Christ! father, who is that?
Fath. He is God.
Fath. Why, father, you said, God was one first being, is there more Gods than one? is there two firsts? my commandments say there is but one God.
Fath. No, child, there is but one God; yet Jesus Christ is essentially God, though in a second person; he is God coequal, co-eternal, that is the same in being, nature, and attributes; "God manifested in the flesh," sent from heaven to redeem a lost world.
Child. I don't understand a word of all that, father; what does it mean?
Fath. Why, child, you are to understand, that when the first man and the first woman in the world were created, God having made a covenant or agreement of holiness and life with them, and in them, with all that should be born of them, they broke that covenant, and so involved all their posterity in their guilt, the punishment of which was eternal death: but God, who as I told you, child, was infinitely good, though provoked utterly to destroy the whole race for that sin, and being under the engagement of that covenant to do it, yet, in the mere operation of his own goodness, determined to recover sinful men from the gulf of death: to make this adequate or suitable to his own infinite justice and holiness, he incarnated, by a miraculous birth, the divine nature into the human, and caused this blessed con...nation to appear in the world in the likeness of sinful flesh; so being infinite God on the one band, and man the other, he became capable of being a complete sacrifice for the satisfaction of God's justice; and afterwards suffering the divine wrath, made peace for us by the blood of his cross; was crucified, dead, and buried, as you say in creed, rose again, is ascended into heaven, sits at the right hand of power, and shall come again to judge us all: and this, child, is called our Saviour, the Son of God, and is indeed God himself.
Child. I don't know how to understand all this, father.
Fath. You most understand it gradually, my dear, a little at a time; you can understand this, that we are all under the sentence of death for the first man's sin: "By one man sin entered into the world, and death by Sin." Rom. v. 12.
Child. That is a strange thing, father! what, are we condemned to suffer for that man's transgression?
Fath. The scripture is plain in it-- "By the offence of one, judgment came upon all men to condemnation," Rom, v. 18.
Child. But, father, you said just now, God would be reconciled to me, if I repented, and was sorry for my sins.
Fath. Yes, child, I did so.
Child. But how can that be, when you say I shall be condemned for another man's transgression?
Fath. It is very plain, that the effect of that man's first sin is a corrupt taint which we all bring into the world with us, and which we find upon our nature, by which we find a natural propensity in us to do evil, and no natural inclination to do good; and this we are to mourn ever, and lament, as the fountain of sin, from whence all our wicked actions do proceed; and this is called indwelling sin.
Child. Have I this in me, father?
Fath. Yes, child; did you not say, how should you do this, or that, for you were not taught? you can be a naughty boy without teaching, to sin is natural. But you must be instructed and laboured with to be a good child. "To will, is present with me, but how to perform that which is good, I know not; in me, that is, in my flesh, dwelleth no good thing," Rom. vii. 18.
Child. What will become of me then, father, if I was wicked when I was born?
Fath. This, my dear, is that which I named Jesus Christ for.
Child. Why, what will he do for me?
Fath. He will deliver thee from this body of death:-- "Who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank God, through [or for] Jesus Christ our Lord," Rom. vii. 24, 25.
Child. How can he do this?
Fath. "He hath delivered us from the curse of the law, by being made a curse for us;" and whereas we are not able to perform any thing, he hath "fulfilled all righteousness for us, [if we believe in him;] for being justified by faith, we have peace with God; and so as by the disobedience of one man, many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one, [Christ] shall many be made righteous," Rom. v. 19.
Child. But, father, will Jesus Christ answer for me for that first transgression, and take away the sentence you say I was under? for if he does not, I am undone; to be sure I can't do it myself.
Fath. Yes, my dear, "the blood of Christ cleanseth from all sin," as well of nature, as of life; "and there now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus," Rom. viii. 1.
Child. And now we are all saved again by this new Saviour's satisfaction; an't we, father?
Fath. No, child, not all! We cannot say all are saved, but all those who are saved, are so saved, viz. by the satisfaction of the blessed Redeemer, being chosen from eternity by the mere grace and good-will of God; to whom, after they come into the world, God of the same grace gives repentance and faith, sanctifies and justifies them, and then accepts them for the sake of the Saviour of the world.
Child. So then are none saved, bus such as God has chose again out of the rest?
Fath. We have no warrant to say any other are saved, and yet we dare not say who shall not be saved.
Child. But who then are they that are chosen, father? don't you know their names?
Fath. No, child, God has left that uncertain to us.
Child. But, dear father, I would fain know if my name be among them; for what will become of me, if I should not be one of them?
Fath. I hope you are, child: God has not let us know who are shut out, but by shutting out themselves.
Child. But is there no way to know, father?
Fath. Why, it may be presumptively known by this, that since to all that God has thus chosen, he, by his Spirit, gives faith and repentance, sanctification in heart, and justification of person, whoever the Spirit of God worketh this faith and repentance in, have a very good assurance that they are not in the number: "the Spirit witnessing with their spirits, that they are the children of God," Rom. viii. 16.
Child. But how shall I know if I have faith and repentance? what are they, father? I never heard of them in my life: you never told me a word of them before.
Fath. Repentance, child, is a sense of, and sincere sorrow for sin, in all its parts, as well original, as actual; and this sorrow must be always attended with a sincere desire of pardon and sanctification, and earnest endeavours after reformation and amendment. And faith, child, is a fiducial, filial confidence in the promises of God, and consequently in God himself; thereby humbly realizing, and appropriating to ourselves, the whole purchase of the death of Jesus Christ, with a relying upon his merits, resting on him, and adhering to him for life and salvation.
Child. I shall never remember all this, father, how did you come to remember it? did your father only tell it to you, as you do me? are there no books to teach me? if not, won't you write it down for me, father? you know I can read.
Fath. It is all written down already, child, and you have it every word in your Bible.
Child. I do remember something, father, of Adam and Eve; were they the folks that sinned first?
Fath. Yes, child, and han't you read of Jesus Christ?
Child. Yes, father, but I do not understand a word of him, nobody ever taught me; besides, I have heard my brother cry, O Jesus! and O Christ! at his play, and nurse chide him for it, and said it was a naughty word.
Fath. Your brother is a naughty boy, and should be whipt when he uses those words.
Child. Who should whip him, father, you don't?
Fath. But I shall, if I hear him say so again.
Child. But why, father, if Jesus Christ be God, how is it a naughty word?
Fath. It is a naughty, profane thing, to name his name on slight occasions; that name should only be named with fear and reverence, and, on a serious occasion, as we use it now, my dear: your commandments say, you must not take the Lord's name in vain; that is, upon common occasions, such as passion, play, imprecation, profane cursing, swearing, and the like.
Child. But who is this Jesus Christ, father? I have never heard any thing of him before, but only by his name.
Fath. He is "God manifested in the flesh," and the Son of God sent down from heaven to die for sinners, and to save us from eternal death.
[Here the child is silent, and tears fall from its eyes.]
Fath. Don't cry, my dear, why dost thou cry?
Child. I must cry, dear father, there is something bids me cry! I cannot tell what you say at all, father; but my heart beats, I am affrighted, -- die for sinners! Jesus Christ God! God, and yet die! and die for sinners! what is all this? am I a sinner?
Fath. Yes, my dear, all of us are sinners.
Child. What, and did God die for me? Jesus Christ die for me!
[The child trembles and cries; the father weeps too, and kisses it, moved to see the Spirit of God visibly working in the heart of the little creature.]
Fath. Yes, my dear, and will save thee, I hope: for he is thy Redeemer.
Child. Then God is not angry with me for my fault in not knowing of him sooner?
Fath. No, my dear, he is reconciled by Jesus Christ, who died to bring thee to God, to make peace for thee by the blood of his cross, and procure pardon for all thy faults.
Child. How does he do it?
Fath. He gives repentance and remission. Have you not read in your Bible of repentance, my dear?
Child. I don't know, I believe I have; but nobody told me any thing what it is, and I do not remember, father: is all that in my book too?
Fath. Yes, my dear, I will show it thee there, and explain it to thee: thou shalt not want teaching any longer, if thou wilt but learn.
Child. Indeed I'll learn it, father, with all my heart: shall I know what God is, and what Jesus Christ is, if I learn my book, father?
Fath. Yes, child, all that I have told thee, and a great deal more is there, my dear; and you must read the Bible, and there you will learn it all.
Child. Did you learn it all there, father?
Fath. Yes, my dear.
Child. But did your father never show you where to find it, and tell you what it meant? for I have read a deal in that book, father; but I never knew what it meant, and you never showed it me, father: you know it was not my fault; dear father; was it? you know I am but a child.
[Pages 24 and 25 missing here.]
Fath. Do that, child! the Spirit of God is God, and therefore can do all things. But it is the peculiar work of the Spirit in this cane. The Spirit is your sanctifier; it is the light of your path; it works faith and gives repentance; it puts every good thing into you, and works every good work for you: it gives a saving efficacy to every ordinance, and it brings you to Christ, to rely on him for salvation; he brings you to God the Father, whose acceptance in is your life.
Child. And will this Spirit be had by praying to God for it?
Fath. Yes, child; for you cannot pray to God in faith without the help of the Spirit; and when the Spirit works in you a disposition to pray, it cannot but answer its own image, and the breathings of the soul, which itself has created: "for the longing soul shall be satisfied."
Child. But, father, you say the Spirit of God has given the word, which you say is the Bible, for my teaching; and yet you say the Spirit teaches: what, do they both teach the same thing?
Fath. Child, the Bible is your rule of life. Though the Spirit is the secret instructor, the scripture is the key of instruction. There you are to learn how God is to be worshipped: how to order your conversation aright: how to perform your duty, and "what it is the Lord thy God requires of thee." There you have an historical account of the whole world: of its creation, the fall, the first condemnation of it to a general deluge, typical of the great deluge of God's wrath, which shall drown all ungodly men for ever. There you have the history of God's church, from the beginning to the fulness of the time, and the fulfilling Old Testament types, and Old Testament promises. There you have the history of our Saviour, of his miraculous conception and birth, holy life, wondrous doctrine, stupendous miracles; his death, passion, resurrection, and glorious ascension. There you have an account of the first mission Holy Ghost, and at last the whole doctrine of the gospel of truth founded on the redemption purchased by Christ. There you have the whole mystery of godliness unfolded; the great wonder of wonders! the immortal to die! and the eternal to begin! the great destruction of sin, the condemnation of the devil, and the salvation of the world. All this is to be seen in the Bible: which being the word of God, you are to read it with reverence, regard it with faith as the word of God, and obey it as your rule.
Child. And to pray for the Spirit to help me to do so, must I not, father? for you told me I could not believe or understand it without the Spirit to assist me.
Fath. That is true, child.
Child. But, father, are you sure that the Bible is the word of God?
Fath. Yes, child, very sure of it.
Child. And that the Spirit of God can only teach us to understand it?
Fath. Yes, child.
Child. Why, don't the ministers understand it, and teach folks to understand it? What do they go to church for?
Fath. The ministers are called ministers of the word, that is, expounders of the scriptures; and the preaching of the gospel is one of the ordinary means, as the reading of the word is another, by which the blessed Spirit of God instructs the hearts of his people, and turns them to himself. Reading the word written, that is, the Bible, and hearing the word preached, that is, the sermons preached by God's ministers, are the common methods appointed, by which the knowledge of God is conveyed to us.
Child. Then I must go to church, and hear the ministers preach, as well as read the Bible?
Fath. Yes, child.
Child. Why, father, my mother has carried me to church a great many times; but I thought I was carried there only to show my new coat, and my fine hat. I don't know what the man said, when I went.
Fath. But you were a naughty boy then: you should have minded what he said; you were not carried there to show your fine clothes.
Child. Why, father, I thought so; for when it ruined, and I could not wear my best clothes, my mother would not let me go out; or when the wind blowed the powder out my hair, my mother would not let me go. And I heard you say, father, last Sunday, that you could not go to church, because the barber had not brought your new perriwig home: and another Sunday, for want of a pair of gloves, you stayed at home, and played with me Sunday long, or lay down on the couch to sleep. I thought father, I had gone thither for nothing but to show my fine clothes.
Fath. No, child, there is other work to be done there.
Child. What, father, to remember what fine clothes other folks have on, is not that it? I know my sisters go to church, and they do nothing but look about them, to see how every body is dressed; and when they come home, my mother and they, you know, father, take up the whole night in telling one another what every body had on: and they do it so well, I wondered, father, and I thought I'd try if I could do so too: but I could not remember half of it.
Fath. They might have been better employed, my dear.
Child. What, my mother? Indeed, father, I thought it had been all they went for; and I could not think any thing else, you know, when my mother did so too. I am sure my mother would not have done so, if it had not been good: for 'tis my dear mother, and I love her dearly; and I am sure she would not do a naughty thing.
[O see here the mischief of evil examples in parents.]
Fath. Well, child, thou wilt know better in time. The business of going to church is quite of another nature. It is to hear the word of God expounded and preached; and it is hearing for thy life. It is a duty in the ministers to preach: they were first sent by our Saviour himself, who appointed apostles and prophets for the work of the ministry, and gave them their errand in his command, "Go, preach the gospel to every creature:" and it is a duty to us to hear, and to hear diligently, and not to forsake assembling ourselves together.
Child. Why, father, you seldom go yourself. It is only for little boys to learn then, is it?
Fath. No, child, it is every one's duty to hear the word preached, and to mix it with faith in the hearing.
Child. Then you will let me go to church: won't you father? for sometimes my mother won't let me go to church, if it be but a little ill weather, and if a little wind does but blow: and if God requires me to go, and my mother won't let me, what must I do? Won't God be angry with me for not going to hear his word preached?
Fath. If your mother won't let you go, then, child, it none of your fault.
Child. But will not God be angry with my mother, dear father, for not letting me go? that's all one.
Fath. Well, child, be not troubled at that: thou shalt go to church every day, and not be hindered. Come, my dear, thou wilt catch cold to be so long out; let us go home to your mother.
The father, as may be well imagined, warmed with the various thoughts that occurred to him upon this surprising discourse, was willing to get the child away, that be might give vent to his own mind: and bringing the child in, walks out again, till he was got to retirement, and then breaks out in a most passionate manner upon himself, giving full vent to convictions in such a manner as this:
"What an ungrateful creature have I been to the goodness and bounty of God! that goodness and bounty which have given me so much advantage, and so many ways to glorify him and honour him in the world, and to whom I owe my life, my being, and well-being in the world! And how has God reproved me in this little dear!
"Wretch that I am! how I have lived as without God in the world, and in my family! that I have not so much as told my children who made them, or let them know or guess, by my behaviour, that there is such a thing as a God in the world, or that any worship is due to a sovereign Almighty Being! How has the little lamb complained to me, that he has never heard me pray to God in all his life! and is but too true! How did it reproach me when I spoke to it of Jesus Christ, to hear the little creature say, 'Who is that, father?' and of the Holy Ghost, 'Who is that, father?' and of serving God, 'Do you serve him, father?'
"What a life have I led! Good Lord, what have I been doing! How shall I account to thee for the souls committed to my charge! that I should have the blessing of children given to me, and my children have the curse of a prayerless uninstructing father to them!"
Tears followed the parent's speech; and he prays earnestly to God to forgive him the neglect and omission of his duty to his children and family; and enters into a engagement between God and his own soul, and that for the future he will set up the due and daily worship of God in his family, and will diligently and carefully instruct his children, teaching them the knowledge of God, and how to serve him, and walk in his ways.
After some composure of mind upon this resolution, a new trouble breaks in upon him. He had elder children than this; and he had lived in a continual neglect of duty, either in teaching them the knowledge of God, or showing them a religious example. These children had contracted a profane habit, both in words, manners, and constant practice: had little inclination to religion; less knowledge, and no thoughts at all about their souls; and began to be too old and too big to be wrought upon by instruction, or persuasion, much less by violence and correction.
When this reflection came upon the parent's thoughts, after the convictions he had met with from the little inquirer aforesaid, it brought a second flood of tears from him, and he breaks out thus:
"Lord, what will become of my poor wretched family; my other children, my uninstructed, unreproved children! What an instrument have I been in the ruin of their souls! How does it all lie upon me as a weight never to be removed! They are grown up, yet they know nothing of God but to take his name in vain! They neither call upon him, nor have I taught them to do so! If this poor lamb reproaches me with having never prayed with it, or for it: and too true it is, God knows! what these may say to me, that have let them go on thus far in a loose, profane, ignorant, irreligious life, and have neither reproved nor instructed them either by word or example, prayed with them, or taught them to pray for themselves? Merciful God! why have I not been removed, and in mercy to them, as well as in judgment to myself, been snatched from them, that some other person might have been set over them for the good of their souls?"
Upon these convictions the man prays earnestly to the Lord to pardon the heinous offence of his neglecting his duty to his children; that God would supply, by the teaching of his blessed Spirit, that great want of family instruction in his children, which he had been the cause of: that he would work convictions upon them, and would continue to stir him up to his duty in the future, directing, teaching, and governing his family.
But what a hard task he has with his other children, and how difficult a work it is to bring children to a sense of God and religion, after their green and tender years are past, in which they are moulded like wax to a seal, to receive such first impressions as the persuasion and example of parents are apt to make, will be apparent in the following dialogues.
Notes on the First Dialogue.
The observing reader will see here, that the author, to keep a just equality between all opinions, and in order to make the work generally useful and acceptable to all denominations of Christians, and to all among them who seriously apply themselves to the great business of their eternal salvation, has kept himself in the answers to this little child's inquiry, to the plain general principles of the Christian religion: wherein he has neither prescribed himself, in method or in words, to the catechisms of either the church of England, the Assembly's catechism, or any other; but laid down the principles of religion consonant to them all, as plainly as he could, as they are deduced from the holy scriptures: and as they agree with the several confessions of faith, and doctrinal articles, as well of the church of England, as of all the Protestant churches and congregations in Europe, who profess the same faith, believe the same God, and hope for eternal life through faith in the same for ever blessed Intercessor and Redeemer.
If any particular Christian's opinions may carry them further, or not so far as the author has expressed himself here in the doctrines of original sin, election, of grace, repentance, and faith in Christ: he prays, that while they can allow what is laid down here to be orthodox in the substance, they will extend the same charity to his design he does to their opinion, viz. to leave room for further explanations, to judge the best, and to consider, that as part is spoken to a child, and is for children to read for their instruction, it requires to be plain and concise, and so be it, that it be essentially right: the more adapted it is to the meanest understandings, the better it answers the design of this undertaking.
Some may think, the child here is brought in too often falling upon the father with a charge of not instructing him, and not praying with him, and not telling him these things sooner. But to such it may be sufficient to say, that as this is one of the great designs of this work, and is not spoken so directly to in any other part, it required to be more than ordinarily pointed out here: especially, because that upon these little reprehensions of this infant, are grounded the several most considerable parts of the dialogues which follow in the first part: as particularly the convictions wrought by it upon the father, mentioned at the end of the dialogue: where he is brought in retiring himself to give vent to his soul, and reflecting on the breach of his duty, and in prayer to God; also the concurring convictions wrought by the same method, and by the same instrument upon the mother, as in the second dialogue; and more especially the resolution of both to reform themselves, and to do their duties more effectually in their families.
These appearing, as is observed, to be the main design of this first part, and indeed something of this running through the whole course of the work, it could not but be needful to let those little sharp reproofs, innocently expressed by the little child in the first dialogue, be often repeated; especially where the sense brought them in with a kind of natural, unconstrained innocence in the expression, as is generally carefully ordered wherever those proofs are to be met with; nor indeed could the expressions of parents, either in their private ejaculations, or mutual conversing upon that part, one with another, have been consonant with the rest of the work, or the cadence of things preserved, if this had not been laid as a foundation.
These notes are not designed to talk over again whole subject of every discourse. If the part deserve any comment, every considering Christian will make it to themselves as they go; but where the case is particular, a word may be said, which in the dialogues would have been digressing too long, and have made it tedious.
From the inquiries of the child may be observed, how naturally connection of the gospel truths one with another appears; I mean those essential to our salvation. How bright a chain, and how closely hanging one upon another, in a climax that cannot but be admirable to observe, is the great mystery of man's fall and recovery; sin entering into the world, death by sin; nature corrupted by the fall, sanctified by redeeming grace; by the offence of one man many made sinners; by the obedience of one many made righteous; justice offended by sin, eternal death denounced as the punishment; justice satisfied by a Redeemer, eternal life the consequence; "no condemnation to them who are in Christ." These things lie so plain, so natural, and in so exact an order, that nature seems to direct the child, who knows nothing of them to force them from the father, by the power of the most innocent uninstructed inquiries.
How unaccountably to blame are those parents, who let their children know nothing of these things, till their own little innocent inquiries extort it from them!
How naturally does the discourse of this little child reprove parents for their neglect of the Sabbath-day's work, viz. of attending the public worship of God! and how could the child but suppose, that going to church was only a light matter, since his father went very seldom himself, and home upon the most frivolous occasions?
The child's discourse about going to church only to his fine clothes, and his mother and sisters being employed there, to observe the fashions and dresses of neighbours, with the conversation they have of those things after they come home, needs no enlargement here. THe consciences of most young people in their own families, will teach them to apply that part to themselves; and the author is content to leave it out, if it is not generally acknowledged to be a needful reproof. The child is brought in here several times saying to his father, when he speaks of serving, loving, and praying to God. "Do you do so, father?" This puts me in mind of a story not improper to be related. A wicked boy that had been addicted to swearing and ill words, was reproved by his father with more seriousness than usual; and his father told him, "That God heard him." The father, it seems, was a man of no religion, or at least of very ill morals himself; but what he happened to say to the boy, struck him so deeply, that it was a means of conviction in the child. But ignorance having been the boy's greatest unhappiness, when he came to consider of what his father had said, he asks one of the family, whether God could see as well as hear? When he was answered, yes, that God was infinite, and could hear and see all things, he told them he could not believe it; "for my father was drunk last," says he: "sure he would not have been drunk if God could see him, else why did he tell me I should not swear, because God could hear me?"
If parents knew, or at least considered, the influence their evil examples have upon their children, and how fatal an encouragement to sin it is to children to be able to say, My father does so himself," the of their children would be a greater restraint to conscientious parents, even in things really sinful, than it is possible the presence and awe of the parents can be to the children. It is enough that religious parents have to struggle with in the perverse and wicked inclinations of their children; but they find, those liberties their children take from the encouragement of their parents' example, will be ten times more difficult to restrain afterwards, than those they have from their own inclination, or example of others. It enervates all the exhortations of a father, takes the edge off from their reprehension, makes their resentment seem unjust and unreasonable, and makes the child rather apt to retort the practice of the parents upon themselves, than receive patiently and meekly the admonition.
I humbly recommend this thought to those parents who indulge themselves in any vanity or excess, such as in passion, in hasty expressions, in expenses, in waste of time, in ill words, in gaming, nay, or any of those things which the world are apt to call lawful and innocent. If such things must be indulged, and you will allow yourselves in them, upon a presumption that you can do them innocently; at least, then, conceal them from your children, lest what you can use with moderation, they fall into with excess, and justify the practice from your example.
It will be a very uncomfortable reflection, and will fill the mind with bitter reproaches, if ever God pleases to try parents, when they shall see the introduction to their children's ruin, formed and begun in their (the parents) example. Nor will it be any alleviation to their sorrow, to say I used those diversions moderately, and kept myself within compass; it was but very seldom I used an ill word; played at cards but very moderately, and never for much money; I seldom drank hard; and the like. If our moderation in diversion shall introduce our children's excess, and if the apostle, rather than offend a weak brother, would wholly abstain even from part of his necessary sustenance, viz. eating of flesh, how much more should parents refrain their excesses, nay, even their lawful diversions, rather than lay a foundation for the ruin of their children, and prompt them to sin, by giving them a pretence from, or encouragement by, their father's example?
From the whole of this dialogue, parents may see, besides their duty to God, what they owe to their children, in timely and early instructing them; how much instructing our children is a debt to them; and how unjust and injurious we are to our children in omitting to instruct them. What moving expressions of the child to the father are these: "Dear father," says the child, "why would you not tell me of it before? Was you angry with me, father? And what if it should be too late now? Will God punish me everlastingly now, because I have not known sooner?" How cutting must it be to a parent that has any sense of eternity, to think that his dear children should be lost by his example, or remain blind by his omission?
These and many other observations, might be made here, from the particulars of this first dialogue, but it is hoped the reading the dialogue itself will cause many of them to occur: and the brevity of this work admits our notes not to be too long.
THE SECOND DIALOGUE.
THIS dialogue begins upon the following occasion. The next day after the former discourse with the father, the child was carried to church, and the minister happened to be preaching upon the death of our Saviour. His text was, "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son," &c. And the minister giving some historical account of the death and sufferings of Christ, and making some practical improvements of it in his discourse: the child, when be came home, was found crying in a room by itself; and the mother being called, begins the dialogue thus:
Moth. Child! what dost cry for?
After some difficulty, the child answers, The minister made me cry.
Moth. How so! why, what did he say?
Child. He said that God was dead.
Moth. Child, he did not say my thing you have forgot what be said.
Child. No I han't, mother. I am sure he said Jesus Christ was dead; and my father told me yesterday that Jesus Christ was God.
Moth. But, child, Jesus Christ is risen again.
Child. I know that, he said that too; but he was dead first, and the wicked Jews killed him. Sure they were sad folks, mother. Why did they kill him?
Moth. You will read it in your Bible, my dear.
Child. But, mother, the minister says be died for as, and my father he died for me. Did the Jews kill him for me, mother?
Moth. He died for thee, my dear, and me, and every body else that believes in him.
Child. Why did he die for me, I don't know what you mean? Tell me, dear mother, did I make him die?
Moth. My dear, he died to save his people from their sins, and I hope thou art one of them.
Child. Why, mother, have I any sins? What are they, mother?
Moth. We are all sinners, child; sin is offending God in thought, word, and deed, at which he is angry.
Child. When I do a fault, is God angry for that? Is that a sin, mother?
Moth. Every fault you do, my dear, is not a sin against God.
Child. When did I make God angry then?
Moth. When you break any of God's commandments, then you sin against God; when you take God's name vain, when you disobey your father and mother, and the like: these are sins against God, and these he is angry at.
Child. I never take God's name in vain, mother, nor never disobey you, mother. I love you dearly, and do every you bid me; don't I, dear mother?
Moth. Well, my dear, and I hope God is not angry with thee: be a good boy then, I am not angry with thee, my dear.
[Hitherto the mother speaks coldly, and makes light of the thing; and having no other view at first than only quieting the child, was for going away, at which the child cries again.]
Moth. Why dost cry, my dear? I tell thee I am not angry with thee. Do not cry.
Child. God may be angry with me for all that, mother.
Moth. No, no: God is not angry with thee. Do not cry, my dear.
[Still the mother is insensible of the work of God in the heart of the child, and takes all this for common talk; but she soon sees with other eyes.]
Child. Why, mother, will God never be angry with but when you are angry? I am afraid God is angry with me, though you kiss me, and be friends with me, and love me.
Moth. Why so, my dear?
Child. Why, dear mother, my father told me yesterday that God has done a great many things for me, and given me a great many good things; and I never thanked him, nor loved him for it yet, nor served him, nor prayed to him yet: and is not God angry with me then?
[The child weeps.]
Moth. That is very true, my dear; but I hope God is not angry. Do not cry, my dear.
Child. But should not I have thanked God for all that? Is it not a fault, mother?
Moth. But how should I have done it, mother? I did not know, and you never told me, and my father never told me, nor showed me how. Will God be angry that I did not thank him, when I could not tell how to do it?
[The mother was but cold and indifferent all the time; but now she found herself touched, and was confounded with the child's discourse; and taking the child in her arms, she kissed it, and wept, but could not speak to it a great while: at last she said, with great tenderness--]
Moth. My dear child, it is not thy fault, it is our fault, it is my fault, and it is thy father's fault: we have not shown thee, nor taught thee, nor given any good example to thee how thou shouldst thank God, or serve, or know God.
Child. Yes, my father did it last night.
Moth. Alas, poor child! thy father, and I too, should have done it many nights and years ago: more shame for that we have neglected it till thou should reprove us for it thyself.
Child. But my father said it was not too late now, mother.
Moth. I pray God it may not: but that's no thanks to us, my dear; thou mayest have cause to blame us to thy dying day.
Child. But is it too late for me then, mother?
[Here the mother finds the heart of the child is touched; and it immediately entered into her thoughts, that she might be made a temptation to the child to despair, and cast off convictions: this alarms the mother, on the other hand, and therefore she adds--]
Moth. No, my dear, God forbid! the sin has been our's, not thine; but it is never too late to pray to God.
Child. What must I do when I pray to God?
Moth. You must confess your sins to him, pray to him to forgive your sins, to bless you, and sanctify you, and preserve you: you must pray to him to give you your daily bread, and keep you from all evil, you must give thanks him for all mercies, and all the good things he has done for you.
Child. Must I thank God when I pray, mother? How can I do so? Is that praying
Moth. Yes, my dear, praising God for mercies received, is part of the duty of prayer, as well as seeking to him for mercies we want; for so God has commanded, "in every thing by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, making our requests known unto God.
Child. But if I have made God angry, how can I ask him for forgiveness? Will God forgive me?
Moth. Yes, my dear, he will forgive thee: he is a merciful God; it is his nature and property ever to have mercy and to forgive.
Child. How do you know it? Are you sure, mother, that God will forgive me my fault, if I ask him forgiveness?
Moth. He has promised to do so, my dear.
Child. Promised, mother! How is that? I never heard him speak. Did he tell you so, mother?
Moth. My dear, he has promised in his word: it is in your Bible, which is the word of God.
Child. O! I am glad if it is there. My father told me that God speaks to me, and I hear him speak when I read my book. Show it me there, mother.
Moth. There it is, my dear.
[Here the mother shows the child the several texts following:-- Whoso confesses and forsakes, shall find mercy. If we confess and forsake our sins, he is just and faithful to forgive as our sins. The blood of Christ cleanseth from all iniquity.]
Child. The blood of Christ, mother! what is that?
[Interrupting her.]
Moth. Why, my dear, this is that the minister made the cry about God. Jesus Christ is that great Saviour, which the minister told thee shed his blood for our sins, died, and was crucified, to save a lost world.
Child. But, dear mother, my father told me Christ was God. Can God die?
Moth. My child; Christ was God eternal, one with the Father; but Christ, to fulfil the great purpose of man's redemption, according to the eternal counsel of God, before the world began, in the fulness of time became man, took upon him, not the nature of angels, but the seed of Abraham: and this he did that he might be God-man, and therefore be a Mediator between God and man, partaking of the nature of both, and laying his hand upon both, to make peace for us through the blood of his cross."
Child. I cannot understand this, it is all wonderful! a 'wonderful mystery!
Moth. It is so, my dear: "This is the great mystery of godliness, God manifest in the flesh."
Child. And did this God-man die for me, mother? How is that?
Moth. He died for the sins of all that believe on him.
Child. But what is it you mean by dying for sin, and dying for me, mother? I do not understand it.
Moth. Sin, my dear, is offending God, or making angry: and this sin, or this anger of God, would end in death; "for the wages of sin is death:" but God, in his own original love to us, sent his Son to die in our stead, "that whosoever believeth on him might not perish, but have everlasting life."
Child. So, if I sin, I most die, mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear.
Child. And must you die, if you sin mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear.
Child. But you never sinned, I hope then?
Moth. Alas, my dear, I am a great sinner.
Child. Why, you must not die, mother; you shall not die, mother. Shall you?
[The child weeps.]
Moth. We must all die, my dear; but this is meant of eternal death, -- going to hell, child, -- dying for ever. This is that which is the wages of sin.
Child. Must all that sin go to hell, mother?
Moth. No, my dear: this is what I was saying before, that God being thus angry with sinners, and the wages of their sin being death, this blessed Son of God, this man, the Mediator, came into the world, and taking on our nature, died for us. There 'tis, my dear, your Bible, Rom. v. 6 -- "That while we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly;" and there again, 1 Tim. i. 15 -- "This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners:" and abundance of other places.
Child. Let me see it, mother; for my father said God spoke in my Bible, and I shall be sure it is true, if it be there.
Moth. I'll turn the leaf down at it, my dear, that you may find it again.
[The child reads again -- " died for the ungodly!" and looking up to its mother, asks this very affecting question.
Child. Dear mother, did Jesus Christ die for me? what, for me! I did not know him! I have done nothing to make him die! nor have I done any thing to please him! I loved him! how should he love me! and love me so as to die for me! why for me, mother?
Moth. This, my dear, is the groat thing for which we should praise, and love, and adore God and Jesus Christ, that all this should be done for as, before we had either done good or evil; as thou hast said, my dear, thou hast done nothing to please aim, nor hast loved him, it is all his own love to as, not our love to him.
Child. Why, would God love me, whether I loved him or no, mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear, see in your Bible, John iii. 16 -- "For God so loved the word, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life." And again, 1 John iv. 10, "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that be loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.
Child. But may not I love God now, for all his love to me, mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear; his love to us moves us to love him: 1 John iv. 19, "We love him, because be first loved us."
Child. Indeed I will love God. Sure I must love him, if he will not be angry, though I sin against him? Don't you love him, mother?
Moth. I desire to love, and fear, and serve him, as long as I live, my dear.
Child. And may I not do so too, mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear.
Child. And did you so before, mother?
Moth. I hope I did, my dear.
Child. But I have not done it before, mother: was not that a fault in me, mother? and is not God sorry at that?
Moth. Well, child, but you have heard that Jesus Christ died to turn away God's anger for that and all other sins.
Child. Indeed, dear mother, I did not know I must love God, and fear God before. I never heard any thing of it in my life.
[Here the mother is stung again, and reproaches herself with having neglected the instruction of her child, and weeping, says to the child--]
Moth. My dear, that is my sin, and thy father's sin, and thine; we ought to have taught thee long ago; and we have reason to mourn for it, and repent of it as long as we live.
Child. But may I not love God now, mother?
Moth. You must love God, and love Jesus Christ, and serve and fear him; this is the end of your creation.
Child. How can I love Jesus Christ now, mother? you say he is dead, can I love him now be is dead?
Moth. He is risen again, child, from the dead
Child. Risen again, mother! How is that?
Moth. My dear, as I told thee before, it was necessary for him to be man as well as God, that he might in our nature satisfy divine justice; so likewise it was necessary, that he that was to be Mediator should be God as well as man, that he justify us before God, and intercede with God for us for ever.
Child. How is this? I wonder at it, but do not understand it. How is it, mother? Dead! and live again! and risen! and intercede! What is it all? I do not understand it.
Moth. As man, he could die, child; but, as God, could not remain dead.
Child. Is this in my Bible too, mother: Does God say this there too?
Moth. Yes, my dear, look here, Acts ii. 24 -- "Whom God hath raised up, having loosed the pains of death, because it was not possible he could be holden of it."
Child. But is he risen again for me too?
Moth. Yes, my dear, he hath both died for thee, and is risen again for thee too.
Child. Show me that in my book, mother?
Moth. Hero it is child, Rom. iv. 25 -- "Who was delivered for our offences, and is risen again for our justification."
[Here the child, in a little ecstasy of soul, moved by the blessed Spirit of God, grasps the book, and kisses the leaf eagerly, and clapping it to its breast: at which mother, surprised, says--]
Moth. Why dost thou do that, my dear?
Child. I love him, dear mother, I love him.
Moth. Dost thou know why thou lovest him, my dear?
Child. I love God, dear mother, that has loved me so much before I knew him; and I love Jesus Christ, because he has died for me, and is risen again for me. May not I love him, dear mother? But though I love him, I am afraid; for my father told me he is God.
Moth. It is true, he is a consuming fire to sin, and the workers of it; but to those who love and fear him, he is a faithful Creator, and a merciful Redeemer.
Child. Then I may love him for that.
Moth. May! my dear, you not only may, but must, Matt. xxii. 37, 38 -- "Jesus Christ said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great command."
Child. Will he not be angry, mother, if I don't love him?
Moth. Yes, my dear; for he has commanded to love him, John xv. 9 -- "Continue ye in my love;" and Gal. v. 22, he saith -- "The fruit of the Spirit is love." And he has promised a blessed return to those that love him, John xiv. 22 -- "He that loveth me, shall be loved of my Father: and I will love him, and will manifest myself unto him."
Child. I wish I could love him more, dear mother,
Moth. You will, my dear, as you grow up.
Child. How, mother?
Moth. Why, the longer you live, the more you will know him; and the knowledge of God, and the experience of his goodness, will increase your love.
Child. How shall I know him more?
Moth. I hope he will fill your heart with knowledge, according to the promise of the covenant of grace.
Child. What is that, mother?
Moth. It is the blessed declaration of God in his word, wherein he has engaged himself, and his faithfulness, to his believing people, both to be their God, and to preserve them in his fear.
Child. And has he promised me that I shall know him, mother?
Moth. Yes, my dear.
Child. Is that in my book too, mother?
Moth. Yes my dear; here it is, Jer. xxxi. 34 -- "And they shall teach no more every man his neighbour, and every man his brother, saying, Know the Lord; for they shall all know me, from the least of them unto the greatest of them, saith the Lord: for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.
Child. And what shall I do when I know him?
Moth. Knowing him, you will believe on him; and, believing, you will have life through his name, John xx. 31.
Child. When shall I do this, mother?
Moth. As thou growest up, my dear.
Here some family occasions calling off the mother, dialogue ends.
Notes on the Second Dialogue.
First, observe of the child's being carried to church. That by the word church, or going to church, in all these dialogues, is to be understood the place, and going to the place, of public worship, whether by the church of England people to their parish churches, or Dissenters to their several meeting-houses, particular distinctions one way or being studiously avoided here; the subject, as the author humbly conceives, being not at all concerned in our diversity of opinions, sects, or separate assemblies, but equally instructing to all who call themselves Christians, and especially Protestant Christians. He believes it would be very wrong to lay a stumbling-block at the threshold, and to put any prejudice in the minds of the serious readers, which also might prevent, by partiality to opinions, the benefit which may otherwise be universal to Christians of all opinions whatsoever: and this latitude in his charity, and in his design of doing good to all, he hopes none will be offended at.
The father and mother of this little child appear here to be no ignorant persons in the principles or duties of Christianity. But as to the rest, it may be observed, (1) what a wretched irreligious life some of those who have the greatest share of knowledge in matters of religion do lead, especially in their families; (2) what regret it brings upon their minds, when they are convinced of their wickedness in the neglect of their families, and when, as in this case, much of it may be too late to be retrieved; (3) what bitter reproaches such children oftentimes cast back upon parents, when they (the children) come to find what they have lost, for want of a godly, religious education, and early instruction.
If the children prove sober and religious without the helps of instruction, for the Spirit of God is not confined to, or constrained by, these outward helps, how are they ashamed of, and a shame to, their parents! And how must the parents blush, when they may upon any occasion be told, that the knowledge, the piety, the fear of God, which is found in their children, is no product of planting, no fruit of what they had sown! Religious children, of profane or negligent parents, are a double testimony to powerful invincible grace, but a dreadful reproach their parents.
This may be a thought worthy the consideration of any Christian parents that have neglected the instruction of their families, and have neglected teaching and praying with or for their children. What a just contempt will those children naturally have for those parents, especially if God comes to enlighten their hearts, and open their eyes, as he sometimes does without the help of paternal instruction? When the children come to reflect how their parents totally neglected the salvation of their souls, to which the provision made for their bodies was but of little value, the disgust at the omission of the former will be too apt to take off all the gratitude and affection due for the latter.
Nothing but mere duty can be supposed to preserve the respect, and even common civility to its parents, when he comes to he sensible how unnaturally they abandoned his immortal part, how unchristianly they exposed his better, his intellectual part, to eternal destruction; as if the duty of a parent had ended in, or been restrained to, the narrow compass of a of a nurse, or a school-master; and that they had no obligation upon them to regard the eternal happiness of that part of their posterity which can never die.
Such parents are certainly the most unnatural, and may justly be reproached by their children, not with neglect of their duty only, but with their being without natural affection; and consequently can by no means expect suitable returns of affection from their children, when they come to be made sensible of the treatment they have received from them. If they show them common respect, as above, it must be all owing to that very grace which, in spite of the obstruction of the godless education, has been planted in the heart by powerful influence and invincible operation of the Spirit of God.
For parents to pretend love to their children, and natural affection, as they are the fruit of their bodies, and as it is vulgarly expressed, their own flesh and blood, and at the same time neglect to instruct them, or educate them, either in human learning or religious knowledge, is just as if, when their children are taken sick, they should employ themselves in mending or making them clothes, or dressing up fine banquets or entertainments for them, and wholly omit the necessary cordials or applications for the recovery of their health: only with this difference, that the soul to the body has infinitely a greater disproportion, than the health and the daily food.
But our case extends yet farther, viz. that the defect complained of here is not the want of education and instruction, from the ignorance or incapacity of the parent, for this had been the hand of God immediately in bringing forth the child from parents that knew not God; but the case here is yet more aggravated, in that this happens in families where the parents have the knowledge, and have the capacity, and know and acknowledge it to be their duty to instruct their children, and yet entirely neglect it, which adds to the crime in the parents, and will be ground of astonishment and reflection in the children, if they ever come to the knowledge of God without the due assistance of their parents. Nor will the reflections of the parents be less bitter on themselves than those of their children, as will be more lively represented in the other dialogues of this part.
But this subject may also be of present use to children who have not the blessing of godly parents to instruct them: and for this it is also designed; and these, as well as those whose parents neglect the great duty of instructing them, are desired to consider, from the example of this little child, these few things.
1. That the most plain, most natural, and most easy questions that it is possible a child can ask, will lead them to both their Creator, and their duty to him; such as
Who made me?
What am I made for?
What am I?
What business have I here?
How came I hither?
Whither am I going?
What is my end?
What is good?
What is evil?
The little babe here presented, infers, by the mere power of natural reasoning,
1st, That he was made better than the brutes.
2dly, That it was the goodness of his Maker which distinguished him so.
3dly, That fear, service, love, and obedience, were natural returns for that goodness. Thus the meanest capacity, and the youngest children, may supply the defect of education, if they think but a little seriously of themselves and the original of their being.
2. It is also observable, that as soon as ever the soul is but able to inquire rationally about itself, nature and reason concur to lead him to the knowledge of God, a cause, a chief good, and an ultimate end; "of whom, and for whom, and to whom are all things." And these impulses go on, till natural religion, joined with revealed religion, discovers Christ, "and God in Christ reconciling us to himself, not imputing our trespasses," which is the sum and substance of the Christian religion.
This is the great end of these dialogues, as they respect children, viz. that they may, where perhaps family instruction has been wanting, guide themselves to the knowledge of God, and of their duty, by these familiar steps which nature itself will be most certain to concur with. As they respect parents, their end is plain, viz. they are a satire upon their neglect of duty, and a reproof to them in order to amendment.
THE THIRD DIALOGUE.
The mother of this pretty infant, sensibly affected with the discourse she had had with him in the last dialogue, and in teacher her child, being particularly taught how she had neglected her duty before, appears under a great and more than ordinary concern. Her husband was under the same convictions, and both were very desirous to unbosom themselves to one another, though utterly ignorant of the respective circumstances. This occasions the following dialogue or discourse between the husband and wife. The rest of the family being withdrawn, the husband, perceiving his wife melancholy, and that she had been weeping, and being a very tender, loving husband, begins with her thus:--
Husb. My dear, what is the matter? I believe something troubles thee.
Wife. I cannot deny it; and if I did, you see I cannot conceal it.
[The wife weeps, and is backward to tell the occasion; but her husband presses her to tell him.]
Husb. Tell me, my dear, what afflicts thee. If it be in my power to relieve it, you have no reason to doubt, but as in duty I ought, so in affection I am inclined to give you all the comfort, all the advice, and all the assistance I am able.
Wife. Alas! you cannot assist in my case; no, nor any one in world: and the reason why I am backward in telling it is, because when I do you will perhaps be so far from easing my grief, that you will add to it, by falling into the same yourself; for my affliction equally concerns you and myself.
Husb. My dear, there is no affliction can befall thee, but either I must have an equal share in it, or be wanting in affection to thee, which I never was yet, or want a concern for my own happiness; seeing, ever since we have been one by consent, or by contract, I have but one interest, one wish, sad one desire with you; and this not by duty only, but by inclination.
Wife. I have experience of that, and thought my happiness always complete in it; and the more, in that I have not been to charge myself with the least breach on my part, to render that affection less pleasing to you, or less satisfying to me. But we have both been wanting in one thing, and I fear have nothing to excuse or to accuse one more than another. And this is my present grief.
[The husband, touched before, answers with blushes in his face.]
Husb. I know not what you can mean, unless it be want of performing some duties which we owe to God and our children.
Wife. O you have touched it! there it lies! And if you had had such a messenger sent God to reprove you for it as I have had to-day, I question not but it would have touched you as nearly as it does me.
Husb. I know not what thou hast had to-day; but I had such a lecture preached to me yesterday by a little infant, even our own youngest child, that has almost broke my very soul within me; and you may know part of it by this, that you know I slept not a wink all last night.
Wife. O, my dear! the same is my instructor! He has certainly been sent from God to me.
Husb. And to me too. Whether it be for a blessed restoring end, or for judgment, and the terrible part of conviction, he only knows.
[Here they repeat to one another the circumstances of the former dialogues with the child, and the effects which the surprise of it had upon both their minds severally.]
Husb. It is impossible to express to you how the little creature moved me. It was a dagger struck into my very heart, to hear the dear lamb ask me -- "Father, will not God be angry with me that I have not thanked him, and loved him, and prayed to him before? And how should I know it, father? you never told me." When I told him he must pray to God, was it not cutting me to the heart to hear him say -- "Do you pray to him, father?" and when I told him yes, to hear him say -- "I never heard you, father," I was not able to bear it, I was fain to stop and turn away from him.
Wife. I believe we may both say as the disciples at Emmaus -- "Did not our hearts burn within us, while he talked to us by the way?" For my part, I am amazed when I look upon the child. But when I look in, and reflect how I have neglected the great duty of instructing, not this child only, but all my children, I am confounded, and not able to lift up my head. How justly may my children reproach me, not only with omitting to teach them to do good, but with abominably encouraging them to vanity, and neglect of God, by my example! O I have ruined all my children!
Husb. No, no, you have not ruined them; it is I have ruined them; for it was my duty to have exercised the authority of a father, and of a governor of a house, or have set up the worship of God in my family; to have prayed with them, and instructed them to pray for themselves. They could not have asked me then, whether they might pray to God, or whether ever I prayed to God or no?
Wife. And I have been a great cause of your neglecting that part too; for I have slighted it, and ridiculed it in others, and thought it mere ostentation and form, as if none but persons of higher quality should have prayers in their family, and thought it looked too big for us?
Husb. Ay, but my temptation has been of another kind. I have thought it a solemnity I was not fit for; I have questioned my own performance: I have often thought, if I were a nobleman, I would keep a chaplain. I was ashamed to pray in the hearing of my and children, as if that were dishonourable and mean which was my natural duty; or, as if I were ashamed to own that which is the glory of a Christian, viz. to worship and call upon Him that made him: as if nature, which dictates to the least child, to call and cry to its father and mother for bread when when it is hungry, did not dictate to me, and to every rational creature, to worship that God in whom we live, move, and have our being!
Wife. And what course shall we take now?
Husb. There is no difficulty in resolving what course to take with this little infant. He is taught from Heaven, and the Spirit of God is visibly working in him. If we do not instruct him, he will every day instruct us, and reprove us too. But what shall we do with our other children, who are grown up, and have imbibed a course of vanity and levity without any restraint? There will be our difficulty.
Wife. And who are very likely to be impatient of restraint, and perhaps not so easy to be governed now. For my part, I do not think I shall ever be able to break my daughter from her foolish habits; such as, playing all night at cards, going to the play-house, wearing patches, reading foolish romances, singing idle songs, taking God's name in vain, and an intolerable looseness of behaviour, which I have too much given her a liberty in, and encouraged her also from my own example.
Husb. I shall have as hard a task with my elder sons. They have got a habit of company, of ill words, and of idleness. It is impossible to reclaim them! They are gone too far! What shall be done! They are lost through my neglect! and justly may they lay their ruin at my door, both of body and soul.
Wife. My dear, we are in a sad condition; and mine is worse still; for I have not only neglected my duty to my children, and praying with my children, but my duty to God too; I mean my private duty; for I neither prayed with them nor for them, nor by myself, nor for myself; the common going to the public worship excepted, which I have passed over as slightly and unconcerned also, as if it were only a thing of course.
Husb. This touches me too, my dear; for it was my duty not only to have prayed with my children, and with my family, both in private with you, and for you; but we both ought mutually to have assisted, encouraged, and exhorted one another in and to our duty. I ought to have watched over you, and moved you, and persuaded you to our duty, and you me, both as to private and family worship. It all lies at my door; and at my hand will God require the souls of those he has put under my roof.
Wife. I have been as guilty as you, for I have shown a general contempt of this duty. I have never encouraged you to it, or shown you in the least that I desired it, or would be willing to join in it: on the contrary, you have always seen me as wild, and as vain, as if I were not the mother of a family, but a single person, without any relative obligations on me.
[Here both and wife, not able to refrain tears, from the power of their conviction, the discourse breaks off for a time, till the husband reviving it, goes on.]
Husb. Well, it must be done, however difficult, however seemingly fruitless and to no purpose. By how much the greater it has been a sin in us both to neglect it, by so much stronger is the obligation upon us both to undertake it. The poor children are well nigh undone already. It is never too late. Who knows but God may bless instruction, though begun at an unseasonable time. It may be we may meet with success in the way of our duty. If not, we must leave that to God: we must begin and go on; for as we both know it is our duty, our children may be still lost, notwithstanding our endeavour; but we are sure to be lost if we wilfully neglect it.
Wife. Alas! what can we do? Where can we begin now? Which of our children will mind what we say? How will they humble us, by throwing our own example in our way, and object our former practice, as an answer to all our future instructions? I think verily it is too late now. It will be all to no purpose to go about it; it will have no effect at all.
Husb. My dear, you say you are sensible it has been a sin that you have not encouraged me in it, and joined with me in it before. It must therefore still be a sin to to do so, and a greater sin than before, by how much we are convinced not that it was our sinful neglect before.
Wife. Nay, I will not obstruct it. God forbid! I only say, I fear in the event it will not answer; and I am at a loss which way to go about it.
Husb. I'll tell you, my dear, which way we will go about it. Let us first join together sincerely to God in prayer, acknowledging, with a deep humility, and hearty repentance, our great sin in neglecting his worship in our family, as well as in private, and our dishonouring him in our conversation: imploring, for the sake of Jesus Christ, our only Mediator and Advocate, pardon for those our past sins of omission and commission; seeking his blessing upon our resolution and amendment; and begging, that our instructing our family and children, however late and long omitted, may yet be successful, and have a double effect, to the salvation of the souls of our children, and to the glory and honour of sovereign grace.
Wife. My dear, however doubting I am of the success, yet I'll join with you with all my heart in that, and in every thing else that I can, which may serve to reform, reclaim, and restore our poor children, whose danger is so plainly occasioned by our neglect.
Husb. As to my family, I'll tell you what I purpose to do. I desire you to let your daughters know, that we are resolved to reform several practices which we do not like in their behaviour; that their father dislikes their general conduct, expects they'll use more modesty in their dress and conversation, will have them wear no more patches, go to no more plays, spend no more precious time at cards, nor walk out in the park or fields any more on the Lord's day; but, on the contrary, that they apply themselves to reading the Scriptures, and to think of worshipping God after a different manner than they have hitherto done. And I shall take care to do the same by my sons.
Wife. I will do all I can with them, though I fear their compliance.
Husb. Then, as soon as they come home next Sabbath-day from the sermon, I will call them all together; and, to best of my capacity, tell them their duty in general, both to God, themselves, and their parents; and that whereas I have thought they have taken too much liberty for the time past, because I have not restrained them, and showed them their duty, they shall have no reason for the future to make that excuse from me; but that from time I resolve to oblige all my family to serve God both publicly and privately, as much and as well as I can, that they may both incline to pray to God themselves, and know how to do it. I shall, beside the public worship of God, which I shall expect they constantly attend, always have proper times set apart for worshipping God together in the family, I will pray with them and for them as well as I am able; and having said thus, I will begin with reading the word of God to them; and then, as well as I can, will go to prayer with them myself.
Wife. My dear, I'll be glad of this with all my heart, and rejoice at the thoughts of it. But, O! my soul trembles for the poor vain creatures, our children, especially our two eldest, son and daughter. I am certain they will but laugh at it, and despise it; they are run on too far; we should have begun this when they were young. I know it by their temper and carriage in other things.
Husb. My dear, it is our duty to do it, and it is our duty to make them observe it; and though they are too old to correct, yet I assure you, if I don't find a ready compliance with it, I shall find ways to show my resentment; for we have too long dallied our duty already; and as God will not be mocked by us, so we must not be mocked by our children.
Wife. My dear, I am most desirous of the thing, only my heart fails in case of success.
Husb. We must do our duty. If God will bless us in doing it, he will bless the work too, and will cause such an awe of his majesty to go with the performance, as that they shall not dare to despise it, or to show any contempt of us for it.
Wife. The God of heaven give it such a blessing, if it be his will! I go as willing about it as you, but with many discouraging thoughts for the event; but, however, I'll do all my part according to your direction.
Notes on the Third Dialogue.
What a great deal of work have those people behind hand, who do not begin to instruct and restrain their children till they are too big for correction! "Folly that is bound up in the heart of a child," says Solomon, "is driven thence by the rod of correction." But when it remains in the child, and neither the rod of correction, nor the voice of instruction is made use of to drive it out, till the child grows up to be a man, it is very hard, nay impossible, unless supernatural assistance, to drive it out. What this folly is, needs no description here, other than an allowed custom in doing evil: a natural propensity we all have to evil. With this we are all born into the world. The soul is originally bent to folly: this bent or inclination must be rectified, or driven out either by instruction, or if that proves insufficient, by correction. And it is to be done while the person is young, while he is a child, and then it may be done. The child may be wrought upon. Nature, like some vegetables, is malleable when taken green and early; but hard and brittle when condensed by time and age. At first it bows and bends to instruction and reproof, but afterwards obstinately refuses both.
The temper of a child, misled by vice or mistake, like a dislocated bone, is easy to be reduced into its place, if taken in time; but, if suffered to remain in its dislocated position, a callous substance fills up the empty space, and, by neglect, grows equally hard with the bones, and resisting the power of the surgeon's skill, renders the reduction of the joint impossible.
The heart of the tender youth, by forbearance of instruction, grows opinionated, and obstinately embraces the follies he has been indulged in, not being easily convinced of the criminal quality of what he has been so long allowed the practice of by his negligent parents; and this renders late instruction fruitless. Then as to correction, the heart being hardened, as before, by opinion and practice, and especially in a belief that he ought not to be corrected, the rod of correction has a different effect: for, as the blow of a stripe makes an impression on the heart of a child, as stamping a seal does upon the soft wax, the reproof even of words, on the same heart, when grown up and made hard, is like striking upon steel, which, instead of making an impression on the metal, darts sparks of fire in your face.
As this whole work is chiefly designed to convince parents of the necessity of beginning early the great work of instructing and managing their children, so two things will run more visibly through every part of it.
1. For their encouragement, the examples of the easiness and advances of early instruction will be seen. How soft! how pliable the minds of little children are! how like wax they lie, ready to be moulded into any form, and receive any impression, that the diligent application of parents thinks fit to make upon them! From whence, also, parents are warned to be very careful, that, by their example or negligence, those first softened circumstances of their children's minds are not passed over, without suitable applications to forming them aright, filling them with learning and knowledge, and with just principles, both religious and moral: above all, that they receive no bad impressions from the practice of their parents, whose example, especially in evil, takes such deep root in their children, that nothing is more difficult to remove.
2. For warning and serious caution, by letting them see the dreadful effects of the neglecting their children when young,-- what work it makes for repentance in both,-- what breaches it makes in families, when necessity drives them to begin that work late,-- what treatment they are like to meet with from their children,-- how these will think it hard to be instructed when grown up,-- count it imposing upon them in their parents,-- reject the arguments their parents shall use,-- despise and contemn their reproofs,-- themselves past correction,-- turn their backs not only upon the methods their parents shall take with them, but even upon the parents themselves, when they attempt by government and discipline to retrieve the error they have committed.
In this last dialogue, the husband and wife appear sensible of their mistakes this way; and the difficulties they have before them in retrieving it, justly appear terrible, almost drive them to despair of the success, and to give over any thoughts of the attempt. In the subsequent part of this work, we find they were not mistaken in the prospect they had of the difficulty before them, or of the obstinacy and opposition which they should meet with from their children.
As to their being so discouraged as not to make the attempt, the husband argues wisely, that it is not less their duty for its having been delayed; that it must be set about, let the difficulty be what it will; and that therefore he is resolved to attempt it, and, if possible, go through with it, leaving the success to God.
This is a wise and Christian resolution, and argues, that the convictions the parents were under were sanctified by the Spirit of God, and carried on to effectual conversion, for all convictions of sin that do not go on to reformation, and effectual application to our duty, are ineffectual convictions; like waking in a dream, while the heart is asleep, when slumbering on, we fall into the same dream again.
For the encouraging parents to pursue these convictions, and to hope for some success in their work, though begun late, and under some weighty discouragement, the following part of this work will show how far he met with success in his family reformation and instruction, as well as what obstruction he met with from his eldest children, for all were not alike obstinate and refractory, as the two eldest were; and the mother was but too true a prophetess of the consequence from their obstinacy.
From the discourse between the husband and wife, under their convictions, may be seen something of the duty of such relations.
1. To communicate to one another their griefs, and most inward afflictions of mind, as well as their common disasters and troubles in the world. This is one part of the duty of husband and wife to one another, though understood by few, meant and included in that phrase, an help-mate. And it is observable, when such near relations do affectionately communicate to one another, their souls' concerns in such a manner as I speak of now, God is often pleased so variously to act in the minds of such by his Spirit, that they shall in their turns be mutually able to assist, comfort, direct, and counsel one another. This, if it were well observed, would be very useful and encouraging to Christian relations, in their most serious and reserved reflections; where they might take notice how that party that is discouraged and dejected to-day, and receives support and encouragement, relief and direction, from the counsel and comforting assistance of the other, shall be restored and comforted, and perhaps enabled the next time to give the same encouragement, counsel, advice, and comfort to the other, who may in like manner be sunk under his own fears and temptations!
This I thought fit to recommend in the most earnest terms, and, from just experience, to the consideration of Christian relations, as an useful observation, in hope it may be improved by the experience of others, to the glory of God, and their own comfort.
2. The duty of parents may be seen here, an it respects the necessity of setting about the great work of family reformation, however late, and whatever the discouragement may be. The father here expresses this affectionately to his wife:-- "Our children," says he, "may be lost, notwithstanding our endeavour; but we are sure to be lost, if we continue to neglect it."
From these considerations, the father resolves to see about the work, and immediately gives his wife an account of the method he proposes to himself to go upon: in which method, like a prudent man, and a good Christian, be proposes a serious mutual humiliation to his wife, for their former neglect of their duty, and a fervent praying to God for his blessing upon their endeavours in their family reformation.
Hence it is intimated, and seriously recommended to parents and heads of families, the great work which is so much neglected, or rather so little regarded, of a family joining in confession of those sins, I mean of husband and wife, which they have joined in the committing. Would husbands and wives join seriously in humbling themselves together before God, for those family sins which they joined in the guilt of, family reformation would be set about with much more and application, than we now see it is, and many obstructions to it, which happen by our willingness to excuse ourselves, would be removed.
From the manner of the husband and wife's discourse here, may be noted, that where thorough conviction works in the mind, both parties are, as it is here, forwardest to accuse themselves; whereas, in most family cases, the heads of families seem always forward to shift off the fault from themselves, though they acknowledge the error, and see plainly the defect and consequences of it also in the ruin of their children; yet they are diligent, like Adam and Eve, in throwing the guilt of it off from themselves, either upon one another, or upon accidents and circumstances, which they think may serve to excuse themselves. But if they were thoroughly touched with the thing itself, with the guilt of it upon themselves, and the fatal consequences of it upon their children, they would mutually own the first, and deprecate the last, as our two penitent parents do here. "O! I have ruined all my children, says the mother. "No, no, you have not ruined them; it is I that have ruined them," says the father. "I have neglected my duty to them." "But I have been the cause of your neglecting your duty," says the mother.
Here is a complete view for parents, both of the error, the repentance, and the reformation;-- the disease, the effects of it, and the manner of the cure. And as these are the foundation of what follows, so the following dialogues are an exemplification of most of the things contained in these discourses of the two parents, and the connection of them will be taken of throughout the whole work.
THE FOURTH DIALOGUE.
For the better understanding this discourse, it is to understood, that the father and mother, according to their resolution in the last dialogue, had set effectually about the reformation of their family, and about proper methods for reducing their children to an obedience to and sense of their duty.
Their children were most of them grown up and had run a great length; they had been indulged in all possible levity, such as plays, gaming, looseness of life, and irreligious behaviour: not immodest nor dishonest. These they were not yet arrived to. But they were bred up in gaiety and gallantry, as being of good and fashion, but nothing of religion more than just the common course of going to church, which they did because it was the custom and fashion, rather than with any other view. And being thus unhappily educated, we shall find the instruction they are now to bear met with the more opposition in them; and we shall see how it had a various effect, according to the different tempers and constitutions of children.
Their eldest daughter was about eighteen year old; and her mother, it seems, began with her first. Her mother found it a very difficult matter to deal with her; for when she came to tell her of laying by her foolish romances and novels, of which she was mighty fond,-- leaving off her patches and play-books,-- refusing her going to the park on the Sabbath-days, and the like,-- she flew out in a passion, and told her mother, in plain words, that she would not be hindered, she was past a child, she would go to the park, and to the play, and the like, aye, that she.
But the mother, whose resolution was too well fixed, after such an occasion as has been said, to be conquered by her daughter, having tried softer methods to no purpose, took her roundly to task, and told her, that as she took those measures with her for her good only, and that she could not satisfy her own conscience, to see her ruined, body and soul together, so she was resolved to be obeyed; and that, since she would not comply by fair means, she would take another course. This course, it seems, beside other things, which will appear in the following part of dialogue, was particularly, that it being Sabbath-day, after they came from church, when her mother began this course, her daughter called for her coach to go to the park, as their custom, it seems, had always been; but her mother would not suffer her to stir out; and, upon her being a little stubborn or resolute, had used some little violence with her in showing her resentment, and threatened her, as will appear presently.
Upon this repulse, she flings up stairs into her chamber, where she sat crying; when her elder brother, whom the father, it seems, had not yet begun with, came to her; between which couple begins the following dialogue.
Bro. Sister! what, in tears: what's the matter now?
[She cries on, but makes no answer.]
Bro. Dear sister, tell me your grievances? I say, tell me what is it troubles you?
[And pulls her by her clothes.]
Sist. I won't. Don't trouble me: I won't tell you: let me alone.
[Sobs and cries still.]
Bro. Pr'ythee, what is the matter, sister? Why, you will spoil your face, you won't be fit to go to the park. Come, I came to have you go out, we will all go to the park.
Sist. Ay, so you may if you can.
Bro. If I can! what do you mean by that? I have ordered Thomas to get the coach ready.
Sist. 'Tis no matter for that, I assure you he won't do it.
Bro. I'll cane the rascal if he don't, and that presently, too. Come, do you wipe your eyes, and don't pretend to go abroad with a blubbered face.
Sist. I tell you, Thomas will not obey you, he is otherwise ordered. You will find, that neither you nor I are to go out to-night.
Bro. Who will have the impudence to hinder us?
Sist. I have been hindered already; and my mother told me in so many words, I not only shall not go to-night, but never any more on a Sunday; though I think I shall fail her.
Bro. What does my mother mean by that? Not go to the park! I must go, and will, as soon as sermon is done. What harm is there in't? I warrant you we will go. Come, get ready, and wipe your eyes.
Sist. You'll find yourself mistaken in my mother. I'll assure ye, I told her I would go, as you do me; and she was in a passion with me, she struck me, which she never did in all her life before, and then read me a long lecture on the Sabbath-day, and being against her conscience, and I know not what; things I never heard her talk of in my life before. I don't know what ails her to be in such an humour.
Bro. Conscience! What does my mother mean by that? Why, have we not gone every Sunday to the park, and my mother always gone with us? What, is it against her conscience now, and never was against her conscience before! that's all nonsense. I'll warrant you I'll go for all this new bustle you make about it.
Sist. I'd go with all my heart; but I tell you she is in such a passion, you had better let her alone; it will but make her worse.
Bro. Pr'ythee don't tell me: I will go to the park if the devil stood at the door. What, shan't I have the liberty to go out when I please? Sure I am past a boy, an't I?
Sist. I tell you my mother is very positive, and you had better let her alone: you will but provoke her. You may do as you will.
Bro. Not I, I won't provoke her at all, for I won't ask her: I'll go without her.
Sist. Then you will go without a coach too; for I assure you, as I said before, you won't get Thomas to go.
Bro. Then I'll take a hackney, and go to the Mall.
Sist. Come, brother, we had better let it alone for once, my mother will be better conditioned another time,-- I hope this will be over.
Bro. Nay, I don't care. Come, let us read a book then. Have you never a play here? Come, I'll read a play to you.
Sist. Ay, what will you have?
[She runs to her closet for a play-book, and finds plays, novels, song-books, and others of that kind, taken all away.]
Sist. Oh, thieves! thieves! I am robbed!
Bro. Robbed! What do you mean, sister?
[He runs to her.]
Sist. All my books are gone! they are all gone! all stole! I have not a book left!
[Here you may suppose her taking God's name in vain very much, and in a great passion.]
Bro. What, all your books?
Sist. Every one that are good for any thing. Here's nothing but a Bible, and an old foolish book about religion, I don't know what.
[Her brother looks.]
Bro. I think, as you say, they are all gone. No, hold, here's a Prayer-book, and here's the Practice of Piety,-- and here's the Whole Duty of Man.
Sist. Pr'ythee what signifies them to me? But all my fine books are gone. I had a good collection of plays, all the French novels, all the modern poets, Boileau, Dacier, and a great many more.
Bro. What's the meaning of this?
Sist. I'll lay a hundred pounds this is my mother.
Bro. I believe so too. I wish my mother be not mad. This is horrid. What can my mother mean?
[The sister falls in a great passion of crying; the second brother comes up to them, and the father had been talking to him.
2 Bro. What is the matter with my sister? What, is she not well?
1 Bro. I don't know what's the matter very well; but my mother has been ruffling her a little, and put her out of humour.
2 Bro. What has she done?
1 Bro. Why, she won't let her go to the park; and when she said she would go, my mother struck her; and we find she has taken away all her books. I can't imagine what the meaning of all this is. I think my mother is mad.
2 Bro. No, no, brother, my mother is not mad. If she is mad, my father is so too. You will not wait long to know what the meaning of it is; for you will hear of it quickly too yourself, that I can assure you.
1 Bro. I hear of it! What, from my father?
2 Bro. Yes, from my father. He has told me his mind already, and the reason and occasion of it; and I know he is inquiring for you, to do the like.
1 Bro. He may talk what he will to me; but I'll do what I please for all that.
2 Bro. Hark! you are called just now; you will be of another mind when you come back, I'll warrant you.
[The eldst son is called to come to his father.]
1 Bro. Never, as long as I live.
[Goes out.]
2 Bro. If my father's reasons do not persuade him, I can assure him his authority will, for he is resolved upon the thing.
Sist. What thing is it, brother? What is our father and mother going to do with us? For my part, I cannot imagine what they mean.
2 Bro. Why, really, sister, I find they have begun with the youngest first; for my father has been upon me, and my mother has begun with my sister Betty; but, you will have your turn too.
Sist. I think my mother has begun with me already; for I was but humming over a new song this afternoon, though church was done, and all over, and every body come home, but my mother was in such a passion with me that I never had many words with her in my life. She would not let me go to the park, and had much ado to keep her hands off me.
2 Bro. I heard she was angry with you: but it seems you answered her rudely.
Sist. I said nothing but that I would go to the park.
2 Bro. Well, but you told her you would go to the park whether she would or not.
Sist. Why, was that such a crime? And so I would say again.
2 Bro. Well, but if you did, you would not say it was well done, would you? And it seems she told you then, so I can satisfy you now, she would not take it from you, nor none of us, as she has done.
Sist. It may be so, and I have found it otherwise already.
2 Bro. What, has she not taken some books out of your closet?
Sist. Some! Nay, she has only taken all my books away.
2 Bro. I warrant she has left your Bible and books, and such as those.
Sist. Ay, those! What does that signify? She has taken away all my plays, and all my songs, and all the books that I had any pleasure in.
2 Bro. Yes, I have heard of it.
Sist. But I will have them again, or I'll lead her such a life, she shall have little comfort of me.
2 Bro. Truly, sister, you may fancy you may have them again; but I can satisfy you, most of them are past recovery; for I saw them upon the parlour fire before I came up.
Sist. The fire! I'll go and pull them out before her face.
[Here she is raging, and in a violent passion at her mother, and makes as if she would ran down stairs.]
2 Bro. Come, sister, you had as good be easy; for I find both our father and mother are agreed in the thing: and I must own I begin to see they have reason for it. For my part, I am inclined to submit to all the measures; for I think in my conscience we have all been wrong; and if my father and mother see reason to have me alter my conduct, and especially when I am convinced it is to be the better too, I think it my part to submit.
Sist. I'll never submit.
[The sister cries again.]
2 Bro. Perhaps you will be persuaded, when my mother talks a little calmly to you. I believe my sister Betty is of another mind already.
Sist. I have had talk enough already. My mother tells me I shall not go to the park, nor to the play-house, nor patch, nor play at cards; I think this is talk enough. What, does my mother think to make a nun of me?
2 Bro. No, I dare say she does not.
Sist. No; and if she does, she will be mistaken; for I shall not be hindered of my innocent diversions, let my mother do what she pleases.
2 Bro. But, sister, I do not think you find my mother unreasonable in what she desires, if you will but allow yourself leisure to think of it a little.
Sist. Unreasonable in her desires! Pr'ythee can you tell me what it is she does desire; for I cannot imagine what my mother would be at?
2 Bro. As for my mother I cannot be particular; but if you are willing to hear me, I'll tell you what my father said to me.
Sist. You may tell me if you will, though I don't much care; I won't be made a fool of. What, I an't a baby to go to school again.
2 Bro. Why, look you sister, you may stand out, if you will, a great while; but I warrant you must be content at last, for I do not see how you will help yourself.
Sist. I warrant you I'll help myself.
2 Bro. Then you must renounce your father and mother, and leave the family: and I do not see what good that will do you, for I am satisfied my father is resolute. I was going to tell you the short history of it, if you would have patience.
"Early this morning, before we went to church, my father called me up into his chamber, and, after inquiring several things of me about my learning, my company, my behaviour in the world, to which I made as good an answer as I could, he told me, with a great deal of tenderness, that he loved me so dearly, that he intended to do very well for me, and that he had a particular kindness for me, that he had but one thing he desired of me, and that was for my own good too, and desired to know if was disposed to comply with him. I told him, I very willing to do any thing to oblige him, who had so good a father to me. He told me all he desired of me was this:-- He had observed, that his family in general were running on into all kinds of levity and looseness, which he was satisfied would be their ruin: that he had been remiss in his duty of instruction and reproof to his children; but that he begged God's pardon for that omission, and would do his best to make us all amends. He concluded with asking me whether I had rather be a rake or a sober man? I answered, I hoped he did not expect any reply from me to that, and that I hoped I had not gone so far as to make him doubt in the least that I did not design to be a sober man. Why, son, replies my father, you have no other way to do this, but to conclude, that if there was no divine law, no future state, no rewards or punishments; yet, regarding the honour and character which you expect in the world, you ought to be sober, if it were only to preserve your reputation. He told me, that I knew he had designed me for the practice of the law; that though he would do what he could for me, yet, as he had a great many other children, I must expect to live, or at least to advance myself, by my own merit and industry; and that a lawyer, like a virgin, having once lost the reputation of his virtue or sobriety, no body will meddle with him.
"I not only listened very attentively to my father's discoarse, but, looking steadily upon him, I thought I saw more than usual tenderness and affection in him, all the while he was speaking. Whenever he mentioned his having omitted his duty to his family, I thought I saw tears in standing in his eyes; and to hear him say, he begged God's pardon for the neglect of it, brought tears into mine. When be told me he would make us all amends for the future, it suggested to my mind, that my father supposed that this want of more early instructing us, who are his children, was our loss, as well as his fault, and that we were not such children as we should have been if we had been better taught. I must own to you, sister, these thoughts have since made a great disturbance in my mind. I thought I saw the two young ladies at the next door, and their brother too, look quite another sort of people than we did; they appear so modest, sober, and yet so decently and genteelly affable and pleasant, that I think they live quite another life than we do; they never swear, nor use lewd and profane words in discourse; they never sit up all night at cards, or go a visiting on Sundays, nor do a hundred foolish things that our family makes a trade of; and yet they live as merrily, comfortably, sociably, and genteelly as we do.
I must own to you, though I have often laughed at them, and ridiculed them before, yet my thoughts often told me they lived a more rational life than we did: and when I heard my father talk thus, it presently came into my thoughts, that if my father took the new course with his family as he talked of, we should begin to like them, and I thought that would be very well for us all.
"Well, after my father had gone on thus, and passed awhile, I suppose to hear whether I would say any thing to it or not, I told him I would be glad to do any thing to answer his end, and desired to know what it was he expected of me. My father said, the chief end of his discourse then was to convince me of the reasonableness and necessity of an alteration in my life, and of the advantages of a religious family, and of a sober and religious education; and for rest, if I was first satisfied of the general, he knew it would be easy to bring me to comply with all the measures he should take to bring it about.
"We had a great deal more such discourse; but I told him I was very well satisfied that he designed nothing but our good, and I should be ready to observe all the injunctions he should lay on me. And truly, sister, now I begin to reflect upon it, I find a great deal of satisfaction in it; for, upon my word, I think we have lived very oddly all along; whether it were my father's fault, or our own, I don't inquire; but if we know no more, none of us, of the town, than we do of religion, we should be a very unfashionable family."
Sist. Pr'ythee don't fill my head with all this canting stuff; I don't value it a farthing.
2 Bro. Why, sister, have you no manner of inclination to live religiously, and like a Christian, or to listen to what your father may say to you?
Sist. I think I am religious enough in all my conscience; and I don't intend to disturb my thoughts with any more religion than needs must.
2 Bro. You talk wildly now; I hope you will be a good Christian.
Sist. A Christian! Why, what do you take me for a Mahometan? I think I am a very good Christian.
2 Bro. Why, suppose that too; yet, if it were no more than that my father desires it, and says, he resolves to have it so, you will hardly persuade yourself not to submit to him. You know, besides, that he is our father, and we ought in duty to obey him; and not only that, but he has been the kindest, tenderest, obligingest father in the world to us; and it would be very ungrateful to show yourself rude to such a father, as it would be wicked to disobey him. I am sure you would not be a Christian if you should.
Sist. Don't tell me; I think myself as good a Christian as any of you; but I won't be made a fool of, for all that. I had rather you think me no Christian, than you should think me a fool. Sure I am past my horn-book.
2 Bro. And what, because you are past your horn-book, do you think you are past teaching? Have you nothing to learn but your A B C?
Sist. No, no, I'll learn any thing too: but I won't be taught to be a hermit. If they have a mind to breed me for an abbess, let them send me to a monastery. I'd rather be in a real cloister, than be cloistered up at home. Use none or your new cant with me. I tell you, brother, my mother may ruffle me as much as she will, I'll have my own way still.
2 Bro. Sister! sister! you may talk, and huff, and flounce about as much as you will, but you will have the worst of it at last; for if both father and mother set upon it, as I find they are both of a mind, they will conquer you at last: and perhaps it may mortify you more than you think of.
Sist. I am not so soon conquered as my father may think. If they will not let me be quiet at home, I'll take another method, I am not so much to seek.
2 Bro. Pray, sister, don't be angry with me for my good will. I am not threatening you, nor my father by me.
Sist. No, no, I won't be threatened neither. Sure I'm too old for correction.
2 Bro. But not for advice, I hope, sister, nor for instruction; and if my father should think you deserve correction, do you think there is no way for him to show his resentment, but laying his fingers on you?
Sist. You may all do your worst. I won't trouble myself about it. 'Tis vain to threaten me.
2 Bro. Nay, sister, I think you are not so above my father's threatening you. Would you be willing my father should hear you?
Sist. You may tell him, if you please.
2 Bro. Though it is very disobliging, sister, yet I love you too well to go on that errand, or to obey a command that would be so much to your prejudice.
Sist. I care not a farthing if you did.
2 Bro. It is a satisfaction to me that I know you will be of another mind hereafter.
Sist. Not I, I defy you all. I'll go as far as my legs can carry me, before I'll he confined, or made a fool of.
2 Bro. Wherever you go, I would have you take this hint along with you, that you leave your reputation behind you, and especially the Christian will be left behind you.
Sist. Don't you trouble your head about that, I shall take care of my own reputation.
2 Bro. While it is in your own keeping, I hope you will, sister; but you talk foolishly enough of going away from your father. If you once go out of your father's doors, take my word for it, your character is at every body's mercy.
Sist. For what, pray?
2 Bro. Why should you ask for what? Pray what will you say, or what would you have said to any that should ask you, or ask us, why you are gone away from your father? You won't venture to say, that you came away because your father was about to reform his family! That you came away because you would not submit to be instructed by your father! That you came away because your father and mother would have you more religious than you were before! And if you will not say that, pray what can you say, or whan can any body say for you?
Sist. I warrant you I shall have enough to say; and as for what you or others shall say, you may say your worst of me, I don't care.
2 Bro. Truly, the greatest misfortune will be, that when we say the worst, we shall say the truth; and that when we say the truth, we must say the worst of you that can be spoken; and, upon that account, I hope you will consider what you do, when you think of going from your father's house, though it were to the best friend you have.
Sist. Indeed, if they put hard upon me, I shall make no scruple of it.
2 Bro. I cannot tell what you will say then to bring yourself off. Pray what do you call putting hard upon you? Will you call my father's desire to reform your life a putting hard upon you? I hope you will first prove, that he designs to press you to some wicked thing, some forbidden unlawful course; but to call my father's desire to regulate your conduct, and reform your life, I say, to call this putting hard upon you, every body that hears it will reflect upon you.
Sist. No matter for that, I won't be confined, not I.
2 Bro. Not from the worst wickedness. Do you mean you will not be confined so?
Sist. I desire no wickedness; I don't know what you mean. I have never exposed myself yet, to be charged with any wickedness.
2 Bro. But you will do it now, it seems, your father requires you to be sober.
Sist.v Pr'ythee what do you mean by sober? I think I am sober enough, and want no more reforming than any of you. What would you have?
2 Bro. I am no way taxing your sobriety, but should be very glad you should increase the stock, and improve it; and I believe my father means no other.
Sist. Can't I be sober as well with all my books my mother has taken away, as without them? What can you tax me with that is not sober, that there is such a rout about?
2 Bro. Dear sister! I do not find that my father or mother is inclined to tax you in particular any more than all of us, but all of us together; nay, even our father and mother themselves have been negligent, godless, and graceless; and if they now resolve to repent, and turn, and to carry it after another manner, and to have us do the same, pray what taxing can you call this? Does not my father say, he confesses he has been negligent, and has not done his duty as well as all of us? And what is all he desires of us, but only that as he begs pardon of Almighty God for himself, so we should ask the same for ourselves;-- that as he resolves to reform his practice, so we should do also;-- that so at last we may be a sober family, a reformed family, and may serve God for the future after another manner than we have done. Pray where's the hardship in all this?
Sist. Well, you may go on with your reformation, and confessions, and all that, if you have a mind: for my part, I'll have nothing to do with it, I'll let you all go your own way.
2 Bro. Well, sister, I am sorry for you. If you hold in this mind, we are like to have a foul house with, quickly, for I know my father will go thorough stitch what he has begun.
Sist. My father may go on with what he will. I shan't hinder him. He may let me alone, and reform the rest of you, can't he? I need no reformation that I know of.
2 Bro. I am not so sorry for the difficulty my father will meet with, as for the hazard you will run for yourself, and the breach you will make in your own happiness. But here comes my sister Betty, I see by her looks she has some thing to say upon the same subject.
2 Sist. How long have you two been together?
2 Bro. A great while.
2 Sist. I suppose I know something of your discourse; at least, I guess at it by your looking so grave. Pray how long have you been here?
2 Bro. I told you a great while. But since you would be answered particularly, I believe we have been here just as long as you have been with my mother; for I know she has been talking to you.
2 Sist. That's true, my mother and I have been talking.
1 Sist. Talking! do you say? or fighting?
2 Sist. Fighting! What do you mean, sister? Do you think I fight with my mother
1 Sist. No, but it may be your mother may fight with you. Why not with you, as well as with your eldest sister?
2 Sist. My mother never struck me in her life, and I never gave her any cause that I know of.
1 Sist. That's more than I can say, yet I think I never gave her any more cause than you did.
2 Sist. If my mother struck you, certainly you must have given her more cause than I have done; for every body knows she loves you to a distinction above every child she has.
1 Sist. I don't believe a word of it, nor do I desire such love.
2 Bro. Well, sister, but you may tell us at little how you like things, and what discourse my mother has had with you, for we all know the subject already.
2 Sist. My mother said nothing to me but what I like very well, and am very willing to comply with.
2 Bro. I am very glad to bear you say so, I wish we were all of the same mind.
2 Sist. I hope we shall. I think what she proposes is so rational, and the reasons of it so unanswerably good; that I see no room to object against it in the least; nor do I see any thing designed in it at all, but what is for our good.
2 Bro. I am perfectly of your opinion, and am glad to find you of mine. But here is my sister Mary;, quite of different sentiments from us all.
1 Sist. And with a great deal of reason, for I have not been treated with the same kindness as you have been treated with.
2 Sist. Wherein, pray?
1 Sist. Why, I suppose my mother has not been in your chamber, and rifled your closet, and taken all your choice books, and your plays, and your songs, and your novels, &c. and carried them away, and thrown them into the fire.
2 Sist. No, no, my dear; for what my mother said to me was so affecting, so fully convincing, and so unanswerable, that I immediately fetched them all down myself, and put them into the fire with my own bands, before her face.
1 Sist. A pretty, complying easy fool! I warrant she kissed thee, and called thee dear child, and cried over for thy pains. Did she not, my dear?
2 Sist. I am ashamed to hear you talk so of my mother, sister. Sure you han't lost your manners and duty, as well as respect and religion. Sister, I beseech you what is the matter with you?
1 Sist. And have you really burnt all your plays to please a humour?
2 Sist. Indeed I have burnt them, but not to please a humour. I have done it to oblige the best mother in the world: and I have done it from a sense of its being very fit to be done.
1 Sist. A fine child! and are not you a deal the wiser for it? Do you not repent it already?
2 Sist. No, sister: so far from repenting it, that I never did any thing in my life that gave me more satisfaction; and if it were to do again, I should do it with ten times the pleasure I did it then; and if God give me grace to keep my resolution, I never design to see a play, or read a play more.
1 Sist. Pretty child! thoroughly reformed at once! this is a mighty sudden conversion, and may hold accordingly, I suppose, as most such hasty things do.
2 Sist. It will hold, I hope, longer than your obstinacy against it.
1 Sist. When it has as good reasons, I may think so too.
2 Sist. I shall debate that with you hereafter, when you have heard the same reasons for it that I have heard.
1 Sist. Well, but come, pray let's have a few of reasons just now, if you can spare them. Pray, what harm is there in seeing or reading a play? Is there any sufficient mischief in them to justify your burning them, and to justify mother's using me about them as she has done?
2 Sist. In the first place, sister, the time we have before us, compared to the eternity that is to be prepared for, is so little and so short, that, if it be possible to employ it better, there is none to spare for what has so little good in it as a play.
1 Sist. I have learned a great deal of good from a play.
2 Sist. But might you have learned more from the scriptures?
1 Sist. It may be not.
2 Sist. You would have been a bad scholar then.
1 Sist. Well, and what's next?
2 Sist. In the second place, the little good which you can pretend is to be found in them, is mixed with so much evil, attended with so much lewd, vicious, and abominable stuff, that no sober person will bear with the wicked part for the sake of the good part; nor can any one justify it, that the good part is such, or so great, that so much hazard should be run for it.
1 Sist. Very well; so you are afraid you should be in every thing that is right, more especially in every thing that is for my own good, and, most of all, where my duty to God joins with it. If you think it below you to do so, I am tempted when you go to the play; I suppose that is because you are so tempting yourself.
2 Sist. No, sister, I am in no more danger, I hope, than another; but sure, if I am to pray to God, as in the Lord's prayer-- "Lead me not into temptation," I must not lead myself into it.
1 Sist. And is this all you have to say for throwing the best collection of plays the whole town had into the fire?
2 Sist. I have many more reasons which I shall bestow on you, when you have answered these. But there is one more which I will bestow upon you now, which you may give an answer to before the rest, if you please, viz. that it is my mother's desire and resolution that I should do so; and that she declares it is against her conscience to permit me the use of these things as formerly,-- and therefore desires, and in one kind commands, that I should do thus: and I am bid in the scriptures many ways to obey:-- "Children obey your parents in all things," &c.
1 Sist. That is the best reason you have given yet.
2 Sist. I think not, neither; for the other reasons are better, as they are drawn from the nature and authority of God, and this but from the authority of my mother; which, though it is great, and ought to be very prevalent with me, and ever shall be so, yet not quite equal, or up to the authority of him that made us all: nor will my mother think hard that I say so.
2 Bro. Sister, indeed I think my sister Betty has fully answered you there.
1 Sist. Yes, yes, you are two fine new converts.
2 Bro. Which I hope we shall never be ashamed of.
1 Sist. Well, and pray what said you to her about going to the park on Sundays? Had you nothing to say about that?
2 Sist. Yes, yes, my mother showed her dislike of it, and said it was a plain violation of the commands of God. I mused a little while about it; and being convinced that it was so, I presently resolved never to go any more.
1 Sist. So, and you had not a box on the ear then, as I had?
2 Sist. I gave my mother no occasion for that, sister, as I understand you did.
1 Sist. No, no, you are a mighty good obedient thing.
2 Sist. I am not ashamed to own, that I obey my mother, and am willing to do so in every thing, especially sorry for it. I cannot follow you in that example; for the scripture says expressly-- "Children, obey your parents all things," much more where the command of God, and the command of our parents concur together, as it does in this case.
1 Sist. You preach nicely, sister. You shall marry a parson; and, when you turn Quaker, you shall be a speaking sister.
2 Sist. Any thing rather than a rebel to God and my parents;-- break the commandments of the first, and abuse the tenderness of the last.
1 Sist. You are mighty mannerly to your sister.
2 Sist. Much more to you than you to my mother. I love my sister very well; but I know neither brother nor sister when they rise up against my mother, and that such a mother as our's is; who, I must tell you, sister, deserves other things at your hands: and, unless you behave better, you will find the whole family against you, as well as I; for every body says you treated my mother rudely. The very servants speak of it with abhorrence, and of you with contempt. Every body must despise you, if you carry it so to your mother.
1 Sist. With all my heart. If every body I'll despises me, I'll every body, and so I'll be even with you all.
2 Sist. You'll soon be of that.
1 Sist. If I am, I bear my affliction with patience.
2 Sist. You are like to be a martyr in the worst cause that ever a saint suffered in: no doubt but you will suffer for conscience sake. Two excellent points in divinity you maintain, viz. contempt of God, and rebellion against your parents. I wonder what evil spirit is your instructor.
1 Sist. You are very pert, madam, and show abundance of affection and respect.
2 Sist. I follow your example still, sister; but I'll be very honest to you. I'll never have respect nor affection to you, nor any body that shall carry it to my as you have done. I would not load you, nor add to your sorrows, but no body in this house can do otherwise, who have such a father and such a mother as we have.
1 Sist. I have no sorrow about it, and I am resolved I will have none.
2 Sist. I think the best way to deal with you is to leave you,-- your crime will be your sufficient punishment. But I must tell you, before I go, which I should have told at first, that my business was not to visit you now, but to call you to my father and mother, who want to speak with you in the parlour, and where, I suppose, you will hear more of it.
1 Sist. I will not go.
2 Sist. As you please, sister, for that; I have delivered my message.
1 Sist. And you may carry that for an answer.
2 Sist. No, sister, I'll have no hand in your misfortunes: besides, I believe here comes another messenger from them.
[A servant comes up stairs, and tells the eldest lady that her father and mother wait to speak with her.]
1 Sist. I am indisposed, tell my mother, I cannot come, I am upon the bed.
Serv. If you won't go, madam, I doubt they will come to you.
1 Sist. Go and deliver your message.
2 Sist. And are you so resolute against yourself, sister? Can nothing persuade you to your own good? Certainly you will be wiser.
1 Sist. What would have me do, what is the matter with you all?
2 Sist. Nay, sister, I am not fit to give you advice, who are my eldest sister: but methinks you do not want advice to go down to your father, when you are sent for.
1 Sist. I won't.
2 Sist. What shall I say to them? I dare not say you won't, for your own sake.
1 Sist. Tell them I an't well, can't you? that I am upon the bed, and have shut my door, and won't be spoke with. Tell them any thing. Don't you see I am not fit to be spoke to?
2 Sist. As the maid said, I am certain they'll come up to you, for they know your distemper. I would fain have you go down. I dare say you will be treated very tenderly and kindly, perhaps better than you expect, especially if you do not force them to treat you ill.
1 Sist. Yes, after they have burnt all my books,-- robbed me of what they knew was my delight,-- refused me the liberty of going abroad, and given me a blow on the face for nothing,-- now they'll treat me kindly, will they? I desire none of their kindness. I won't go.
2 Sist. Well, sister, then they must wait upon you, I suppose.
1 Sist. If they do, I will not speak to them, nor open the door.
[She cries vehemently.]
2 Sist. I hope you will alter your mind, I'll leave you to think of it.
[The second sister withdraws, and the other claps the door after her.]
This dialogue needs no observation, save on the different tempers between children, dutifully submitting to family government, and affectionately complying with their parents' just desires; and, on the other hand, children, obstinately adhering to the dictates of their passions. And this will appear to every common reader. Besides, much of the first part being historical, and the family known, I forbear further observations on the particular conduct of the persons. The design of this work being rather to instruct other families, than to reproach those who may think themselves concerned, the author leaves these dialogues, therefore, without particular remarks, and leaves room for abler hands to annotate upon them hereafter, when the persons concerned may be gone off the stage: and then it may a general reproach to those that are guilty, rather than a particular satire upon persons or families, and this he conceives will also tend more to the usefulness of work.
THE FIFTH DIALOGUE.
The last dialogue is a kind of sketch or draught of the whole family we are speaking of. The eldest son and daughter, as their father and mother had suggested, being grown up in the long allowed course of looseness of behaviour, all manner of having been given them, without any family restraint, without government, and rather encouraged by their parents than limited either by example or command, proved, as might well be expected, very obstinate and refractory' especially the daughter, who being hot and insolent, her mother, at the first attempt, was so provoked, as to use her somewhat roughly. The other children, who were grown up, being also a son and a daughter, are not only brought to submit to the reformation proposed by their parents, but embrace it with willingness and cheerfulness, and make their duty their choice, to the great satisfaction of their parents.
The following dialogue is between the father and mother, with their sons and daughters respectively, and apart, which are the same that are referred to in the former discourses.
The mother, it seems, began with their eldest daughter upon something in her behaviour about breaking the Sabbath, and this, by the imprudence of the daughter, ended rougher than she (the mother) designed it.
The father began with the second son, and finding him very tractable, proceeded to the eldest son, but met with great difficulties and discouragements in him.
The mother found the second daughter sensibly affected with her discourse, and cheerfully willing to submit to her instructions; which was a great comfort to her, and encouraged her to deal the better with her obstinate sister.
The other children were younger, and rather to be governed by authority than persuasion. The dialogue with the eldest daughter began thus. After sermon, every Lord's day, it had been their custom to walk abroad, to go to the park, or a visiting, and so to wear off the evening, and then come home to supper. But the case being now altered, the father had let the servants know they must all stay at home; and had told his younger son, with whom he had discoursed in the morning, that he would have no more going to the park on the Lord's-day. But the daughter had not yet heard of it, nor the eldest son, or, if they had, they did not believe their father was in earnest; so that, according to their usual custom, they were preparing to go abroad, and the son had bid their coachman get ready to carry them out. The mother perceiving the daughter to putting on her gloves, calls to her thus:
Moth. What are you dressing for, child?
Daugh. To go to the park, madam.
Moth. I would not have you go to-night, my dear.
Daugh. Why, madam?
Moth. I have a reason which I had rather tell you another time.
[Note.-- The mother having designed to have a serious discourse with her daughter, did not think fit to enter into particulars now, but her daughter's carriage forced her to it.]
Daugh. I must go, madam, I have appointed company.
Moth. Well, however, disappoint them for once, at my desire.
Daugh. 'Tis impossible, madam, I can't do it.
Moth. O, the impossibility is not so very great as you make it. I warrant you, you can excuse it.
Daugh. I never did such a thing in my life: 'tis rude, madam, to the last degree. I cannot look my lady Lighthead in the face.
Moth. Lay the fault on me, my dear, I'll bear the blame.
Daugh. I'll even lay the fault on nobody, nor ask body's pardon, but go myself.
Moth. I wonder, child, you should force me to the necessity of telling you, that you must not go.
Daugh. Why, madam, I must go; I can't put it off.
Moth. But I tell you, mistress, since you will be put off no other way, you shall not go.
Daugh. Shan't I?
Moth. No, you shan't.
Daugh. But I will go.
Moth. I never thought to have had such language as that from you, daughter, and I assure you I shall not take much of it.
Daugh. Why should I not go out then, as well now as at another time?
Moth. Why, daughter, since I must come to particulars with you, I assure you, that you shall not only not go to the park to day, but never any more on a Sabbath-day, as long as I have the troublesome office of being your mother.
Daugh. What have I done to be used so?
Moth. Nothing more than the rest, nor was I blaming you: but you have been all guilty of profaning the Lord's-day; and to the best of my power you shall do it no more.
Daugh. Why, han't you don't it yourself? and have you not always with us?
Moth. Though that is very unnatural and unmannerly in you to reproach me with it; yet I confess, it is but too just, and I deserve it; however, I pray God forgive me, that I have done it, and especially, that I have let you all do it. Well may you upbraid me with it; and I desire to be ashamed, that you have had my example to encourage you to it: but it is the more my duty to reform it, and I expect your compliance with the more willingness.
Daugh. I see no harm in it, not I.
Moth. What, not on the Lord's-day?
Daugh. No, when the sermon is over, and church is done.
Moth. Why, does not the commandment say-- "Remember the Sabbath-day, to keep it holy, therefore God blessed the Sabbath-day, and hallowed it?"
Daugh. Why, don't I keep it holy enough? Don't I go to church every Sunday?
Moth. Well, and do you think that the Sabbath-day is over when you have been at church?
Daugh. Over! Why, what would you have us do after we have been at church?
Moth. I shall take a time to let you know, what is your duty on the rest of the day: but I did not design to talk of that now, nor of this neither, if you had not moved to it by your undutiful language.
Daugh. I don't trouble myself about it.
[Here the daughter turns away, and with a kind of humming low voice sings the tune of a new play-house song.]
Moth. Unsufferable insolence! Have I been telling you of the command of God to keep holy the Sabbath-day, and of my resolution to do it myself, and to cause you to do it, and do you despise God and your mother at this rate? It is not to be borne with.
[She first apparently laughs at her mother, and turning away from her, sings on.]
Moth. Your contempt of your mother I place to my account; but, for your contempt of your Maker, that that on god's account.
[Strikes her a box on the ear.]
Daugh. Ha! is it come to that?
[The daughter flies away in a rage, and goes up stairs towards her chamber.]
Moth. Only take this with you in your fury, that I'll have no going out of doors.
Daugh. But I will, for all this.
Moth. I advise you to provoke me no farther.
Daugh. You have done your worst.
[The mother, provoked highly by her tongue, follows her, and goes into her chamber; but she had gone into another room, and the mother, seeing the closet door open in her chamber, goes in and takes away all her books, plays, songs, &c. leaving only her Bible, prayer-books, and two or three good books in their room.]
Moth. These are the cursed roots from whence this blessed fruit grows up! Here's her Sabbath-day's study! and the bait of all her pleasures! These shall be the first sacrifice to the blessed resolution I have taken of reforming my family.
[The mother brings them all down stairs, and, after looking over the particulars, threw them all into the fire.]
[THe daughter going afterwards into her chamber, and finding what her mother had done, occasioned the dialogue already set down, between her and her eldest brother.]
This little adventure being over, and the mother having composed herself, she sends for her second daughter, about fifteen years old, and begins the following dialogue with her.
Moth. Child, where are you going? What, are you bespoke to-night too?
2 Daugh. No, madam: who should bespeak me?
Moth. Why, your sister, to go to the park.
2 Daugh. No, indeed, madam, I know nothing of it; and if she had, I have no inclination to it.
Moth. How so?
2 Daugh. I don't know, but I never cared for it on Sundays; but when you go, and every body, then I must.
Moth. Dear child, don't cut me to the heart, by telling me of my going! Your sister has upbraided me with it just now, in her fury; but your innocent way of telling me of it sinks deeper still.
2 Daugh. Upbraid you, madam! 'tis impossible! I hope my sister is not gone mad. Sure you won't call my speaking so upbraiding you with any thing. I abhor it.
Moth. But, my dear, I upbraid myself with it.
2 Daugh. God forbid I should do it, dear mother. But was there any harm in your going?
Moth. Only the wickedest thing in me that I was capable of doing; especially as it was an example to you, my dear, and to your brothers and sisters.
2 Daugh. But if it was a wicked thing, mother, it so in me too, was it not?
Moth. Most certainly.
2 Daugh. I cannot tell what it was, but I had always some uneasiness when I was out at the park, or a visiting on the Sabbath-day; but I considered my mother was with me, and sure it could not be made wrong then, and that carried me on. But, dear mother, do not call this upbraiding you with it. It would break my heart to have you think so.
Moth. I don't, my dear; but I cannot help upbraiding myself with it, though nobody in the world was to upbraid me with it, for I have run the risk of ruining thee, my dear, and all the rest of my children, both soul and body; and I am afraid some of them are quite ruined already.
2 Daugh. I won't be one of them, mother. I'll do any thing you shall direct me to.
Moth. I would be glad to direct you for the best, my dear; but the work has been so long neglected, I am almost discouraged, and know not where to begin, or how to hope for success.
2 Daugh. Why, dear mother, I hope I am not so hard to be instructed, or so backward to learn. I am sure I am willing to change my coarse of life for a better, not only out of obedience to you, as you are my mother, but out of mere inclination and choice; for I have often thought were not in the way to do ourselves good, and that the life we led was not as it should be.
Moth. I thank God for that foundation laid in thee, my dear, and hope the rules of amendment will be the more agreeable.
2 Daugh. Dear mother, all your rules shall be agreeable to me, but more especially such rules as shall deliver me from the evil of an irregular life. Sure I cannot be so ungrateful as to neglect the directions you shall give, so much to my own advantage.
Moth. My dear, it is true, that bare amendment of life is not all the duty that is before us; it is not enough that we forbear the follies which we have so long committed, but we must perform the duties we are commanded. A Christian's life consists, as well in discharging commanded duties, as in avoiding forbidden evils. Both must be done, and both submitted to cheerfully.
2 Daugh. I have been uneasy a great while at the life we live. I always thought it was not right; but I did not know what course to take to alter it, nor what I ought to do, or not to do; besides, I thought if I should refuse going to the play, and refuse going abroad on the Sabbath-day, I should anger you, madam; for I always found you were for them, and yet I cannot say I took any pleasure in them; but saw other families did not do so, and I thought they looked soberer, and lived better than our's. I thought myself in heaven last winter, when you let me stay at my aunt's a few weeks.
Moth. And yet these are the very things your sister calls the pleasures of her life.
2 Daugh. Much good may they do her.
Moth. And puts so value upon them, that she will affront her mother at any time, rather than deny herself the least satisfaction of that kind.
2 Daugh. She will have all my share in the pleasure at a very low price.
Moth. Indeed, she provoked me just now to the highest degree. When I saw her preparing to go to the park, and desired her to put it off, she told me 'twas impossible, and her honour was engaged; because, forsooth, she had made an appointment to meet the young Lady Lighthead.
2 Daugh. Her honour engaged! What, her honour engaged to break God's commandments? Sure, madam, you did not tell her, as you do me, of the fourth commandment-- "Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath-day."
Moth. Yes, I did several times; and when at last I added my own authority, and told her, she should not go, she told me flat and plain she would go.
2 Daugh. I am amazed!
Moth. Nay, I ought not to wonder; for, when she had laughed at its being a breach of God's command, how could I expect she would lay any weight upon mine?
2 Daugh. It is impossible! Certainly she could never do it in contempt of the commandments: she must rather pretend it was lawful, and that it did not break the command.
Moth. No, my dear, nobody breaks the commandments of God avowedly and obstinately, as God's command. Nobody is so absurdly wicked as to say, I will break God's commandments in defiance of him: but she pretended there was no harm in it, because sermon was done; as if God, who hallowed the Sabbath-day, had only hallowed so much of it as was taken up in the public worship, and no part of the Sabbath was to be kept holy but sermon time.
2 Daugh. That's the divinity of the day, madam.
Moth. Nay, and which is still more ridiculous, as if one part of the day, being dedicated to the best things, the worst were to come just at the heels of them. I must own, I think people had better open their shops as soon as sermon is done, and fall to their business every Sabbath evening; for sure it would be less sin to spend the day in lawful employments than in sports and recreations. Worship and diversion are putting two extremes next to one another; and it seems a contempt of the day, to set one piece of it apart for the best things, and the other for the meanest, for recreation is the meanest lawful thing that can be done: but your sister thinks her pleasure the reason of her life, and end for which she was born.
2 Daugh. Then she seems to be born for very little purpose. I hope I am born for something else, madam.
Moth. Yes, she thinks seeing and reading plays, visiting the park, and the Mall, such material points of life, and so essential to her happiness, that she will not only contradict my authority, but God's command, rather than not enjoy them.
2 Daugh. I know plays and romances have been too much my sister's study and mine too, but I confess I see nothing in them now so diverting as I have thought of them; but if I did, if I thought it were displeasing to you, mother, if I thought it were an error, or an enemy to religion and virtue, I would soon let you see what my real value far is.
Moth. How dear they are to your sister, you will know to her just reproach, when you come to hear how she treats me for taking them from her; and how dear they are to me, you may guess, by my having put them into the fire just now.
2 Daugh. I am sorry for my sister, and especially, dear mother, that you should meet with so much affliction from your children; but depend upon it, madam, you shall meet with nothing from me, to add to it; and as to play-books and novels, I hope, if they were no way offensive on a religious account, I could sacrifice them all, to give satisfaction to my mother.
Moth. My dear, can you do so?
[The mother weeps for joy.]
2 Daugh. I'll soon put you out of that doubt, madam, if you'll have patience till I fetch them.
[She runs up stairs to her closet.]
Moth. Well, how said my husband to me, that if we began this work heartily, it would perhaps be blessed and succeeded from above, beyond our expectation! how does this dear child close cheerfully with the very first motion of a reformation! Who knows, but God in time will mollify the obstinacy of her sister! This shall, however, encourage me to go on with my work; to continue instructing and exhorting her, and not despair of a blessing, though the difficulties, by reason of a long delay and neglect, have been doubled upon me.
[The daughter returns with a servant, and full of songs, plays, novels, romances, and such stuff, and throws them down on the table.]
2 Daugh. Here, madam, is the willingest sacrifice I ever made in my life.
Moth. And do you do this freely, my dear?
2 Daugh. With more pleasure, madam, than ever I read them; and I resolve them to the fire.
Moth. I think, my dear, thou art the only qualified person to be trusted with them; because, if there be any such thing as good in them, which I will not say there is, thou alone art able to pick it out, without touching, or being tainted with the bad, of tasting what has any relish, without being soiled with the dirt, or infected with the disease of the other.
2 Daugh. Well, madam, but were I so capable, I am not above being enticed; and, besides, other of my brothers and sisters may make my example their rule, or may claim to use them, though in my possession. I had rather them follow my sister's, and therefore make it my desire, madam, in order to put an argument into your mouth, from my example, that I may put them all into the fire my own hand.
[She throws them in.]
Moth. The blessing of thy father and mother be upon thee, my dear child. Thou hast made my heart rejoice, that was almost sunk before, for fear lest all my children were irrecoverably lost, by my neglect of their more early instruction.
2 Daugh. My dear mother! I am happier in that blessing, than in all that ever you gave before.
Moth. What wilt thou say, my dear, to thy sister, when she hears of it?
2 Daugh. Nay, madam, what will my sister say to me, when she shall know that I have heard how she used my mother for a few ballads and play-books?
Moth. She will mock and flout thee, my dear.
2 Daugh. Then I'll pity her, madam; for I am sure she is in a worse condition thanI. I have your blessing and affection, madam, which I value above all the world; and she has a heap of plays and novels in the room of it.
2 Daugh. My blessing, my dear! Alas, what is that? May He be thy blessing, whose blessing "maketh rich, and addeth no sorrow to it!" If God give thee grace to go on, thou wilt be a blessing to me, rather than I to thee; for I have been the ruin of you all, and have brought you into the danger of being never recalled, for want of instructing you before.
2 Daugh. Dear mother, do not load yourself with that; I hope it is not too late for us to learn now.
Moth. It is very late, my dear, very late; and what would have been easily taught, and easily learned before, will be hard now both ways. I fear, my dear, you do not see what other things are necessary to be done.
2 Daugh. What things are they, madam?
Moth. Why, my dear, on our part, thy father and I, we must set up a family government entirely new;-- we must be angry now at what we were pleased at before, and pleased now with what we were angry at before;-- what we laughed at, and made a jest of in our children before, we must now mourn over, and correct them for;-- what we not only allowed to be done, but even did ourselves before, we must forbid now;-- what we accounted pleasant before, must be frightful now;-- and what we delighted in before, must be dreadful to us now: in short, every part of our government, or of our children's obedience, must be altered. O the task that I have to go through! O the difficulty of a late reformation in a family!
2 Daugh. I cannot understand what all this mighty change must be, madam, or wherein there will be so much difficulty, sure none of the family can be backward to listen to such directions as you will give them. Will any of my brothers or sisters be against being made better, or render your task difficult, when it may be made so easy, and so much for their own good? I am sure I will not, mother.
Moth. I know the mortification must be great on your side too, I mean, all of you. It is not an easy thing to bring children off from their levities and pleasures, which are become so natural to them, by a long uninterrupted allowance of their parents and governors; nay, it is not easy for children themselves to bring their humours and inclinations, fancies and passions, off from the pleasures of life, which perhaps they have, as all mine had, an unrestrained enjoyment of. The work is very hard, my dear.
2 Daugh. I believe it will not be half so hard to me to deny myself any, or all those diversions and criminal enjoyments you speak of, mother, as to guide myself to those things which are necessary to be done, or engaged in afterwards.
Moth. My dear, a religious conversation is not the easiest thing in the world.
2 Daugh. But I believe it is the pleasantest thing in the world, mother.
Moth. Child, I wonder to hear thee say so, for thou hast never seen any thing of it at home.
2 Daugh. 'Tis true, I have not at home, but I have abroad, madam, when you sent me to my aunt's, where you know I was nine or ten weeks. I thought I was in heaven there, to what I was at home; every one there was so sober, so pretty, so grave, so exact, and so regular, and yet so cheerful, so pleasant, so innocently merry, and withal so pious, and so religious, that I thought nothing so happy in my life, nor did I ever spend so many weeks so well in my life.
Moth. Child, your aunt is a Dissenter, you know.
2 Daugh. But, madam, my uncle is a churchman; and let them be what they will, I see no difference in their conversation. They all agree to be a religious, sober, pious family: the children are all under such government, do all things so prettily, and their behaviour is so agreeable, they love one another so entirely, and enjoy one another so perfectly, that I believe they are the pattern of all the town. My uncle every night and morning calls them all together to prayers. My aunt takes all her daughters together once a day, and makes one of them read a chapter, and then she says any thing she finds occasion to say to them, by way of reproof or direction; and I observed, when I went up stairs at night, not one of my cousins would go to bed till they had retired into their closets to their prayers by themselves.
Moth. Poor child! that was a strange way of life to thee, believe.
2 Daugh. I thought it strange indeed at first; but I was soon able to recollect myself, and was ashamed to know that I thought it strange, much less that I did not do so myself.
Moth. Poor child! if thou hadst been taught as well as they, thou wouldst have done so too.
2 Daugh. Indeed, madam, as I was almost left alone, I could not but say my prayers too; and this kind of life began to be so pleasant and agreeable to me, that I never enjoyed myself like it in all my life.
Moth. And didst thou not think thy father's family a kind of hell, when thou camest home again, my dear?
2 Daugh. No, madam, I confess it was odd at first, when, instead of a regular family, I came home to all manner of looseness, and liberty; but it soon began to be natural to again, and I forgot my good aunt's instructions, ay, and uncle's too, who used to say a great many good things to me, and gave me a great deal of good advice.
Moth. How seldom is good instruction lost or thrown away! I am persuaded the little good advice they gave thee was the foundation of that willingness to be governed and reformed which appears in thee now. My blessing on her heart for doing thee so much good!
2 Daugh. I believe it has done me no harm, madam.
Moth. How then would good instruction have wrought upon thee, if I had begun it ten or twelve years ago?
2 Daugh. Dear mother, I hope it is not too late.
Moth. Well, my dear, how do they spend the Sabbath at your aunt's? Not as we do, I dare say.
2 Daugh. No, indeed, madam, after quite another fashion. The young ladies are obliged to be down stairs half an hour after nine in the morning, ready dressed; then my uncle calls to prayers, and soon after they go all away, either to church or to the meeting-house; but whichsoever it is, they are almost sure to meet together after sermon, sometimes at the very door, and then children and servants, not one stirs from home. In the evening my uncle calls them all together, reads to them in some good book, and then sings psalms, and goes to prayers. When that is over, they go to supper; then they spend an hour perhaps or two in the most innocent and pleasant discourse and and conversation imaginable,-- it is always about something religious; and then every one retires to their apartment, and the young ladies spend their time in closet devotions, till they go to bed.
The sons, you know, madam, are grown up; and those young gentlemen are the very picture of their father,-- sober, virtuous, religious, and modest; and yet are really gentlemen, and behave themselves as much like gentlemen, as any men do. Dear mother, when I came home, and heard my brother damn the coachman, and curse the maids; when I heard the noise, the clamour, the profane words that our servants have in their daily conversation, it amazed me. I thought at first all gentlemen had been like my brother; but I was soon convinced when I had been a while at my aunt's.
Moth. All this, my dear, is the consequence of the difference of education, and signifies, my dear, that your aunt has done her duty, and I have not done mine; nothing else has made the difference, indeed, God's grace excepted.
2 Daugh. Dear mother, do not afflict yourself with what is past. Sure none of us will be such refractory creatures, as to resist your good design of reforming us now.
Moth. O, it is too late to bring your brothers to government now.
2 Daugh. I hope not, madam; if they are grown up, and thereby may think themselves past government, yet sure they are not past persuasion; they may want judgment when little, and are then rather to be taught by compulsion and correction; but as they are now masters of more reason, they will the sooner submit to the affectionate persuasions of a tender father and mother, especially in a thing so apparently and convincingly for their own good, soul and body.
Moth. I have a great deal of reason to fear the contrary, as well in your father as in your brothers.
2 Daugh. I think my sister is passionate, and very fond of pleasure and gaiety; but, madam, time and your authority, I hope, will prevail upon her to reflect upon her own interest, as well as duty.
Moth. Go to her, my dear, and see if you can work any thing upon her.
2 Daugh. Alas, madam! I shall be a very simple instructor to her, who thinks herself so wise. She reckons me but a child, fitter to come to school to her.
Moth. A less child than you, my dear, has been my instructor; why may not you be her's?
2 Daugh. I'll visit her, madam; but I question whether she will speak to me, for I know she is in a great passion.
Moth. Well go, and bid her come down into the parlour. Here's your father a coming. Tell her, your father and I want to speak to her.
2 Daugh. Yes, madam.
[She goes up to her sister.]
Notes on the Fifth Dialogue.
This dialogue chiefly discovers the difference of two families: one religiously educated, faithfully instructed, and taught both by the care and example of the heads of the family; the other abandoned to the gust of their own inclinations, and let loose in the pursuit of their pleasures, without any regard to their present duty or future happiness.
The benefit the young lady received in the religious family of her aunt, and the effects of it, shows us, 1. How pleasant a religious life; when duty conformed to, and willingly complied with, appears to be; and, 2. what convincing force it has in it, even upon the minds of those have no part in it themselves.
THE SIXTH DIALOGUE
While the mother was thus managing her daughters, the father was much engaged with the two sons; and his hardships were every jot as great as the mother's, and his encouragements the same too.
It is to be observed here, that the difficulty in this part of the education of children does not lie so much in the question what to teach them, and what principles of the Christian religion to go upon, as to bring them by reasoning and argument to be teachable; to persuade them that they have any occasion to learn, or that they are capable of teaching them, and to cause them to submit to instruction in general.
The father called his second son up to him on a Sabbath-day in the morning, before he came down stairs, and, taking him into his closet, began this dialogue with him. The son, you are to suppose, has been bred a gentleman and a scholar, was about seventeen years of age, and was newly come from the university.
The father begins thus:--
Fath. Son, I suppose you know what day this is?
Son. Yes, sir.
Fath. But perhaps you do not know, that not you only, but all the family, myself not excepted, have never taken due notice of the Sabbath-day, or of the manner in which we ought to behave on that day. The duty appointed for the day has been too much neglected; above all, the great duty of setting it apart for the worship and service of God, and keeping the Sabbath-day holy.
Son. I remember the fourth commandment, sir.
Fath. Yes, we can all repeat the commandments by rote, and do every day at church say them over and over; but the little regard we have shown to them in the week, is too plain a proof of our thinking but little of what we say: for God knows, in my house there has been little difference between a Sabbath-day and another day, unless it be, that the Sabbath-day has been spent the worst of the two; for excepting our just going to church, which also is made a mere diversion, and a kind of entertainment, all the rest spent in mere revelling, feasting, visiting, and either riding abroad, or mirth and gaiety at home; and this is so notorious, more in my family than in any other, that I am sensible it is high time to put a stop to it, and I design to tell you all my mind this evening, that the reformation may be effectual. I hope none of my children will oppose their own good.
Son. I hope not, sir.
Fath. Nay, if they oppose me never so much, I am resolved in this, if they will be foolish and wicked, they shall be foolish and wicked for themselves, not for me, or for any body else. For my part, when I look back upon my family, and consider how we have lived hitherto, I wonder that the judgments of God have not distinguished my family, and made us as public, and as much the amazement of the world for our punishment, as we have been notorious for our sin, and, therefore, if it were only for the fear of the hand of heaven, though I hope I act from another principle too, I think it concerns me to set about a family reformation, with all possible diligence and application.
Son. Indeed I never considered it, sir, till of late; but for some time past I have begun to see we have not been right. It is true, we do not live as other families do; and I have often thought so, but perhaps not with so much concern as I should have done.
Fath. Well, child, my design of altering it will be so much the more agreeable to you then, when you come to practise it.
Son. If it were not, sir, it shall be the more agreeable to me, if it be your command.
Fath. I would not command any thing that should not be agreeable, if it were not absolutely necessary. But in things indispensably our duty, the humours of any side are of no weight at all. The duty must be considered, rather than the inclination of those who are to perform it.
Son. I am not only willing to obey it, for its being your command, sir; but my own inclination concerns to set about any thing that will rectify my life, and teach me to govern myself according to my duty.
Fath. What you say, child, is very obliging, as it relates to me; and as I have always showed you, by my own conduct in your education, that I have entertained a particular affection for you more than for the rest of your brothers and sisters; so this return is so very pleasing to me, that I cannot but tell you I will not forget to show it you; and that I think myself very highly engaged by it to distinguish you in my affection, and in concern for you, as you have distinguished yourself in your duty and regard to this occasion: but the readiness you show to this work of reformation, from an inclination to the thing itself, is a particular which I rejoice in, and love you for, with an affection which I was not master of before. But tell me, child, whence came this inclination? how first came any thoughts into your mind about it? I am sure I have never before spoken a word about religion to you in my life.
Son. I won't say so, sir.
Fath. Aye, but I have too much cause to say so; and I am convinced I have not only failed of my duty, for which I heartily beg pardon of Almighty God, but have been injurious to you, child, and to all my children, in not furnishing you with the knowledge of your duty when you were young, and giving you early instruction; by which much of the follies of your lives might have been prevented, all the time you have now mis-spent had been saved, and you had all been long ago what now I doubt you will not obtain without great difficulty to me and yourselves.
Son. I am sorry to see you afflict yourself, sir, about that, I hope it shall not be too late still.
Fath. But, if not too late, the work is double, the task hard, the attempt almost desperate, and the success very doubtful.
Son. Dear sir, you shall have no difficulty with me. I am entirely resolved to be guided by your instructions, to follow your rules, obey your dictates, and submit wholly to your direction, let the difficulty be what it will to me; and, therefore, I only desire to know what the first steps are you would have me take.
Fath. The first steps, my dear, are the breaking off the ill practices of our family, and the regulating the house by rules of virtue, sobriety, and a Christian life,-- things we have all been strangers to here.
Son. This, sir, is that which I told you before I had an inclination to formerly, and 'tis with a great deal of pleasure I shall close with all your schemes of that kind; because it is sometime ago since I have seen and observed, that, as I thought, we did not live like Christians, but rather like heathens, and that other families were quite another sort of people than we; and I could not but be in love with them, and weary of our's; for I cannot but think, that nature itself dictates to a man of sense, that a life of virtue and sobriety is more agreeable to us, as men, than a vicious, wicked, profligate course, which not only ruins the estate, the conscience, health, and the good name of the person, but even his reputation, as to the world also.
Fath. I was asking you before, what first raised these just reflections in you, my dear; for as I acknowledged then, I say again, I own thou art not beholden to me for them.
Son. The first hints I had of this kind, sir, were a great while ago, from some accidental conversation with Mr. ------, our neighbour, when we were little children.
Fath. What, the old gentleman?
Son. No, the young; and afterwards with his mother, when, alter our usual recreations, he carried me home to their house.
Fath. How was it, child? for I long to hear the story. If any good person has helped me to do my work, or done it for me, I shall be very thankful.
Son. No, sir, not so much of that; but when I first began to play with that young gentleman, some years ago, his mother heard me use some ugly words, such as I was but too much given to then, and sending her son away, the old lady took me into her parlour, and gave me sweetmeats, and asked me a great many questions.
Fath. What questions?
Son. She asked me, if ever I was taught to swear? I answered, no. She asked me, if father would not chide me if he heard me swear? I told her no. But I was sorry for it, sir; for I presently thought, that to say so, reflected upon my father, whether it was true or no; and that I ought to have said, yes, he did, though it was not true.
Fath. Dear child, the sin was mine, and the shame of its being true ought to be mine, and shall for ever be mine. I am glad thou didst not speak a false thing to her. What said she then?
Son. She did not say much to me the first time; but she only told me, it was a sad thing that a pretty boy, as she said I was, should be ruined; and I thought I saw her weep.
Fath. Did you see her again after that?
Son. Yes, sir, she got me in again next day, and gave more sweetmeats, and asked me several questions about God and heaven; and I was sadly ashamed I could answer her to nothing at all,-- for I knew nothing of it but what I had heard by chance, or learned by rote. She asked me if was willing to know any thing for my own good in another world? and I told her yes, with all my heart. She told me, if I would come and visit her son every day, she would use me like her own child. But she desired me to promise one thing beforehand. I said I would promise any thing she pleased. Then she said, I must promise her not to swear, nor God's name in vain. She told me, that I was a gentleman, and my father and mother were persons of distinction;-- that it was not only a sin against God, but below me as a gentleman, to swear, and use ill words;-- that if I should swear when I grew to be a man, it would spoil all my education, and no sober would keep me company;-- that if I would not leave off swearing, and taking God's name in vain, she must not let her son play with me, for she should be afraid her son should learn such words too, and then he would be undone.
Fath. And did you promise her, my dear?
Son. Yes, sir, I promised her; but I could not forbear crying; and when I got away from her, I could not help crying a great while by myself.
Fath. What did you cry for, when you came away?
Son. I cried for shame, to think I should do any thing that need such a reproof, and that it should be counted scandalous or dangerous to any children to be permitted to play with me.
Fath. And did it not make you angry with the lady that had reproved you, and hate her?
Son. No, sir, it made me love her; and ever after that, to this day, I have several times gone to her, and made her long visits.
Fath. And does she continue to talk to you so, child, still?
Son. Yes, sir, to this hour, and calls me her son; and but that I would not dishonour my mother, I should call her mother too, for she has been better than a mother to me.
Fath. How did she go on with you?
Son. When she had gained my promise against swearing, she brought in all the wicked words I had learned among our servants, and made me promise to leave them all off; sometimes she would persuade me, other whiles give me money, and other good things. After that, she asked if I used to pray to God? I told her, I said my prayers. But, my dear, says she, do you know what prayer means? I told her yes; but gave her so weak an account of it, that she told me very affectionately she would tell me what prayer was; and after having explained the meaning of it, she gave me a few short directions what I should say when I prayed: and then told me, I ought to pray to God every morning and evening, as the Jews offered up their morning and evening sacrifice, and that God expected such a worship; and after she had for two or three times talked so to me, she made me kneel down by her, and she stood and prayed a short time over me.
Fath. This blessed woman! what does my family owe her! And what didst think of it, child?
Son. Truly it made my very heart turn within me, when I heard a stranger so earnest in her prayers to God for me, who did not belong to her; and some of her expressions cut me to the heart.
Fath. What were they, child?
Son. I fear they will trouble you, sir, if I mention them.
Fath. Well, let me hear them, however.
Son. She prayed that God would supply the want of instruction to that poor neglected child, and teach him by the powerful influence of his Spirit;-- that he would give the knowledge of himself to me, and reveal Christ in my heart, that, being taught of God, I might believe in him, and, believing, might have life through his name. She prayed that God would bless her endeavours to instruct me, though I were not committed to her charge, and that I might be convinced of sin, and then converted unto God.
Fath. How canst thou remember all this?
Son. It is written so deep in my heart, dear father, I can never forget it while I live.
Fath. What effect had it upon you, child?
Son. Why, sir, the effect was of many kinds. First, I entirely left off all the ill words I had used, according to my promise, and I went about mighty pensive and sad for some time, musing and considering what my condition was [missing word] I was prayed for as one neglected and abandoned; and what she meant by the teaching of the Spirit, and what by the work of conviction, and conversion, and the like.
Fath. And how were you informed?
Son. I was then as impatient to be with her every day, as she was to have me; and I continually harassed her with questions and importunities; and she opened and explained every thing to me in such a manner, that I soon became able to understand the most difficult points in religion.
Fath. And what effect had it upon thee, child? Didst thou not lose it all when thou camest home to thy wicked family?
Son. No, sir, not at all; I began from that time to read the scriptures, to pray by myself, and to consider to what purpose I was born, and what was to befal me in a future state.
Fath. And how long did this last, child?
Son. I thank God it is not wrought out yet, sir.
Fath. And is it possible, my dear child? Has there been such a thing as a child of mine praying to God? Has there been a creature that has thought a word of heaven and his Maker, in my uninstructed, prayerless family?
Son. Little enough, sir.
Fath. And how comes it to pass neither thy brothers nor sisters never heard of it?
Son. I knew they would but laugh at me, and mock me, and think me a fool; and they have done so as it is, when I would not go with them to plays, and to their Sabbath-day rambles.
Fath. Why, my dear, was it you that refused to go? I always thought they slighted you, and did not care to take you with them, and have been angry with them for it.
Son. No, sir, they would always have had me with them; but I durst not go, I abhorred it.
Fath. How camest thou to be against it?
Son. My new mother always persuaded me against it; told me the many Judgments of God that attended Sabbath breaking, and how many miserable lives and deaths took their beginning at a neglect of the Sabbath-day. She persuaded me too not to go to plays and balls; and bade me, if I wanted diversion, when my brothers and sisters were gone to the play, I should come and see her; and that when my brothers and sisters went out to the park, or a visiting on the Lord's-day, I should come thither, and see how they spent their time, or go up into my chamber, and pray to God.
Fath. And did you so?
Son. Yes, sir, I went to her almost every Sabbath-day evening.
Fath. What, and nobody know it?
Son. No, every body thought I had companions of own to be merry with.
Fath. And so thou hadst, blessed be God for casting thy lot in such company, when thy father's house has been a nest of profaneness and abominations. But how did they spend the Sabbath-day, child, when you were with them?
Son. Very well, sir, for they are all good people. Before supper, they were all called down to prayers: Mr. ------, their father, read a sermon, and every one of the children read a chapter, and then sung psalms, and then all kneeled down to prayers.
Fath. And did you learn to pray there, my dear?
Son. Yes, sir, Madam ------, my new mother, used to take me, and let me kneel down just in her hand as it were; and when there was any word spoken, that she thought I should remember particularly, she would touch my cheek; and then, after prayers was over, she would tell me why she did so, and how that sentence was proper for me to remember, and to make use of for myself.
Fath. She has been a mother to thee, indeed! a truer mother than she that bore thee! and has acted a truer parent to thee than either thy father or mother ever did! God, that inclined her heart to pity my children, double the blessing upon her own. I'll go and thank her for it, and acknowledge how little I have done my duty, and how much of my work she has done for me. But, my dear, how long ago was this?
Son. Eight or nine years, sir.
Fath. And how long did you do so?
Son. All along, sir, till you sent me to the university for a year and a half; and then I could not, you know.
Fath. And have you been to give her thanks for her trouble since you came home?
Son. No, indeed, sir; but I have e'en given her new trouble, for I go to her still every time I can get out, not to be seen, and as often as I can find leisure.
Fath. Still, my dear! Why, what does she teach thee now?
Son. O, sir, I find more occasion of her, the more I go to her. She has taught me all the first principles of religion, and, I hope, has put me in a way how to increase and go forward in knowledge aud experience, piety and virtue, till I come to be more able to instruct myself without help. She is a most excellent person, and all her family are like her.
Fath. Indeed they are another kind of family than ours is! Well, go on, my dear, and the Lord that has found out an instrument to do thee good, be himself thy instructor. As for me, how am I ashamed! When I look into my own house, and see what a soil I have to plant in, and have neglected to cultivate it;-- what children would these have been, if I had begun betimes to instruct them! Well, go, my dear, it is late,-- we will talk more of this another time.
Note.-- The father was so affected with the circumstances which his son had discovered to him, that he could not contain the surprise, but retired to give vent to his passions. He found that God had taken his children, as it were, out of his hand; and had supplied the defect of instruction, by good people in the neighbourhood, as if he had not been worthy to be the instrument of their good; and this affected him deeply, as will farther appear in the next discourse between the husband and his wife, when they come to talk about it.
THE SEVENTH DIALOGUE.
The father had not been so happily surprised in his course with his second son in the morning, but he is as unhappily mortified with the rencounter he meets with in his eldest son the afternoon. The young gentleman was above stairs with his eldest sister, as noted in the fourth dialogue, when his father called for him; and, being a little ruffled in his humour with the ill usage, as he thought it, that his mother had given his sister, he came down with a grave discomposed look, and appeared not very respectful in his behaviour. His father, who knew him to be hot and fiery in his disposition, was not willing to have been angry, and designed to treat him, as will appear, very kindly. But he takes up the case first, and began with his father.
Son. Sir, did you forbid Thomas letting us have the coach?
Fath. I ordered in general, that none of the servants should stir out to-day.
Son. I thought so, and told the dog, that I was sure you had not forbid him; I'll break the rascal's head this minute.
[Offers to go out.]
Fath. Hold, George, I must speak with you first.
Son. I'll come again immediately.
[Offers to go again.]
Fath. No, no, I must speak with you now. Sit you down, I'll have nobody's head broke to-day. Don't know it is Sabbath-day?
Son. Better day, better deed, sir. 'Tis never out of season to correct a rascal.
[Offers to go out a third time.]
Fath. George, sit down, I say, and be easy; perhaps you may be better satisfied presently, if you can have patience.
Son. Sir, I am satisfied from your own mouth, that the villain not only refused, when I ordered him to get the coach out, but told me a lie, and said you forbid him; which I then told him I did not believe, and promised to cane him if it were not true, and I must be as good as my word.
Fath. Well, well, but let it alone for the present, I say.
Son. I must, and will beat the villain by ------
[Swears softly, yet so that his father overhears him.]
Fath. The coachman's usage is not so rough to you, but I think your's is as rude to your father.
Son. Why, sir, what do I say? I don't speak disrepectfully to you, sir; but I speak of this same fellow.
Fath. I heard what you said, sir, and what you might be sure I did not like, and wherever you use such language, if you had any respect for your father, you would not take that freedom where I am.
Son. If it had not been in respect to you, sir, why did I speak softly?
Fath. This was a seeming respect, indeed, but you took care I should not be ignorant.
Son. I did not design you should have heard; I intended no disrespect.
Fath. Well, sit down here then, and suspend your foolish passion about the fellow, at least for the present.
Son. I suppose you don't keep servants on purpose to affront me at that rate.
Fath. If my son had as much patience with his father, as he obliges his father to have with him, he might have had an answer to that before now; but you are too hot for your father to talk with you it seems.
Son. No, sir, I am not hot; but it would provoke any body to be used so by a servant.
Fath. Then you must turn your anger this way, and quarrel with your father, for the fellow has done nothing but what I commanded him.
Son. Why, you said, sir, you did not bid him refuse me.
Fath. You must have every thing nicely explained to you, it seems. I tell you, what he said to you was the consequence of what I ordered, though perhaps the fellow did not give you the true reason; but, in general, I had bid him stay at home.
Son. He might have said so, then.
Fath. No, perhaps I commanded him otherwise too.
Son. I find I am not to know what it is, nor what it means: nor do I care whether I do or no.
Fath. In time you may.
Son. As you please, sir.
Fath. Well, in this it shall be as I please then. But if you had thought fit to have come to talk with me, with less heat in your temper, and waited a little till I had spoken what I had to say to you, all your fury at him, and indecency to me, might have been spared.
Son. I did not know what you sent for me for.
Fath. And did not design to know it, I suppose, for you gave me no time to speak.
Son. I only told you of the treatment of the coachman, I have no more to say.
Fath. Then I may take my turn, I hope, I shall tell you then, that I sent for you, as I purpose to do for all your brothers and sisters, to tell you, that whereas we have lived in an open, professed contempt of God's commands, profanation of the Sabbath-day, and omission of all religious duties, it is high time to take a new course;-- that I was convinced of what was my own duty, as a father and a master of a family;-- that hitherto the sin lay too much at my door, but for the future I would discharge myself better;-- that if my children would go on, it should be no longer through my omission, but their own. To this purpose I began with my servants, whom, as soon as I came from church, I commanded to be all at home, and that I would have no going abroad: then I resolved to tell my mind to my children, who, I expected, would not give me the trouble of commanding or using the authority of a father or governor with them; but that I might with reason and argument persuade, and with affection and tenderness invite them to a thing which must necessarily so far convince their consciences as to leave them no room to question but it was infinitely for their advantage, and for their general good, both soul and body.
Son. I knew nothing of this, sir.
Fath. Well, that's true; but, as I said, you might have known it before, if you had patience, or had thought fit to have given me time to speak to you.
Son. Nay, I do not understand it, now I do know it.
Fath. Your ignorance shall serve you but a short while. You can easily understand this part of it, that, without troubling you with any more of the reasons of it, I will have none that are under my roof, children or servants, stir out of my doors on the Sabbath-day after church is done.
Son. You will take it ill, perhaps, if your children should ask you the reason why they must so confined; and your children will not fail to think it hard to be confined so, and not know the reason of it.
Fath. I might with much more justice insist upon my undoubted right to govern my own family, without giving an account to my children of what I do; also in a case so plain as this, methinks, they need not seek for a reason for such an order; but since they pretend ignorance, let them read the commands of God to keep holy the Sabbath-day.
Son. Those commands were as strong before as they are now, and yet we never were thus confined before.
Fath. The worst of that is mine, son; and all that can be said for answer to that, is, that before I was to blame, and neglected my duty. Now I resolve, God willing, to do my duty, and neglect it no longer; and, if it be otherwise, they that are guilty shall be to blame, not I.
Son. Every body may do their own duty for themselves.
Fath. But it is my unquestioned duty, to make all that are under my command do their duty.
Son. I do not desire to be confined.
Fath. My desire, or my design, was not to confine you, but to persuade you to confine yourself by the rules of Christian duty; but you have pushed it farther than I expected; and, if you will not do it yourself, I must do it for you.
Son. I hate to be confined, or to confine myself.
Fath. That makes it more my duty to confine you; and since I think your business is to obey, and not to dispute, I desire no more of your arguments, but expect to see my orders observed, since I know they are founded upon both religion and reason.
Son. You may oblige us to stay within, but you cannot oblige us to be willing.
Fath. Then I must be content with as much of your obedience as I can get.
Son. And I hope will expect it no longer than while we cannot help it.
Fath. But I will take care that you shall not help it while you call me father, for I will not bear the title without the authority.
Son. Liberty is a native right: the brutes seek it; not a bird will be in a cage, if it can be free.
Fath. Liberty to do evil is an abandoned slavery, the worst of bondage; and confinement from doing evil, is the only true liberty. But to cut this discourse short, I can give liberty no longer to any under my roof to break God's commands, or profane his Sabbath; it is not in my power. If you will not submit to my government, you must quit my dominions. And as I foresee you will be forward enough to carry it high, you are mistaken if you think I shall wait to be told by you, that you will go abroad, or that you will not stay in the family; for, unless you will [submit] to regulate your life after a different manner than you have done, and to receive advice from your father for your conduct, (flatter not yourself with your father's affection;-- I'll love none that hate God, nor shelter none of his rebels) my doors shall be open to let you out when you please.
Son. I care not how soon.
Fath. That's what I expected from you. My answer shall be very plain. You shall be at liberty to go this hour, son, before the next; but take this with you, whenever you go, that if ever you set your foot without the door on this account, you'll never get leave to set your foot within it again, but upon your knees with the humblest repentance and submission both to God and your father; for I am not in jest with you.
Note.--No wise father ought to suffer himself to be threatened by his children with going away from him; but rather to make their being thrust from their parents the greatest punishment they have to fear.
[The father goes out of the room, but returns again immediately.]
Fath. I did not expect this treatment at your hands, son.
Son. I do not know what you would have me do.
Fath. What I would have you do, is very plain, and is nothing but what your duty to God requires, viz. to submit to the regulations and orders which I shall give in my family for the worship of God, and for regulating our morals and our way of living; and especially for restoring a general face of religion and virtue upon our conversation, that we may, according to the scripture, "live soberly, righteously, and godly in this present evil world;" and not be eminent, in the place we live in, for the loosest and most profligate family in the whole neighbourhood.
Son. I think we are religious enough. What should we do more than we do?
Fath. I think my first work is to let you know what you should not do; for if this cannot be obtained, viz. to refrain from what we do that is wrong, how shall we come to ascertain what is right? and, if we know now what evils to refuse, how shall we know what duties to perform?
Son. I know nothing we do that we ought to leave off.
Fath. That is the reason why I bewail so much your want of instruction and education, and that I am so willing to retrieve the loss. I can soon tell you what you should leave off, viz. you should leave profaning the Lord's-day in sports, diversions, visiting, riding to the park, company, and the like; and spend it, as it was appointed to be spent, viz. in acts of religious worship, in hearing and reading God's word, and in other duties proper to that purpose. Next, you should leave off the play-houses, and reading plays, as not only introductory to vice, and an extravagant misspender of time, but as they lead to engaging in such society and bad company, as will be destructive to any sober character in the world. Thirdly, that a general sobriety of behaviour be fixed upon the whole scheme of your conversation; free from passion, ill words, swearing, blaspheming God's name, and from drunkenness, and all other excesses. These are the main heads of the negatives which I speak of, and which I desire to be observed; and this is so just, so easy, and so equitable, that I cannot but expect, especially considering how my children are circumstanced, a ready compliance with it. I shall direct you to positive duties afterwards.
Son. I know not how we are circumstanced, or what would have me understand by that word.
Fath. I find your temper is such, that I am rather to let you know what I expect, than to hope for your observing it, and that you will put the hardship upon me of doing all with you by force. This is a treatment, I think, very disingenuous, and unlike a dutiful son. I am willing to indulge you in every thing that is reasonable and just; but, as I am convinced what I desire is not only your duty, but [in your] interest to comply with, I therefore cannot indulge [you] to your own ruin; and for that reason, if you will oblige me to use violent methods to restore you, and to restore my family, although I shall be sorry for it, yet, as it is my duty, I must do it. And I let you know therefore very plainly my resolution, and the reason of it. If you can give better reasons why you should not comply with these things, I am ready to hear them.
Son. What signifies giving reasons against what you resolve to do?
Fath. It might take off the scandal of disobedience from you, when you pretend to oppose your practice to my directions.
Son. I don't concern myself about scandals, not I.
Fath. You fortify yourself against every thing a wise man ought to be concerned at; and that by a general negligence of God and man, as if you were unconcerned for conscience and reputation. I hope you don't desire to be known by such a character.
Son. I don't see that I do any thing that deserves reflection.
Fath. Well, come examine a little. Is your Lord's-day conduct to be justified? Do you think you keep the Sabbath-day as you ought to do?
Son. Why, sir, do I not constantly to church?
Fath. Where do you find in God's law, that going to church is the sum of the Sabbath-day's duties. If you can show me that in the scripture, then I am put to silence.
Son. I see no harm in taking the air a little after sermon time.
Fath. If sermon time be the whole of the Sabbath-day, you are in the right; but then you must prove that the fourth commandment should have been translated thus, viz. "Remember that thou keep holy the sermon-time on the Sabbath-day."
Son. I think there is no need of so much strictness.
Fath. God and your father are of another opinion; or else neither the rules of the one, or the discourse of the other, are to be credited. I see all your arguments against these things are only in general, that you do not think thus, or you do not see that. But have you any just objections against the express commands of God? If you have, us hear them.
Son. I do not object against the commands of God; but I do not see, on the other hand, that I break the commands of God, in taking a turn in the park, or visiting a friend on a Sunday after sermon.
Fath. I'll lock up all argument on that side against you, thus:-- If you can prove that taking your pleasure on the Sabbath-day is keeping of it holy, you may justify yourself; if not, you cannot. And for that, read this text, Isa. lviii. 13. "If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day," &c. There is the word of God directly against you: would you have any further authority?
Son. I cannot dispute of these things.
Fath. They that cannot dispute, should not contradict. However, I think it my duty to let all of you know, that as I have no reason to doubt but the command of God is clear, and that I ought to see it obeyed, I join to it my command, viz. that in my family I will have no more profaning the Lord's-day, no more going to plays, no more swearing, drunkenness, or immorality whatsoever, if I can help it; and I expect to be put to as little trouble as possible, in having this order of mine submitted to.
Son. I suppose you may find some opposition besides what you think I shall make. You have more children than me.
Fath. You have the less need to make my task harder, and join with them: however, I am speaking now not of their obedience, but your's.
Son. Perhaps I may obey as much as they; but I suppose I may bear the blame of their standing out.
Fath. If you do well, you are sure to be accepted: if [missing words] lies at thy door. If you are an encouragement to their disobedience, you take your share of the guilt, whether it be by words or by example. My business, however, is not with them now, but with you; and I desire to know your mind, having now told you what I expect.
Son. I know not what you would have me say. You say you will be obeyed: then I must obey, I think. I know nothing else to be said. If you will make the house a monastery, I must turn monk, I think; but nothing is more certain, than that we shall all think it hard, and think we are not used kindly.
Fath. The commands of God are not grievous, nor are my resolutions hard or unjust; and that makes the opposition which you make the more unnatural. However, since you are not to be wrought upon to think it reasonable, I must content myself to take your outward compliance, whether willing or unwilling; though I think your behaviour highly disobliging, and shall always let you know I resent it as such.
Son. You will find all your children will think it hard as well as I.
Fath. That cannot be true; for I know some of them to whom God has given more grace.
Son. I am sure then others have not.
Fath. Yes, I know your sister has shown herself much to the disgrace of her good breeding, as obstinate as yourself; and has been very insolent to her mother; and I hear she talks at a rate of her mother that does not become her. I assure her it shall not be borne with.
Son. I think my mother used her very ill.
Fath. I find you are too partial to be judge of it; and, therefore, ought to let it alone. What has her mother done to her?
Son. She has taken away all her books of value, and not only ruffled her with hard words, but even struck her with very little provocation.
Fath. You have a truer account of the fact, I find, than of the provocation. As to striking her, I regret she had not done it sooner, and repeated it oftener. Her sauciness to her mother, and her contempt of God, were insufferable. It was her good fortune that I was not there. And as to taking her books, I have had the mortification to look them all over; and with a great deal of affliction to think children of mine should spend their time in such foolish, filthy, and abominable books.
Son. What, do you mean the plays?
Fath. Yes, I do mean the plays, songs, novels, and such like, which made up her whole study. Were they fit for a young maid's contemplation?
Son. I must own I think them very fit.
Fath. Then your sin is come up to a maturity very fit for public reformation, and it is high time you were begun with; wherefore I tell you very plainly, I shall cause you to pass the same trial with your sister: and if I find any such like books in your custody, you may be sure they shall go the same way.
Son. Then you will put me to the expense of buying more; for I cannot be without my plays: they are the study of the most accomplished gentlemen, and no man of sense is without them.
Fath. No man of vice (you may say) is without them: but I am positive against plays, as before; and I had rather have you not accomplished, than that the other inconveniencies of plays shall be your lot: but I can shew you many accomplished young gentlemen who are no ways concerned with them.
Son. What, who never see a play?
Fath. No, never.
Son. It is impossible!
Fath. No, no, far from impossible.
Son. I can never promise not to go to the play.
Fath. Then you and I shall differ to the greatest extremity.
Son. This is intolerable! I had rather you would turn me out of your door. I'll be content to go to the West Indies, or to be a foot soldier, or anything, rather than be made such a recluse. Why was I not bred like a priest? then you might have sent me to a monastery, and I might have been used to a cloister life: but to be bred up a gentleman, and then to confine me as no gentleman is confined; this is exposing me, and making me look like a fool among all company.
[He flies out in a rage.]
Fath. I had rather see you a foot soldier, or any thing, than listed in the service of the devil: but here is no need of these desperate resolutions: here is nothing required of you but what becomes a gentleman very well, and as much a gentleman as any body. Can you pretend you serve God, and be a gentleman? that you cannot live a virtuous life, and obey the commands of God, and yet be gentleman? This is a reproach upon the very name of quality, and such a slander on a gentleman, as no gentleman in his senses will allow. However, this, in short, is the case, son: and if confining you from unlawful pleasures, and from ruining your own soul, will make you desperate, and you will be a foot soldier, or ran away to the West Indies, you must. I cannot help it. I suppose you will be weary of it quickly.
Son. I care not what I do, or whither I go.
[He walks about in a great passion.]
Fath. Unhappy foolish youth! Had I extorted obedience to any unreasonable unjust thing,-- had I put you to any hardships,-- had I exposed you to any dangers, or deprived you of your lawful pleasures,-- these things might have been alleged, and you might have had some pretence for talking thus to your father: but all this for laying before you your unquestionable duty,-- for requiring nothing of you but what your great Maker commands,-- nothing but what is equal, just, and good,-- this is a deplorable instance of the woeful depravity of your judgment, and corruption of your nature. However, though I heartily pity and grieve for you; yet, the thing I desire is so just, so reasonable, so necessary, so much my duty to command, and your interest to obey, that I cannot, I will not go from it, or abate one tittle of it; and therefore you may consider of it, and act as you will. You know my resolution, and fall back, fall edge, I will have it done; so you- may take your choice, for God or the devil.
[The father goes out, and leaves him.]
FatSon. You may be as resolute as you will, you will never bring me to your beck. What! must I forsake all my mirth and good company, and turn hermit in my young days! Not I: I'll go to the galleys rather. I'll seek my fortune any where first. Not go to the Park! nor see a play! be as demure as a Quaker! and set up for a saint! what shall I look like? [Swears aloud.] I won't be a mountebank convert, not I: I hate hypocrisy and dissimulation: I have too much honour for it. Well, I'll go up to my sister: she is an honest resolute girl; if she will but stand to me, we will take our fate together. What can my father do? Sure we are too big for his correction. We will never be made fools on at this rate.
[The father had sent for his eldest daughter, and she had refused to come, as before, and the servant had just brought word she would not come.]
[The father returns.]
Fath. Will not come!
Serv. She said she would not, indeed, first; but, afterwards, she said she could not, sir.
Fath. Go to her again, and tell her from me, If she not come immediately, I'll come and fetch her.
Serv. Sir, she was laid on the bed, and said, she was indisposed, and could not come.
Fath. Well, go back then, and tell her, her mother and I will come to her.
Serv. Indeed I told her that I thought you would do so.
Fath. Well, and what said she?
Son. She said, sir, she was not fit to speak to you. I believe she is ill, for she has been crying vehemently.
Fath. I suppose you and she have conferred notes.
Son. I told you, Sir, you would have more opposition to your design, than from me.
Fath. Perhaps by your means.
Son. If that could be without my knowledge, something might be; but I said before, I shall be taxed with it, whether or no.
Fath. I'll deal with it, let it be where it will.
The son, as soon as he could get away from his father, goes up to his sister's apartment. It seems, the father, though he has resolved to talk to the daughter, had deferred it for some time, and did not go up her chamber presently.
Being then in some passion at his son's behaviour, and withal being preparing for the great work which he had resolved to begin that evening, he was unwilling to discompose himself, and make himself unfit for what was before him. The rest of the conduct both of the son and daughter, and also the history of the father's management at his first beginning his family reformation, will all be largely set down in the next dialogue.
THE EIGHTH DIALOGUE.
Being between the eldest son and eldest daughter, her brother going directly from his father's discoursing him, as in the last dialogue, up to his sister's chamber, and calling at the door, he begins thus:
Bro. Sister, where are you? Were not you sent for by my father?
Sist. Three times in vain, and ever shall be so, till they shall treat me in a better manner, or invite me by a pleasing message.
Bro. But I bear all the weight of those refusals. My father says, they all lie at my door; and angrily suggests, that you are all made rebels by me.
Sist. I know no rebellion in it. I do not understand what they would have.
Bro. They would have you come down, and be instructed.
Sist. I sent them word I was indisposed; and they cannot but believe it, when they know how they have used me: besides, I know their business, and desire no more of their instruction; at least of the kind they have already given me a taste of.
Bro. I have had a long discourse of it with my father.
Sist. Well, and what does the good reformer preach? I suppose it is much the same with what I had from my mother.
Bro. Exactly (kick and cuff excepted); and truly, though he kept his hands off from me, he has not spared abundance of threatenings, and other positive testimonies of his patriarchal authority.
Sist. Well, but what is the sum of the matter? What is the course we are to take?
Bro. I know not in the least. I have heard a great deal of stuff, of reforming the family, living after a new fashion, serving God, and I know not what. I wonder who my father thinks we have been serving all this while.
Sist. And does he not say we shall not go out on Sundays?
Bro. Aye, and a great deal more than that; we must go to no more plays or operas, nor have any of the plays brought home to read; and a new family government is to be erected, I don't know of what kind.
Sist. Well, and when are we to begin? When are we to be cloistered for the first time? Won't he give us a week to ourselves before we begin.
Bro. Not an hour.
Sist. Nay, then, I shall break the first commandment he gives me; for I have made an appointment, you know, to be at the play to-morrow with my Lady Lighthead, and it is impossible to put it off.
Bro. Aye, and I will go too, or I shall think it very strange; let him say what he pleases to it.
Sist. I suppose I shall have another slap o' the face for it; but I must venture it for once, for I will not be worse than my word to my lady.
Bro. What, do you talk of venturing it once, as if this was the last time, and we were never to go to a play again? Do you think I will be abridged of so dear a liberty? No, not I, let my father depend upon it, though I never come into his doors again, as he has threatened me.
Sist. Very well! What, did he threaten to turn you out of doors, then?
Bro. No, not directly: but I told him, I would be a foot soldier, before I would be confined so; and, in return, he told me, that if I went in a huff at this, I should never come in again, and a great deal more such as that.
Sist. Would I were a man, as you are. If I were, I'd try him. What need you care whether you come in again or not? You know you have an estate left you by your uncle, which my father cannot hinder you of. You can live without him. I wish I could.
Bro. Aye, that's true; but I suppose we shall not come that length.
Sist. It may be not with you; but I know not how far it may go with me: for I hear they are mighty hot and angry with me, which I care little for; and am resolved they shall not conquer me, whatever comes of it. I suppose they think I cannot tell where to go, or how to without them.
Bro. They may be mistaken, perhaps, in that too.
Sist. Nay, though they were not mistaken in it, I'll go as far as a pair of shoes will carry me, before I'll be made a nun of; nay, I'll go to service first.
Bro. You need not go far, you have friends enow: you will be very well received at my aunt ------'s house; and if they push these things to extremities, I would e'en have you go thither.
[The text is obscure on the following page; some words are missing or doubtful.]
Sist. ... Where will you go?
Bro. ... I warrant you. I won't ... I said so to him. I'll take me ... take my pleasure, and never ...
Sist. ... but shan't we go abroad to-night? ... at this rate, and let them think they ... already?
Bro. 'tis too late now to go to the Park. My ... is gone, to be sure: besides, we can't ... and there's no going in a hack------
Sist. ....I'll tell you what we will do, then. I am for putting the case to a trial, and see what my father will do, [when?] he thinks we have gone in spite of him; and yet [we shall?] be able to come off by it too at last, if we find him [serious?].
Bro. That's well contrived, if it can be done! but how [must we?] go about it?
Sist. I'll tell you. Let you and I go out through the ... and take a walk in the close behind, under the ... trees. When my father calls for me, my maid shall [say?] we are gone to the Park. If he hears it quietly, well and good, we will let him remain in the belief of it, that is may serve another time. If he flies out furiously we must ... again with good words, and tell him where we have been, and that we have not been any further than the ... and the garden.
Bro. Admirably well thought of; let us go immediately ... my father and mother both will be here with you ... and if you are not gone, it will spoil all the con[spiracy?].
[(They?) prepare to go down stairs, and the young lady ... with her maid.]
Sist. ...
[Maid.? ... Madam.
Mist. ... take the key of the chamber, and stay in ... to look for me from my mother.
Maid. What answer must I give them, Madam?
Mist. Tell them my brother and I are gone out together: you may say, you suppose we are gone to the Park.
Maid. Shall I say. Madam, that you said you were gone to the Park?
Mist. No, no; say you do not know whither we are gone, but that you suppose we are gone thither. Do we not use to go thither, you fool you?
Maid. If they should be very inquisitive, they may ask me what reason I have to suppose so.
Mist. Is not that a good reason for you to think so, because we used to go thither always on Sunday-nights, without saying that we told you so?
Maid. Yes, Madam, I think it is; for, indeed, if you had said nothing to me, I should have thought you had been gone thither, and have told them so of my own accord.
Bro. This is a clear thought, my dear: but now we must do it quickly, for I find we are to have a general conference here this evening; and I suppose, we, that they call children too, are to be tutored before all the servants.
Mist. Pru, if you find my father and mother make a great stir for us, slip out through the garden, and perhaps you may find somebody at the back gate to tell you where we are; and then you may come and bring us intelligence.
Maid. Yes, Madam.
[They go out together a back-way through the garden.]
Bro. Come, we are far enough here, we are quite out of sight of the house; and, if your maid comes, we shall see her at the garden-gate well enough.
[They are walking under a row of trees, just where the father found his little child in the first dialogue.]
Sist. Now I cannot but laugh to think what a fright my mother will be in when she misses me.
Bro. As bad as if you were run away with a chaplain.
Sist. She had not been without some whims of that kind in her head too; but she need not, I am not so fond of a preaching husband.
Bro. I doubt we shall discompose them for their new devotion, which they are setting up to-night.
Sist. Pray, brother, have you learned what they are to do? They treat me so oddly, they will have me comply with I know not what. I want to know what their design is, and what they pretend we are to do, or to be. It is all a heap of nonsense to me.
Bro. O! they talk of a great family reformation, and we must submit to such rules, and such orders, as they shall please to give us; and, as I told you, we two were to be called down together, to be talked to among the rest of the children.
Sist. What, are we to turn babies again, and say our catechism?
Bro. I don't know; but my father, as I hear, intends to make a long discourse of his new schemes for the management of his family, to give them all new rules, and tell them what shall be the standing-orders of his house for the future.
Sist. We have preaching enough at church, I think; cannot he let us alone at home?
Bro. I cannot tell what to say to it: but he will do it, and e'en let him go in his own way. Let him make a school of his family, turn pedagogue himself, and make all his people school-boys. Let him but let me alone, I care not what he does.
Sist. Why, that's what I said before. The servants are here to day, and gone to-morrow: if he cannot get a parcel of fools this time, he may another, and, in time, perhaps he may get a whole house full of good pious creatures, that will say as he says, and do just as he bids them. There's my brother Will, and pious Betty, they are grown mighty good things already; and for the little children, they may make them do what they please: but as we are grown up to be past it, they may e'en use the rod and the frown where it is fit to be used, and let us answer for ourselves. I think they cannot in reason deny us this.
Bro. Besides, had they done this gradually, and begun it sooner, we might, by degrees, have been brought to have liked it, or at least to have borne with it; but to be driven headlong into a thing of this kind, and forced at once to a whole change upon every part of our lives: this is the foolishest thing. What shall we look like in the world?
Sist. What, indeed. I am in a fine case already. I can say nothing to my Lady Lighthead, but make a lie, and send her word I was not well.
Bro. Yes, you may say you are but a child, and your mother boxed your ears for being a naughty girl, and would not let you go abroad.
Sist. Yes, and you may say to my Lord ------, when he asks you, why you disappointed him, that you an but under government, and your father would not let you stir out of doors.
Bro. To be sure I shall affront all the persons of quality of my acquaintance, and shall look always like a school-boy. When I am in company, they will ask me how I escaped out; if I have given my governor the slip; and if I have played truant. When I am for breaking off at night, and not willing to stay, they'll mock, and tell me, I must go home to family duty, and go say prayers like a good boy.
Sist. Yes; and that if you stay any longer, you shall be whipped, or locked out of doors when you come home.
Bro. In short, I had as good be out of the world. I am sure I shall be fit for no company in the world.
Sist. I wonder my father should not consider these things: he is no ignorant man, he knows well enough what belongs to being genteel, and has kept as good company himself as any body.
Bro. Why, that is true too; but he is so bewitched with this new whimsey of having neglected the education of his children, and the government of his family, that he is coming to a confession even to us. He talks of asking God forgiveness for it, and I know not what a deal of such stuff. I am persuaded he will bring his whole family into confusion.
Sist. I cannot tell what to make of it all; it is the oddest thing that ever I saw in my life.
Bro. However, since he will do so, and we cannot help it, I think it may be our best way to let him alone, let him go on; only let him leave us out, we are past tutelage, out of our minority; and I think they may let us alone, that is I am for asking of him.
Sist. I wish they would but hear reason; if they would let us alone, we would let their reformation go as it will.
Bro. But I see it will not be done: my father is so over submissive in his own confessions, and so warm in his proceedings, that I doubt he will also be obstinate; for nothing is more so than these enthusiastic fits of repentance.
Sist. What a tale is this! He repents, and we must perform the penance. For my part, brother, I cannot entertain any settled thoughts of the ridiculous change of life my mother talked of; there is not the least consistency in it. She says, she has sinned in neglecting to instruct us, and therefore we must all be cloistered up, upon the notion of reformation. If she has sinned, she must repent of it, I think. What is that to us? We did not make her to do it. What can we do in it? We are brought up now, she cannot educate us over again.
Bro. Yes, she says we should have been taught so and so a long time ago; and, since it was not done then, it must be done now.
Sist. What will she teach us?
Bro. Nay, do not ask me. I suppose she told you herself what she would teach you.
Sist. No, she did not, perhaps she intended it; but she flew out in a rage, and her passion would not give her leave to say it out.
Bro. She says she intended to have discoursed at large with you quietly and calmly, but you provoked her, and would not give her time.
Sist. Indeed I was vexed that we might not go out as we used to do, and I think it was reason; but that was over; and I was only humming to myself the tune of the last opera, and she flung at me, and struck me, because it was the Sabbath-day, forsooth. For my own part, I know no harm in it, not I. I did not sing the song out, as I told you, I only hummed it softly. It might be a psalm tune for aught she knew.
Bro. Well, but come, sister, what shall we do next?
Sist. We must take our measures according as the conduct of my father and mother shall direct.
Bro. Yonder's Pru; I warrant she brings some news, she stays at the garden gate.
[Her mistress goes towards her.]
Mist. Well, what is the matter, Pru?
Maid. Matter, madam! I beseech you come in! I fear my master will go distracted, and you'll be ruined.
Mist. Pr'ythee don't tell me of that. Let him be mad if he pleases. Did they ask for us? Tell me the particulars.
Maid. Ask for you, madam! Yes, you may be sure of it.
Mist. Well, how! Tell us all Pru?
Maid. Why, Madam, about half an hour after you were gone, your mother sent Mrs. Betty, your sister, up to your chamber for you: she asked for you, and I said, as you bid me, you were gone out. She asked whither; I told her, I did not know. Why, said she, she is not gone to the Park, is she? I told her -- Yes, Madam, I believe she is; for I heard her speak of it.
Mist. Well, that was right. What said Betty?
Maid. Poor young lady! She fell out into the greatest passion imaginable, weeping and crying out for her dear sister, meaning you, and that you were lost and undone both soul and body.
Mist. Poor child! what followed that scene?
Maid. She went down stairs to your mother, and the old lady came up immediately; and soon after her came your father, all into your chamber.
Mist. Very well, it works as I would have it now. What said they to you, Pr?
Maid. First, they examined me where you were; then, when you went out; and whether you were alone, or your brother with you. I told them, I believed you were gone together, but I was not sure, or you did not tell me whither you went.
Mist. Well, that was right again, Pru. What said they then?
Maid. Your father made few words; but it might easily be observed they were both very angry. Your mother said you would repent it: and I perceived, Madam, though your mother said most, yet your father seemed most provoked. He said he would not discompose himself then about it, for he had other work before him; but he would take a course to prevent his being insulted at this rate, and so went down.
Mist. And is that all, Pru?
Maid. No, no, Madam, that is not all, I assure you.
Mist. Well, go on, then.
Maid. Why, Madam, my master called all the family together, and ----
Mist. What! and made a long preaching to you, did he?
Maid. Dear Madam, do not mock at your father. I am sure there was not a child, nor a servant in the house, but wept; and I am persuaded, had you been there, you could not have refrained.
Mist. What, are they grown godly too, Pru?
Bro. Nay, sister, come, don't let us jeer them to the servants, neither.
Mist. Well, but, Pru, come tell us the whole matter.
Maid. I cannot repeat particulars, Madam. But when your father had called us all in, the minister (for my master had sent for him on purpose) made a discourse for about half an hour about family-worship, and took his text in Jer. x. 25-- "Pour out thy fury upon the heathen that know thee not, and upon the families that call not on thy name."
Mist. Why, then, you have had a sermon, Pru? What, has my father set up a meeting-house?
Maid. Good Madam, do not let me tell you any more; it grieves me for you, to hear you make a jest at good things, and your own father too.
Mist. Go on, Mrs. Pru, you were not sent to preach too, were you?
Maid. I wish you had heard what I have heard. If you had had a heart of flint, it would have moved you. But my telling you will do no good, I fear. I wish you would excuse me, Madam; and, if you love your own welfare, I beseech you come in: there is one step left you to save all still, and but one; if you miss it, I am sure you are undone.
Mist. Pr'ythee, Pru, first tell us the history, and give your advice when you are asked for it.
Maid. I will, Madam, if you will have patience with me. The minister, I told you, made a discourse about family-worship, and directed himself chiefly to us servants. He told us that our master and mistress, being sensible that they had too long neglected the instruction of their children and servants, and omitted the worship of God, and setting up good order in the family, were resolved to alter the same; and he desired us to consider the reasonableness of it, and how much it would be our advantage, that we would all yield a cheerful obedience to such orders as should now be set up in the family, and behave ourselves soberly and modestly in the house, avoiding loose profane talk, wicked words, oaths, drunkenness, and the like; and, if we were all willing and desirous to be thus reformed, he desired we would signify our willingness by standing up.
Mist. And did you stand up, Pru?
Maid. Yes, Madam, do you think I would not? And every servant in the house stood up too; but Thomas the coachman went farther than any of us.
Mist. What did be do?
Maid. He stood up, and making a bow to the minister, he said, he agreed to it with all his heart; and he thanked God that he had heard such a proposal in the house, and a great deal more that I can't remember.
Bro. He is a hypocritical rascal. I owe him a caning for all this.
Mist. Let us hear it all, brother. Well, and what then, Pru?
Maid. Why, Madam, after the minister had done, my master, directing his speech to the minister, said, he thought it his duty to acknowledge, with shame, that he had, in a great measure, been the ruin of his family; that be had totally neglected either the worship of God in his house, or the teaching and instructing his children. What he meant by what followed, I cannot tell; but he held your little brother Tommy in his hand, and lifting up the child, and kissing it, he said these words:-- This little creature been the blessed messenger from God to alarm me, and convince me of the great breach of my paternal duty, and has innocently reproached me with not praying to God for it, or with it, and with not instructing it or teaching it to pray for itself. Then turning to us all, he said, Ye have all cause to reproach me with it, as well as this child, and more too; for he is not too old to receive impressions yet, as I doubt some of you are, and as appears by their absence, my eldest children seem to be, whose ruin both of soul and body lies at my door.
Mist. Did my father say all this?
Maid. Yes, Madam, and a great deal more that I cannot repeat.
Mist. It was very moving, I confess.
Maid. It was so; and that made me say, Madam, I wish you had heard it, as I did.
Mist. It is as well from thy mouth, Pru; for I see thou art affected with it; and so am I a little too, think, in spite of my resolutions to the contrary.
Maid. How would you then, Madam, to have seen your father, when he spoke of you two that were absent? how the tears ran down his face, and he was fain to stop speaking a good while. Do you think you could contained? I assure you, Madam, there is not a servant in the house could refrain weeping.
Mist. You almost persuade me to cry, Pru, but go on.
Maid. When he had said this, Madam, he told us how he was resolved to live, and that since we had all expressed our readiness to comply with it, he was very thankful that he should have so little trouble. He told us, that all he expected was easy and reasonable, and nothing but what every one would acknowledge was most suitable to the happiness of us all, as men and women, as well as Christians; that he required nothing uneasy, nothing but that all manner of vice might be refrained, and a sober well ordered life might be our rule; that the Sabbath-day might be strictly observed; and that all his servants should attend family prayer, which he resolved to have kept up every night and morning. After this, the minister went to prayers, and after the minister, my master, Madam; but had you heard him!
Mist. What then, Pru?
Maid. I would have gone a mile on my bare knees that you had heard him.
Mist. Heard what, Pru? what should I have heard?
Maid. You would have heard what you never heard in your life.
Mist. That's true, Pru; for I never heard him pray in my life, nor nobody else, I believe.
Maid. Well, Madam, I wish you had heard it now.
Mist. What was it that would have moved me so, Pru?
Maid. Would it not have moved you, Madam, to hear your dear father pray for you at the same time that you are grieving him as you do, and beg of God to forgive you, and reclaim you, and to restore you to him, that you might still be a child to him, and he may have an opportunity to make up to you what injury he had done you by his neglect in your education, and that your ruin may not be the effect of his ommission? Would not this have moved you, Madam?
Mist. Truly, Pru, I cannot tell but it might.
Maid. If the words have not moved you, it would have made some impression on you to have seen the rest of the family.
Mist. What are they concerned in it?
Maid. Why, they are all concerned for you too.
Mist. For what, Pru?
Maid. If you will not be displeased, Madam.
Mist. No, Pru, speak freely.
Maid. And if my master will not be offended neither.
Bro. No, no, Pru, let us know it all, and speak your mind freely.
Maid. Why, really, Madam, they am concerned on several accounts, to see such a breach in the family,-- to see my master so grieved at it, and yet to see him so resolute against you, that they see plainly it will be the ruin of you both, and then to think upon how unjustifiable a ground you act. Pray pardon me, Madam, it is not fit I should talk thus.
Mist. Go on, Pru.
Maid. Why, Madam, was it ever known that a young gentleman, and a young lady, the eldest branches of the family, should break all to pieces with their father, and such a father too, and on no quarrel, but that he would them reform, and serve God? What will the world say? I beseech you, Madam, consider of it; all the house condemn you now, and all the world will condemn you as soon as you are gone.
Mist. Well, Pru, but we are not gone yet.
Maid. I am afraid of it.
Mist. Why so, Pru? I suppose that belongs to the latter part of my father's discourse.
Maid. Yes, Madam.
Mist. Tell us that too, Pru.
Maid. Why, that is it which gives me the greatest concern for you, Madam, that when my master had prayed so earnestly and so affectionately for your reclaiming and returning to your duty, he went on to pray for himself, that he might not be suffered to yield to your obstinacy; that his affection might not prevail over his duty; that if God in judgment had resolved totally to cast you off, he might be able to do so too; and that in the time he might be supported in maintaining his resolution of not receiving you again but as penitents, and on good assurance of your reformation as well as repentance. And this, Madam, made me so earnest with you: I think I shall break my heart for you.
[The maid weeps.]
Mist. Pr'ythee, don't grieve, Pru; but tell us what is to be done. What did you mean by talking of our coming in? I don't what we have done, that we must repent so much.
Maid. Why, no, Madam, I hope not, if you will but be prevailed on now; and that made me say there was one step left to save you still.
Mist. I observed you said so, Pru. Pr'ythee, good Pru, what step is that? I did not think things were come to such an extremity with my father.
[She seems to be concerned, and lets fall some tears.]
Maid. Why, Madam, all this, and more that I have not told you, is upon a firm belief that both your father and mother have, that you are both gone to the Park, as you know you bade me say.
Mist. That's true.
Maid. Now, Madam, if you will give me leave to go in, and say you are both of you here, and have been no farther, perhaps this will alter the case.
Mist. You do not know my father, Pru; he is not so soon altered.
Maid. Perhaps, Madam, you may not know him neither in this case. Do you think, if he reckons your disobedience or fault so much his affliction, he will not be glad to hear that you have not been guilty?
Mist. Guilty of what, Pru? What is the fault?
Maid. Why, Madam, my master believes that, in defiance of his command, and God's command, and on purpose to let him see you resolve not to regard what he has said to you, you are both gone to the Park, to take your pleasure now on the Sabbath-day; and on this supposition he has commanded, when you come back, none of the servants shall dare let you in till they call him; and that, though he be gone to bed, he will be called up.
Mist. Nay, I knew if he was angry, he would be very warm.
Maid. Now, Madam, here are a few minutes left. My master may be convinced you have not been any farther than this place; and you may come in the same way you went out; and I dare say my master will be glad of so just an occasion not to be severe with you. Try him, Madam, for your own sake do: you are quite undone, I am sure, if you do not.
Mist. He won't believe us now, Pru.
Maid. I shall be a witness for you, Madam. Besides, your brother there is in his gown and slippers, and that will prove he cannot have been at the Park.
Bro. Aye, aye, he cannot but be satisfied. Go, Pru, let it be so, we will follow you. I would not push things too far neither, sister.
Sist. Indeed, we have tried far enough for the first time, we'll go in after her then.
Maid. If you please to be walking a little while, I'll make you a signal when to come nearer.
Sist. Do so, Pru, we will come forward till we are in sight. If my father continues very angry, do you open my chamber window, and then we will into the garden.
Bro. Come, let us go directly in after her.
Sist. No, no, let us wait a little: that will look as if she had fetched us.
Bro. I cannot think of provoking my father too much neither.
Sist. But let us get off from this then, as well as we can.
[They continue walking.]
[Pru, being come into the house, makes as if she come down stairs from her mistress' chamber, and meeting the mother, she begins weeping.]
Pru. Oh, Madam! I am undone! 'tis I have made all this mischief!
Moth. Why, what's the matter, Pru?
Pru. Why, Madam, I told you, I though my master and my mistress were gone to the Park, and that made my master so angry with them both; and 'tis nothing like it, 'tis all my fault.
Moth. How do you know know that, Pru? I should be glad for their own sakes it was as you say, and so would their father too; for though he is resolved to resent it, as he ought to do, being master of his family; yet, as a tender father, I am sure he would rejoice if it were not so.
Pru. So, Madam, do but go up stairs to our window, you may see them walking together in the back close, under the lime trees.
Moth. That may be, Pru; then they are come back.
Pru. Nay, Madam, that is impossible too; for my master is in his gown and slippers; and I dare say, if you send up into his chamber, you will find his clothes there.
[The father coms.]
Fath. What is that Pru says? Are they come back? Has any of my servants let them in? I assure them I'll be as good as my word if they have. No such servant shall stay another day in my house.
Moth. My dear, be not too rash, we are all mistaken. Come along with me. Look, yonder they are; and Pru says they have been there all this while.
[They go up stairs, and look out of the window.]
Fath. I am not to be cheated. This is a feint. They have their intelligence within doors, and are come back, and walk there to blind us. But it will not do, I will not be imposed upon; and I hope you will not neither, my dear.
Moth. No, my dear. I will not be imposed upon neither; but if it be really so, I believe you would be as glad as well as I; for I know your resentment is the effect of your duty, and not the defect of your love to them.
Fath. Indeed, I would be so glad to know that they were not guilty, that I could let out some of my blood to have it so: but I can receive no satisfaction in being imposed upon. I never believe a thing merely because I would have it so.
Moth. Nor I neither; but Pru says, they cannot have been farther, for they are undrest; and I am going to my son's chamber, to see if it be so.
Fath. Do so, that may be some satisfaction.
[Pru throws open her mistress' chamber window and they see the signal, and come on to the garden.]
Moth. The thing is plain, I hope; for here is his hat, and sword, and coat.
[The mother returns.]
Fath. He may have come in and undressed him.
Moth. Some body must have let him in, then; and you know we have had all the servants in our view: besides, they would not have been so weak, when they had gotten in, to have gone out again, after hearing what order we had given; and that servant who has been so kind as to have let them in, would not fail to have told them of it.
Fath. That is true; I begin to hope they have not been so wicked as I feared; I'm sure I shall be very glad of it if it prove so.
Moth. Look, they are coming into the garden. It does not look as if they were guilty, I confess.
Fath. I'll go and try them before they shall come within my doom; for not to keep laws, is all one as not to make them.
[They sit down together in the garden, the father out to them.]
Fath. I desire a positive answer to a plain question from you both -- Where have you been since you went out?
[They stand up, perceiving their father very angry.]
Son. We have been walking under the lime trees, Sir.
Fath. That I know; my question implies, where else?
Son. My answer was so simple and plain, I did not think it would have been suspected, Sir; and therefore I did not add, though it is most true, we have been no where else.
Fath. Your conduct justifies the suspicion. Why was no servant acquainted with it, that when you were called for, might have answered for you?
Son. That might be an omission, but could not be a design.
Fath. Why not a design?
Son. Because it seems to answer no end, or at least that I know of.
Fath. Perhaps you are willing to try me with a belief of your being gone to the Park, contrary to my express command. I am not fond of being played with, in such things as these.
Son. It is a sign to me, Sir, that you are very angry at something, that you can suppose such a thing of me. Unless there was some great satisfaction in your displeasure, it can be none to try whether you can be angry or no.
Fath. I see no other end in your walking here so long.
Son. You have expressly forbidden our going to the Park, I could not but think our walking here ought to be taken for a compliance with your order.
Fath. While you dispute the reasonableness and justice of my order, I had the more reason to suspect your compliance.
Son. But if I complied, when I disputed the justice of the command, it would more unanswerably argue an entire obedience to it as your command only.
Fath. I had rather you had obeyed it as God's command than as mine, and then you would no more have spent your time here than at the Park.
Son. But if it be the first, Sir, your present displeasure will remove, if it was raised upon a supposition of our having been at the Park.
Fath. Your absence on another account has been offensive.
Son. But cannot be justly charged as a fault, Sir; for I had no command except a negative, not to go to the Park, which you will easily see is obeyed.
Fath. I must suppose it.
Son. Our dress will be an evidence for us, if your suspicions are not to be satisfied by the assurance of one who never prevaricated with you. Perhaps, if I could have dissembled more, as others have, I might have been less suspected.
Fath. You have much advantage, you think, in not being guilty this time. I should have been more glad to have seen your inclination reformed too.
Son. I do not see my inclination vicious, and am not a little surprised at the construction that is put upon my most innocent actions.
Fath. And I do not see that what I expect is unreasonable, and am as much concerned to see myself contradicted by my eldest son and daughter, in a proposal for their good, both for soul and body.
Daugh. I oppose nothing that I know of.
Fath. And comply with nothing.
Son. We had no command from you to stay within.
Fath. I demand of you both, whether you have been no company, or any where else, than as you say walking under the lime trees? and I expect to be answered without the least prevarication.
Son. You may be assured, Sir, we have been no where else.
Fath. I am glad for your own sakes; for the measures I had resolved to take would have been very irksome to me, though absolutely necessary. I shall say no more now; it is on the condition only that your answer is literally true, that I can admit you to come into my doors. I shall state your duty more exactly to you in the morning, and perhaps too exactly expect your compliance.
[The father goes away.]
Sist. I never saw my father look so in my life. I am affrighted.
Bro. He convinces me he is in earnest, after a manner I never expected. It falls out very well that we contrived this shift, we should have made such a breach as would never have been reconciled. I will carry the jest no farther.
Sist. What must we do, then? I cannot think of being a nun, and being abridged of those liberties and pleasures I always enjoyed. Why did they not bring us up to it from children? then it had been natural to us, and we had known no better.
Bro. I'll tell you, sister, what I'll do. My father promised me I should travel. I'll see if I can get leave to go abroad; then I shall be a little out of company, and shall not look so like a fool under government as I must do now.
Sist. And what must I do?
Bro. Ask their consent to go and live at your aunt's, as we said before.
Sist. So I will, then.
[They go in, and go up stairs, and in the chamber they meet the maid.]
Bro. Well, Pru, how stands matters?
Maid. I am glad you are come in, Sir. I trembled for fear you should quarrel, when I saw my master go to you; for he was in a great passion; and he declared, when he went out to you, that if he was not very well satisfied that you had been no farther than the lime trees, you should not come within the doors.
A short Discourse between Husband and Wife, which finishes the History of the Conduct of their Children
Husb. My dear, we have had a hard day's work; but I hope it will issue well.
Moth. Alas! how easily had all this been prevented, if we had begun well; and how great advantage have they who begin their family work when they begin to have families!
Husb. I have eased my heart in the public acknowledgment I have made of that omission; and I hope we shall testify our sincere repentance for that sin, by our exact observing our duty in time to come.
Wife. But the difficulty of our two eldest children, I doubt, will every day renew our affliction.
Husb. I must take it for a just punishment up my past neglect, but I will not for that cease to go through with my work. I will not cease to pray for their reducing, nor to use my endeavour, as well by persuasion as by severity, to oblige them to a reformed life; and I have a full dependance upon God's goodness, that he will restore them both to me yet, though they may stand out a great while; and this hope preserves my resolution to omit nothing that may reclaim them.
Wife. I see them both so wedded to their pleasures, that they think it a most intolerable burden to be abridged of them; and I find my daughter sullen and melancholy upon it. She tells me she cannot be seen among company, and she is ashamed to be seen; and desires me to let her go to her aunt's, and live with her awhile.
Husb. By all means, let her go. I think it is a step of that providence to reclaim her, that I was telling you I hope in; for my sister will allow her, or encourage her, in none of her levity, I am sure of that; and my brother keeps just such an orderly house as I ought to have kept, and hope to keep for the future.
WIfe. Indeed, I am very willing to it; for her sister owns to me she received the first impressions of religion and serious thoughtfulness at her aunt's. I'll e'en send her away.
Husb. But what shall we do with our son? for I have a secret hint given me to-day, that he designs to ask me leave to travel, and pretends that I promised him.
Wife. Yes, and I have been told, that if you refuse him, he will go without your consent, depending upon his own estate.
Husb. I shall be more willing to let him go now than ever, because as I would have no obstruction to the resolution I have taken to reform my family, so I would be very sorry to see him expose his reputation so much as to contradict me in it, and appear obstinate in doing so; which much embroil me with him, for I shall not yield to my son, especially where I am sure he is in the wrong; and, indeed, his carriage hitherto has been a very great affliction to me;-- if he proves impertinent, I shall be obliged to resent it. Therefore I shall only put in one condition, if he asks me, viz. that he take Mr. B------ for his tutor to travel with him, and he shall go when will.
Wife. That I dare say he will not do.
Husb. Then he goes without my blessing or consent.
The daughter is sent to her aunt's, where, having a sober religious family to converse with, she begins to be less fond of her old humours; and a foundation is laid there in her, by the instruction and example of her aunt and her children, which ends at last in her complete reformation, by marrying one of her cousins, a sober religious gentleman.
The son travels without his father's consent, spends his estate, gets a commission in the army, is disbanded, comes home a cripple and a beggar, and, though always very penitent for rejecting his father's government and instruction, yet never submits himself to his father, so as to be received again, and dies miserable;-- as will be seen in the last part of this work.
PART II.
THE INTRODUCTION
The first part having historically treated of a father's conduct with household, the foundation of his resolution to reform his family, instruct his children, &c. I hope it may afford suitable lessons to fathers, mothers, masters of families, &c in their duty of family instruction: as also examples and suitable hints to children, to warn them against despising and contemning the instruction of their parents, from the consequences on either side, which appear in the foregoing history of this unhappy, yet happy family.
The ensuing part will go the same length in the following cases, viz. l. Masters to servants; 2. servants to masters, and to fellow-servants; 3. companions and associates one to another: from all which may learned, some lessons to instruct us how to fill up ever relation, every occasion, every circumstance of life, and every conversation, with something useful and instructing to one another.
The scene lies now among the meaner sort of people, where the value of a religious family, the extent of its influence, and the advantage of good family government, as well to those who are out, as to those who are in the family, may be particularly observed, from the remarkable conduct of some persons belonging to two or three families, in a certain known country corporation at some distance from London.
There lived in a country town an industrious trading man, in middling circumstances, whose employment being a clothier, caused him to take several apprentices and journeymen, and who had also several children of his own. He was a man of an exact, upright conversation, of a most devout and religious behaviour, but more especially in his family; one that constantly maintained the exercise of religious worship in his house, instructing and educating his children and servants in the fear and knowledge of God, with great care and regard, as well to their good as to his own duty; and this with all possible modesty and caution, avoiding all hypocritical shows and appearances of ostentation, being a serious useful Christian in every respect; and his wife was, in her place, every way like him.
There was, in the same town, a wealthy shopkeeper, a man of great business, a magistrate, an alderman of the corporation, who had likewise a large family of children and servants. The man was bred to business, drove a great trade, and grew rich apace. He was an honest, sober man, had the reputation of a very fair dealer, the credit of what we call a good man, that would do nobody wrong; but as to religion, he made no great stir about that: he served God on Sundays, as other people did, and troubled his head very little with any thing that was religious, all the week after. Indeed, he lived in a constant hurry of business; so that he had really no time to think of, or to spare about religious affairs.
His children, as they grew up, he put honestly to school, inquired sometimes superficially if they good boys, and learned their books; and the master as superficially giving an answer, that they did pretty well, he was mighty easy at to their doing well in the world.
As to his servants, it was none of his care in the least what they did, if they minded his business; and as to idleness, he took pretty good cure to prevent that, by finding them constant employment in his warehouses, and about his business; and as to either their morals or religion, he count it none of his business, except at any time some gross indecency came in his way, which obliged him to find fault, and then his displeasure respected the neglect or obstruction of his business, or some complaints or uneasiness in the neighbourhood, rather than any thing of religion.
It appears by the story in hand, that two young lads, much about the same age, and pretty near the same time, came apprentices to these two men. The youths were very different in their behaviour, though otherwise agreeable to one another. Their conduct was, as in such cases it will be, suitable to the families of their parents, with whom they had been educated: the one a sober, well inclined, serious lad, that had been brought up by religious parents, well instructed, and formed early to desire the beat things; the other a loose, profligate, profane boy, perfectly wild, that had been taught nothing, and desired to learn nothing but his trade, given to swearing, lying, and ill words, but of good capacity enough to learn if he bad been taught in time, so that he was merely lost for want of early instruction.
The sober religious lad was unhappily put apprentice to the rich shopkeeper, who regarded no religion but his trade,-- and the wild profane boy was put apprentice to the religious tradesman, the clothier, and, being neighbours, the boys became acquainted, it seems. Although there was very little suitableness between the manner of the young men's education, yet their age, neighbourhood, and opportunity of conversation concurring, and other circumstances perhaps in their temper, or in the time of their coming to their masters, making them more agreeable to one than ordinary, they became companions, and contracted an intimate friendship, the consequences of which will appear in the follow dialogues.
THE FIRST DIALOGUE.
After, as it was noted, the two youths had contracted an intimacy, so that it was grown up to a kind of affection between them, they agreed, in the first place to call themselves brothers, and then, that every evening, when their shops were shut up, and their business over, they would spend any time they had to spare always together, either at their master's door, or walking, or as their liberty would permit; and, as may be supposed to be pretty usual in those cases, it was not the last of the questions they asked one another at these meetings, how they liked their masters, their employments, their usage, and the like. In these discourses, it fell out that they wanted no grievances to complain of on both sides, for that neither of them, though they had both gone so far as to be bound, liked their circumstances; but it seemed, that the greatest of their dislike was at their masters, and the respective management of their families, rather than at any thing in the trades they carried on, which they otherwise liked well enough.
Says Will, who lived with the old clothier, I'll tell you plainly, brother Tom, I am quite tired out with my master. I can't imagine what my father meant when he picked out such a man for me. I'm sure my father is none of those kind of people himself. Why, our house is a monastery, instead of a shop, or a work-house.
A monastery, Will! says the other, what do you mean by that? Don't we hear your people and your servants about their business every day? They don't dress cloth and comb wool in the monasteries.
Why no, brother, says Will, it is not a monastery so, I don't mean that: but we have such a world of ceremonies and religious doings among us, it is enough to weary a body off their legs. I'm sure I shall never endure it long.
Tom. Perhaps you are sooner tired with these religious doings, brother, that you speak of, than you would be with other things. Is not that it, brother Will? Speak honestly.
Will. Nay, I do not know much about it, I confess. It don't signify much, I suppose, but to torment us.
Tom. Nor do you mind it much, I suppose, when you are at it, brother, do you?
Will. No, indeed, not I. I take care to get a good sleep all the while, if I can.
Tom. Fie upon you, Will.
Will. Why, what does signify to me?
Tom. What, their prayers, brother?
Will. Aye, their prayers. Why, they pray for themselves, not for me, do they?
Tom. No doubt they pray for you too.
Will. I don't care whether they do or not.
Tom. Nay, there I think you are wrong, brother Will. Should we not be glad to have any body pray for us? I remember at church there are bills sent in for the ministers to pray for folks; they would not put up bills to be prayed for, if it was of no signification.
Will. Aye, that's when they are sick, brother; but what's that to me? I am well enough, and it is but when they desire it. Now I never desired them to pray for me; what need they trouble their heads about me in their prayers?
Tom. Well, but, brother, you say they pray for themselves,-- why should you be against that?
Will. Not I; but then they may do it by themselves, can't they? What need they keep us up at night, and raise as up in the morning? Can't they let us alone? We work hard enough all day, they ought to let us sleep at night, sure.
Tom. Why do they take up so long time at it?
Will. Aye, I think it is long for us that work hard at our morning by business all day. Here we are hales out of our beds every morning by six o'clock, to come to prayers, before we open the shop, or go into the work-house; and at night are kept up, I know not how long, to read and go to prayers, when we might be all a-bed and asleep. I tell you it is a mere, I cannot endure it.
Tom. Well, but, brother, I remember one thing by the bye. It seems this can't be much trouble to you; for you acknowledge you sleep all the while, if you can, so that you do not loose so much of your rest.
Will. Aye, that's true, but that can't be always. Besides, every now and then they catch me at it, and then there is such a noise with them. Then there is our master's son, he is such a religious monkey, he is always jogging a body, that I can't get a good sleep for him. But this is not all, brother, we have abundance of strange doings of this kind besides going to prayers.
Tom. But hark you, brother Will, about calling you up in the morning, let me hear that again; you say your master calls you up by six o'clock in the morning to come to prayers.
Will. Yes; and that is I say, just as they do in the monasteries. I know it is so, for I had a cousin that was a nun, and made her escape out of the nunnery, and she is turned Protestant; and she used to tell me they were obliged to rise at such hours in the night to go to prayers, I wonder my master don't do so too. I don't question but in a little time he will, and we shall be all monks instead of clothiers.
Tom. But, brother Will, you must do your master justice now; for, if I mistake not, you wrong him very much by your own account, as I was going to say.
Will. How, brother? I don't wrong him at all.
Tom. Why, you suppose of him he takes the time he spends in those religious things out of your sleep, or out of the time when you ought to be in bed; and you think it an injury to you, because you work hard. Pray what time do your hired journeymen come to work in the morning.
Will. At six o'clock.
Tom. Well, and do they exactly go to work by six o'clock.
Will. At six o'clock.
Tom. Yes, brother; but then you say your master does not call you up till six, and then he goes to prayers; now, if he did not go to prayers, he would go to work, and you could not expect but to be at work, who are his apprentice, as well as the journeymen; so that the time he spends at prayers he takes out of your working time, not out of your sleeping time; and the loss is his own, not your's. I think there you do your master wrong, brother
Will. What care I whose time it is? I wonder what need there is for making such a pother, I am as tired as a dog with it. I warrant they don't do so at your house.
Tom. Our house, Will! No, indeed, we are not troubled with it. I never heard a chapter read, or a word spoke of prayer, since I came into the house; and that's as much my uneasiness, as this is your's.
Will. You are very happy, brother; I wish I had been in such a place.
Tom. I cannot be of your mind, brother; what makes you talk so wickedly?
Will. What do you mean by wickedly? I say you are happy that you are not tormented as I am.
Tom. Aye, Will; but at the same time all this that torments you is, that your master calls you up in the morning, and keeps you up at night to do your duty, and what you ought to love, I mean to go to prayers, and the like.
Will. ..., aye, is not that torment enough? What ... me of their prayers and duty? I desire none [of it?].
Tom. You make me tremble, Will. I am frighted at you.
Will. Frighted! what at?
Tom. Why, if I should talk as you do, I should be afraid the devil would take me away alive. Do you know what you are talking of?
Will. Yes, sure, I speak plain enough.
Tom. ... is not all you complain of nothing but serving [God as you?] are commanded to do? and are we not all to do so too, if we would be saved?
Will. Pr'ythee, Thomas, don't thou talk Gospel too; I ben't against their serving God, not I.
Tom. But you an't for doing it yourself though, and you speak contemptibly of the thing itself.
Will. I don't know what belongs to it, not I. What need they make so much ado about it?
Tom. About what, Will! what about serving God?
Will. No, about their saying so many prayers.
Tom. You are mighty uneasy, methinks, about saying your prayers. Is not that serving God? I am amazed at you, indeed, Will.
Will. Why, but, as I told you, brother, that is not all.
Tom. No, is not that all? What then?
Will. No, nor half, for every night in the week we must read every one a chapter, and there our master tells us a long story of something or other about what we read, and asks us a great many foolish questions, that I can give no answer to; then every Sunday we are examined about what the minister said at church. I never heard of such blind doings. Why, how should I remember what he says? It may be I am at play without doors, or in the church-yard half the time.
Tom. Well, but, brother, you should not, you ought not to do so, you know that, I hope; and I suppose your master puts you to remember what the minister say, that you may be obliged to stay, and hear him, as you should do. I think he is very kind to you. I wish I had such a master, Will.
Will. I don't value such kindness, let him be kind to me in other things.
Tom. Why, can any thing be kinder than to keep you from doing what you should not do, I mean playing in the fields or streets, or church-yard, all sermon-time?
Will. Yes, I would fain have him let me go home every Sunday to my father's; that would be kind to me, but he won't let do that.
Tom. Brother, that would not mend the matter; be sure your father would take care you should go to church all the day, and to prayers again at night, and you say you cannot abide that.
Will. You are quite mistaken in my father, he is none of them. He goes church himself, indeed, but he never troubles himself to hinder us, we may all go where we will for him. If he would but let me go home to my father, I should do well enough.
Tom. Well, nor don't your father call you to prayers at night?
Will. No, indeed, nothing like it, he knows better things.
Tom. What, nor on Sunday night neither?
Will. No, nor on night neither. Prayers! I dare say nobody ever heard my father say any prayers in his life, except when his horse fell on him, and broke his thigh, and every body thought he would have died, or must have had his thigh cut off; then he sent for the minister, indeed, and they had a deal of prayers in the chamber, I remember; but as soon as that was over, and my father was well again, he never troubled his head any more with it; what should he for? there was no need of it then, you know.
Tom. For the Lord's sake, Will do not talk so.
[Thomas starts as if he was affrighted.]
Will. What do you mean? What do I talk?
Tom. Talk! why you talk blasphemy almost; you have been dreadfully educated, Will. Pr'ythee what is your father? Is he a Protestant?
Will. Talk blasphemy! what do you mean, Tom? What did I say?
Tom. Say! why I am afraid to repeat what you said.
[Tom looks earnestly upon him, and upon the ground about him.]
Will. What makes you look at me so, brother? look as if you were scared. What ails you?
Tom. Truly, Will, you have terrified me. I was looking at you, to see if you did not begin to look pale, and stagger; for I wonder God did not strike you dead when you talked so horridly.
Will. And what did you look about on the ground for?
Tom. To see whether it did not begin to cleave and part; for I expected every moment it should open, and swallow you up.
Will. You fool you, what do you mean?
Tom. Indeed I should have expected all that, if I had said so.
[Mark the tenderness of the child that was religiously educated.]
Will. What did I say, that you make such a stir about it?
Tom. Truly, Will, I wish you could consider a little yourself what you said, or, at least, what you meant when you said your father knew better than to pray to God; and that after your father had broke his thigh, and was well again, there was no need of praying to God. Are not these dreadful words, Will
Will. No, I think not; what harm is there in them? I thought no harm, not I.
Tom. But are you in earnest, Will, when you say your father never prays to God.
Will. Nay, Tom, I did not say, never; I told you he went to church on Sundays.
Tom. Well, but never else, never at home; never called his family to prayer, as your master, you say, does?
Will. No, never in his life, that ever I heard of.
Tom. Why, what is your father? Is he a heathen or a Christian? Is he a Papist or a Protestant?
Will. My father a heathen! No, I think not: be is as good a Christian as any of our neighbours.
Tom. Aye, that's strange. I thought there had been no Christians lived so, Will. Is he a Protestant or a Papist?
Will. Why, a Protestant; what should be be? Do you think my father a Papist? No, indeed; my father is as good a Protestant as any of you. Did not I tell you he went to church every Sunday? Nay, sometimes, especially when it is bad weather, he goes to the meeting-house, because the church is a good way off.
Tom. Will, Will, I never heard the like, or saw the like, till I came to my master. I thank God I have not been bred up among such Christians, or among such Protestants. I thought there had been no such in the world. Nay, there is a Papist family lives next door to my father's, and they are constantly, morning and evening, and often at other times of the day too, at their worship and prayers, serving God in their ways. Nay, I have heard that the Turks say their prayers five times a-day. Why, it is natural to pray to God, Will, did he not make us?
Will. I can't dispute, not I. What do you call serving God? Is not going to church serving God? I told you my father went every Sunday to church. I think that is serving God, is'nt it? And he may say his prayers at home too for aught I know. I suppose he does not tell folks when he does that, as my master does, who makes all the house hear of it.
Tom. But, brother Will, thou talkest as if thou hadst been bred a heathen, and not a Protestant. Pr'ythee, Will, didst thou ever read the Bible?
Will. Yes, I learned to read it at school.
Tom. Was that all? Did you never read at home? What, have you never a Bible in the house.
Will. Yes, we have a great Bible in the parlour window.
Tom. What, does nobody use it?
Will. Yes, my mother reads on it sometimes, and my father sets down how old his children are in it. There's the time when we were all born.
Tom. But were you never used to be bidden to read in it by your father or mother?
Will. Yes, my mother would sometimes call me from play, to come and read my book; but I would not come, I loved my play too well for that.
Tom. What, would you not come?
Will. No, not I.
Tom. What, not when your mother called you?
Will. Mother! no, what cared I for my mother?
Tom. I never heard the like in my life; why, 'tis a sign you never read the Bible.
Will. Why, what if I had?
Tom. Why, there you would have read, "Cursed be he that setteth light by his father or his mother," Deut. xxvii. 16. Besides, Will, cannot you say the ten commandments?
Will. Yes, I think 1 can.
Tom. Well, and don't you remember the fifth commandment-- "Honour thy father and thy mother!"
Will. Why, what's that to my going to play?
Tom. But it was something your refusing to come and read your book when your mother called you.
Will. What signified that? I knew my mother was not angry. She did not much trouble her head whether I came to read or not.
Tom. So indeed it is plain, as you said, that neither your father nor your mother troubled their head about you, whether you served God or not. I do not wonder that you think it so troublesome that your master goes to prayers, and serves God in his family, I wonder how you, that have been bred so wickedly, came to be put out to so religious a family, as your master's is!
Will. Why, I heard my father say once, before I came to my matter, that he was the willinger to put me to him, because he was a good man, and I might learn good things there; for I had never learned any at home.
Tom. So that your father owns then, Will, that these are good things, though he does not practise them himself. That is very strange, Will.
Will. Yes, yes, my father used to say he loved my master, because he was a good man, that he was a man that kept good order in his family; and one day he told me, that if I was a good boy, and followed my master's advice, I should be made a good man, better than ever my father was; and that my master went to prayers, and served God, and such as that: but I knew nothing what he meant. If I had known how it was, I should never have come.
Tom. Why, you own, that though your father did not call you to prayers himself, he liked your master the better because he did. Why should not you too?
Will. Not I, I love to live as I have been bred.
Tom. But you see your father owned that your master was a better Christian than himself; and that the orders he kept in his family was the way to make you a good man, nay, to make you better than your father too. Methinks you should believe your father.
Will. I don't know as to that; but I don't like it, not I.
Tom. You are not then for being made a good man, or else you don't believe your father.
Will. I don't see how he'll make me any better than I am. I tell you, I don't like it at all. I dare say you would not like it neither.
Tom. Would I not. I wish I was to be tried, Will.
Will. I wish you were, I am sure you would be sick of it.
Tom. Why now, brother Will, that cannot be; for my grievance is just the contrary to your's; for I have been the uneasiest boy alive. I have got a master that lives exactly like your father.
Will. My father! alas, my father is but an ordinary man, your master is an alderman.
Tom. I mean as to religion, Will; 'tis true, my master goes to the meeting-house, and my mistress goes to church, and they serve God them after their own way; and we have nothing of swearing, cursing, or drunkenness in the house, or such as that, I must do them that justice. But as to religion, I never heard a word of it in the house since I came to it.
Will. Well, now, and yet every body says your master is a very good man.
Tom. That may be.
Will. Why then, brother, you see you were mistaken before, when you fancied a man could not be a good man, without making such a pother about his praying and religion, as my master does. I do not see that my master is one jot a better man than your's.
Tom. Nay, Will, it was not I that was mistaken, it was your own father that was mistaken, who, you acknowledge, told you he loved your master, because he was a good man, and that you might learn good things there; and that if you followed your master's advice, you would be a good man too, and a better man than your father. He must be mistaken in all that, Will
Will. Well, but I a'nt talking of my father. They may be any of them better than my father, he knows that himself: but I speak of your master; every body says he is a good man, and a religious man, and he has the best reputation in the town.
Tom. Ay, Will, he is an honest man, a very fair man, he does nobody any wrong; but I have never been bred that way in my life. I have never heard any such thing as praying to God, or reading the scriptures in the house, since I came thither; and yet, when I came to him, I was told he was a mighty religious man.
Will. Why, that's what I say, he is counted a religious man, and they say he goes to the meeting-house too
Tom. So much the worse for him, if he appear religious only, and his practice makes him appear to be otherwise: however, I will not say what he is privately, but this I am sure of, it does not appear in his family; we that are his servants see nothing of it, nor his children neither.
Will. Why, that is as I would have it to be at our house: he is a very good man, every body says so, and what need he trouble you with it? I don't like this making such a show of religion; cannot they be religious, but they must trouble all the family with it? I believe your master is a very honest good man, Tom, though he makes no show of it as mine does.
Tom. You talk profanely again, Will. I am no more for making a show of religion than you; but if there be no religion where there is some show of it, to be sure there is no religion where there is no show at all of it. But what do you call show? Is it not every Christian man's duty to teach his household and family to serve God? Do you call that a show? Every one ought to make such a show of religion; and if he does not, he plainly makes a show of having very little religion himself. I might give you a great many places out of scripture for this; but it seems you have not read much of the Bible.
Will. Why, what would you have your master do? You would not have him make such a rout as my master does, would you?
Tom. I would have him serve God in his family, as other religious good people do.
Will. Well, but you say they all serve God on Sundays.
Tom. What's that to his family? We may run about where we will all for him, Sabbath-day, or any day or night, he never takes any thought of us. If we are but in the counting-house next morning when he wants us, we may serve God or the devil, 'tis all one to him.
Will. That's what I want now, I wonder you should be uneasy at it.
Tom. I have not been used to such a life, Will, though you have. It terrifies me so, I cannot bear it.
Will. Why, what would you have? What is it to you what your master does?
Tom. A great deal. God has said, "He will pour out his fury upon the families that call not upon his name," Jer. x. 25. and I am one of the family now.
Will. Well, but can you not say your prayers by yourself?
Tom. Truly I have no manner of convenience for that neither, for we all lie together in a room; and at first I used to kneel down and pray by myself, but the rest of apprentices jeered me out of it, and made such a noise at me, I was forced to leave it off; and now I go to bed and rise like a beast, as they do: but it grieves me so, I cannot tell what to do, for I am sure it is a sin to do so, and I am afraid God should show some judgment upon me for it.
Will. Why, is there any danger of that, Tom. Why, I never prayed to God in my life.
Tom. Then you are in a sad condition. Will; and so am I too. Sometimes I think it will break my heart. I think my father has put me in the devil's mouth, and I am going the straight road to hell, I am sure he does not do so himself.
Will. And so you have left off saying your prayers, Tom, now quite, han't you? and then you live as bad as I do, don't you?
Tom. No, I han't left off praying neither; for if my master does but send me an errand, I pray as I go along the streets; and sometimes I get up into the hay-loft over the stable, or any where I can be private. But this is so seldom, and it grieves me so, that when I come to pray, I can do nothing but cry, I can't speak a word hardly.
Will. I do not understand these things. Sure I am a strange creature. Why, it never troubles me. I don't know what it is to pray to God. I never knew there was any harm in not doing it. I wish I could learn, I'd say my prayers too.
[The boy begins to be touched with the discourse.]
Tom. You have a good master to teach you; I have a master will do nothing but teach me to forget all that my good father and mother have been teaching me these fifteen years.
Will. Why, if what you learned is good, what need you forget it?
Tom. Why, I'll tell you, Will, when I was at home, and had all the encouragement in the world, by the example and instruction of my father, and the exhortation of my mother, telling me my duty, and strictly charging me never to lie down and rise without praying to God, in the evening for protection, and in the morning for direction; yet I found a wicked inclination within me, of prompting me to omit my duty; and now, when I want these helps of example and instruction, and instead of them have had so many discouragements, and find it so difficult to get a retired place for it, I find that wicked inclination to omit my duty increases, and sometimes I am for persuading myself I have a sufficient excuse to leave it quite off; and I am afraid some time or other I shall do so, and grow an atheist, and then I shall live without God, like a heathen, as you do, Will.
Will. Indeed, Tom, I have lived like a heathen all days, I begin to see it now. But what must I do? How can I help it now!
Tom. Do, Will! you must leave it off, and learn to a better life.
Will. But, brother Tom, how must I do that? I am a poor ignorant wretch,-- I know nothing at all,-- I have never been taught any thing in my life. If to live as I do, is to be a heathen, my father is a heathen, and my mother is a heathen, and my brothers and sisters are all heathens.
Tom. You are in a sad condition, Will, as I said before, and I think I am in a worse.
Will. How can that be, Tom?
Tom. Why, you have been taught nothing; and I am in a fair way to lose all I have been taught; and I think my condition is worse than your's.
Will. No, no, you know what to do, and what you ought to do. You have been well educated, Tom. I have nobody to teach me any thing. Tell me, dear brother, what must I do? Teach me what is my first duty; I begin to see something very desirable in religion, that I never valued before.
[The first motions in an uncultivated mind generally are, to see a beauty in the ways of God, and to have a desire to imitate them.]
Tom. Why, Will, I am but a boy, as well as you, and can't teach you much; but I can tell you what my father used to tell me, and what he taught me to do.
Will. Do tell me that then, for I long to hear it.
Tom. Why, he used to tell me, that God made me, and that being born in sin, and liable to eternal death for sin, Jesus Christ redeemed me.
Will. All that I have heard too, though I do not understand a word of it
Tom. Then he told me, I must every day pray to God to bless me, to preserve me, and to pardon my sins for Jesus Christ's sake; that I must give thanks to him for my life, and preservation in health, and for all things that I receive; that I must pray to him for my daily bread, and to give me wisdom and direction in all I go about.
Will. How can I do this?
Tom. I remember I asked my father that very question, and he answered me thus:-- Do you not come to me, child, when you want clothes, and ask me for them; and to your mother when you are hungry, and ask for victuals; and do you not do this without teaching.?
Will. And what did you say?
Tom. What could I say? I kneeled down every night and morning, and said over the Lord's-prayer; then I got a good prayer out of a book, and said that, and sometimes a word or two would come into my thoughts, that I would say of my own head, as I thought of such things as were proper.
Will. I shall never learn: why, I can hardly say over Lord's-prayer without a book.
Tom. I'll tell you, Will, if I thought you were in earnest, I would do my endeavour to teach you; but you that have led such a wicked life, and cry out against your master and mistress so much about praying, I don't think you mean any thing but to jest with me.
Will. No, but I do not jest now: you say it is so wicked a thing, and I am in such a dangerous condition, that you looked for the ground to open, and swallow me up. Why, you can't think I would be willing to have the devil take me away, whatever I may say sometimes. But I am a poor ignorant boy, how shall I know what to do?
Tom. Truly, Will, and I also am but ignorant, as I said before, and unfit to teach you. I am but a boy, you know; but this I know, and have been taught, that God has made me. Do you believe that, Will?
Will. Yes, sure.
Tom. Well, if God made you, then he can destroy you.
Will. That is plain.
Tom. Then sure it is your interest to serve GOd, as well in thankfulness to him because he made you, as that he may not be provoked to destroy you.
Will. But what is this serving God? I thought it was nothing but going to church on Sundays.
Tom. To be sure, worshipping God at church is good, and our duty; but we must worship God otherwise than at church.
Will. What, by saying our prayers?
Tom. Nay, that is not all neither; we must fear God and keep his commandments.
Will. How shall I do all that? You know that I nothing of it.
Tom. Why, therefore, Will, your first thing, as my father told me, is to pray to God to teach you to know him and to fear him, and to keep his commandments.
Will. How do I know what his commandments are? I can say the ten commandments; but I don't understand what they mean.
Tom. Why, my father next directed me to read the Bible, which is the word of God, and is given for our instruction, that we may know his will.
Will. And will that teach me to know what to do?
Tom. Reading the scripture daily, and praying to God daily to open our understanding, to know the will of God written in his word; certainly this must be the way, Will.
Will. I can't pray. I never prayed in my life, I tell you.
Tom. You ought to tremble at the thoughts of that, Will.
Will. I begin to be afraid, indeed; it may be God won't hear me now, if I should pray.
Tom. Yes, there's a scripture for that to encourage you. "Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy." Isaiah lv. 7.
Will. Is that in the Bible?
Tom. Yes, and a great many more encouraging things. You must read the scripture diligently. Have you a Bible?
Will. No, not I, nor never had in my life.
Tom. I am not capable to direct you, Will; but I will tell you there are two things which I would have you do, pray to God to forgive your sins, and to teach you his will, and read the Bible diligently. I'll give you a Bible, Will.
Will. Indeed, brother Tom, if you will give me a Bible, I'll read it over and over. You say that will teach me. I'll read it, and thank you for it heartily; for I never had a Bible to read in yet.
Tom. But remember, Will, I said you must pray to God to teach you when you read, to open your understanding, that you may understand the scripture, and to teach you that you may know your duty; and then pray to God to guide you in the doing his will, and your duty according to the scripture, which is his own word.
Will. What will my praying to God signify? Will God do this for me, if I pray to him? And how can I pray? I don't know what praying is, not I. What must I say?
Tom. It seems you do not know what prayer is. Sure, if you remember the beginning of our discourse, and how you complained you were tormented with prayers at home, you will not say you do not know what it is.
Will. Don't tell me of that now, dear Tom. I begin to be of mind already. I wish I knew how to pray for myself.
Tom. The Spirit of God teaches us to pray, and helps our infirmities. Do you know the story of the poor publican?
Will. No, not I. What was he?
Tom. Just such another as thou art, Will, a poor wicked profane wretch, and had lived all his days in wickedness, and perhaps without prayer too.
Will. And what then? What became of him. Did he go to hell?
Tom. Why, he saw the Pharisees, and all the great professors of religion, go up to the temple to pray, and being sensible of his condition, he thought once to go up along with them: but when he considered what a wicked creature he had been, he was afraid, he durst not only not go, but not look towards the temple, nor cast his eyes up to heaven.
Will. That is my case, indeed, exactly. Pray what became of him?
Tom. Why, he stood at a distance, smote his breast, astonished and amazed at his own case, and, with a deep sigh, broke out thus-- "Lord be merciful to me a sinner!" Luke xviii. 13.
Will. Well, and was he heard? You say he durst not go up to the temple to pray.
Tom. Heard! yes, one groan, one sigh, one look, nay, a heart not daring to look, sending out but one sentence, yet, from a broken, sincere, repenting heart, is heard in heaven beyond the long and loud pretences and devotions of the self-conceited hypocrite. The scripture says expressly, "This man went away justified rather than the other." Luke xviiii. 14.
Will. And do you think, if I knew how to pray, God would hear me, and give all that teaching and knowledge you speak of to me.
Tom. Yes, Will, I do more than think so, I am sure of it.
Will. What mean you by that!
Tom. I have God's own word for it, Will; and that word is the foundation and comfort of all the prayers, and all the praying Christians in the world.
Will. How is this? explain yourself, for you speak strangely positive.
Tom. The scripture says he will, and that is my assurance, and may be yours; for it is his own word, John xvi. 28, "Whatever we ask the Father in the name of Jesus Christ, he will do it for us."
Will. But I have been a wicked boy all my days, that thought any thing of God or religion in my life, as you know very well by what I have told you: nor ever was taught any thing about it. Will God hear such an one as I, if ever I pray to him.
Tom. The same scripture says, he will, brother: and we have no reason to doubt it, for the scriptures are the word of God; and, as I told you, the scripture says, Isaiah lv. 7-- "Let the wicked forsake his way, and turn unto the Lord, and he will have mercy;" and the poor publican went away justified that sent up but one sigh.
Will. Aye, that may be to such an sin now and then a little; but I have done nothing else all my days.
Tom. But he says, in the same text, that "he will abundantly pardon."
Will. But that may not reach me.
Tom. But the scripture is full of promises, and calls to as bud as you to come to him. I could show you some if I had a Bible here. You have been so wicked but you are included in them.
Will. Tell me one of them, I intreat you. I see have a deal of them without book. Dear Tom, tell me one of them.
Tom. This is one-- "Him that comes to me, I will no wise cast out." Here is no exception: this him is all one as whosoever.
Will. Whosoever! that's a large word. Is there no exception!
Tom. None at all: whosoever, that includes how bad soever.
Will. What, and how long soever too?
Tom. Aye, and how long soever. Whosoever turns unto God, how bad they are, or how long soever they have been so bad, yet he will in no wise, or by no means cast them out.
Will. My heart revives at the word, for I have been a sad wretch. You know, brother, I have never so much as thought of my soul, or of God, of his making' me, or his power to destroy me. I have never prayed unto him, or called upon him, unless in wicked swearing and cursing by his name. Will God pardon me, brother, are you sure of it?
Tom. I cannot be sure he will pardon you, or myself either; but I am sure it is your duty to pray for pardon, and to repent of your sins; and there is another scripture which says, "If we repent and forsake, we shall find mercy."
Will. Repent! what's that Tom?
Tom. Repentance is hearty sorrow for your sins already past, and solemn, serious resolutions to commit no more; and this sorrow must proceed not only from the fear of eternal punishment, but from a hatred of sin, for its own evil nature, and as it is offensive to the holiness of God.
Will. I cannot understand this at all. Shall I learn it in my Bible, brother? How must I learn to repent?
Tom. You must pray to God to give you repentance too; for repentance is the gift of God.
Will. I will pray to God, though I do not know how, or what to say. I am amazed at myself, when I see what a wicked creature I have been. Indeed, brother Tom, I don't wonder that you looked so earnestly at me, and expected I should drop down dead, or be swallowed up alive, I am afraid I shall be so still.
[Conviction of sin seizes the boy.]
TOm. Tom. I am glad what I have said has made you sensible of it.
Will. I begin to love you, dear brother, better than ever I did. I shall be the better for you as long as I live
Tom. I wish you had some better instructor than I.
Will. Aye, brother, if I had a religious father and mother, as you have had, I might have known all this from a child; then all the past wickedness of my life had been prevented. But you say, whosoever, brother, don't you? Are you sure the words are so?
Tom. I am very sure, brother; but to make you easy, I'll go in and fetch you a Bible, and show it you presently.
[The boy goes in.]
[While he is gone, Will breaks out thus by himself.]
Will. What must I do, to know how to pray? Will God hear such a wretch? and what if not? then I am undone, lost, and damned for ever! O what a condition am I in; but whosoever.
[The boy weeps, but recovering, prays with great affection, and aloud, like the poor publican, in the following words,]
[Lord God, thou hast made me, and hast said, "Whosoever comes, thou wilt not cast out," pardon all my wickedness.]
[Tom comes, and over hears him.]
Tom. What was you saying, brother? Did you speak to me?
Will. No, no; I did not speak to you.
Tom. I heard you say something.
Will. I hardly know what I said, but my heart struck me, and I cried out.
Tom. To God, I hope.
Will. I hardly know, yet I feel a secret joy in what I said.
[Observe here, conviction was accompanied with a cleaving to the promise of God; and the Spirit of God moves the poor boy's heart to look up to God in hope, first pleading the promise, and then crying for pardon.]
Tom. Well, brother, if it was but like the publican, it may be heard.
Will. I know not what it was, but I am trembling still. Is this praying, brother?
Tom. The more your affection was engaged, the more likely it is to be from a true work of God.
Will. Have you brought the Bible? you have staid a long while.
Tom. I hove been looking some places for you.
Will. And will you show me them?
Tom. Yes, I have folded them down, and here they are. In the first place, here's that I named to you, John vi. 10, "Him that comes unto me, I will in no wise cast out." And here is another place, which is equal in its encouragements, and expressly tells us, that the word him is to be taken for whatsoever, without any exception of persons, as I said to you before, Rev. xxii. 17, "Let him that is athirst come; and whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."
Will. You have folded them down, you say; I'll read them when I come home, for it is too late for us to stay any longer.
Notes on the First Dialogue.
Though this dialogue, and indeed this whole part of the book, is more a history than the rest; and the families which it points at, if they happen to see it, may be able to see themselves in it, and to make some use of it to their advantage, if they please; yet, as even this history will be the same thing as a parable to the ages to come, in which it may, I hope, be as useful as now; and, above all, as this work is designed for a general, not a particular reproof, I am willing to let it lie hid entirely as to persons, that it may perhaps, look less by that means like a history than really it is.
If the persons whom it more really concerns may see themselves reproved, they will make not the less profitable use of it, for the civility shown them in concealing their names. If they do not, the author can never want an opportunity to expose the folly, if he sees cause.
But the design of this book is of a nature above a personal satire. The errors in family conduct are the business here, not the families themselves; and the names and persons are so entirely concealed, and the real history so couched, that it is impossible for any body, but the persons themselves, to read the people by the characters.
The first thing reproved here, and worth observing is, a good man, who had carefully educated and instructed his child, and who, he might easily see, was a sober, well inclined youth, knowing in good things, and desirous of them; yet had this religious parent forgotten himself, and so far forgotten the good of his child also, as to place him with a master who had either no religion at all, or, which was all one to the child, exercised none of it in his family, nor took any care, nor had any concern for the souls of servants, whatever he had for their bodies.
The child laments this very pathetically, though in a familiar way, to his comrade. He is at first weary of profane way of living, and then justly afraid that the interruptions he meets with to his duty should bring him to an indifference about it, and to believe the difficulties he found in his way were just excuses for him in omitting it totally at last.
Note.-- We have natural hindrances in the way of our duty, from the aversions of a corrupt nature; so that at the best we shall be often backward in, and prompted to the omission of religious performances. We have, therefore, great need to remove all occasional obstructions, lest natural inclination should plead those obstructions as a just reason for a total neglect of duty.
It was not without a just reason that the poor child entertained a jealousy of himself, lest he should grow cold in religious matters, from the general discouragement he met with in a family where all religious duties were totally neglected, and himself made a jest for attempting to do his duty.
This may be a seasonable caution for such parents who have any concern for the souls of their children, and taken any pains with them in their education.
1. Not to think their duty discharged to them in the due instructing and educating them in their infancy. The inspection of a parent does not end there; but they ought
2. To remember that all good seed which they had sown, may be choked if the child comes into bad hands afterward, and their son may be lost by a negligent master, as well as by a negligent master, as well as by a negligent parent.
3. That therefore it is their duty to take care to place children in religious families, or it may be true, that they had almost as good never have instructed them at all.
It is very strange, but too common, that religions parents, who have taken great care with their children when they were at home, wholly neglect this, and throw their children away, by placing them where the duties of religion are not at all regarded, and where the examples of their masters, and the families they live in, quite raze all the remembrance of former instruction out of the mind of the servant, and they grow hardened in that neglect by the authority of their masters.
It is remarkable here, further, how the duty of servants is entirely neglected, even in those families where they do regard religion, and where instructing of children is taken care of; as if the souls of servants were not under the inspection of the master of a family, and were none of his charge, as well as the souls of his children.
Note.-- Apprentices taken into our houses, ought, as far as respect their souls, to be reckoned as children; for as we take them from the tuition of their parents, if we act not the parent to them as well as the master, we may teach them their trade, but we breed them up for the devil.
It cannot be omitted here to observe, what impressions of religion, what awe of God, what dread of his judgments, the good instructions of the father had left on the mind of this youth.
1. In his uneasiness at being placed in an irreligious family: of which afterwards.
2. His aversion to the discourse of his comrade, when he talked profanely.
3. His terrible apprehensions when the other talked blasphemously,least he should fall down dead, or the earth should open and swallow him up.
Note.-- Though it is true, that, in the ordinary course of providence, God does not deal so with those that blaspheme and provoke him; yet since sometimes God has done so, and history, as well as scripture, is full of dreadful examples of that kind, it is not without its uses, and therefore very commendable to acquaint young children with such examples, and to fill their minds with a due fear of God's judgments in like cases.
Here is room also for a useful remark in the complaint the poor child makes, that, having no retirement for performing his duty by himself, when he went about it publicly, the other servants mocked and jeered him out of it.
Note, 1. Though separate conveniencies cannot be made for servants, yet masters should, as much as may consist with the circumstances of their families, be cautious of taking away all manner of conveniencies of retirement from their servants, lest they furnish them with excuses for not doing their duty.
Note, 2. Jeering and mocking a young man for his inclining to be religious, is too often a means to drive such quite from him.
Note, 3. One of the most necessary preservations of youth, is, that he be fortified against the scandalous banters and insults of his companions, and can bear to be jeered, and yet not be jeered out of his duty.
The other part of this dialogue affords a dreadful instance of a father and family wholly destitute of religion, living entirely without God, without scripture, without so much as a form of religion. The effects of this are especially two, and both visible in the case here laid before us.
1. Perfect ignorance of every thing that looked like religion in the child, not so much as the least sense of it, or desire to know any thing about it remaining.
Certain and never failing bitter reproaches of the child against the parent, when its eyes come to be opened.
Note.-- Such is the beauty of a religious and conscientious life in those that practise it, that those who can taste nothing of themselves, yet have a value for it in others. The profane boy's father told him he loved his master, because he was a good man; and that if he (the boy) would take his master's advice, he would make him a better man than his father.
Note.-- The aversions which want of instruction in this youth had bred in him against the religious behaviour of his master, and against the public exercises of religion in his family, were so foolishly grounded, that they would bear no weight in his discoursing it, even with a child; and therefore the religious youth presently objects against what he says, and he himself sooner sees the folly of his own discourse; and yet the author of this work is just also to the thing itself, for that really our ridiculous notions in contempt of religion will admit no better argument to excuse them.
Aversions to religious duties grow naturally, either by disuse of those duties, or by the disaster of an ill education, even where the poor hardened child may think no harm, or design any wilful rebellion against God, ignorance being the natural consequence of want of instruction.
Observe here, when the wicked boy, being convinced, asks his comrade what he must do, he goes back to tell him what his own father used to teach him. Whence note, that well instructing our children, makes them capable to instruct others, as occasion presents; and consequently their children, when they come to have families of their own.
From the beginning of the wicked boy's convictions, note, that sense of danger is the first thing that ordinarily discovers itself in conviction of sin, and this leads to inquiring after what we are next to do; as the jailor, who first came in trembling, then asks, "What must I do?>"
When the boy, after his first conviction, recollects things by himself, while his companion is gone for the Bible, he is struck with horror at his condition; but the Spirit of God working graciously in him, lays the promise of God, as it were, full in his way, in order to give him hope; and, at the first appearance of hope, he breaks out vehemently in prayer; when his comrade returns, and innocently inquires about what he said, it appears from him, that his prayer was a kind of ecstasy, moved by a supernatural power in his heart, that affected him in a violent manner, so that he hardly could give an account of it himself; but says wildly, he trembled, and cried out.
There are, no doubt, such strong impressions of the Spirit of God accompanying true convictions, and the great regenerating work of grace in the heart, as may be inexpressible, even by the persons themselves, yet far from enthusiastic or affected. Nor are these impressions to be slighted, much less ridiculed. Perhaps this may be in part signified, in regeneration being called a new birth, though the main intent of that allusion be to signify the entire change of the state.
From the whole of this dialogue may be observed, the great duty and advantage of young men spending the hours they have to spare for conversation, in religious discourses, and inquiring of one another about things relating to heaven, their duty here, and their way thither. This, no doubt, was enjoined in the same text, where the instruction of our children is commanded. Deut. vi. 7. "Thou shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way;" that is, they shall be general subject of your conversation and communication one with another.
Note.-- The advantages of religious conversation are many; the present case is brought to describe them. The young, untaught, uninstructed youth, who came out of the hands of his parents to be an apprentice, as perfectly naked of knowledge and instruction as he came naked into the world, becomes a convert by his keeping company and conversing with a religions, well-instructed companion, and became afterwards an excellent promoter of knowledge and piety in the place where he lived.
THE SECOND DIALOGUE.
The young lad who was put apprentice to the religious tradesman above mentioned, though he had no education from his parents, was, as you have heard in the past dialogue between him and the youth, his comrade, brought to a condition quite different from what he had always been brought up in. He had a full conviction of the desperate condition he was in, by reason of his sinful nature and life. He had received some light from the little instruction his young, but pious, companion was capable to give him; and his conscience was thoroughly awakened. His little instructor had been providentially made the instrument to lay a foundation of hope in him, and to encourage him to pray to God, and to read the scriptures, and to believe God would receive him, and not reject him for his sinful life, or for his sinful nature, but would grant him whatsoever he would ask: and upon this confidence, in his first agony he breaks out, as before, in a short, but vehement prayer, being the first he had ever made in his life; and which, as it was made from a heart deeply touched with the danger of his soul, so it left great impressions upon his mind, as I have noted; and having gotten a Bible from his companion, he goes away with two happy resolves -- 1. to read; and 2. to pray.
The alteration this made in the youth could not be long hid in the family where he was placed; where his wicked way of living, his profane tongue, and his contempt of religion, had made him not very well received; and made his conversation so much their aversion, that the master of the house, and the mistress too, had warned their little children from conversing with him; and they had some discourse together, about turning him away, finding him of a temper, as they thought, too refractory to be wrought upon by advice, past the benefit of example, and who had several times made a jest of, and a scoff at their attempts to instruct him.
But the boy being changed within, as it is noted above, it could not be that such a work could long conceal itself in his conversation. He appeared pensive, retired, and grave in his deportment,-- was observed to sigh very often, and look as if he had been crying. As soon as his business was over, he was never to be seen, but always hid in the dark among the work-houses, of which his master had several. He was observed to be always ready at the times of family-worship, and on the Lord's-day. When the master examined him about the sermons he had heard, they were all surprised at him, for the ready account he gave of what the minister had preached. His master and mistress, who could not but observe this alteration in the boy, took the more notice of him in his conversation the week after, where they found him diligent at his work, more than ever, but nothing of the mirth and sport his fellow-servants used to have with him. They observed he had left off all his ill words, and wicked expressions, swearing, cursing, and the like. He played none, laughed none, and hardly was seen to smile. Several of the servants and workmen that observed it also, had been jesting with him, asked him what ailed him; but he gave them no answers that were to the purpose, so that it was hardly guessed at in the family, at least among his not fellows.
But his master and mistress, who, from his behaviour, as above, had entertained some notion of it, or being willing to hope the best, had pleased themselves with some thoughts of the child's being grown rather serious than melancholy, made it their to observe him more narrowly; and seeing him one evening take a candle, and go up into a room over their workhouse, by himself, the mistress silently followed him, and placed herself so she might perceive him, and he perceive nothing of it.
As soon as he came up, he set down the candle, pulled a book out of his pocket, and turned over the leaves, folding up here, and folding down there, but not reading long in any one place. She observed him to sigh grievously all the while, and at last to throw down the book, and burst out into a fit of crying, sitting down upon the ground, wringing his hands, and the tears running down his face, but not speaking a word.
While he was in this agony, she discovered herself to have seen him, and begins as follows:
Will, what's the matter with you, child?
The boy, surprised, snatches up the book hastily, and put it in his pocket.
[His mistress speaks to him again.]
Mist. Will; what's the matter, Will? tell me.
Will. Nothing.
[Offers to go away.]
Mist. Come, Will, do not be backward to tell me what troubles thee; for I have seen all you have been doing. What book's that you had there?
Will. No book of any harm.
Mist. Child, I do not think it is a book of any harm, I believe it is a good book. Is it not the Bible, Will? Come, tell me.
Will. Yes, it is.
Mist. Let me see it, Will.
Will. You may believe me, it is the Bible; I hope you'll not be angry.
Mist. Angry, child, I am glad to see you looking in the Bible. I am not angry, I hope you are minding good things.
[So his mistress sits down by him.]
Will. Oh, it is too late now!
[Here he falls a crying again, and cannot speak for a good while.]
Mist. Too late, Will! do not talk so.
Will. Yes, 'tis too late -- too late.
[And cries vehemently.]
Mist. Child, if it be so, thy too late is much sooner than my early was. If it be too late for thee, what will become of any of us?
[The mistress weeps too.]
Will. That is all one to me, 'tis too late for me.
Mist. Let me see the Bible, child. Where hast thou been reading, that put thee into this condition?
Will. O, every where! every where!
Mist. Show me the book, Will, let me see it.
[He shows her the book, and abundance of leaves turned down, but most of them at those places which had discouraged the child.]
Mist. What are all these leaves turned down for? and who directed you to those terrible texts of scripture, child? you have found all this dreadful places where God threatens hardened sinners with his displeasure, but not one of those places which give comfort to a returning penitent.
[She turns over the leaves the child had folded down, which were such as these:]
Rom. ii. 5, 6-- "After thy hardness and impenitent heart, treasured up unto thyself wrath against the day of wrath, and revelation of the righteous judgment of God; who will render to every man according his deeds." Isa. vi. 10-- "Make the heart of this people fat, and their ears heavy, and shut their eyes; lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their hearts, and convert, and be healed." And again the same repeated, Mark iv. 12; Rev. xxi. 8-- "And all liars shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone. Rev. xxii. 11, 12-- "He that is unjust, let him be unjust still; and he that is filthy, let him be filthy still. Behold, I come quickly, and my reward is with me." 2 Thess. i. 8, 9-- "In flaming fire, taking vengeance on them that know not God, &c. who shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord." Psalm ix. 17-- "The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God," Psalm 1. 22-- "Consider this, ye that forget God, lest I tear you in pieces, and there be none to deliver." Matt. xxv. 41-- "Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels." Heb. xii. 29-- "For our God is a consuming fire." Isaiah xxxiii. 14-- "Who amongst us shall dwell with everlasting burning?"
These, and abundance more such as these, the poor boy had folded down, the reading of which had terrified him to such a degree as above.
[The mistress having looked them over, turns unto the boy.]
Mist. Child, what are all these scriptures to thee!
Will. All to me! all to me! he told me, all that was said in the book, was said to me.
Mist. He told thee, Will. Pr'ythee who told thee?
Will. He that gave me the book, my brother Tom over the way, he told me so; and he is a very good young man, and would not speak wrong. I am sure it is all said to me.
[Cries again.]
Mist. Well, Will, he is a very good young man. I am glad you have been talking with him; and he meant well, no doubt; but he is but a young lad, a boy, a child like thyself; and you may be instructed farther about it, do not be cast down. Was this it you cried about?
Will. Yes, yes, this was it; was not this enough?
Mist. Well, but you need not be discouraged, Will; let me show you some other texts.
Will. What, not to be lost for ever, and go to hell, not to be discouraged!
Mist. But are you willing to be better instructed, child?
Will. What can instruct me? Is not this the word of God? And is it not plain? Am not I such a wicked one, as is described here? And is not all that is said here true?
Mist. But, child, you must take that part of the scripture, which is a ground of hope, and set it against these terrible places. This is only an artifice of the devil to terrify you.
Will. What would he terrify me for?
Mist. That you might despair of the mercy of God, and not hope in Jesus Christ.
Will. What can I hope for, when these plain things are said, and that they shall belong to such as I am?
Mist. No, child, I hope they are not threatened to such as thee; they are all to be understood of those that are impenitent in their sins, and go on hardened, without repentance to the last. I hope you will not be found among them. Are you not sorry for your sins?
Will. What does that signify now, if I am?
Mist. A great deal; even so much, that it takes away the edge of all those dreadful scriptures that have frighted thee so much; and if that sorrow far thy sins be true and sincere, the scripture is full of encouragement for thee to hope.
Will. Aye, so he said; but he never told me a word of all those places I have found; and I can't find the promises he told me of, I can't find one of them.
Mist. That's for want of somebody to assist thee, and open and explain the scriptures to thee. Poor child! thou had but little teaching.
Will. Little! I never had any teaching at all! I never had a Bible in my life, never knew what it was till now, and I think it had been well I had not seen it now.
Mist. No, no, Will, do not say so; it the best thing ever was given thee in the world; and I hope you shall thank God as long as you live, that you met with that honest young man that gave it you. He is a godly, sober young man, and has shown thee what it is to be well educated. He came of good parents, and their instruction is seen in his very countenance. Every body loves him: his is so sober, so religious, and talks so well of good things; and it appears, I find in his talk to thee, though he is but a youth, he might not be so able to prepare thee for the right understanding of those scriptures which you were to read, as others may.
Will. Why, he told me it was the word of God, and that all was written here was true; and that it was all spoken to me, and I ought to understand it so, and bid me read it
Mist. Well, and you have read some of it, but not all.
Will. Yes, I read all the New Testament over and over; for I sat up three nights last week, and read all night long, for I promised him I would read it.
Mist. Well, and have you not found encouraging places, as well as those that terrified you in this manner.
Will. No, none at all.
Mist. How is that possible, if you have read it all over?
Will. I am sure I have read it all over three times, from the first of Matthew to the last of the Revelation.
Mist. Then your fears have so prevailed over your hopes, that your eyes have been shut to your comfort, and open only to your discouragement. This is all from the devil, Will; you must pray against it.
Will. So Tom said; but I can't tell how to pray, I never prayed in my life but once.
Mist. Once, child! when was that?
Will. That night he talked to me.
Mist. What did you pray for then, and how?
Will. I know not how, but I trembled, and cried out to God, to pardon my sins.
Mist. Poor child, what moved thee to it, then?
Will. I felt some strange notion in my heart, which I cannot describe, that made my tongue speak I almost know not what, for I thought it a dreadful thing to speak to God; and when I cried out, Lord, pardon my sins, it set me a weeping and a trembling.
Mist. Well, that was a blessed beginning. Why did you not go on, child? you should have prayed again.
Will. My heart did, but I could speak no words.
Mist. Alas, child! that's the prayer God delights in; so may I pray all my days, though I was never to speak again!
Will. But brother Tom told me I must speak too.
Mist. Yes, child, you may speak; and it is proper, for your own sake, that you speak words both to express your meaning and move your affections; but, unless your heart joins, it is not prayer. God hears no words that the heart joins not in; but he hears many a sigh from the heart, which cannot be expressed in words: as is plain from the text, Rom. viii. 26-- "The Spirit also helpeth our infirmities; for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered." I hope it was the Spirit who helped thy heart to pray, when thou couldst utter no words, child; therefore do not be discouraged.
Will. I know nothing what it was, or what the Spirit means, unless that I have served the evil spirit all my days, and now I must have my portion with the devil and his angels. This book says so, look here else.
[Here shows her the place, Matt. xxv. 41.]
Mist. Child, you must not make conclusions against yourself, any more than for yourself, from the word of God, till you are taught to understand it aright.
Will. Why, do I not understand this place aright?
Mist. No, you do not.
Will. How shall I understand it, then?
Mist. You may take the scriptures as they explain themselves; and you are bid to search the scripture, that is, to see how one place is expounded by another. You should always pray to God to open your understanding, that you may understand the scripture; and the want of this makes even those very parts of the scripture which should be our comfort, be our terror.
Will. Indeed the young man told me so, but I did not do it.
Mist. What did he bid you do?
Will. When he gave me the book, I thanked him, and promised him to read it; but he said that was not all, I must pray to God to teach me to understand his word, and to show me my duty, and to guide my heart to do it. But I did not know that I should always do this when I read the Bible.
Mist. No doubt but you may pray seasonably for that at all times, and he was a good child that taught thee to do so; but it must needs be more especially seasonable to pray so, when you are going to read the Bible, that you may be instructed to read comfort from God's word, and not terror only, as you have done.
Will. What comfort can I get from the scripture, when it speaks so dreadfully of my very case.
Mist. Why there lies your mistake. I say it is not your case, and therefore you may reap comfort from the scripture. Come, child, let us see and examine strictly what your real case is; it may be we may find reason even from this very book to make you hope that your is not included, or spoken to, in any of these texts; and if it should appear so, would you not be very glad?
Will. Yes, I should be glad; but I believe that's impossible.
Mist. No, no, child, it is not impossible: the first part of your case is this, that you have been a great sinner.
Will. As ever was born in the world.
Mist. Well, suppose so, though that is not true, neither; for, poor child, you have not sinned against light, and against knowledge, and against conscience; for thee wast never taught to know God, or his ways, or instructed in thy duty. I am a worse sinner than thou a great deal. But suppose all you say, suppose you are a great sinner; yet you say you are sorry; and if you thought God would forgive you, would it not rejoice your heart?
Will. Oh, if that were possible!
Mist. And are you willing to go on wickedly as you were before?
Will. No, I abhor and abominate it.
[He weeps here again.]
Mist. And would you serve, and obey, and please God, if he would forgive you?
Will. Aye, with all my heart. Nay, whether he would forgive me or no. I would never be wicked again if I could help it; it is the abominablest life! I hate myself for it.
Mist. But if you were assured God would pardon you, what would you do?
Will. Oh, if that were possible!
Mist. Come, child, look then into this blessed book again. You are a sinner, but you are not an impenitent sinner;-- you say you abhor and abominate your sins, and hate yourself for them;-- you say you would not go on in wickedness, nay, though God should not forgive what is past;-- you say you would serve, and please, and obey God with all your heart. If all this be true, then I will tell thee, child, not one of those terrible scriptures which have so discouraged thee, and so frighted thee, are spoken to thee, or meant of thee; no, not one of them.
Will. Why, my brother Tom said, all that was written in this book was said to me.
Mist. That is, child, if thou art so and so, as these scriptures describe; and if not, then they are spoken to give thee hope; otherwise the scriptures would contradict itself, and not be true, which is blasphemous to imagine.
Will. I don't understand what you mean.
Mist. Why, child, look here, look upon the very text you have folded down; some of these explain themselves to be just what I say, Rom. ii. 5. 6-- "After thy hardness and impenitent heart, treasured up unto thyself wrath," &c. Now, it is plain thou art not hardened and impenitent; but God has given thee a penitent repenting heart, I hope it is a sincere one; therefore, by the words themselves, thou art not one of them that "treasure up wrath against the day of wrath." So for that scripture, Isaiah vi. 10-- "Thine eyes are not shut, nor thy ears heavy, nor they heart fat;" that is, rebellious, and contemning God; for that text is plainly spoken of such whom God judicially hardens, and of no other. In like manner, all the other texts, every one of them are expressions signifying the wrath and vengeance of God, against such as die in their sins, or continue perverse, hardened, and impenitent.
Will. How shall I be sure that it is so?
Mist. By comparing those scriptures, child, with such other texts as explain their meaning, and are given to encourage our returning to God, and contain his promises of pardon to those who repent.
Will. Where are they? I have read the whole book, and cannot find them.
Mist. Look here, child, 1 John i. 9-- "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness;" Here it is plain, though you are a great sinner, yet, if you confess, he will forgive you. And you may observe, he does not say he is gracious and merciful to forgive, but just and faithful; implying, that having before, in his grace and mercy, passed to us his promise of forgiveness, it becomes, humbly speaking, a kind of demand; as he is just and faithful, therefore he must and will, nay, he cannot fail to make good those promises to us.
Will. But where are promises then? I can find none of them in the Bible.
Mist. O, the whole scripture is full of them, Prov. xxviii. 13-- "He that covereth his sins shall not prosper, but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them, shall have mercy." Isaiah lv. 7-- "Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon."
Will. That he told me of, but I cannot find it.
Mist. Here it is, child, in the prophecy of Isaiah.
Will. Is that the word of God too?
Mist. Yes, and that prophet is counted the most excellent of all the prophets for these things, and he is therefore called the Evangelical prophet.
Will. But there are more in other places, are there not?
Mist. Yes, child, especially in those places that speak of Christ in whom all are to be saved.
Will. Let me hear them; for I do not understand this being redeemed by Christ's death at all, though Tom said something of that to me.
Mist. You understand that you have been a wicked boy, a great sinner, and was born in sin, your father was a sinner before you.
Will. Yes, I understand that too well.
Mist. Well, Jesus Christ, who is the Son of God, came into the world to save such as you, nay, and worse than you; and he died to bring this to pass. This you must believe.
Will. Does the scripture say this?
Mist. Yes, look here, Rom. v. 6.-- "For when we were yet without strength, in doe time Christ died for the ungodly." 1 Peter iii. 18-- "For Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God." Acts v. 31-- "Him hath God exalted with his right hand, to be a Prince, and a Saviour, to give repentance and remission." 1 Tim. i. 15-- "This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners." Matt. ix. 13-- "I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." Are not these things plain, child?
Will. But I am afraid.
Mist. Of what, child?
Will. That it is not for me, I am not one of them: else why was I not taught to know this before?
Mist. Here is a text for that too, child, Mark v. 36-- "Be not afraid, only believe."
Will. What most I believe? and what if I do believe?
Mist. The scripture is plain, that we shall be saved by faith in him notwithstanding all the terrible scriptures you have found out. Matt. i. 21-- "His name is Jesus, for he shall save his people from their sins." Acts xiii. 39-- "By him all that believe are justified." John xx. 31-- "These things are written, that ye might believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that believing ye might have life through his name." John v. 24-- "He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation." Rom. viii. 1-- "There is therefore no condemnation to them who are in Christ Jesus." Fold all these texts down, and remember to read them over, when you are tempted to be doubting of God's mercy in Christ.
Will. But will Christ receive me now?
Mist. Yes, yes, he has made a gracious promise to thee himself for that, John vi. 37-- "Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out."
[The boy starts at these words.]
Mist. What do you start at, child?
Will. That's the blessed place that my dear teacher told me of, and that worked all; and now I can't find it.
Mist. Worked all what, child?
Will. That was the text that made my heart melt and tremble, and made me pray to God; and I have read over the whole book, and can't find it, though I made him turn down a loaf at it. I am sure it is not in the book.
Mist. Not in the book! God forbid! Why here it is, child; look at it, read it, and God give thee comfort of it.
[The boy reads, and tears from his eyes for joy, for sorrow.]
Will. Aye, here it is! here it is! I will come to him! I will pray to him!
[He kisses the place with great affection, and receives comfort from it.]
Notes on the Second Dialogue.
The impressions of the serious discourse mentioned in the first dialogue, that this young man had with his comrade, were so great that they could not be concealed.
Note.-- A change wrought in the heart will infallibly show itself in the conversation.
The master and mistress being good people themselves, received impressions of the alteration in boy, suitable to the nature of the thing; but the rest of the servants dreamed nothing of it.
Note.-- The symptoms of conversion are easily discovered by those who know the working of the Spirit of God, while they are perfectly invisible to others.
By the agony the boy was in at the reading the comminations of the scripture against sin, without the promissory part may be observed.
That mere convictions of sin drive to despair; but neither direct to, nor inquire after a remedy.
That comforting scriptures generally want explaining: terrifying scriptures explain themselves.
Here it may be worth observing,
1. The benefit of religious conversation, even among young children, and the great duty of making our society instructing to one another.
2. The advantage of placing children in religious families.
If this poor child had not fallen into such a family as this, the temptation he was under to despair, might, in all probability, have prevailed over him; and either have led him to give over inquiry after religious matters, or, if God had not restrained him, have driven him to extremities, such a distraction, and, perhaps, self-destruction, as is often the consequence too in like cases; for "a wounded spirit who can bear?"
Observe the poor child's fear of its being too late for him to find mercy, or be accepted.
If it might be too late for him, what have they to fear who run on to grey hairs in an impenitent state? Well might his mistress observe, that his too late was sooner than her early; and so it is with many.
From the good woman's applying the scriptures to him for comfort, observe how the scriptures are to be read.
1. With serious seeking God for the assistance of his Spirit to open our understandings, that we may understand the scriptures; for without his teaching, all our reading will be in vain.
2. With a due comparing one text with another, that the scriptures being their own just expositor, may reconcile the truths of God, as they ought to be understood.
3. For want of this, we rob ourselves of the comfort of the scriptures, pass over those things prepared to heal and restore the soul, and fill our hearts with distracting doubts about our own state, which are always harder to be resolved and removed, by how much they seem confirmed by the mistaken authority of the scripture.
Observe.-- The good woman finding the boy had received comfort from that blessed promise of our Lord, and that he was affectionately expressing his resolution to cast himself at the feet of Christ, crying out I will come to him; and in a kind of rapture, kissing the words which he had showed him, she wisely withdrew; believing it was a happy juncture, in which the child ought to be left alone, that he might give himself full vent, with fervency and earnestness to call upon God; and though this causes the dialogue to break off sooner, and more abruptly than it might have done, yet it is conceived, as much is here set down, as may answer the design of it, viz. the instruction of others.
Ending these notes with this observation for the reader's information -- That as far as this account is really historical, and points at any particular family, this boy or young man came to be eminent for piety, and religious life, in the place where he lived; and being settled in that country, was a very useful instrument in the propagating Christian knowledge, and supporting the interest of true religion in all the country around him, and perhaps is living still.
THE THIRD DIALOGUE.
The young lad who had been so happily instrumental in the conviction and conversion of his comrade, had thereby rendered himself so agreeable to the good people, who, as I said before, were master and mistress of the other lad, that they could not but be very willing to converse a little with him themselves; and, to that end, caused their apprentice, who called him brother, to bring him to their house; where, in time, he became very intimate, and they were much pleased and diverted with his pretty discourses, which were always about religion and serious things.
Among the rest of his discourse, he never forgot to bemoan himself for his being placed in a family of no religious order,-- without the worship of God in it,-- and where he had neither public opportunity to serve God, nor private retirement for the discharge of his duty.
The good people encouraged him to bear it, add seriously advised him not to let the sense of his own duty wear off, or to allow himself in the omission of private prayer to God, whatever obstructions he met with for want of retirement and opportunity; and invited him to come over to their house as often as he could, at their [hour?] of family-worship, and join with them.
This he not only gladly accepted, but constantly attended, and did it so avowedly, not regarding how it might interfere with his master's hours, and his own conveniences, that his master took offence at his being so often out of the way; and not knowing the least of what occasioned his absence, complained to his father of it, as if it had been some wicked course he had followed; telling him, that his son did not behave himself so orderly; that he was out of his business unseasonably; that he must have some bad haunts, for that he generally went out every morning very early (being then winter), long before day, and in the evening was absent often at supper; that on the Lord's-day evening he was to never to be found, and the like; and therefore desired his father to take some care about him, that if he went on he would be ruined. He farther acquainted his father, that the boy had appeared very melancholy and discontented; that he had often asked him if any thing ailed him, or if he was not well, and he always answered yes; that he asked him if he did not like his business, and still he answered yes, very well; so that he knew not what ailed him, and desired his father to talk with him, for if he carried it thus he could not bear it, but must send him home again.
The father, who knew his son to be a sober, religious child, and partly knew the reason of his discontent, was not at all surprised at that part of his master's complaint, which related to his appearing melancholy and dissatisfied. But the other part of his discourse alarmed him a little, about being out of the house at unseasonable hours, and giving no account of himself; and therefore readily promised to talk with his son, and examine him about it, that his conduct might be rectified.
Accordingly he finds an opportunity to talk with the lad, and lets him know all his master had laid to his charge, charging him to tell him the truth of the whole matter. The boy, not at all surprised, told his father the whole case very honestly -- how that his master had no such thing as family-worship in his house; but that they lived all like heathens there, pursuing the world as if it was their heaven, without the least regard of their duty to God, of any thing that was religious. "And you, Sir," says the boy to his father, "having always instructed me in other things, and taught me to live after another manner, it was very uneasy to me, as I have formerly hinted to you: but I have of late made myself a little easy, by getting an acquaintance in Mr. ------'s family, an honest clothier, who lives over against our house, who are very good people, and who constantly go to prayers every morning at six o'clock, and every evening at eight or nine, and I get up every day to go over there to prayer with their family, and every Lord's-day, I go thither in the evening, where the good man reads to his family, and examines his children and servants, and then prays with them. While at our house, all the evening is spent in feasting and visiting, or idle discourse, not at all to the business of the day. This is the whole case."
When the lad had ended his discourse, and the father was assured of the truth of it, he took his son in his arms, and kissed and embraced him very affectionately, and said--
"The blessing of God and thy father be upon thee, my dear, that has made so good a use of so unhappy an omission of mine. It was my sin, my dear, and an inexcusable error in me, to put thee out to a family where the name of God is not called upon, and the worship of God not regarded; by which I run the venture of thy soul's good, and of having all the pains I had taken in teaching and instructing thee in the ways of God, and in the knowledge of religion, lost and abased; and had it been so, thy ruin had been at my door, having regarded only the trade, and the prospect of worldly advantage, in placing thee there, not the good of thy soul; but, since God has given thee grace to prevent the evil, which might, through my neglect, have befallen thee, the praise be to his mercy. I am fully satisfied in what you have done; and if your master speaks of it to you, as I suppose he will, I would have you tell him the whole truth, as you now do to me; and if he dislikes you for it, offer to go back to your father; and, if he consents, I shall as gladly take you from him, as I received you from God when you were born.
The child encouraged by a father thus to deal plainly with his master, and being a lad very ready of speech, though modest in his behaviour, resolves, the first occasion his master should give him, to do it effectually; which his master not failing to do the same evening, produced the following discourse between them.
The youth, it seems, had been over at the good people's house, as usual during their family-worship, and coming in about nine o'clock at night, his master begins with him thus:
Mast. Thomas, where are you?
Tom. Here, Sir.
Mast. Have you been abroad to night?
Tom. A little, Sir.
Mast. How long have you been out?
Tom. Not above half an hour. Sir, at most.
Mast. Where have you been?
Tom. I have been no farther than at Mr. ------, over the way.
Mast. Well, but, Thomas, I must talk with you a little. I have observed it, and others have observed it here in the house, that your conduct is altered very much from what it used to be, and you seem dull and melancholy. I must know what is the matter with you. If you do like your business, tell me honestly, Thomas, though you are bound, I will not keep you against your will. I have a respect for you, and for your father, and I won't force your inclination; if you are willing to go, Thomas, you shall; and therefore I would have you speak plainly what it is you dislike the trade for?
Tom. No, Sir, I don't dislike the trade at all; but if you please to let me go, I shall be very ----
[Here his master interrupts him.]
Mast. Well, Thomas, but I am willing to know what the reason is too. What do you dislike? Do you dislike your master?
Tom. No, Sir, not in the least, I assure you; I have no reason for it.
Mast. What then? Has any body in the house ill used you?
Tom. No, indeed, Sir.
Mast. What then?
Tom. Nothing, but if you think fit to let me ---
Mast. No, never without a reason for it; that would be to have some other reasons given afterwards for it; which are not true.
Tom. If you think so, Sir, I am very willing to stay, and do my business.
Mast. Well, Thomas, but whether you go or stay, I must know the cause of your discontent
Tom. I'll be better contented, Sir, than I have been, if I can, rather than displease you.
Mast. No, Thomas, that won't satisfy me, neither; for I have some discontents as well as you, Thomas; and if you stay with me, you must remove my discontents, as well as your own.
Tom. I shall be very willing to remove any discontents you have, Sir, if I can; I hope I do not neglect your business, Sir.
Mast. I do not say my business is neglected; but you take the liberty to go out, and stay out so very often, which makes me uneasy; I must be a little satisfied, Thomas, about that.
Tom. Sir, you were pleased to tell us, when I was first bound, that if we were in the warehouse at such and such times, when your business required, you cared not whither we went at any other times; and I never have failed your business, Sir, nor your hours.
Mast. But you are out at unseasonable hours, Thomas, and that is not of good reputation to yourself.
Tom. I thought, Sir, you did not regard that, when you left us so entirely to ourselves. If it is offensive to you, I will refrain it, though I should be very sorry to be restrained.
Mast. But I must know the occasion of it, as well as of your apparent dissatisfaction also, Thomas. Sure you may be free with me. Come, let me know the truth.
Tom. You will perhaps be displeased with me, Sir, if I tell you the truth, or think I do not.
Mast. If that truth be justifiable, why should I be displeased? It not, why should I not be displeased.
Tom. There may be reason for your displeasure, though the thing be justifiable.
Mast. Let the thing then appear to be justifiable first; and, if I am unreasonable, we shall talk of that afterwards. If you can justify the thing itself, why should you be backward to let me know it?
Tom. Sir, as you are my master, and I am your servant, I was bound to give you an account of my time; but the liberty you gave all your servants to go where they pleased, provided they were at home, at such and such times, has sufficiently, as I conceived, justified my being abroad, even without giving an account.
Mast. But I did not take from myself the liberty of inquiring whither you went, or of altering that licence I had given, if I saw it abused; and since you have taken the liberty, and refuse to give me a reasonable account of it, I now recall it, and expect you to be found always at home, unless I give you leave.
Tom. As I took only the liberty you gave, Sir, I shall exactly obey you in the restraint, however hard I may think it.
Mast. But there are some other reasons why I ought to insist upon knowing where you have been, and how have spent your time at the hours you have been missing; and I think it concerns your reputation to have me satisfied.
Tom. Whether it concerns my character or not, Sir, if you command it, I think it my duty to obey it. I avoided it only that you might not be displeased with me.
Mast. Since you choose to obey it as my command, rather than comply with it as my request, you must be gratified then by telling you, I do demand an account of it.
Tom. Sir, all the time I have spent out of your house, or out of your business, except only the times I have asked you leave to see my father, has been over the way at Mr. ------'s the clothier.
Mast. What, is it there you have gone in the morning before day?
Tom. Yes, Sir.
Mast. What can the meaning of that be? Sure you have earnest business there; and I suppose it must be something he or his wife was not to know, that required you to be there with his servants every day before their master or was up.
Tom. I have told you nothing, Sir, but the truth.
Mast. Well, I shall inquire nothing of your business. I know my neighbour ------ is a good man, and it is his business to look after his servants. I shall give him notice to do so. In the mean time, I shall acquaint your father of your practice, and let him inquire after it; it is no business of mine. I don't trouble myself with what courses you take; but while you are with me, I expect you will attend your business.
Tom. I must obey you, Sir, though I think it hard. If you will not dismiss me from your business, it must be as it pleases God.
[The master goes out and leaves him. The boy's father, being impatient to know what would pass in the conference, was come to the house, though late. The master finds him waiting for him, and begins warmly.]
Mast. How do you, Sir? I doubt I have no very good news to tell you.
Fath. About what, Sir?
Mast. About your son. He and I have had a little brush this evening.
Fath. I am sorry for that. I hope he does not misbehave himself, or neglect his business.
Mast. I can't say much for that; but, as I told you formerly, he has gotten some ill haunts among our neighbour's servants; and he is out with them every night and morning, nay, in the morning before day, and every Sabbath day after sermon. I see nothing of him, at least for that night; and I can get nothing of him; but if I talk a little to him, he is for going away, and coming back to you again.
Fath. What can his business be before day?
Mast. Nay, I have nothing to do with that; take him to task about it yourself; it is your business; he is your son, he is none of mine; you said you would talk with him before.
Fath. But, Sir, though he be my son, yet he is your servant. Though I did talk a little with him, yet I said the less, because I cannot be of your opinion, that you have nothing to do with it. Is he not entirely under your government?
Mast. Aye, as to business, I have the government of him indeed; and I am to teach him his trade, and to see that he does my business; and so I will, while be stays with me. What can I do further?
Fath. But, Sir, as I put him apprentice to you, I committed him to your government entirely, soul and body. I hope you have some little concern for your servants, besides just their doing their business.
Mast. Why, what can I do more than restrain them, if I see them take bad course? And I have done so to your's; I have forbid him going there any more.
Fath. It is not for me to teach you, Sir, what to do. But if you will bear with me ----
Mast. Aye, very freely, very freely. You know I have respect enough for you to hear any thing, nay, and for your son too. I'd do any thing I can. I should be very sorry to have the boy ruined; he is a promising young man enough.
Fath. Why, as to that, Sir, in particular, I will speak afterwards: but I am first upon the general. You seem to go upon this point, that you think yourself not obliged to take any further concern upon you about your servants, than just to restrain them, if you see them take ill courses, or to acquaint their friends with it; and that your main care is to see that your business is done. If I take you right, this is what you said.
Mast. It is so. Why, what can I do more?
Fath. A great deal, Sir; and I think a great deal more is your duty as a master.
Mast. What more can be expected of me?
Fath. Really, Sir, if you will pardon me, I think you have the whole duty and authority of a parent devolved upon you for the time; and as you make your apprentices a part of your family, all the duty you owe the rest of your family, you owe to them, both as to their souls and bodies; except such as relate to estate, which is peculiar to children. I need not tell you your duty; but I'll tell you what I understood by putting my child into your hands, if you please.
Mast. Well, what's that?
Fath. Why, I understood that I put him entirely under your government, in the first place, and under your care, in the second: that this government respected, first, the authority of your command, which was to be a perfect supersede to mine; even so much, that if I had commanded him one thing, and you another that interfered with it, his obeying you was not to be accounted a disobeying me. For example, if I commanded him to meet me at any place or time, were the occasion ever so great; if you commanded him to stay at home, he ought to neglect my command and obey your's, which contradicted it; his time being your's, and not mine. And this I always told him: and therefore charged him never to come to me without asking your leave.
Mast. This is all very just, and I believe he has always done so.
Fath. Then, Sir, secondly, as I put him entirely under your government, suspending my own authority over him as a father, it becomes a necessary consequence of it, that I entirely committed him to your care, both soul and body. How could this be otherwise, since, as I reserved no power to command him, so I had of course removed him from my inspection.
Mast. Well, and do not I discharge this duty, by acquainting you of his ill courses?
Fath. No, not at all, Sir; for I may indeed take upon me to caution and advise him, and show my dislike of his conduct; but the power and authority of warning him, instructing him, reproving him, and restraining him, and, if need be, of correcting him, is all your's.
Mast. Those things are out of doors long ago. Pr'ythee, do you think I'll trouble myself with my apprentices at that rate? No, no, not I. I never struck a servant in my life; and if I should, who do you think would stay with me? Apprentices now-a-days are not like what they were when you and I were apprentices. Now we get a hundred pounds, or two or three hundred pounds a piece with them: they are too high for reproof and correction.
Fath. I know not what custom may have done, Sir, to alter the practice of masters and their apprentices; but I am sure the rule is not altered. The duty of masters to servants, and of servants to their masters, is still the same.
Mast. We don't trouble our heads with these things now.
Fath. I am sorry for it. You know best, how then can you answer to God for the souls committed to your charge. Do you think every religious parent, when be puts his child apprentice to you, does not reckon that he commits his soul to your care, as well as his body?
Mast. I do not say but, in the nature of the thing, it should be so; but, as I told you, we do not understand it so now-a-days.
Fath. I assure you I understood it so when I put my son apprentice to you; and I hope you will understand it so too, or else you will neither act like a friend, nor like a Christian.
Mast. Why, do I not act like both now, in giving you an account of this piece of your son's behaviour, that you may inquire into it?
Fath. I allow your giving me an account of it, and thereby an opportunity to join my inquiry and assistance with you to reform any thing amiss, is friendly; but we are upon another point now, which is this:-- that you think by this you discharge your part,-- that the duty lies upon me now, and you have no more to. But this I can by no means allow.
Mast. Why, what would you make of me? Must I be a father and master too?
Fath. No question of it, he is under your family care. As to his body, he is your servant; but as to his soul, I think he is as much your son as any child you have; and I cannot quit you of the obligation and duty of a parent to your servants, do you discharge your conscience of it how you please.
Mast. Why, what, would you have me catechise and instruct my apprentices, as if they were my children? Then I must turn schoolmaster. I hope you have done that already; and I think it ought to be supposed all parents have done that before they put their children apprentices. They do not put them apprentices to learn religion, but to learn their trades.
Fath. It is true, they do not put their children apprentices to learn religion; but neither do they put to them apprentices to lose their religion -- to have all the pains their parents have taken with them sunk again. There is a kind of instruction subsequent to catechisms and examinations: them are kinds of instructions suited to the age and circumstances; and such an instructor every master of a family ought to be, to his servants as well as to his children.
Mast. I do not understand what instruction you mean.
Fath. Why, suppose your own children were grown up, past saying their catechism, would you think your duty of instructing them ceased? Is there nothing for a parent say to say to his children after has done with questions and answers?
Mast. That may be, as he sees occasion, if they take ill courses.
Fath. Why, is there no previous advice to be given, no cautions to avoid company, no exhortations to preserve virtue, and to behave soberly and modestly? No pressing them to their duty to God, and to avoid those sins that will ruin their souls? Is not this a duty upon us all to our children?
Mast. Yes; but would you have me to do this to apprentices too?
Fath. Most certainly, especially when you take apprentices that you know were religiously educated, and on whom such things are likely to make due impressions. And I must own, if you do not, I think you do not discharge the duty of a master; for a master is a parent, though he is not father.
Mast. You have no scripture for this in the whole Bible.
Fath. Suppose that were true, the nature of the thing is so plain, that there needs no particular scripture to command it in express terms; and yet you will find scriptures enough for it too, in the example of good men, particularly in Joshua, who resolved to serve the Lord, he and his house. And how could that be, if he did not instruct or command his servants to do so. David says, a liar shall not dwell with him. What is more plain, than that he resolved to correct the irreligious behaviour of his whole household, a well servants as children, and to turn away those who were incorrigible? But the commandment puts it out of question, and is express in the case of keeping the Sabbath. Mark the words-- "In it thou shalt do no manner of work, thou"-- there's the master's duty for himself; the next part is his duty in seeing that his family shall perform it an well as himself-- "nor thy son, nor thy daughter,"-- there's his duty as a father-- "nor thy man-servant, nor thy maid-servant"-- there's his hired servants-- "nor the stranger that is within thy gates:" there are his apprentices. And what's the meaning of this word, nor, but this, that thou shalt do no manner of work, nor permit to suffer thy son or thy daughter, or thy servants, to do any?
This commandment expressly declares, that servants are subjected to their master's command in matters relating to their duty to God, and that masters are obliged to see that their servants perform it
Mast. Indeed you have said something in this that is new to my thoughts, and seems to give an authority to what you say. I confess I never considered that part of it before. But what can I do? If I should go about this work my servants, they would laugh at me; it would make ridiculous.
Fath. If you are to be laughed out of your duty by your servants, I am sorry for it; you are very ill qualified, then, to be a master. I hope, and am persuaded, my son would not be one of them.
Mast. I know not whether be would or not. I find him not the most complying, and particularly in my inquiry about this matter, which I now tell you of. It was a long time before he would own where he spent his time; and now he has told me I have no account of what he has been about, or what his business was there, at those unseasonable hours.
Fath. This is the very thing I complain of.
Mast. Why, how shall I help it; what would you have me do?
Fath. Do! I would have you act like a master, and oblige him to do as becomes a servant, viz. give you an exact account of his behaviour. His time is your's, and you ought to know how he spends it. If any of his time is employed out of your business, you ought to exact an account of it from him, how it has been disposed of, as much as you would of money that you had trusted him with, how he paid it.
Mast. I thought this more your work than mine.
Fath. If he was your own son, and my apprentice, I should think so too; but as it is, as I said before, his time is not mine, nor his own, but your's; and it is to you he is to give an account of it.
Mast. But pray, why do you put it off from yourself? You know I have a great hurry of business, and cannot have time, and he will be more in awe of you than of me. I think it is much better for you.
Fath. I am very far from putting it off from myself. I shall concur with you most readily in the strictest examination into his behaviour. But I am surprised to hear you put it off from yourself, as if you were not concerned in it; and by which, if his courses are evil, as you suggest, he may be ruined at any time, and I may know nothing of it; and you must allow that this ought to give me some concern as a father, whatever it does to you as a master.
Mast. I am something of your mind now, as to its being my duty to my servants, though, as I am circumstanced, I do not see how I can perform it.
Fath. If God gives you a sense of its being your duty, I leave the sense of your living in the neglect of it to his mercy, who, I hope, will open your eyes to the necessity of performing it. It is a sad thing to be in such a circumstance as renders what is your known duty impracticable to you.
Mast. What can I do?
Fath. That is for you to consider, not me. If you are convinced of what you ought to do, I have spent my time well enough.
Mast. But what would you have me to do with your son?
Fath. Do! act the master with him, and command him to give you an exact account of the time you charge him with, where he has spent it, in what company, and about what business.
Mast. If I do he will refuse it, and desire me to dismiss him; he has said as much as that already, which I took very ill from him.
Fath. What must be the occasion of that?
Mast. Why, it has been observed by all the house, as well as by me, that he has been very melancholy and discontented a great while, and I very kindly asked him the reason, but he declined to tell me. I asked him if he disliked the trade? he said, no; if he disliked his master, no. I told him, if he was uneasy at any thing, though he was bound, I would release him; for I would not keep him against his inclination. At this he seemed pleased, and mighty desirous to go. Now, what can I do? If I challenge him with his going out, and pretend to demand a strict account of his time, and he refuses, what can I do, but threaten to turn him away? And that, it seems, he desires; and yet he will not tell me the reason of it, neither, which does not show him to have much good nature, or good manners. Indeed, I took it so ill, that, but in respect to you, I had sent him home that very minute. And now I have told you of it, what would you have do?
Fath. I have said what I would have you do, viz. act the master with him, and tell him in plain terms, you will have an account of his behaviour; you may be sure he shall get nothing by complaining to me, if his case be bad; and if he refuses positively, as I believe he will not, we will inquire of your neighbour, Mr.------, for he has the character of a very good man; perhaps he may find it out for us.
Mast. I know Mr. ------ is a very pious, religious good man, and his wife is a very religious woman; and it is indeed a very sober family, which makes me wonder what the boy can be doing there, which he is so earnest to conceal; if you will, I'll go and inquire of him first.
Fath. No, I think you had better talk with the boy first. I am persuaded he will submit to you, and, I hope, tell you the truth; and if that truth be to your satisfaction, you will be better pleased to have it from the boy, than to make it more public.
Mast. Well, I will have another dialogue with him to-morrow, and you shall hear what will be the issue.
[The father goes away, and the youth coming to the door with him, the father says thus:]
Fath. Thomas, it seems your master has been talking with you about this matter.
Son. Yes, Sir.
Fath. He is very angry, and takes it very ill you should refuse to give an account of yourself, and where you used to be, when you went out in the morning and evening.
Son. I did tell him where I was, and assured him I was no where else.
Fath. But it was a long time before you would tell him that.
Son. I was so afraid he would inquire what my business was there, that I could not think of telling him.
Fath. Why, you must tell him still, child; for he is mighty earnest to know what you are there so much for; he imagines it is some wicked thing, by your being afraid to tell him. I hope the account you gave me of it is true.
Son. Dear father, I hope you do not doubt its being true, I never used to tell you an untruth.
Fath. No, child, I do not doubt of its being true; and why then should you be afraid to tell him of it?
Son. I am more ashamed than afraid to tell him of it. I think it does not become me to make my master blush at himself.
Fath. But here is a necessity now, so that I do not see you can avoid it, let him take it how he will; for it passes in the family that you have some ill correspondence, or some bad company there, and they will make a great deal of it, if you are so backward to give an account of it; and, therefore, to clear up your own reputation, you must tell your master.
Son. I would rather you would do it for me, Sir, I not fit to talk to my master about such things.
Fath. I have prepared the way, by a long dispute with your master about his duty to his servants: and I am persuaded, let what you say be never so coarse or boyish, God will bless it, so as to carry conviction along with it, that he has not done his duty to you, whatever you have done to him.
Son. I can say nothing to him of that, Sir, he will fly out in a rage at me.
Fath. No, no, you are only to answer his questions, and give an account of yourself, and of the reason why you go over to the clothier's house every morning and evening: you can do that easily enough, let the will of God be done in what shall follow, one way or other.
Son. I will do as you order me. Sir, as well as I can.
[The father leaves him, and the boy going in, his master calls him.]
Mast. Thomas, come hither.
Tom. Yes, Sir.
Mast. Well, I have given your father an account of your behaviour, and he is very much concerned, as well as I, about it.
Tom. I am sorry for it, Sir.
Mast. Well, but that is not enough; your father and I too are resolved to find out the bottom of it, if you will not confess ingenuously.
Tom. SIr, you speak of it as if I was guilty of some strange thing; I hope I have committed no crime, Sir.
Mast. It may be very well, if it appear so, Sir: however, our suspicions are justified by your being so very careful to conceal yourself; this has made me resolve to examine into it; and you might save me that labour, as I told you, by an ingenuous confession.
Tom. I never declined it, Sir.
Mast. No! Did I not press you to it before, and you declined it, and your father's coming prevented, or else, I had a flat denial?
Tom. I never denied to obey any of your commands, Sir, in my life,-- I only told you that I was backward, because I feared it might displease you: but I little thought it should be suggested that my being abroad was for any thing criminal.
Mast. How could you expect any other?
Tom. Because, being perfectly innocent, I had no thought of being inspected.
Mast. Clear up all then, Thomas, by ingenuously giving an account of yourself to me now.
Tom. Be pleased, Sir, to tell me what part you mean? whether as to my being abroad, or my being discontented; for you charged me with both?
Mast. Begin first with your being abroad. You say you were only at my neighbour's, over the way; I have examined into it yet, but I take it for granted that you speak truth.
Tom. Indeed, Sir, I was no where but there.
Mast. Well, your business there; the occasion of your going so early; how you employed yourself there; and with whom? These are the questions.
Tom. You will not take it ill, Sir, I hope then, if my answers may seem not to become me, or less dutiful or respectful to you, than you may think they ought to be.
Mast. Not at all, if you speak truth, Thomas.
Tom. I hope I shall satisfy you of that, Sir, by the consequence. You know, Sir, I have been brought up under my father, with a religious education, and in his family, where the worship of God had been constantly kept up; and coming hither, Sir, as an apprentice, where I found you were not pleased to permit me, or to let me come up when you, I doubt not, went to prayers, and reading with your family; it made me afraid, either that you did not think me worthy to be reckoned one of your family, or that it was a judgment of God upon me, to be shut out from his worship! This, Sir, made me very sad, which is the discontent you speak of; but hearing of that other good family over the way, and that Mr. ------ the clothier went constantly to prayer every morning and night, I got acquaintance with the young man, his apprentice, and got him to ask his master to give me leave to come there at those times.
Mast. Well, Thomas, this is a well contrived story truly; you want not cunning, I find. But what is this to six o'clock in the morning, Thomas? which at this time of the year is before day, and before he is up, to be sure.
Tom. If you please to inquire, Sir, into the order of his family, you will find that he is up every morning in the year by six o'clock, and calls them all to prayers, before they go to work.
Mast. And what mean you by getting that boy to do this for you? That does not hang together at all. Why, he is the most profligate young villain that ever came into any good man's house. His master was talking, in my hearing, but the other day, of sending him to the house of correction, and spoke to me for a warrant; you acquaintance with such as boy as that, is not likely to be for so good a purpose; and this part makes all the rest unlikely, and to be suspected.
Tom. He was so, Sir, that is true; but if you inquire, you will find he is another thing now. God's grace has made a strange change in that boy in a few weeks past. If you please to inform yourself of it, Sir, you may hear it from other hands.
Mast. And is this the whole truth, Thomas? Has this been your whole business there?
Tom. Indeed it has, Sir.
Mast. You must not think much if I inquire, in order to be better satisfied.
Tom. I cannot expect any other, Sir
Mast. I shall talk with your father about it, it is late now.
[The master, bitterly stung with the boy's account of himself, puts off the rest of the discourse.]
Notes on the Third Dialogue.
There seems to be more circumlocution in this dialogue, than in any of the rest: but they will be found not only useful, but necessary, at least, to preserve the cadence of things, and introduce the substance of the real story, by necessary gradations. The boy's shifting off so many ways, before he directly tells his master the whole of his business, is a mark of commendable modesty in a servant: his shyness of speaking what he knew, touched his master's behaviour more than his own, may be very instructing to servants, if they please to mark it, in things where their master's character may be concerned. But, above all, it may be noted that all these things tend to bring the conviction home with more energy and force upon the conscience of the master.
The master's discourse with the young man's father contains a great many useful hints about the duty of masters to their servants-- 1. That they ought to reckon them under their care, as well as under their government. 2. That the charge of the souls of our servants lies upon us, as well as those of our children. The just distinction between a parent and a father, is fruitful of many useful observations: the last is tied by nature, the first by the God of nature; the last by affection, the first by duty: but both are tied to discharge the part of a Christian parent to the souls under their charge, whether servants, children, or relations: that a servant, taken into the family, becomes a child of the family, and ought, equally with our children, to partake of every part of our religious duties, such as prayer, exhortation, examination, instruction, reproof, restraint, and correction. This is farther plain, from what God says to Abraham, Gen. xviii. 19-- "That he will command his children and his household;" that is, he will discharge faithfully the duty of a parent, or guide and governor of a family; which is shown in his commanding his whole house to walk in the ways of God.
Note.-- How custom has wickedly of late years seemed to discharge masters of this duty.
1. By the pride of servants, who, bringing large sums of money, much greater than formerly, seem to expect not to be so much at command as they used to be; a wicked and abominable custom, which, as no religious parent be easy in, so no religious master ought to be subjected to it.
2. By the negligence of parents who really seem less to concern themselves about the souls of their children, when they put them out as apprentices, than about their learning trades, doing their business, and the like.
3. By the universal backwardness of masters, who think, as this man did, that they have no concern upon them about their servants' souls, or any thing but just to see that their business is done, and then to let them go where they please, and do what they please.
4. Observe here a most ridiculous argument, or excuse, which the master brings, viz. that he was ashamed to go about the instructing or praying with his apprentices and journeymen, because they would laugh at him.
Note.-- We are easier to laughed out of our duty, than persuaded into it.
From the whole, masters of families may observe, the duty of instructing and religiously guiding their servants lies indisputably upon them, as much as that of instructing and educating their children. They are parents, that is, guides and governors to their whole house, though they are fathers only to their children.
THE FOURTH DIALOGUE.
The master of the young man aforesaid now makes a visit to his neighbour the clothier, who lived over against his house. Whether he had any doubt of the truth of what boy had said to him, and had a mind, as he had said to the lad himself, to find out the bottom of it; or perhaps to satisfy himself farther about the alteration of the wicked boy, which his own servant had acquainted him of, or to please his own curiosity, or directed by Providence for his farther conviction, is not material; but here discoursing of other things with the good man and his wife, he begins the following dialogue thus, talking of their servants:
I remember, neighbour, you were once complaining of a very bad servant you had, and talked as if you wanted a warrant of me to send him to the house of correction.
Clo. Yes, an't please your worship, I did so.
Ald. Well, pray, how does he behave himself now? Shall you want a warrant neighbour? You know I shall always be ready to serve you in any thing I can. It shall cost nothing if you have any occasion.
Clo. I hope not now, Sir. I think the lad is much reformed: though I have had many bad servants, I never had a worse than he was; but he is wonderfully change; however, I thank your worship for your kind offer.
Wife. You are very happy, Sir, in that part, for you have good servants.
Ald. Truly, but indifferent. I have had my share of trouble that way, as well as you.
Wife. I am sure you have some very good ones.
Ald. Well, but I am very glad to hear that your bad one is mended.
Clo. I thank you, Sir, indeed he is very much mended.
Ald. It is very rare that bad servants grow better. I have often heard of good servants that have grown worse. I am sure with me they do so.
Clo. Indeed, Sir, I hope this lad of mine will prove a very good young man.
Ald. Good! why, you represented him to me as one of the worst wretches that ever came into your house. If I remember right, you said he was given to lying, and swearing, scoffing at religion, and every thing that was good; and was himself every thing that was bad.
Clo. Indeed he was so, Sir.
Ald. I doubt not but you did all you could to reclaim him, I know you did.
Clo. I endeavoured, Sir, to discharge my conscience towards him; but I had no satisfaction in it, only so far, that I had done my duty; I could do no more, and I was quite tired out with him: indeed, I resolved to put him away; for I could not bear him among my children, he was enough to spoil the children in the parish.
Ald. You have a great advantage, neighbour, that I have not; I am in such a continual harry of business, that I cannot look after my family as I would do. I have no leisure to discharge my duty to my servants. You have leisure, neighbour, and your servants have the advantage of it.
Clo. Truly, Sir, if I have leisure it is my loss, for my livelihood depends upon my being employe, as well as my servants; but they that are taught to know their duty, will always find leisure to do it. I doubt not, Sir, but you discharge yourself better that way than I can do.
Wife. It is seen plainly in your servants themselves that you do your duty to them, Sir. Sure never any body had such servants as you have.
Ald. Nay, neighbour, I do not say I discharge my duty better than you do. God forgive me! I do not discharge it at all; I mean to my apprentices; I take no care about them.
Wife. That is then because they are so good, and so religious, and they need no inspection; for you know, Sir, we are to instruct our servants as well as our children.
Ald. Well, I cannot say that I have made that much of my concern; for our apprentices generally come of pretty good families, and bring money with them, and they think themselves above being talked to about such things.
Clo. Then they are among those who Solomon calls fools, that despise instruction; and if they reject your offers to instruct them, I cannot see you can do in that case; that was my very case with this boy.
Ald. I perceive you have had a great deal of trouble with him.
Clo. Yes, indeed, I had so; I was quite weary of him.
Ald. He had the report of being a very wicked boy.
Clo. Indeed I was ashamed to have it said such a boy was in my house. I was afraid any of the neighbour's children should come near him.
Ald. Indeed, I have a young man I believe is not much the better of him. I have been chiding him a little about it; but is he really changed and reformed, think you?
Clo. Indeed, that he is, and most wonderfully too. I bless God for it.
Ald. I question not but you have taken a great deal of pains with him; but are you not deceived? is he not a cheat, and plays the hypocrite?
Clo. If ever there was a true convert in the world, I believe he is one.
Ald. You are very happy that God has so far blessed your endeavours with the child.
Wife. Not our endeavours, Sir, at all, we were denied that blessing. It all comes from you, Sir, the blessing is from your house.
Ald. What do you mean?
Clo. It a plain case, Sir.
Wife. If I understand you right, you spoke as if some of your servants had received no good from our William. If that be so, I know not; but I am sure William has received good from some in your house.
Ald. Yes, indeed, I found that a young lad I had newly bound was acquainted with this boy of your's, and that he was often abroad with him; and it has caused some disturbance among us; for knowing your lad was so wicked a boy, I forbade him to go in his company.
Clo. Pray what do you call this lad you speak of?
Ald. His name is Thomas, he is my youngest apprentice.
Wife. I know not what harm he may have received from our boy, but can assure you our boy has received much good him.
Clo. Ay, that's the youth God has made the instrument; he is a wonderful child.
Ald. He the instrument! How is that possible?
Clo. With God, Sir, all things are possible: assure yourself, Sir, so it is; and such a convert as this child is I neither ever saw nor read of.
Ald. Why, our Thomas is a poor, melancholy, discontented boy,-- a mere child.
Clo. He is such a child, Sir, as I never met with the like. I find you do not know him.
Ald. Why, I never thought there was any thing in him. He is but young, and indeed we all thought him young in every thing. It is true, he is a sober, modest sort of a boy, and talks pretty well; but I never say any thing extraordinary in him. He is so melancholy and discontented, we thought him distempered; and I have been at the point of turning him away.
Clo. You know, Sir, the scripture says, that "out of the mouths of babes and suckling he has ordained praise." This child, as you call him, is an excellent Christian, and beyond his years capable of showing it. Perhaps, Sir, you never tried him.
Ald. No, indeed, not I, as I said to you before neighbour, I have no time to trouble my head about apprentices, I mean as to such things.
Wife. And as I said to you before, Sir, you have no need for it, for your apprentices are fit to teach others.
Ald. I am glad to hear it so; but I confess you surprise me with the thing. How are you satisfied with the truth of these things?
Clo. My wife can give you an account of the matter, if your worship pleases to have patience to hear it.
Ald. I'll hear it with all my heart.
[Here the mistress relates the whole passage, and the discourse between her and the young man in the room over the work-house.]
Ald. I am amazed at this account you give me. But pray tell me, was all this begun by his keeping company and conversing with my young man?
Clo. Yes, all of it: he was the general mocker of every thing that was good, and began to do so in your young man's company; and he was the first that reproved him for it; and he did it so seriously, and so effectually, that it has pleased God to work upon him a