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THE MOTHER.How all-powerful, for good or evil, is the influence of a mother. During those hours of infancy, passed in unavoidable seclusion, when the affections and mental powers can be moulded into any form by the plastic hand of maternal love, then it is that the bent is taken for weal or woe, which all future life cannot alter. The father, whether he hold a public station, or in a private capacity, sees but little, and at distant intervals, of his children, and has hardly time to salute them with a hurried embrace and a kiss of tenderness, before his avocations summon him again into the great world to engage once more in its engrossing pursuits. But the mother for whom domesticity has a charm, to whom her children are company, and the world exercises over their nascent powers an influence proportioned to her own good sense and attachment to the idols of her heart-omnipotent though imperceptible-and it is not too much to say that all the kindly sympathies and swelling affections of the youth and mature man can be traced to their rise when lying at their mother's feet, or listening with head on her knees to her mild yet awful rebuke. While the confiding voice of childhood appeals to her in doubt, ignorance, danger or distress, she feels that by her child she is invested with the attributes of Deity ; while it is nestling itself in her arms and hanging with unbounded credence upon her words, her spirit is started into fresh resolves of perfection by the fearful conviction that she is its book of wisdom, love and beauty ; and if a Christian mother she searches with an almost agonizing anxiety for the best possible means of transferring the earth-bound devotion of her child to Him who is alone worthy of worship. As oft as the consciousness of her unbounded influence flashes upon the Christian mother's heart it is followed by the conviction that her image should hold but a secondary place in the affections of that being which has been the burden of her days and nights of care ; and while she labors and prays that it may be even so, who can paint the desolation that settles upon her soul and makes her cling closer to her hopes of heaven, as imagination, stealing long years ahead, gives to her child a companion and offspring, thus removing her in careworn age from the second even to the fourth place in its regard. Philosophers have analyzed, divines lectured, and poets sung of maternal love ; but which of them has brought from its fountains to the heart of man those nameless, numberless, impassioned sympathies which make the melody of a mother's tenderness ! No, there is nothing like it. In all after years we may set our heart on what joy we will, but we shall never find anything on earth like the love of a mother. Perhaps a more beautiful compliment was never paid to female character than that rendered by the late John Randolph, of Roanoke. When Minister to France he said he was kept from whirling down the tide of infidelity, which was then carrying everything before it, by the remembrance that when a child his dear mother would put his little hands together and teach him to say, " Our Father which art in heaven ! " Touchingly beautiful as is this little story, it is but the history that thousands of others might relate with equal interest. Oh, man I canst thou read through the tear that trembles in the mother's eye, the piercing grief of her soul, as gazing upon the fond prattler, the thought protrudes itself that all her pains, her sleep-dispelling solicitude, and above all, the strength and devotedness of her love, may be repaid with ingratitude. Were the affections of the mother felt and cherished by her children with corresponding sympathy, doubtless this earth would exhibit much more of heaven than at present. A mother teaching her child to pray is an object at once the most sublime and tender the imagination can conceive. Elevated above earthly things, she seems like one of those guardian angels, the companion of our earthly pilgrimage, through whose ministration we are inclined to do good and turn from evil. A dear mother is the first to fold and rock our puny frames ; the last to desert our clay cold dust; the rich rejoicing, fresh, lovely and exuberant vine to twine in graceful fitness round the rugged oak of manhood, clinging the closer the louder the storm blows and the thunder roars. There is something indescribably lovely in a devotedly pious mother ; something that reminds the soul at once of those bright angelic spirits which surround the throne of God. That calm serenity and composure, those eyes which beam with looks of holy tenderness and compassion for immortal souls. It was December. The ground was covered with snow, the north wind blew violently, and whistled as it passed among the willows that shaded the tombs of the graveyard of the village of Peasley. A watchman was finishing his nightly rounds. At that moment the moon cast her pale beams over that portion of the burial ground appropriated to the poor; the sound of some one in distress attracted his attention, and as he approached a new-made grave he found a young child, who, extended on the ground, was endeavoring to dig the earth up with his little hands. It was poor Paul, left an orphan in the village but two days before. " What are you doing there, my boy ? " said the watchman. The poor boy raised his head and wiping the tears from his cheeks, replied, " I am looking for my poor mother " The watchman, affected by the answer, took the child in his arms and carried him from the mournful place. For several days he was carefully watched ; however he soon stopped crying and everyone thought he had got over his sorrows ; but about a month after, during a night still colder, he was found lying on his mother's grave dead. The poor orphan had found her! The next day he was buried by her side. " Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall see God." If the love of a mother surpasses all other love, you, who are a son, ought with the full measure of gratitude to return her affection. You are bound to her by the strongest ties ; treat her with never-failing tenderness. She will love you whatever be your character, but let her have cause to glory in her child. Disappoint not her hopes ; do not by your vices plunge a sword in her bosom ; do not break her heart, do not compel her to wish that God would hide her in the grave. Look unto Jesus, the pattern of every excellence ; love your mother as He loved His mother; obey, honor, cherish and protect her, as He obeyed His earthly parent. Finally, imprint on your mind the words of the wise man : " He that is obedient unto the Lord will be a comfort to his mother." Remember that thou wast born of her, and how canst thou recompense her the things she has done for thee ? Forget not, then, the sorrows of thy dear mother. In no situation and under no circumstances does the female character appear to such advantage as when watching beside the bed of sickness. The chamber of disease may indeed be said to be woman's home. We there behold her in her loveliest, most attractive point of view ; firm, without being harsh ; tender, yet not weak ; active, yet quiet; gentle, patient, uncomplaining, vigilant. Every sympathetic feeling that so peculiarly graces the feminine character, is there called forth ; while the native strength of mind which has hitherto slumbered in inactivity is roused to its fullest energy. With noiseless step she moves about the chamber of the invalid ; her listening ear ever ready to catch the slightest murmur; her quick kind glance to interpret the unuttered wish, and supply the half-formed want. She smoothes with careful hand the uneasy pillow which supports the aching head, or with cool hand soothes the fevered brow, or proffers to the parching lip the grateful draught; happy if she meet one kind glance in payment for her labor of love. Hers is the low whispering voice that breathes of life and hope, of health in store for happy days to come, where the dark power of death no more shall have dominion over the frail, suffering, perishable clay. Through the dim, silent watches of the night, when all around are hushed in sleep, it is hers to keep lone vigils and to hold communion with her God, and silently lift up her heart in fervent prayer for the prolongation of a life for which she cheerfully would sacrifice her own. And even when exhasuted nature sinks to brief repose, forgetfulness is denied. Even in sleep she seems awake to this one great object of her care. She starts and rises from her slumbers, raises her drooping head, watching with dreamy eyes the face she loves, then sinks again to rest, to start with every chime of the clock or distant sound, which formerly had passed unheard, or only served as a lullaby to her sweet sleep. How lovely does the wife, the mother, the sister, or the friend become to the eye of grateful affection while ministering ease, comfort, nay, almost life itself, to the husband, the son, the mother, or the friend. A mother's love ! How thrilling the sound. The angel spirit that watched over our infant years and cheered us with her smile ! Oh, how faithfully does memory cling to the fast-failing mementoes of a parent's home, to remind us of the sweet counsels of a mother's tongue. And, oh, how instinctively do we hang over the scenes of our boyhood, brightened by the recollections of that waking eye that never closed while a single wave of misfortune or danger sighed around her child I Like the lone star of the heavens in the deep solitude of nature's night, she sits the presiding divinity of the family mansion, its delight and its charm, its stay and its hope, when all around her is overshadowed with the gloom of despondency and despair. There does not exist anything in human nature more perfect than the affection which a mother bears for her children. Love in its true character is of divine origin, and an emanation from that Spirit who Himself is love, and though oft degraded on earth, we yet find it pure, sublime and lasting within the maternal heart. Man is frequently captivated by mere external graces, and he dignifies that pleasure, which all experience in the contemplation of the beautiful, by the title of love ; but the mother makes no distinction, she caresses the ugly and deformed with kindness equal to, if not surpassing, that she bestowes on the more favored. Too frequently are interested motives the basis of apparent affection ; but it is not so with her, who clings more fondly to her children in their poverty, their misfortunes and their disgrace. The silken chain with which we are bound one to the other is sometimes broken with facility; a word, a look, may snap the links never to be reunited ; friendship decays or proves false in the hour of need, we almost doubt the existence of constancy. Away with this doubt while the maternal heart continues as a temple for the dwelling of God's holiest attribute. She has watched her infant from the cradle; she will not desert him until separated by the grave. How anxiously she observes the budding faculties, the expansion of mind, the increasing strength of body ! She lives for her child more than for herself, and so entwined has her nature become with his that she shares in all his joys, and, alas I in all his sorrows. " Not because it is lovely/" says Herder, " does the mother love her child, but because it is a living part of herself-the child of her heart, a fraction of her own nature. Therefore does she sympathize with his sufferings ; her heart beats quicker at his joys, her blood flows more softly through her veins when the breast at which he drinks knits him closer to her." Should her son fall into poverty, become a bankrupt in fortune, he is shunned by former acquaintances and despised by most of his fellow-beings ; but one will be found like a ministering angel at his side, cheering his despondency, encouraging him to renewed exertions, and ready herself to become a slave for his sake. If exposed to censure, whether merited or unmerited, all men rush to heap their virtuous indignation on his head ; they have no pity for a fallen brother, they shun or they curse him. How different is the conduct of that being who gave him life! She cannot believe the charge ; she will not rank herself among the foes of her child. And if at length the sad truth be established, she still feels that he has not thrown off every claim, and if an object of blame he is also one of pity. Her heart may break, but it cannot cease to love him. In the moments of sickness when stretched on the bed of pain, dying perhaps from a contagious disease, he is deserted by his professed friends, who dare not, and care not to approach him, one nurse will be seen attending him. She will not leave his precious existence to the care of hirelings, though now every instant in his presence seems an hour of agony - His groans penetrate her heart, but she will not let him hear the sad response ; she weeps, but turns away, lest he should see her tears She guards his slumbers, presses his feverish lips to hers, pours the balm of religion on his spirit, and points him to the mercy of that Judge before whom he may shortly appear. When all is silent she prays for his life, and if that may not be, for his happiness in the life to come. He dies. The shock, perhaps, deprives her of life, or if not, she lives as one desolate and alone, anxiously looking forward to that world where she may meet her darling child never to part again. With equal simplicity and eloquence the tender affection of Hagar for her child, as expressed in the Old Testament. In a wilderness, herself parched with thirst, and fainting from fatigue, she beholds her infant-her only companion-dying from want of nourishment. The water bottle was empty. Placing her boy beneath a shrub and moving to some distance she cried, " Let me not see the death of my child." Let me not behold the severance of those ties which nature compels me to support and cherish. Let not mine eyes witness the gradual departure of that angel spirit which I had hoped would afford me comfort and consolation in my declining years. And "she lifted up her voice and wept." But she was not left childless, " for God was with the lad." If we reflect upon the inestimable value of a true parent, we can appreciate the beauty of the Psalmist's expression when he compares himself laboring under extreme grief to one " who mourneth for his mother." And was it not in accordance with the perfect character of our Saviour that some of His last thoughts should be for the welfare of her who had followed Him through all His trials? When extended on the cross, pointing to the disciple whom He loved, He said to Mary, " Woman, behold thy son," and to the disciple, " Behold thy mother," and from that hour that disciple took her to his own home. But first, if you want to come back to this web site again, just add it to your bookmarks or favorites now! Then you'll find it easy! Also, please consider sharing our helpful website with your online friends.
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