Moreover, if I sleep an hour too much, that hour is wasted. Have I a right to waste it? It is God's gift; is it not slighting his gift, to spend it in sleep? Is it not a sin? And to do so day after day and year after year, is it not to make myself exceedingly guilty in his sight? One hour, daily saved for the purpose of reading or study, after a person has really slept enough, is equal, in sixteen years, to the addition of a full year to one's life. Can it be that I waste, in sleep, in fifteen or sixteen years, a whole year of time?
I must do so no longer. It injures my complexion; it injures my health; it is an indolent practice: but above all, it is a sin against God.
I am resolved to redeem my time. And to aid me in this work, I am determined, if I fail in any instance, to remember this decision, and the grounds on which it was made.
She carries out her decision. She finds herself waking too late, occasionally, it is true. However, she not only hurries out of bed the instant she wakes, but recalls her former view of the sinfulness of her conduct. She is no sooner dressed, than she asks pardon for her transgression, and prays that she may transgress no more. This course she continues; and thus her convictions of the sinfulness of her former indolent habit and waste of time are deepened. At length, by her persevering efforts and the assistance of God, she gains the victory, and a new and better habit is completely established.
Just so should it be with any other bad habit. Every young woman should consider it as a sin against God, and should begin the work of reformation as a duty, not only to herself and to others, but also and more especially to God. If it be nothing but the error of eating too much—which, by the way, is not so small an error as many seem to suppose—let her try to regard it in its true light, as a transgression against the laws of God. Let it be so regarded, not merely once or twice, but habitually. In this way it will soon become—as in the case of early rising—a matter of conscience.
The close of the day, however, is a specially important season for cultivating the habit of conscientiousness. Sleep is the image of death, as some have said; and if so, we may consider ourselves at bed-time, as standing on the borders of the grave, where all things should look serious.
The "cool of the day" is peculiarly adapted to reflection. Let every one, at this time, recall the circumstances of the day, and consider wherein things have been wrong. It was a sacred rule among the Pythagoreans, every evening, to run thrice over, in their minds, the events of the day; and shall Christians do less than heathen?
The Pythagoreans did more than cultivate a habit of recalling their errors; they asked themselves what good they had done. So should we. We should remember that it is not only sinful to do wrong, but that it is also sinful to omit to do right. The young woman who fears she has said something in regard to a fellow being in a certain place, or in certain company, which she ought not to have said, as it may do that person injury, should remember, that not to have said something, when a favorable opportunity offered, which might have done a companion or neighbor good, was also equally wrong. And above all, she should remember, that both the commission and the omission were sins against that God who gave her a tongue to do good with, and not to do harm; and not only to do good with, but to do the greatest possible amount of good.
In short, it should be the constant practice of every one who has the love of eternal improvement strongly implanted in her bosom, to consider every action performed, during the day, as sinful, when it has not been done in the best possible manner, whether it may have been one thing or another. As I have stated repeatedly elsewhere, there is nothing worth doing at all, which should not be done to the honor and glory of God; and she who would attain to the highest measure of perfection, should regard nothing as done in this manner, which is not done exactly as God her Saviour would have it done.
It is desirable not only to avoid benumbing or searing over the conscience, but that we should cultivate it to the highest possible tenderness. True, these tender consciences are rather troublesome; but is it not better that they should torture us a little now, than a great deal hereafter?
I have said that some good people—that is, those who are comparatively good—fall short in this matter. A young woman is a teacher, perhaps, in a Sabbath school. She knows, full well, the importance of attending promptly at the appointed hour; and she makes it a point thus to attend. At last she fails, on a single occasion—not from necessity, but from negligence, or at least from want of due care—and her conscience at once reproaches her for her conduct. But, ere long, the offence is repeated. The reproaches of her conscience, though still felt, have become less keen. The offence is repeated, again and again, till conscience is almost seared over—and the omission of what had at first given great pain, almost ceases to be troublesome. And thus the conscience, having been blunted in one respect, is more liable to be so in others. Alas for the individual, who is thus, from day to day, growing worse, and yet from day to day becoming less sensible of it!
But there is a worse case than I have yet mentioned. A young woman has risen rather late on Sunday morning; and having risen late, other things are liable to be late. The hour for church is at length near; the bell is even ringing. Something in the way of dress, not very necessary except to comply with fashion, and yet on the whole desirable, remains to be done during the remaining five minutes; but what is more important still, the habit of secret prayer for five minutes before going to church, is uncomplied with. One of these, the closet or the dress, must be neglected for want of time. Does any one doubt which it will be? Does any one doubt that the dress will receive the desired attention, and that the closet will be neglected?
But does any one suppose that conscientiousness can live and flourish where it is not only not cultivated, but habitually violated, in regard to the most sacred matters? Secret prayer is one of the most sacred duties; and they who habitually neglect or violate it, for the salve of doing that which is of secondary importance—knowing it to be so—are not only taking the sure course to eradicate all conscientiousness from their bosoms, but are most manifestly preferring the world to God, and the love and service of the world, to the love and service of its glorious Creator and Redeemer.
Let me say, in concluding this chapter, that if the conscience is cultivated from day to day, it will, in time, acquire a degree of tenderness and accuracy to which most of the world are entire strangers. There is, however, one thing more, Conscience will not only become more tender and faithful, but her domain will be much enlarged by the study of the Bible; and in many cases is which this heavenly monitor was once silent, she will now utter her warning voice. Conscience is not unalterable, as some suppose she is susceptible of elevation as long as we live; and happy is the individual who elevates her to her rightful throne. Happy is the individual who sees things most nearly as God sees them, and whose conscience condemns her in every thing which is contrary to the divine will.
CHAPTER VII
SELF-GOVERNMENT
What self-government includes. Cheerfulness a duty. Discretion. Modesty. Diffidence. Courage. Vigilance. Thoughts and feelings. The affections. The temper. The appetites and passions.
This is so broad a subject that I shall present my thoughts concerning it under several different heads. It includes, in my estimation, the government of the THOUGHTS, the IMAGINATION, the TEMPER, the AFFECTIONS, and the APPETITES. The young woman who truly governs herself, will be at once cheerful, discreet, modest, diffident, vigilant, courageous, active, temperate and happy.
Cheerfulness.—Is cheerfulness within our power? some may be inclined to ask. I certainly regard it so. That there are moments of our lives—nay, even considerable seasons—when cheerfulness is not required, may, indeed, be true. Our friends sicken and die, and we mourn for them. This is a law of our nature. Even our Saviour was, at times, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; though of all individuals in the universe cheerfulness was his right. But he bore more than his own sorrows; and in so far as his example is, in this respect, binding upon us, it is only when we bear the sorrows of others. Those should, indeed, often be borne; and in proportion as they are borne—in proportion as we are wounded for the transgressions, and bruised for the iniquities of others—it may not be possible for us to be continually cheerful.
As for our own sorrows—the sufferings, the pangs, the bereavements of our own existence—we should never cease to regard them, in some measure, at least, as the chastisements of an Almighty Father. Smitten friends, according to the sentiment of a distinguished poet, are messengers of mercy to us—are sent on errands full of love.
"For us they sicken, and for us they die."
We should be at least resigned, even under such chastisements, when we remember they are inflicted by a Father's hand.
But setting aside occasions of this kind, is there not a demand on our whole nature, for general cheerfulness? It is not only the "sunshine of the soul," but that of the body. The truly cheerful are not only happier in their minds and spirits, but also in their very bodies. The brain and nervous system play their part in the great drama of physical life better; the heart, and stomach, and lungs, work better. Indeed, all is better throughout.
Is not that a duty which is productive of so much happiness? But can that be a duty which it is not in our power to perform? It were surely an impeachment of the wisdom and goodness of God, did he require us, in his providence or in his word—by his natural or his revealed law—to do that of which we are incapable.
I consider cheerfulness, then, as a matter of duty; and, of course, as in a great measure in our power. It makes us happier ourselves; it enables us to reflect more happiness on others. I consider it especially as a duty of the young, who have it in their power to communicate happiness thereby in such large measure. Let them—let young women especially—strive to cultivate it. It is in its nature a perennial plant; and if it is not such at the present time, it is because it has degenerated in a degenerate world. Let it be restored to its pristine beauty; and let the world thereby—in connection with other means tending to the same end—be restored to what it was before the loss of Eden.
Discretion.—This is a virtue with which, it is supposed by some, the young have little if any thing to do. I cannot assent to such an opinion. I believe that the young are to be trained in the way they should go; and as discretion is prominently a virtue of middle and later life, I deem it desirable that we should see at least the germs of it in the young.
Above all, do I like to see the young woman discreet. Discretion not only heightens the pleasures of her existence, but adds greatly to her reputation in the just estimation of the wise. Coupled with modesty, of which I am to speak presently, it more than doubles her charms.
Let discretion then be studied. Let it be studied, too, for its immediate as well as remote benefits. It will, indeed, bear fruit more abundantly in later life; but it will not be without its value in youth. It is a plant which it were worth while to cultivate, if human existence were more frail, and life more uncertain of continuance than it now is.
MODESTY.—Of all the qualities appropriate to young women, I know of none which is more universally esteemed than modesty. And what has been, by common consent, so highly esteemed, I cannot find it in my heart to under-value. Indeed, I do not think it has ever been over-valued, or that it can be.
1
A mother's kiss, in token of her approbation of some little pencil sketch, is believed by Benjamin West to have given the turn to his character—the character of a who said, and justly, that he painted for eternity. "That mother's kiss," he observes, "made me a painter."