Read Ebook: Dido the Dancing Bear: His Many Adventures by Barnum Richard Bluemlein C P Illustrator

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EXAMPLE OF WASHINGTON.

When Washington appointed the hour of twelve to meet Congress, he never failed to be passing the door of the hall while the clock was striking twelve. His dinner hour was four o'clock. If his guests were not there at the time, he never waited for them. New members of Congress, who were invited to dine with him, would frequently come in when dinner was half over; and he would say to them, "Gentlemen, we are punctual here. My cook never asks whether the company has arrived, but whether the hour has." In 1799, when on a visit to Boston, he appointed eight o'clock in the morning as the hour when he would set out for Salem. While the Old South clock was striking eight, he was mounting his horse. The company of cavalry, who had volunteered to escort him, was parading in Tremont street, and did not overtake him till he had reached Charles River Bridge. On their arrival, the General said, "Major, I thought you had been too long in my family not to know when it was eight o'clock."

The following amusing sketch, though perhaps fictitious, gives a pretty faithful picture of many a man's life:

"When a child, I was scolded for being too late at school; when a boy, I was cuffed and kicked for being too late at my work; and when a man, I was turned away for being behind my time on a particular occasion when my services were wanted.

"My uncle Jonathan was well to do in the world, and as his nephews were his nearest relations, we had reason to expect that his property would come among us. He had, however, one peculiarity, which effectually shut his door against me. He never was five minutes too late in an appointment in his life, and thought most contemptuously of those who were. I really believe that I was a bit of a favorite with him until my unfortunate failing justly offended him.

"He had occasion to go a journey, and I was directed to be with him at seven in the morning, to carry his portmanteau to the coach. Alas! I was "Five minutes too late," and he had left the house.

"Knowing his particularity, I hurried after him, and running till I could scarcely stand, arrived at one end of the street just in time to see the coach go off with my uncle at the other. Dearly did I pay for being "Five minutes too late."

"My Uncle did not return for a month, and certainly showed more forbearance toward me than he was ever known to do on a similar occasion; for in a letter he stated, that if I could be punctual, he should wish me to meet him on his return, to take charge of his portmanteau, and thereby make some amends for my misconduct. Off I set, but knowing that coaches frequently arrive a quarter of an hour after their set time, I thought a minute or two could be of no consequence. The coach unfortunately, was "horridly exact," and once more I was after my time, just "Five minutes too late."

"My Uncle Jonathan never forgave me, fully believing that I had done it on purpose to get rid of the trouble of carrying his portmanteau. Years rolled away, and I was not so much as permitted to enter the door of my Uncle Jonathan.

"Time, however, heals many a sore, and while it ruffles many a smooth brow, smooths many a ruffled temper. My Uncle Jonathan so far relented, that when about to make his will, he sent to me to call upon him exactly at ten o'clock. Determined to be in time, I set off, allowing myself some minutes to spare and pulling out my watch at the door, found that for once in my life I had kept my appointment to the second. The servant, to my surprise, told me, that my Uncle Jonathan had ordered the door to be shut in my face for being behind my time. It was then I found out my watch was too slow, and that I was exactly "Five minutes too late."

"Had I been earlier on that occasion I might have been provided for, but now I am a poor man, and a poor man I am likely to remain. However, good may arise from my giving this short account of my foolish habit, as it may possibly convince some of the value of punctuality, and dispose them to avoid the manifold evils of being "Five minutes too late.""

DANGER OF CONTENTION.

Quarrelling generally arises from selfishness and anger. Selfishness is grasping. It respects not the rights of others. It will yield none of its own. The selfish person is therefore continually coming in conflict with others; and, as impediments are thrown in the way of his gratification, his passions are roused. Anger is a species of insanity. When one yields to his passions, he loses self-control. He takes an enemy into his bosom, and suffers himself to be nosed about by him at will. No one can tell what dreadful thing he may do when once he gives a loose rein to his passions.

"The beginning of strife is as the letting out of waters." When you open a little drain to a pond of water, it runs slowly at first, in a very small stream; but the body of water above rushes into the channel and wears it deeper, and that increases the pressure and widens it still more, till presently the whole body comes pouring forth in an irresistible torrent. One dry season, in the summer, a man in Vermont, who owned a mill, on a small stream near a large pond, found his water failing, so that his mill was likely to stop. To prevent this, he collected together a few of the neighbors, and dug a little trench from the pond to the stream that carried his mill. At first it ran very slowly and quietly along, till it began to wear away the channel, and to turn the force of the body of water in the pond in that direction, when it increased violently, tore away the banks, and poured the whole contents of the pond into the little stream, carried off the mill, and rushed on with impetuous fury through the valley, sweeping away fences, bridges, barns, houses, and every thing that came in its way.

Frederick Jones was the son of a rich manufacturer. His father being engrossed in business, the children were left to the care of their mother, who, being a weak woman, did not restrain them as she ought. There were four, but three of them died; and Frederick being left the only child, was indulged still more. At a very early age he showed his angry temper; and he became such a little tyrant that the very dogs and cats about the house were afraid of him. Once, when he was three years old, he insisted that he would have the silver tea-urn, to drag about the room by a string for his coach. And, because his mother refused to let him do so, he seized her cap and tore it from her head.

A little while after this, Frederick was playing at the front door of the house, when a boy passing on the other side of the street, called out, "Hallo, Master Fred., have you put any more people's eyes out lately?" This was enough to make him angry. He immediately picked up a large stone, and chasing the boy some distance, threw it at him with all his might. The boy was out of the way of the stone, but it struck a large bull-dog, which, naturally enough, concluded that he was unjustly attacked, and turning upon Frederick, gave him a severe bite in the leg, and tossed him into the gutter. Frederick roared aloud with pain and rage, and had to be carried home to his bed, where he lay for several weeks. But nobody pitied him. The people who heard of it, knowing his temper, thought the dog had done a praiseworthy act.

After this, Frederick's father sent him to a boarding school, about twenty miles from home, to a very strict master. Here he was in continual broils with his school-fellows. There was scarcely a boy in the school with whom he did not have a fight. But generally he came off with a bleeding nose or a black eye, because his passions took away his strength, and the other boys were an overmatch for him. His schoolmates generally did not like to fight; but this angry boy would fly at them for the most trifling thing, and force them to defend themselves.

Frederick's father died before he was twenty years of age; and as he loved amusement better than business, he sold the manufactory, and travelled in Europe; where he was very dissipated, and fought two duels, in both of which he was wounded. During his absence, his mother had become a good woman; and on his return, he found her company disagreeable. She entreated him to break off his evil courses. But this only made him angry. To get rid of her reproofs, he left her and went to one of the Western States. There, while he was engaged at a public house, with some of his wicked companions, talking politics, one of them called him a liar, and he drew out his dirk and stabbed him to the heart. He ran away from the place, but the image of the murdered man haunted him day and night, and made him wretched. He gave himself up to intoxication, and at the age of twenty-three years, fell into a drunkard's grave, some time after his mother had died of a broken heart on his account. All this came upon Frederick, in consequence of not restraining his passions while a boy. His violent, ungovernable temper might have been subdued, when he was a child; but by indulgence it increased in strength, till it became perfectly unmanageable.

The following affecting story, which is given in the language of the brother himself, will admonish every boy who reads it, to be kind to his sisters, and especially to avoid blows on the head, as it is probable the blow given this little girl by her brother was the cause of her death. What a shame for a brother to strike his sister!

"One morning in my early life, I remember to have been playing with my younger sister, not then three years old. It was one of those bright mornings in spring, that bring joy and life to the heart, and diffuse gladness and animation through all the tribes of living creatures. Our feelings were in perfect harmony with the universal gladness of nature. Even now I seem to hear the merry laugh of my little sister, as she followed me through the winding alleys of the garden, her cheek suffused with the glow of health and animation, and her waving hair floating in the wind.

"She was an only sister, the sole companion of all my childish sports. We were constantly together; and my young heart went out to hers, with all the affection, all the fondness, of which childhood is capable. Nothing afforded me enjoyment in which she did not participate; no amusement was sought which we could not share together.

"When breakfast was ended, my mother retired with her into her own room, directing me in the meantime to sit down to my lesson. I seated myself by the window, and ran over my lesson, but did not learn it. My thoughts were perpetually recurring to the scene in the garden and at table. It was long before my mother returned, and when she did, it was with an agitated look, and hurried step, to tell me that my poor Ellen was very ill. I asked eagerly if I might go to her, but was not permitted, lest I should disturb her. A physician was called and every means used for her recovery, but to no purpose. The disease, which was in her head, constantly increased in violence, and she became delirious. It was not until evening that I was permitted to see her. She was a little recovered from the severity of her pain, and lay with her eyes closed, and her little hand resting on the pillow beneath her head. How I longed to tell her the sorrow I felt for my unkindness to her in the morning and how much I had suffered for it during the day. But I was forbidden to speak to her, and was soon taken out of the room. During that night and the day following, she continued to grow worse. I saw her several times, but she was always insensible of my presence. Once indeed, she showed some signs of consciousness, and asked for me; but immediately relapsed into her former state.

"On the morning of the third day, I rose at an early hour, and repaired to the sick room. My mother was sitting by the bed. As I entered, she drew me to her, and for some time was silent, while the tears flowed fast down her face. I first learned that my sweet sister was dead, as my mother drew aside the curtain that concealed her from me. I felt as though my heart would break. The remembrance of her affection for me, and my last unkind deed, revived in my mind; and burying my face in the folds of the curtain, I wept long and bitterly.

"I saw her laid in the coffin, and lowered into the grave. I almost wished to lie down there with her, if so I might see once more her smile and hear my forgiveness in her sweet voice.

"Years have passed away and I am now a man--but never does the recollection of this incident of my early life fail to awaken bitter feelings of grief and remorse. And never do I see my young friends exchanging looks or words of anger, without thinking of my last pastime with my own loved Ellen."

Some children take great delight in teazing. The way to avoid such annoyances is, to take no notice of them. Respect yourself too much to be disturbed by those who disregard the common courtesies of life. If they find they cannot teaze you, they will cease to make the attempt. The late Dr. Bowditch , was the son of a poor sailor. His parents were so poor that he was obliged to wear his summer clothes to school, during the whole winter. His schoolmates would sometimes laugh at him, because he wore such thin clothes. But they could never make him angry, or disturb his equanimity. All the notice he took of their jeers was, to laugh at them for thinking that he was unable to bear the cold. If you follow his example, you will never suffer much from being teazed.

BAD COMPANY AND BAD HABITS.

Do you remember what Solomon says about bad company? "Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the way of evil men. For they sleep not except they have done mischief; and their sleep is taken away, unless they cause some to fall."

Mr. Green, the Reformed Gambler, relates that, at the age of sixteen, he was laboring industriously, in the city of Cincinnati, and saving his wages. But he became acquainted with a bad set of boys, who visited a ten-pin alley. In his leisure hours, instead of spending his time in reading and treasuring up useful knowledge, he would frequent this den of iniquity; and Sabbath days, instead of going to meeting, he would go with the same set of boys to a place of amusement and sin, a little way out of the city. In a short time, this evil company had erased every tender affection from his bosom. On one of these misspent Sabbaths, he fell in with a rough set of lawless boys, and got into a fight with them, and was seen thus engaged by the city marshal.

Howard, the Philanthropist, standing in the street, heard some dreadful oaths and curses from a public house opposite. Having occasion to go across, he first buttoned up his pocket, saying to a by-stander, "I always do this, when I hear men swear, as I think that any one who can take God's name in vain, can also steal, or do any thing else that is bad."

God has set a mark upon this vice. He not unfrequently punishes it, by directly answering the prayer that is profanely uttered. J. H. was a notorious swearer. He had a singular habit of calling on God to curse his eyes. After some years, this awful imprecation was verified. He was afflicted with a disease in his eyes, which terminated in total blindness. This so affected his general system, that he gradually sunk under it, and went to give up his account. A number of similar cases, some of them still more awful, you will find in the tract entitled, "The Swearer's Prayer."

Several years ago, a young man about twenty years of age, filthy in his appearance, and shabbily dressed, called at the house of a clergyman in the city of New York. His countenance, though haggard, bore the marks of intelligence. The young man said he had been at his church the previous evening, and was desirous of having some conversation with the minister. He was requested to open his mind freely. He said he was the son of a deacon of a Congregational church in Connecticut. His father was a man of property and influence, and he himself had always moved in the most respectable society. He had come to New York in order to become acquainted with business, and prepare himself for an active and useful life. But he soon found himself surrounded with new temptations, without the restraining influences of home and friends. He fell into bad company. His vicious associates led him to the theatre, and when his passions were excited by what he saw, and stimulated by intoxicating liquors, he was persuaded to visit places of infamy and crime. These indulgences called for more money than he could honestly obtain; but his appetites, once excited, could not be easily restrained; and he had recourse to his employer's money drawer to supply the deficiency. He eased his conscience, in this act, and deceived himself, with the hope of repaying it before he was detected. But in this he was mistaken. He was detected, tried, found guilty, and sentenced to the penitentiary for six months. He had now been out of prison a week, during which time he had been wandering about the city, ashamed to be seen or known. He had come to ask advice. The clergyman advised him by all means to go home to his father; assuring him that it was his only hope, for if he remained in the city, he would fall into the company of his old associates and be ruined. With the deepest agony, he exclaimed, "How can I ever return to my father's house? How can I ever meet him or the virtuous companions of my youth? No! No! I am fallen--disgraced! I have been a felon, and in prison! No, I would rather die a vagabond in the street, than to see the face of my father, or the faces of the young people, who were my associates in the days when I felt myself as good as they." He was yet unhumbled. He was yet unwilling, like the prodigal, to return to his father's house. However, after much persuasion, he promised that the next morning he would set off for home. But he had not the moral courage to fulfil his purpose. He was ashamed to arise and go to his father. He continued to roam about the streets, and was again detected in stealing.

This anecdote shows not only the danger of bad company, but the peril of young men who go from the country to the city to engage in business. They had better remain at home, unless their principles are firmly established upon the foundation of true religion. There is nothing to be gained in the city that is worth the exposure of morals and character.

A boy in London, in destitute circumstances, was put out as an apprentice to a mechanic. It is the business of the youngest apprentice to do all the errands and drudgery of the establishment, and frequently of his master's family also. He was often sent by the workmen and older apprentices, to procure intoxicating liquors for them; of which all of them partook, except himself, because, as they said, it did them good. But because he refused to drink

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