A Father's Pathetic Letter.
THE following letter, from a father to a dissipated son, should be deeply pondered by every young man who is given at all to dalliance with evil habits and companionship:— MY DEAR SON: What would you think of yourself if you should come to our bedside every night, and, waking us, tell us that you would not allow us to sleep any more? That is just what you are doing, and that is why I am up here a little after midnight writing to you. Your mother is nearly worn out turning from side to side, and for sighing because you won’t let her sleep. That mother who nursed you in your infancy, toiled for you in your childhood, and looked with pride and joy upon you as you were growing up to manhood, as she counted on the comfort and support you would give her in her declining years. We read of a most barbarous manner in which one of the Oriental nations punishes its criminals. It is by cutting the flesh from the body in small pieces; slowly cutting off the limbs, beginning with the fingers and toes, one joint at a time, till the wretched creature dies. That is just what you are doing; you are killing your mother by inches. You have planted many of the white hairs that are appearing so thickly in her head before the time. Your cruel hand is drawing the lines of sorrow on her dear face, making her look prematurely old. You might as well stick your knife in her body every time you come near her, for your conduct is stabbing her to the heart. You might as well bring her coffin and force her into it, for you are pressing her towards it with very rapid steps. Would you tread on her body if prostrated on the floor? And yet with ungrateful foot you are treading on her heart and treading out its life and joy—so I needn’t say “joy,” for that is a word we have long ago ceased to use, because you have taken it away from us. Of course, we have to meet our friends with smiles, but they little know of the bitterness within. You have taken all the roses out of your sister’s pathway and scattered thorns instead, and from the pain they inflict, scalding tears are often seen coursing down her cheeks. Thus you are blighting her life as ours. And what can you promise yourself for the future? Look at the miserable, bloated, ragged wretches whom you meet every day on the streets, and see in them an exact picture of what you are fast coming to, and will be in a few years. Then, in the end, a drunkard’s doom! for the Bible says, “No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God.” Where, then, will you be? If not in the kingdom of God you must be somewhere else. Will not these considerations induce you to quit at once, and for all time? And may God help you, for he can and will, if you earnestly ask him. Your affectionate, but sorrow-stricken father.