THE VIRTUE OF ENDURANCE.
By Helen Evertson Smith
At the present time so much is said about the duty of manifesting sympathy, especially toward children in the little misfortunes which seem to them so great, that we are led to wonder whether there is not danger of showing too much pity, whether our too free and ready expressions of compassion or sympathy may not tend to weaken the resolution and force which are essential to heroism, and to consider if the latter be not too grand a quality to be thus imperiled? In a certain family of young people of all ages from four to eighteen years, the feature of heroic endurance in all things, both physical and moral, is so marked a trait as to excite the wondering admiration of all beholders. At the same time the children are as tender of heart and compassionate as they are brave. Their parents are, the one of old New England Puritan stock, the other of purely Huguenot descent; thus the inheritance of tenderness and strength came alike from both. One might say that it was all a mere matter of inherited qualities but for the fact that two of the eight children had been adopted by a childless sister of the mother, and in these two, while the inherent courage would come to the front in cases of severe trial, it but rarely showed itself in the small frets and accidents of daily life. In a conversation with the mother this difference was mentioned, and she was asked to what she attributed it. She replied:— "My sister and I agree perfectly in most of our methods of training, but in one we do not. I have always made it a rule to let my children see that, though I tenderly sympathized with them while they made no complaints, they could receive but scant pity from me if they sought it.218"If Jack hurt himself quite badly, when he first went to live with my sister, he might shed a tear or two, if the pain were severe, but he made no outcry and sought no aid unless it were really needed. A few days ago I was truly grieved that, when he crushed his finger in the door, he began to cry aloud, and rushed up to his aunt, who kissed his finger and bound it up amid many compassionate phrases, or others more hurtful, such as, 'Naughty door; auntie shall have to whip the door.' Unless this course be speedily altered (and it must be, or my husband and I cannot consent to leave the children with my sister), both Jack and Lucy will be ruined in this respect. They will become cowards, and cowardice is the worst of all faults; for it is the mother of all crimes." "Of all crimes?" we asked doubtingly. "Well"—smiling—"perhaps that is a little too strong a phrase, but truly I think that fear is the root of most sins. The boy who fears the ridicule of unworthy associates will use tobacco and, later on, strong liquors, although he may have an actual distaste for them, in order to make himself manly. He fights because he fears someone will say that he is afraid. The girl marries a man for whom she cares little or nothing because she fears she may be called an old maid; or she trails a long dress over filthy streets in a manner which is revolting to all her dainty instincts, because she fears that her dress may be ridiculed as out of style. Both men and women live beyond their means for fear they may be esteemed poor, and pretend to tastes which they have not for fear they be not thought well of. From first to last in all our lives, lies and deceit in all their shades proceed from fear of some sort." "Not quite all," was insisted. "There are lies of jealousy, envy, covetousness, malice, even of benevolence." "Even these," continued the mother, "may usually be traced to some form of fear. Jealousy is a fear that someone else may be better loved or more highly favored than we; envy is a fear that someone may surpass us; malice itself is more often aroused by fear than by any other one of a half dozen motives; even benevolent lies are probably induced by a fear of ill consequences to others if the truth be told." Whether the speaker was quite right in her reasoning it is not now necessary to discuss; we would only draw attention to the value of an early training in habits of endurance. A little girl of four years, the granddaughter of a once famous American statesman, was playing in the parlor of his fine old-fashioned country house. The yawning fireplace of more ancient days had been filled in with brick, in order that a modern stove might be used. Against a lower corner of this brick-work rested a piece of polished iron about eighteen inches square and nearly an inch thick. What was behind that piece of iron had often puzzled the child, and the answer that it "covered the opening left in the brick-work, so that straw could be thrust up the chimney and lighted to burn it out without removing the stove," conveyed no meaning to her perplexed mind. In her eyes the queer square of iron covered the entrance to some enchanted region where little girls must necessarily delight to go. Accordingly, with all her little strength, she tugged away the barrier. She saw an irregular opening, and caught a gleam of sunlight filtering down the flue. She sought to look further; but the iron was too heavy, and fell from the tiny fingers upon the tiny toes with crushing weight. The stately old grandfather raised the iron and took the silent child upon his knee. Kissing her, he said kindly:— "It must have hurt you very much, my pet." The little face was all a-quiver with pain; tears stood in the brave brown eyes, and the words faltered as they came:— "I dess it's on'y for 'ittle w'ile." "That's right, darling," said the child's mother, gently removing shoe and stocking from the little foot, now found to have been seriously hurt; "that's right! Mother's brave little girl knows that crying only makes the hurt last longer." The poor baby could not keep the tears from running down her little cheeks, pale from suffering; but she did refrain from making the least outcry, or even moan. After she had been carried away in her mother's arms, to sleep away the exhaustion of pain, her grandfather, with tears of pity and admiration in his eyes, said emphatically:— "I have always loved my daughter-in-law, but never have I admired her so much as today. She is teaching her children to be heroes. That child will make her mark in the world some day, God bless her." The grandsire was right. The child became a woman of marked character and ability. She was but nineteen at the outbreak of our Civil War, but such was her ardor and enthusiasm, tempered by reason and strengthened by courage, that she was among the first to enter into hospital service, working until carried off by a fever almost at the close of the war. This noble woman's childish training in habits of endurance would have proved equally useful to her in any vocation. There is not a possible career in which we are not called upon to meet hardships of one sort or another. Has one done one's best, striving honorably to deserve only commendation, and then won but blame or ridicule, the weakness of yielding to mortification can but render the matter worse. Is one reproved, even harshly, one may make the admonition fruitful of good results. Sickness, misfortune, poverty, disillusion, even undeserved shame and death itself, lose half their terrors when bravely faced and endured. In a measure this lesson can be taught to the youngest; the oldest cannot afford to cease from learning it. To grow strong by suffering, one must have learned to endure hardships with fortitude. Suffering of any sort, not so borne, is debilitating, enervating, destructive. How much of future strength depends upon early training in the exercise of true courage, comparatively few seem to remember. It is so easy to pity, caress, and openly sympathize with a sobbing child, so hard to treat its hurts—whether moral or physical—with a touch as firm as tender, being brave, that the child may also be brave. Yet it is as undoubtedly a duty to teach fortitude as it is to teach truthfulness. If the mother whose opinions have been quoted, be correct in her views, truthfulness itself is largely dependent upon courage. A naturally timid person may, indeed, be also natively honest; yet it seems almost impossible for such a person to retain absolute honesty of word and act; and the most unhappy of mortals are those who have not the courage to support the real truthfulness of their natures.—The Independent.