p. 106 | The Timely Warning by G. W. A.

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Sep 3, 1861

The Timely Warning.

By G. W. A.

[The following touching narrative was selected for the INSTRUCTOR, with the request that if it was not published it might be returned. We hand it over to Bro. White, as not inappropriate for the REVIEW. Its length prevents it from appearing in the INSTRUCTOR. We just add, let those boys and youth who think it manly to spurn their mother's kind control, read this "Timely Warning," and weep floods of tears for their ingratitude.

AN AFFECTING STORY.

My father, after an absence of three years, returned to the home so dear to him. He had made his last voyage, and rejoiced to have reached a haven of rest from the perils of the sea. During his absence, I had grown from a mere child and a baby of my mother's, for I was her youngest, into a rough, careless, and headstrong boy. Her gentle voice no longer restrained me. I was often wilful, and sometimes disobedient. I thought it indicated manly superiority to be independent of woman's influence. My father's return was a fortunate circumstance for me. He soon perceived the spirit of insubordination stirring within me. I saw by his manner that it displeased him, although for a few days he said nothing to me about it.

It was an afternoon in October, bright and golden, that my father told me to get my hat, and take a walk with him. We turned down an open lane into a fine open field—a favorite play-ground for the children in the neighborhood. After talking cheerfully on different topics for a while, my father asked me if I observed that huge shadow thrown by a mass of rocks that stood in the middle of the field? I replied that I did.

“My father owned this land,” said he. “It was my play-ground when a boy. That rock stood there then. To me it is as a beacon, and whenever I look at it I recall a dark spot in my life—an event so painful to dwell upon, that if it were not a warning to you, I should not speak of it. Listen, then, my dear boy, and learn wisdom from your father’s errors.

“My father died when I was a mere child. I was the only son. My mother was a gentle, loving woman, devoted to her children, and beloved by everybody. I remember her pale, beautiful face, her sweet affectionate smile, her kind and gentle voice. In my childhood I loved her intensely; I was never happy apart from her, and she, fearing I was becoming too much of a baby, sent me to the high school in the village. After associating a time with rude, rough boys, I lost in a measure, my fondness for home and my reverence for my mother, and it became more and more difficult for her to restrain my impetuous nature. I thought it an indication of manliness to resist her authority, and not to appear penitent, although I knew that my conduct pained her. The epithet I most dreaded was girl-boy. I could not bear to hear it said by my companions that I was tied to my mother’s apron-strings. From a quiet, home-loving child, I soon became a wild, roistering boy. My dear mother used every persuasion to induce me to seek happiness within the precincts of home. She exerted herself to make our fireside attractive; and my sister, following her self-sacrificing example, sought to entice me by planning games and diversions for my entertainment. I saw all this, but did not heed it.

“It was on an afternoon like this, that as I was about leaving the dinner-table, to spend the intermission between the morning and evening school, in the street, as usual, my mother laid her hand upon my shoulder, and said mildly but firmly, ‘My son, I wish you to come with me.’ I would have rebelled, but something in her manner saved me. She put on her bonnet, and said to me, ‘We will take a little walk together.’ I followed her in silence; and as I was passing out the door, I observed one of my rude companions skulking about the house, and I knew he was waiting for me. He sneered as I went past him. My pride was wounded to the quick. He was a very bad boy, but being some years older than myself, he exercised great influence over me. I followed my mother sulkily till we reached the spot where we now stand, beneath the shadow of this huge rock. Oh, my boy! could that hour be blotted from my memory, which has cast a dark shadow over my whole life, gladly would I exchange all that the world can offer me, for the quiet peace of mind I should enjoy. But no! like this huge, unsightly pile, stands the monument of my guilt forever.

“My mother, being feeble in health, sat down and beckoned me to sit beside her. Her look, so full of tender sorrow, is present to me now. I would not sit, but continued standing sullenly beside her. ‘Alfred, my dear son,’ said she, ‘have you lost all love for your mother?’ I did not reply. ‘I fear you have,’ she continued, ‘and may God help you to see your own heart, and me to do my duty!’ She then talked to me of my misdeeds, of the dreadful consequences of the course I was pursuing. By tears, and entreaties, and prayers, she tried to make an impression upon me. She placed before me the lives and example of great and good men; she sought to stimulate my ambition. I was moved, but too proud to show it, and remained standing in dogged silence beside her. I thought, ‘What will my companions say, if, after all my boasting, I yield at last, and finally submit to be led by a woman?’

“What agony was visible on my mother’s face when she saw that all she said and suffered failed to move me! She rose to go home, and I followed at a distance. She spoke to me no more till she reached her own door.

“‘It is school-time now,’ said she. ‘Go, my son, and once more let me beseech you to think upon what I have said.’

“‘I sha’n’t go to school,’ said I.

“She looked astonished at my boldness, but replied, firmly,

“‘Certainly you will go, Alfred. I command you.’

“‘I will not!’ said I, with a tone of defiance.

“‘One of two things you must do, Alfred—either go to school this moment, or I will lock you in your room and keep you there till you are ready to promise implicit obedience to my wishes in future.’

“‘I dare you to do it,’ said I, ‘you can’t get me up stairs.’

“‘Alfred, choose now,’ said my mother, who laid her hand upon my arm. She trembled violently, and was deadly pale.

“‘If you touch me I will kick you,’ said I, in a terrible rage. God knows I knew not what I said.

“‘Will you go, Alfred?’

“‘No!’ I replied, but quailed beneath her eye.

“‘Then follow me,’ said she, as she grasped my arm firmly. I raised my foot—Oh, my son, hear me! I raised my foot, and kicked her—my sainted mother! How my head reels, as the torment of memory rushes over me! I kicked my mother—a feeble woman—my mother! She staggered back a few steps, and leaned against the wall. She did not look at me. I saw her heart beat against her breast. ‘Oh, heavenly Father,’ she cried, ‘forgive him—he knows not what he does!’ The gardener just then passed the door, and seeing my mother pale and almost unable to support herself, he stopped; she beckoned him in. ‘Take this boy up stairs and lock him in his own room,’ said she, and turned from me. Looking back as she was entering her room, she gave me such a look—it will follow me forever—it was a look of agony, mingled with the intensest love—it was the last unutterable pang from a heart that was broken.

“In a moment I found myself a prisoner in my own room. I thought, for a moment, I would fling myself from the open window, and dash my brains out, but I felt afraid to die. I was not penitent. At times my heart was subdued, but my stubborn pride rose in an instant, and bade me not to yield. The pale face of my mother haunted me. I flung myself on the bed and fell asleep. I awoke at midnight, stiffened by the damp night air, terrified with frightful dreams. I would have sought my mother at that moment, for I trembled with fear, but my door was fast. With the daylight my terrors were dissipated, and I became bold in resisting all good impulses. The servant brought my meals, but I did not taste them. I thought the day would never end. Just at twilight I heard a light footstep approach the door. It was my sister, who called me by name.

“‘What may I tell mother from you?’ she asked.

“‘Nothing,’ I replied.

“‘Oh, Alfred! for my sake, for all our sakes, say that you are sorry—let me tell mother that you are sorry. She longs to forgive you.’

“‘I won’t be driven to school against my will,’ said I.

“‘But you will go if she wishes it, dear Alfred,’ said my sister, pleadingly.

“‘No I won’t,’ said I, ‘and you needn’t say a word more about it.’

“‘Oh, brother! you will kill her, you will kill her, and then you can never have a happy moment again.’

“I made no reply to this. My feelings were touched, but I still resisted their kind influence. My sister called me, but I would not answer. I heard her footsteps slowly retreating, and again I flung myself upon the bed to pass another fearful and wretched night. Oh, God! how wretched! how fearful I did not know.

“Another footstep, slower and feebler than my sister’s disturbed me. A voice called me by name. It was my mother’s.

“‘Alfred, my son, shall I come in? Are you sorry for what you have done?’

“I cannot tell what influence, operating at that moment, made me speak adverse to my feelings. The gentle voice of my mother that thrilled through me, melted the ice from my obdurate heart, and I longed to throw myself on her neck, but I did not. No, my boy, I did not. But my words gave the lie to my heart when I said I was not sorry. I heard her withdraw. I heard her groan. I longed to call her back, but I did not.

“I was awakened from an uneasy slumber, by hearing my name called loudly, and my sister stood by my bedside.

“‘Get up, Alfred. Oh, don’t wait another minute! Get up and come with me. Mother is dying.’

“I thought I was yet dreaming, but I got up melancholy, and followed my sister. On the bed, pale and cold as marble, lay my mother. She had not undressed. She had thrown herself on the bed to rest; arising to go again to me, she was seized with a palpitation of the heart, and borne senseless to her room.

“I cannot tell you my agony as I looked upon her—my remorse was tenfold more bitter from the thought that she would never know it. I believed myself to be her murderer. I fell on the bed beside her. I could not weep. My heart burned in my bosom; my brain was all on fire. My sister threw her arms around me, and wept in silence. Suddenly we saw a slight motion of mother’s hand—her eyes unclosed. She had recovered consciousness, but not speech. She looked at me, and moved her lips. I could not understand her words. ‘Mother, mother!’ I shrieked, ‘say only that you forgive me.’ She could not say it with her lips, but her hand pressed mine. She smiled upon me, and lifting up her thin white hands, she pressed my own within them, and cast her eyes upward. She moved her lips in prayer, and thus she died. I remained still kneeling beside that dear form till my gentle sister removed me. She comforted me, for she knew the heavy load of sorrow at my heart; heavier than grief for the loss of my mother; for it was a load of sorrow for sin. The joy of youth had left me forever.

“My son, the suffering such memories awake, must continue as long as life. God is merciful; but remorse for past misdeeds is a canker-worm in the heart, that preys upon it forever.”

My father ceased speaking, and buried his face in his hands. He saw and felt the bearing his narrative had upon my character and conduct. I have never forgotten it. Boys who spurn a mother’s control, who are ashamed to own that they are wrong, who think it manly to resist her authority, or yield to her influence, beware! Lay not up for yourselves bitter memories for future years.