Section Viii.--Contention.

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.

At a place called Brag Corner, in the State of Maine, a small stream falls into the Sandy river, on which a superior grist-mill was erected a few years since. The stream not affording water enough, a pond containing fifty or one hundred acres, having no outlet, and lying two hundred feet above the level where the mill stood, was connected with the stream that carried the mill by an artificial canal. The water of the pond began to gully away the gravel over which it was made to run, and having formed a regular channel, defied all human control, and, in the space of six hours, cut a ravine seventy feet deep, and let out the whole pond, sweeping away the mill, foundation and all, and carrying away a house and blacksmith's shop, which stood near, not giving the owner time to save any thing of consequence from his house.

Such, Solomon says, is strife. When you begin to quarrel, you know not where it will end. It not unfrequently terminates in the death of one of the parties, as in the following case: A boy about eleven years of age, son of Mr. Philip Petty, of Westport, R. I., took his father's gun, as he said, to go a gunning. His elder brother attempted to take it from him. A quarrel ensued, between the two brothers, and in the course of the scuffle, the gun went off and lodged the contents in the younger one's bowels. He lingered a few hours in great agony and died. How must the other one feel, to think that the quarrel, which he began, led to the death of his brother. How much safer to take Solomon's advice, and "leave off contention before it be meddled with."

Danger of Indulging anger.

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.

When Frederick was ten years old, he went into the kitchen, where the servants used to let him do as he pleased for fear of his dreadful temper; for they called him "Mamma's pet lion." He had not been long there before he upset the table, knocked down the shovel and tongs, and broke several plates. Not satisfied with this, he collected all the tin things in the middle of the floor, and began battering them with the tongs. The cook, not being very well pleased with this destruction, undertook to lead him out of the kitchen. But the little fury, by shrieking and scratching, got free, and seizing a fork, he threw it at the cook, which struck her in the eye and put it out. Thus, by the foolish anger of this little boy, a poor woman lost the sight of her eye entirely. This shows the danger of indulging angry passions; for no one knows what a dreadful deed he may commit in a fit of anger. It shows also the danger of throwing things at others. It is a very dangerous practice, and sometimes leads to the loss of life.

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.

Be kind to your sister.

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.

"That morning we had prolonged our play till near the hour of breakfast, with undiminished ardor, when at some slight provocation, my impetuous nature broke forth, and in my anger, I struck my little sister a blow with my hand. She turned to me with an appealing look, and the large tears came into her eyes. Her heart was too full to allow her to speak, and shame made me silent. At that moment the breakfast bell summoned us away, and we returned to the house without exchanging a word. The excitement of play was over, and as she sat beside my mother at breakfast, I perceived by occasional stolen glances at her that she was pale and sad. A tear seemed ready to start in her eye, which her little self-possession could scarcely repress. It was only when my mother inquired if she was ill, that she endeavored to eat. I was ashamed and grieved, and inwardly resolved to embrace the first opportunity when we were alone, to throw my arms round her neck and entreat her forgiveness.

"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."

Teazing and being teazed.

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 (a man who attained to great eminence, as a man of learning and science), 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.