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THE PENITENT BOY:

OR,

SIN BRINGS SORROW.


REVISED BY D. P. KIDDER.


New-York.

PUBLISHED BY LANE & SCOTT,
FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION OF THE METHODIST
EPISCOPAL CHURCH, 200 MULBERRY-ST.

Joseph Longking, Printer.
1851.




THE PENITENT BOY.


"Do lend me your new knife, which mamma gave you," asked Samuel; "I
want to cut notches in my stick, and play Robinson Crusoe: do, will
you, Alfred?"

"No, I cannot Sam; so do not ask any more. I wish you would not tease
me for my knife; you cannot have it; I do not want it hurt."

"Well, but you lent it to cousin James, on Monday, and he did not spoil
it, did he?"

"Now do be quiet, Samuel; I cannot lend it to you, so that is all I
shall say."

"Why I never saw you so cross, Alfred."

"Yes, I am cross, I know. I feel very cross and uncomfortable, so do
not ask any more about the knife."

Just then an aunt of the little boys entered the room, and Samuel
turned to her in his trouble.

"Now do not you think, aunt, Alfred ought to lend me his knife, just
for a minute, to cut a Robinson Crusoe stick?"

"No doubt he will," replied Miss Woodford; "I never knew Alfred cross
or unkind: he does not mean that he will not lend it; he is only
joking, I am sure."

"Yes, aunt, I do mean it; I have made up my mind that nobody shall use
my knife."

"Well, then," urged the anxious Samuel, "do you cut my stick yourself;
I only want seven notches in it, to make believe the days of the week:
of course, you will not refuse this, will you?"

"Where is your knife, my boy?" asked his aunt; "is it in your pocket?"

"No, aunt."

"Well, get it then, my dear, and do this little kindness for your
brother, who looks so imploringly there, with his stick in his hand."

Alfred left the room, looking very thoughtful; and Samuel took a seat
on a stool, keeping his eye on the door, resolved to wait quietly for
Alfred's return, as he was not an impatient boy. After a considerable
time, Alfred came back, with a face very much flushed, and no knife
could be seen.

"Have you got it, Alfred?" asked Samuel, jumping up; "come, do cut my
notches, because I cannot get on the island and begin to play until it
is done."

"I cannot do it, Samuel; I have not got my knife."

"Where is your pretty new knife, then, my dear? I saw you put it
carefully away in a box one day."

"Yes, I did, aunt; but I have just dropped it into a crack in the hall,
and it is gone out of sight."

"O dear! let us try to get it," said the kind aunt; and away they all
three ran to the crack in the passage. "Show me exactly the place where
it went in, Alfred."

"Just here, aunt," said he, pointing to a very small crevice between
the boards.

"O no; this cannot be the spot, the crack is too small to admit a
knife: it must be somewhere else. But I see no crack in any other part.
My dear boy," continued Miss Woodford, looking into Alfred's face, "you
did not let it down here."

Her gentle words, accompanied as they were with a sorrowful look,
melted him at once, for Alfred was not a hardened boy, and he ran off
to his room, weeping all the way.

"Well," said Samuel, as he returned to the parlor, "I suppose I must
mark some make-believe notches on my stick with my pencil."

Miss Woodford left him to his play, and went in search of her sister,
the mother of the boys. Taking a seat by her side in the dining-room,
she asked Mrs. Sinclair if she knew anything of the knife she had given
to Alfred.

"No," replied Mrs. Sinclair; "I have not seen it for some time: but I
think I heard James admiring it, on Monday."

"I am afraid it is lost, sister," continued Miss Woodford: "but this is
not the worst part of it; I greatly fear Alfred has told an untruth
about the affair."

"I hope not," replied Mrs. Sinclair, with a troubled countenance; "I
never knew either of my boys to be guilty of anything so shocking.
Where is he?"

Miss Woodford then related the whole of the circumstances, adding, "I
believe Alfred has gone to his room."

Mrs. Sinclair considered, for a moment, what course to pursue, and then
resolved to allow her little son to remain in the retirement he had
chosen, at least for some time.

Samuel could not enjoy his game alone, for he saw very plainly that his
brother had been guilty of a great sin; so he went into the garden, and
walked up and down, feeling very melancholy. He knew that God had said
that liars have their portion with those who are shut up in eternal
darkness; and he felt very sorry that he had asked for the loan of the
knife.

After an hour or two, Mrs. Sinclair went up to converse with the guilty
boy; but as she was drawing near his room she heard the sound of his
voice, as if conversing with some one, and, supposing that Samuel had
joined him, she stopped for a moment to ascertain from whence the voice
came, when she distinctly heard Alfred saying, "Forgive my sin,
heavenly Father, for Jesus Christ's sake." This was a confirmation to
her of the sad fact that he was really guilty of the crime laid to his
charge; at the same time it was a comfort to her to hear that he was
penitent. She stepped gently back into the parlor, thankful, amid her
sorrow, to find that her little boy was confessing his sin to the holy
God. She could not, however, remain long absent from her erring child,
but again ascending the stairs, and finding all silent, she entered the
room.

Alfred was sitting, bathed in tears, with two books by his side, a
Bible and a prayer-book. "O, mamma!" he exclaimed, "I am ashamed to see
you--I am--I am; but I will tell you all about it. O, I am so unhappy!
I am afraid you will not forgive me, and I feel sure the Saviour will
not."

When he saw the tears falling over his mother's cheeks, he felt more
distressed than ever, and covering his face with his hands, he wept
bitterly. At length he went on to confess the whole matter. "You know,
mamma, my cousin James liked my knife, and asked me to give it to him
for some sweetmeats he had in his pocket; so I consented to part with
the knife you gave me, without thinking. I wish I had asked you about
it. I have been very wicked. I told a lie to try to hide it. What shall
I do?"

"Are you really sorry for your sin, Alfred? this is the question; or
are you only mortified that your guilt is discovered?"

"O yes, mamma, I am indeed sorry, and I have been trying to tell God
about it. I asked him to forgive me, but I am afraid he will not. How
dreadful it is to think that God will remember that I have told a lie!
What would become of me, if I were to die to-night?"

Mrs. Sinclair took a chair by the side of her son, and told him if he
really felt sorry, there was hope he might be forgiven; "for although,"
said she, "God is a God of truth, and has said that whosoever loveth or
maketh a lie shall be shut out of heaven, yet he has also said, if we
repent of our sins, resolving to forsake them, and come to him in the
name of the Saviour, that he will pardon us for his sake."

"O, I hope he will forgive me! Do pray for me, mamma. What a dreadful
thing it would be if I should be driven away from heaven at last, and
go with liars away from God!" Then bursting into tears, Alfred hid his
face on his mother's neck, and they wept together.

Mrs. Sinclair then prayed with her penitent boy, and he became more
calm. "Now, my son," she said, "we will go down to the parlor."

"O no, mamma; do let me go to bed: I would rather go to bed, if you
will only kiss me, and forgive me. I should like to go to bed."

Mrs. Sinclair consented to Alfred's proposal, and after reading a
chapter in the Bible, and praying to be forgiven all his sins, for the
sake of Jesus Christ, he retired to rest; but he passed a very
uncomfortable night, and awoke in the morning with a very sorrowful
heart.

Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair had resolved that nothing should be said to their
son, the next morning, on the subject of the evening's transgression,
as they believed that he felt truly sorry that he had offended God.

When the bell rung for family worship, Alfred appeared, with Samuel by
his side; but he looked pale and unhappy, and his eyes were downcast as
he took his usual seat by his father. The family sung some verses from
that beautiful hymn beginning,--

    "There is a fountain fill'd with blood
      Drawn from Immanuel's veins,
    And sinners plunged beneath that flood
      Lose all their guilty stains."

Alfred was in the habit of pitching the tunes on those occasions, but
this morning Samuel took his place, and began the moment the verse was
given out. When they came to the third line Alfred's tears flowed so
fast he was obliged to stop; and if you had been sitting near his mamma
you might have seen her cheek wet too, for she felt deeply for her
little son.

After breakfast, the two boys went to their studies as usual, and
Samuel was very kind and attentive to his brother, watching him in all
his movements, and trying, by all the means within his power, to win a
smile from him, for his affectionate heart longed to see his brother as
happy as usual. But all his efforts were unavailing; no one could see a
gleam of cheerfulness on Alfred's countenance all the day.

Just before dinner, as he was standing by the parlor fire, with his
back to the door, Rose, a kind Irish servant, came in to prepare the
table.

"O, then, is it you it is, Master Alfred? I wanted to have a word with
ye. What's the matter? sure your cheek's pale; it's sick entirely ye'll
be soon," said the kind-hearted girl, "if you vex any more about that
bit of a knife; and it's a good half hour I spent too, looking for it:
but never mind, I am sure the mistress, good creature, will soon give
ye another, or may be you will soon find the same."

Alfred looked at Rose very thoughtfully, and asked, "Do you not know
what I have done, Rose?"

"Sure and I never knew ye do anything bad since the day I came with ye
from Belfast; think of that now, and ye'll do bravely yet, my darlint."

"Ah, Rose! I see very plainly how it is; you do not know what I am. Did
you ever read the fifth chapter of the Acts, and the twenty-first
chapter of the Revelation, Rose?"

"Why yes, Master Alfred, to be sure, I've read the Bible through
entirely, but I don't just remember those particular parts by chapter
and verse. But what has that to do with the loss, Master Alfred? I want
to say a word of comfort to you. Think of Miss Mary when she lost her
handkerchief; the mistress never said a word about it after: and it's
the flower of the country she is for kindness, when we tell her our
faults."

"Yes, yes, Rose, I know all that very well; but do you remember hearing
about Ananias and Sapphira in the Bible?"

"O, if it's I don't remember that! I'll forget kith and kin afore I'll
forget how afraid I was to tell a lie in the Sunday school, for fear of
being struck dead; and it's a fine scrape entirely I got into, and lost
a pretty new frock into the bargain."

"Did you, Rose, indeed? O, I wish I had been you!" and the tears fell
fast again over the penitent boy's cheeks.

"Ah now, Master Alfred, do not take on so. What can be the matter? Sure
this story has nothing to do with you, has it?"

"I see how it is, Rose; the dreadful tale has been kept a secret. You
do not know what I am."

"Is it I do not know what you are, Master Alfred? why sure it's your
reason entirely ye'll lose by the heart-trouble, whatever it is. Not
know what ye are? Sure your're a fine young gentleman, and it's the son
of the mistress ye're for kindness; and the likes o' ye I never saw,
barrin' your brother, the darlint."

"O, do not talk to me so, Rose; it only makes me more ashamed! I am an
ungrateful and a sinful boy, and I am afraid I shall never go to
heaven."

"And is it you that is afraid of that? O dear! what then is come to ye,
my dear?"

Alfred was out of hearing before Rose had finished her kind speech. He
could bear his sorrow no longer without talking to his mother.

Mrs. Sinclair was coming out of a little back parlor, with Samuel, as
Alfred crossed the hall; and, taking his mother's hand, he said, "I
want to talk to you, mamma."

Mrs. Sinclair led him to her room, and closing the door, she drew a
chair for him by her side, still holding his hand in hers.

Alfred was weeping too much to utter a syllable for some minutes; but
when a little recovered, he exclaimed, "O, my dear mamma, I am so
miserable, I cannot bear to think nor stay by myself. I was afraid to
go to sleep last night, for I thought perhaps I should awake in that
dreadful place where liars go; I never was so unhappy before in all my
life."

"I can easily imagine this, my dear boy," replied Mrs. Sinclair; "you
were never guilty of the same sin before, I believe."

"You only _believe_, mamma: are you not sure I never told a lie
before?"

"I hope you never did, my boy."

"Ah! I see it is as you told us one day, a liar can neither convince
nor persuade others, and is not believed even when he tells the truth.
Indeed, mamma, I never did tell a lie before; but I was afraid you
would think me an ungrateful boy for not taking more care of the
present you gave me. O, I wish I had told the truth, and been more
afraid of offending God than even you."

"I wish so too, my son. I have avoided saying much to you on the
subject, because I hope and believe that you are truly sorry, and that
you have confessed your sin to the great and glorious Being who calls
himself the God of truth; and you remember after the apostle John had
been describing the beautiful city, where holy and redeemed people
shall live when earth is passed away, he says that no one shall enter
there who maketh a lie. Indeed, a liar could not live in heaven, if he
were permitted to enter, for everything there is pure and holy."

"Yes, mamma; I have been reading the twenty-first chapter of the
Revelation, this morning."

"Well, my son, then in the fifteenth Psalm, when the question is asked,
Who shall dwell in thy holy hill? the answer is, He that speaketh the
truth in his heart. Then again, we are told by the wise man that lying
lips are an abomination to the Lord. The holy God, who requireth truth
in the inward parts, must look upon a child polluted with falsehood
with just indignation, and as belonging to that fallen spirit who is
called the father of lies, and who dwells where truth is unknown, and
where all liars have their part. There truth is never spoken, except to
deceive, and there repentance and prayer are of no avail."

"O yes, mamma," said the sorrowful Alfred, "I remember the hymn you
taught me when I was a very little boy--

    'The Lord delights in them that speak
      The words of truth; but every liar
    Must have his portion in the lake
      That burns with brimstone and with fire.'

I never thought I should tell a lie when I used to say that hymn to
you. O, I wish I could be a little good boy again!" said Alfred, wiping
away the tears.

"I trust you will yet be a good and holy boy, my son; and the suffering
you have caused yourself and your family will prove a warning to you:
but you must not trust to your own deceitful heart, but look to God for
assistance to make you sincere and truthful. You find your conscience
does not like a lie, but that it solemnly and dreadfully reproaches the
liar; and you find too, my son, that to be holy is the only way to be
happy."

"Yes, mamma, I do; but do you think the Saviour will forgive me, and
make me happy again?"

"Yes, I have no doubt he will pardon your sin, if you are really sorry,
and resolve to be watchful in future."

"Yes, mamma, I am indeed sorry, and very sorry, that I should offend
God, and make you unhappy, and make myself in danger of having my
portion in the lake that burns with brimstone and with fire."

"Well then the Bible says, if you repent and forsake your sin, God will
have mercy, and pardon your guilt. He will so forget it, that it will
never appear against you at the last great day. You know I have often
told you that the blood of Jesus Christ can wash away all sin, and
_all_ must of course include yours. You can read this for yourself
in the First Epistle of John, the first chapter, and the seventh
verse."

Just then the dinner-bell rung, and Mrs. Sinclair and Alfred went down
to dinner. As they were entering the parlor, they met Rose, who had
been greatly concerned about her favorite; and she whispered in his
ear, "Come down to me, darlint, after the dinner: I want to say a word
to ye."

Everybody tried to be cheerful at dinner; but Alfred could not forget
his "heart-trouble," as Rose called it, nor had he much inclination for
food.

When the repast was over, and Rose had cleared the room, he went down
to hear what she had to say to him. The kind-hearted girl slipped a
small parcel into his hand, wrapped in silver paper, saying, "There,
then, darlint; now sure ye'll dry your poor red eyes up entirely, and
think no more about it and the loss."

On opening the parcel, Alfred looked upon a pretty knife, very like the
one his mamma had given him, and putting it on the table, he ran up to
Rose, saying, "I cannot allow you to think me so much better than I am,
Rose. I have been guilty of the same sin as Ananias and Sapphira; and
it is a wonder the great God has not driven me away from earth too."

Poor Rose was so greatly surprised that she looked at him some time in
silence, while he continued,--

"Rose, you thought me a good boy, but I am very wicked. I gave away my
knife, and then told a lie to try to hide it; but I hope I shall be
forgiven, and mamma says the blood of Christ can wash all my guilt
away."

"Sure then, dear, the mistress is right entirely; and I hope you will
be happy, as you used to be. Your poor eyes have done nothing but blink
since the time the aunt searched in the hall for the knife; and it was
sighing I heard ye when sleep gave them a little rest, that sure I
didn't close mine very comfortably. So I just got the boy to run for
his life, and get ye a pretty white knife at the shop, for it's a
strong pet ye are of all of us entirely."

"This is very kind of you, Rose: and may I do what I like with the
knife, Rose?"

"Sure you may, and it's yours entirely; only don't vex any more: let us
see ye as merry as the kitten, as the likes o' ye ought to be."

The next morning Alfred and Samuel walked to their cousin's; and as
soon as James saw them, he ran up, presenting the unfortunate knife to
Alfred, saying, "Ma does not wish me to keep it; so take it back."

Alfred then told his aunt the whole of the affair, as quietly as his
feelings would allow; and then desired that James might be allowed to
have the knife Rose had given him, in exchange. As all the sweetmeats
were eaten, it would not be fair to have back the knife without some
return.

Alfred soon ran home with his own knife, and placed it in its own box,
intending to keep it as a warning to him in future.

It is believed that Alfred was really and truly sorry for his sin; and
he grew up a truthful and pious boy, dreading the very appearance of
anything approaching to a lie.

Dear children, see that you always speak the truth. Remember anything
you say INTENDING TO DECEIVE is a lie in the sight of God; and
remember too that for all such words you will be called to give an
account in the day of judgment.

He who made the eye can see, and he who made the ear can hear. Yes! and
he will remember all you say and do; and if you should be suddenly
called away, without repenting of your sin, and without being washed in
the blood of the Saviour, by believing in him, you must have your
portion where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched. Now the
dear Redeemer is ready to receive you, but to-morrow it may be too
late: to-morrow may never come to you; for death may take you away this
night.


THE END.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Penitent Boy, by Daniel Parish Kidder

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