Reprinted from T.S. Arthur's The Mother’s Rule; or, The Right Way and the Wrong Way (1856)

It was late tea-time at Mr. Merwyn's pleasant back parlour, in his commodious and comfortable house, in Boston. Mrs. Merwyn was sitting by the fire awaiting the return of her husband from his store. William and Anne, the children, were rudely racing round the room, overturning chairs and stools, and threatening every moment to upset the tea-table. "Stop, children, this moment," said Mrs. Merwyn. "Anne, open the door for your father; Willie, ring the bell for Bridget." Father has a night-key, and he can open the door for himself," said Anne; upon which she commenced an desperate struggle with Willie, to recover a toy he had snatched from her.

Mr. Merwyn entered the room with a jaded tired look, and sat down by the fire. Soon after, Bridget came in with a plate of toast in one hand a cream- pitcher in the other. The children, quite beside themselves in the eagerness of their quarrel; ran against her, knocked the dish of toast from her hand, and its contents were spread on the carpet. Mrs. Merwyn ran to them, and seizing them each in turn boxed their ears soundly, accompanying her castigation with severe reproaches. "I never saw anything like it! You are the worst-behaved children I ever beheld ! You are the plagues of my life! I wish you were, both of you a hundred miles off! I am sure I can not imagine how I came to have such bad children. Go to the table this minute, and see if you can behave yourselves. You make it very pleasant for your father, who has been working for you all day, to come home and find the house in such an uproar and the carpet spoiled, and toast gone." With such expression, she drove the children to the table.

They were really pretty children, though pale and delicate; but now, with their unnaturally flushed faces, dishevelled hair and angry looks, their appearance was anything but agreeable. They began to eat in moody silence. The parents were silent also. At length Mrs. Merwyn said, "Willie, don't eat so much of that rich cake; take some bread and butter; and, Anne, stop helping yourself to sweetmeats; you have eaten two saucers full already." "I don't like bread and butter," said William, in surly tone, " and I can't eat what I don't like." Anne, with a look of contempt at her mother, cooly helped herself to the last of the preserves, and ate them.

The evening, passed as uncomfortable as it had begun. When the tea-things were cleared away, the study table was set out, for the children had lessons to recite on the morrow which must be learned in the evening. But they were cross and ill-natured to each other, and their father, after trying for half an hour to read a pamphlet which he had brought home with him, threw it aside and seated himself with a heavy sigh by the fire. " I say, mother," said Willie, " where's Turin ?" " I don't know exactly; look it out on the map." " I can't, there's such a crowd of little names here; and, what's more, I won't. I don't care if I do miss in my lesson. I have got so low in my class now, I would as lief be at the foot as anywhere else." " Mother, is good a noun or an adjective ?" inquired Anne. " How should I know ?" replied the mother. " Can you not tell from the way in which it is used ?" " No, I can't," said Anne. " Study your rules, then, and do not tease me about it," said the mother. The books were put away. Nine o'clock came, and the children left the room for bed: Anne complaining of a headache, and upbraiding Willie for breaking her glass bird.

After sitting silent for half an hour, looking steadily into the fire, Mr. Merwyn turned round to his wife, who was seated near the table with her head upon her hand: the needlework had fallen upon the floor. "Helen," said he, "why do our children behave in the way they do ? I want a cheerful, pleasant, orderly home. I have built this house, and furnished it handsomely, and I am sure I supply you liberally with every means of comfort, and yet how uncomfortable we are. And it all comes of those unruly children." Mrs. Merwyn looked up half angrily. "If the chilren are bad, is it not partly your fault, James. Do you govern them as you ought? " " How can I" replied the husband. "Am I not at my work all day? And must I spend the time in which I need a little relaxation, in reducing a couple of rebellious children to order? They love me little enough now. It is seldom that I get the slightest caress, or even a respectful word from either of them, and how would it be if I spent my evenings, in checking and scolding them? I took tea at our old friends, the Westons, last evening. Weston is as busy as I am, and the whole charge of their five children falls upon his wife; but, oh! Helen, it made my heart ache to see them; such happy cheerfull faces, such intelligent looks, such pleasant, winning ways; so quiet and obedient, and yet so loving and affectionate to their parents and to each othe! I used to hope my children would grow up so; but; I have no such hope now-they grow worse as they grow older. I desire you will let them have another room to pass their evenings in, for I want to have them out of my sight." Having thus spoken, with heavy sigh, the father left the room for his chamber When he was gone, Mrs. Merwyn burst into a passion of tears. The fountains of feeling seem stirred to their inter most depths. At first she pitied herself, she was angry with her husband and her children. She called to mind the fact that she was married at seventeen to a husband considerably older than herself. " And how could it be expected," thought she, " that I should know anything about bringing up children? I was a petted, indulged, half-educated girl, myself; where was I to get the strength, and the self-denial, and the perseverance necessary for this most difficult task? Was it to be expected that I should give up every pleasure of youth, and think and work entirely for others?" As these thoughts passed through her mind, she wept the more.

Mrs. Merwyn, it is true, was married too early; she had begun wrong. But she was a woman of deep feel- ings, and earnest, though unformed and undeveloped purposes. Having exhausted her self-commiseration, her thoughts took another turn. " But I love my children, and I love my husband. I am their mother. I am his wife; and do not nature and God and my own heart urge me to a higher and better discharge of duty than I have ever yet practiced ? Oh ! how happy I should be if I cou1d reclaim my children, reform them, and establish a mother's influence over them; if I could make my husband happy and his home delightful ' What would I not sacrifice for this!" Her face beamed as she indulged in these bright visions, but reflection brought discouragement. "I am thirty years old," murmured she; "Anne is twelve and Willie ten. Even if I could change myself, how can I alter them? I fear it is a hopeless case."

Mrs. Merwyn had never made a profession of religion, though she had for some time entertained a kind of doubtful hope of her spiritual state, and had practised an earnest but irregular habit of secret prayer. She now sunk upon her knees, and laid all her sorrows, wishes, hopes, and half-formed resolutions, before the great Helper and Comforter; praying for wisdom and Strength, as Solomon prayed when intrusted with the kingdom; for she felt, more deeply than ever before, that she, too, had a high and holy mission to fulfil, and that strength and guidance from above were absolutely necessary to enable her to perform her duty. She rose with a feeling new to herself: a calmness, a resolution, a determination, which inspired her with hope and con- fidence.

The next morning she went to her old friend, Mrs. Weston, and made her the confidant of her new feelings and plans. Mrs. Weston was a large-hearted, strong- minded, pious woman. She listened with generous interest, she encouraged, she advised: and, after a conference of three hours, Mrs. Merwyn returned home. That evening, after her husband and children had retired, she took her writing-desk and wrote the following schedule of resolutions:

"Resolved, That the first duty of the day performed by me shall be a prayer to Almighty God, and especially for strength and wisdom, properly to instruct, guide and govern my children."

"Resolved, That I will never permit either of my children, with impunity, wilfully to disobey me, or treat me with disrespect."

" Resolved, That I will earnestly strive never to act from an impulse of passion or resentment; but will endeavor to preserve my judgment cool, and my feelings calm, that I may clearly see and truly perform my duty to my children."

" Resolved, That I will devote a certain portion of my leisure to daily self-instruction, in order to be able properly to instruct my children."

" Resolved, That I will watch over my own temper at all times, cultivate a habit of cheerfulness, and interest myself in the little matters of my children, that I may thereby gain their love."

" Resolved, That I will break off the habit of lounging; that I will give up the reading of novels, and that I will attend fewer large parties, and devote the time which I shall thus gain, especially to pursuits which will increase the comfort and happiness of my husband, and forward the best interests of my children."

" Resolved, That I will especially study the health of my children, reading on the subject, and asking advice of those who are more experienced than myself."

"Resolve, That I will not yield to discouragement from failure in my first attempts at reform; but will persevere, putting faith in the promises of God to all those who earnestly and faithfully endeavor to do their duty."

These resolutions looked very cold and formal to the mother when she had done writing them. The writing was nothing; they were in her heart; but she folded the paper and locked it in her desk, as a memento, if she should ever feel herself falling into old habits of indolence and self-indulgence.

The next morning the family took their breakfast as usual, Anne and Willie coming in just as their father was about leaving the table. He was going to leave home this morning, to be absent four weeks; but there was no respectful salutation, no pleasant parting kiss, from these ill-behaved children, for the father who had spent his days in toiling for their welfare. "Bring me something handsome !" and "Bring me something nice!" they exclaimed, as they took their seats at the table. "Where's my cup of coffee?" said Willie. "This white stuff isn't t coffee." " No," said his mother, " it is milk and water. I prefer that you should drink it for your breakfast." "And I prefer the coffee," said Willie, in a very determined tone, " and I am determined to have it." And he stretched his hand toward the coffee-pot to help him- self. " Take the coffee away, Bridget," said Mrs. Merwyn. It disappeared. " Where's my buttered toast and sausages ?" said Anne. " You will have neither this morning. There is good bread and butter, and you can have a mutton chop or a broiled egg, just which you prefer." " I don't prefer either; I want sausages. If I can't have what I want, I won't eat anything." " As you please," replied the mother, coolly. The children looked at their mother and at each other. They did not know what to make of this resolute resistance to their wishes. They begged, teased and fretted; but it was of no use. They finally with sullen looks, condescended to eat what was before them. "But I know one thing," said Willie, " if I can't have what I want for my dinner, I'll starve. And I have not washed myself all over for a week, and I don't intend to any more. And I shan't go to school this afternoon; father's gone, and I mean to stay at home and play; and won't you, Anne?" Anne declared her readiness to join in this plan, and with this bravado they left the room.