Do not justify yourself by talking about Washington raging at Monmouth, or Paul Jones boarding the Serapis, or Erskine climaxing his greatest effort for justice with an appeal to the Father of the universe.  These men all swore, and swore mightily on those occasions, but their oaths were oaths indeed.

Liberty or tyranny, life or death, justice or infamy, hung in the balance, and their oaths were prayers as earnest as ever ascended to the Throne.  But that is no example for you, young man.  If you will agree never to use an oath until you have the provocation of treason, and your country thereby endangered, as Washington had at Monmouth, there are a million chances to one that the Sacred Name will never pass your lips in vain.

I knew a man in the logging-camps twenty-eight years ago.  He there acquired that lurid speech which was the language by which oxen, horses, and men themselves were in those times driven in those rude camps of rugged industry.  My friend did not remain a logger.  He became a lawyer and achieved some distinction and success, but he could not shake off the habit of swearing.  He would find himself “ripping out an oath,” as the saying is, on the most surprising occasions—­and they were brilliant oaths, splendid, flashing, coruscating oaths.  His talk was a very tropic jungle of profanity.

So great were his abilities, so unceasing and intense his energies, and so upright his life, that he succeeded in spite of this defect.  But this strong, fine man told me that this low habit of speech delayed his progress constantly.  A few years ago, in a great crisis in his life, he was suddenly able to break the spell, and I think he is now prouder of his clean words and that mastery of himself which their use indicates than he is of any single success he has achieved or of any single honor he has won.

But the newspaper correspondent said the truest thing of all when he suggested that the really capable and apparently successful lawyer and politician, observed in the passing throng, had made a mistake in not having had the influence of woman in his life.  There is positively nothing of such value to young men—­yes, and to old men, too—­as the chastening and powerful influence for good which women bring into their lives.

This is the universal opinion, too.  All literature voices it.  Wilhelm Meister and The Old Cattleman alike declare it.  “There is no doubt about it,” exclaims the sage of Wolfville, “woman is a refinin’, an ennoblin’ influence. * * * She subdooes the reckless, subjoogates the rebellious, sobers the friv’lous, burns the ground from onder the indolent moccasins of that male she’s roped up in holy wedlock’s bonds an’ pints the way to a higher and happier life.  And that’s whatever!” And The Old Cattleman even includes the raucous “Missis Rucker—­as troo a lady as ever baked a biscuit.”

I should be the last man in the world to suggest that a young man should keep himself “tied to his mother’s apron-strings,” as is the saying of the people; and this is not what I mean when I again earnestly suggest that he keep as close to his mother’s opinions, teachings, and influence as the circumstances of life will permit.