be called to account, and scolded for staying out of the house, when there is no comfort to be found in it.”  And again rose before his mind many scenes of cold indifference or harshness from his parents, which had, as he said, hardened his heart to stone.  “I’ll bid good bye to the whole of it.  Little Em,—­darling little sister!  I wish I could kiss her soft sweet cheek once more.  But she grows fretful every day, and by the time she is three years old, she will snap and snarl like the rest of us.  I’ll be out of hearing of it any way.”  And he softly raised the window sash, and slipped upon the roof of a piazza, from which he had often jumped in sport with his brothers, and in a few moments was at the depot.  Soon the night train arrived, and soon was James in one of our large cities—­and inquiring for the wharf of a steamer about to sail for California; and when the next Sabbath sun rose upon the home of his youth, he was tossing rapidly over the waves of the wide, deep, trackless ocean, one moment longing to be again amid scenes so long dear and familiar, and the next writhing, as he thought of the anger of his father, the reproaches of his mother.  On he went, often vexed at the services he was called to perform, in working his passage out, for which his previous habits had poorly prepared him.  On went the stanch vessel, and in due time landed safely her precious freight of immortal beings at the desired haven—­but some of them were to see little of that distant land, where they had fondly hoped to find treasure of precious gold, and with it happiness.  The next arrival at New York brought a list of recent deaths.  Seven of that ship’s company, so full of health and buoyancy and earthly hopes, but a few short months before, were hurried by fevers to an untimely, a little expected grave.  And on that fatal list, was read with agonized hearts in the home of his childhood, the name of their first-born—­James Colman, aged sixteen.

Boys!  If your father and mother, in the midst of a thousand cares and perplexities, of which you know nothing—­cares, often increased seven-fold, by their anxieties for you, are less tender and forgiving than you think they should be, will you throw off all regard for them, all gratitude for their constant proofs of real affection, and make shipwreck of your own character and hopes, and break their hearts?  No—­rather with noble disregard of your own feelings, strive still more to please them, to soothe the weary spirit you have disturbed, and so in due time you shall reap the reward of well-doing, and the blessing of Him, who hath given you the fifth commandment, and with it a promise.

Fathers!  Provoke not your children to anger, lest they be discouraged, for the tempter is ever at hand to lead them astray.  The harsh reproof—­the undeserved blame—­cold silence, where should be the kind inquiry, or the affectionate welcome—­oh, how do these things chill the young heart, and plant reserve where should be the fullest confidence, if you would save your child.