Surely our fathers have inherited lies, vanity, and things wherein there is no profit.—JER. xvi, 19.

BLANCHE FIELDING seized the first opportunity of expatiating to her cousins on the pleasures which the dancing class had unfolded to her enjoyment.

"Do ask your mamma to let you learn," said she. "Wouldn't you like it very much?"

"I don't know," said Agnes, "but I am afraid we have no time."

"O but you could make time; we do. And you can't be ever like a real lady if you don't know how to dance. I dare say you can't make a courtesy as I can, and how can you come into a room before company?"

"O! I run in without thinking about it, if I know the people. And mamma does not often send for us to see strangers."

"Then that is just like a hoiden, mamma says. Now let me show you how we do it. Come to the school-room, for you know I must have a door to do it with."

And the little girls ran in from the garden where they were walking, and hastened to the school-room, where Agnes was directed to take a seat, while Blanche, with a gravity which would have become the etiquette of a foreign court, prepared to make her entrée. She swung the door to the becoming distance, stepped forward, placed her feet "in position," and bent slowly to the prescribed attitude, then advanced with a polite smile, and offered her hand to Agnes, who was representing "the company."

"Is that all?" cried Agnes, bursting into a merry laugh. "Why, anybody can do it, without having lessons, I should think; only I was afraid you would fall down when you twisted your feet in that funny way."

"I put them quite properly, I'm sure," pouted Blanche. "But if you laugh, I shall not show you any more of my steps. Miss Lightfoot says I shall soon dance like a fairy."

"I am sorry I laughed, Cousin Blanche, if you don't like it; and I should like to see what else you do."

Thus mollified, Blanche began her "steps," and whisked about the room to her own infinite satisfaction.

"Then I suppose you do it to get warm when you go out to play in the garden," said Agnes gravely, not exactly comprehending the drift of the entertainment.

"In the garden!" screamed Blanche with ineffable contempt. "Why, don't you know that we have our best frocks on, and the thinnest shoes you ever saw?"

"Then what is it for, when you have learned it all?" asked Agnes.

"What is it for? Of course we shall have parties, and go to parties, like young ladies and gentlemen, and dance quadrilles, and polkas, and waltzes, and all that!"

"What! Do boys and gentlemen fly about rooms as you did just now?" exclaimed Agnes, opening her eyes wide with amazement. "I declare I should think they were all gone out of their minds, and so would my brothers, I'm sure."

"I can't help that," replied Blanche, pettishly; "it is because you and they don't know what is fashionable and polite. I never saw such foolish things as you all are; but I dare say you will be very glad to come to one of our parties, if we invite you, and will wish you could do as we do."

"I don't think Philip will, for I remember he told a boy who said he had to learn dancing that he hoped papa would not wish him to learn, for he had enough to do with his head, without putting his feet into moods and tenses. I know now what he meant; and I think if we can run and jump about, that is quite enough."

"What are you doing, girls?" asked Mrs. Fielding, opening the door. "Are you ready to come home with me, Blanche?"

"Yes, mamma; I was only showing Agnes my steps, and how to come into a room properly."

"And would Agnes like to learn?" said Mrs. Fielding, looking toward her niece.

"No thank you, aunt, it makes me laugh. And Blanche says it is not to be laughed at, for grown-up people do it. But I thought it the funniest thing I ever saw."

"What a little simpleton!" murmured Mrs. Fielding. "Come, Blanche, you may spare yourself the trouble of teaching her anything more."

In the evening, a loud burst of merriment during the period usually devoted to the study of lessons for the succeeding day, attracted Mrs. Latimer to the school-room, where she found Agnes in the act of representing, for the benefit of her brothers and sisters, the performance of the morning. While their edification was testified in unmistakable symptoms of gleeful ridicule, and any serious purpose in such an acquisition was to them, at least, thoroughly incomprehensible.

It was not apparent that Mr. and Mrs. Fielding's plans in bringing up their children contributed to the improvement of their tempers and feelings toward each other, nor that indulgence in worldly pleasures increased affection and respect toward themselves. But these were favorite maxims: that "children will be children," and that "old heads cannot be put upon young shoulders;" and thus much selfishness was overlooked, many an unkindness passed unrebuked, and the children, if conscious of the fault, ceased to regard with compunction what their parents seemed to think of so little consequence.

"They will know better by and by," mamma would say, when they forgot the comfort or convenience of another in eager anxiety to secure their own way. But she also forgot that the young characters were forming now, and the deformities that a gentle hand might have checked or pruned away as they appeared in childhood, would probably be too strong for reason and authority in advancing years.

Harry, the youthful exile for whose temporal advantages his parents had resigned the chief claim upon his duty and affection, was to spend his holidays at home (his education being conducted by a tutor under his uncle's roof). And every kind of treat and enjoyment was planned which could be supposed likely to cement the natural ties so early interrupted, if not broken.

It was with no little feeling of importance, too, that the son arrived as a visitor at his father's house, and, surrounded by his brothers and sisters, detailed to them the history of "his" pony and "his" dog, the delights of his country life, the luxuries of his uncle's establishment, and the respect rendered to himself as the adopted child and heir of a wealthy gentleman.

Perhaps it was not wonderful that George thought he ought to have had a share of such gratifying favors, until reminded that he stepped into his brother's place at home, and would enjoy a position there of which the presence of an elder brother must have deprived him. Thus pride was met by pride under another aspect, jealousy by self-love, and one disease grafted on another rendered a cure more unlikely than before.

"Well, Blanche," said Mr. Fielding one day, "what have you thought of to make your brothers happy at home this Christmas? I suppose, in the first place, you intend to put all books out of sight."

"Yes, of course, papa," replied Blanche, who had given some thoughts to what they should all enjoy together, though how much the happiness of her brothers in particular had been considered, it might be better not to inquire too closely. "We mean to do nothing but play all day long. Then there will be our party, you know, and we shall go to a great many others. And Gertrude and I know one or two things that we shall want you to do for us."

"Indeed! Pray what are they?"

"We want you to give us some money to do what we like with, for one thing. And we want you to take us to the theater, papa, as you did last Christmas."

"Really! But what if I have no money to spare, and what if I have no taste for the play this Christmas?"

"O papa! But we know you must have some money, because you go to business. And we know you like the play, because you often go with mamma."

"Very sensibly proved," said papa, smiling. "And so if you will proceed to show that you inherit my industry in business, as well as my enjoyment of the play, I will grant both your requests."

"O delightful!" cried Blanche and Gertrude, jumping with joy.

"What a dear good papa he is!"

"How much money is it to be?"

"A great many shillings, papa, if you please."

"Well, then, I will give you each a crown on Christmas day. And you shall do what you please with your crowns, wear them or spend them as you think best."

And forthwith the purchases to be made became a serious subject, one proposition after another being rejected as incapable of yielding the coveted amount of novelty and pleasure.

On the morning of the day for which the theatrical expedition had been fixed, there were very grave faces around Mr. Fielding's breakfast table, for mamma did not appear, and he informed the children that her cold was so very bad she had not been able to get up.

"What shall we do, Gerty?" said Blanche when their papa had left them, with many charges to be very good and quiet. "What a dreadful disappointment it is!"

"I dare say papa will take us, though mamma can't go," suggested George.

"No," said Gertrude gravely, shaking her head, "for I heard him say that he could not take charge of such a party himself, when he saw how poorly mamma was yesterday. So I suppose it will have to be put off."

"I shall ask papa to take us boys, and you girls can go some other time," said Harry.

"Come, Gerty," said Blanche, "let us go quietly to mamma's room, and see how she really is. It is very selfish of those boys to wish to go without us, and I don't like to give it up at all."

The little girls opened their mamma's door very gently, and peeped through the curtains.

"Is it you, Blanche?" said Mrs. Fielding, in a voice interrupted by a cough.

"Yes, mamma, we came to see how you are now."

"My cold is very troublesome, but perhaps I shall be better by and by. Come again in an hour or two, and I will try whether I cannot prevent you from being disappointed to-night."

The children instantly tripped away, and ran to their brothers.

"We shall go, we shall go!" they exclaimed. "She will be better by and by; I'm sure we shall go."

And watching the progress of time for one precise hour, they appeared again at their mother's bedside.

"I really don't know what to say about it, children," said Mrs. Fielding, languidly.

"Could you not be very well wrapped up?" suggested Blanche.

"And we shall be warm in a carriage, you know," added Gertrude.

"Well, I will at least be ready, if I should feel able. Just tell nurse to come and let me speak to her about your dresses."

This settled, the children awaited further orders.

"Now my head-dress requires a little alteration. Gerty, bring that little box of flowers from the drawer. And you, Blanche, take out the dress you will see lying in the wardrobe, and put it carefully on the bed. Then get my work-basket, and learn how to make a pretty bow of ribbon, as I will show you."

In a few minutes, the delighted children had covered the bed with the varieties of a milliner's table, giving their opinions upon the prettiest colors, and the most becoming ornaments.

And then, Mrs. Fielding dismissed them while she rested again.

Finally she rose late in the afternoon, fancied she was better, and to her husband's surprise declared herself quite able to spend the evening in public.

So the little joyful party being all dressed with scrupulous care, drove away to the theater, where they were highly entertained by a splendid pantomime, and listened to much that they could not understand in an afterpiece, clapped their hands because others did so, thought the changes of scenery the best part of the performance, and finally quarreled on the way home for the coach corners, in which they could bury their heads and go to sleep.

It is a remarkable feature in the natural history of the human mind, that in amusements and pleasures such as these, at least during the early period of indulgence, the remembrance of their fascination remains, and that of any weariness connected with them is speedily forgotten, so that on the recurrence of every temptation, they are as eagerly coveted as before. While on the contrary, in the recollections of any more worthy exercise of time and thought, calculated to rouse inquiry into who and what we are, and whither we are going, all that should have riveted attention passes away, and irritating recollections of weariness, discomfort, and annoyance seem carefully treasured up as unanswerable reasons for avoiding contact with that subject in future.

The excitement of theatrical taste was not to be satisfied with one exhibition. And the more frequent the indulgence, the greater the craving for repetition. The children could enjoy it without mingling with any of its external evils, but why should the future adult be expected to refrain from what had not apparently injured the child? And how sure a snare for future mischief has Satan often been thus permitted to spread in the path of unsuspecting youth!

But Christmas comes alike to all, and holidays have their joys for all. What parent does not rejoice to see the bright young faces gathered once more round the domestic hearth? All the household is astir, from the head of it himself, down to the wagging tail of the favorite dog. And all things are ready, from the neat little beds of which mamma herself has seen to the airing, down to the great plum cake on which cook has expended her choicest skill. And all the stir, and the smiles, and the preparations indicate that anticipated pleasures are at hand, and warm hearts ready to enjoy them.

And why not? There is nothing sinful in human affection. It is a rose-wreath garlanding the stern realities of life. And if thorns of anxiety sometimes remind that the roses have grown in a sin-stained soil, they should but stimulate to watchfulness and prayer, watchfulness lest affection exceed, and prayer for the hastening of the promised time when every faculty of the human soul shall be conformed again and forever to the perfection in which it was made.

But does any one think that in "the habitation of the just," the household in which God holds the first place as Master and Lord, such endearing and pleasurable sympathies may not be cherished? Some people do seem to think so, and to suppose that Christians behold nothing but the archenemy presiding over a holiday gathering, hear his voice in the ringing laugh, and trace the trail of the serpent through every flash of wit or sign of fun. It is a libel on their common sense and unselfish philanthropy, their knowledge of God and human nature. That affection is the loveliest and the most enjoyed, which is hallowed by Divine association, and blended with hopes which time will but brighten and eternity fulfill.

The parent who bends his knee before God amid his immortal charge, commending them in earnest love to his mercy and guidance, is the very parent to be appreciated in joining their pleasant sports and merry pastimes. He may consistently yield to their enjoyment what he has long ceased to seek for his own, and by his presence add tenfold pleasure to their hour of glee. He too can maintain fair play, infuse a spirit of truth and honor into their games of exercise or skill, and hold an unseen helm by which to influence character. Thus, he stoops to conquer; he loves his children, and at suitable times and opportunities enters into their feelings, tastes, and pursuits. And his children love him, and at suitable times and opportunities, he endeavors to kindle their interest in his higher and more enduring pleasures, intellectual and spiritual.

Christian parents, be not moved by the unhallowed wit of writers and talkers, who select the worst features of mismanaging professors of evangelical religion, and unite them into a portrait at which the world may laugh, and whole family of God be held up to ridicule. The Lord's day is a special field for exercise of this lying spirit. The youthful group gladly going forth to public worship, some hastening with loving hearts to teach to others in the Sunday school what they have learned themselves at home; the private hour when many a young spirit communes with God and is still; the happy party intent upon searching out Scripture questions, or developing mental pictures, and the blending of sweet young voices in hymns of praise. All such sources of pleasure and scenes of happiness are willfully passed by, and these unjust critics sketch instead some gaunt outline of enforced conformity, full of dull faces and weary spirits, and with its unsightly features seek to scare mankind from efforts to make their children remember God on his chosen day, or to train them according to Scriptural precept. This is doing the work of the father of lies, and is a willful misrepresentation of the spirit and influence of the Gospel of Christ. Their aim is professedly at injudicious constraint; the hit is really at the subject on which they suppose constraint to be exercised. But, for one such dreary specimen of formality and drill, the Church of God can present hundreds and thousands of happy social families, where the name of Christ is as ointment poured forth, and the sweet counsel taken together on heavenly things is nerving hearts and strengthening resolves in the duties of the coming week, to be "diligent in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord."