I call him a wretch, for I can hardly conceive of more
enormous iniquity. That boy, or that young man, who does not treat
his affectionate mother with kindness and respect, is worse than I
can find language to describe. Perhaps you say, your mother is at
times unreasonable. Perhaps she is. But what of that? You have been
unreasonable ten thousand times, and she has borne with you and loved
you. And even if your mother be at times unreasonable in her
requirements, I want to know with what propriety you find fault with
it. Is she to bear with all your cries in infancy, and all your
fretfulness in childhood, and all your ingratitude and wants till you
arrive at years of discretion, and then, because she wishes you to do
some little thing which does not exactly meet your views, are you to
turn upon her like a viper and sting her to the heart? The time was,
when you was a little infant, your mother brought paleness to her own
cheek, and weakness to her own frame, that she might give you
support. You were sick, and in the cold winter night she would sit
lonely by the fire, denying herself rest that she might lull her babe
to sleep. You would cry with pain, and hour after hour she would walk
the floor, carrying you in her arms, till her arms seemed ready to
drop, and her limbs would hardly support her, through excess of
weariness. The bright sun and the cloudless sky would invite her to
go out for health and enjoyment, but she would deny herself the
pleasure, and stay at home to take care of you, her helpless babe.
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