It is a common and, I much fear, a well founded complaint, that some latent mischief in our system of education, political institutions, the ordering of our establishments, or in all these together, has generated, as a prevalent moral evil, filial unkindness and ingratitude. Scramble, competition and rivalry are the first, last, and universally witnessed order of things in our country. Nothing becomes a topic of conversation that is of absorbing interest, but acquisition and distinction. The manifestations of an intellect, sharpened for the pursuit of these things, is the subject of most earnest eulogy. Children, by our usages, are early cast upon their own resources, and taught to shift for themselves. The consequence seems to be, that the parental and filial ties are severed, as soon as the children are able to take care of themselves, almost as recklessly, in regard to subsequent duty, piety or affection, as those of the lower animals. When we see a spectacle so revolting, and unhappily so common, of sons who, as soon as they have realized _the portion of goods that falleth to them_, or of daughters, as soon as they have secured lovers or husbands, forgetting the authors of their days, it becomes us to search deeply for the defect in our discipline, or institutions, that originates the evil. The callous hearts of such children may no longer be appalled by the terrible execution of the Jewish law against such monsters. They may neither feel, nor care, how _sharper than a serpent’s tooth_, may be this want of filial piety to their parents. But, by a righteous reaction of the divine justice, more terribly vindictive than the threatened judgment of the Jewish law, thankless children bear in their hearts the certain guaranty of their own self-inflicted punishment. They part forever with the purest and noblest sentiments of the human heart; and they procure for themselves the sad certainty of being cast off in their turn, by their children, in the helpless period of their old age.
The history of literature proves, that none of the more unworthy sentiments of human nature have been so adverse to friendship, as the vanity of literary rivals. From many noble examples of a contrary kind, which we might cite, I select the intercourse between Racine and Boileau. When Racine was persuaded, that his malady would end in death, he charged his eldest son to write to M. de Cavoye, to ask him to solicit the payment of what was due of his pension, that his family might not be left without ready money. He wrote the letter and read it to his father. ‘Why did you not,’ said he, ‘request the payment of the pension of Boileau at the same time? Write again, and let him know, that I was his friend in death.’ This friend came to receive his last adieu. Racine rose in bed, as far as his weakness would allow. As he embraced his friend, he said ‘I regard it a happiness to die in your presence.’