Evil of being one minute too late. Examples to illustrate the importance of punctuality. Case of a mother at Lowell. Her adventure. General habits which led to such a disaster. Condition of a family trained to despise punctuality.

No system can be carried on without both order and punctuality. I have already said something, incidentally, on both of these topics; but their importance entitles them to a separate consideration.

The importance of strict punctuality could be shown by appealing to hundreds of authorities; but I prefer an appeal to the good sense of my readers.

How painful it is, in a thousand instances of life, to be but one minute too late; and how much evil it may, indeed, often does occasion, both to ourselves and others!

"Think of the difference," says a spirited writer, "between arriving with a letter one minute before the post-office is closed, and arriving one minute after; between being at the stage-office a quarter of an hour too soon, and reaching there a quarter of an hour too late; between shaking a friend heartily by the hand as he steps on board his vessel bound to the Indies, and arriving at the pier when the vessel is under weigh, and stretching her wide canvass to the winds! Think of this, and a thousand such instances, and be determined, through life, to be in time."

Allow me to illustrate the important subject of which I am now treating, by the case of a young mother. She wishes to go from Boston to Lowell. She leaves Boston in the cars which go at eleven, and reach Lowell soon after twelve. She goes to spend the afternoon with a sick friend there, resolving to return at five—the hour when the last cars leave Lowell for Boston. Her infant is left, for the time, in the hands of a maiden sister—the husband being engaged in his shop, and hardly knowing of her departure.

She spends the afternoon with her friend, and her services are very acceptable. But ere she is aware, the bell at the railroad depot rings for passengers to Boston. A few moments are spent in getting ready and in exchanging the parting salutation with those friends who, though aware of the danger of her being left, have not the honest plainness to urge her to make speed. She is, at length, under way; but on arriving at the depot, lo! the cars have started, and are twenty or thirty rods distant.

What can she do? "Time and tide," and railroad cars, "wait for none." It is in vain that she waves her handkerchief; the swift-footed vehicles move on, and are soon out of sight! She returns, much distressed, to the house of her sick friend, unfit to render her any further service-to say nothing of the mischief she is likely to do by exciting her painful sympathies.

But how and when is she to get home? There are no public means of conveyance back to the city till to-morrow morning, and the expense of a private conveyance seems to her quite beyond her means.

How could I be so late? she says to herself. How could I run the risk of being thus left? Why was I not in season? What will my husband think—especially as I came off without saying any thing to him about coming? But this, though much to distress her, is not all, nor the most. Her poor bade! what will become of that? Her friends endeavor to soothe her by diverting her mind—but to no purpose, or nearly none: she is half distracted, and can do nothing but mourn over her folly in being so late.

But the weather is mild, and all is propitious without, except that it is likely to be rather dark; and by means of the efforts of thoughtful friends, a coach is fitted out with a careful driver, to carry her home this very evening. It will take five hours in all; and as it is now six, she will reach home at about eleven. The infant will not greatly suffer before that time.

Finding herself fairly on the road, her feelings are somewhat composed, and she just now begins to think what her husband will do, when he comes from the shop at seven, and finds she has not arrived. She is afraid he will be at the extra pains and expense to come after her; and perhaps in the darkness pass by her, and go on to Lowell.

And her fears are partly realized. After much anxiety and some complaining—which, however, I will not undertake to justify—the husband is on the road with a vehicle, going to Lowell to assist her in getting home. They meet about half way from place to place, and the drivers recognize each other—though rather more than, in the darkness, could have been expected. The coach from Lowell returns, and that from Boston, taking in both passengers, wheels them back in haste to their home. In their joy to find matters no worse, they forget to recriminate each other, and think only of the timid sister with whom the infant was left in charge: for in the hurry of getting off, the husband had made no provision for quieting her fears of being alone. She passes the time, however, in much less mental agitation than might have been expected, and takes as good care as she can, of a fretful, crying, half-starved babe. As the clock strikes one, the family are all quiet in bed, and endeavoring to sleep.

How much uneasiness is here caused by being just about one minute (and no more) too late! And whence came it? Not by her not knowing she was running a risk by being tardy. Not that she had no apprehensions of evil. Not because her conscience was uneducated, or unfaithful. It was neither, nor any of these. There was, in the first place, a little want of decision. She suffered herself to vacillate between a sense of duty and the inclination to say a few words more, or bestow another parting kiss. And in the second place, it was the wretched habit she had always indulged, of delaying and deferring every thing she put her head or her hand to, till the very last moment.

I will give you a brief but correct account of her general habits. Not that the picture is a very uncommon one, but that you may view it in connection with the anecdote I have related, and thus get a tolerable idea of the inconveniences to which the wretched habit of which I have spoken, is continually exposing her.

She makes it a rule—no, I will not say that, for she has no rules, but she has a sort of expectation on the subject—to rise at five o'clock. Yet I do not suppose she is up at five, six times in the year. She is never awake at that timer or but seldom, unless she is awakened. Her husband, indeed, makes it a sort of rule to wake her at that hour; but he, alas, poor man! has no roles for himself or others; and if he undertakes to awaken her at five, it is usually ten or fifteen minutes afterward; and if she is let alone, she is often in bed till half past five—oftener, indeed, than up earlier. The breakfast hour is six; but I never knew the family to sit down at six. It is ten minutes, fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, and sometimes forty-five minutes after six, before the breakfast is on the table. The fire will not burn, and the tea is not ready; or the milk or cream for the latter has not arrived; or something or other is the matter—so she says, and so she believes—and indeed sometimes so it is.

The dinner time is half past twelve-that is, professedly so; but it is not once in twenty times that they sit down much before one o'clock—and I have known it to be even later. So it is with supper; and I might add, with every thing else. If an engagement is made, directly or indirectly, positively or only implied, it is never fulfilled at the time. She is never in her seat at church, till almost every body else is in, and the services have commenced; although the kind, but too indulgent parson waits some five or ten minutes for his whole congregation—whom, alas! he has unwittingly trained to delay. In short, she does nothing, and performs nothing, punctually, not even going to bed; for this is deferred to a very late hour-sometimes till near midnight.

Now herein is the secret—the foundation, rather—of her trouble at Lowell. Had she been trained to punctuality in other things, she would, in all probability, have been punctual there. The misfortune which I have described, is but a specimen of what is ever and anon occurring in the history of her life.

Nor are her sufferings—though they are severe—from her unhappy habit, the end of the matter. I have already more than intimated that her companion has caught the disease; but it is still more visible in the conduct of her sons and daughters. They, like herself, seldom do any thing at the proper time. They are never punctual in their engagements, nor decided in their conduct. I know not, however, what the daughters may yet do—several of them being quite young. If they should chance to meet with better instructions than they are accustomed to receive—should take warning, and do all they can in the way of self-improvement—they may be able to break the chains of an inveterate and almost unconquerable habit, and make themselves useful in their day and generation.

I do think, most sincerely, that if all the rest of the world were disorderly, or fell short in matters of punctuality, the young woman should not do so. Let her, in every duty, learn to be in time. Let her resolve to do every thing a little before the time arrives; nothing, a moment after it.

The keeper of a boarding house, who is at the same time the principal of one of our most flourishing schools for both males and females, makes it a point to have every one of his boarders in their seats at dinner, when the clock strikes twelve, which is the appointed hour.

And the late principal of a very highly distinguished female school in Boston, used to have every exercise regulated by a clock kept in the room; and whatever else was going on—whether it was finished or unfinished—whenever the hour for another exercise arrived, it was attended to. The whole school, as if with one impulse, seemed to obey the hour, rather than the teacher. Such order and punctuality, every where and in every thing, constitute the beauty of life; and I was going to say, the beauty of heaven—of which this life should be a sort of emblem. Heaven, in any event, is not only a world of order, but of punctuality also; and she who goes there, must be prepared to observe both, or it will be no heaven to her.

As I have strongly insisted in respect to the formation of other important habits, so in regard to this. It must be commenced in the smaller matters of life. Let the young woman be in time—that is, be punctual—in the performance of what she regards as trifles, and when she becomes a matron, she will seldom be tardy in what are deemed the weightier matters.

I have spoken of the importance of punctuality, and have strongly insisted that whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well. I am now about to insist, with equal earnestness, that what is worth beginning and performing well, is worth doing thoroughly, or finishing.

Some young women never do any thing thoroughly—even the smallest matters. All their lives long, they live, as it were, by halves, and do things by halves. If they commence reading a book, unless it is something very enticing and exciting, they neither read it thoroughly nor finish it. Their dress is never put on thoroughly; and even their meals are not thoroughly eaten.

In regard to what is last mentioned, they fail in two respects. Either through fear that they shall be unfashionable, if they use their teeth, or from sheer carelessness in their habits, they never masticate their food thoroughly; and they never seem to get through eating. The true way is, to finish a meal in a reasonable time, and then let the matter rest; and never be found eating between meals. Whereas, the class of persons of whom I am speaking, seem never to begin or end a meal. They are nibbling, if food chance to fall in their way, all their lives long.

But—to return to other habits than those which pertain to eating and drinking—this want of thoroughness, of which I am speaking, wherever it exists in a young woman, will show itself in all or nearly all she does.

Suppose she is washing dishes, for example; something is left unwashed which ought to have been washed; something is left only partly washed; or the whole being done in a hurry, something is not set away in its place, and along comes a child and knocks it over and breaks it.

Perhaps site is sewing. She is anxious to get her work along; and though she know, how it ought to be done, she ventures to slight it especially if it is the property of another. Or having done it well till she comes near the end, the place where, perhaps, every thing ought to be particularly firm and secure—ought to be done thoroughly—she leaves a portion of it half done; and the garment gives way before it is half worn.

Or she is cooking; and though every thing else is well boiled, a single article is not well done—which gives an appearance of negligence to the whole. At any rate, it is not done well; and she gets the credit of not being a thorough house-keeper.

"For who hath despised the day of small things?" is a scriptural inquiry on a most important subject; and were it not likely to be construed into a want of reverence for sacred things, the same inquiry might be made in regard to the matter before us. There is a universal disposition abroad to despise small matters, and to stigmatize him who defends their importance.

One might suppose a young woman would find out the mischiefs that result from a want of thoroughness, by the inconvenience which inevitably results from it. It is not very convenient or comfortable, to be obliged to do a thing wholly over again, or suffer from want, because a piece of work, very trifling in itself, was not done thoroughly. Nor is it very convenient to go and wash one's hands every time a lamp is used, because it was not thoroughly cleaned or duly put in order, when it should have been. Nor is it easy to clean an elegant carpet which has become soiled, or replace a valuable astral lamp, or mirror, which has been broken, simply for the want of thorough attention in those who have the care of these things. These little inconveniences, constantly recurring, might rouse a person to reflection, one would think, as effectually as occasional larger ones. We do not, however, always find it so.

Young people ought to consider what a host of evils sometimes result from a slight neglect. The trite saying—"For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe, the horse was lost; and for want of a horse, the rider was lost"—will, however, illustrate this part of my subject. Had the single nail which was omitted—the last one—been driven, and driven properly; had the work, in short, been done thoroughly, the shoe, horse and rider might all have been preserved.

Do not dread the imputation of being over-nice or whimsical, if you do your work thoroughly. You must learn to regard your own sense of right—your regard to duty—as a thing of far more importance than either the sneers or the approbation of thousands of the unthinking. I have heard an individual of great worth and respectability complain of a young friend of his, because he made it a point to finish thoroughly every thing he undertook, and charge him with having what he called a mania for finishing, I remember, too, a very worthy, and, in the main, excellent farmer, who used to complain of a very conscientious son of his, because, forsooth, he was determined to finish every thing he began, in the best possible manner, without paying much regard to the opinions of others. But these facts only show that wise and good men may not fully understand the nature and power of habit—or the necessity of being thorough in small as well as larger matters. The first individual I have named, was forever suffering from his own want of thoroughness—and was miserable through life; and the last would have been far happier all his life time, had he been as much disposed to finish the things he undertook, as his son.