THE FIRST PRAYER.
It would have been difficult to find two children of the poorer class
whose situations in life had presented a greater contrast than those of
Gerty and Willie. Gerty was a neglected orphan; she had received little
of that care, and still less of that love, which Willie had enjoyed.
Mrs. Sullivan's husband was an intelligent country clergyman; but as he
died when Willie was a baby, leaving little property for the support of
his family, the widow and her child went home to her father. The old man
needed his daughter; for death had made sad inroads in his household
since she left it, and he was alone.
From that time the three had lived together in humble comfort, for,
though poor, industry and frugality secured them from want. Willie was
his mother's pride, her hope, her constant thought. She spared no care
to provide for his physical comfort, his happiness, and his education
and virtue.
She might well be proud of a boy whose uncommon beauty, winning
disposition, and early evidences of a noble nature, won him friends even
among strangers. It was his broad, open forehead, the clearness and
calmness of his full grey eye, the expressive mouth, so determined and
yet so mild, the well-developed figure and ruddy complexion, proclaiming
high health, which gave promise of power to the future man. No one could
have been in the boy's company half an hour without loving and admiring
him. He had a warm-hearted, affectionate disposition, which his mother's
love and the world's smiles had fostered; an unusual flow of animal
spirits, tempered by a natural politeness towards his superiors; a quick
apprehension; a ready command of language; and a sincere sympathy in
others' pleasures and pains. He was fond of study, and until his twelfth
year his mother kept him constantly at school.
At that time he had an opportunity to enter into the service of an
apothecary, who did an extensive business, and wanted a boy to assist in
the shop. The wages offered by Mr. Bray were not great, but there was a
prospect of an increased salary; and it was not a chance to be
overlooked. Fond as he was of his books, he had long been eager to be at
work, helping to bear the burden of labour in the family. His mother and
grandfather consented to the plan, and he gladly accepted Mr. Bray's
proposals. He was sadly missed at home; for, as he slept at his
employer's during the week, he rarely could make a passing visit to his
mother, except on Saturday, when he came home at night and passed
Sunday. So Saturday night was Mrs. Sullivan's happy night, and the
Sabbath became a more blessed day than ever.
When Willie reached his mother's room on the evening of which we have
been speaking, he sat down with her and Mr. Cooper, and for an hour
conversation was brisk with them. Willie had always much to relate
concerning the occurrences of the week. Mrs. Sullivan was interested in
everything that interested Willie, and it was easy to see that the old
grandfather was more entertained by the boy than he was willing to
appear; for though he sat with his eyes upon the floor, and did not seem
to listen, he usually heard all that was said. He seldom made comments,
but would occasionally utter an impatient or contemptuous expression
regarding individuals or the world in general; thereby evidencing want
of confidence in men's honesty and virtue, and this formed a marked
trait in his character. Willie's spirits would receive a momentary
check, for _he_ loved and trusted _everybody_. Willie did not fear his
grandfather, who had never been severe to him, or interfered with Mrs.
Sullivan's management; but he sometimes felt chilled, though he hardly
knew why, by his want of sympathy with his own warm-heartedness. On the
present occasion the conversation turned upon True Flint and his adopted
child. Mr. Cooper had been unusually bitter, and, as he took his lamp to
go to bed, declared that Gerty would never be anything but a trouble to
Flint, who was a fool not to send her to the almshouse at once.
There was a pause after the old man left the room; then Willie
exclaimed, "Mother, what makes grandfather hate folks?"
"Why, he don't, Willie."
"I don't mean exactly _hate_--I don't suppose he does _that, quite_; but
he don't seem to think a great deal of anybody--do you think he does?"
"Oh yes; he does not show it much," said Mrs. Sullivan, "but he thinks a
great deal of you, Willie, and he wouldn't have anything happen to me
for the world; and he likes Mr. Flint, and----"
"Oh yes; but I don't mean that; he doesn't think there's much goodness
in folks, nor to think anybody's going to turn out well, and----"
"You're thinking of what he said about little Gerty."
"Well, she an't the only one. That's what made me speak of it now, but
I've often noticed it before, particularly since I went away from home,
and am only here once a week. Now I think everything of Mr. Bray; and
when I was telling how much good he did, and how kind he was to old Mrs.
Morris and her sick daughter, grandfather looked just as if he didn't
believe it, or didn't think much of it."
"Oh, well, Willie, you mustn't wonder much at that. Grandpa's had many
disappointments. You know he thought everything of Uncle Richard, and
there was no end to the trouble he had with him; and there was Aunt
Sarah's husband--he seemed to be such a fine fellow when Sally married
him, but he cheated father at last, so that he had to mortgage his house
in High Street, and finally gave it up entirely. He's dead now, and I
don't want to say anything against him; but he didn't prove what we
expected, and it broke Sally's heart. That was a dreadful trial to
father, for she was the youngest, and his pet. And just after that,
mother was taken down with her death-stroke, and a quack doctor
prescribed for her, and father always thought that did her more hurt
than good. So that he has had a great deal to make him look on the dark
side now, but you mustn't mind it, Willie; you must take care and turn
out well yourself, my son, and then he'll be proud enough; he's as
pleased as he can be when he hears you praised, and expects great things
of you one of these days."
Here the conversation ended; but Willie added another to his many
resolves, that, if his health and strength were spared, he would prove
to his grandfather that hopes were not always deceitful, and that fears
were sometimes groundless.
Oh, what a glorious thing it is for a youth when he has ever present
with him a high, a noble, and unselfish motive! What an incentive to
exertion, perseverance, and self-denial! Fears that would otherwise
appal, discouragements that would dishearten, labours that would weary,
opposition that would crush, temptation that would overcome, all, all
lie powerless, when, with a single-hearted and worthy aim, he struggles
for the victory! Persons born in wealth and luxury seldom achieve
greatness. They were not born for labour; and, without labour, nothing
that is worth having can be won. A motive Willie had long had. His
grandfather was old, his mother weak, and both poor. He must be the
staff of their old age; must labour for their support and comfort; he
must do _more_:--they hoped great things of him; they _must_ not be
disappointed. He did not, however, while arming himself for future
conflict with the world, forget the present, but sat down and learned
his Sunday-school lessons. After which, according to custom, he read
aloud in the Bible; and then Mrs. Sullivan, laying her hand on the head
of her son, offered up a simple, heart-felt prayer for the boy--one of
those mother's prayers which the child listens to with reverence and
love, and remembers for life.
After Willie went home that evening, and Gerty was left alone with True,
she sat beside him for some time without speaking. Her eyes were
intently fixed upon the white image which lay in her lap. True was not
the first to speak; but finding Gerty unusually quiet, he looked
inquiringly in her face, and said--"Well, Willie's a pretty clever sort
of a boy, isn't he?"
Gerty answered "Yes" without, however, seeming to know what she was
saying.
"You like him, don't you?" said True.
"Very much," said Gerty, in the same absent way. It was not Willie she
was thinking of. True waited for Gerty to talk about her new
acquaintance; but she did not speak for a minute or two. Then looking up
suddenly, she said--"Uncle True, what does Samuel pray to God for?"
True stared. "Samuel!--pray!--I guess I don't know exactly what you're
saying."
"Why," said Gerty, holding up the image, "Willie says this little boy's
name is Samuel; and that he sits on his knees, and puts his hands on his
breast _so_, and looks up, because he's praying to God, that lives up in
the sky. I don't know what he means--_way_ up in the sky--do you?"
True took the image and looked at it attentively; scratched his head,
and said--"Well, I s'pose he's about right. This 'ere child is prayin',
sartain, though I didn't think on it afore. But I don't jist know what
he calls it a Samuel for. We'll ask him sometime."
"Well, what does he pray for, Uncle True?"
"Oh, he prays to make him good: it makes folks good to pray to God."
"Can God make folks good?"
"Yes. God is very great; He can do anything."
"How can He _hear_?"
"He hears and sees everything in the world."
"And does He live in the sky?"
"Yes," said True--"in heaven."
Many more questions Gerty asked, which True could not answer; many
questions that he had never asked himself. True had a humble, loving
heart, and a child-like faith; he had enjoyed but little religious
instruction, but he earnestly tried to live up to the light he had. True
had never inquired into the sources of belief, and he was not prepared
to answer the questions suggested by the inquisitive mind of little
Gerty. He answered her as well as he could, however; and, where he was
at fault, referred her to Willie, who, he told her, went to
Sunday-school, and knew a great deal about such things. All the
information that Gerty could gain amounted to the knowledge of these
facts: that God was in heaven; that His power was great; and that people
were made better by prayer. But her mind was so intent upon the subject,
that the thought even of sleeping in her new room could not efface it.
After she had gone to bed, with the white image hugged close to her
bosom, and True had taken away the lamp, she lay for a long time with
her eyes wide open. Just at the foot of the bed was the window. The sky
was bright with stars; and they revived her old wonder and curiosity as
to the Author of such distant and brilliant lights. As she gazed, there
darted through her mind the thought, "God lit them! Oh, how great He
must be! But a _child_ might pray to Him!" She rose from her little bed,
approached the window, and, falling on her knees and clasping her hands
precisely in the attitude of Samuel, she looked up to heaven. She spoke
no word, but her eyes glistened with a tear that stood in each. Was not
each tear a prayer? She breathed no petition, but she longed for God and
virtue. Was not that very wish a prayer? Her little, uplifted heart
throbbed vehemently. Was not each throb a prayer? And did not God in
heaven, without whom not a sparrow falls to the ground, hear and accept
that first homage of a little, untaught child; and did it not call a
blessing down?