MEMORIES OF CHILDISH DAYS.
I stand on the brink of a river,
The river of life to me,
Where the billows of memory quiver,
And rise and fall like the sea.
I read in their tremulous motion
The records of many a year,
And like voices that come from the ocean
Are the muffled words I hear.--ANON.
A bright morning beamed upon Hubert as he awoke from his slumber in his
childhood's home. He looked round the room; somehow there were many
things in it that he could recollect. There was the dark oak chest, with
curious figures carved upon the front, which had often been a source of
terror to him in early days, because on one occasion he was told that
they were the likenesses of certain naughty boys, whose remains he
verily believed were within that black chest, and though for many years
he had forgotten all about it, the story, and the nurse who told it,
came all back fresh into his memory. Then there was the old-fashioned
furniture upon the bed. "Why!" and he looked at it again, "it is the
same, the very same that covered me when last I slept here." And that
large arm-chair behind the door, he knew _that_; he remembered that it
was taken up there when his grandfather died, and he also remembered
that it was where he always put his clothes when he went to bed. Many
other things there were that he remembered: very little, indeed, seemed
changed; and, as he looked round, his eyes lighted upon a stick, a bow,
and a kite, tied together, hanging on the wall. He arose from his bed,
and began to dress himself, scanning as he did so the various objects in
his room. Presently he saw a small picture over the mantel-shelf, and
went to look at it. He started back--it was intended for himself.
Whether it had been a good likeness he was not able to judge, but it
represented him as a young soldier just going from home, and beneath it
was written, "Our Hubert." It had been drawn from memory, and placed
there in remembrance of the lost one. Beneath it, on the mantel-shelf,
was a little box, and Hubert raised the lid. Something more! Yes,
something more. In that box lay a pair of slippers; they were little
ones--a child of eight years old might have worn them; and Hubert, as he
was just closing the lid, saw written inside it, "Our Hubert's." "Mine,
mine!" he said, as he took them out. "Not mine!" But then some flash of
memory lighted up the past, and he thought he could remember when they
were his. Over these little slippers the soldier sat down and wept; for
the truth had suddenly come to him, and he pictured his parents,
gathering up every little thing that he had owned, remembering all about
him, except that he had gone away and forgotten them; placing from the
heart upon canvas the features of the rebellious one, and loving him
fondly to the last. Perhaps over these little slippers they had shed
many a tear; since they had covered the little feet, those feet had gone
astray. What a dear relic they were of the past! how they reminded him
of a time when he was pure and innocent! And he said, as he brushed away
the tears from his cheeks--
"Oh! If I had only died then, I should have caused no sorrow, nor felt
any, but been in heaven with the angels."
"Yes, Hubert, you would have caused sorrow," some spirit near him might
have whispered; "first-born of that dwelling, they could not spare thee.
He who gave thee as a blessing at the first, means thee to be a blessing
still."
Hubert replaced the slippers, and went downstairs to meet his father.
The old man was there first. Years had passed since he had risen so
early; but new life seemed to have been given to him; and, as he met his
long-lost son at the door, he forgot that he was no longer the little
child of his love; he forgot, too, all the sorrow he had been to him;
forgot the long years he had mourned him; and clasped him fondly to his
heart.
"Hubert," said his father, "it is thirty-nine years this very day since
I received you, my first-born child; a second time you have been born to
me, and we shall do well to rejoice. Your mother, dear sainted one, I
would that she were here with us; but we will not wish her back--she is
happier in heaven, and we will not sorrow because she's gone; it would
seem like reproaching that good God who, in His mercy, has restored you
to me. Yes, boy, I know well that she bitterly wept your loss--your
absence, I mean; but she wept the death of other dear ones, and God took
her to them: we shall, I hope, join them soon. Heaven bless you!"
It was a happy day, sanctified by a holy joy. Many friends, including
the good minister of the parish, who, thirty-nine years before, received
Hubert at the font, and prayed to Heaven to bless him, brought their
meed of welcome to the wanderer, and that faithful servant of his
heavenly Master spoke comfort to his aged fellow-pilgrim's heart.
"Master Goodwin," he said, "I told you, years ago, that if ye pray and
do indeed believe, that ye shall receive--it shall be as ye ask; it is
the prayer without faith that wins no blessing. God does not give us all
we ask, because we are sinning creatures, and know not what we ask; but
then, how many of us pray for things that we never want! and if we had
only ourselves to judge what is best for us, instead of receiving a
blessing, we should often receive a curse. When the heart asks God to
teach it to pray, and then asks a blessing, believing that if it is
God's will that prayer will be granted, depend upon that, that prayer
_is_ answered; if the actual thing is not given, the heart receives
something in another way--at any rate, it _does_ get a blessing. How
many years you have prayed for that son, and how many times you
murmured, and thought God had forgotten! but He never forgets; He has
remembered all your grief, and answered, what prayer? Why, the prayer of
faith. If you look back you will find that it is only of late years that
you have borne your sorrows without murmuring; they have been heavy, we
know; yet, for how many years the gilding of your prayers was tarnished
by the breath of sorrowful repining? and perhaps it was when your heart
could really say 'Thy will be done,' that the cloud of your troubles
began to disperse, and the blessing was given. Oh that men would always
praise the Lord for His goodness! How well He knows all our need! He
knows when to smite and when to heal, and they who continue faithful
unto death, to them shall that mysterious Providence be more fully
revealed. If much sorrow has been your portion, so has much blessing. It
is better to have saints in heaven than rebellious children on earth:
and God has been very gracious to you."
"He has, indeed," said Hubert's father. "I feel it more truly now." And
as he grasped the faithful pastor's hand, he said, "He gave you to this
parish as one of my blessings, and your prayers have perhaps helped to
restore me my son. Pray with us now, for our joy may be too great."
They knelt: a deep and earnest prayer fell from the pastor's lips upon
the stillness of the hour, and the tear upon the cheek told its power on
the heart. The prayer was over, and the good man, bidding them adieu for
the present, left them to rejoice over the once lost one, while he, in
the spirit of his mission, withdrew himself from the world, and thanked
God for having brought back the wandering sheep.
Hubert's return had filled his father with such joy that he would
scarcely tell him anything about the family, so anxious was he to hear
all about himself; and it was some time after his arrival before he
heard of all the bereavement of that household. All gone! all whom he
had left in the beauty and strength of youth, when he went out to India,
had been swept to the tomb; not one left round that desolate hearth,
except the little orphan Richard, now nine years old, the only child of
his second brother, who, with his young wife, had sunk into an early
grave. One by one the hand of death had taken them from the fireside,
and it was now his turn to mourn them. He saw plainly now how it was
that his father had received him so fondly. Poor old man! his home had
been sadly lonely; the household gods had been all broken, and his aged
heart nearly so. Hubert looked at his father as he told the history of
each one as they had departed, and conscience told him that there was
before him a braver warrior than he had ever seen before--one who had
fought a stern battle, and had ever been in the thickest of the fight.
Hubert's heart beat; he felt that he had added heavily to the burden and
heat of his father's day, and, falling upon his knee before his parent,
he cried, as his hands covered his face, "Oh, father, forgive me!"
"Forgive you! Oh, Hubert, did I forget to say I had forgiven you long
ago? There is nothing now to forgive, but I bless you for coming home.
Let the past be the past. Bless you for coming home to me! God is good;
He gave, He has a right to take, but He has given you to me again." But
the truth seemed to shine upon the old man's mind, and putting his arm
round Hubert's neck, he said--
"Ah! well, it's all forgiven; you might have done other than you have
done, perhaps; but never mind;" and he wept tears of joy upon the bosom
of his son. This little rebuke from Hubert's father was more welcome
than the caresses he received, and Hubert opened his heart upon it, and
began to tell his father of things which had befallen him in India;
hitherto he had seldom spoken, except in answer to his father's many
questions, for there was a weight of remorse in his bosom which nothing
yet had removed; but now he was assured of his father's forgiveness, and
a smile lighted up his hitherto sad face, as they sat round the fire
telling many a story of his distant home; his father was delighted, and
young Richard drew his little chair beside his veteran uncle, to listen
also. Many a week passed by; Hubert had ever something to tell his
father, but of all the history of the past, or of all the fame he had
won, nothing was so dear to the old man's heart as the "torn Bible;" he
made Hubert tell again and again all about it, its long neglect, and its
abuse. The field of battle, the capture, and the rescue from the
Indians, and even the dreadful night in the jungle, when Hubert's
life-blood was draining from his wounds, were nothing compared with the
strong will broken, the heart subdued, and the torn, despised Bible
giving back a new and better life to the prodigal. Oh, how the old man
loved to dwell upon that! many prayers from the long since silent heart
had been answered then, and he ever repeated in Hubert's ear the words,
"Oh, yes, she knew all about it, for she was one of the angels in heaven
that rejoiced when you repented."
Hubert grew happier in the society of his father; and though at times a
kind of reflection on his past life would cast a sort of thoughtful
sadness over his brow, yet his health daily improved, and his heart
became more and more attuned to the will of God.