RODNEY IN NEW YORK.
On a beautiful Sabbath morning in July, Rodney stood in the hall of
the old Dutch house in which successive generations of the family
had been born, and paused to look the last farewell, he dare not
speak, upon those who loved him, and whom, notwithstanding his
waywardness, he also loved.
There sat his pious and venerable grandmother, with the little
round stand before her, upon which lay the old family Bible,
over which she was intently bending, reading and commenting to
herself, as was her custom, in half-audible tones. He had often
stood behind her, and listened, unobserved, as she read verse
after verse, and paused after each, to testify of its truth, or
piously apply it to herself and others. And now he thought that,
in all probability, he would never see her again, and he half
repented his determination. But his preparations were all made,
and he could not now hesitate, lest his purpose should be
discovered.
He looked at his mother, as she was arranging the dress of a
younger and only brother, for the Sabbath-school. As she leaned
over him, and smoothed down the collar she had just fastened
round his neck, Rodney, with heart and eye, bade farewell to
both.
He stood and gazed for a moment upon his only sister, who sat
with her baby in her arms, answering the little laughing
prattler in a language that sounded like its own, and which
certainly none but the two could understand. Some might doubt
whether they understood it themselves; but they both seemed
highly interested and delighted by the conversation.
That dear sister, amiable and loving, is long since dead. She
greeted death with a cheerful welcome, for the messenger
released her from a life of domestic unhappiness, and introduced
her into that blessed heaven "where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest."
And that prattling infant has become, in his turn, a runaway
sailor-boy, flying from an unhappy home to a more wretched
destiny, of whose wanderings or existence nothing has been heard
for many years.
It was one hasty, intense glance which Rodney cast over these
groups, and each beloved figure, as it then appeared, was fixed
in his memory forever. He has never forgotten--_he never can
forget_--that moment, or the emotions that thrilled his heart as
he turned away from them.
He had hidden a little trunk, containing his clothing, in the
stable, and thither he hastened; and, throwing his trunk upon
his shoulder, he stole out of the back gate, and took his course
through bye streets to the dock, where he went on board a
steamboat, and in half an hour was sailing down the Hudson
towards New York.
He had no money with which to pay his passage. He had left home
without a single sixpence. When the captain came to collect the
passengers' fare, he told him a wicked, premeditated lie. He said
that, in taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he had
accidentally drawn out his pocket-book with it, and that it had
fallen overboard. Thus one sin prepares the way to the commission
of another.
He offered to leave his trunk in pledge for the payment of the
passage; and the captain, after finding it full of clothing,
ordered it to be locked up until the money was paid. Rodney
expected to be able to get a situation in some ship immediately,
and to receive a part of his wages in advance, with which he
could redeem his clothing.
He slept on board the steamboat, and on Monday morning started
in search of a ship that would take him. He wandered along the
wharves, and at first was afraid to speak to any one, lest he
should be questioned and sent home. At last he made up his mind
to ask a sailor, whom he saw sauntering on the dock, if he knew
where he could get a place on board a ship.
The sailor looked at him a moment, turned his huge tobacco quid
over in his mouth, hitched up his trowsers, and said:
"Why, you young runaway, do you want to go to sea? What can
such a chap as you do on a ship? Go home, and stick by your
mammy for five years more, and then you'll have no trouble in
shipping."
Rodney was a good deal frightened at such a reply, and walked on
for some time, not venturing to ask again. Toward noon he went
on board a large vessel, and seeing a man, whom he took for the
captain of the ship, asked him if he could give him a place.
"No, my boy," he replied; "we don't sail for three weeks, and we
never ship a crew before the time."
All day he wandered about the wharves, and to all his questions
received repelling replies, mingled oftentimes with oaths,
jeers, and insults. No one seemed to feel the least interest for
him.