GLEAMS OF SUNSHINE.
The night passed by, and although William had not slept during its
early hours, he rose as soon as it was light, and after offering an
earnest prayer that Heaven would shield him from temptation that day,
he wrote a letter to his friend George. We will not detail what the
epistle contained, but merely mention that, after stating many
circumstances that had occurred, it ended by telling what a kind
friend had been raised up for him in the old watchman. He did not
conceal the fact of his being very unhappy; but while he told of his
comfortless home, he also declared his resolution to try to be
contented with his present lot and like his trade. Thomas Burton had
told him that his heavenly Father had allotted to every one his proper
place, and to murmur would be sinful. He concluded by saying that he
would be diligent and faithful, trying in all things to please his
master, until his term of apprenticeship should have expired. "Then,
dear George, I will go back to M----. I never shall want to stay in a
big city; for although there are many fine things here, finer than I
ever saw in our little village, there is more wickedness, and it is
harder to be good where there is so much bad example."
At this moment his mistress called him to come and make the fire, and
hastily directing and sealing his letter, he thrust it into his pocket
and proceeded to do her bidding.
Notwithstanding considerable languor hung about his bodily frame, and
his bones and muscles still ached from the effects of the boating, he
felt a more peaceful frame of mind than he had known for weeks before.
The knowledge of having done wrong is always the first step toward
amendment. He not only felt that he had been guilty of more sins than
lying, but, viewing those minor faults in a different light than
formerly, he determined to watch over his heart carefully, and avoid
giving any cause of complaint in future. "Watch that you may pray, and
pray that you may be safe," were words that floated in his mind all
the morning as he sat hammering shoe soles; and he would not laugh at
any joke of Jem Taylor's against his master, although for some time
past he had enjoyed hearing him ridiculed.
Late in the afternoon Mrs. Walters came in, and, giving him a pair of
leather boots, told him to take them to Mrs. Bradley, the wife of a
market gardener who lived outside the city. It was fully three hours
after his scanty dinner had been eaten, and supper would be over ere
he returned. Growing boys are always hungry, and he was about to
venture to ask Mrs. Walters for a lunch to serve in place of the
evening meal, when he remembered the rolls given him by Mrs. Burton,
and which were still in his trunk. He hid the little packet in his
bosom, intending to eat its contents on his way home; and after having
put his letter in the post-office, he set off to accomplish his
errand.
One might have thought the walk, and the variety always met with in
the streets of a large city, would have exhilarated him; but, whether
owing to the condition of his bodily health, this was not now the
case. He passed the picture-shops without noticing the treasures in
the windows; the silver-ware and fanciful ornaments of the jewellers'
establishments served only to remind him of the vanities of earth, and
his own poverty; and as he looked upon the gaily-dressed crowd that
was thronging Broadway, among which there was not one whose face was
known to him, that painful sense of desolation which comes over one
when he feels alone in a crowd, saddened him almost to tears. He
recalled the happy days of his early childhood, and even those when,
after his father's death, he had been compelled to labour to assist
his mother. Ah, how light it all seemed in comparison with the
hardship of his present lot! Notwithstanding the comfort he had
enjoyed on the previous day, and his renewed determination to do his
duty and trust in God, his heart grew sick at the prospect of the long
years of wretchedness and bondage yet to be endured before his
apprenticeship should end; and he wished to die. "I am the most
unhappy being on the face of the earth," he said, as he wiped away the
tears with his ragged sleeve; "but still I will try to do right. Ah,
if Nicholas Herman knew how unhappy I am, I am sure he would try to
get me away!" He had by this time reached the city limits, and the
gardener's cottage, with its high enclosing palisades and espaliers
hanging with tempting fruit, was visible. The hedge which bordered on
the roadside was green, and its verdure attractive to one accustomed
to country life. Bounding over the ditch which separated it from the
common path, he was about to continue his walk along its margin, when
his step was arrested by a sound of distress. He looked round and saw
a little boy, barefoot and thinly clad, sitting on the ground and
weeping bitterly. A little basket, half filled with chips, told what
his occupation had been, while his pale face and meagre form were such
as to awaken pity in the heart of the most careless. William was not
so absorbed in his own distress that he had no sympathy to bestow on
another. He stooped over the boy, and, as he kindly took him by the
hand, a tear, which his own circumstances had called forth, fell upon
the boy's cheek, and caused him to look up in surprise.
"What are you crying for?" asked William; "are you afraid, or has any
one hurt you?"
The little fellow only answered by questioning: "You are crying
yourself;" said he; "are you as hungry as I am?"
"Are you really crying for hunger! that is dreadful!" rejoined
William. "I know what it is not to have enough to eat, but still I
never have been so starved as to cry about it."
"Neither grandmother nor I have had anything to eat since morning, and
I am very hungry."
"But what are you doing here?" inquired our hero.
"Just gathering some sticks, to make a fire for grandmother, who is
sick, and cannot spin now," answered the boy, still weeping.
"Have you no parents to take care of you?" again asked William. "What
is your name, and where do you live?"
The boy answered that his name was Ned Graham, and named a street at
no great distance from the place where they were, and which was well
known to William. He said that his parents were both dead; that while
his father, who was a carpenter, lived, they had been very
comfortable; but that now, as his grandmother was very old, and
himself too young to do anything to help to make a livelihood, they
were often hungry. "Grandmother spun and knit until she became sick,
and the neighbours still sent us in something; but they are poor
themselves, grandmother says; and this morning, when old Annie
Michael, who supports herself and children by washing, sent us some of
her breakfast, grandmother said she could not bear to take it."
William had no rejoinder to make, for self-reproach was busy at his
heart. But a little while ago he had thought himself "the most unhappy
being on the face of the earth," and now he could not help feeling
that the condition of poor little Ned was far more wretched than his
own. His food, indeed, was coarse and scanty enough; but then he had
his regular meals, while this poor child and his infirm grandmother
were obliged to subsist on the charity of the poor, which could not be
very regularly or liberally administered.
"I am surely very ungrateful to my heavenly Father," said he, half
aloud. "Hereafter, when I am disposed to complain of my food, I will
think of this poor boy. But stop; I had forgotten the rolls Mrs.
Burton gave me. I am not very hungry now;" and taking the packet from
his bosom pocket, he gave it to the little starveling.
"I am not to have them all?" said Ned, as he broke one off, and began
to eat it. "Do you not want some yourself?"
"No," replied William; "I will get some supper when I go home; so
carry half of them to your grandmother, for you are both hungry, and
have no supper to expect."
And now, although hungry himself, with what pleasure did he give his
rolls to one whose want was far greater than his own! He felt, in this
denying of self, how great was the luxury of doing good; for mercy--
"Droppeth as the gentle dew from heaven.
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes."
Having finished his errand to the market-gardener's wife, and received
a new order for some children's shoes, he took little Ned by the hand,
and, having left him at his home, and looked in on the sick
grandmother, he went back to his master's house, which now wore a more
comfortable aspect than it had ever done before. So true is it that
God accords to none unmitigated misery; and there are few, if any,
who, like our hero, are tempted to believe themselves the most
wretched beings in the world, who need anything but to look around
among their fellow-men, to find that they are not the only or the
greatest sufferers. Neither should any allow themselves to think that
poverty and misfortune form the chief misery of man. None but the
guilty are completely wretched; and trials are but necessary
discipline to bring the soul from earth to heaven. "Before I was
afflicted I went astray; but now I keep thy law," are the words of
David; and how many can be found ready to acknowledge that "it is good
for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth: for the. Lord will not
cast off for ever; but though he cause grief, yet will he have
compassion, according to the multitude of his mercies."
And so from this time, although the treatment he received at his
cheerless home was no better, the change which had come over his
spirit since his late humiliation, had urged him to fly to the throne
of grace for protection against the weakness of his own heart, and
also made the hardships he endured seem less. He grew more mature by
the severe discipline which, sanctified by the Spirit of grace, was
purifying his soul; and he pursued the homely trade which at first he
so disliked, and tried to conquer self by hurrying past the
picture-shops, which were so great a source of attraction at first,
and now regarded them as forbidden fruit. Not that they were less
attractive, but his own heart told him, and so did his friend, Thomas
Burton, that God appoints to every one such a sphere of action as is
suited to his nature; and although to one has been committed but one
talent, while another has five, and another ten, the principle on
which each is improved is the same. The great work each one has to do
is within his own breast, and he that would gain the crown promised at
the end of life's course must run the race in the spirit and temper of
the gospel, which are humility and meekness.
In consequence of this subdued spirit and a greater readiness to obey,
his harsh guardians relaxed so far as to yield to the persuasions of
the good watchman, and suffered him to go on Sunday afternoons to
church and Sabbath school, as well as sometimes to spend the evening
with himself.
And this, dear reader, proved like a fountain of sweet water in the
wilderness; and, as an oasis in the desert, furnished rest and
refreshing, which strengthened him to bear up against the hardships
and trials of the week. And as, in hearing the Scriptures expounded
and learning their soul-comforting lessons, the word, as the Psalmist
says, became "hidden in his heart," it proved more precious to him
than the "gold of Ophir." It taught him to guard against the
deceitfulness of his own heart; to discern temptation, however
speciously veiled; pointed out the way to escape when sorely beset;
and showed him where, when "weary and heavy laden," to seek for rest.
Duty was made plain; and, taught to understand his own errors, he also
understood by what means to guard against them. He now walked
according to the scriptural rule, and found his reward in the peace
promised unto those "whose mind is stayed on God, and trust him."