I was a passenger on board one of those noble steamers which navigate
the Sound. The hurly-burly attending our departure from the dock was at
last ended, and I had a good opportunity to wander quietly about the
boat, studying, as it is my wont to do, the variously marked
countenances of my fellow passengers. When the supper bell rang, there
was a general movement made towards the after-cabin, and as I fell in
with the crowd, I happened to cast my eye upon the only group left
behind. This was composed of a middle-aged man and his three children.
The latter were getting ready to retire to rest, and the youngest one, a
sweet little girl of perhaps three years of age, ever and anon kept
questioning her father as follows—“where’s mother, pa?—pa, where’s
mother? When will she come back?” The kind and delicate attentions of
the father, as he smoothed the pillows and laid them in their nest,
tended to interest my feelings; and, when at the supper-table, my fancy
was busy with the scene just witnessed.
It was now quite late; the lazily-uttered joke, and the less frequent
peal of laughter, seemed to announce the spiritual presence of repose.
The newspaper, the book, and checker-board, were gradually laid aside,
and in a little while nearly all the berth-curtains were drawn up, and
their occupants in the arms of sleep. Many of the lamps were out, and
those that did remain produced a dim, solemn twilight throughout the
cabin—the only part at all animated being that corner where the
boot-black was engaged in his appropriate duty. The cause of my own
wakefulness it is unnecessary to relate; suffice it to say, it was
entirely dispelled by the following incident.
Just as I was about to retire, the sigh of a burdened heart smote my
ear, and as I turned, I beheld an individual sitting near a berth, with
his face resting upon the pillow, weeping bitterly. He was a fine,
intelligent looking man, in the prime of life; and on nearer
observation, I found him to be the identical one, who had before
attracted my attention. I approached his seat, and, in as kind a tone as
possible, inquired the cause of his unhappiness; adding, that I should
be pleased to do for him anything he might desire. For a moment, a fresh
flood of tears was my only answer; but these he soon wiped away, and
extending to me his hand, he thus began to speak.
“I am grateful to you, my dear Sir, for your expressions of kindness and
sympathy towards me, but the weight which is resting upon my spirit
cannot be easily dispelled. I have been sorely afflicted of late, and
the associations connected with that event are what caused me to forget
myself, and give vent to my emotions in tears. To be found weeping like
a child, in the midst of a multitude of strangers, may be considered a
weakness, I hope not a sin; but that you may understand my conduct, I
will relate to you the cause.
“One short month ago, as I paused to consider my condition, I fancied
myself to be one of the happiest of men. My cottage-home, which stands
in one of the fairest valleys of New Hampshire, was then a perfect
picture of contentment and peace. A much-loved wife, and three children,
were then the joys of my existence. Every pleasurable emotion which I
enjoyed was participated in by her, who was my first and only love. From
our united hearts, every morning and evening, ascended a deep-felt
prayer of gratitude to our Heavenly Father; and from the same source
sprang every hope concerning the temporal prospects of our children,
and, to us and them, of the life beyond the grave. We were at peace with
God, and with regard to this world, we had everything we desired.
“The time of harvest being now ended, and an urgent invitation having
been received from my father-in-law, I concluded to take my family, and
make a visit to the pleasant village in New Jersey, where my wife and I
were children together, and where we had plighted our early love-vows.
All things were ready, and, leaving our homestead to the care of a
servant, we started on our journey,—reaching in due time, and in safety,
our place of destination.
“We found our friends all well, and glad to see us. Not a care or
trouble rested on a single heart. Thankful for the blessings of the past
and present, all our prospects of the future were as bright as heart
could desire. ‘Old familiar faces’ greeted us at every corner, old
friendships were again revived, and a thousand delightful associations
crowded around us, so that we had nothing to do but be happy.
“Thus had two weeks passed away, when, on the very night previous to our
_intended_ departure for home, my wife was suddenly taken ill, and when
the morrow dawned,—_I was a widower, and my children motherless_. The
idol of my heart, instead of returning to her earthly home, was summoned
by her Maker to that blessed home above the stars, where the happiness
of the redeemed will never end. God is great, and His will be done; but,
alas, it almost breaks my heart to think of those bitter, bitter
words—‘never more.’ I cannot bear to think of it; never more upon the
earth shall I behold that beauteous form, and listen to that heavenly
voice, which were my delight and pride. To my eye, the greenness of
earth is forever departed. O who can tell what a day or an hour may
bring forth? O how lonely, lonely, is my poor, poor, poor heart!”
These last words of my stranger friend were uttered in a smothered tone,
and with a drooping head; and, though he held my arm after I had risen
to go, I tore myself away, for I thought it my duty to retire.
When I awoke in the morning, after a troubled sleep, I found the boat
was at the dock, and the day somewhat advanced. My first thought was
concerning the unhappy stranger, with whom I longed to have another
interview; but in making diligent search I found that he was gone, and
with him his three sweet orphan children. His form, and the few words he
had spoken, seemed to me like a dream. O yes, they were indeed the
substance of a vision—a dream of human life. Surely, surely life is but
a vapor, which appeareth for a little season, and then vanisheth away.
As the great Jeremy Taylor hath eloquently written: “Death meets us
everywhere, and is procured by every instrument, and in all chances, and
enters in at many doors; by violence and secret influence, by the aspect
of a star, by the emissions of a cloud and the melting of a vapor, by
the fall of a chariot and the stumbling of a stone, by a full meal or an
empty stomach, by watching at the wine, or by watching at prayers, by
the sun or the moon, by a heat or a cold, by sleepless nights or
sleeping days, by water frozen into the hardness and sharpness of a
dagger, or water thawed into the floods of a river, by a hair or a
raisin, by violent motion, or sitting still, by severity or dissolution,
by God’s mercy or God’s anger, by everything in providence and
everything in manners, by everything in nature and everything in chance.
We take pains to heap up things useful to our life, and get our death in
the purchase; and the person is snatched away, and the goods remain. And
all this is the law and constitution of nature; it is a punishment to
our sins, the unalterable event of providence, and the decree of heaven.
The chains that confine us to this condition are strong as destiny, and
immutable as the eternal laws of God.”
This picture of man’s condition is indeed most melancholy, but let us
remember it is not a hopeless one. Only let us keep the commandments,
and confide in the promises of the Invisible, and we shall eventually
find that the laws regulating our final redemption will prove to be as
immutable as those concerning our earthly condition.