"I lived," said he, "in Western New York, and only two years ago
thought myself perfectly happy. I had married to my mind. My wife loved
me enough to connect herself with me against her parents' wishes—I
being a mechanic, dependent on my own labor. They never were cordial
to me, but kept themselves aloof, as if of another race. But she was
always gentle, affectionate, and true. Ah, sir, she was indeed too good
for me—too good for earth.
"My boyhood and youth had been industriously employed, and I had used
such means of mental improvement as were within my reach; but religion
had always seemed a thing of gloom suited to the aged, or the last
moments of life, but having no special claim on my attention. Never
shall I forget the first evening after our marriage. Clara placed the
Bible on the table, and said,—
"'Will you not read a chapter, dearest, and by prayer, seek God's
blessing on our new life?' I know not how to pray, but she did,
and kneeling down, with sobs and tears, she besought God, oh, how
fervently, to be with us in our journey together, and to enable us to
live as he had commanded. She never faltered in her Christian course,
never turned back, and was always happy. I looked upon her at times
with feelings akin to awe. She influenced me more than any other being
did before, and under that influence I was led to make a profession
of religion, for I was powerless to resist her gentle persuasions.
Still, I do not now think I ought to have taken that step; it was under
the compulsion of a human love amounting almost to idolatry. Often I
contrasted my hardened worldly nature with hers, and it seemed as if
it could not be right that such a being should be united to one so
unworthy of her.
"'Are you not an angel in disguise, come to save me from myself
and from sin?' I asked one day; and I was sincere in the question,
extravagant as it may sound to others. And when, after the labors of
the day, as I approached our little cottage I saw her dressed in white,
flitting among the flowers in the garden, or coming to meet me with a
beautiful smile, the fancy would possess me that some visitant from a
brighter world had taken compassion on my weaknesses, and in human form
was seeking to lead me to the paths of peace and blessedness.
"After I had joined the church, she always encouraged me to keep up
household worship. Were it not for her watchfulness and loving tact,
however, often would the service have been omitted. Indeed, sir, it
was her faith that I expressed, her desires that were breathed from my
lips, I fear, for my heart was often cold and unbelieving, and my feet
constantly inclined to stray."
"Did you have no enjoyment, no peace of mind, no real resolution to
serve God in all this?" I asked.
"Sometimes it seemed to me that I did. But my life since shows that
I was deceived. I loved her better than my heavenly Father, else why
have I been tempest-tossed, at the mercy of circumstances, restless,
complaining, wicked. Oh, if I had not lost her, I never should have
fallen so low!" he exclaimed passionately.
"Then your wife was taken from you?"
"Yes; in a little more than a year she died, and an infant daughter was
laid with her in the grave. Oh, the agony of those few last days of her
life. I called in the best physicians of the region; they could neither
save her, nor relieve her sufferings, while my heart was breaking with
fear of the result, and anguish at her sufferings. But she,—why, sir,
not a murmur escaped her lips; her peace grew wondrously, like the
dawning of heaven, and while her body was racked with pain, her face
shone like Stephen's before his murderers. Before her departure she
was ever praying for me or praising God, for her soul was filled with
heaven. Her last words were, as she pointed upward, 'We shall meet
there, George.'
"When she died it was just before daylight one wild tempestuous night.
I rushed frantically forth through the streets of the village into the
woods beyond, and fell helplessly on the ground, overcome with the
terrible emotions of rage, and grief, and wretchedness. I felt that
life had now no charms for me, and that God was a hard being, a tyrant,
who had remorselessly robbed me of all I loved. Unable to apply myself
to work, what little I had got together for her sake was soon gone. At
length I came West, hoping that new scenes might help me to forget the
old. The change was favorable for a time. I found work, but fell sick.
The few acquaintances I had were gone when I got about. I was in debt
for board, medical attendance, and other necessary expenses, and have
since been unsuccessfully wandering around seeking employment."
Briefly, misfortune had brought him to despair, and well nigh unsettled
reason. Hard-hearted treatment had filled him with hatred to his kind.
He had even been tempted to self-destruction, and later to commit
robbery. His brain, as he expressed it, was "all in a whirl, and his
heart hard as stone."
"Ah," said I, "you have been all wrong in your feelings—you have
neglected one thing most needful for you in your circumstances."
"What is that?" he asked.
"It is that which your sainted wife found help in,—'prayer.' I also
have seen sorrow, and have found it an unfailing refuge."
"Oh," said he, vehemently, "that I could pray!"
Commending to him the case of the publican and the thief on the cross,
I added, "One anciently said, 'I am poor and needy, yet "the Lord"
thinketh upon me!' If you seek him, he will be found of you, he will
sustain you. And he will hear your cries, and open before you, I doubt
not, a door of deliverance as it regards your temporal necessities.
Will you not thus go to him and trust him?"
Then advising him to keep away from the miasma of the Mississippi and
from the large towns, and seek a shelter till he was well among the
kind-hearted prairie farmers, and placing in his hand something to help
him on his way, we parted.
——————
"That's a dangerous operation," said one, passing, as some months after
the incidents just narrated I chanced at a village fifty miles inland,
and stood watching a group of men engaged in raising a "liberty pole."
It was of great height, and no little enthusiasm attended its erection,
for the place had just been made the county-seat, after a spirited
contest with rival aspirants for the honor. Being a stranger I could
share little in the general joy, but was more concerned for the lives
of those who pulled at the ropes by which the huge piece of timber was
being elevated, than for the future of the town. Awkwardly enough, it
seemed to me, was the raising managed by the gray-haired leader of the
enterprise, and as the pole swayed now this way, now that, I shuddered.
But a sudden "hurrah" told that the feat was accomplished and I was
turning away relieved, when a man touched me, and said,—
"Excuse me, sir, but I believe we have met before."
It was my stranger acquaintance of the Landing. I had observed him,
as among the most active in the raising; but in his new garb and new
bearing did not recognize him. I had no time to reply to his greeting,
ere he grasped my hand and said, tearfully,—
"I took your advice and have been prospered—been blessed;" and,
pointing to a building just in sight, "there's my shop—I am a saved
man!"
And, as we parted again, he said, "What a gulf I hung over when you
rescued me! All the demons of the pit were dragging me to ruin! Thank
God I was kept from crime but how narrow the escape! and," he added,
"I now think that my dear wife's prayers and labors for me have been
blessed. I have a hope, for God did not wholly leave me. He saved me
from the snare of the fowler, and set my feet in a large place. The
furnace of affliction was seven times heated, but I am not consumed,
and by and by I expect to meet her whom I love, and be with her
forever, in the presence of the dear Saviour, who loved us and gave
himself for us."
A coincidence connected with the facts just related is worthy of
record. Our ride to the place was enlivened by a discussion between
several of the passengers on the subject of benevolence. Some took the
ground that it was the duty of every man to look out for number one.
"But," said another, "we are constituted mutually dependent; our
Creator has made us stewards of each other's happiness, and when
we assist an unfortunate neighbor we not only discharge a sacred
obligation, but always receive in return a generous equivalent."
"In what way?" inquired his opponent.
"Oh, if in no other, in the satisfaction that flows from the
performance of a deed of kindness."
"Not quite substantial enough for my use," returned the other. "When I
invest money, I want money, or something equally tangible, in return.
A consciousness of befriending somebody won't put meat into the kettle
nor flour into the barrel."
"But what, after all," it was further urged, "is the motive of our
money seeking? Is it not that we fancy that earthly possessions will
make us happy? Certainly. But the experience of mankind shows that the
soul can not be satisfied with perishable things. The millionnaire may
be more wretched than the holiest beggar by the wayside. The pleasure
of doing good is, however, pure, ennobling, satisfying; a source of
perennial enjoyment, purchased at a cost infinitely below its real
value. Besides, our benefactions, bestowed without the expectation of
any reward save that found in the pleasant thoughts and emotions which
result, often come back to repay us in kind."
"Well, well," said the first, impatiently. "I prefer to invest where
there is something positive to be realized. These uncertainties may do
for those of a less practical turn of mind. I am a business man, and as
such I want some security when my dollars are invested."
"Very well; the apostle says, 'He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to
the Lord, and that which he hath given shall he pay to him again.'"
"I suppose," said the business man, "that you practise as you preach."
"Sometimes."
"Very well. When the funds you have disposed of in this way pay a
dividend, let us know—that is all!" Our journey just then terminating,
and not having proof at hand, the laugh rang against me.
On our return, after meeting the man of the Landing reminiscence, I
said,—
"Gentlemen, you may remember our conversation on the subject of
benevolence, and that I was requested when any money devoted to
charitable purposes pays tangibly, to report. I have such a report to
make at this time,"—proceeding to repeat the story of my two interviews
with the stranger, then showed the bank-bill that my grateful
beneficiary forced into my hand. There was not a dry eye present.
"Well," said my mercantile friend, warmly, "you've got the case, and I
frankly own that I envy you your happiness."