THE NEW YORK HERALD REPORTER WHO LIVED FOR TWO WORLDS.
TWO weeks after the surrender of Vicksburg, I took passage on a steamer for the North. Just before the boat left the wharf, a gentleman whom I knew came on board in company with a sick friend, whom he introduced as Mr. Brown, “Correspondent of the New York Herald.” I was so weary with the scenes of war, with the heat and hard labor which had been the common lot of all workers during the siege, that I did not want to talk to any one, much less to a “Herald reporter.” He was sick, and was going home for a season of rest, so he said. How deceptive appearances are. I set him down at once as a drinking man, because his face was flushed and his eyes red; and I determined to be as unsocial as possible. I did not see him again till evening, when he came back into the ladies’ cabin and began social conversation.
I determined our talk should be religious, and soon introduced the subject. He had remarked that we were making headway, and would probably reach Helena by eight o’clock the next morning. But he said, “of course there are dangers on every side—sand-bars, snags, and guerillas. So we can’t tell where we will be in the morning.”
“It matters little,” I answered, “to those who live for two worlds. We have the promise that everything shall work together for good to those who love God.”
“I believe that, and am living for both worlds,” he responded heartily. Then began one of the most interesting conversations that it has ever been my privilege to engage in. He was a most deeply pious man, and through all the army life had walked with God.
As the evening wore on, conversation turned upon heaven, and the joys and privileges of the redeemed. I remember how his face glowed with holy enthusiasm as we talked of heaven. He contrasted the noisy, horrid scenes of war with the peace and sweet harmony of that world of light and love. He said, “I am prepared for such a blessed change of scenes at any moment.”
The evening was now well-spent, and bidding him good-night I retired to my stateroom. The next morning when I stepped out into the ladies’ cabin, I found the captain of the boat waiting for me.
“Did you know the gentleman you were talking with last evening?”
“Yes, slightly.”
“He is dead.”
“Is it possible?”
“Yes, he is dead and cold; he must have died immediately after retiring. The gentleman who occupied the lower berth noticed his arm hanging down over the side of the berth when he went to retire, and spoke to him, but he made no answer; and this morning his arm was just in the same position.”
Yes, he was dead. He had gone from that talk about heaven right into the grandeur and glory of all its blessed mysteries. How thankful I was that our conversation had been about Christian duty and heaven!
My thoughts turned quickly to the widowed mother and the sisters so well beloved; for he had spoken of them all most tenderly. We were now nearing Helena, where he must be taken ashore and buried. He had died of heart disease; and it was that, not drink, which made his face so flushed.
I wrote to his mother, who lived in Lancaster, Pa., telling her all I could recall of our talk about God, duty, heaven, and all the circumstances of our brief acquaintance and his death.
One of his sisters answered my letter, for his mother was quite prostrated by the shock the news of his death had given her.
She said they were looking for his home-coming every hour, when the sad message that he was dead and buried reached them. But the sister’s faith rose triumphantly above it all.
“We all thank God for the loving providence which cast our dear one in the pathway of a Christian who directed his thoughts and hopes heavenward at the last. It is a great comfort to us that his faith was so bright and clear, and that his last thoughts on earth were about heaven.”