THE BOY; THE FATHER OF THE MAN
On my first visit to New York, many years since, I was accompanied by a young nephew. He was made up of smiles and cheerfulness. Such a traveling companion, of any age, is rare to be found, so gallant—so ready to serve—so full of bright thoughts—anticipating all my wishes, and yet so unobtrusive and modest—at the same time disposed to add to his own stock of knowledge from every passing incident. Nothing, in fact, escaped his observation. The variety and richness of scenery which is everywhere to be found in the New England States, seemed to delight his young heart. This alone, was enough to inspire my own heart with sunny thoughts, though I was in affliction, and was seldom found absent from my own happy home.
As I recall to mind that journey and that happy, cheerful child, I often think how much comfort even a child can impart to others, when their hearts have been sanctified by the Spirit of God. I cannot forbear to say that cheerfulness is a cardinal virtue, and ought to be more cultivated by the old and by the young. A cheerful disposition not only blesses its possessor but imparts happiness to all that come within its reach.
As we entered the city at an early hour, everything wore a cheerful aspect, every step seemed elastic and every heart buoyant with hope. There was a continual hum of busy men and women, as we were passing near a market. Such a rolling of carts and carriages—so many cheerful children, some crying "Raddishes"—"raddishes"—others "Strawberries"—"strawberries"—others with baskets of flowers—all wide awake, each eager to sell his various articles of merchandise. This was indeed a novel scene to us—it did seem a charming place. My young companion remarked, Aunt C——, "I think everybody here must be happy." I could not but at first respond to the sentiment. But presently we began to meet persons—some halt—some blind—some in rags—looking filthy and degraded.
Every face was new to us—not one person among the throngs we met that we had ever seen before. An unusual sense of loneliness came over me, and I thought my young attendant participated in this same feeling of solitude, and though I said nothing, I sighed for the quiet and familiar faces and scenes of the "Home, sweet home" I had so recently left.
We had not proceeded far before we saw men and boys in great commotion, all running hurriedly, in one direction, bending their steps towards the opposite shore. Their step was light and quick, but a look of sadness was in every face. We could only, now and then, gather up a few murmuring words that fell from the lips of the passers-by.
"There were more than thirty persons killed," said one. "Yes, more than fifty," said another. We soon learned that a vessel on fire, the preceding evening had entered the harbour, but the fire had progressed so far that it was impossible to extend relief to the sufferers, and most of the crew perished in the flames, or jumped overboard and were drowned.
The awful impression of distress made upon the minds of persons unaccustomed to such disasters, cannot well be described—they certainly were by no means transient.
It was sad to reflect that many who had thus perished after an absence from home, some a few weeks, others for months, instead of greeting their friends, were hurried into eternity so near their own homes, under such aggravated circumstances. And then what a terrible disappointment to survivors! Many families as well as individuals were by this calamity not only bereft of friends, but of their property—some reduced to a state of comparative beggary.
This day's experience was but a faint picture of human life.
But to return to that young nephew. Does any one inquire with interest, Did his cheerful, benevolent disposition, his readiness to impart and to receive happiness continue with him through life? It did in a pre-eminent degree. It is believed that even then "The joy of the Lord was his strength."—Neh. viii. 10.
He died at the age of 37, having been for nearly six years a successful missionary among the spicy breezes which blow soft o'er Ceylon's Isle. A friend who had known him most intimately for many years while a student at Yale, and then tutor, and then a student of Theology, after his death, in writing to his bereaved mother, says, "We had hope that your son, from his rare qualifications to fill the station he occupied, his remarkable facilities in acquiring that difficult language, his cheerfulness in imparting knowledge, his indomitable perseverance, his superior knowledge, and love of the Bible, which it was his business to teach—that in all this God had raised him up for a long life of service to the Church; but instead of this, God had been fitting him, all this time, for some more important sphere of service in the upper sanctuary."
Here, as in thousands of other cases, we see that "The boy was the father of the man."
Would any mother like to know the early history of that cheerful young traveler, we reply, as in the case of the prophet Samuel, he was "asked of the Lord," and was, therefore, rightly named Samuel. The Lord called him by his Spirit, when a mere child, "Samuel," "Samuel," and he replied "Here am I;" and his subsequent life and character were what might be expected from his obedient disposition and his lowly conduct in early childhood.
A young prince having asked his tutor to instruct him in religion and to teach him to say his prayers, was answered, that "he was yet too young." "That cannot be," said the little boy, "for I have been in the burying ground and measured the graves; I found many of them shorter than myself."