The idea was mournful: and more so by the tender look and plaintive tones in which it was conveyed.—It wrung the heart of Ben, who in silence glanced his eyes on his father. It was that tender glance of sorrowing love which quickest reaches the heart and stirs up all its yearnings. The old gentleman felt the meaning of his son's looks. They seemed to say to him, "O my father, must we part to-morrow?"
"Yes, Ben, we part to-morrow, and perhaps never to meet again!"
After a short pause, with a sigh, he thus resumed his speech—"Then, O my son, what a wretch were man without religion? Yes, Ben, without the hopes of immortality, how much better he had never been born? Without these, his noblest capacities were but the greater curses. The more delightful his friendships the more dreadful the thought they may be extinguished for ever; and the gayer his prospects the deeper his gloom, that endless darkness may so quickly cover all. We were yesterday feeding fond hopes, my son; we were yesterday painting bright castles in the air: you were to be a great man and I a happy father. But alas! this is the last day, my child, that we may ever see each other again. And the sad reverse of all this may even now be at the door; when I, instead of hearing of my son's glory in Philadelphia, may hear that he is cold in his grave. And when you, returning—after years of virtuous toils, returning laden with riches and honours for your happy father to share in, may see nothing of that father but the tomb that covers his dust."
Seeing the moisture in Ben's eyes, the old gentleman, with a voice rising to exultation, thus went on. "Yes, Ben, this may soon be the case with us, my child; the dark curtain of our separation soon may drop, and your cheeks or mine be flooded with sorrows. But thanks be to God, that curtain will rise again, and open to our view those scenes of happiness, one glance at which is sufficient to start the tear of transport into our eyes. Yes, Ben, religion assures us of all this; religion assures us that this life is but the morning of our existence—that there is a glorious eternity beyond—and that to the penitent, death is but the passage to that happy life where they shall soon meet again to part no more, but to congratulate their mutual felicities for ever. Then, O my son, lay hold of religion, and secure an interest in those blessed hopes that contribute so much to the virtues and the joys of life."
"Father," said Ben with a sigh, "I know that many people here in Boston think I never had any religion; or, that if I had I have apostatized from it."
"God forbid! But whence, my son, could these prejudices have arisen?"
"Why, father, I have for some time past discovered that there is no effect without a cause. These prejudices have been the effect of my youthful errors. You remember father, the old story of the pork, don't you?"
"No, child; what is it, for I have forgotten it?"
"I thought so, father, I thought you had been so good as to forget it. But I have not, nor ever shall forget it."
"What is it, Ben?"