A Memory of Childhood [pp. 270-275]

A Memory of Childhood.
to one who had not been with the boy
before his illness and known how every
day he heard of these things from the
good, grey-headed man, whom he de lighted to speak of as "old Master."
The hints he had heard from the lips of
that best of earthly friends, taught him
to believe that there is a life beyond the
present life, and now when the present
was drawing to a close, it delighted him
much to think of the future upon which
he felt assured he must soon enter.
I have thought since of that dying
slave, who, from his master's lips, had
learned the weightiest truths that ever
mortal grasped, thus patiently waiting to
be translated to a brighter sphere, and
contrasted his condition with that of the
native African dying in his jungle as the
wild boar dies in the fastnesses of the
forest, or with the free negro of our own
non-slaveholding States, for whose soul
no man careth; and it has seemed to me
that the superiority of the former over
the others, has amply vindicated the justice of that dispensation which brought
the African from his burning clime, and
gave him over to bondage in the land of
Sabbaths and Bibles.
I remember the last night that I sat!y
the dying lad. I was called away to attend the usual evening worship of the
family, and recall vividlynow the fervency
with which my heart echoed the prayer
of my father, "that the Lord would be
pleased to raise up from his bed of pain,
His servant, and if it should be His
pleasure to give him over to the power of
death, that He would take him to Himself, that he might share the blessedness
of those for whom Christ died." I went
back to the kitchen to tell the boy good
night, and told him how we all had prayed
for him, and how I hoped that he would
soon be well. But he murmured a dissent, and then. as though a new revelation had broken in upon him, he told me
that what I wished might not be, that the
angels had been with him while we were
out of the room, and that they were even
then waiting to bear him to the skies. I
shall never forget that hour and the
emotions it awakened. Be sure I was
standing near to that realm where no
VoL. XXIII. —18
flesh and blood may enter, and where
naught that is unholy and unclean may
enter, and could almost hear the rush of
wings as the celestial convoy moved about
the dwelling. Be sure the angels were
there, however my excited fancy may
have misled me in what I then surmised,
as that slave talked of his visitants.
I noted then, that when I said, "good
night, Goodwin," he answered, "good
bye, Mars Ned;" and I see now more
clearly than I did at that period, that he
knew the end was nigh. I turned away
sorrowful, opened the door and passed
out into the night, with tears raining
from my eyes. Just then I saw, or
fancied that I saw, well no matter
what, but I was comforted; not with the
hope that the boy would recover from his
sickness-of the contrary I was well as sured-but I was well convinced that my
loss would be his gain; that he was
exchanging the service of an earthly
master, whom he loved, for the freedom
and brightness and beauty of heaven.
With this settled belief, I sought my pillow that night, and during the night was
dreaming of the boy as a bright spirit in
the skies.
I was not startled, therefore, when in
the morning they told me he was gone.
I had not expected it to be otherwise.
Then was I introduced to death, and as
I looked upon the rayless eyes, the compressed lips, the vacant countenance, and
felt the iciness which had congealed the
warm blood, a shuddering horror seized
upon my soul. Death was so strange to
my youthful conceptions, so unlike what
I had fancied it to be. I had read of it
as a sleep, but here was nothing resembling sleep except the placidity of the
countenance, and even in that there was
something unnatural and horribly repulsive. Then the body was so cold and
rigid, it was all so unlike life, that I could
not bear to look upon it.
I went away to think of these things,
and wandered on till I came to the spot
where they were digging a grave for the
boy's burial. Here was another shock.
He is to be placed there, I thought. The
dull, damp earth will be piled upon the
coffin; the light of day will be shut out
1856.]
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