I was a passenger on board one of those noble steamers which navigate the Sound. The hurly-burly attending our departure from the dock was at last ended, and I had a good opportunity to wander quietly about the boat, studying, as it is my wont to do, the variously marked countenances of my fellow passengers. When the supper bell rang, there was a general movement made towards the after-cabin, and as I fell in with the crowd, I happened to cast my eye upon the only group left behind. This was composed of a middle-aged man and his three children. The latter were getting ready to retire to rest, and the youngest one, a sweet little girl of perhaps three years of age, ever and anon kept questioning her father as follows—“where’s mother, pa?—pa, where’s mother? When will she come back?” The kind and delicate attentions of the father, as he smoothed the pillows and laid them in their nest, tended to interest my feelings; and, when at the supper-table, my fancy was busy with the scene just witnessed.

It was now quite late; the lazily-uttered joke, and the less frequent peal of laughter, seemed to announce the spiritual presence of repose. The newspaper, the book, and checker-board, were gradually laid aside, and in a little while nearly all the berth-curtains were drawn up, and their occupants in the arms of sleep. Many of the lamps were out, and those that did remain produced a dim, solemn twilight throughout the cabin—the only part at all animated being that corner where the boot-black was engaged in his appropriate duty. The cause of my own wakefulness it is unnecessary to relate; suffice it to say, it was entirely dispelled by the following incident.

Just as I was about to retire, the sigh of a burdened heart smote my ear, and as I turned, I beheld an individual sitting near a berth, with his face resting upon the pillow, weeping bitterly. He was a fine, intelligent looking man, in the prime of life; and on nearer observation, I found him to be the identical one, who had before attracted my attention. I approached his seat, and, in as kind a tone as possible, inquired the cause of his unhappiness; adding, that I should be pleased to do for him anything he might desire. For a moment, a fresh flood of tears was my only answer; but these he soon wiped away, and extending to me his hand, he thus began to speak.

“I am grateful to you, my dear Sir, for your expressions of kindness and sympathy towards me, but the weight which is resting upon my spirit cannot be easily dispelled. I have been sorely afflicted of late, and the associations connected with that event are what caused me to forget myself, and give vent to my emotions in tears. To be found weeping like a child, in the midst of a multitude of strangers, may be considered a weakness, I hope not a sin; but that you may understand my conduct, I will relate to you the cause.

“One short month ago, as I paused to consider my condition, I fancied myself to be one of the happiest of men. My cottage-home, which stands in one of the fairest valleys of New Hampshire, was then a perfect picture of contentment and peace. A much-loved wife, and three children, were then the joys of my existence. Every pleasurable emotion which I enjoyed was participated in by her, who was my first and only love. From our united hearts, every morning and evening, ascended a deep-felt prayer of gratitude to our Heavenly Father; and from the same source sprang every hope concerning the temporal prospects of our children, and, to us and them, of the life beyond the grave. We were at peace with God, and with regard to this world, we had everything we desired.

“The time of harvest being now ended, and an urgent invitation having been received from my father-in-law, I concluded to take my family, and make a visit to the pleasant village in New Jersey, where my wife and I were children together, and where we had plighted our early love-vows. All things were ready, and, leaving our homestead to the care of a servant, we started on our journey,—reaching in due time, and in safety, our place of destination.

“We found our friends all well, and glad to see us. Not a care or trouble rested on a single heart. Thankful for the blessings of the past and present, all our prospects of the future were as bright as heart could desire. ‘Old familiar faces’ greeted us at every corner, old friendships were again revived, and a thousand delightful associations crowded around us, so that we had nothing to do but be happy.

“Thus had two weeks passed away, when, on the very night previous to our intended departure for home, my wife was suddenly taken ill, and when the morrow dawned,—I was a widower, and my children motherless. The idol of my heart, instead of returning to her earthly home, was summoned by her Maker to that blessed home above the stars, where the happiness of the redeemed will never end. God is great, and His will be done; but, alas, it almost breaks my heart to think of those bitter, bitter words—‘never more.’ I cannot bear to think of it; never more upon the earth shall I behold that beauteous form, and listen to that heavenly voice, which were my delight and pride. To my eye, the greenness of earth is forever departed. O who can tell what a day or an hour may bring forth? O how lonely, lonely, is my poor, poor, poor heart!”

These last words of my stranger friend were uttered in a smothered tone, and with a drooping head; and, though he held my arm after I had risen to go, I tore myself away, for I thought it my duty to retire.

When I awoke in the morning, after a troubled sleep, I found the boat was at the dock, and the day somewhat advanced. My first thought was concerning the unhappy stranger, with whom I longed to have another interview; but in making diligent search I found that he was gone, and with him his three sweet orphan children. His form, and the few words he had spoken, seemed to me like a dream. O yes, they were indeed the substance of a vision—a dream of human life. Surely, surely life is but a vapor, which appeareth for a little season, and then vanisheth away. As the great Jeremy Taylor hath eloquently written: “Death meets us everywhere, and is procured by every instrument, and in all chances, and enters in at many doors; by violence and secret influence, by the aspect of a star, by the emissions of a cloud and the melting of a vapor, by the fall of a chariot and the stumbling of a stone, by a full meal or an empty stomach, by watching at the wine, or by watching at prayers, by the sun or the moon, by a heat or a cold, by sleepless nights or sleeping days, by water frozen into the hardness and sharpness of a dagger, or water thawed into the floods of a river, by a hair or a raisin, by violent motion, or sitting still, by severity or dissolution, by God’s mercy or God’s anger, by everything in providence and everything in manners, by everything in nature and everything in chance. We take pains to heap up things useful to our life, and get our death in the purchase; and the person is snatched away, and the goods remain. And all this is the law and constitution of nature; it is a punishment to our sins, the unalterable event of providence, and the decree of heaven. The chains that confine us to this condition are strong as destiny, and immutable as the eternal laws of God.”

This picture of man’s condition is indeed most melancholy, but let us remember it is not a hopeless one. Only let us keep the commandments, and confide in the promises of the Invisible, and we shall eventually find that the laws regulating our final redemption will prove to be as immutable as those concerning our earthly condition.