Watch-Work-Wait / Or, The Orphan's Victory

In one of the many beautiful spots which the traveller sees in making a voyage up the Hudson, stands the village of M--. It attracts the notice of all tourists, for it seems to occupy the very place in which a painter or a lover of the picturesque would have chosen to place it. Its inhabitants love to boast of its antiquity, for it was founded by the original Dutch settlers, and its present settlers are mostly their descendants.

At the time of which we write, no city fashions had found their way to that remote spot. Its inhabitants were simple-hearted, pious, and contented to live as their forefathers had done; and the place seemed like a quiet little world within itself. None of the gross vices always to be found in large communities were practised there. On the Sabbath-day, when its only bell sent its voice distinctly over the valley, the humble dwellers met in the single church, not only bound together by the tie of human brotherhood, but by the sweeter ties of Christian charity, to hear the word of God and perform the work of prayer and praise.

Just at the end of the long street in this quiet village stood a cottage, which, although very rudely built, attracted the attention of the passers-by from the extreme neatness and order, those sure attendants of the pious poor, which reigned around it. In winter it looked snug beneath its coating of snow; in summer very beautiful, glistening, as it then did, in all its fragrant adornment of jessamine, honeysuckle, and sweet-brier.

But if its exterior was attractive, the family life within was much more so. True piety and grace were found beneath that modest roof, most truly illustrating the truth, that the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy, who dwelleth in the high and holy place, dwelleth with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit.

For many years this cottage had been occupied by a watchmaker, a German, who left his own country in early manhood, and came to the United States to find the wealth which foreigners used to believe could be gained here at once. This he never acquired, but he found something better; for although in an out-of-the-way place he could not expect to grow rich by his trade, he found a great treasure in his pious wife, and enjoyed more of pure and real happiness than often falls to the lot of man. His mind was originally one of strength, and he had turned his meditations and prayers heavenward, and the promised peace was vouchsafed.

He did not love his trade as well as he might have done; for having a very remarkable talent for painting and sketching, which the beautiful surroundings were well calculated to foster, he often found his business of watchmaking irksome. Although frugal, industrious, and possessing much skill as a seal engraver, in which art he received employment from New York, he never was able to lay up anything, although he could and did provide comfortably for his household.

His neighbours entertained for him a deep respect. He was of an independent spirit, somewhat taciturn; and, from his retiring, contemplative spirit, by some was considered stern. But his life was so entirely blameless, regulated as it was by the purifying and elevating influence of Christianity, that many reverenced him as an "Israelite indeed, in whom was no guile."

But Christians are by no means exempt from trials; indeed, the children of God are called to pass through the sorest ordeals, and the Raymonds had experienced many strokes of the chastening rod. When their children were taken one after another, until only the last born remained, they bowed submissively to this adverse visitation; and although for a little while stunned in spirit, as was natural, they murmured not, but were soon able to say with resignation, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." But turning toward the one left, it may easily be supposed that for him they entertained a most anxious love. Nevertheless, no undue indulgences were granted because he was the only one and the last. They knew their duty as Christian parents too well for that, and spared no pains, both by precept and example, to instruct him in the lore that putteth to shame all worldly wisdom, and which only could fit him for the trials of earth or the joys of heaven. Well was it for the poor child that he had been thus taught, for the time was at hand when he would require all the Christian's armour to fit him for the great battle in which every one that lives is called to contend. To some the strife is more severe than to others; but to all, if they would win the goal successfully, a better strength than their own is necessary, and to teach their child to rely upon the all-sustaining arm, was the constant endeavour of these faithful parents.

A few years passed by, and their earthly comforts were not diminished; they still occupied the cottage their own hands had beautified, and having won the affectionate esteem of their landlord, a good old baker, he assured them that he would never raise their rent or suffer them to leave it. Their son William had reached his eighth year, and was what might be called a good boy; for, having no bad example, and being naturally of a docile disposition, and for the most part obedient and gentle, there was little occasion for fault-finding. To the anxious father the thought had often occurred, "What is to be his future lot-in what line of business is he to be brought up?" and he mostly concluded he could never bear a separation from this boy, who was as the very apple of his eye; he would teach him his own trade, which, although by no means a profitable, was at least a respectable one, and would furnish a livelihood. There were times when, looking into the intelligent blue eyes that would be lifted up so lovingly to meet his gaze, he would wish that he might be able to educate his boy; but almost at once he would conquer the longing, and say to himself: "It is God who appoints to every man his station, and I must not murmur because my child's lot is destined to be a lowly one. There is danger in high places, and I ought rather to rejoice that our poverty removes him far from the temptation he would meet with in a more exalted station."

One evening, it was a dull and cloudy one near the close of December, George Raymond came home seeming more than ordinarily cheerful, greatly to the delight of his good Margaret, who did not like to see him too thoughtful. "Times seem to grow better, wife," he said, after he finished his supper; "I have had plenty of work at seal engraving this last fortnight; it seems my work has been approved in the city."

"We have always had enough for the supply of our daily wants," answered Margaret; "and we are told not to be too anxious about the goods of this world."

"I am not very anxious," said Raymond; "at least not on my own account; but sometimes I think if I should be called away, what would become of you, Gretta, and little Will?"

"The Lord would provide for us, George, as he has ever done," was the wife's reply; "he is ever faithful to his promise, and he has declared that those who wait on him shall not want for any good thing."

"That is very true, Margaret; but we must use lawful means to provide bread for our families," said Raymond; "but where is Will? I have not seen him since I came in; neither did he come to meet me as usual."

"I am here, father," said a sweet childish voice; and creeping from a dark corner between the cupboard and the wall, a little boy came forth and stood at his father's knee, and, without speaking, looked up into his face with an expression of more than ordinary meaning. Slight and delicately made, he was easily raised to his usual seat on his father's knee, when, kissing him affectionately, he inquired, "What have you been doing all day, Will? I believe you have had no school."

"Wait, father, and I will show you," replied the boy, as he slid down from his father's knee; and running to the corner from whence he had come at Raymond's call, he returned almost immediately with two or three half-sheets of paper in his hand. "I have been drawing," said the little boy, as his father took the sketches and examined them with a grave look. "Please do not be angry, for I did not take your pencils."

"And how did you draw without pencils?" asked his father. "Let me see what you have here;-a table, a chair, ah yes, and a house with trees! Very good, William; but I would rather you did not draw any more."

The boy would have asked why, but taught that the parental wish was to be regarded as a law, he tried to conquer the emotion which would arise in spite of all efforts to restrain it. It seemed hard to be so disappointed: he expected praise, and now, if he had not received censure, certainly not the slightest approval was accorded. Accustomed, however, not to question, but submit, the little fellow threw his arms embracingly round his father's neck and bade him good night, and having done the same with his mother, retired to bed rather to shed his tears unseen than to sleep.

And he did weep! Poor little fellow, his grief was very great; and although our readers may smile because he regarded the matter in such a serious light, they must remember that this was almost, if not altogether, his first sorrow; and we are far from believing the sorrow of a child the trivial thing it is generally considered, and perhaps but the beginning of other and severer trials.

But if the sorrow of childhood is severe, what a blessing it is that its violence is soon over! anger seldom rests in the heart of a good child, and as soon as the tears are dried, all is bright as before. William's tears were very bitter, but accustomed always to ask the divine blessing before retiring, he knelt down beside his little bed, and prayed that if he had done wrong in drawing without asking his father's leave, he might be forgiven. His childish petition, uttered in the full confidence that it would be heard, brought comfort, as the act of sincere prayer always does, and once more soothed and happy, in a few minutes the child sunk into so deep a slumber, that he was altogether unconscious of his mother's kiss, and the audibly uttered blessing invoked upon him by his pious father.

There were two other hearts as sorrowful as his own, although tears did not attest the depth of their emotion. Margaret was distressed in her child's distress, and could not understand why her husband did not praise what she considered the very creditable effort of her boy; but she was too judicious to utter a word in his presence, much as she sympathized with William. Raymond, however, was the most distressed of all, and that, too, because he felt that a father's pride must be sacrificed at the shrine of what he regarded as a father's duty; and he experienced a severe pang, as, on surveying the child's sketches, he dared not say one word in praise of them, although his very heart bounded, lover of the fine arts as he was, at the promise of superior talent they exhibited. After William had left the room he sat leaning his head on his hand, quite unrepentant, however, for his seeming harshness, but at the same time troubled that his views of duty made it imperative for him to appear so. Margaret was the first to break silence.

"George," said she, "why did you hurt poor William by not praising his drawings? the child was so sure you would be delighted; and although he knew where your pencils are kept, he never once asked for them, but took the charcoal from the hearth. I cannot understand why you did so."

"My dear Margaret," he replied, "I am far more grieved to be obliged to look frowningly on that which, in other than our present circumstances, would have given to me greater delight than to you or my good child himself. William's sketches, rude as they are, evince very extraordinary talent, but I should sin were I to encourage him to pursue such a work. I know too well how absorbing it is; how hard it is, when one's mind is filled with pictures of the grand and beautiful, to work at a trade one does not like. The boy, most likely, has genius; but even so, how is that genius to be fostered? I know, too, how toilsome and difficult is the early path toward the art, and how few, comparatively, ever gain distinction and reward."

"That is true," said Margaret; "I now understand and see that you are right."

"Yes, Margaret," washer husband's reply, "I think I am right; remember that it is the Unerring who has allotted our condition, and I have no higher ambition than to see my only child grow up an honest man, diligent in his calling, whatever it may be. My first wish is, that my boy may be a Christian: it will never trouble me that he must work hard and be obscure; for if he is pious, honest, and happy in his own mind, he will be a greater man than those who fill high stations without the qualifications I have named."

"He is such a good child," said Margaret, "I cannot bear to give him unnecessary pain."

"The proper discipline does no harm," said Raymond; "and the Scripture tells us that 'no chastening for the present is joyous, but grievous, but afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruits of righteousness to them that are exercised thereby;' and as we are in the same place commanded to 'make straight paths for our feet,' so in this instance I have preferred giving my child present pain in order that he may escape future and greater trials. Ah! Margaret, he may think I am harsh in this case, as he cannot fathom my motive; and how often do we judge hardly of the dealings of our kind heavenly Father when he thwarts us in some favourite wish, or smiles not on our undertaking. Be assured that only those who commit their way unto the Lord are safe; and as I bear my boy daily upon my heart to the throne of grace, and offer up the prayer of faith in the name of Him who hath promised to hear, so truly am I assured that all that befalls us will be right, and that although I may be removed from the earthly guardianship of my darling child, I know that he will never want for any good thing. Wife, we must teach him that his lot is to be a lowly one; but we must also teach him that any station can be ennobled by the upright and conscientious discharge of the duties belonging to it. But now, let us have our usual worship, and then we will look in on William, and see if his trouble is not all forgotten in sleep."