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FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS;
OR,
ZoW  i1ap -of biing in fJe,LrlrJ.
EDITED BY
T. S-. ARTHU  R.
PHILADE LPHIA:
IH..  PECK  & THE O. BLISS.
1858




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by
11. 0. PECK & THEO. BLISS,
In the Clbek's -Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for
the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
STEREOTYPED BY E. B. MEARS.




PREFACE.
WE were about preparing a few words of
introduction to this volume, the materials for
which have been culled from the highways and
byways of literature, when our eyes fell upon
these fitting sentiments, the authorship of which
we are unable to give. They express clearly and
beautifully what was in our own mind:"C If we would only bring ourselves to look at the
subjects that surround us in their true light, we
should see beauty where now appears deformity,
and listen to harmony where we hear nothing
but discord. To be sure there is a great deal
of vexation and anxiety in the world; we cannot
sail upon a summer sea for ever; yet if we preserve a calm eye and a steady hand, we can so
trim our sails and manage our helm, as to avoid
the quicksands, and weather the storms that
(3)




iv                PREFACE.
threaten shipwreck. We are members of one
great family; we are travelling the same road,
and shall arrive at the same goal. We breathe
the same air, are subject to the same bounty, and
we shall each lie down upon the bosom of our
common mother. It is not becoming, then, that
brother should hate brother; it is not proper that
friend should deceive friend; it is not right that
neighbour should deceive neighbour. We pity
that man who can harbour enmity against his
fellow; he loses half the enjoyment of life; he
embitters his own existence. Let us tear from
our eyes the coloured medium that invests every
object with the green hue of jealousy and suspicion; turn'a deaf ear to scandal; breathe the
spirit of charity from our hearts; let the rich
gushings of human kindness swell up as a fountain, so that the golden age will become no fiction,
and islands of the blessed bloom in more than
Hyperian beauty."
It is thus that friends and neighbours should
live. This is the right way. To aid in the
creation of such true harmony among men, has
the book now in your hand, reader, been compiled. May the truths that glisten on its pages
bq clearly reflected in your mind; and the errors
it points out be shunned as the foes of yourself
and humanity.




CONTENTS.
GOOD IN ALL.                                     Page 7
HUMAN PROGRESS.12
MY WASHERWOMAN........ 15
FORGIVE AND FORGET....... 20
OWE NO MAN ANYTHING....... 21
RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL.84
PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR'S POCKET..  88
KIND WORDS..  54
NEIGHBOURS' QUARRELS.                                58
GOOD WE MIGHT DO....                                61
THE TOWN LOT..62
THE SUNBEAM AND THE RAINDROP..73
A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS..74
MR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATIONS..                       82
ROOM IN THE WORLD..90
WORDS...91
THE THANKLESS OFFICE..                                96
LOVE..103
"EVERY LITTLE HELPS".                 104
LITTLE THINGS........ 104
CARELESS WORDS..    105
HOW TO BE HAPPY... 114
CHARITY-ITS OBJECTS.....                 116
THE VISION OF BOATS..123
REGULATION OF THE TEMPER..                        125
(5)




Vi                       CONTENTS.
MANLY GENTLENESS.....   130
SILENT INFLUENCE........  39
ANTIDOTE FOR MELANCHOLY...... 147
THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.      153
"WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE".....      164
BLIND JAMES.....166
DEPENDENCE...                                          183
Two RIDES WITH THE DOCTOR.....   198
KEEP IN STEP......  209
JOHNNY COLE.....211
THE THIEF AND HIS BENEFACTOR.....   221
JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON..                225
THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.                   253
Two SIDES TO A STORY..... 254
LITTLE KINDNESSES......265
LEAVING OFF CONTENTION BEFORE IT BE MEDDLED WITH. 268
" ALL THE DAY IDLE"...  74
THE BUSHEL OF CORN...                                   275
THE ACCOUNT.......289
CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTH...               290
RAINBOWS EVERYWERE..... 298




FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS.
GOOD IN ALL.
THERE IS GOOD IN ALL. Yes! we all believe it: not
a man in the depth of his vanity but will yield assent.
But do you not all, in practice, daily, hourly deny it?
A beggar passes you in the street: dirty, ragged, importunate. "Ah! he has a bad look," and your pocket
is safe. He starves-and he steals. "I thought he
was bad."  You educate him in the State Prison. He
does not improve even in this excellent school.'He
is," says the gaoler, "thoroughly bad." He continues
his course of crime. All that is bad in him having by
this time been made apparent to himself, his friends,
and the world, he has only to confirm the decision, and
at length we hear when he has reached his last step.
"1AhM  no wonder-there was never any Good in him.
Hang him!"
Now much, if not all this, may be checked by a word.
(7)




S                  GOOD IN ALL.
If you believe in Good, always appeal to it.  Be sure
whatever there is of Good-is of God.  There is never
an utter want of resemblance to the common Father.
"God made man in His own image."  "What! yon
reeling, blaspheming creature; yon heartless cynic;
yon crafty trader; yon false statesman?" Yes! All.
In every nature there is a germ of eternal happiness,
of undying Good. In the drunkard's heart there is a
memory of something better —slight, dim: but flickering
still; why should you not by the warmth of your charity,
give growth to the Good that is in him? The cypic, the
miser, is not all self. There is a note in that sullen instrument to make all harmony yet; but it wants a patient and gentle master to touch the strings.
You point to the words " There is none good."  The
truths do not oppose each other.  "There is none good
-save one."  And He breathes in all. In our earthliness, our fleshly will, our moral grasp, we are helpless,
mean, vile. But there is a lamp ever burning in the
heart: a guide to the source of Light, or an instrument
of torture. We can make it either. If it burn in an
atmosphere of purity, it will warm, guide, cheer us. If
in the midst of selfishness, or under the pressure of pride,
its flame will be unsteady, and we shall soon have good
reason to trim our light, and find new oil for it.
There is Good in All-the impress of the Deity. tHe
who believes not in the image of God in man, is an infidel to himself and his race. There is no difficulty
about discovering it. You have only to appeal to it.
Seek in every one the best features: mark, encourage,




GOOD IN ALL.-                 9
educate them.  There is no man to whom some circumstance will not be an argument.
And how glorious in practice, this faith! How easy,
henceforth, all the labours of our law-makers, and how
delightful, how practical the theories of our philanthropists! To educate the Good —the good in All: to raise
every man in his own opinion, and yet to stifle all arrogance, by showing that all possess this Good. In themselves, but not of themselves.  Had we but faith in
this truth, how soon should we all be digging through
the darkness, for this Gold of Love-this universal
Good. A Howard, and a Fry, cleansed and humanized
our prisons, to find this Good; and in the chambers of
all our hearts it is to be found, by labouring eyes and
loving hands.
Why all our harsh enactments? Is it from experience
of the strength of vice in ourselves that we cage, chain,
torture, and hang men? Are none of us indebted to
friendly hands, careful advisers; to the generous, trusting guidance, solace, of some gentler being, who has
loved us, despite the evil that is in us-for our little
Good, and has nurtured that Good with smiles and tears
and prayers? O, we know not how like we are to those
whom we despise! We know not how many memories
of kith and kin the murderer carries to the gallowshow much honesty of heart the felon drags with him to
the hulks.
There is Good in All. Dodd, the forger, was a better
man than most of us: Eugene Aram, the homicide,
would turn his foot from a worm. Do not mistake us.
Society demands, requires that these madmen should be




10                 GOOD IN ALL.
rendered harmless.  There is no nature dead to all
Good. Lady Macbeth would have slain the old king,
Had he not resembled her father as he slept.
It is a frequent thought, but a careless and worthless
one, because never acted on, that the same energies, the
same will to great vices, had given force to great virtues.
Do we provide the opportunity? Do we believe in
Good? If we are ourselves deceived in any one, is not
all, thenceforth, deceit? if treated with contempt, is not
the whole world clouded with scorn? if visited with
meanness, are not all selfish?  And if from one of our
frailer fellow-creatures we receive the blow, we cease to
believe in women.  Not the breast at which we have
drank life-not the sisterly hands that have guided
ours-not the one voice that has so often soothed us in
our darker hours, will save the sex: All are massed in
one common sentence: all bad. There may be Delilahs: there are many Ruths. We should not lightly
give them up. Napoleon lost France when he lost Josephine. The one light in Rembrandt's gloomy life was
his sister.
And all are to be approached at some point. The
proudest bends to some feeling —Coriolanus conquered
Rome: but the husband conquered the hero.  The
money-maker has influences beyond his gold-Reynolds
made an exhibition of his carriage, but he was generous
to Northcote, and had time to think of the poor Plympton schoolmistress.  The cold are not all ice. Elizabeth slew Essex-the queen triumphed; the woman
died.




GOOD IN ALL.                 11
There is Good in All. Let us show our faith in it.
When the lazy whine of the mendicant jars on your ears,
think of his unaided, unschooled childhood; think that
his lean cheeks never knew the baby-roundness of content that ours have worn; that his eye knew no youth
of fire —no manhood of expectancy. Pity, help, teach
him. When you see the trader, without any pride of
vocation, seeking how he can best cheat you, and degrade himself, glance into the room behind his shop and
see there his pale wife and his thin children, and think
how cheerfully he meets that circle in the only hour he
has out of the twenty-four.  Pity his narrowness of
mind; his want of reliance upon the God of Good' but
remember there. have been Greshams, and Hieriots, and
Whittingtons; and remember, too, that in our happy
land there are thousands of almshouses, built by the
men of trade alone. And when you are discontented
with the great, and murmur, repiningly, of Marvel in
his garret, or Milton in his hiding-place, turn in justice
to the Good among the great. Read how John of Lancaster loved Chaucer and sheltered Wicliff. There have
been Burkes as well as Walpoles.  Russell remembered
Banim's widow, and Peel forgot not Haydn.
Once more: believe that in every class there is Good;
in every man, Good. That in the highest and most
tempted, as well as in the lowest, there is often a higher
nobility than of rank. Pericles and Alexander had
great, but different virtues, and although the refinement
of the one may have resulted in effeminacy, and the
hardihood of the other in brutality, we ought to pause
ere we condemn where we should all have fallen.




12               HUMAN PROGRESS.
Look only for the Good. It will make you welcome
everywhere, and everywhere it will make you an instrument to good.  The lantern of Diogenes is a poor guide
when compared with the Light God hath set in the heavens; a Light which shines into the solitary cottage and
the squalid alley, where the children of many vices are
hourly exchanging deeds of kindness; a Light shining
into the rooms of dingy warehousemen and thrifty clerks,
whose hard labour and hoarded coins are for wife and
child and friend; shining into prison and workhouse,
where sin and sorrow glimmer with sad eyes through
rusty bars into distant homes and mourning hearths;
shining through heavy curtains, and round sumptuous
tables, where the heart throbs audibly through velvet
mantle and silken vest, and where eye meets eye with
affection and sympathy; shining everywhere upon God's
creatures, and with its broad beams lighting up a virtue
wherever it falls, and telling the proud, the wronged,
the merciless, or the despairing, that there is " Good in
All."
HUMAN PROGRESS.
WE are told to look through nature
Upward unto Nature's God;
We are told there is a scripture
Written on the meanest sod;
That the simplest flower created
Is a key to hidden things;
But, immortal over nature,
Mind, the lord of nature, springs 




HUMAN PROGRESS-.                  -13
Through Humanity look upward, —
Alter ye the olden plan,Look through man to the Creator,
Maker, Father, God of Man!
Shall, imperishable spirit
Yield to perishable clay?
No! sublime o'er Alpine mountains
Soars the Mind its heavenward way!
Deeper than the vast Atlantic
Rolls the tide of human thought;
Farther speeds that mental ocean
Than the world of waves e'er sought I
Mind, sublime in its own essence
Its sublimity can lend
To the rocks, and mounts, and torrents,
And, at will, their features bend I
Some within the humblestfloweret
"Thoughts too deep for tears" can see;
Oh, the humblest man existing
Is a sadder theme to me!
Thus I take the mightier labour
Of the great Almighty hand;
And, through man to the Creator,
Upward look, and weeping stand.
Thus I take the mightier labour,
Crowning glory of His will;
And believe that in the meanest
Lives a spark of Godhead still:
Something that, by Truth expanded,
Might be fostered into worth;
Something struggling through the darkness,
Owning an immortal birth!




14                  HIHUMAN PROGRESS.
From the Genesis of being
Unto this imperfect day,
Hath Humanity held onward,
Praying God to aid its way!
And Man's progress had been swifter,
Had he never turned aside,
To the worship of a symbol,
Not the spirit signified!
And Man's progress had been higher,
Had he owned his brother man,
Left his narrow, selfish circle,
For a world-embracing plan!
There are some for ever craving,
Ever discontent with place,
In the eternal would find briefness,
In the infinite want space.
If through man unto his Maker
WVe the source of truth would find,
It must be through man enlightened,
Educated, raised, refined:
That which the Divine hath fashioned
Ignorance hath oft effaced;
Never may we see God's image
In man darkened-man debased!
Something yield to Recreation,
Something to Improvement give;
There's a Spiritual kingdom
Where the Spirit hopes to live!
There's a mental world of grandeur,
Which the mind inspires to know;
Founts of everlasting beauty
That, for those who seek them, flow!




MY WASHIERWOMAN.                  15
Shores where Genius breathes immortalWhere the very winds convey
Glorious thoughts of Education,
Holding universal sway!
Glorious hopes of Human Freedom,
Freedom of the noblest kind;
That which springs from Cultivation,
Cheers and elevates the mind!
Let us hope for Better Prospects,
Strong to struggle for the night,
We appeal to Truth, and ever
Truth's omnipotent in might;
Hasten, then, the People's Progress,
Ere their last faint hope be gone;
Teach the Nations that their interest
And the People's good, ARE ONE.
MY WASHERWOMIAN.
SOME people have a singular reluctance to part with
money. If waited on for a bill, they say, almost involuntarily, " Call to-norrow," even though their pockets
are far fromn being empty.
I cnce fell into this bad habit myself; but a little incident, which I will relate, cured me. Not many years
after I had attained my majority, a poor widow, named
Blake, did my washing and ironing. She was the mother of two or three little children, whose sole dependence for food and raiment was on the labour of her
hands.




16              MY WASHERWOMAN.
Punctually, every Thursday morning, Mrs. Blake appeared with my clothes, "white as the driven snow;"
but not always, as punctually, did I pay the pittance she
had earned by hard labour.
C Mrs. Blake is down stairs," said a servant, tapping
at my room-door one morning, while I was in the act of
dressing myself.'4 Oh, very well," I replied.  " Tell her to leave my
clothes. I will get them when I come down."
The thought of paying the seventy-five cents, her due,
crossed my mind. But I said to myself,-" It's but a
small matter, and will'do as well when she comes
again."
There was in this a certain reluctance to part with
money. My funds were low, and I might need what
change I had during the day. And so it proved. As
I went to the office in which I was engaged, some small
article of ornament caught my eye in a shop window.
" Beautiful 1" said I, as I stood looking at it. Admiration quickly changed into the desire for possession;
and so I stepped in to ask the price. It was just two
dollars.
"Cheap enough," thought I. And this very cheapness was a further temptation.
So I turned out the contents of my pockets, counted
them over, and found the amount to be two dollars and
a quarter.
" I guess I'll take it," said I, laying the money on the
shopkeeper's counter.
"I'd better have paid Mrs. Blake."  This thought
crossed my mind, an hour afterwards, by which time the




MY WArEIERWOMAN.               17
little ornament had lost its power of pleasing.  " So
much would at least have been saved."
I was leaving the table, after tea, on the evening that
followed, when the waiter said to me,' Mrs. Blake is at the door, and wishes to see you."
I felt a little worried at hearing this; for I had no
change in my pockets, and the poor washerwoman had,
of course, come for her money.
" She's in a great hurry," I muttered to myself, as I
descended to the door.'" You'll have to wait until you bring home my clothes
next week, Mrs. Blake. I haven't any change, this
evening."
The expression of the poor woman's face, as she turned slowly away, without speaking, rather softened my
feelings.
I'm sorry," said I, "but it can't be helped now. I
wish you had said, this morning, that you wanted money. I could have paid you then."
She paused, and turned partly towards me, as I said
this. Then she moved off, with something so sad in her
manner, that I was touched sensibly.
cc I ought to have paid her this morning, when I had
the change about me. And I wish I had done so. Why
didn't she ask for her money, if she wanted it so
badly?"
I felt, of course9 rather ill at ease. A little while
afterwards I met the lady with whom I was boarding.
"' Do you know anything about this Mrs. Blake, who
washes for me?" I inquired.
"Not much; except that she is very poor, and has
2.




I S             MY WASHERWOMAN.
three children to feed and clothe. And what is worst
of all, she is in bad health. I think she told me, this
morning, that one of her little ones was very sick."
I was smitten with a feeling of self-condemnation, and
soon after left the room. It was too late to remedy the
evil, for I had only a sixpence in my pocket; and, moreover, did not know where to find Mrs. Blake.
Having purposed to make a call upon some young
ladies that evening, I now went up into my room to dress.
Upon my bed lay the spotless linen brought home by
Mrs. Blake in the morning. The sight of it rebuked
me; and I had to conquer, with some force, an instinctive reluctance, before I could compel myself to put on
a clean shirt, and snow-white vest, too recently from the
hand of my unpaid washerwoman.
One of the young ladies upon whom I called was more
to me than a mere pleasant acquaintance. My heart
had, in fact, been warming towards her for some time;
and I was particularly anxious to find favour in her eyes.
On this evening she was lovelier and more attractive
than ever, and new bonds of affection entwined themselves around my heart.
Judge, then, of the effect produced upon me by the
entrance of her mother-at the very moment when my
heart was all a-glow with love, who said, as she came
in"Oh, dear! This is a strange world!"
"What new feature have you discovered now, mother?" asked one of her daughters, smiling.
"No new one, child; but an old one that looks more




MY WASHIERWOMAN.                19
repulsive than ever," was replied.' Poor Mrs. Blake
came to see me just now, in great trouble."
"What about, mother?" All the young ladies at
once manifested unusual interest.
Tell-tale blushes came instantly to my countenance,
upon which the eyes of the mother turned themselves, as
I felt, with a severe scrutiny.
" The old story, in cases like hers," was answered.
" Can't get her money when earned, although for daily
bread she is dependent on her daily labour. With no
food in the house, or money to buy medicine for her sick
child, she was compelled to seek me to-night, and to
humble her spirit, which is an independent one, so low
as to ask bread for her little ones, and the loan of a pittance with which to get what the doctor has ordered for
her feeble sufferer at home."
"Oh, what a shame!" fell from the lips of Ellen, the
one in whom my heart felt more than a passing interest;
and she looked at me earnestly as she spoke.
"She fully expected," said the mother, "to get a
trifle that was due her from a young man who boards
with Mrs. Corwin; and she went to see him this evening.
But he put her off with some excuse. How strange that
any one should be so thoughtless as to withhold from the
poor their hard-earned pittance! It is but a small sum
at best, that the toiling seamstress or washerwoman can
gain by her wearying labour. That, at least, should be
promptly paid.  To withhold it an hour is to do, in
many cases, a great wrong."
For some minutes after this was said, there ensued a
dead silence. I felt that the thoughts of all were turned




2'0              FORGIVE AND FORGET.
upon me as the one who had withheld from  poor Mrs.
Blake the trifling sum due her for washing.  What my
feelings were, it is impossible for me to describe; and
difficult for any one, never himself placed in so unpleasant a position, to imagine.
My relief was great when the conversation flowed on
again, and in another channel; for I then perceived that
suspicion did not rest upon me. You may be sure that
Mrs. Blake had her money before ten o'clock on the
next day, and that I never again fell into the error of
neglecting, for a single week, my poor washerwoman.
FORGIVE AND FORGET.
THERE'S a secret in living, if folks only knew;
An Alchymy precious, and golden, and true,
More precious than " gold dust," though pure and refined,
For its mint is the heart, and its storehouse the mind;
Do you guess what I mean-for as true as I live
That dear little secret's-forget and forgive!
When hearts that have loved have grown cold and estranged,
And looks that beamed fondness are clouded and changed,
And words hotly spoken and grieved for with tears
Have broken the trust and the friendship of yearsOh! think'mid thy pride and thy secret regret,
The balm for the wound is —forgive and forget 1
Yes! look in thy spirit, for love may return
And kindle the embers that still feebly burn;
And let this true whisper breathe high in thy heart,'Tis better to love than thus suffer apart







MU
S
-Asia,         10
"I" 7
F, JJ)




OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.                 21
Let the Past teach the Future more wisely than yet,
For the friendship that's true can forgive and forget.
And now, an adieu! if you list to my lay
May each in your thoughts bear my motto away,'Tis a crude, simple ryhme, but its truth may impart
A joy to the gentle and loving of heart;
And an end I would claim far more practical yet
In behalf of the Rthymer-forgive and forget!
OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.
Tnus says an Apostle; and if those who are able to
"' owe no man anything" would fully observe this divine
obligation, many, very many, whom their want of punctuality now compels to live in violation of this precept,
would then faithfully and promptly render to every one
their just dues.
"' What is the matter with you, George?" said Mrs.
Allison to her huseVnd, as he paced the floor of their
little sitting-room, with an anxious, troubled expression
of countenance.' O0h! nothing of much consequence: only a little
worry of business," replied Mr. Allison.
"1 But I know better than that, George.  I know it is
of consequence; you are not apt to have such a long
face for nothing.  Come, tell me what it is that troubles
you.  Itave I not a right to share your griefs as well as
your joys?"
"Indeed, Ellen, it is nothing but business, I assure




22            OWE No MAN ANYTHING.
you; and as I am not blessed with the most even temper
in the world, it does not take much you know to upset
me: but you heard me speak of that job I was building
for Hillman?"
"Yes. I think you said it was to be five hundred
dollars, did you not?"
" I did; and it was to have been cash as soon as done.
Well, he took it out two weeks ago; one week sooner
than I promised it. I sent the bill with it, expecting,
of course, he would send me a check for the, amount;
but I was disappointed.  Having heard nothing from
him since, I thought I would call on him this morning,
when, to my surprise, I was told he had gone travelling
with his wife and daughter, and would not be back for
six weeks or two months. I can't tell you how I felt
when I was told this."
" He is safe enough for it I suppose, isn't he, George?"'4 Oh, yes; he is supposed to be worth about three
hundred thousand. But what good is that to me?  I
was looking over my books this afternoon, and, including
this five hundred, there is just fifteen hundred dollars
due me now, that I ought to have, but can't get it. To
a man doing a large business it would not be much; but
to one with my limited means, it is a good deal. And
this is all in the hands of five individuals, any one of
whom could pay immediately, and feel not the least
inconvenience from it."
" Are you much pressed for money just now, George?"' I have a note in bank of three hundred, which falls
due to-morrow, and one of two hundred and fifty on
Saturday. Twenty-five dollars at least will be required




OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.             23
to pay off my hands; and besides this, our quarter's
rent is due on Monday, and my shop rent next Wednesday. Then there are other little bills I wanted to settle,
our own wants to be supplied, &c."'-Why don't you call on those persons you spoke of;
perhaps they would pay you?"
" I have sent their bills in, but if I call on them so
soon I might perhaps affront them, and cause them to
take their work away; and that I don't want to do.
However, I think I shall have to do it, let the consequence be what it may."
"' Perhaps you could borrow what you need, George,
for a few days."
"I suppose I could; but see the inconvenience and
trouble it puts me to. I was so certain of getting Hillman's money to meet these two notes, that I failed to
make any other provision."
" That would not have been enough of itself."
4 No, but I have a hundred on hand; the two together would have paid them, and left enough for my
workmen too."
As early as practicable the next morning Mr. Allison
started forth to raise the amount necessary to carry him
safely through the week. He thought it better to try
to collect some of the amounts owing to him than to
borrow. He first called on a wealthy merchant, whose
annual income was something near five thousand.
"' Good morning, Mr. Allison," said he, as bthat individual entered his counting-room.  "I suppose you want
some molney."
"I should like a little, Mr. Chapin, if you please."




24            OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.
"Well, I intended coming down to see you, but I
have been so busy that I have not been able. That carriage of mine which you did up a few weeks ago does
not suit me altogether."
"What is the matter with it?"
" I don't like the style of trimming, for one thing; it
has a common look to me."
"'It is precisely what Mrs. Chapin ordered.  You
told me to suit her."
"Yes, but did she not tell you to trim it like General
Spangler's?"'
"I am very much mistaken, Mr. Chapin, if it is not
precisely like his."
"Oh! no; his has a much richer look than mine."
" The style of trimming is just the same, Mr. Chapin;
but you certainly did not suppose that a carriage trimmed with worsted lace, would look as well as one trimmed
with silk lace?"
";No, of course not; but there are some other little
things about it that don't suit me. I will send my man
down with it to-day, and he will show you what they
are. I would like to have it to-morrow afternoon, to
take my family out in. Call up on Monday, and we will
have a settlement."
Mr. Allison next called at the office of a young lawyer, who had lately come into possession of an estate
valued at one hundred thousand dollars.  Mr. Allison's
bill was three hundred dollars, which his young frielnd
assured him he would settle immediately, only that there
was a slight error in the way it was made out, and not
having the bill with him, he could not now correct it.




OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.              25
He would call on Mr. Allison with it, sometime during
the next week, and settle it.
A Custom-House gentleman was next sought, but his
time had been so much taken up with his official duties,
that he had not yet been able to examine the bill. He
had no doubt but it was all correct; still, as he was not
accustomed to doing business in a loose way, he must
claim Mr. Allison's indulgence a few days longer.
AImost disheartened, Mr. Allison entered the store
of the last individual who was indebted to him for any
considerable amount, not daring to hope that he would
be any more successful with him than with the others he
had called on. But he was successful; the bill, which
amounted to near one hundred and fifty dollars, was
promptly paid, Mr. Allison's pocket, in consequence,
that much heavier, and his heart that much lighter.
Fifty dollars was yet lacking of the sum requisite for
that day. After calling on two or three individuals,
this amount was obtained, with the promise of being
returned by the middle of the next week.
"'I shall have hard work to get through to-day, I
know," said he to himself, as he sat at his desk on the
following morning.
" Two hundred and fifty dollars to be raised by borrowing. I don't know where I can get it."
To many this would be a small sum, but Mr. Allison
was peculiarly situated.  He was an honest, upright
mechanic, but he was poor. It was with difficulty he had
raised the fifty dollars on the day previous. Although
he had never once failed in returning money at the time
promised, still, for some reason or other, everybody




26            OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.
appeared unwilling to lend him.  It was nearly two
o'clock, and he was still a hundred dollars short.
" Well," said he to himself,'" I have done all I could,
and if Hall won't renew the note for the balance, it will
have to be protested. I'll go and ask him, though I
have not much hope that he will do it."
As he was about leaving his shop for that purpose, a
gentleman entered who wished to buy a second-hand
carriage.  Mr. Allison had but one, and that almost
new, for which he asked a hundred and forty dollars.
"It is higher than I wished to go," remarked the
gentleman.  " I ought to get a new one for that price."
"' So you can, but not like this. I can sell you a new
one for a hundred and twenty-five dollars. But what
did you expect to pay for one?"
"I was offered one at Holton's for seventy-five; but
I did not like it. I will give you a hundred for yours."
"It is too little, indeed, sir: that carriage cost three
hundred dollars when it was new.  It was in use a very
short time.  I allowed a hundred and forty dollars for
it myself."
"' Well, sir, I would not wish you to sell at a disadvantage, but if you like to accept of my ofer I'll take
it. I'm prepared to pay the cash down."
Mr. Allison did not reply for some minutes. He was
undecided as to what was best.
"Forty dollars," said he to himself, "is a pretty
heavy discount. I am almost tempted to refuse his offer
and trust to Hall's renewing the note.  But suppose he
won't-then I'm done for.  I think, upon the whole, I
had better accept it.  I'll put it at one hundred and




OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.              27
twenty-five, my good friend," said he, addressing the
customer.
No, sir; one hundred is all I shall give."
"Well, I suppose you must have it, then; but indeed
you have got a bargain."
" It is too bad," muttered Allison to himself, as he
left the bank after having paid his note. "There is
just forty dollars thrown away. And why? Simply
because those who are blessed with the means of discharging their debts promptly, neglect to do so."
"' How did you make out to-day, George?" asked his
wife, as they sat at the tea-table that same evening.
"I met my note, and that was all."
"Did you give your men anything?"
"Not a cent. I had but one dollar left after paying
that.  I was sorry for them, but I could not help them.
I am afraid Robinson's family will suffer, for there has
been sickness in his house almost constantly for the last
twelvemonth.  His wife, he told me the other day, had
not been out of her bed for six weeks.  Poor fellow!
He looked quite dejected when I told him I had nothing
for him."
At this moment the door-bell rang, and a minute or
two afterwards a young girl entered the room in which
Mr. and Mrs. Allison were sitting.  Before introducing
her to our readers, we will conduct them to the interior
of an obscure dwelling, situated near the outskirts of
the city. The room is small, and scantily furnished, and
answers at once for parlour, dining-room, and kitchen.
Its occupants, Mrs. Perry and her daughter, have been,
since the earliest dawn of day, intently occupied with




28             OWE NO IMAN ANYTHING.
their needles, barely allowing themselves time to partake of their frugal meal.
"Half-past three o'clock!" ejaculated the daughter,
her eyes glancing, as she spoke, at the clock on the
mantelpiece.'" I am afraid we shall not get this work
done in time for me to take it home before dark, mother."
"' We must try hard, Laura, for you know we have
not a cent in the house, and I told Mrs. Carr to come
over to-night, and I would pay her what I owe her for
washing. Poor thing! I would not like to disappoint
her, for I know she needs it."
Nothing more was said for near twenty minutes, when
Laura again broke the silence.
"' Oh, dear 1" she exclaimed, " what a pain I have in
my side!" And for a moment she rested from her work,
and straightened herself in her chair, to afford a slight
relief from the uneasiness she experienced. "I wonder,
mother, if I shall always be obliged to sit so steady?";"I hope not, my child; but bad as our situation is,
there are hundreds worse off than we.  Take Annie
Carr, for instance-how would you like to exchange
places with her?"
" Poor Annie! I was thinking of her awhile go, mother.  HIow hard it must be for one so young to be so
afflicted as she is!"
" And yet, Laura, she never complains; although for
five years she has never left her bed, and has often suffered, I know, for want of proper nourishment."'"I don't think she wYill suffer much longer, mother.
I stopped in to see her the other day, and I was asto



OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.              29
nished at the change which had taken place in a short
time. Her conversation, too, seems so heavenly, her faith
in the Lord so strong, that I could not avoid coming to
the conclusion that a few days more, at the most, would
terminate her wearisome life."
" It will be a happy release for her, indeed, my
daughter. Still, it will be a sore trial for her mother."
It was near six when Mrs. Perry and her daughter
finished the work upon which they were engaged.
"Now Laura, dear,"' said the mother, " get back as
soon as you can, for I don't like you to be out after
night, and more than that, if Mrs. Carr comes, she won't
want to wait."
About twenty minutes after the young girl had gone,
Mrs. Carr called.  "Pray, be seated, my dear friend,"
said Mrs. Perry, "my daughter has just gone to Mrs.
Allison's with some work, and as soon as she returns I
can pay you."
"I think I had better call over again, Mrs. Perry,"
answered the poor woman; "Mary begged me not to
stay long."
" Is Annie any worse, then?"
"4Oh, yes, a great deal; the doctor thinks she will
hardly last till morning."
"' Well, Mrs. Carr, death can be only gain to her."
"Very true; still, the idea of losing her seems dreadful to me."
" How does Mary get on at Mrs. Owring's?"
"Not very well; she has been at work for her just
one month to-day; and although she gave her to understand that her wages would be at least a dollar and a




30            OWE NO MIAN ANYTHIING.
quarter a week, yet to-night, when she settled with her,
she wouldn't give her but three dollars, and at the same
time told her that if she didn't choose to work for that
she could go."
"What do you suppose was the reason for her acting
so?"
"' I don't know, indeed, unless it is because she does
not get there quite as early as the rest of her hands;
for you see I am obliged to keep her a little while in the
morning to help me to move Annie while I make her
bed. Even that little sum, small it was, would have
been some help to us, but it had all to go for rent. My
landlord would take no denial. But I must go; you
think I can depend on receiving your money to-night?"
" I do. Mrs. Allison is always prompt in paying for
her work as soon as it is done. I will not trouble you
to come again for it, Mrs. Carr. Laura shall bring it
over to you."
Let us now turn to the young girl we left at Mr. Allison's, whom our readers, no doubt, recognise as Laura
Perry.
" Good evening, Laura," said Mrs. Allison, as she
entered the room; "not brought my work home already!
I did not look for it till next week. You and your mother, I am afraid, confine yourselves too closely to your
needles for your own good. But you have not had your
tea? sit up, and take some."
4' No, thank you, Mrs. Allison; mother will be uneasy
if I stay long."
" Well, Laura, I am sorry, but I cannot settle with
you to-night.  Tell your mother Mr. Allison was disap.




OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.              0 
pointed in collecting to-day, or she certainly should have
had it. Did she say how much it was?"
" Two dollars, ma'am."
"Very well: I will try and let her have it next
week."
The expression of Laura's countenance told too plainly
the disappointment she felt. " I am afraid Mrs. Perry
is in want of that money," remarked the husband after
she had gone.
"Not the least doubt of it," replied his wife.  " She
would not have sent home work at this hour if she had
not been.  Poor things! who can tell the amount of
suffering and wretchedness that is caused by the rich
neglecting to pay promptly."
"You come without money, Laura," said her mother,
as she entered the house.
" How do you know that, mother?" she replied,
forcing a smile.
"I read it in your countenance. Is it not so?"
"It is: Mr. Allison was disappointed in collectingwhat will we do, mother?"
"The best we can, my child. We will have to do
without our beef for dinner to-morrow; but then we
have plenty of bread; so we shall not starve."
" And I shall have to do without my new shoes. My
old ones are too shabby to go to church in; so I shall
have to stay at home."
"I am sorry for your disappointment, my child, but I
care more for Mrs. Carr than I do for ourselves.  She
has been here, and is in a great deal of trouble. The
doctor don't think Annie will live till morning, and Mrs.




Co) 2          ~OWE NO M{AN ANYTHING.
Owrings has refused to give Mary more than three dollars for her month's work, every cent of which old
Grimes took for rent. I told her she might depend on
getting what I owed her, and that I would send you
over with it when you returned. You had better go at
once and tell her, Laura; perhaps she may be able to
get some elsewhere."
"I How much is it, mother?"
"c Half a dollar."
"It seems hard that she can't get that small sum."
With a heavy heart Laura entered Mrs. Carr's humble
abode.
" Oh how glad I am that you have come, my dear!"
exclaimed the poor woman.  "Annie has been craving
some ice cream all day; it's the only thing she seems to
fancy. I told her she should have it as soon as you
came."
Mrs. Carr's eyes filled with tears as Laura told of her
ill success.  "I care not for myself," she said, "'but for
that poor suffering child."
"Never mind me, mother," replied Annie.  "It was
selfish in me to want it, when I know how hard you and
Mary are obliged to work for every cent you get. But
I feel that I shall not bother you much longer; I have
a strange feeling here now." And she placed her hand
upon her left side.
"Stop!" cried Laura; "I'll try and get some ice
cream for you, Annie."  And off she ran to her mother's
dwelling.' Mlother," said she, as she entered the house,
"' do you recollect that half dollar father gave me the last
time he went to sea?"




OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.              33
"Yes, dear."
"Well, I think I had better take it and pay Mrs.
Carr. Annie is very bad, and her mother says she has
been wanting some ice cream all day."
"It is yours, Laura, do as you like about it."
" It goes hard with me to part with it, mother, for I
had determined to keep it in remembrance of my father.
It is just twelve years to-day since he went away. But
poor Annie-yes, mother, I will take it."
So saying, Laura went to unlock the box which contained her treasure, but unfortunately her key was not
where she had supposed it was. After a half hour's
search she succeeded in finding it. Tears coursed down
her cheeks like rain as she removed from the corner of
the little box, where it had lain for so many years, this
precious relic of a dear father, who, in all probability,
was buried beneath the ocean. Dashing them hastily
away, she started again for Mrs. Carr's. The ice cream
was procured on the way, and, just as the clock struck
eight, she arrived at the door. One hour has elapsed
since she left. But why does she linger on the threshold?  Why but because the sounds of weeping and
mourning have reached her ears, and she fears that all
is over with her poor friend. Her fears are indeed true,
for the pure spirit of the young sufferer has taken its
flight to that blest land where hunger and thirst are
known no more. Poor Annie! thy last earthly wish, a
simple glass of ice-cream, was denied thee-and why?
We need not pause to answer: ye who have an abundance of this world's goods, think, when ve are about to
turn from your doors the poor seamstress or washerwo3




3-41        PRETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL.
man, or even those less destitute than they, without a
just recompense for their labour, whether the sufferings
and privations of sonme poor creatures will not be increased thereby.
RETURNING GOOD FORg EVIL.
OBADIAH LAWSON and Watt Dood were neighbours;
that is, they lived within a half mile of each other, and
no person lived between their respective farms, which
would have joined, had not a little strip of prairie land
extended itself sufficiently to keep them  separated.
Dood was the oldest settler, and from his youth up had
entertained a singular hatred against Quakers; therefore, when he was informed that Lawson, a regular disciple of that class of people, had purchased the next
farm to his, he declared he would make him glad to
move away again.  Accordingly, a system  of petty
annoyances was commenced by him, and every time one
of Lawson's hogs chanced to stray upon Dood's place,
he was beset by men and dogs, and most savagely abused.
Things progressed thus for nearly a year, and the Quaker, a man of decidedly peace principles, appeared in
no way to resent the injuries received at the hands of
his spiteful neighbour. But matters were drawing to a
crisis; for Dood, more enraged than ever at the quiet
of Obadiah, made oath that he would do something
before long to wake up the spunk of Lawson.  Chance
favoured his design. The Quaker had a high-blooded




RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL.            35
filly, which he had been very careful in raising, and
which was just four years old. Lawson took great pride
in this animal, and had refused a large sum of money
for her.
One evening, a little after sunset, as Watt Dood
was passing around his cornfield, he discovered the filly
feeding in the little strip of prairie land that separated
the two farms, and he conceived the hellish design of
throwing off two or three rails of his fence, that the
horse might get into his corn during the night.  He did
so, and the next morning, bright and early, he shouldered
his rifle and left the house. Not long after his absence,
a hired man, whom he had recently employed, heard the
echo of his gun, and in a few minutes Dood, considerably
excited and out of breath, came hurrying to the house,
where he stated that he had shot at and wounded a buck;
that the deer attacked him, and he hardly escaped with
his life.
This story was credited by all but the newly employed
hand, who had taken a dislike to Watt, and, from his
manner, suspected that something was wrong.  He
therefore slipped quietly away from the house, and going
through the field in the direction of the shot, he suddenly
came upon Lawson's filly, stretched upon the earth, with
a bullet hole through the head, from which the warm
blood was still oozing.
The animal was warm, and could not have been killed
an hour.  Hle hastened back to the dwelling of Dood,
who met him  in the yard, and demanded, somewhat
roughly, where he had been.




3 6          RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL.
" I've been to see if your bullet made sure work of
Mr. Lawson's filly," was the instant retort.
Watt paled for a moment, but collecting himself, he
fiercely shouted,
" Do you dare to say I killed her?"
" How do you know she is dead?" replied the man.
Dood bit his lip, hesitated a moment, and then turning, walked into the house.
A couple of days passed by, and the morning of the
third one had broken, as the hired man met friend Lawson, riding in search of his filly.
A few words of explanation ensued, when, with a
heavy heart, the Quaker turned his horse and rode home,
where he informed the people of the fate of his filly.
No threat of recrimination escaped him; he did not
even go to law to recover damages; but calmly awaited
his plan and hour of revenge. It came at last.
Watt Dood had a Durham heifer, for which he had
paid a heavy price, and upon which he counted to make
great gains.
One morning, just as Obadiah was sitting down, his
eldest son came in with the information that neighbour
Dood's heifer had broken down the fence, entered the
yard, and after eating most of the cabbages, had trampled the well-made beds and the vegetables they contained, out of all shape-a mischief impossible to repair.
"And what did thee do with her, Jacob?" quietly
asked Obadiah.
"I put her in the farm-yard."
"Did thee beat her?"
"I never struck her a blow."




RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL.           37
" Right, Jacob, right; sit down to thy breakfast, and
when done eating I will attend to the heifer."
Shortly after he had finished his repast, Lawson
mounted a horse, and rode over to Dood's, who was
sitting under the porch in front of his house, and who,
as he beheld the Quaker dismount, supposed he was
coming to demand pay for his filly, and secretly swore
he would have to law for it if he did.
"' Good morning, neighbour Dood; how is thy family?"
exclaimed Obadiah, as he mounted the steps and seated
himself in a chair.
" All well, I believe," was the crusty reply.
" I have a small affair to settle with you this morning,
and I came rather early."
" So I suppose," growled Watt.
"This morning, my son found thy Durham heifer in
my garden, where she has destroyed a good deal."
"And what did he do with her?" demanded Dood,
his brow darkening.;" What would thee have done with her, had she been
my heifer in thy garden?" asked Obadiah.' I'd a shot her!" retorted Watt, madly, "as I suppose you have done; but we are only even now. Heifer
for filly is only'tit for tat.'"
"Neighbour Dood, thou knowest me not, if thou
thinkest I would harm a hair of thy heifer's back. She
is in my farm-yard, and not even a blow has been struck
her, where thee can get her at any time. I know thee
shot my filly; but the evil one prompted thee to do it,
and I lay no evil in my heart against my neighbours.




383 PUTTING YOUR IHAND IN YOUR NETIGIBOUtR'S POCKET.
I came to tell thee where thy heifer is, and now I'll go
home."
Obadiah rose from his chair, and was about to descend
the steps, when he was stopped by Watt, who hastily
asked,
"What was your filly worth?"
"A hundred dollars is what I asked for her," replied
Obediah.
"Wait a moment!" and Dood rushed into the house,
from whence he soon returned, holding some gold in his
hand.  "Here's the price of your filly; and hereafter
let there be a pleasantness between us."
" Willingly, heartily," answered Lawson, grasping the
proffered hand of the other; " let there be peace between
us."
Obadiah mounted his horse, and rode home with a
lighter heart, and from that day to this Dood has been
as good a neighbour as one could wish to have; being
completely reformed by the RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL.
-4 —
PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGIIBOUR'S POCKET.
"Do you recollect Thomas, who lived with us as
waiter about two years ago, Mary?" asked Mr. Clarke,
as he seated himself in his comfortable arm-chair, and
slipped his feet into the nicely-warmed, embroidered
slippers, which stood ready for his use.
"Certainly," was the reply of Mrs. Clarke.  "He
was a bright, active fellow, but rather insolent."




PUTTING YOUR HIAND IN YOUR NEIGIIBOUR'S POCKET. 39
" He has proved to be a regular pickpocket," continued her husband,' and is now on his way to Blackwell's Island."
" A very suitable place for him. I hope he will be
benefited by a few months' residence there," returned
the lady.
" Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Joshua Clarke, an
uncle of the young couple, who was quietly reading a
newspaper in another part of the room. " There are
many of high standing in the world, who deserve to go
to Blackwell's Island quite as much as he does."
" You are always making such queer speeches, Uncle
Joshua," said his niece.  "I suppose you do not mean
that there are pickpockets among respectable people?"
"Indeed, there are, my dear niece. Your knowledge
of the world must be very limited, if you are not aware
of this. Putting your hand in your neighbour's pocket,
is one of the most fashionable accomplishments of the
day."
Mrs. Clarke was too well acquainted with her uncle's
peculiarities to think of arguing with him. She therefore merely smiled, and said to her husband:-'" Well, Henry, I am glad that neither you nor myself
are acquainted with this fashionable accomplishment."
" Not acquainted with it!" exclaimed the old gentleman.  " I thought you knew yourselves better. Why,
you and Henry are both regular pickpockets!"
" I wonder that you demean yourself by associating
with us i" was the playful reply.
" Oh, you are no worse than the rest of the world;
and, besides, I hope to do you some good, when you




40 PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR'S POCKET.
grow older and wiser. At present, Fenry's whole soal
is absorbed in the desire to obtain wealth."
b In a fair and honourable way, uncle," interrupted
Mr. Clarke,6 and for honourable purposes."
"Certainly," replied Uncle Joshua, " in the common
acceptation of the words fair and' ]honourable. But, do
you never, in your mercantile speculations, endeavour to
convey erroneous impressions to the minds of those with
whom you are dealing? Do you not sometimes suppress
information which would prevent your obtaining a good
bargain? Do you never allow your customers to purchase goods under false ideas of their value and demand
in the market? If you saw a man, less skilled in business than yourself, about to take a step injurious to him,
but advantageous to you, would you warn him of his
danger-thus obeying the command to love your neighbour as yourself?"'" Why, uncle, these questions are absurd. Of course,
when engaged in business, I endeavour to do what is
for my own advantage —leaving others to look out for
themselves."
"' Exactly so. You are perfectly willing to put your
hand in your neighbour's pocket and take all you can
get, provided he is not wise enough to know that your
hand is there."
" Oh, for shame, UTncle Joshua! I shall not allow you
to talk to Henry in this manner," exclaimed Mrs. Clarke,
perceiving that her husband looked somewhat irritated.
" Come, prove your charge against me. In what way
do I pick my neighbour's pockets?"




PUTTING YOUR IHAND IN YOUR NEIGI13OUR'S POCKET. 41
You took six shillings from the washerwoman this
mornings" coolly replied Uncle Joshua.
Took six shillings from the washerwoman!  Paid
her six shillings, you mean, uncle.  She called for the
money due for a day's work, and I gave it to her."
"yes, but not till you had kept her waiting nearly two
hours.  I heard her say, as she left the house,'I have
lost a day's work by this delay, for I cannot go to Mrs.
Reed's at this hour; so I shall be six shillings poorer at
the end of the week.'"
"Why did she wait, then?  She could have called
again. I was not ready to attend to her at so early an
}1OUr. "
"Probably she needed the money to-day.  You little
know the value of six shillings to the mother of a poor
family, Mary; but, you should remember that her time
is valuable, and that it is as sinful to deprive her of the
use of it, as if you took money from her purse."'a Well, uncle, I will acknowledge that I did wrong to
keep the poor woman waiting, and I will endeavour to
be more considerate in future. So draw your chair to
the table, and take a cup of tea and some of your favourite cakes."
"Thank you, Mary; but I am engaged to take tea
with your old friend, AIrs. Morrison.  Poor thing! she
has not made out very well lately. Her school has quite
run down, owing to sickness among her scholars; and
her own family have been ill all winter; so that her
expenses have been great."
" I am sorry to hear this," replied Mrs. Clarke.  "I
had hoped that her school was succeeding. Give my




42 PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGIIBOUR'S   POCKET.
love to her, uncle, and tell her I will call upon her in a
day or two."
Uncle Joshua promised to remember the message, and
bidding Mr. and Mrs. Clarke good evening, he was soon
seated in Mrs. Morrison's neat little parlour, which,
though it bore no comparison with the spacious and
beautifully furnished apartments he had just left, had an
air of comfort and convenience which could not fail to
please.
Delighted to see her old friend, whom she also, from
early habit, addressed by the title of Uncle Joshua, although he was no relation, Mrs. Miorrison's countenance,
for awhile, beamed with that cheerful, animated expression which it used to wear in heir more youthful days;
but an expression of care and anxiety soon overshadowed it, and, in the midst of her kind attentions to her
visiter, and her affectionate endearment to two sweet
children, who were playing around the room, she would
often remain thoughtful and abstracted for several minutes.
Uncle Joshua was an attentive observer, and he saw
that something weighed heavily upon her mind.  When
tea was over, and the little ones had gone to rest, he
said, kindly,
"Come, Fanny, draw your chair close to my side, and
tell me all your troubles, as freely as you used to do
when a merry-hearted school-girl.  How often I have
listened to the sad tale of the pet pigeon, that had flown
away, or the favourite plant killed by the untimely frost.
Come, I am ready, now as then, to assist you with my
advice, and my purse, too, if necessary."




PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR S POCKET. 43
Tears started to Mrs. Morrison's eyes, as she replied,
" You were always a kind friend to me, Uncle Joshua,
and I will gladly confide my troubles to you. You know
that after my husband's death I took this house, which,
though small, may seem far above my limited income, in
the hope of obtaining a school sufficiently large to enable me to meet the rent, and also to support myself
and children.  The small sum left them by their father
I determined to invest for their future use.  I unwisely
intrusted it to one who betrayed the trust, and appropriated the money to some wild speculation of his own.
I-He says that he did this in the hope of increasing my
little property. It may be so, but my consent should
have been asked.  He failed, and there is little hope of
our ever recovering more than a small part of what he
owes us. But, to return to my school.  I found little
difficulty in obtaining scholars, and, for a short time,
believed myself to be doing well, but I soon found that
a large number of scholars did not insure a large income
fromn the school.  My terms were moderate, but still I
found great difficulty in obtaining what was due to me
at the end of the term.
" A few paid promptly, and without expecting me to
make unreasonable deductions for unpleasant weather,
slight illness, &c., &c. Others paid after long delay,
which often put me to the greatest inconvenience; and
some, after appointing day after day for me to call, and
promising each time that the bill should be settled without fail, moved away, I knew not whither, or met me at
length with a cool assurance that it was not possible for




44 PUTTING YOUR ItAND IN YOUR NEIGITBOUR'S POCIKET.
them to pay me at present-if it was ever in their power
they would let me know."
"Downright robbery!" exclaimed Uncle Joshua. "A
set of pickpockets! I wish they were all shipped for
Blackwell's Island."
"There are many reasons assigned for not paying,"
continued Mrs. Morrison.  " Sometimes the children
had not learned as much as the parents expected. Some
found it expedient to take their children away long before the expiration of the term, and then gazed at me in
astonishment when I declared my right to demand pay
for the whole time for which they engaged. One lady,
in particular, to whose daughter I was giving music lessons, withdrew the pupil under pretext of slight inclisposition, and sent me the amount due for a half term.
I called upon her, and stated that I considered the engagement binding for twenty-four lessons, but would
willingly wait until the young lady was quite recovered.
The mother appeared to assent with willingness to this
arrangement, and took the proffered money without comment. An hour or two after I received a laconic epistle
stating that the lady had already engaged another teacher,
whom she thought preferable-that she had offered me
the amount due for half of the term, and I had declined
receiving it-therefore she should not offer it again. I
wrote a polite, but very plain, reply to this note, and
enclosed my bill for the whole term, but have never heard
from her since."
" Do you mean to say that she actually received the
money which you returned to her without reluctance,




PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGI-IBOtR S POCKET. 45
and gave you no notice of her intention to employ another teacher?" demanded the old gentleman.
"'Certainly; and, besides this, I afterwards ascertained that the young lady was actually receiving a lesson from another teacher, when I called at the housetherefore the plea of indisposition was entirely false.
The most perfect satisfaction had always been expressed
as to the progress of the pupil, and no cause was assigned
for the change."'" I hope you have met with few cases as bad as this,"
remarked Uncle Joshua. " The world must be in a worse
state than even I had supposed, if such imposition is
common."
"This may be an extreme case," replied Mrs. Morrison, "but I could relate many others which are little
better. However, you will soon weary of my experience in this way, Uncle Joshua, and I will therefore
mention but one other instance.  One bitter cold day in
January, I called at the house of a lady who had owed
me a small amount for nearly a year, and after repeated
delay had reluctantly fixed this day as the time when
she would pay me at least a part of what was due. I
was told by the servant who opened the door that the
lady was not at home.
"' What time will she be in?" I inquired.
"Not for some hours," was the reply.
Leaving word that I would call again towards evening,
I retraced my steps, feeling much disappointed at my ill
success, as I had felt quite sure of obtaining the money.
About five o'clock I again presented myself at the door,
and was again informed that the lady was not at home.




46 PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR' S POCKET.
"I will walk in, and wait for her return," I replied.
The servant appeared somewhat startled at this, but
after a little delay ushered me into the parlour. Two
little boys, of four and six years of age, were playing
about the room.  I joined in their sports, and soon be
came quite familiar with them. Half an hour had passed
away, when I inquired of the oldest boy what time he
expected his mother?
" Not till late," he answered, hesitatingly.
" Did she take the baby with her this cold day'?" I
asked.
" Yes, ma'am," promptly replied the girl, who, under
pretence of attending to the children, frequently came
into the room.
The youngest child gazed earnestly in my face, and
said, smilingly,
"Mother has not gone away, she is up stairs.  She
ran away with baby when she saw you coming, and told
us to say she had gone out. I am afraid brother will
take cold, for there is no fire up stairs."
" It is no such thing," exclaimed the girl and the eldest boy.  "She is not up stairs, ma'am, or she would
see you."
But even as they spoke the loud cries of an infant
were heard, and a voice at the head of the stairs calling
Jenny.
The girl obeyed, and presently returned with the
child in her arms, its face, neck, and hands purple with
cold.
"Poor little thing, it has got its death in that cold




PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHIBOUR S POCKET. 47
room," she said.  "Mistress cannot see you, ma'am,
she is sick and gone to bed."
This last story was probably equally false with the
other, but I felt that it was useless to remain, and with
feelings of deep regret for the poor children who were
so early taught an entire disregard for truth, and of sorrow for the exposure to cold to which I had innocently
subjected the infant, I left the house. A few days after,
I heard that the little one had died with croup. Jenny,
whom I accidentally met in the street, assured me that
he took the cold which caused his death from the exposure on the afternoon of my call, as he became ill the
following day. I improved the opportunity to endeavour
to impress upon the mind of the poor girl the sin of
which she had been guilty, in telling a falsehood even
in obedience to the commands of her mistress; and I
hope that what I said may be useful to her.
The.want of honesty and promptness in the parents
of my pupils often caused me great inconvenience, and
I frequently found it difficult to meet my rent when it
became due.  Still I have struggled through my difficul
ties without contracting any debts until this winter, but
the sickness which has prevailed in my school has so
materially lessened my income, and my family expenses
have, for the same reason, been so much greater, that I
fear it will be quite impossible for me to continue in my
present situation."
"' Do not be discouraged," said Uncle Joshua;'" I will
advance whatever sum you are in immediate need of,
and you may repay me when it is convenient to yourself.
I will also take the bills which are due to you from va



48 PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR' S POCKET.
rious persons, and endeavour to collect them. Your
present term is, I suppose, nearly ended.  Commence
another with this regulation:-That the price of tuition,
or at least one-half of it, shall be paid before the entrance of the scholar.  Some will complain of this rule,
but many will not hesitate to comply with it, and you
will find the result beneficial. And now I would leave
you, Fanny, for I have another call to make this evening.
My young friend, William Churchill, is, I hear, quite
ill, and I feel desirous to see him. I will call upon you
in a day or two, and then we will have another talk
about your affairs, and see what can be done for you.
So good night, Fanny; go to sleep and dream of your
old friend."
Closing the door after Uncle Joshua, M[rs. Morrison
returned to her room with a heart filled with thankfulness that so kind a friend had been sent to her in the
hour of need; while the old gentleman walked with rapid
steps through several streets until he stood at the door
of a small, but pleasantly situated house in the suburbs
of the city. His ring at the bell was answered by a
pretty, pleasant-looking young woman, whom he addressed as Mrs. Churchill, and kindly inquired for her
husband.
" William is very feeble to-day, but he will be rejoiced
to see you, sir.  His disease is partly owing to anxiety
of mind, I think, and when his spirits are raised by a
friendly visit, he feels better."
Uncle Joshua followed Mrs. Churchill to the small
room which now served the double purpose of parlour
and bedroom. They were met at the door by the inva



PUTTING YOUR HIAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOURI'S POCKET. 49
lid, who had recognised the voice of his old friend, and
had made an effort to rise and greet him. His sunken
countenance, the hectic flush which glowed upon his
cheek, and the distressing cough, gave fearful evidenc e
that unless the disease was soon arrested in its progress,
consumption would mark him for its victim.
The friendly visiter was inwardly shocked at his appearance, but wisely made no allusion to it, and soon
engaged him in cheerful conversation. Gradually he
led him to speak openly of his own situation,-of his
health, and of the pecuniary difficulties with which he
was struggling. His story was a common one. A young
family were growing up around him, and an aged mother
and invalid sister also depended upon him for support.
The small salary which he obtained as clerk in one of
the most extensive mercantile establishments in the city,
was quite insufficient to meet his necessary expenses.
IHe had, therefore, after being constantly employed from
early morning until a late hour in the evening, devoted
two or three hours of the night to various occupations
which added a trifle to his limited income.  Sometimes
he procured copying of various kinds; at others, accounts, which he could take to his own house, were intrusted to him. This incessant application had gradually
ruined his health, and now for several weeks he had been
unable to leave the house.
"' Have you had advice from an experienced physician,
William?" inquired Uncle Joshua. The young man
blushed, as he replied, that he was unwilling to send for
a physician, knowing that he had no means to repay his
services.




60 PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NE1GIIBOUR'S POCKET.
"' I will send my own doctor to see you," returned his
friend. "' He can help you if any one can, and as for
his fee I will attend to it, and if you regain your health
I shall be amply repaid.-No, do not thank me," he
continued, as Mr. Churchill endeavoured to express his
gratitude. " Your father has done me many a favour,
and it would be strange if I could not extend a hand to
help his son when in trouble. And now tell me, William,
is not your salary very small, considering the responsible
situation which you have so long held in the firm of
Stevenson & Co.?"
It is," was the reply; "'but I see no prospect of
obtaining more. I believe I have always given perfect
satisfaction to my employer, although it is difficult to
ascertain the estimation in which he holds me, for he is
a man who never praises.  He has never found fault
with me, and therefore I suppose him satisfied, and indeed I have some proof of this in his willingness to wait
two or three months in the hope that I may recover
from my present illness before making a permanent engagement with a new clerk. Notwithstanding this, he
has never raised my salary, and when I ventured to say
to him about a year ago, that as his business had nearly
doubled since I had been with him, I felt that it would
be but just that I should derive some benefit from the
change, he coolly replied that my present salary was all
that he had ever paid a clerk, and he considered it a
sufficient equivalent for my services. Hle knows very
well that it is difficult to obtain a good situation, there
are so many who stand ready to fil1 any vacancy, and




T.JkING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGIHBOUR'S POCKET. 51
therefore he feels quite safe in refusing to give me
more."
"And yet," replied Uncle Joshua, " he is fully aware
that the advantage resulting from your long experience
and thorough acquaintance with his business, increases
his income several hundred dollars every year, and this
money he quietly puts into his own pocket, without considering or caring that a fair proportion of it should in
common honesty go into yours.  What a queer world
we live in! The poor thief who robs you of your watch
or pocket-book, is punished without delay; but these
wealthy defrauders maintain their respectability and pass
for honest men, even while withholding what they know
to be the just due of another.
"But cheer up, William, I have a fine plan for you,
if you can but regain your health. I am looking for a
suitable person to take charge of a large sheep farm,
which I propose establishing on the land which I own
in Virginia. You acquired some knowledge of farming
in your early days.  How would you like to undertake
this business? The climate is delightful, the employment
easy and pleasant; and it shall be my care that your
salary is amply sufficient for the support of your family.".Mr. Churchill could hardly command his voice sufficiently to express his thanks, and his wife burst into
tears, as she exclaimed,
"If my poor husband had confided his troubles to
you before, he would not have been reduced to this feeble
state."
"IHe will recover," said the old gentleman.  "I feel
sure, that in one month, he will look like a different




52 PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR'S POCKET.
man. Rest yourself, now, William, and to-morrow I will
see you again."
And, followed by the blessings and thanks of the
young couple, Uncle Joshua departed.
"Past ten o'clock," he said to himself, as he paused
near a lamp-post and looked at his watch.  "I must go
to my own room."
As he said this, he was startled by a deep sigh from
some one near, and on looking round, saw a lad, of fourteen or fifteen years of age, leaning against the post,
and looking earnestly at him.
Uncle Joshua recognised the son of a poor widow,
whom he had occasionally befriended, and said, kindly,
"Well, John, are you on your way home from the
store? This is rather a late hour for a boy like you."
"' Yes, sir, it is late. I cannot bear to return home
to my poor mother, for I have bad news for her to-night.
Mr. Mackenzie does not wish to employ me any more.
My year is up to-day."
"' Why, John, how is this? Not long ago your employer told me that he was perfectly satisfied with you;
indeed, he said that he never before had so trusty and
useful a boy."
"He has always appeared satisfied with me, sir, and
I have endeavoured to serve him faithfully. But he
told me to-clay that he had engaged another boy."
Uncle Joshua mused for a moment, and then asked,
"c What was he to give you for the first year, John?"
"Nothing, sir.  He told my mother that my services
would be worth nothing the first year, but the second he
would pay me fifty dollars, and so increase my salary




PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR S POCKET. [ 
as I grew older. My poor mother has worked very hard
to support me this year, and I had hoped that I would
be able to help her soon. But it is all over now, and I
suppose I must take a boy's place again, and work another year for nothing."
"And then be turned off again. Another set of pickpockets," muttered his indignant auditor.
"Pickpockets!" exclaimed the lad.  "Did any one
take your watch just now, sir? I saw a man look at it
as you took it out. Perhaps we can overtake him. I
think he turned into the next street."
"No, no, my boy. My watch is safe enough. I am
not thinking of street pickpockets, but of another class
whom you will find out as you grow older. But never
mind losing your place, John. M[y nephew is in want of a
boy who has had some experience in your business, and will
pay him a fair salary —more than Mr. Mackenzie agreed
to give you for the second year. I will mention you to
him, and you may call at his store to-morrow at eleven
o'clock, and we will see if you will answer his purpose."
"Thank you, sir, I am sure I thank you; and mother
will bless you for your kindness," replied the boy, his
countenance glowing with animation; and with a grateful " good night," he darted off in the direction of his
own home.
"There goes a grateful heart," thought Uncle Joshua,
as he gazed after the boy until he turned the corner of
the street and disappeared.  "He has lost his situation
merely because another can be found who will do the
work for nothing for a year, in the vain hope of future
recompense.  I wish Mary could have been with me




54   -             1KIND WORDS.
this evening; I think she would have acknowledged that
there are many respectable pickpockets who deserve to
accompany poor Thomas to Blackwell's Island;" and
thus soliloquizing, Uncle Joshua reached the door of his
boarding-house, and sought repose in his own room.
KIND  WORDS.
WE have more than once, in our rapidly written
reflections, urged the policy and propriety of kindness,
courtesy, and good-will between man and man. It is so
easy for an individual to manifest amenity of spirit, to
avoid harshness, and thus to cheer and gladden the
paths of all over whom he may have influence or control, that it is really surprising to find any one pursuing
the very opposite course. Strange as it may appear,
there are among the children of men, hundreds who
seem to take delight in making others unhappy. They
rejoice at an opportunity of being the messengers of
evil tidings. They are jealous or malignant; and in
either case they exult in inflicting a wound.  The
ancients, in most nations, had a peculiar dislike to
croakers, prophets of evil, and the bearers of evil
tidings. It is recorded that the messenger from the
banks of the Tigris, who first announced the defeat of
the Roman army by the Persians, and the death of the
Emperor Julian, in a Roman city of Asia Minor, was
instantly buried under a heap of stones thrown upon




KIND WORDS.                 55
him by an indignant populace. And yet this messenger
was innocent, and reluctantly discharged a painful duty.
But how different the spirit and the motive of volunteers
in such cases —those who exult in an opportunity of
communicating bad news, and in some degree revel over
the very agony which it produces. The sensitive, the
generous, the honourable, would ever be spared from
such painful missions. A case of more recent occurrence may be referred to as in point. We allude to the
murder of Mr. Roberts, a farmer of New Jersey, who
was robbed and shot in his own wagon, Bear Camden.
It became necessary that the sad intelligence should be
broken to his wife and family with as much delicacy as
possible. A neighbour was selected for the task, and
at first consented.  But, on consideration, his heart
failed him. He could not, he said, communicate the
details of a tragedy so appalling, and he begged to be
excused.  Another, formed it was thought of sterner
stuff, was then fixed upon: but he too, rough and bluff
as he was in his ordinary manners, possessed the heart
of a generous and sympathetic human being, and also
respectfully declined. A third made a like objection,
and at last a female friend of the family was with much
difficulty persuaded, in company with another, to undertake the mournful task. And yet, we repeat, there are
in society, individuals who delight in' contributing to the
misery of others-who are eager to circulate a slander,
to chronicle a ruin, to revive a forgotten error, to wound.
sting, and annoy, whenever they may do so with impunity. How much better the gentle, the generous, the
magnanimous policy! Why not do everything that may




KIND WORDS.
be done for the happiness of our fellow creatures, without seeking out their weak points, irritating their halfhealed wounds, jarring their sensibilities, or embittering
their thoughts! The magic of kind words and a kind
manner can scarcely be over-estimated.  Our fellow
creatures are more sensitive than is generally imagined.
We have known cases in which a gentle courtesy has
been remembered with pleasure for years.  Who indeed
cannot look back into s"bygone time," and discover
some smile, some look or other demonstration of regard
or esteem, calculated to bless and brighten every hour
of after existence!  "Kind words," says an eminent
writer, "do not cost much.  It does not take long to
utter them.  They never blister the tongue or lips on
their passage into the world, or occasion any other kind
of bodily suffering; and we have never heard of any
mental trouble arising from  this quarter.   Though
they do not cost much, yet they accomplish much.
1. They help one's own good nature and good will. One
cannot be in a habit of this kind, without thereby pecking away something of the granite roughness of his own
nature.  Soft words will soften his own soul.  Philosophers tell us that the angry words a man uses in his
passion are fuel to the flame of his wrath, and make it
blaze the more fiercely. Why, then, should not words
of the opposite character produce opposite results, and
that most blessed of all passions of the soul, kindness,
be augmented by kind words? People that are for ever
speaking kindly, are for ever disinclining themselves to
ill-temper.  2. Kind words make other people goodnatured.  Cold words freeze people, and hot w-kords




KIND W0nDS.                  57
scorch them, and sarcastic words irritate them, and
bitter words make them bitter, and wrathful words make
them  wrathful.  And kind words also produce their
own image on men's souls; and a beautiful image it is.
They soothe, and quiet, and comfort the hearer.  They
shame him out of his sour, morose, unkind feelings; and
he has to become kind himself.  There is such a rush
of all other kinds of words in our days, that it seems desirable to give kind words a chance among them. There
are vain vwords, idle words, hasty words, spiteful words,
silly words, and empty words.  Now kind words are
better than the whole of them; and it is a pity that,
among the improvements of the present age, birds of
this feather might not have more of a chance than they
have had to spread their wings."
It is indeed! Kind words should be brought into
more general use.  Those in authority should employ
them more frequently, when addressing the less fortunate
among mankind.  Employers should use them in their
intercourse with their workmen.  Parents should utter
them on every occasion to their children. The rich
should never forget an opportunity of speaking kindly
to the poor.  Neighbours and friends should emulate
each other in the employment of mild, gentle, frank,
and kindly language.  But this cannot be done unless
each endeavours to control himself. Our passions and
our prejudices must be kept in check.  If we find that
we have a neighbour on the other side of the way, who
has been more fortunate in a worldly sense than we have
been, and if we discover a little jealousy or envy creeping into our opinions and feelings concerning said neigh



58           NNEIcIBOUrS' QUARRELS.
beur-let us be careful, endeavour to put a rein upon
our tongues, and to avoid the indulgence of malevolence
or ill-will. If we, on the other hand, have been fortur
nate, have enough and to spare, and there happens to
be in our circle some who are dependent upon us, some
who look up to us with love and respect-let us be
generous, courteous, and kind-anc thus we shall not
only discharge a duty, but prove a source of happiness
to others.
NEIGHBOURS' QUARRELS.
MOST people think there are cares enough in the world,
and yet many are very industrious to increase them:One of the readiest ways of doing this is to quarrel with
a neighbour. A bad bargain may vex a man for a week,
and a bad debt may trouble him for a month; but a
quarrel with his neighbours will keep him in hot water
all the year round.
Aaron IlHands delights in fowls, and his cocks and
hens are always scratching up the flowerbeds of his
neighbour William  Wilkes, whose mischievous tom-cat
every now and then runs off with a chicken. The consequence is, that William Wilkins is one half the day occupied in driving away the fowls, and threatening to
screw their long ugly necks off; while Aaron Hands, in
his periodical outbreaks, invariably vows to skin his
neighbour's cat, as sure as he can lay hold of him.




NEIOIIIBOUIS' QUARRELS.           59
Neighbours! Neighbours! Why can you not be at
peace? Not all the fowls you can rear, and the flowers
you can grow, will make amends for a life of anger,
hatred, malice, and uncharitableness. Come to some
kind-hearted understanding one with another, and dwell
in peace.
Upton, the refiner, has a smoky chimney, that sets
him and all the neighbourhood by the ears. The people
around abuse him without mercy, complaining that they
are poisoned, and declaring that they will indict him at
the sessions. Upton fiercely sets them at defiance, on
the ground that his premises were built before theirs, that
his chimney did not come to them, but that they came
to his chimney.
Neighbours! Neighbours! practise a little more forbearance. Had half a dozen of you waited on the refiner
in a kindly spirit, he would years ago have so altered
his chimney, that it would not have annoyed you.
Mrs. Tibbets is thoughtless —if it were not'so she would
never have had her large dusty carpet beaten, when her
neighbour, who had a wash, was having her wet clothes
hung out to dry. Mrs. Williams is hasty and passionate,
or she would never have taken it for granted that the
carpet was beaten on purpose to spite her, and give her
trouble. As it is, Mrs. Tibbets and Mrs. Williams hate
Dne another with a perfect hatred.
Neighbours! Neighbours! bear with one another. We
are none of us angels, and should not, therefore, expect
those about us to be free from faults.
They who attempt to out-wrangle a quarrelsome
neighbour, go the wrong way to work. A kind word,




ti            WNEIGHBOURS' QUARRELS.
and still more a kind deed, will be more likely to be
successful. Two children wanted to pass by a savage
dog: the one took a stick in his hand and pointed it at
him, but this only made the enraged creature more
furious than before. The other child adopted a different
plan; for by giving the dog a piece of his bread and
butter, he was allowed to pass, the subdued animal
wagging his tail in quietude. If you happen to have a
quarrelsome neighbour, conquer him  by civility and
kindness; try the bread and butter system, and keep
your stick out of sight.  That is an excellent Christian
admonition, "A  soft answer turneth away wrath, but
grievous words stir up anger."
Neighbours' quarrels are a mutual reproach, and yet
a stick or a straw is sufficient to promote them.  One
man is rich, and another poor; one is a churchman,
another a dissenter; one is a conservative, another a
liberal; one hates another because he is of the same.
trade, and another is bitter with his neighbour because
he is a Jew or a Roman Catholic.
Neighbours! Neighbours! live in love, and  then
while you make others happy, you will be happier yourselves.
"That happy man is surely blest,
WVho of the worst things makes the best;
Whilst he must be of temper curst,
WVho of the best things makes the worst."
" Be ye all of one mind," says the Apostle, " having
compassion one of another; love as brethren, be pitiful,
be courteous; not rendering evil for evil, or railing for
railing, but contrariwise blessing."  To a rich man 1




GOOD WE MIGHT DO.                    61
would say, bear with and try to serve those who are
below you; and to a poor one"Fear God, love peace, and mind your labour;
And never, never quarrel with your neighbcur."
GOOD WE MIGHT DO.
WiE, all might do good
Where we often do ill;
There is always the way,
If we have but the will;
Though it be but a word
Kindly breathed or supprest,
It may guard off some pain,
Or give peace to some breast.
We all might do good
In a thousand small waysIn forbearing to flatter,
Yet yielding dcte praise —
In spurning ill humour,
Reproving wrong done,
And treating but kindly
Each heart we have won.
We all might do good,
Whether lowly or great,
For the deed is not gauged
By the purse or estate;
If it be but a cup
Of cold water that's given,
Like "the widow's two mites,"
It is something for Heaven.




TIE TOWN LOT.
ONCE upon a time it happened that the men who
governed the municipal affairs of a certain growing town
in the West, resolved, in grave deliberation assembled,
to purchase a five-acre lot at the north end of the cityrecently incorporated-and have it improved for a park
or public square. Now, it also happened, that all the
saleable ground lying north of the city was owned by a
man named Smith —a shrewd, wide-awake individual,
whose motto was "Every man for himself," with an
occasional addition about a certain gentleman in black
taking "the hindmost."
Smith, it may be mentioned, was secretly at the bottom of this scheme for a public square, and had himself
suggested the matter to an influential member of the
council; not that he was moved by what is denominated
public spirit —no; the spring of action in the case was
merely'" private spirit," or a regard for his own good.
If the council decided upon a public square, he was the
man from whom the ground- would have to be bought;
and he was the man who could get his own price therefor.
As we have said, the park was decided upon, and a
committee of two appointed whose business it was to see
Smith, and arrange with him for the purchase of a suitable lot of ground. In due form the committee called
upon the landholder, who was fully prepared for the
interview.




TIHE TOWN LOT.                63
"You are the owner of those lots at the north end?"
said the spokesman of the committee.
"I am," replied Smith, with becoming gravity.
"Will you sell a portion of ground, say five acres, to
the city?"
"For what purpose?"  Smith knew very well for
what purpose the land was wanted.
"We have decided to set apart about five acres of
ground, and improve it as a kind of park, or public
promenade."
1" Have you, indeed?  Well, I like that," said Smith,
with animation.  "It shows the right kind of public
spirit."
"' We have, moreover, decided that the best location
will be at the north end of the town."
"Decidedly my own opinion," returned Smith.' Will you sell us the required acres?" asked one of
the councilmen.
" That will depend somewhat upon where you wish to
locate the park."
The particular location was named.
" The very spot," replied Smith, promptly, "'upon
which I have decided to erect four rows of dwellings."
"But it is too far out for that," was naturally pbjected.' O0, no; not a rod. The city is rapidly growing in
that direction. I have only to put up the dwellings referred to, and dozens will be anxious to purchase lots,
and build all around them. Won't the ground to the
left of that you speak of answer as well?"
But the committee replied in the negative.  The lot




64                TItE TOWN LOT.
they had mentioned was the one decided upon as most
suited for the purpose, and they were not prepared to
think of any other location.
All this Smith understood very well. He was not
only willing, but anxious for the city to purchase the lot
they were negotiating for. All he wanted was to get a
good round price for the same-say four or five times
the real value. So he feigned indifference, and threw
difficulties in the way.
A few years previous to this time, Smith had purchased a considerable tract of land at the north of the
then flourishing village, at fifty dollars an acre. Its
present value was about three hundred dollars an acre.
After a good deal of talk on both sides, Smith finally
agreed to sell the particular lot pitched upon. The next
thing was to arrange as to price.
" At what do you hold this ground per acre?"
it was some time before Smith answered this question.
His eyes were cast upon the floor, and earnestly did he
enter into debate with himself as to the value he should
place upon the lot. At first he thought of five hundred
dollars per acre. But his cupidity soon caused him to
advance on that sum, although, a month before, he would
have caught at such an offer. Then he advanced to six,
to seven, and to eight hundred. And still he felt undecided.
"I can get my own price," said he to himself. 1" The
city has to pay, and I might just as well get a large sum
as a small one."
" For what price will you sell?"  The question was
repeated.




THE TOWN LOT.                65
"I must have a good price."
"We are willing to pay what is fair and right."' Of course. No doubt you have fixed a limit to which
you will go."
"Not exactly that," said one of the gentlemen.
"Are you prepared to make an offer?"
"' We are prepared to hear your price, and to make a
report thereon," was replied.
" That's a very valuable lot of ground," said Smith.
" Name your price," returned one of the committeemen, a little impatiently.
Thus brought up to the point, Smith, after thinking
hurriedly for a few moments, said"' One thousand dollars an acre."
Both the men shook their heads in a very positive way.
Smith said that it was the lowest he would take; and so
the conference ended.
At the next meeting of the city councils, a report on
the town lot was made, and the extraordinary demand
of Smith canvassed. It was unanimously decided not
to make the proposed purchase.
When this decision reached the landholder, he was considerably disappointed. He wanted money badly, and
would have "jumped at" two thousand dollars for the
five acre lot, if satisfied that it would bring no more.
But when the city came forward as a purchaser, his cupidity was subjected to a very strong temptation.  He
believed that he could get five thousand dollars as easily
as two; and quieted his conscience by the salvo-"- An
article is always worth what it will bring."
5




66                THIE TOWN LOT.
A week or two went by, and Smith was about calling
upon one of the members of the council, to say that, if
the city really wanted the lot he would sell at their price,
leaving it with the council to act justly and generously,
when a friend said to him,
"I hear that the council had the subject of a public
square under consideration again this morning."
"Indeed!" Smith was visibly excited, though he tried
to appear calm.'" Yes; and I also hear that they have decided to pay
the extravagant price you asked for a lot of ground at
the north end of the city."
"' A thousand dollars an acre?"
"Yes."' Its real value, and not a cent more," said Smith.
"'People differ about that. However, you are lucky,"
the friend replied.  " The city is able to pay."
" So I think. And I mean they shall pay."
Before the committee, to whom the matter was given
in charge, had time to call upon Smith, and close with
him for the lot, that gentleman had concluded in his own
mind that it would be just as easy to get twelve hundred
dollars an acre as a thousand.  It was plain that the
council were bent upon having the ground, and would
pay a round sum for it. It was just the spot for a public
square; and the city must become the owner. So, when
he was called upon by the gentlemen, and they said to
him,
"We are authorized to pay you your price," he
promptly answered,




TEE TOWN LOT.                  6 7
"The offer is no longer open.  You declined it when
it was made.  My price for that property is now twelve
hundred dollars an acre."
The men offered remonstrance; but it was of no avail.
Smith believed that he could get six thousand dollars for
the ground as easily as five thousand. The city must
have the lot, and would pay almost any price.
"I hardly think it right, Mr. Smith," said one of his
visiters, " for you to take such an advantage.  This
square is for the public good."' Let the public pay, then," was the unhesitating answer.  "The public is able enough."
" The location of this park, at the north end of the
city, will greatly improve the value of your other property."
This Smith understood very well. But he replied,
" I am not so sure of that.  I have some very strong
doubts on the subject. It's my opinion that the buildings
I contemplated erecting will be far more to my advantage. Be that as it may, however, I am decided in selling for nothing less than six thousand dollars."
"We are only authorized to pay five thousand," replied the committee.  " If you agree to take that sum,
we will close the bargain on the spot."
Five thousand dollars was a large sum of money, and
Smith felt strongly tempted to close in with the liberal
offer.  But six thousand loomed up before his imagination still more temptingly.
"' I can get it," said he to himself; " and the property
is worth what it will bring."




68                 THE TOWN LOT.
So he positively declined to sell it at a thousand dollars per acre.
" At twelve hundred you will sell?" remarked one of
the committee, as they were about retiring.
"Yes.  I will take twelve hundred the acre.  That
is the lowest rate, and I am not anxious even at that
price. I can do quite as well by keeping it in my own
possession. But, as you seem so bent on having it, I
will not stand in your way. When will the council meet
again?"
"Not until next week."
"Very well. If they then accept my offer, all will
be right.  But, understand me; if they do not accept,
the offer no longer remains open. It is a matter of no
moment to me which way the thing goes."
It was a matter of moment to Smith, for all this assertion-a matter of very great moment. HIe had several
thousand dollars to pay in the course of the next few
months on land purchases, and no way to meet the payments, except by mortgages, or sales of property; and,
it may naturally be concluded, that he sufered considerable uneasiness during the time which passed until the
next meeting of the council.
Of course, the grasping disposition shown by Smith,
became the town talk; and people said a good many
hard things of him. Little, however, did he care, so
that he secured six thousand dollars for a lot not worth
more than two thousand.
Among other residents and property holders in the
town, was a simple-minded, true-hearted, honest man,
named Jones.  His father had left him a large farm, a
goodly portion of which, in p.rocess of time, came to




TIIE TOWN LOT.                69
be included in the limits of the new city; and he found
a much more profitable employment in selling building
lots than in tilling the soil. The property of Mr. Jones
lay at the west side of the town.
Now, when Mr. Jones heard of the exorbitant demand made by Smith for a five acre lot, his honest heart
throbbed with a feeling of indignation.' I couldn't have believed it of him," said he.  "Six
thousand dollars! Preposterous! Why, I would give
the city a lot of twice the size, and do it with pleasure."
"You wouldc?" said a member of the council, who
happened to hear this remark.
" Certainly I would."' You are really in earnest?"
"Undoubtedly.  Go and select a public square from
any of my unappropriated land on the west side of the
city, and I will pass you the title as a free gift to-morrow, and feel pleasure in doing so.'
" That is public spirit," said the councilman.
" Call it what you will.  I am pleased in making the
offer."'
Now, let it not be supposed that MIr. Jones was
shrewdly calculating the advantage which would result
to him from having a park at the west side of the city.
No such thought had yet entered his mind.  He spoke
from the impulse of a generous feeling.
Time passed on, and the session day of the council
came round-a day to which Smith had looked forward
with no ordinary feelings of interest, that were touched
at times by the coldness of doubt, and the agitation of
uncertainty.  Several times he had more than half




70                 THE TOWN LOT.
repented of his refusal to accept the liberal offer of five
thousand dollars, and of having fixed so positively upon
six thousand as the " lowest figure."
The morning of the day passed, and Smith began to
grow uneasy. He did not venture to seek for information as to the doings of the council, for that would be
to expose the anxiety he felt in the result of their deliberations.  Slowly the afternoon wore away, and it so
happened that Smith did not meet any one of the councilmen; nor did he even know whether the council was
still in session or not. As to making allusion to the
subject of his anxious interest to any one, that was carefully avoided; for he knew that his exorbitant demand
was the town talk-and be wished to affect the most
perfect indifference on the subject.
The day closed, and not a whisper about the town lot
had come to the ears of Mr. Smith.  What could it
mean?  Had his offer to sell at six thousand been
rejected?  The very thought caused his heart to grow
heavy in his bosom. Six, seven, eight o'clock came,
and still it was all dark with Mr. Smith.  He could bear
the suspense no longer, and so determined to call upon
his neighbour Wilson, who was a member of the council, and learn from him what had been done.
So he called on Mr. Wilson.
" Ah, friend Smith," said the latter; " how are you
this evening?"
" Well, I thank you," returned Smith, feeling a certain oppression of the chest. "'How are you?"
" Oh, very well."
Here there was a pause. After which Smith said,




TIUE TOWN LOT.               71
"About that ground of mine. What did you do?"
"Nothing," replied Wilson, coldly.
"' Nothing, did you say?"  Smith's voice was a little
husky.
"No. You declined our offer; or, rather, the high
price fixed by yourself upon the land."
" You refused to buy it at five thousand, when it was
offered," said Smith.
"I know we did, because your demand was exorbitant."
"Oh, no, not at all," returned Smith quickly.
"In that we only differ," said Wilson.  "However,
the council has decided not to pay you the price you
ask."
"Unanimously?"
"There was not a dissenting voice."
Smith began to feel more and more uncomfortable.
"I might take something less," he ventured to say,
in a low, hesitating voice.
"It is too late now," was Mr. Wilson's prompt reply.' Too late! How so?"
"We have procured a lot."
"'Mr. Wilson!"  Poor Smith started to his feet in
chagrin and astonishment.
"' Yes; we have taken one of Jones's lots on the west
side of the city. A beautiful ten acre lot."
"You have!"  Smith was actually pale.
"We have; and the title deeds are now being made
out. "
It was some time before Smith had sufficiently reco@




72                THE TOWN LOT.
vered from the stunning effect of this unlooked-for intelligence, to make the inquiry,;" And pray how much did Jones ask for his ten acre
lot."
" He presented it to the city as a gift," replied the
councilman.
"A gift! What folly!"
4' No, not folly-but true worldly wisdom; though I
believe Jones did not think of advantage to himself when
he generously made the offer. He is worth twenty thousand dollars more to-day than he was yesterday, in the
simple advanced value of his land for building lots.
And I know of no man in this town whose good fortune
affects me with more pleasure."
Smith stole back to his home with a mountain of disappointment on his heart.  In his cupidity he had
entirely overreached  himself, and  he saw  that the
consequences were to react upon all his future prosperity. The public square at the west end of the town
would draw improvements in that direction, all the while
increasing the wealth of Mr. Jones, while lots at the
north end would remain at present prices, or, it might
be, take a downward range.
And so it proved. In ten years, Jones was the
richest man in the town, while half of Smith's property
had been sold for taxes.  The five acre lot passed from
hiis hands, under the hammer, in the foieclosure of a
mortgage, for one thousand dollars!
Thus it is that inordinate selfishness and cupidity
overreach themselves; while the liberal man deviseth
liberal things, and is sustained thereby.




THE SUNBEAM  AND THE RAINDROP.
A SUNBEAM and a raindrop met together in the sky
One afternoon in sunny June. when earth was parched and dry;
Each quarrelled for the precedence ('twas so the story ran),
And the golden sunbeam, warmly, the quarrel thus began:"What were the earth without me? I come with beauty bright,
She smiles to hail my presence, and rejoices in my light;
I deck the hill and valley with many a lovely hue,
I give the rose its blushes, and the violet its blue.
" I steal within the window, and through the cottage door,
And my presence like a blessing gilds with smiles the broad earth
o'er;
The brooks and streams flow dancing and sparkling in my ray,
And the merry, happy children in the golden sunshine play."
Then the tearful raindrop answered —" Give praise where praise
is due,
The earth indeed were lonely without a smile from you;
But without my visits, also, its beauty would decay,
The flowers droop and wither, and the streamlets dry away.
"I give the flowers their freshness, and you their colours gay,
Mly jewels would not sparkle, without your sunny ray.
Since each upon the other so closely must depend,
Let us seek the earth together, and our common blessings blend."
The raindrops, and the sunbeams, came laughing down to earth,
And it woke once more to beauty, and to myriad tones of mirth;
The river and the streamlet went dancing on their way,
And the raindrops brightly sparkled in the sunbeam's golden ray.




74             A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS.
The drooping flowers looked brighter, there was fragrance in the
air.,The earth seemed new created, there was gladness everywhere;
And above the dark clouds, gleaming on the clear blue arch of
Heaven,
The Rainbow in its beauty, like a smile of love was given.'Twas a sweet and simple lesson, which the story told, I thought,
Not alone and single-handed our kindliest deeds are wrought;
Like the sunbeam and the raindrop, work together, while we may,
And the bow of Heaven's own promise shall smile upon our way.
A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS.
STRANGE and subtle are the influences which affect
the spirit and touch the heart. Are there bodiless creatures around us, moulding our thoughts into darkness or
brightness, as they will?  Whence, otherwise, come the
shadow and the sunshine, for which we can discern no
mortal agency?
Oftener, as we grow  older, come the shadows; less
frequently the sunshine.  Ere I took up my pen, I was
sitting with a pleasant company of friends, listening to
music, and speaking, with the rest, light words.
Suddenly, I knew not why, my heart was wrapt away
in an atmosphere of sorrow.  A sense of weakness and
unworthiness weighed me down, and I felt the moisture
gather to my eyes and my lips tremble, though they kept
the smile.
All my past life rose up before me, and all my short











A PLEA FOR SOFT wormDS.            75
comings-all my mistakes, and all my wilful wickedness,
seemed pleading trumpet-tongued against me.
I saw her before me whose feet trod with mine the
green holts and meadows, when the childish thought
strayed not beyond the near or the possible. I saw her
through the long blue distances, clothed in the white
beauty of an angel; but, alas! she drew her golden hair
across her face to veil from her vision the sin-darkened
creature whose eyes dropped heavily to the hem of her
robe!
O pure and beautiful one, taken to peace ere the weak
temptation had lifted itself up beyond thy stature, and
compelled thee to listen, to oppose thy weakness to its
strength, and to fall —sometimes, at least, let thy face
shine on me from between the clouds. Fresh from the
springs of Paradise, shake from thy wings the dew
against my forehead. We two were coming up together
through the sweet land of poesy and dreams, where the
senses believe what the heart hopes; our hands were full
of green boughs, and our laps of cowslips and violets,
white and purple. W e were talking of that more beautiful world into which childhood was opening out, when
that spectre met us, feared and dreaded alike by the
strong man and the little child, and one was taken, and
the other left.
One was caught away sinless to the bosom of the Good
Shepherd, and one was left to weep pitiless tears, to eat
the bread of toil, and to think the bitter thoughts of
misery, —left "to clasp a phantom  and to find it air."
For often has the adversary pressed me sore, and out of
my arms has slid ever that which my soul pronounced




76            A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS.
good: slid out of my arms and coiled about my feet like
a serpent, dragging me back and holding me down from
all that is high and great.
Pity me, dear one, if thy sweet sympathies can come
out of the glory, if the lovelight of thy beautiful life can
press through the cloud and the evil, and fold me again
as a garment; pity and plead for me with the maidlen
mother whose arms in human sorrow and human love
cradled our blessed Redeemer.
She hath known our mortal pain and passion-our
more than mortal triumph-she hath heard the " blessed
art thou among women."  My unavailing prayers, goldenly syllabled by her whose name sounds from  the
manger through all the world, may find acceptance with
Him who, though our sins be as scarlet, can wash them
white as wool.
Our hearts grew together as one, and along the headlands and the valleys one shadow went before us, and
one shadow followed us, till the grave gaped hungry and
terrible, and I was alone. Faltering in fear, but lingering in love, I knelt by the deathbed-it was the middle
night, and the first moans of the autumn came down
from the hills, for the frost specks glinted on her golden
robes, and the wind blew chill in her bosom.  Heaven
was full of stars, anld the half-moon scattered abroad her
beauty like a silver rain. Many have been the middle
nights since then, for years lie between me and that
fearfulest of all watches; but a shacdow, a sound, or a
thought, turns the key of the dim chamber, and the
scene is reproduced.
I see the long locks on the pillow, the smile on the




A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS.             77
ashen lips, the thin, cold fingers faintly pressing my
own, and hear the broken voice saying, "I am going
now. I am  not afraid.  Why weep ye?  Though I
were to live the full time allotted to man, I should not
be more ready, nor more willing than now."  But over
this there comes a shudder and a groan that all the
mirthfulness of the careless was impotent to drown.
Three days previous to the death-night, three days
previous to the transit of the soul from the clayey
tabernacle to the house not made with hands-fromn
dishonour to glory —let me turn them over as so many
leaves.
The first of the November mornings, but the summer
had tarried late, and the wood to the south of our homestead lifted itself like a painted wall against the skythe squirrel was leaping nimbly and chattering gayly
among the fiery tops of the oaks or the dun foliage of
the hickory, that shot up its shelving trunk and spread
its forked branches far over the smooth, moss-spotted
boles of the beeches, and the limber boughs of the elms.
Lithe and blithe he was, for his harvest was come.
From the cracked beech-burs was dropping the sweet,
angular fruit, and down from the hickory boughs with
every gust fell a shower of nilts-shelling clean and
silvery from their thick, black hulls.
Now and then, across the stubble-field, with long ears
erect, leaped the gray hare, but for the most part he
kept close in his burrow, for rude huntsmen were on the
hills with their dogs, and only when the sharp report of
a rifle rung through the forest, or the hungry yelping
of some trailing hound startled his harmless slumber,




68            A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS.
might you see at the mouth of his burrow the quivering
lip and great timid eyes.
Along the margin of the creek, shrunken now away
from the blue and gray and yellowish stones that made
its cool pavement, and projected in thick layers from the
shelving banks, the white columns of gigantic sycamores
leaned earthward, their bases driven, as it seemed, deep
into the ground-all their convolutions of roots buried
out of view.  Dropping into the stagnant waters below,
came one by one the broad, rose-tinted leaves, breaking
the shadows of the silver limbs.
Ruffling and widening to the edges of the pools went
the circles, as the pale, yellow walnuts plashed into their
midst; for here, too, grew the parent trees, their black
bark cut and jagged and broken into rough diamond
work.
That beautiful season was come when
" Rustic girls in hoods
Go gleaning through the woods."
Two days after this, we said, my dear mate and I, we
shall have a holiday, and from sunrise till sunset, with
our laps full of ripe nuts and orchard fruits, we shall
make pleasant pastime.
Rosalie, for so I may call her, was older than I, with
a face of beauty and a spirit that never flagged. But
to-day there was heaviness in her eyes, and a flushing
in her cheek that was deeper than had been there before.
Still she spoke gayly, and smiled the old smile, for
the gaunt form  of sickness had never been among us




A PLEA FOR SORT WORDS.            79
chilcdren, and we knew not how his touch made the head
sick and the heart faint.
The day looked forward to so anxiously dawned at
last; but in the dim chamber of Rosalie the light fell
sad. I must go alone.
We had always been together before, at work and in
play, asleep and awake, and I lingered long ere I would
be persuaded to leave her; but when she smiled and said
the fresh-gathered nuts and shining apples would make
her glad, I wiped her forehead, and turning quickly away
that she might not see my tears, was speedily wading
through winrows of dead leaves.
The sensations of that day I shall never forget; a
vague and trembling fear of some coming evil, I knew
not what, made me often start as the shadows drifted
past me, or a bough crackled beneath my feet.
From the low, shrubby hawthorns, I gathered the
small red apples, and from beneath the maples, picked
by their slim golden stems the notched and gorgeous
leaves. The wind fingered playfully my hair, and clouds
of birds went whirring through the tree-tops; but no
sight nor sound could divide my thoughts from her whose
voice had so often filled with music these solitary places.
I remember when first the fear distinctly defined
itself. I was seated on a mossy log, counting the treasures which I had been gathering, when the clatter of
hoof-strokes on the clayey and hard-beaten road arrested
my attention, and, looking up-for the wood thinned off
in the direction of the highway, and left it distinctly in
view-I saw Doctor H —, the physician, in attendance
upon my sick companion.  The visit was an unseasona



80            A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS.
ble one.  She, whom I loved so, might never come with
me to the woods any more.
Where the hill sloped to the roadside, and the trees,
as I said, were but few, was the village graveyard. No
friend of mine, no one whom I had ever known or loved,
was buried there —yet with a child's instinctive dread of
death, I had ever passed its shaggy solitude (for shrubs
and trees grew there wild and unattended) with a hurried step and averted face.
Now, for the first time in. my life, I walked voluntarily thitherward, and climbing on a log by the fenceside, gazed long and earnestly within. I stood beneath
a tall locust-tree, and the small, round leaves, yellow
now as the long cloud-bar across the sunset, kept dropping, and dropping at my feet, till all the faded grass
was covered up. There the mattock had never been
struck; but in fancy I saw the small leaves falling and
drifting about a new and smooth-shaped mound-and,
choking with the turbulent outcry in my heart, I glided
stealthily homeward-alas! to find the boding shape I
had seen through mists and shadows awfully palpable.
I did not ask about Rosalie. I was afraid; but with my
rural gleanings in my lap, opened the door of her chamber. The physician had preceded me but a moment,
and, standing by the bedside, was turning toward the
lessening light the little wasted hand, the one on which
I had noticed in the morning a small purple spot. " lMortification!" he said, abruptly, and moved away, as though
his work were done.
There was a groan expressive of the sudden and ter



A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS.              81
rible consciousness which had in it the agony of agonies
-the giving up of all. The gift I had brought fell from
my relaxed grasp, and, hiding my face in the pillow, I
gave way to the passionate sorrow of an undisciplined
nature.
When at last I looked up, there was a smile on her
lips that no faintest moan ever displaced again.
A good man and a skilful physician was Dr. H,
but his infirmity was a love of strong drink; and, therefore, was it that he softened not the terrible blow which
must soon have fallen. I link with his memory no reproaches now, for all this is away down in the past; and
that foe that sooner or later biteth like a serpent, soon
did his work; but then my breaking heart judged him
hardly. Often yet, for in all that is saddest memory is
faithfulest, I wake suddenly out of sleep, and live over
that first and bitterest sorrow of my life; and there is
no house of gladness in the world that with a whisper
will not echo the moan of lips pale with the kisses of
death.
Sometimes, when life is gayest about me, an unseen
hand leads me apart, and opening the door of that still
cha mber, I go in-the yellow leaves are at my feet
again, and that white hand between me and the light.
I see the blue flames quivering and curling close about
the smouldering embers on the hearth. I hear soft footsteps and sobbing voices, and see the clasped hands and
placid smile of her who, alone among us all, was untroubled; and over the darkness and the pain I hear a
voice, saying, " She is not dead, but sleepeth."  Would,
dear reader, that you might remember, and I, too, al




MR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATIONS.
ways, the importance of soft and careful words.  One
harsh or even thoughtlessly chosen epithet, may bear
with it a weight which shall weigh down some heart
through all life. There are for us all nights of sorrow,
in which we feel their value.  Help us, our Father, to
remember it!
MR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATIONS.
"HE is a good man, I suppose, and an excellent doetor," said Mrs. Salina Simmons, with a dubious shake
of her head; "but —-— "
"But what, Mrs. Simmons?"
" They say he drinks!'
"'No, impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Josiah Query, with
emphasis.." Impossible? I hope so," said Mrs. Simmons. "And
mind you, I don't say he drinks, but that such is the
report. And I have it upon tolerably good authority,
too, Mr. Query."
"What authority?"
"Oh, I couldn't tell that: for you know I never like
to make mischief.  I can only say that the report ishe drinks."
Mr. Josiah Query scratched his head.
"Can it be that Dr. Harvey drinks?" he murmured.
"I thought him a pure Son of Temperance.  And he is
my family physician, too! I must look into this matter




MR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATIONS.          83
forthwith.  Mrs. Simmons, you still decline stating who
is your authority for this report?"
Mrs. Simmons was firm; her companion could gain
no satisfaction. She soon compelled him to promise that
he would not mention her name, if he spoke of the affair
elsewhere, repeating her remark that she never liked to
make mischief.
Dr. Harvey was a physician residing in a small vil.
lage, where he shared the profits of practice with another
doctor, named Jones.  Dr. Harvey was generally liked,
and among his friends was Mr. Josiah Query, whom
Mrs. Simmons shocked with the bit of gossip respecting
the doctor's habits of intemperance. Mr. Query was a
good-hearted man, and he deemed it his duty to inquire
into the nature of the report, and learn if it had any
foundation in truth.  Accordingly, he went to Mr.
Green, who also employed the doctor in his family.
" Mr. Green," said he, "have you heard anything
about this report of Dr. Harvey's intemperance?"
" Dr. Harvey's intemperance?" cried Mr. Green, astonished.
" Yes —a flying report."
"No, I'm sure I hav'n't!"
" Of course, then, you don't know whether it is true
or not?"
"What?"
"That he drinks."' I never heard of it before. Dr. Harvey is my family
physician, and I certainly would not employ a man addicted to the use of ardent spirits."
" Nor I," said Mr. Query; "and for this reason, and




84          MR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATIONS.
for the doctor's sake, too, I want to know the truth of
the matter. I don't really credit it myself; but I thought
it would do no harm to inquire."
Mr. Query next applied to Squire Worthy for information.
" Dear me!" exclaimed the squire, who was a nervous
man; "does Dr. Harvey drink?"
" Such is the rumour; how true it is, I can't say."
" And what if he should give one of my family a dose
of arsenic instead of the tincture of rhubarb, some time,
when he is intoxicated? My mind is made up now. I
shall send for Dr. Jones in future."
" But, dear sir," remonstrated Mr. Query.  " I don't
say the report is true."
" Oh, no; you wouldn't wish to commit. yourself. You
like to know the safe side, and so do I.  I shall employ
Dr. Jones."
Mr. Query turned sorrowfully away.
"' Squire Worthy must have had suspicions of the
doctor's intemperance before I came to him," thought he;
"I really begin to fear that there is some foundation for
the report.  I'll go to Mrs. Mason; she will know."
Mr. Query found Mrs. Mason ready to listen to and
believe any scandal. She gave her head a significant
toss, as if she knew more about the report than she
chose to confess.
Mr. Query begged of her to explain herself.
" Oh, Isha'n't say anything," exclaimed Mrs. Mason;
I've no ill will against Dr. Harvey, and I'd rather cut
off my right hand than injure him."' But is the report true?"




MR. QUERY'S TINVESTIGATIONS.          85
"' True, Mr. Query?  Do you suppose I ever saw Dr.
Harvey drunk? Then how can you expect me to know?
Oh, I don't wish to say anything against the man, and
I won't."
After visiting Mrs. Mason, Mr. Query went to half a
dozen others to learn the truth respecting Dr. Harvey's
habits. Nobody would confess that they knew anything
about his drinking; but Mr. Smith "was not as much
surprised as others might be;" Mr. Brown "was sorry
if the report was true," adding, that the best of men
had their faults.  Miss Single had frequently remarked
the doctor's florid complexion, and wondered if his colour
was natural; Mr. Clark remembered that the doctor
appeared unusually gay, on the occasion of his last visit
to his family; Mrs. Rogers declared that, when she
came to reflect, she believed she had once or twice smelt
the man's breath; and l\r. Impulse had often seen him
riding at an extraordinary rate for a sober gentleman.
Still Mr. Query was unable to ascertain any definite
facts respecting the unfavourable report.
Meanwhile, with his usual industry, Dr. Harvey wentl
about his business, little suspecting the scandalous gossip
that was circulating to his discredit.  But he soon perceived he was very coldly received by some of his old
friends, and that others employed Dr. Jones. Nobody
sent for him, and he might lhave begun to think that the
health of the town was entirely re-established, had he
not observed that his rival appeared driven with business,
and that he rode night and day.
One evening Dr. Harvey sat in his office, wondering
what could have occasioned the sudden and surprising




-3 6        MR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATIONS.
change in his affairs, when, contrary to his expectations, he
received a call to visit a sick child of one of his old friends,
who had lately employed his rival. After some hesitation, and a struggle between pride and a sense of duty,
he resolved to respond to the call, and at the same time
learn, if possible, why he had been preferred to Dr.
Jones, and why Dr. Jones had on other occasions been
preferred to him.
" The truth is, Dr. Harvey," said Mr. Miles, "we
thought the child dangerously ill, and as Dr. Jones
could not come immediately, we concluded to send for
you. "
"I admire your frankness," responded Dr. Harvey,
smiling; "and shall admire it still more, if you will
inform me why you have lately preferred Dr. Jones to
me.  Formerly I had the honour of enjoying your
friendship and esteem, and you have frequently told me
yourself, that you would trust no other physician."
"Well," replied Mr. Miles, "' I am a plain man, and
never hesitate to tell people what they wish to know. I
sent for Dr. Jones instead of you, I confess-not that I
doubted your skill-"
"What then?"
"It is a delicate subject, but I will, nevertheless,
speak out. Although I had the utmost confidence in
your skill and faithfulness-I —you know, I-in short, I
don't like to trust a physician who drinks."
"' Sir!" cried the astonished doctor.
"Yes-drinks," pursued Mr. Miles.  "It is plain
language, but I am a plain man. I heard of your




MR. QVERV'S INVESTTGATTONS.         87
intemperance, and thought it unsafe-that is, dangerous-to employ you."
6 My intemperance i" ejaculated Dr. Harvey.
6 Yes, sir! and I am sorry to know it, But the fact
that you sometimes drink a trifle too much is now a well
known fact, and is generally talked of in the village."
"Mr. Miles," cried the indignant doctor, "this is
scandalous —-it is false! Who is your authority for this
report?"
"' Oh, I have heard it from several mouths, but I can't
say exactly who is responsible for the rumour."
And Mr. Miles went on to mention several names, as
connected with the rumour, and among which was that
of Mr. Query.
The indignant doctor immediately set out on a pilgrimage of investigation, going from one house to another, in search of the author of the scandal.
Nobody, however, could state where it originated, but
it was universally admitted that the man from whose lips
it was first heard, was Mr. Query.
Accordingly Dr. Harvey hastened to Mr. Query's
house, and demanded of that gentleman what he meant
by circulating such scandal.
" My dear doctor," cried Mr. Query, his face beaming with conscious innocence, "I haven't been guilty
of any mis-statement about you, I can take my oath.- I
heard that there was a report of your drinking, and all
I did was to tell people I didn't believe it, nor know anything about it, and to inquire where it originated. Oh,
I assure you, doctor, I haven't slandered you in any
manner. "




88         IMR. QUERYiS INVESTIGATIONS.
"You are a poor fool!" exclaimed Dr. HTarvey, perplexed and angry.  " If you had gone about town telling everybody that you saw me drunk, daily, you
couldn't have slandered me more effectually than you
have."
" Oh, I beg your pardon," cried Mr. Query, very sad;
"but I thought I was doing you a service!"
"Save me from my friends!" exclaimed the doctor,
bitterly.  6' An enemy could not have done me as much
injury as you have done.  But I now insist on knowing
who first mentioned the report to you."
"' Oh, I-am not at liberty to say that."
"Then I shall hold you responsible for the scandalfor the base lies you have circulated.  But if you are
really an honest man, and my friend, you will not hesitate to tell me where this report originated."
After some reflection, Mr. Query, who stood in mortal fear of the indignant doctor, resolved to reveal the
secret, and mentioned the name of his informant, Mrs.
Simmons. As Dr. Harvey had not heard her spoken
of before, as connected with the report of his intemperance, he knew very well that Mir. Query's 6"friendly
investigations" had been the sole cause of his loss of
practice.  However, to go to the roots of this Upas tree
of scandal, he resolved to pay an immediate visit to Mrs.
Simmons.
This lady could deny nothing; but she declared that
she had not given the rumour as a fact, and that she had
never spoken of it except to Mr. Query.  Anxious to
throw the responsibility of the slander upon others, she
eagerly confessed that, on a certain occasion upon enter



MR. QUE RY'S INVESTIGATIONS. 
ing a room in which were Mrs. Guild and Mrs. Harmless, she overheard one -f these ladies remark that "Dr.
Harvey drank more than ever," and the other reply,
that " she had heard him say he could not break himself,
although he knew his health suffered in consequence."
Thus set upon the right track, Dr. Harvey visited
3Mrs. Guild and Mrs. Harmless without delay.
"Mercy on us!" exclaimed those ladies, when questioned respecting the matter, "we perfectly remember
talking about your drinking coffee, and making such
remarks as you have heard through Mrs. Simmons.
But with regard to your drinking liquor, we never
heard the report until a week ago, and never believed it
at all."
As what these ladies had said of his coffee-drinking
propensities was perfectly true, Dr. Harvey readily
acquitted them of any designs against his character for
sobriety, and well satisfied with having at last discovered the origin of the rumour, returned to the friendly
Mr. Query.
The humiliation of this gentleman was so deep, that
Dr. Harvey avoided reproaches, and confined himself to
a simple narrative of his discoveries.
"I see, it is all my fault," said Mr. Query.  " And I
will do anything to remedy it. I never could believe
you drank-and now I'll go and tell everybody that the
report was false."
"' Oh! bless you," cried the doctor, " I wouldn't have
you do so for the world. All I ask of you, is to say
nothing whatever on the subject, and if you ever again




90               ROOMf IN TIE WtORLD.
hear a report of the kind, don't make it a subject of
friendly investigation."
Mr. Query promised; and, after the truth was known,
and Dr. Harvey had regained the good-will of the community, together with his share of medical practice, he
never had reason again to exclaimn-" Save me from my
friends!"  And Mr. Query was in future exceedingly
careful how he attempted to make friendly investigations.
ROOMT IN THE WORLD.
THERE is room in the world for the wealthy and great
For princes to reign in magnificent state;
For the courtier to bend, for the noble to sue,
If the hearts of all these are but honest and true.
And there's room in the world for the lowly and meek,
For the hard horny hand, and the toil-furrow'd cheek;
For the scholar to think, for the merchant to trade,
So these are found upright and just in their grade.
But room there is none for the wicked; and nought
For the souls that with teeming corruption are fraught.
The world would be small, were its oceans all land,
To harbour and feed such a pestilent band.
Root out from among ye, by teaching the mind,
By training the heart, this chief curse of mankind!'Tis a duty you owe to the forthcoming race —
Confess it in time, and discharge it with grace!




WORDS.
"' THE foolish thing!" said my Aunt Rachel, speaking
warmly, "to get hurt at a mere word. It's a little hard
that people can't open their lips but somebody is
offended."
"Words are things!" said I, smiling.
" Very light things! A person must be tender indeed,
that is hurt by a word."
" The very lightest thing may hurt, if it falls on a
tender place,"
"' I don't like people who have these tender places,"
said Aunt Rachel. " I never get hurt at what is said to
me. No-never!  To be ever picking and mincing,
and chopping off your words-to be afraid to say this
or that-for fear somebody will be offended! I can't
abide it."
"People who have these tender places can't help it, I
suppose.  This being so, ought we not to regard their
weakness?" said I.  "Pain, either of body or mind, is
hard to bear, and we should not inflict it causelessly."
"People who are so wonderfully sensitive," replied
Aunt Rachel, growing warmer, " ought to shut themselves
up at home, and not come among sensible, good-tempered
persons. As far as I am concerned, I can tell them,
one and all, that I am not going to pick out every hard
word from a sentence as carefully as I would seeds from
a raisin. Let them crack them with their teeth, if they
are afraid to swallow them whole."




9~                    WORDS.
Now, for all that Aunt Rachel went on after this
strain, she was a kind, good soul, in the main, and, I
could see, was sorry for having hurt the feelings of Mary
Lane.  But she didn't like to acknowledge that she was
in the wrong; that would detract too much from the selfcomplacency with which she regarded herself. Knowing
her character very well, I thought it best not to continue
the little argument about the importance of words, and
so changed the subject. But, every now and then, Aunt
Rachel would return to it, each time softening a little
towards Mary. At last she said,
"I'm sure it was a little thing.  A very little thing.
She might have known that nothing unkind was intended
on my part."
" There are some subjects, aunt," I replied, " to which
we cannot bear the slightest allusion.  And a sudden
reference to them is very apt to throw us off of our
guard.  What you said to Mary has, in all probability,
touched some -weakness of character, or probed some
wound that time has not been able to heal. I have
always thought her a sensible, good-natured girl."
" And so have I.  But I really cannot think that she
has showed her good sense or good nature in the present
case.  It is a very bad failing this, of being over sensitive; and exceedingly annoying to one's friends."
It is, I know; but still, all of us have a weak point,
and to her that is assailed, we are very apt to betray
our feelings."
"Well, I say now, as I have always said-I don't
like to have anything to do with people who have these
weak points. This being hurt by a word, as if words




WORDS.                    93
were blows, is something that does not come within the
range of my sympathies."
"And yet, aunt," said I, " all have weak points.
Even you are not entirely free from them."
"Me!" Aunt Rachel bridled.
"Yes; and if even as light a thing as a word were to
fall upon them, you would suffer pain."
" Pray, sir," said Aunt Rachel, with much dignity of
manner; she was chafed by my words, light as they
were; " inform me where these weaknesses, of which you
are pleased to speak, lie."
"Oh, no; you must excuse me.  That would be very
much out of place. But I only stated a general fact
that appertains to all of us."
Aunt Rachel looked very grave. I had laid the weight
of words upO, a weakness of her character, and it had
given her pain.  That weakness was a peculiarly good
opinion of herself.  I had made no allegation against
her; and there was none in my mind. My words simply
expressed the general truth that we all have weaknesses,
and included her in their application. But she imagined
that I referred to some particular defect or fault, and
mail-proof as she was against words, they had wounded
her.
For a day or two Aunt Rachel remained more sober
than was 1er wont.  I knew the cause, but did not
attempt to remove from her mind any impression my
words had made. One day, about a week after, I said
to her,
"Aunt Rachel, I saw Mary Lane's mother this morning."




94                    WORDs.
"Ah?"  The old lady looked up at me inquiringly.
"I don't wonder your words hurt the poor girl," I
added.
"Why?  What did I say?" quickly asked Aunt
[Rachel.
"You said that she was a jilt."
" But I was only in jest, and she knew it. I did not.
really mean anything. I'm surprised that Mary should
be so foolish."
" You will not be surprised when you know all," was
my answer.
"All?  What all?  I'm sure I wasn't in earnest.  I
didn't mean to hurt the poor girl's feelings."  My aunt
looked very much troubled.
" No one blames you, Aunt Rachel," said I. " Mary
knows you didn't intend wounding her.."
"But why should she take a littlk woril so much to
heart? It must have had more truth in it than I supposed."
" Did you know that Mary refused an offer of marriage
from Walter Green last week?"
"Why no!  It can't be possible!  Refused Walter
Green?"
"Yes."
" They've been intimate for a long time."
"'I know."
" She certainly encouraged him."
"I think it more than probable."
" Is it possible, then, that she did really jilt the young
man?" exclaimed Aunt Rachel.
"This has been said of her," I replied.  "But so far
as I can learn, she was really attached to him, and suf:




wORDS.                     95
ferred great pain in rejecting his offer. Wisely she
regarded marriage as the most important event of her
life, and refused to make so solemn a contract with one
in whose principles she had not the fullest confidence."
"But she ought not to have encouraged Walter, if
she did not intend marrying him," said Aunt Rachel,
with some warmth.
" She encouraged him so long as she thought well of
him. A closer view revealed points of character hidden
by distance. When she saw these her feelings were already deeply involved. But, like a true woman, she
turned from the proffered hand, even though while in
doing so her heart palpitated with pain. There is nothing false about Mary Lane. She could no more trifle
with a lover than she could commit a crime. Think, then,
how almost impossible it would be for her to hear herself
called, under existing circumstances, even in sport, a jilt,
without being hurt. Words sometimes have power to
hurt more than blows. Do you not see this, now, Aunt
Rachel?"
" Oh, yes, yes. I see it; and I saw it before," said
the old lady.'" And in future I will be more careful of
my words. It is pretty late in life to learn this lessonbut we are never too late to learn. Poor Mary! It grieves
me to think that I should have hurt her so much."
Yes, words often have in them a smarting force, and
we cannot be too guarded how we use them.  "Think
twice before you speak once," is a trite but wise saying.
We teach it to our children very carefully, but are
too apt to forget that it has not lost its application to
ourselves.




THE THANKLESS OFFICE.
"AN object of real charity," said Andrew Lyon to
his wife, as a poor woman withdrew from the room in
which they were seated.
" If ever there was a worthy object she is one," returned Mrs. Lyon. "A widow, with health so feeble
that even ordinary exertion is too much for her; yet
obliged to support, with the labour of her own hands,
not only herself, but three young children.  I do not
wonder that she is behind with her rent."
" Nor I," said Mr. Lyon, in a voice of sympathy.
"' How much, did she say, was due to her landlord?"
"Ten dollars."
" She will not be able to pay it."
" I fear not. How can she? I give her all my extra
sewing, and have obtained work for her from several
ladies; but with her best efforts she can barely obtain
food and decent clothing for herself and babes."
"' Does it not seem hard," remarked Mr. Lyon, "that
one like Mrs. Arnold, who is so earnest in her efforts to
take care of herself and family, should not receive a
helping hand from some one of the many who could help
her without feeling the effort? If I didn't find it so hard
to make both ends meet, I would pay off her arrears of
rent for her, and feel happy in so doing."
"Ah!" exclaimed the kind-hearted wife, "' how much
I wish that we were able to do this! But we are not."
"' I'll tell you what we can do," said  Ir. Lyon, in a




THE THANKLESS OFFICE.             97
cheerful voice; " or rather what I can do.  It will be a
very light matter for say ten persons to give a dollar
apiece, in order to relieve Mrs. Arnold from her present trouble. There are plenty who would cheerfully
contribute for this good purpose; all that is wanted is
some one to take upon himself the business of making
the collections.  That task shall be mine."
"How glad I am, James, to hear you say so!" smilingly
replied Mrs. Lyon. Oh, what a relief it will be to poor
Mrs. Arnold! It will make her heart as light as a
feather. That rent has troubled her sadly. Old Links,
her landlord, has been worrying her about it a good deal,
and, only a week ago, threatened to put her things in
the street, if she didn't pay up."
"I should have thought of this before," remarked
Andrew Lyon. "' There are hundreds of people who are
willing enough to give if they were only certain in regard to the object. Here is one worthy enough in every
way. Be it my business to present her claims to benevolent consideration.  Let me see.  To whom shall I
go? There are Jones, and Green, and Tompkins. I
can get a dollar from each of them. That will be three
dollars,-and one from myself, will make four. Who
else is there? Oh, Malcolm! I'm sure of a dollar from
him; and also from Smith, Todd, and Perry."
Confident in the success of his benevolent scheme, Mr.
Lyon started forth, early on the very next day, for the
purpose of obtaining, by subscription, the poor widow's
rent. The first person he called on was Malcolm.
"Ah, friend Lyon!" said Malcolm, smiling blandly.' Good morning! What can I do for you, to-day?"
7




98            TITlE TItiNKLESS OFFICE.
"Nothing for me, but something for a poor widow,
who is behind with her rent," replied Andrew Lyon.
" I want just one dollar from you, and as much more
from some eight or nine as benevolent as yourself."
At the word poor widow the countenance of Malcolm
fell, and when his visiter ceased, he replied, in a changed
and husky voice, clearing his throat two or three times
as he spoke.
"Are you sure she is deserving, Mr. Lyon?"  The
man's manner had become exceedingly grave.
" None more so," was the prompt answer.' She is
in poor health, and has three children to support with
the product of her needle. If any one needs assistance,
it is Mrs. Arnold."
"Oh! Ah! The widow of Jacob Arnold?"'" The same," replied Andrew Lyon.
Malcolm's face did not brighten with a feeling of
heart-warm benevolence. But he turned slowly away,
and opening his money-drawer, very slowly toyed with
his fingers amid its contents. At length he took therefrom a dollar bill, and said, as he presented it to Lyon,
-sighing involuntarily as he did so,"I suppose I must do my part. But we are called
upon so often."
The ardour of Andrew Lyon's benevolent feelings
suddenly cooled at this unexpected reception. He had
entered upon his work under the glow of a pure enthusiasm; anticipating a hearty response the moment his
errand was made known.
"1 I thank you in the widow's name," said he, as he
took the dollar.  When he turned from Mr. Malcolm's




TIHE THANKILESS OFFICE.           99
store, it was with a pressure on his feelings, as if he had
asked the coldly-given favour for himself.
It was not without an effort that Lyon compelled himself to call upon Mr. Green, considered the "next best
man" on his list. But he entered his place of business
with far less confidence than he had felt when calling
upon Malcolm.  His story told, Green, without a word
or smile, drew two half dollars from his pocket, and presented them.
"Thank you," said Lyon.
"Welcome," returned Green.
Oppressed with a feeling of embarrassment, Lyon
stood for a few moments. Then bowing, he said,
"Good morning."
" Good morning," was coldly and formally responded.
And thus the alims-seeker and alms-giver parted.
" Better be at his shop, attending to his work," muttered Green to himself, as his visiter retired.  "Men
ain't very apt to get along too well in the world who
spend their time in begging for every object of charity
that happens to turn up. And there are plenty of such,
dear knows.  He's got a dollar out of me; may it do
him, or the poor widow he talked so glibly about, much
good."
Cold water had been poured upon the feelings of
Andrew Lyon.  He had raised two dollars for the poor
widow, but, at what a sacrifice for one so sensitive as
himself! Instead of keeping on in his work of benevolence, he went to his shop, and entered upon the day's
employment.  How disappointed he felt;-and this dis



100            THE THANKLESS OFFICE.
appointment was mingled with a certain sense of humiliation, as if he had been asking alms for himself.
" Catch me at this work again!" he said half aloud,
as his thoughts dwelt upon what had so recently occurred.  "But this is not right," he added, quickly.
" It is a weakness in me to feel so. Poor MIrs. Arnold
must be relieved; and it is my duty to see that she. gets
relief. I had no thought of a reception like this. People can talk of benevolence; but putting the hand in
the pocket is another affair altogether. I never dreamed
that such men as Malcolm and Green could be insensible
to an appeal like the one I made."
"I've got two dollars towards paying Mrs. Arnold's
rent," he said to himself, in a more cheerful tone, some
time afterwards; "w and it will go hard if I don't raise
the whole amount for her. All are not like Green and
Malcolm. Jones is a kind-hearted man, and will instantly respond to the call of humanity. I'll go and
see him."
So, off Andrew Lyon started to see this individual.
"I've come begging, Mr. Jones," said he, on meeting
him. And he spoke in a frank, pleasant manner.
"Then you've come to the wrong shop; that's all I
have to say," was the blunt answer.
"Don't say that, Mr. Jones.  Hear my story first."
"I do say it, and I'm in earnest," returned Jones,
"I feel as poor as Job's turkey to-day."
"1I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her
rent," said Lyon.
"Oh, hang all the poor widows! If that's your game,
yov'll get nothing here.  I've got my hands full to pay




THE THANKLESS OFFICE.           101
my own rent. A nice time I'd have in handing out a
dollar to every poor widow in town to help pay her rent!
No, no, my friend, you can't get anything here."
" Just as you feel about it," said Andrew Lyon.
"c There's no compulsion in the matter."
"No, I presume not," was rather coldly replied.
Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened
than before. He had undertaken a thankless office.
Nearly two hours elapsed before his resolution to persevere in the good work he had begun came back with
sufficient force to prompt to another effort. Then he
dropped in upon his neighbour Tompkins, to whom he
made known his errand.
"' Why, yes, I suppose I must do something in a case
like this," said Tomnpkins, with the tone and air of a
man who was cornered.  "But there are so many calls
for charity, that we are naturally enough led to hold on
pretty tightly to our purse strings. Poor woman! I feel
sorry for her.  How much do you want?"
" I am trying to get ten persons, including myself, to
give a dollar each."
"Well, here's my dollar."  And Tompkins forced a
smile to his face as he handed over his contribution, —
but the smile did not conceal an expression which said
very plainly"I hope you will not trouble me again in this way."
"You may be sure I will not," muttered Lyon, as he
went away. He fully understood the meaning of the
expression.
Only one more application did the kind-hearted man
make. It was successful; but there was something in




102            THE THIANKLESS OFFICE.
the manner of the individual who gave his dollar, that
Lyon felt as a rebuke.
" And so poor Mrs. Arnold did not get the whole of
her arrears of rent paid off," says some one who has felt
an interest in her favour.
Oh, yes she did.  Mr. Lyon begged five dollars, and
added five more from his own slender purse. But, he
cannot be induced again to undertake the thankless
office of seeking relief from the benevolent for a fellow
creature in need.  He has learned that a great many
who refuse alms on the plea that the object presented is
not worthy, are but little more inclined to charitable
deeds, when on this point there is no question.
How many who read this can sympathize with Andrew
Lyon!:Few men who have hearts to feel for others but
have been impelled, at some time in their lives, to seek
aid for a fellow creature in need.  That their office was
a thankless one, they have too soon become aware.
Even those who responded to their call most liberally,
in too many instances gave in a way that left an unpleasant impression behind. How quickly has the first glow
of generous feeling, that sought to extend itself to others,
that they might share the pleasure of humanity, been
chilled; and, instead of finding the task an easy one, it
has proved to be hard, and, too often, humiliating! Alas,
that this should be! That men should shut their hearts
so instinctively at the voice of charity!
We have not written this to discourage active efforts
in the benevolent; but to hold up a mirror in which another class may see themselves. At best, the office of
him who seeks of his fellow men aid for the suffering




LOVE.                       103
and indigent, is an unpleasant one. It is all sacrifice,on his part, and the least that can be done is to honour
his disinterested regard for others in distress, and treat
him with delicacy and consideration.
L O V E.
Ox I if there is one law above the rest,
Written in Wisdom-n if there is a word
That I would trace as with a pen of fire
Upon the unsullied temper of a childIf there is anything that keeps the mind
Open to angel visits, and repels
The ministry of ill-'tis Human Love!
God has made nothing worthy of contempt;
The smallest pebble in the well of Truth
Has its peculiar meanings, and will stand
When man's best monuments wear fast away.
The law of Heaven is Love-and though its name
Has been usurped by passion, and profaned
To its unholy uses through all time,
Still, the external principle is pure;
And in these deep affections that we feel
Omnipotent within us, can we see
Th, lavish measure in which love is given.
And in the yearning tenderness of a child
For every bird that sings above its head,
And every creature feeding on the hills,
And every tree and flower, and running brook,
We see how everything was made to love,
And how they err, who, in a world like this,
Find anything to hate but human pride.




"EVERY LITTLE HELPS."
Wsaa if a drop of rain should plead —
"So small a drop as I
Can ne'er refresh the thirsty mead;
I'll tarry in the sky?"
What, if the shining beam of noon
Should in its fountain stay;
Because its feeble light alone
Cannot create a day?
Does not each rain-drop help to form
The cool refreshing shower?
And every ray of light, to warm
And beautify the flower?
LITTLE THINGS.
ScORN not the slightest word or deed,
Nor deem it void of power;
There's fruit in each wind-wafted seed.
Waiting its natal hour.
A whispered word may touch the heart,
And call it back to life;
A look of love bid sin depart,
And still unholy strifeo




CARELESS WORDS.                 105
No act falls fruitless; none can tell
How vast its power may be,
Nor what results enfolded dwell
Within it silently.
Work and despair not; give thy mite,
Nor care how small it be;
God is with all that serve the right,
The holy, true, and free!
6 —
CARELESS WORDS.
FIVE years ago, this fair November day,-five years?
it seems but yesterday, so fresh is that scene in my memory; and, I doubt not, were the period ten times multiplied, it would be as vivid still to us —the surviving
actors in that drama!  The touch of time, which blunts
the piercing thorn, as well as steals from the rose its
lovely tints, is powerless here, unless to give darker
shades to that picture engraven on our souls; and tears
-ah, they only make it more imperishable!
WVe do not speak of her now; her name has not passed
our lips in each other's presence, since we followed her
— grief-stricken mourners-to the grave, to which-alas,
alas! but why should not the truth be spoken? the grave
to which our careless words consigned her. But on every
anniversary of that day we can never forget, uninvited
by me, and without any previous arrangement between
themselves, those two friends have come to my house,
and together we have sat, almost silently, save when
Ada's sweet voice has poured forth a low, plaintive strain




106              CARELESS WORDS.
to the mournful chords Mary has made the harp to
breathe. Four years ago, that cousin came too; and'since then, though he has been thousands of miles distant from us, when that anniversary has returned, he
has written to me: he cannot look into my face when
that letter is penned; he but looks into his own heart,
and he cannot withhold the words of remorse and
agony.
Ada and Mary have sat with me to-day, and we knew
that Rowland, in thought, was here too; ah, if we could
have known another had been among us, —if we could
have felt that an eye was upon us, which will never more
dim with tears-a heart was near us which carelessness
can never wound again; —could we have known she had
been here-that pure, bright angel, with the smile of
forgiveness and love on that beautiful face-the dark
veil of sorrow might have been lifted from our souls!
but we saw only with mortal vision; our faith was feeble,
and we have only drawn that sombre mantle more and
more closely about us. The forgiveness we have so many
times prayed for, we have not yet dared to receive,
though we know it is our own.
That November day was just what this has beenfair, mild, and sweet; and how much did that dear one
enjoy it! The earth was dry, and as we looked from
the window we saw no verdure but a small line of green
on the south side of the garden enclosure, and around
the trunk of the old pear-tree, and here and there a
little oasis from which the strong wind of the previous
day had lifted the thick covering of dry leaves, and one
or, two shrubs, whose foliage feared not the cold breath




CARELESS WORDS.                1-07
of winter. The gaudy hues, too, which nature had lately
worn, were all faded; there was a pale, yellow-leafed
vine clambering over the verdureless lilac, and far down
in the garden might be seen a shrub covered with bright
scarlet berries. But the warm south wind was sweet
and fragrant, as if it had strayed through bowers of
roses and eglantines.  Deep-leaden  and  snow-white
clouds blended together, floated lazily through the sky,
and the sun coquetted all day with the earth, though his
glance was not, for once, more than half averted, while
his smile was bright and loving, as it had been months
before, when her face was fair and blooming.
But how sadly has this day passed, and how unlike is
this calm, sweet evening to the one which closed that
November day!  Nature is the same.  The moonbeams
look as bright and silvery through the brown, naked
arms of the tall oaks, and the dark evergreen forest lifts
up its head to the sky, striving, but in vain, to shut out
the soft light from the little stream, whose murmurings
seem more sad and complaining than at another season
of the year, perhaps because it feels how soon the icy
bands of winter will stay its free course, and hush its
low whisperings. The soft breeze sighs as sadly through
the vines which still wreath themselves around the window; though seemingly conscious they have ceased to
adorn it, they are striving to loosen their hold, and bow
themselves to the earth; and the chirping of a cricket
in the chimney is as sad and mournful as it was then.
But the low moan of the sufferer, the but half-smothered,
agonized sobs of those fair girls, the deep groan which
all my proud cousin's firmness could not hush, and the




108               CARELESS WORDS.
words of reproach, which, though I was so guilty myself,
and though I saw them so repentant, I could not withhold, are all stilled now.
Ada and Mary have just left me, and I am sitting
alone in my apartment. Not a sound reaches me but
the whisperings of the wind, the murmuring of the
stream, and the chirping of that solitary cricket. The
family know my heart is heavy to-night, and the voices
are hushed, and the footsteps fall lightly. Lily, dear
Lily, art thou near me?
Five years and some months ago-it was in early
June-there came to our home from far away in the
sunny South, a fair young creature, a relative of ours,
though we had never seen her before. She had been
mlotherless rather less than a year, but her father had
already found another partner, and feeling that she
would not so soon see the place of the dearly-loved parent filled by a stranger, she had obtained his permission
to spend a few months with those who could sympathize
with her in her griefs.
Lily White! She was rightly named; I have never
seen such a fair, delicate face and figure, nor watched
the revealings of a nature so pure and gentle as was
hers. She would have been too fair and delicate to be
beautiful, but for the brilliancy of those deep blue eyes,
the dark shade of that glossy hair, and the litheness of
that fragile form; but when months had passed away,
and, though the brow was still marble white, and the lip
colourless, the cheek wore that deep rose tint, how surpassingly beautiful she was! We did not dream what
had planted that rose-tint there-we thought her to be




CARELESS WORDS.               109
throwing off the grief which alone, we believed, had
paled her cheek; and we did not observe that her form
was becoming more delicate, and that her step was losing
its lightness and elasticity. We loved the sweet Lily
dearly at first sight, and she had been with us but a
short time before we began to wonder how our home had
ever seemed perfect to us previous to her coming. And
our affection was returned by the dear girl. We knew
how much she loved us, when, as the warm season had
passed, and her father sent for her to return home, we
saw the expression of deep sorrow in every feature, and
the silent entreaty that we would persuade him to allow
her to remain with us still.
She did not thank me when a letter reached me from
her father, in reply to one which, unknown to her, I
had sent him, saying, if I thought Lily's health would
not be injured by a winter's residence in our cold climate,
he would comply with my urgent request, and allow her
to remain with us until the following spring —the dear
girl could not speak. She came to me almost totteringly, and wound her arms about my neck, resting her
head on mine, and tears from those sweet eyes fell fast
over my face; and all the remainder of that afternoon
she lay on her couch. Oh, why did I not think wherefore she was so much overcome?
Ada L ^- and Mary R ——, two friends whom I
had loved from childhood, I had selected as companions
for our dear Lily on her arrival among us, and the
young ladies, from their first introduction to her, had
vied with me in my endeavours to dispel the gloom from




110              CARELESS WORDS.
that fair face, and to make her happy; and they shared,
almost equally with her relatives, dear Lily's affections.
Ada-she is changed now-was a gay, brilliant, daring girl; Mary, witty and playful, though frank and
warm-hearted; but it made me love them more than
ever. The gaiety and audacity of the one was forgotten
in the presence of the thoughtful, timid Lily: and the
other checked the merry jest which trembled on her lips,
and sobered that roguish eye beside the earnest, sensitive
girl; so that, though we were together almost daily,
dear Lily did not understand the character of the young
ladies.
The warm  season had passed away, and Octobei
brought an addition to our household-Cousin Rowland
-as handsome, kind-hearted, and good-natured a fellow
as ever lived, but a little cowardly, if the dread of the
raillery of a beautiful woman may be called cowardice.
Cousin Rowland and dear Lily were mutually pleased
with each other, it was very evident to me, though Ada
and Mary failed to see it; for, in the presence of the
young ladies, Rowland did not show her those little delicate attentions which, alone with me, who was very
unobservant, he took no pains to conceal; and Lily did
not hide from me her blushing face-her eyes only
thanked me for the expression which met her gaze.
That November day —I dread to approach it! Lily
and I were sitting beside each other, looking down the
street, and watching the return of the carriage which
Rowland had gone out with to bring Ada and Mary to
our house; or, rather, Lily was looking for its coming —
my eyes were resting on her face. It had never looked




CARELESS WORDS.               I11
so beautiful to me before.  Her brow was so purely
white, her cheek was so deeply red, and that dark eye
was so lustrous; but her face was very thin, and her
breathing, I observed, was faint and difficult.  A pang
shot through my heart.
"Lily, are you well?" I exclaimed, suddenly.
She fixed her eyes on mine.  I was too much excited
by my sudden fear to read their expression, but when
our friends came in, the dear girl seemed so cheerful
and happy-I remembered, afterwards, I had never seen
her so gay as on that afternoon —that my suspicions
gradually left me.
The hours were passing pleasantly away, when a letter
was brought in for Lily.  It was from her father, and
the young lady retired to peruse it. The eye of Rowland followed her as she passed out of the room, and I
observed a shadow flit across his brow.  I afterwards
learned that at the moment a thought was passing
through his mind similar to that which had so terrified
me an hour before.  Our visiters remarked it, too, but
little suspected its cause; and Mary's eye met, with a
most roguish look, Ada's rather inquiring gaze.
"'When does Lily intend to return home, SF?"
she inquired, as she bent, very demurely, over her embroidery.  "I thought she was making preparations to
go before Rowland came here!" and she raised her eyes
so cunningly to my face, that I could not forbear answering,
"I hear nothing of her return, now. Perhaps she
will remain with us during the winter."
6 Indeed!" exclaimed Ada, and her voice expressed




112               CARELESS WORDS.
much surprise.'I wonder if I could make such a prolonged visit interesting to a friend!"
" Why, Lily considers herself conferring a great favour
by remaining here," replied Mary.
"On whom?" asked Rowland, quickly.
"On all of us, of course;" and to Mary's great delight she perceived that her meaning words had the effect
she desired on the young man.
"' I hope she will not neglect the duty she owes her
family, for the sake of showing us this great kindness,"
said Rowland, with affected carelessness, though he
walked across the apartment with a very impatient step.
"' Lily has not again been guilty of the error she so
frequently commits, has she, S —-—?" asked Ada, in a
lower but still far too distinct tone; "that of supposing
herself loved and admired where she is only pitied and
endured?" and the merry creature fairly exulted in the
annoyance which his deepened colour told her she was
causing the young man,
A slight sound from the apartment adjoining the parlour attracted my attention.  Had Lily stopped there
to read her letter instead of going to her chamber? and
had she, consequently, overheard our foolish remarks?
The door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open. There
was a slight rustling, but I thought it only the waving
of the window curtain.
A half-hour passed away, and Lily had not returned
to us. I began to be alarmed, and my companions pare
took of my fears. HI-lad she overheard us? and, if so,
what must that sensitive heart be suffering?
I went out to call her; but half way up the flight of




CARELESS WORDS.              113
stairs I saw the letter from her father lying on the carpet, unopened, though it had been torn from its envelope.
I know not how I found my way up stairs, but I stood
by Lily's bed.
Merciful Heaven! what a sight was presented to my
gaze. The white covering was stained with blood, and
from those cold, pale lips the red drops were fast falling.
Her eyes turned slowly till they rested on mine. What
a look was that! I see it now; so full of grief; so full
of reproach; and then they closed. I thought her dead,
and my frantic shrieks called my companions to her
bedside. They aroused her, too, from that swoon, but
they did not awaken her to consciousness.  She never
more turned a look of recognition on us, or seemed to
be aware that we were near her. Through all that night,
so long and so full of agony to us, she was murmuring,
incoherently, to herself,'" They did not know I was dying," she would say;
"' that I have been dying ever since I have been here!
They have not dreamed of my sufferings through these
long months; I could not tell them, for I believed they
loved me, and I would not grieve them. But no one
loves me-not one in the wide world cares for me! My
mother, you will not have forgotten your child when you
meet me in the spirit-land!  Their loved tones made
me deaf to the voice which was calling to me from the
grave, and the sunshine of his smile broke through the
dark cloud which death was drawing around me. Oh, I
would have lived, but death, I thought, would lose half
its bitterness, could I breathe my last in their arms!




114              HOW TO BE HAPPY.
But, now, I must die alone! Oh, how shall I reach my
home-how shall I ever reach my home?"
Dear Lily!  The passage was short; when morning
dawned, she was there.
HOW TO BE HAPPY.
A BOON of inestimable worth is a calm, thankful heart
-a treasure that few, very few, possess.  We once met
an old man, whose face was a mixture of smiles and
sunshine.  Wherever he went, he succeeded in making
everybody about him as pleasant as himself.
Said we, one day, —for he was one of that delightful
class whom everybody feels privileged to be related to,
-" Uncle, uncle, how is it that you contrive to be so
happy?  Why is your face so cheerful, when so many
thousands are craped over with a most uncomfortable
gloominess?"
"  My dear young friend," he answered, with his placid' smile, " I am even as others, afflicted with infirmities;
I have had my share of sorrow —some would say more
-but I have found out the secret of being happy, and
it is this:
"' Forget self.
"' Until you do that, you can lay but little claim to a
cheerful spirit.   Forget what manner of man you are,'
and think more with, rejoice more for, your neighbours.
If I am poor, let me look upon my richer friend, and in
estimating his blessings, forget my privations.




HOW To BE HAPPY.               115
"If my neighbour is building a house, let me watch
with him its progress, and think,'Well, what a comfortable place it will be, to be sure; how much he. may
enjoy it with his family.' Thus I have a double pleasure-that of delight in noting the structure as it expands
into beauty, and making my neighbour's weal mine. If
he has planted a fine garden, I feast my eyes on the
flowers, smell their fragrance: could I do more if it was
my own?
"'Another has a family of fine children; they bless
him and are blessed by him; mine are all gone before
hme; I have none that bear my name; shall I, therefore,
envy my neighbour his lovely children? No; let me
enjoy their innocent smiles with him; let me forget
myself-my tears when they were put away in darkness;
or if I weep, may it be for joy that God took them
untainted to dwell with His holy angels for ever.
"Believe an old man when he says there is great
pleasure in living for others. The heart of the selfish
man is like a city full of crooked lanes. If a generous
thought from some glorious temple strays in there, wo to
it-it is lost. It wanders about, and wanders about,
until enveloped in darkness; as the mist of selfishness
gathers around, it lies down upon some cold thought to
die, and is shrouded in oblivion.
" So, if you would be happy, shun selfishness; do a
kindly deed for this one, speak a kindly word for another.  He who is constantly giving pleasure, is constantly receiving it.  The little river gives to the great
ocean, and the more it gives the faster it runs.  Stop its
flowing, and the hot sun would dry it up, till it would be
but filthy mud, sending forth bad odours, and corrupting




116            CHARITY.-ITS OBJECTS.
the fresh air of Heaven. Keep your heart constantly
travelling on errands of mercy —it has feet that never
tire, hands that cannot be overburdened, eyes that never
sleep; freight its hands with blessings, direct its eyesno matter how narrow your sphere-to the nearest object
of suffering, and relieve it.
" I say, mny dear young friend, take the word of an
old man for it, who has tried every known panacea, and
found all to fail, except this golden rule,
" Forget self, and keep the heart busy for others."
CHARITY.-ITS OBJECTS.
THE great Teacher, on being asked "Who is my
neighbour?" replied "1 A man went down from Jerusalem
to Jericho," and the parable which followed is the most
beautiful which language has ever recorded.  Storytelling, though often abused, is the medium by which
truth can be most irresistibly conveyed to the majority
of minds, and in the present instance we have a desire
to portray in some slight degree the importance of
Charity in every-day life.
A great deal has been said and written on the subject
of indiscriminate giving, and many who have little sympathy with the needy or distressed, make the supposed
unworthiness of the object an excuse for withholding
their alms; while others, who really possess a large proportion of the milk of human kindness, in awaiting great
opportunities to do good, overlook all in their immediate




CHARITY. —ITS OBJECTS.            11}
pathway, as beneath their notice. And yet it was the'6widow's mite" which, amid the many rich gifts cast
into the treasury, won the approval of the Searcher of
Hearts; and we have His assurance that a cup of cold
water given in a proper spirit shall not lose its reward.
Our design in the present sketch is to call the attention of the softer sex to a subject which has in too many
instances escaped their attention; for our ideas of
Charity embrace a wide field, and we hold that it should
at all times be united with justice, when those less
favoured than themselves are concerned.
"[ I do not intend hereafter to have washing done more
than once in two weeks," said the rich Mrs. Percy, in
reply to an observation of her husband, who was standing at the window, looking at a woman who was up to
her knees in the snow, hanging clothes on a line in the
yard. " I declare it is too bad, to be paying that poking
old thing a half-a-dollar a week for our wash, and only
six in the family.  There she has been at it since seven
o'clock this morning, and now it is almost four. It will
require but two or three hours longer if I get her once
a fortnight, and I shall save twenty-five cents a week
by it."
" When your own sex are concerned, you women are
the closest beings," said Mr. P., laughing.  " Do just as
you please, however," he continued, as he observed a
frown gather on the brow of his wife; " for my part I
should be glad if washing-days were blotted entirely
from the calendar."
At this moment the washerwoman passed the window
with her stiffened skirts and almost frozen hands and




118            CHARI[TY.-ITS OBJECTS.
arms. Some emotions of pity stirring in his breast at
the sight, he again asked, "Do you think it will be
exactly right, my dear, to make old Phoebe do the same
amount of labour for half the wages?"
"Of course it will," replied Mrs. Percy, decidedly;' we are bound to do the best we can for ourselves. If
she objects, she can say so. Tlhere are plenty of poor
I can get who will be glad to come, and by this arrangement I shall save thirteen dollars a year."
"So much," returned Mr. P., carelessly; " how these
things do run up!" Here the matter ended as far as
they were concerned. Not so with "' old Phoebe," as she
was called. In reality, however, Phoebe was not yet
forty; it was care and hardship which had seamed her
once blooming face, and brought on prematurely the
appearance of age.  On going to Mrs. Percy in the
evening after she had finished her wash, for the meagre
sum she had earned, that lady had spoken somewhat
harshly about her being so slow, and mentioned the new
arrangement she intended to carry into effect, leaving it
optional with the poor woman to accept or decline.
After a moment's hesitation, Phoebe, whose necessities
allowed her no choice, agreed to her proposal, and the
lady, who had been fumbling in her purse, remarked:" I have no change, nothing less than this three-dollar
bill.  Suppose I pay you by the month hereafter; it
will save me a great deal of trouble, and I will try to'
give you your dollar a month regularly."
Phoebe's pale cheek waxed still more ghastly as Mrs.
Percy spoke, but it was not within that lady's province
to notice the colour of a washerwoman's face. She did,




CHARITY. —-iTS OBJECTS.         119
however, observe her lingering, weary steps as she proceeded through the yard, and conscience whispered some
reproaches, which were so unpleasant and unwelcome,
that she endeavoured to dispel them by turning to the
luxurious supper which was spread before her. And
here I would pause to observe, that whatever method
may be adopted to reconcile the conscience to withholding money so justly due, so hardly earned, she disobeyed
the positive injunction of that God who has not left the
time of payment optional with ourselves, but who has
said-" The wages of him that is hired, shall not abide
with thee all night until the morning.-Lev. 19 chap.
13th verse.
The husband of Phoebe was a day labourer; when
not intoxicated he was kind; but this was of rare occurrence, for most of his earnings went for ardent spirits,
and the labour of the poor wife and mother was the
main support of herself and four children —the eldest
nine years, the youngest only eighteen months old. As
she neared the wretched hovel she had left early in the
morning, she saw the faces of her four little ones pressed
close against the window.
" Mother's coming, mother's coming!" they shouted,
as they watched her approaching through the gloom, and
as she unlocked the door, which she had been obliged to
fasten to keep them from straying away, they all sprang
to her arms at once.
" God bless you, my babes!" she exclaimed, gathering
them to her heart, "you have not been a minute absent
from my mind this day. And what have yore suffered,"
she added, clasping the youngest, a sickly, attenuated



120            CHARITY. —ITS OBJECTS.
looking object, to her breast. "Oh! it is hard, my
little Mary, to leave you to the tender mercies of children
hardly able to take care of themselves." And as the
baby nestled its head closer to her side, and lifted its
pale, imploring face, the anguished mother's fortitude
gave way, and she burst into an agony of tears and
sobbings. By-the-by, do some mothers, as they sit by
the softly-lined cradles of their own beloved babes, ever
think upon the sufferings of those hapless little ones,
many times left with a scanty supply of food, and no
fire, on a cold winter day, while the parent is earning
the pittance which is to preserve them from starvation?
And lest some may suppose that we are drawing largely
upon our imagination, we will mention, in this place,
that we knew of a child left under such circumstances,
and half-perishing with cold, who was nearly burned to
death by some hops (for there was no fuel to be found),
which it scraped together in its ragged apron, and set
on fire with a coal found in the ashes.
Phoebe did not indulge long in grief, however she forgot her weary limbs, and bustling about, soon made up a
fire, and boiled some potatoes, which constituted their
supper-after which she nursed the children, two at a
time, for a while, and then put them tenderly to bed.
Her husband had not come home, and as he was nearly
always intoxicated, and sometimes ill-treated her sadly,
she felt his absence a relief.  Sitting over a handful of
coals, she attempted to dry her wet feet; every bone in
her body ached, for she was not naturally strong, and
leaning her head on her hand, she allowed the big tears




CHARITY.-ITS OBJECTS.             121
to course slowly down her cheeks, without making any
attempt to wipe them away, while she murmured:
"Thirteen dollars a year gone! What is to become
of us? I cannot get help from those authorized by law
to assist the poor, unless I agree to put out my children,
and I cannot live and see them abused and over-worked
at their tender age.  And people think their father
might support us; but how can I help it that he spends
all his earnings in drink?  And rich as Mrs. Percy is,
she did not pay me my wages to-night, and now I cannot
get the yarn for my baby's stockings, and her little
limbs must remain cold awhile longer; and I must do
without the flour, too, that I was going to make into
bread, and the potatoes are almost gone."
Here Phecbe's emotions overcame her, and she ceased
speaking.  After a while, she continued"Mrs. Percy also blamed me for being so slow; she
did not know that I was up half the night, and that my
head has ached ready to split all day.  Oh! dear, oh!
dear, oh! dear, if it were not for my babes, I should
yearn for the quiet of the grave!"
And with a long, quivering sigh, such as one might
heave at the rending of soul and body, Phoebe was silent.
Daughters of luxury! did it ever occur to you that
we are all the children of one common Parent?  Oh,
look hereafter with pity on those faces whlere the records
of suffering are deeply graven, and remember "Be ye
warmned and filled," will not suffice, unless the handt
executes the promptings of the heart.  After awhile, as
the fire died out, Phoebe crept to her miserable pallet,
crushed with the prospect of the days of toil which were




122            CIHARITY.-ITS OBJECTS.
still before her, and haunted by the idea of sickness and
death, brought on by over-taxation of her bodily powers,
while in case of such an event, she was tortured by the
reflection-" what is to become of my children?"
Ah, this anxiety is the true bitterness of death, to the
friendless and poverty-stricken parent.  In this way
she passed the night, to renew, with the dawn, the toils
and cares which were fast closing their work on her.
We will not say what Phoebe, under other circumstances,
might have been.  She possessed every noble attribute
common to woman, without education, or training, out
she was not prepossessing in her appearance; and Mrs.
Percy, who never studied character, or sympathized with
menials, or strangers, would have laughed at the idea of
dwelling with compassion on the lot of her washerwoman
with a drunken husband. Yet her feelings sometimes
became interested for the poor she heard of abroad, the
poor she read of, and she would now and then descant
largely on the few cases of actual distress which had
chanced to come under her notice, and the little opportunity she enjoyed of bestowing alms. Superficial in
her mode of thinking and observation, her ideas of
charity were limited, forgetful that to be true it must be
a pervading principle of life, and can be exercised even
in the bestowal of a gracious word or smile, which, under
peculiar circumstances, may raise a brother from the
dust-and thus win the approval of Him, who, although
the Lord of angels, was pleased to say of her who
brought but the " box of spikenard"-with tears of love
—' She hath done what she could."




THE VISION OF BOATS.
ONE morn, when the Day-god, yet hidden
By the mist that the mountain enshrouds,
Was hoarding up hyacinth blossoms,
And roses, to fling at the clouds;
I saw from the casement, that northward
Looks out on the Valley of Pines,
(The casement, where all day in summer,
You hear the drew drop from the vines),
White shapes'mid tne purple wreaths glancing,
Like the banners of hosts at strife;
But I knew they were silvery pennons
Of boats on the River of Life.
And I watched, as the mist cleared upward,
Half hoping, yet fearing to see
On that rapid and rock-sown River,
What the fate of the boats might be.
There were some that sped cheerily onward,
With white sails gallantly spread;
Yet ever there sat at the look-out,
One, watching for danger ahead.
No fragrant and song-haunted island,
No golden and gem-studded coast
Could win, with its ravishing beauty,
The watcher away from his post.




124              THE VISION OF BOATS.
When the tempest crouched low on the waters,
And fiercely the hurricane swept,
With furled sails, cautiously wearing,
Still onward in safety they kept.
And many sailed well for a season,
When river and sky were serene,
And leisurely swung the light rudder,'Twixt borders of blossoming green.
But the Storm-King came out from his caverns,
With whirlwind, and lightning, and rain;
And my eyes, that grew dim for a moment,
Saw but the rent canvas again.
Then sorely I wept the ill-fated!
Yea, bitterly wept, for I knew
They had learned but the fair-weather wisdom,
That a moment of trial o'erthrew.
And one in its swift sinking, parted
A placid and sun-bright wave;
Oh, deftly the rock was hidden,
That keepeth that voyager's grave I
And I sorrowed to think how little
Of aid from a kindly hand,
Might have guided the beautiful vessel
Away from the treacherous strand.
And I watched with a murmur of blessing,
The few that on either shore
Were setting up signals of warning,
Where many had perished before.




REGULATION OF THE TEMPER.              125
But now, as the sunlight came creeping
Through the half-opened lids of the morn,
Fast faded that wonderful pageant,
Of shadows and drowsiness born.
And no sound could I hear but the sighing
Of winds, in the Valley of Pines;
And the heavy, monotonous dropping
Of dew from the shivering vines.
But all day,'mid the clashing of Labour,
And the city's unmusical notes,
With thoughts that went seeking the hidden,
I pondered that Vision of Boats.
REGULATION OF THE TEMPER.
THERE is considerable ground for thinking that the
opinion very generally prevails that the temper is something beyond the power of regulation, control, or government.  A good temper, too, if we may judge from the
usual excuses for the want of it, is hardly regarded in
the light of an attainable quality. To be slow in taking
offence, and moderate in the expression of resentment,
in which things good temper consists, seems to be generally reckoned rather among the gifts of nature, the privileges of a happy constitution, than among the possible
results of careful self-discipline. When we have been
fretted by some petty grievance, or hurried by some
reasonable cause of offence into a degree of anger far




126          REGULATION OF THE TEMPER.
beyond what the occasion required, our subsequent
regret is seldom of a kind for which we are likely to be
much better.  We bewail ourselves for a misfortune,
rather than condemn ourselves for a fault.  We speak
of our unhappy temper as if it were something that
entirely removed the blame from us, and threw it all
upon the peculiar and unavoidable sensitiveness of our
frame. A peevish and irritable temper is, indeed, an
unhappy one; a source of misery to ourselves and to
others; but it is not, in all cases, so valid an excuse for
being easily provoked, as it is usually supposed to be.
A good temper is too important a source of happiness,
and an ill temper too important a source of misery, to
be treated with indifference or hopelessness.  The false
excuses or modes of regarding this matter, to which we
have referred, should be exposed; for until their invalidity and incorrectness are exposed, no efforts, or but
feeble ones, will be put forth to regulate an ill temper,
or to cultivate a good one.
We allow that there are great differences of natural
constitution. One who is endowed with a poetical temperament, or a keen sense of beauty, or a great love of
order, or very large ideality, will be pained by the want
or the opposites of these qualities, where one less amply
endowed would suffer no provocation whatever. What
would grate most harshly on the ear of an eminent musician, might not be noticed at all by one whose musical
faculties were unusually small. The same holds true in
regard to some other, besides musical deficiencies or discords. A delicate and sickly frame will feel annoyed
by what would not at all disturb the same frame in a




REGULATION OF THE TEMPER.           127
state of vigorous health.  Particular circumstances,
also, may expose some to greater trials and vexations
than others. But, after all this is granted, the only
reasonable' conclusion seems to be, that the attempt to
govern the temper is more difficult in some cases than
in others; not that it is, in any case, impossible. It is,
at least, certain that an opinion of its impossibility is
an effectual bar against entering upon it.  On the other
hand, "believe that you will succeed, and you will succeed," is a maxim which has nowhere been more frequently verified than in the moral world. It should be
among the first maxims admitted, and the last abandoned, by every earnest seeker of his own moral improvement.
Then, too, facts demonstrate that much has been done
and can be done in regulating the worst of tempers.
The most irritable or peevish temper has been restrained
by company; has been subdued by interest; has been
awed by fear; has been softened by grief; has been
sooothed by kindness. A bad temper has shown itself,
in the same individuals, capable of increase, liable to
change, accessible to motives.  Such facts are enough
to encourage, in every case, an attempt to govern the
temper. All the miseries of a bad temper, and all the
blessings of a good one, may be attained by an habitual tolerance, concern, and kindness for others-by an
habitual restraint of considerations and feelings entirely
selfish.
To those of our readers who feel moved or resolved by
the considerations we have named to attempt to regulate
their temper, or to cultivate one of a higher order of




128         REGULATION OF THE TEMPER.
excellence, we would submit a few suggestions which
may assist them in their somewhat difficult undertaking.
See, first of all, that you set as high a value on the
comfort of those with whom you have to do as you do on
your own. If you regard your 9wn comfort exclusively,
you will not make the allowances which a proper regard
to the happiness of others would lead you to do.
Avoid, particularly in your intercourse with those to
whom it is of most consequence that your temper should
be gentle and forbearing-avoid raising into undue importance the little failings which you may perceive in
them, or the trifling disappointments which they may
occasion you. If we make it a subject of vexation, that
the beings among whom we are destined to live, are not
perfect, we must give up all hope of attaining a temper
not easily provoked. A habit of trying everything by
the standard of perfection vitiates the temper more than
it improves-the understanding, and disposes the mind to
discern faults with an unhappy penetration.  I would
not have you shut your eyes to the errors or follies, or
thoughtlessnesses of your friends, but only not to magnify them or view them microscopically.  Regard them
in others as you would have them regard the same things
in you, in an exchange of circumstances.
Do not forget to make due allowances for the original
constitution and the manner of education or bringing up,
which has been the lot of those with whom you have to
do. Make such excuses for others as the circumstances
of their constitution, rearing, and youthful associations,
do fairly demand.
Always put the best construction on the motives of




REGULATION OF THE TEMPER.          129
others, when their conduct admits of more than one way
of understanding it. In many cases, where neglect or
ill intention seems evident at first sight, it may prove
true that "second thoughts are best."  Indeed, this
common saying is never more likely to prove true than
in cases in which the first thoughts were the dictates of
anger. And even when the first thoughts are confirmed
by further evidence, yet the habit of always waiting for
complete evidence before we condemn, must have a calming and moderating effect upon the temper, while it will
take nothing from the authority of our just censures.
It will, further, be a great help to our efforts, as well
as our desires, for the government of the temper, if we
consider frequently and seriously the natural consequences of hasty resentments, angry replies, rebukes
impatiently given or impatiently received, muttered discontents, sullen looks, and harsh words. It may safely
be asserted that the consequences of these and other
ways in which ill-temper may show itself, are entirely
evil. The feelings which accompany them in ourselves,
and those which they excite in others, are unprofitable
as well as painful. They lessen our own comfort, and
tend often rather to prevent than to promote the improvement of those with whom we find fault. If we
give even friendly and judicious counsels in a harsh and
pettish tone, we excite against them the repugnance
naturally felt to our manner.  The consequence is, that
the advice is slighted, and the peevish adviser pitied,
despised, or hated.
When we cannot succeed in putting a restraint on
our feelings of anger or dissatisfaction, we can at least
9




h 3O            MIAlNT.M Y GENTLENESS.
check the exlrcession of those feelings.  If our thoughts
are not always in our power, our words and actions and
looks may be brought under our command; and a command over these expressions of our thoughts and feelings
will be found no mean help towards obtaining -an increase of power over our thoughts and feelings themselves. At least, one great good will be effected: time
will be gained; time for reflection; time for charitable
allowances and excuses.
Lastly, seek the help of religion. Consider how you
may most certainly secure the approbation of God. For
a good temper, or a well-regulated temper, mlay be the
constant homage of a truly religious man to that God,
whose love and long-suffering forbearance surpass all
human love and forbearance.
MANLY GENTLENESS.
Wiio is the most wretched man living? This question
might constitute a very fair puzzle to those of our readers
whose kind hearts have given them, in their own experience, no clue to the true answer.  It is a species of
happiness to be rich; to have at one's command an
abundance of the elegancies and luxuries of life. Then
he, perhaps, is the most miserable of men who is the
poorest. It is a species of happiness to be the possessor
of learning, fame, or power; and therefore, perhaps, he
is the most miserable man who is the most ignorant,




MANLY GENTLENESS.               131
despised, and helpless.  No; there is a man more
wretched than these.  We know not where he may be
found; but find him where you will, in a prison or on a
throne, steeped in poverty or surrounded with princely
affluence; execrated, as he deserves to be, or crowned
with world-wide applause; that man is the most miserable whose heart contains the least love for others.
It is a pleasure to be beloved. Who has not felt this?
Human affection is priceless. A fond heart is more
valuable than the Indies. But it is a still greater pleasure to love than to be loved; the emotion itself is of a
higher kind; it calls forth our own powers into more
agreeable exercise, and is independent of the caprice of
others. Generally speaking, if we deserve to be loved,
others will love us, but this is not always the case.
The love of others towards us, is not always in proportion to our real merits; and it would be unjust to
make our highest happiness dependent on it. But our
love for others will always be in proportion to our real
goodness; the more amiable, the more excellent we
become, the more shall we love others; it is right,
therefore, that this love should be made capable of bestowing upon us the largest amount of happiness. This
is the arrangement which the Creator has fixed upon.
By virtue of our moral constitution, to love is to be
happy; to hate is to be wretched.
Hatred is a strong word, and the idea it conveys is
very repulsive. We would hope that few of our readers
know by experience what it is in its full extent. To be
a very demon, to combine in ourselves the highest possible degree of wickedness and misery; nothing more is




132             MANLY GENTLENESS.
needful than to hate with sufficient intensity.  But
though, happily, comparatively few persons are fully
under the influence of this baneful passion, how many
are under it more frequently and powerfully than they
ought to be?  How often do we indulge in resentful,
revengeful feelings, with all of which hatred more or
less mixes itself?  Have we not sometimes entertained
sentiments positively malignant towards those who have
wounded our vanity or injured our interests, secretly
wishing them ill, or not heartily wishing them happiness?
If so, we need only consult our own experience to ascertain that such feelings are both sinful and foolish; they
offend our Maker, and render us wretched.
We know a happy man; one who in the midst of the
vexations and crosses of this changing world, is always
happy.  Meet him  anywhere, and at any time, his
features beam with pleasure.  Children run to meet
him, and contend for the honour of touching his hand,
or laying hold of the skirt of his coat, as he passes by,
so cheerful and benevolent does he always look. In his
own house he seems to reign absolute, and yet he never
uses any weapon more powerful than a kind word.
Everybody who knows him is aware, that, in point of
intelligence, ay, and in physical prowess, too-for we
know few men who can boast a more athletic frame —he
is strong as a lion, yet in his demeanour he is gentle as
a lamb. Hiis wife is not of the most amiable temper, his
children are not the most docile, his business brings him
into contact with men of various dispositions; but he conquers all with the same weapons. What a contrast have
we often thought he presents to some whose physiognomy




MIANLY GENTLENESS.            o133
looks like a piece of harsh handwriting, in which we can
decipher nothing but self, self, self; who seem, both at
home and abroad, to be always on the watch against
any infringement of their dignity.  Poor men! their
dignity can be of little value if it requires so much care
in order to be maintained.  True manliness need take
but little pains to procure respectful recognition.  If it
is genuine, others will see it, and respect it.  The lion
will always be acknowledged as the king of the beasts;
but the ass, though clothed in the lion's skin, may bray
loudly and perseveringly indeed, but he will never keep
the forest in awe.
From some experience in the homes of working-men,
and other homes too, we are led to think that much of
the harsh and discordant feeling which too often prevails
there may be ascribed to a false conception of what is
truly great.  It is a very erroneous impression that
despotism is manly.  For our part we believe that despotism is inhuman, satanic, and that wherever it is
found-as much in the bosom of a family, as on the
throne of a kingdom.  We cannot bring ourselves to
tolerate the inconsistency with which some men will
inveigh against some absolute sovereign, and straightway enact the pettiest airs of absolutism in their little
empire at home. We have no private intimacy with
1"the autocrat of all the Russias," and may, with all
humility, avow that we do not desire to have any; but
this we believe, that out of the thousands who call him a
tyrant, it would be no difficult matter to pick scores who
are as bad, if not worse. Let us remember that it is not
a great empire which constitutes a great tyrant. Tyranny




1`i4            SMANLY GENTLENESS.
must be measured by the strength of those imperious
and malignant passions from which it flows, and carrying this rule along with us, it would not surprise us, if
we found the greatest tyrant in the world in some small
cottage, with none to oppress but a few unoffending
children, and a helpless woman.  0! when shall we be
just!-when shall we cease to prate about wrongs
inflicted by others, and magnified by being beheld
through the haze of distance, and seek to redress those
which lie at our own doors, and to redress which we
shall only have to prevail upon ourselves to be just and
gentle! Arbitrary power is always associated either
with cruelty, or conscious weakness.  True greatness is
above the petty arts of tyranny.  Sometimes much
domestic suffering may arise from  a cause which is
easily confounded with a tyrannical disposition-we
refer to an exaggerated sense of justice.  This is the
abuse of a right feeling, and requires to be kept in
vigilant check. Nothing is easier than to be one-sided
in judging of the actions of others.  How agreeable the
task of applying the line and plummet! How quiet and
complete the assumption of our own superior excellence
which we make in doing it! But if the task is in some
respects easy, it is most difficult if we take into account
the necessity of being just in our decisions. In domestic
life especially, in which so much depends on circumstances, and the highest questions often relate to mere
matters of expediency, how easy it is to be "always
finding fault," if we neglect to take notice of explanatory and extenuating circumstances! Anybody with a
tongue and a most moderate complement of brains can




IrzANLY GENTLENESS.            135
call a thing stupid, foolish, ill-advised, and so forth;
though it might require a larger amount of wisdom than
the judges possessed to have done the thing better. But
what do we want with captious judges in the bosom of a
family? The scales of household polity are the scales
of love, and he who holds them should be a sympathizing
friend; ever ready to make allowance for failures, ingenious in contriving apologies, more lavish of counsels
than rebukes, and less anxious to overwhelm a person
with a sense of deficiency than to awaken in the bosom,
a conscious power of doing better. One thing is certain:
if any member of a family conceives it his duty to sit
continually in the censor's chair, and weigh in the scales
of justice all that happens in the domestic commonwealth,
domestic happiness is out of the question. It is manly
to extenuate and forgive, but a crabbed and censorious
spirit is contemptible.
There is much more misery thrown into the cup of life
by domestic unkindness than we might at first suppose.
In thinking of the evils endured by society from malevolent passions of individuals, we are apt to enumerate
only the more dreadful instances of crime: but what are
the few murders which unhappily pollute the soil of this
Christian land-what, we ask, is the suffering they occasion, what their demoralizing tendency-when compared
with the daily effusions of ill-humour which sadden, may
we not fear, many thousand homes?  We believe that
an incalculably greater number are hurried to the grave
by habitual unkindness than by sudden violence; the
slow poison of churlishness and neglect, is of all poisons
the most destructive.  If this is true, we want a new




136              MANLY GENTLENESS.
definition for the most flagrant of all crimes: a defini.,
tion which shall leave out the element of time, and call
these actions the same —equally hateful, equally diabolical, equally censured by the righteous government of
Heaven —which proceed from the same motives, and
lead to the same result, whether they be done in a
moment, or spread out through a series of years. Habitual unkindness is demoralizing as well as cruel. Whenever it fails to break the heart, it hardens it.  To take
a familiar illustration: a wife who is never addressed by
her husband in tones of kindness, must cease to love
him if she wishes to be happy. It is her only alternative. Thanks to the nobility of our nature, she does
not always take it.  No; for years she battles with
cruelty, and still presses with affection the hand which
smites her, but it is fearfully at her own expense. Such
endurance preys upon her health, and hastens her exit
to the asylum of the grave. If this is to be avoided, she
must learn to forget, what woman should never be
tempted to forget, the vows, the self-renunciating devoted
ness of impassioned youth; she must learn to oppose
indifference, to neglect and repel him with a heart as
cold as his own.  But what a tragedy lies involved in a
career like this! We gaze on something infinitely more
terrible than murder; we see our nature abandoned to
the mercy of malignant passions, and the sacred susceptibilities which were intended to fertilize with the waters
of charity the pathway of life, sending forth streams of
bitterest gall. A catalogue of such cases, faithfully compiled, would eclipse, in turpitude and horror, all the




MANLY GENTLENESS.                37
calendars of crime that have ever sickened the attention
of the world.
The obligations of gentleness and kindness are extensive as the claims to manliness; these three qualities
must go together. There are some cases, however, in
which such obligations are of special force. Perhaps a
precept here will be presented most appropriately under
the guise of an example.  We have now before our
mind's eye a couple, whose marriage tie was, a few
months since, severed by death.  The husband was a
strong, hale, robust sort of a man, who probably never
knew a day's illness in the course of his life, and whose
sympathy on behalf of weakness or suffering in others it
was exceedingly difficult to evoke; while his partner was
the very reverse, by constitution weak and ailing, but
withal a woman of whom any man might and ought to
have been proud.  1Her elegant form, her fair transparent skin, the classical contour of her refined and.
expressive face, might have led a Canova to have selected
her as a model of feminine beauty. But alas!  she was
weak; she could'not work like other women; her husband could not boast among his shopmates how much she
contributed to the maintenance of the family, and how
largely she could afford to dispense with the fruit of his
labours.  Indeed, with a noble infant in her bosom, and
the cares of a household resting entirely upon her, she
required help herself, and at least she needed,'what no
wife can dispense with, but she least of all —sympathy,
forbearance, and all those tranquilizing virtues which
flow from a heart of kindness.  She least of all could
bear a harsh look; to be treated daily with cold, dis




I3l0              MANLY (-XENTLENESS.
approving reserve, a petulant dissatisfaction could not but
be death to her.  We will not say it was-enough that
she is dead. The lily bent before the storm, and at last
was crushed by it.  We ask but one question, in order
to point the moral:-In  the circumstances we have
delineated, what course of treatrent was most consonant
with a manly spirit; that which was actually pursued, or
some other which the reader can suggest?
Yes, to love is to be happy and to make happy, and
to love is the very spirit of true manliness. We speak not
of exaggerated passion and false sentiment; we speak
not of those bewildering, indescribable feelings, which
under that name, often monopolize for a time the guidance of the youthful heart; but iwie speak of that pure
emotion which is benevolence intensified, and which, when
blended with intelligence, can throw the light of joyousness around the manifold relations of life.  Coarseness,
rudeness, tyranny, are so many forms of brute power;
so many manifestations of what it is man's peculiar glory
not to be; but kindness and gentleness can never cease
to be MANLY.
Count not the days that have lightly flown,
The years that were vainly spent;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own,
When thy spirit stands before the Throne,
To account for the talents lent.
But number the hours redeemed from sin,
The moments employed for Heaven;Oh few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.




SILENT: INFLUENCE.                139
Will the shade go back on the dial plate?
Will thy sun stand still on his way?
Both hasten on; and thy spirit's fate
Rests on the point of life's little date: —
Then live while'tis called to-day.
Life's waning hours, like the Sibyl's page,
As they lessen, in value rise;
Oh rouse thee and live! nor deem that man's age
Stands on the length of his pilgrimage,
But in days that are truly wise.
SILENT INFLUENCE.
"How finely she looks!" said Margaret Winne, as a
lady swept by them in the crowd; " I do not see that
time wears upon her beauty at all."
"What, Bell Walters!" exclaimed her companion.
"Are you one of those who think her such a beauty?"
"I think her a very fine-looking woman, certainly,"
returned Mrs. Winne; " and, what is more, I think her
a very fine woman."
"s Indeed 1" exclaimed Mrs. Hall; "I thought you were
no friends?"
" No," replied the first speaker; "but that does not
make us enemies.'
"But I tell you she positively dislikes you, Margaret," said Mrs. Hall.  "It is only a few days since I
knew of her saying that you were a bold, impudent woman, and she did not like you at all."




1140'        SILENT INFLUENCE.
"That is bad," said Margaret, with a smile; " for I
must confess that I like her."
" Well," said her companion, " I am sure I could
never like any one who made such unkind speeches about
me."
" I presume she said no more than she thought," said
Margaret, quietly.
WC6  ell, so much the worse!" exclaimed Mrs. Hall, in
surprise.  " I hope you do not think that excuses the
matter at all?"
"' Certainly, I do. I presume she has some reason for
thinking as she does; and, if so, it was very natural she
should express her opinion."
"' Well, you are very cool and candid about it, I must
say.  What reason have you given her, pray, for thinking you were bold and impudent?"
"None, that I am aware of," replied Mrs. Winne,
" but I presume she thinks I have.  I always claim her
acquaintance, when we meet, and I have no doubt she
would much rather I would let it drop."
"Why don't you, then? I never knew her, and. never
had any desire for her acquaintance.  She was no better than you when you were girls, and I don't think her
present good fortune need make her so very scornful."
c' I do not think she exhibits any more haughtiness
than most people would under the same circumstances.
Some would have dropped the acquaintance at once,
without waiting for me to do it.  11er social position is
higher than mine, and it annoys her to have me meet her
as an equal, just I used to do."
"You do it to annoy her, then?"




SILENT INFLUENCE.              141
"Not by any means. I would much rather she would
feel, as I do, that the difference between us is merely
conventional, and might bear to be forgotten on the few
occasions when accident throws us together. But she
does not, and I presume it is natural.  I do not know
how my head might be turned, if I had climbed up in
the world as rapidly as she has done. As it is, however,
I admire her too much to drop her acquaintance just yet,
as long as she leaves it to me."
" Really, Margaret, I should have supposed you had
t;oo much spirit to intrude yourself upon a person that
you knew wished to shake you off; and I do not see how
you can admire one that you know to be so proud."' I do not admire her on account of her pride, certainly, though it is a quality that sits very gracefully
upon her," said Margaret Winne; and she introduced
another topic of conversation, for she did not hope to
make her companion understand the motives that influenced her.
"Bold and impudent!" said Margaret, to herself, as
she sat alone, in her own apartment.  "I knew she
thought it, for I have seen it in her looks; but she always treats me well externally, and I hardly thought she
would say it. I know she was vexed with herself for
speaking to me, one day, when she was in the midst of
a circle of her fashionable acquaintances. I was particularly ill-dressed, and I noticed that they stared at
me; but I had no intention, then, of throwing nayself
in her way.  Well," she continued, musingly, "'I am
not to be foiled with one rebuff. I know her better than




I 142            SILENT INFLUENCE.
she knows me, for the busy world has canvassed her life,
while they have never meddled with my own: and I
think there are points of contact enough between us for
us to understand each other, if we once found an opportunity. She stands in a position which I shall never
occupy, and she has more power and strength than I;
else she had never stood where she does, for she has
shaped her fortunes by her own unaided will.  Her face
was not her fortune, as most people suppose, but her
mind.  She has accomplished whatever she has undertaken, and she can accomplish much more, for her resources are far from being developed. Those around her
may remember yet that she was not always on a footing with them; but they will not do so long.  She will
be their leader, for she was born to rule. Yes; and she
queens it most proudly among them. It were a pity to
lose sight of her stately, graceful dignity. I regard her
very much as I would some beautiful exotic, and her
opinion of me affects me about as much as if she were
the flower, and not the mortal.  And yet I can never
see her without wishing that the influence she exerts
might be turned into a better channel.  She has much
of good about her, and I think that it needs but a few
hints to make life and its responsibilities appear to her
as they do to me. I have a message for her ear, but
she must not know that it was intended for her.  She
has too much pride of place to receive it from me, and
too much self-confidence to listen knowingly to the suggestions of any other mind than her own.  Therefore,
I will seek the society of Isabel Walters whenever I can,
without appearing intrusive, until she thinks me worthy




SILENT INFLUENCE.               14r 8
her notice, or drops me altogether.  My talent lies in
thinking, but she has all the life and energy I lack, and
would make an excellent actor to my thought, and would
need no mentor when her attention was once aroused.
My usefulness must lie in an humble sphere, but hersshe can carry it wherever she will.  It will be enough
for my single life to accomplish, if, beyond the careful
training of nay own family, I can incite her to a development of her powers of usefulness. People will listen
to her who will pay no attention to me; and, besides,
she has the time and means to spare, which I have not."
" Everywhere, in Europe, they were talking of you,
Mrs. Walters," said a lady, who had spent many years
abroad,'and adopting your plans for vagrant and industrial schools, and for the management of hospitals
and asylums.  I have seen your name in the memorials
laid before government in various foreign countries.
You have certainly achieved a -world-wide reputation.
IDo tell me how your attention came first to be turned to
that sort of thing? I supposed you were one of our
fashionable women, who sought simply to know how
much care and responsibility they could lawfully avoid,
and how high a social station it was possible to attain.
I am sure something must have happened to turn your
life into so different a channel."
"  Nothing in particular, I assure you," returned Mrs.
Walters.  " I came gradually to perceive the necessity
there was that some one should take personal and decisive action in those thingas that it was so customary to
neglect. Fond as men tare of money, it was far easier




1441             STLENT INFLUENCE
to reach their purses than their minds. Our public chl,rities were quite well endowed, but no one gave them
that attention that they needed, and thus evils had crept
in that were of the highest importance.  My attention
was attracted to it in my own vicinity at first; and others
saw it as well as I, but it was so much of everybody's
business that everybody let it alone. I followed the example for awhile, but it seemed as much my duty to act
as that of any other person; and though it is little I
have done, I think that, in that little, I have filled the
place designed for me by Providence."
" Well, really, Mrs. Walters, you were one of the last
persons I should have imagined to be nicely balancing a
point of duty, or searching out the place designed for
them by Providence. I must confess myself at fault in
my judgment of character for once."
" Indeed, madam," replied Mrs. Walters, " I have no
doubt you judged me very correctly at the time you knew
me. My first ideas of the duties and responsibilities of
life were aroused by Margaret Winne; and I recollect
that my intimacy with her commenced after you left the
country."
c Mlargaret Winne? Who was she? Not the wife of
that little Dr. Winne we used to hear of occasionally?
They attended the same church with us, I believe?"
"Yes; she was the one.  We grew up together, and
were familiar with each other's faces from  childhood;
but this was about all.  She was always in humble circumstances, as I had myself been in early life; and,
after my marriage, I used positively to dislike her, and
to dread meeting her, for she was the only one of my




SILENT INFLUENCE.              145
former acquaintances who met me on the same terms as
she had always done. I thought she wished to remind
me that we were once equals in station; but I learned,
when I came to know her well, how far she was above so
mean a thought.  I hardly know how I came first to
appreciate her, but we were occasionally thrown in contact, and her sentiments were so beautiful-so much
above the common stamp-that I could not fail to be
attracted by her. She was a noble woman. The world
knows few like her.  So modest and retiring-with an
earnest desire to do all the good in the world of which
she was capable, but with no ambition to shine.  Well
fitted as she was, to be an ornament in any station of
society, she seemed perfectly content to be the idol of
her own family, and known to few besides. There were
few subjects on which she had not thought, and her clear
perceptions went at once to the bottom of a subject, so
that she solved simply many a question on which astute
philosophers had found themselves at fault. I came at
last to regard her opinion almost as an oracle. I have
often thought, since her death, that it was her object to
turn my life into that channel to which it has since been
devoted, but I do not know. I had never thought of the
work that has since occupied me at the time of her
death, but I can see now how cautiously and gradually
she led me among the poor, rand taught me to sympathize
with their sufferings, and gave me, little by little, a clue
to the evils that had sprung up in the management of
our public charities. She was called from her family in
the prime of life, but they who come after her do assuredly rise up and call her blessed.  She has left a fine
10




146              SILENT INFLUENCEO
family, who will not soon forget the instructions of their
mother."
"Ahh!  yes, there it is, Mrs. Walters.  A woman's
sphere, after all, is at home. One may do a great deal
of good in public, no doubt, as you have done; but don't
you think that, while you have devoted yourself so
untiringly to other affairs, you have been obliged to
neglect your own family, in order to gain time for this?
One cannot live two lives at once, you know."
"4No, madam, certainly we cannot live two lives at
once but we can glean a much larger harvest from the
one which is bestowed upon us than we are accustomed
to think. I do not, by any means, think that I have
ever neglected my own family in the performance of
other duties, and I trust my children are proving, by
their hearty co-operation with me, that I am not mistaken.
Our first duty, certainly, is at home, and I determined,
at the outset, that nothing should call me from the performance of this first charge.  I do not think anything
can excuse a mother from devoting a large portion of
her life in personal attention to the children God has
given her. But I can assure you that, to those things
which I have done of which the world could take cognisance, I have given far less tile than I used once to
devote to dress and amusement.  I found, by systematizing everything, that my time was more than doubled;
and, certainly, I was far better fitted to attend properly
to my own family, when my eyes were opened to the
responsibilities of life, than when my thoughts were
wholly occupied by fashion and display,"




ANTIDOTE FOR MELANCHOLY.
"6AH, friend K ——, good-morning to you; I'm really
happy to see you looking so cheerful.  Pray, to what
unusual circumstance may we be indebted for this happy,
smiling fce of yours, this morning?"  (Our friend
K —- had been, unfortunately, of a very desponding
and somewhat of a choleric turn of mind, previously.)
"Really, is the change so perceptible, then?   Well,
my dear sir, you shall have the secret; for, happy as I
appear-and be assured, my appearances are by no
means deceptive, for I never felt more happy in my life
-it will still give me pleasure to inform you, and won't
take long, either. It is simply this; I have made a
whole family happy!"
"Indeed! Why, you have discovered a truly valuable
recipe for blues, then, which may be used ad libitunm,
eh, K ----
"You may well say that.  But, really, my friend, I
feel no little mortification at not making so simple and
valuable a discovery at an earlier period of my life.
I-eaven knows," continued K  —, "I have looked for
contentment everywhere else. First, I sought for wealth
in the gold mines of California, thinking that was the
true source of all earthly joys; but after obtaining it, I
found myself with such a multiplicity of cares and anxieties, that I was really more unhappy than ever. I then
sought for pleasure in travelling.  This answered somewhat the purpose of dissipating cares, &c., so long as it




148          ANTIDOTE' FOR MELANCHOLY.
lasted; but, dear me, it gave no permanent satisfaction.
After seeing the whole world, I was as badly off as Alexander the Great. He cried for another world to conquer,
and I cried for another world to see."
The case of our friend, I imagine, differs not materially from that of a host of other seekers of contentment
in this productive world.  Like "'blind leaders of the
blind," our invariable fate is to go astray in the universal race for happiness. How common is it, after seeking
for it in every place but the right one, for the selfish
man to lay the whole blame upon this fine world-as if
anybody was to blame but himself. Even some professors of religion are too apt to libel the world. "Well,
this is a troublesome world, to make the best of it," is
not an uncommon expression; neither is it a truthful
one.  "Troubles, disappointments, losses, crosses, sickness, and death, make up the sum and substance of our
existence here," add they, with tremendous emphasis, as
if they had no hand in producing the sad catalogue.
The trouble is, we set too high a value on our own merits; we imagine ourselves deserving of great favours
and privileges, while we are doing nothing to merit them.
In this respect, we are not altogether unlike the young
man in the parable, who, by-the-by, was also a professor
-he professed very loudly of having done all those
good things "from his youth up."  ]But when the command came, "go sell all thou hast, and give to the poor,"
&c., it soon took the conceit out of him.
In this connexion, there are two or three seemingly
important considerations, which I feel some delicacy in
touching upon here. However, in the kindest possible




ANTIDOTE FOR MELANCHOLY.            149
spirit, I would merely remark, that there is a very large
amount of wealth in the Church-by this I include its
wealthy members, of course; and refer to no particular
denomination; by Church, I mean all Christian denominations.  Now, in connexion with this fact, such a
question as this arises in my mind-and I put it, not
for the purpose of fault-finding, for I don't know that I
have a right view of the matter, but merely for the consideration of those who are fond of hoarding up their
earthly gains, viz.: Suppose the modern Church was
composed of such professors as the self-denying disciples
of our Saviour,-with their piety, simplicity, and this
wealth; what, think you, would be the consequence?
Now I do not intend to throw out any such flings as,
" comparisons are odious" —" this is the modern Christian age" —"the age of Christian privileges," and all
that sort of nonsense. Still, I am rather inclined to the
opinion, that if we were all-in and out of the Church
-disposed to live up to, or carry out what we professedly
know to be right, it would be almost as difficult to find
real trouble, as it is now to find real happiness.
The sources of contentment and discontentment are
discoverable, therefore, without going into a metaphysical examination of the subject.  Just in proportion as
we happen to discharge, or neglect known duties, are
we, according to my view, happy or miserable on earth.
Philosophy tells us that our happiness and well-being
depends upon a conformity to certain unalterable laws
— moral, physical, and organic-which act upon the intellectual, moral, and material universe, of which man is
a part, and which determine, or regulate the growth,




150         ANTIDOTE FOR MELANCHOLY.
happiness, and well-being of all organic beings. These
views, when reduced to their simple meaning, amount to
the same thing, call it by what name we will. Duties,
of course, imply legal or moral obligations, which we are
certainly legally or morally bound to pay, perform, or
discharge. And certain it is, there is no getting over
them-they are as irresistible as Divine power, as universal as Divine presence, as permanent as Divine existence, and no art nor cunning of man can disconnect
unhappiness from transgressing them.  How necessary
to our happiness, then, is it, not only to know, but to
perform our whole duty?
One of the great duties of man in this life, and, perhaps, the most neglected, is that of doing good, or benefiting one another. That doing good is clearly a duty
devolving upon man, there can be no question.  The
benevolent Creator, in placing man in the world, endowed
him with mental and physical energies, which clearly
denote that he is to be active in his day and generation.
Active in what? Certainly not in mischief, for that
would not be consistent with Divine goodness. Neither
should we suppose that we are here for our own sakes
simply.  Such an idea would be presumptuous. For
what purpose, then, was man endowed with all these facilities of mind and body, but to do good and glorify his
Maker? True philosophy teaches that benevolence was
not only the design of the Creator in all His works, but
the fruits to be expected from them. The whole infinite
contrivances of everything above, around, and within
us, are directed to certain benevolent issues, and all the
laws of nature are in perfect harmony with this idea.




AN'TITOTrE F'OR METLANCTIOLY.      151
That such is the design of man may also be inferred
from  the happiness which attends every good action,
and the misery of discontentment which attends those
who not only do wrong, but are useless to themselves
and to societyb  Friend K-'s case, above quoted, is
a fair illustration of this truth.
Now, then, if it is our duty to do all the good we can,
and I think this will be admitted, particularly by the
Christian, and this be measured by our means and opportunity, then there are many whom Providence has
blessed with the means and opportunity of doing a very
great amount of good.  And if it be true, as it manifestly is, that'"it is more blessed to give than receive."
then has Providence also blessed them with very great
privileges. The privilege of giving liberally, and thus
obtaining for themselves the greater blessing, which is
the result of every benevolent action, the simple satisfaction with ourselves which follows a good act, or consciousness of having done our duty in relieving a fellowcreature, are blessings indeed, which none but the good
or benevolent can realize.  Such kind spirits are never
cast down.  Their hearts always light and cheerfulrendered so by their many kind offices,-they can always
enjoy their neighbours, rich or poor, high or low, and
love them too; and with a flow of spirits which bespeak
a heart all right within, they make all glad and happy
around them.
Doing good is an infallible antidote for melancholy.
When the heart seems heavy, and our minds can light
upon nothing but little naughty perplexities, everything
goin, wrong, no bright spot or relief anywhere for our




152          ANTIDOTE FOR MELANCnOLY
crazy thoughts, and we are finally wound up in a web
of melancholy, depend upon it there is nothing, nothing
which can dispel this angry, ponderous, and unnatural
cloud from our rheumatic minds and consciences like a
charity visit-to give liberally to those in need of succour, the poor widow, the suffering, sick, and poor, the
aged invalid, the lame, the blind, &c., &c.; all have a
claim upon your bounty, and how they will bless you
and love you for it-anyhow, they will thank kind Providence for your mission of love.  He that makes one
such visit will make another and another; he can't very
well get weary in such well-doing, for his is the greater
blessing. It is a blessing indeed: how the heart is
lightened, the soul enlarged, the mind improved, and
even health; for the mind being liberated from perplexities, the body is at rest, the nerves in repose, and the
blood, equalized, courses freely through the system, giving strength, vigour, and equilibrium to the whole complicated machinery. Thus we can think clearer, love
better, enjoy life, and be thankful for it.
What a beautiful arrangement it is that we can, by
doing good to others, do so much good to ourselves!
The wealthy classes, who'"rise above society like clouds
above the earth, to diffuse an abundant dew," should not
forget this fact. The season has now about arrived,
when the good people of all classes will be most busily
engaged in these delightful duties.  The experiment is
certainly worth trying by all. If all those desponding
individuals, whose chief comfort is to growl at this
"troublesome world," will but take the hint, look troun



TI'E SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.       1553
ble full in the face and relieve it, they will, like friend
K —-, feel much better.
It may be set down as a generally correct axiom,
(with some few exceptions, perhaps, such as accidents,
and the deceptions and cruelties of those whom we injudiciously select for friends and confidants, from our want
of discernment), that life is much what we make it, and
so is the world.
THIE SORROWS OF A WEALTIHY CITIZEN.
AiH me! Am I really a rich man, or am I not? That
is the question.  I am sure I don't feel rich; and yet,
here I am written down among the'6 wealthy citizens"
as being worth seventy thousand dollars!  Iow the estimate was made, or who furnished the data, is a11 a mystery to ime.  I am  sure I wasn't aware of the fact
before.  " Seventy thousand dollars!"  That sounds
comfortable, doesn't it?  Seventy thousand dollars!But where is it? Ah! There is the rub   How true it
is that people always know more about you than you do
yourself.
Before this unfortunate book came out ("' The Wealthy
Citizens of Philadelphia"), I was jogging on very quietly.
Nobody seemed to be aware of the fact that I was a rich
man, and I had no suspicion of the thing myself. But,
strange to tell, I awoke one morning and found myself
worth seventy thousand dollars! I shall never forget
that day.  Men who had passed me in the street with a




15 4    THE SORTROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.
quiet, familiar nod, now bowed with a low salaam, or
lifted their hats deferentially, as I encountered them on
the pave.'"What's the meaning of all this?" thought I. "I
haven't stood up to be shot at, nor sinned against innocence and virtue. I haven't been to Paris. I don't wear
moustaches.  What has given me this importance?"
And, musing thus, I pursued my way in quest of
money to help me out with some pretty heavy payments.
After succeeding, though with some difficulty, in obtainirng what I wanted, I returned to my store about twelve
o'clock.  I found a mercantile acquaintance awaiting
me, who, without many preliminaries, thus stated his
business:-'"I want," said he, with great coolness, "'to get a
loan of six or seven thousand dollars; and I don't know
of any one to whom I can apply with more freedom and
hope of success than yourself. I think I can satisfy you,
fully, in regard to security."
" My dear sir," replied I, " if you only wanted six or
seven hundred dollars, instead of six or seven thousand
dollars, I could not accommodate you. I have just come
in from a borrowing expedition myself."
I was struck with the sudden change in the man's
countenance.  Hle was not only disappointed, but
offended.  He did not believe my statement.  In his
eyes, I had merely resorted to a subterfuge, or, rather,
told a lie, because I dlid not wish to let him have my
money.  Bowing with cold formality, he turned away
and left my place of business.  His manner to me has
been reserved ever since.




THE SORROfTWS OF A WEALTIHY CITIZEN.    155
On the afternoon of that day, I was sitting in the
back part of my store musing on some matter of business, when I saw a couple of ladies enter. They
spoke to one of my clerks, and he directed them back
to where I was taking things comfortably in an old armchair.
"Mr. G ——, I believe?" said the elder of the two
ladies, with a bland smile.
I had already arisen, and to this question, or rather
affirmation, I bowed assent.
"' Mr. G  m," resumed the lady, producing a small
book as she spoke, " we are a committee, appointed to
make collections in this district for the purpose of
setting up a fair in aid of the funds of the Esquimaux
Missionary Society.  It is the design of the ladies who
have taken this matter in hand to have a very large collection of articles, as the funds of the society are entirely
exhausted.  To the gentlemen of our district, and especially to those who have been liberally blessed with this
world's goods"-this was particularly emphasized-" we
look for important aid.  Upon you, sir, we have called
first, in order that you may head the subscription, and
thus set an example of liberality to others."
And the lady handed me the book in the most "of
course" manner in the world, and with the evident expectation that I would put down at least fifty dollars.
Of course I was cornered, and must do something.
I tried to be bland and polite; but am inclined to think
that I failed in the effort.  As for fairs, I never did
approve of them.  But that was nothing.  The enemy
had boarded me so suddenly and so completely, that




X156    THE SOREROWVS OF A WVEALTIY CITIZEN.
nothing was left for me but to surrender at discretion,
and I did so with as good. grace as possible.  Opening
my desk, I took out a five dollar bill and presented it
to the elder of the two ladies, thinking that I was doing
very well indeed. She took the money, but was evidently disappointed; and did not even ask me to head
the list with my name.
"' How money does harden the heart!" I overheard
one of my fair visiters say to the other, in a low voice,
but plainly intended for my edification, as they walked
off with their five dollar bill.
"' Confound your impudence!" I said to myself, thus
taking my revenge out of them.  "'iDo you think I've
got nothing else to do with my money but scatter it to
the four winds?"
And I stuck my thumbs firmly in the armholes of my
waistcoat, and took a dozen turns up and down my store,
in order to cool off.'" Confound your impudence!" I then repeated, and
quietly sat down again in the old arm-chair.
On the next day I had any number of calls from
money-hunters. Business men, who had never thought
of asking me for loans, finding that I was worth seventy
thousand dollars, crowded in upon me for temporary
favours, and, when disappointed in their expectations,
couldn't seem to understand it. When I spoke of being
" hard up" myself, they looked as if they didn't clearly
comprehend what I meant.
A few days after the story of my wealth had gone
abroad, I was sitting, one evening, with my family, when




THE SORROWS OF A WEALTTY CITIZEN.       1 57
I was informed that a lady was in the parlour, and
wished to see me.
" A lady!" said IL
" Yes sir', replied the servant.
"Is she alone?"
" Yes, sir."
"What does she want?"
"She did not say, sir."
"Very well.  Tell her I'll be down in a few moments."
When I entered the parlour, I found a woman, dressed
in mourning, with her veil closely drawn.
I "Mr. G —-?" she said, in a low, sad voice.
I bowed, and took a place upon the sofa where she
was sitting, and from which she had not risen upon my
entrance.
" Pardon the great liberty I have taken," she began,
after a pause of embarrassment, and in an unsteady
voice. " But, I believe I have not mistaken your character for sympathy and benevolence, nor erred in believing
that your hand is ever ready to respond to the generous
impulses of your heart."
I bowed again, and my visiter went on.
", My object in calling upon you I will briefly state.
A year ago my husband died.  Up to that time I had
never known the want of anything that money could
buy.  He was a merchant of this city, and supposed to
be in good circumstances.  But he left an insolvent
estate; and now, with five little ones to care for, educate, and support, I have parted with nearly my last




158     THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.
dollar, and have not a single friend to whom I can look
for aid."
There was a deep earnestness and moving pathos in
the tones of the woman's voice, that went to my heart.
She paused for a few moments, overcome with her feelings, and then resumed:
"One in an extremity like mine, sir, will do many
things from which, under other circumstances, she should
shrink. This is my only excuse for troubling you at the
present time. But I cannot see my little family in want
without an effort to sustain them; and, with a little aid,
I see my way clear to do so. I was well educated,
and feel not only competent, but willing to undertake a
school. There is one, the teacher of which being in bad
health, wishes to give it up, and if I can get the means
to buy out her establishment, will secure an ample and
permanent income for my family.  To aid me, sir, in
doing this, I now make an appeal to you. I know you
are able, and I believe you are willing to put fortlhyour
hand and save my children from want, and, it may be,
separation."
The woman still remained closely veiled; I could not,
therefore, see her face.  But I could perceive that she
was waiting with trembling suspense for my answer.
IHeaven knows my heart responded freely to her appeal.
"How much will it take to purchase this establishment?" I inquired.
" Only a thousand dollars," she replied.
I wvas silent.  A thousand dollars!
" I do not wish it, sir, as a gift," she said; " only as
a loan.  In a year or two I will be able to repay it."




THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.       159
"MIy dear madam," was my reply, "had I the ability,
most gladly would I meet your wishes.  But, I assure
you, I have not.  A thousand dollars taken from my
business would destroy it."
A deep sigh, that was almost a groan, came up from
the breast of the stranger, and her head dropped low
upon her bosom. She seemed to have fully expected
the relief for which she applied; and to be stricken to
the earth by my words! We were both unhappy.
"' May I presume to ask your name, madam?" said I,
after a pause.
"' It would do no good to mention it," she replied,
mournfully. " It has cost me a painful effort to come to
you; and now that my hope has proved, alas! in vain,
I must beg the privilege of still remaining a stranger."
She arose, as she said this.  Her figure was tall and
dignified. Dropping me a slight courtesy, she was turning to go away, when I said,
"But, madam, even if I have not the ability to grant
your request, I may still have it in my power to aid you
in this matter. I am ready to do all I can; and, without doubt, among the friends of your husband will be
found numbers to step forward and join in affording you
the assistance so much desired, when they are made
aware of your present extremity."
The lady made an impatient gesture, as if my words
were felt as a mockery or an insult, and turning from
me, again walked from the room with a firm step.  Before I could recover myself, she had passed into the
street, and I was left standing alone.  To this day I
h&ave remained in ignorance of her identity.  Cheerfully




160     THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.
would I have aided her to the extent of my ability to do
so.  Her story touched my feelings and awakened my
liveliest sympathies, and if, on learning her name and
making proper inquiries into her circumstances, I had
found all o be as she had stated, I would have felt it
a duty to interest myself in her behalf, and have contributed in aid of the desired end to the extent of my
ability. But she came to me under the false idea that
I had but to put my hand in my pocket, or write a check
upon the bank, and lo! a thousand dollars were forthcoming. And because I did not do this, she believed me
unfeeling, selfish, and turned from me mortified, disappointed, and despairing.
I felt sad for weeks after this painful interview.  On
the very next morning I received a letter from an artist,
in which he spoke of the extremity of his circumstances,
and begged me to purchase a couple of pictures. I
called at his rooms, for I could not resist his appeal.
The pictures did not strike me as possessing much
artistic value.
"' What do you ask for them?" I inquired.
"I refused a hundred dollars for the pair.  But I am
compelled to part with them now, and you shall have
them for eighty."
I had many other uses for eighty dollars, and therefore shook my head.  But, as he looked disappointed, I
offered to take one of the pictures at forty dollars.  To
this he agreed.  I paid the money, and the picture was
sent home. Some days afterward, I was showing it to a
friend.
"' What did you pay for it?" he asked.




THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.    161
" Forty dollars," I replied.
The friend smiled strangely.
" What's the matter?" said I.
"He offered it to me for twenty-five."
"' That picture?"
" Yes."
"' He asked me eighty for this and another, and said
he had refused a hundred for the pair."
"He lied though. He thought, as you were well off,
that he must ask you a good stiff price, or you wouldn't
buy."
" The scoundrel!"
"He got ahead of you, certainly."
"But it's the last time," said I, angrily.
And so things went on. Scarcely a day passed in
which my fame as a wealthy citizen did not subject me
to some kind of experiment from people in want of
money. If I employed a porter for any service and
asked what was to pay, after the work was done, ten
chances to one that he didn't touch his hat and reply,
" Anything that you please, sir," in the hope that I,
being a rich man, would be ashamed to offer him less
than about four times his regular price. Poor people in
abundance called upon me for aid; and all sorts of
applications to give or lend money met me at every
turn.  And when I, in self-defence, begged off as
politely as possible, hints gentle or broad, according to
the characters or feelings of those who came, touching
the hardening and perverting influence of wealth, were
thrown out for my especial edification.
And still the annoyance continues. Nobody but my11




162     THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.
self doubts the fact that I am worth from seventy to a
hundred thousand dollars, and I am, therefore, considered allowable game for all who are too idle or prodigal
to succeed in the world; or as Nature's almoner to all
who are suffering from misfortunes.
Soon after the publication to which I have alluded was
foisted upon our community as a veritable document, I
found myself a secular dignitary in the church militant.
Previously I had been only a pew-holder, and an
unambitious attendant upon the Sabbath ministrations
of the Rev. Mr. X. But a new field suddenly opened
before me; I was a man of weight and influence, and
must be used for what I was worth. It is no joke, I can
assure the reader, when I tell them that the way my
pocket suffered was truly alarming. I don't know, but
I have seriously thought, sometimes, that if I hadn't
kicked loose from  my dignity, I would have been
gazetted as a bankrupt long before this time.
Soon after sending in my resignation as vestryman or
deacon, I will not say which, I met the Rev. Mr.  --
and the way he talked to me about the earth being the
"Lord's and the fullness thereof;" about our having
"the poor always with us;" about the duties of charity,
and the laying up of treasure in heaven, made me
ashamed to go to church for a month to come. I really
began to fear that I was a doomed man, and that the
reputation of being a "wealthy citizen" was going to
sink me into everlasting perdition, But I am getting
over that feeling now. My cash-book, ledger, and billbook set me right again; and I can button up my coat
and draw my purse-strings, when guided by the dictates




THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.    163
of my own judgment, without a fear of the threatened
final consequences before my eyes. Still, I am the subject of perpetual annoyance from -all sorts of people,
who will persist in believing that I am made of money;
and many of these approach me in such a way as to put
it almost entirely out of my power to say "no."  They
come with appeals for small amounts, as loans, donations
to particular charities, or as the price of articles that I
do not want, but which I cannot well refuse to take. I
am sure that, since I have obtained my present unenviable reputation, it hasn't cost me a cent less than two
thousand, in money given away, loaned never to be
returned, and in the purchase of things that I never
would have thought of buying.
And, with all this, I have made more enemies than I
ever before had in my life, and estranged half of my
friends and acquaintances.
Seriously, I have it in contemplation to "break" one
of these days, in order to satisfy the world that I am not
a rich man. I see no other effectual remedy for my
present grievances.




"WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE."
DESPAIR not of the better part
That lies in human kindA gleam of light still flickereth
In e'en the darkest mind;
The savage with his club of war,
The sage so mild and good,
Are linked in firm, eternal bonds
Of common brotherhood.
Despair not! Oh i despair not, then,
For through this world so wide,
No nature is so demon-like,
But there's an angel side.
The huge rough stones from out the mine,
Unsightly and unfair,
Have veins of purest metal hid
Bene'ath the surface there;
Few rocks so bare but to their heights
Some tiny moss-plant clings,
And round the peaks, so desolate,
The sea-bird sits and sings.
Believe me, too, that rugged souls,
Beneath their rudeness hide
Much that is beautiful and goodWe've all our angel side.
In all there is an inner depthA far off, secret way,
Where, through dim windows of the soul,
God sends His smiling ray;




i 7 d
am ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.... 








tWE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE."              165
In every human heart there is
A faithful sounding chord,
That may be struck, unknown to us,
By some sweet loving word;
The wayward heart in vain may try
Its softer thoughts to hide,
Some unexpected tone reveals
It has its angel side.
Despised, and low, and trodden down,
Dark with the shade of sin:
Deciphering not those halo lights
Which God hath lit within;
Groping about in utmost night,
Poor prisoned souls there are,
Who guess not what life's meaning is,
Nor dream of heaven afar;
Oh! that some gentle hand of love
Their stumbling steps would guide,
And show them that, amidst it all,
Life has its angel side.
Brutal, and mean, and dark enough,
God knows, some natures are,
But He, compassionate, comes nearAnd shall we stand afar?
Our cruse of oil will not grow less,
If shared with hearty hand,
And words of peace and looks of love
Few natures can withstand.
Love is the mighty conqueror —
Love is the beauteous guideLove, with her beaming eye, can see
We've all our angel side.




BLIND JAMES.
IN the month of December, in the neighbourhood of
Paris, two men, one young, the other rather advanced
in years, were descending the village street, which was
made uneven and almost impassable by stones and puddles.
Opposite to them, and ascending this same street, a
labourer, fastened to a sort of dray laden with a cask,
was slowly advancing, and beside him a little girl, of
about eight years old, who was holding the end of the
barrow. Suddenly the wheel went over an enormous
stone, which lay in the middle of the street, and the car
leaned towards the side of the child.
"The man must be intoxicated," cried the young
man, stepping forward to prevent the overturn of the
dray. When he reached the spot, he perceived that the
man was blind.
"Blind!" said he, turning towards his old friend.
But the latter, making him a sign to be silent, placed
his hand, without speaking, on that of the labourer, while
the little girl smiled. The blind man immediately raised
his head, his sightless eyes were turned towards the two
gentlemen, his face shone with an intelligent and natural
pleasure, and, pressing closely the hand which held his
own, he said, with an accent of tenderness,
" Mr. Desgranges!"
"How!" said the young man, moved and surprised;'6 he knew you by the touch of your hand."




BLIND JATMES.               167'I<I do not need even that," said the blind man;
"when he passes me in the street, I say to myself,'That is his step.' "  And, seizing the hand of Mr.
Desgranges, he kissed it with ardour.  "It was indeed
you, Mr. Desgranges, who prevented my falling-always
you.' "
"Why," said the young man, "do you expose yourself to such accidents, by dragging this cask?"
"One must attend to his business, sir," replied he,
gayly.
"Your business?"
"Undoubtedly," added Mr. Desgranges.  " James is
our water-carrier.  But I shall scold him for going out
without his wife to guide him."
" My wife was gone away. I took the little girl. One
must be a little energetic, must he not? And, you see,
I have done very well since I last saw you, my dear
Mr. Desgranges; and you have assisted me."
"Come, James, now finish serving your customers,
and then you can call and see me. I am going home."
"' Thiank you, sir.  Good-by, sir; good-by, sir."
And he started again, dragging his cask, while the
child turned towards the gentlemen her rosy and smiling
face.
"Blind, and a water-carrier!" repeated the young
man, as they walked along.
4"Ah! our James astonishes you, my young friend.
Yes, it is one of those miracles like that of a paralytic
who walks. Should you like to know his story?"
"Tell it to me."
"I will do so. It does not abound in facts or dramatic




168               B'LIND JAMES.
incidents, but it will interest you, I think, for it is the
history of a soul, and of a good soul it is-a man struggling against the night. You will see the unfortunate
man going step by.step out of a bottomless abyss to
begin his life again-to create his soul anew. You will
see how a blind man, with a noble heart for a stay,
makes his way even in this world."
While they were conversing, they reached the house
of Mr. Desgranges, who began in this manner:" One morning, three years since, I was walking on a
large dry plain, which separates our village from that
of Noiesemont, and which is all covered with mill-stones
just taken from the quarry.  The process of blowing
the rocks was still going on. Suddenly a violent explosion was heard.  I looked.  At a distance of four or
five hundred paces, a gray smoke, which seemed to come
from a hole, rose from the ground. Stones were then
thrown up in the air, horrible cries were heard, and
springing from this hole appeared a man, who began to
run across the plain as if mad.  He shook his arms,
screamed, fell down, got up again, disappeared in the
great crevices of the plain, and appeared again. The
distance and the irregularity of his path prevented me
from distinguishing anything clearly; but, at the height
of his head, in the place of his face, I saw a great, red
mark.  In alarm, I approached him, while from the
other side of the plain, from Noiesemont, a troop of men
and women were advancing, crying aloud.  I was the
first to reach the poor creature.  His face was all one
wound, and torrents of blood were streaming over his
garments, which were all in rags~




BLIND JAMES.                 169
" Scarcely had I taken hold of him, when a woman,
followed by twenty peasants, approached, and threw
herself before him.
"' IJames, James, is it you?  I did not know you,
James.'
" The poor man, without answering, struggled furiously
in our hands.
"'Ah!' cried the woman, suddenly, and with a heartrending voice,'it is he!'
" She had recognised a large silver pin, which fastened
his shirt, which was covered with blood.
" It was indeed he, her husband, the father of three
children, a poor labourer, who, in blasting a rock with
powder, had received the explosion in his face, and was
blind, mutilated, perhaps mortally wounded.' TIe was carried home.  I was obliged to go away
the same day, on a journey, and was absent a month.
Before my departure, I sent him  our doctor, a man
devoted to his profession as a country physician, and as
learned as a city physician. On my return —
"' Ah! well, doctor,' said I,'the blind man?'
"''It is all over with him.  Is wounds are healed,
his head is doing well, he is only blind; but he will die;
despair has seized him, and he will kill himself.  I can
do nothing more for him, This is all,' he said;' an internal inflammation is. taking place. He must die.'
"I hastened to the poor man.  I arrived.  I shall
never forget the sight. He was seated on a wooden
stool, beside a hearth on which there was no fire, his eyes
covered with a white bandage.  On the floor an infant
of three months was sleeping; a little girl of four years




1 70:3BLIND JAMES.
old was playing in the ashes; one, still older, was shiver.
ing opposite to her; and, in front of the fireplace, seated
on the disordered bed, her arms hanging down, was the
wife. What was left to be imagined in this spectacle
was more than met the eye.  One felt that for several
hours, perhaps, no word had been spoken in this room.
The wife was doing nothing, and seemed to have no care
to do anything. They were not merely unfortunate, they
seemed like condemned persons. At the sound of my
footsteps they arose, but without speaking.
"'You are the blind man of the quarry?':' Yes, sir.'
"'I have come to see you.'
"' Thank you, sir.'
" You met with a sad misfortune there.'
"' Yes, sir.'
" His voice was cold, short, without any emotion. He
expected nothing from any one. I pronounced the words'assistance,''public compassion.'
"''Assistance!' cried his wife, suddenly, with a tone
of despair;'they ought to give it to us; they must help
us; we have done nothing to bring upon us this misfortune; they will not let my children die with hunger.'
"She asked for nothing-begged for nothing.  She
claimed help.. This imperative beggary touched me more
than the common lamentations of poverty, for it was the
voice of despair; and I felt in my purse for some pieces
of silver.
" The man then, who had till now been silent, said,
with a hollow tone,
"' I Your children must die, since I can no longer see.'




BLIND JAMES.                 171
"There is a strange power in the human voice.  My
money fell back into my purse.  I was ashamed of the
precarious assistance.  I felt that here was a call for
something more than mere almsgiving-the charity of a
day.  I soon formed my resolution."
" But what could you do?" said the young man, to
Mr. Desgranges.
"What could I do?" replied he, with animation.
"Fifteen days after, James was saved.  A year after,
he gained his own living, and might be heard singing at
his work."'Saved! working! singing! but how?"
"Flow! by very natural means. But wait, I think I
hear him. I will make him tell you his simple story.
It will touch you more from his lips.  It -will embarrass
me less, and his cordial and ardent face will complete
the work."
In fact, the noise of some one taking off his wooden
shoes was heard at the door, and then a little tap.
C' Come in, James;" and he entered with his wife.
"I have brought Juliana, my dear Mr. Desgranges,
the poor woman-she must see you sometimes, must she
not?"
"You did right, James.  Sit down."
He came forward, pushing his stick before him, that
he might not knock against a chair. He found one, and
seated himself. Ite was young, small, vigorous, with
black hair, a high and open forehead, a singularly expansive face for a blind man, and, as Rabelais says, a
magnificent smile of thirty-two teeth. His wife remained
standing behind him.




172                BLIND JArMES.' James," said Mr. Desgranges to him, " here is one
of my good friends, who is very desirous to see you."
L' He is a good man, then, since lie is your friend."
"Yes.  Talk with him; I anm going to see my geraniums. But do not be sad, you know I forbid you that."
"No, no, my dear friend, no!"
This tender and simple appellation seemed to charm
the young man; and after the departure of his friend,
approaching the blind man, he said,'"You are very fond of Mr. Desgranges?"
" Fond of him!" cried the blind man, with impetuosity;
" he saved me from ruin, sir. It was all over with me;
the thought of my children consumed me; I was dying
because I could not see.  He saved me."
" With assistance-with money?"
" Money! what is money? Everybody can give that.
Yes, he clothed us, he fed us, he obtained a subscription
of five hundred francs (about one hundred dollars) for
me; but all this was as nothing; he did more-he cured
my heart!"
"But how?"
"By his kind words, sir. Yes, he, a person of so
much consequence in the world, he came every day into
my poor house, he sat on my poor stool, he talked with
me an hour, two hours, till I became quiet and easy."
"' What did he say to you?"
"I do not know; I am but a foolish fellow, and he
must tell you all he said to me; but they were things I
had never heard before.  He spoke to me of the good
God better than a minister; and he brought sleep back
to me."




BLIND JAIES.                173'" How was that?"
"It was two months since I had slept soundly. I
Would just doze, and then start up, saying,
s' James, you are blind,' and then my head would go
round-round, like a madman; and this was killing
me. One morning he came in, this dear friend, and said
to me,
"' James, do you believe in God?'
"'Why do you ask that, Mr. Desgranges?"
"'Well, this night, when you wake, and the thought
of your misfortune comes upon you, say aloud a prayer
-then two-then three —and you will go to sleep."
c "Yes," said the wife, with her calm voice, " the good
God, Hie gives sleep."
"This is not all, sir. In my despair I would have
killed myself. I said to myself,'You are useless to
your family, you are the woman of the house, and others
support you.' But he was displeased-' Is it not you
who support your family? If you had not been blind,
would any one have given you the five hundred francs?'
"' That is true, Mr. Desgranges.'
"'If you were not blind, would any one provide for
your children?'
"' That is true, Mr. Desgranges.'
"' If you were not blind, would every one love you,
as we love you?'
"'It is true, Mr. Desgranges, it is true.'
"'You see, James, there are misfortunes in all families.  Misfortune is like rain; it must fall a little on
everybody.  If you were not blind, your wife would,
perhaps, be sick; one of your children might have died.




17TI               BIIND JAMES.
Instead of that, you have all the misfortune, my poor
man; but they-they have none.''True, true.' And I began to feel less sad. I was
even happy to suffer for them. And then he added,
"'Dear James, misfortune is either the greatest
enemy or the greatest friend of men. There are people
whom it makes wicked; there are others made better by
it. For you, it must make you beloved by everybody;
you must become so grateful, so affectionate, that when
they wish to speak of any one who is good, they will
say, good as the blind man of the Noiesemont. That will
serve for a dowry to your daughter.' This is the way
he talked to me, sir: and it gave me heart to be unfortunate."
"' Yes; but when he was not here?"
"Ah, when he was not here, I had, to be sure, some
heavy moments. I thought of my eyes —the light is so
beautiful!  Oh, God! cried I, in anguish, if ever I
should see clearly again, I would get up at three o'clock
in the morning, and I would not go to bed till ten at
night, that I might gather up more light."
" James, James!" said his wife.
"You are right, Juliana; he has forbidden me to be
sad. He would perceive it, sir. Do you think that when
my head had gone wrong in the night, and he came in
the morning, and merely looked at me, he would say-'James, you have been thinking that;' and then he
would scold me, this dear friend. Yes," added he, with
an expression of joy-" he would scold me, and that
would give me pleasure, because he tried to make his
words cross, but he could not do it."




BLIND JAMES.                 175
And what gave you the idea of becoming a watercarrier?"
He gave me that, also.  Do you suppose I have
ideas?  I began to lose my grief, but my time hung
heavy on my hands. At thirty-two years old, to be sitting all day in a chair! He then began to instruct me,
as he said, and he told me beautiful stories.  The Bible
-the history of an old man, blind like me, named Tobias; the history of Joseph; the history of David;
the history of Jesus Christ.  And then he mnade me
repeat them after him.  But my head, it was hard —it
was hard; it was not used to learning, and I was always
getting tired in my arms and my legs."
"And he tormented us to death," said his wife,
laughing.
" True, true," replied he, laughing also; " I became
cross.  He came again, and said,
"' James, you must go to work.'
"' I showed him my poor, burned hands.
"'It is no matter; I have bought you a capital in
trade.
"' Me, Mr. Desgranges?'''Yes, James, a capital into which they never put
goods, and where they always find them.'
"'It must have cost you a great deal, sir.'
"'Nothing at all, my lad.'
"' What is then this fund?'
"' The river.'
"' The river? Do you wish me to become a fisherman?'
"'Not all; a water-carrier.'




I 7                BLIND JAMES.'' Water-carrier! but eyes?'
"' Eyes; of what use are they? do the dray-horses
have eyes,? If they do, they make use of them; if they
do not, they do without them.  Come, you must be a
water-carrier."
"'But a cask?'
"' I will give you one.'
4'' A cart?'
"' I have ordered one at the cart-maker's.''' But customers?'
"' I will give you my custom, to begin with, eighteen
francs a month; (my dear friend pays for water as
dearly as for wine.) Moreover, you have nothing to say,
either yes or no. I have dismissed my water-carrier, and
you would not let my wife and me die with thirst. This
dear Madame Desgranges, just think of it. And so, my
boy, in three days-work.  And you, Madam  James,
come here;' and he carried off Juliana."
"Yes, sir," continued the wife,'" he carried me off,
ordered leather straps, made me buy the wheels, harnessed me; we were all astonishment, James and I; but
stop, if you can, when Mr. Desgranges drives you. At
the end of three days, here we are with the cask, he harnessed and drawing it, I behind, pushing; we were
ashamed at crossing the village, as if we were doing
something wrong; it seemed as if everybody would laugh
at us. But Mr. Desgranges was there in the street.
"' Come on, James,' said he,'courage.'
"We came along, and in the evening he put into our
hands a piece of money, saying," continued the blind
man, with emotion



BLIND JAMBIES.               177.Jnimes, here are twenty sous you have earned today.'
"LEarned, sir, think of that!  earned, it was fifteen
months that I had only eaten what had been given to
me.  It is good to receive from  good people, it is true;
but the bread that one earns, it is as we say, half corn,
half barley; it nourishes better, and then it was done, I
was no longer the woman, I was a labourer-a labourer
-James earned his living."
A sort of pride shone from his face.
"' How!" said the young man, "was your cask sufficient to support you?"' Not alone, sir; but I have still another profession."
"Another profession!"
" Ha, haze, yes, sir; the river always runs, except when
it is frozen, and, as Mr. Desgranges says,'water-carriers do not make their fortune with ice, so. he gave me
a Winter trade and Summer trade."
" Winter trade!"
Mir. Desgranges returned at this moment-James
heard him-"' Is it not true, Mr. Desgranges, that I have
another trade besides that of water-earrier?"
" Undoubtedly."
" What is it then?"
W' Wood-sawyer."
W' Wood-sawyer? impossible; how could you measure
the length of the sticks? how could you cut wood without cutting yourself?"
1" Cut myself, sir," replied the blind man, with a pleasant shade of confidence; "I formerly was a woodsawyer, and the saw knows me well; and then one learns
2




1i8                BLIND JAMIES.
everythl-ing  I go to school, indeed.  They put a pile of
wood at my left side, my saw and saw horse before me,
and a stick that is to be sawed in three; I take a thread,
I cut it the size of the third of the stick-this is the
measure.  Every place I saw, I try it, and so it goes on
till now there is nothing burned or drunk in the village
without calling upon me."
"' Without mentioning," added Mr. Desgranges, " that
he is a commissioner."
"1 A commissioner!" said the young man, still more
surprised.'"Yes, sir, when there is an errand to be done at
Melun, I put my little girl on my back, and then off I
go.  She sees for me, I walk for her; those who meet
me, say,' Here is a gentleman who carries his eyes very
high;' to which I answer,'that is so I may see the
farther.' And then at night I have twenty sous more to
bring home."
"But are you not afraid of stumbling against the
stones?'' I lift my feet pretty high; and then I am used to
it; I come from Noiesemont here all alone."
" All alone! Ihow do you find your way?"
"I find the course of the wind as I leave home, and
this takes the place of the sun with me."
"s But the holes?"
" I know them all."
" And the walls?"
" I feel them.  Wallen I approach anything thick, sir,
the air comes with less force upon my face; it is but
now and then that I get a hard knock, as by example,




BLIND JAMES.                179
if sometimes a little handcart is left on the road, I do
not suspect it-whack! bad for you, poor five-and-thirty,
but this is soon over. It is only when I get bewildered,
as I did day before yesterday.  0 then — "
"You have not told me of that, James," said Mr.
Desgranges.
"I was, however, somewhat embarrassed, my deai
friend. While I was here the wind changed, I did not
perceive it; but at the end of a quarter of an hour, when
I had reached the plain of Noiesemont, I had lost my
way, and I felt so bewildered that I did not dare to stir
a step. You know the plain, not a house, no passersby. I sat down on the ground, I listened; after a moment, I heard at, as I supposed, about two hundred
paces distant, a noise of running water. I said,' If this
should be the stream which is at the bottom  of the
plain?' I went feeling along on the side from which
the noise came —I reached the stream; then I reasoned
in this way: the water comes down from the side of
Noiesernont and crosses it. I put in my hand to feel
the current."
" Bravo, James."
Yes, but the water was so low and the current so
small, that my hand felt nothing. I put in the end of
my stick, it was not moved. I rubbed my head; finally,
I said,'I am a fool, here is my handkerchief;' I took
it, I fastened it to the end of my cane. Soon I felt that
it moved gently to the right, very gently. Noiesemont
is on the right. I started again and I get home to Juliana,
who began to be uneasy."
" 0," cried the young man, "this is admir —-— "




10 SO              BLIND JAMES.
But Mr. Desgranges stopped him, and leading him to
the other end of the room,'" Silence!" said he to him in a low voice. c" Not admirable-do not corrupt by pride the simplicity of this
man. Look at him, see how tranquil his face is, how
calm after this recital which has moved you so much.
He is ignorant of himself, do not spoil him."
"It is so touching," said the young man, in a low
tone.
"Undoubtedly, and still his superiority does not lie
there. A thousand blind men have found out these
ingenious resources, a thousand will find them again;
but this moral perfection —this heart, which opens itself
so readily to elevated consolations-this heart which
so willingly takes upon it the part of a victimthis heart which has restored him to life.  For do not
be deceived, it is not I who have saved him, it is his
affection for me; his ardent gratitude has filled his whole
soul, and has sustained —he has lived because he has
loved 1"
At that moment, James, who had remained at the
other end of the room, and who perceived that we were
speaking low, got up softly, and with a delicate discretion, said to his wife,
"We will go away without making any noise."
" Are you going, James?"
"I am in the way, my dear 3M[r. Desgranges."
"No, pray stay longer."
His benefactor retained him, reaching out to him cordially his hand. The blind man seized the hand in his
turn, and pressed it warmly against his heart.




BLIND JAMES.                181
"My dear friend, my dear good friend, you permit
me to stay a little longer.  How glad I am to find myself near you. When I am sad I say —' James, the
good God will, perhaps, of His mercy, put you in the
same paradise with Mr. Desgranges,' and that does me
go- e."
The young man smiled at this simple tenderness,
which believed in a hierarchy in Heaven.  James heard
him.
" You smile, sir. But this good man has re-created
James.  I dream of it every night-I have never seen
him, but I shall know him then.  Oh my God, if I re
cover my sight I will look at him for ever-for ever, like
the light, till he shall say to me, James, go away. But
he will not say so, he is too good. If I had known him
four years ago, I would have served him, and never have
left him."
"James, James!" said Mr. Desgranges; but the poor
man could not be silenced.
"It is enough to know he is in the village; this makes
my heart easy.  I do not always wish to come in, but 1
pass before his house, it is always there; and when he is
gone a journey I make Juliana lead me into the plain
of Noiesemont, and I say-' turn me towards the place
where he is gone, that I may breathe the samle air with
him.' "
Mr. Desgranges put his hand befo-re his mouth. James
stopped.
" You are right, Mr. Desgranges, my mouth is rude,
it is only my heart which is right. Come, wife," said he,
gayly, and drying his great tears which rolled from his




182                BLIND JAMBES.
eyes, " Come, we must give our children their supper.
Good-by, my dear friend, good-by, sir."
He went away, moving his staff before him. Just as
he laid his hand upon the door, Mr. Desgranges called
him back.
"I want to tell you a piece of news which will g'"ve
you pleasure. I was going to leave the village this
year; but I have just taken a new lease of five years of
my landlady."
" Do you see, Juliana," said James to his wife,
turning round, " I was right when I said he was going
away.'
"flow," replied Mr. Desgranges, "I had told them
not to tell you of of it."
"Yes; but here," putting his hand on his heart,
"; everything is plain here. I heard about a month since,
some little words, which had begun to make my head
turn round; when, last Sunday, your landlady called
me to her, and showed me more kindness than usual,
promising me that she would take care of me, and that
she would never abandon me. When I came home, I
said to Juliana,'Wife, Mr. Desgranges is going to quit
the village; but that lady has consoled me.'"
In a few moments the blind man had returned to his
home.




DEPENDENCE.
6WELL, Mary," said Aunt Frances, "how do you
propose to spend the summer? It is so long since the
failure and death of your guardian, that I suppose you
are now familiar with your position, and prepared to
mark out some course for the future."'6 True, aunt; I have had many painful thoughts with
regard to the loss of my fortune, and I was for a time
in great uncertainty about my future course, but a kind
offer, which I received, yesterday, has removed that
burden.  I now know where to find a respectable and
pleasant home."
"Is the offer you speak of one of marriage?" asked
Aunt Frances, smiling.
", Oh! dear, no; I am too young for that yet.  But
Cousin Kate is happily married, and lives a few miles
out of the city, in just the cosiest little spot, only a
little too retired; and she has persuaded me that I shall
do her a great kindness to accept a home with her."
"Let me see.  Kate's husband is not wealthy, I believe?"
"No: Charles Howard is not wealthy, but his business is very good, and improving every year; and both
he and Kate are too whole-souled and generous to regret
giving an asylum to an unfortunate girl like me.  They
feel that 6 it is more blessed to give than to receive.'"
" A very noble feeling, Mary; but one in which I am
sorry to perceive that you are a little wanting."




184                 DEPENDENCE.
" Oh! no, Aunt Frances, I do feel it deeply; but' it
is the curse of poverty that one must give up, in some
measure, the power of benefiting others. Anrid, thetn, I
mean to beguile Kate of so many lonely hours, and per..
form so many friendly offices for her husband, that they
will think me not a burden but a treasure."
"And you really think you can give them as much
comfort as the expense of your maintenance could procure them in any other way?"
"Yes, aunt; it may sound conceited, perhaps, but I
do really think I can. I am sure, if I thought otherwise, I would never consent to become a burden to
them."
4' Well, my dear, then your own interest is all that
remains to be considered. There are few blessings in
life that can compensate for the loss of self-reliance.
She who derives her support from persons upon whom
she has no natural claim, finds the effect upon herself to
be decidedly narrowing. Perpetually in debt, without
the means of reimbursement, barred from any generous
action which does not seem like'robbing Peter to pay
Paul,' she sinks too often into the character of a sponge,
whose only business is absorption. But I see you do
not like what I am saying, and I will tell you something which I am sure you will like-my own veritable
history.
"I was left an orphan in childhood, like yourself, and
when my father's affairs were settled, not a dollar remained for my support.  I was only six years of age,
but I had attracted the notice of a distant relative, who
was a man of considerable wealth.  Without any effort




DEPENDENCE.                  185
of my own, I became an inmate of his family, and his
only son, a few years my elder, was taught to consider
me as a sister.'" George Somers was a generous, kind-hearted boy,
and I believe he was none the less fond of me, because I
was likely to rob him of half his fortune.  Mr. Somers
often spoke of making a will, in which I was to share
equally with his son in the division of his property, but
a natural reluctance to so grave a task led him to defer
it from one year to another.  Meantime, I was sent to
expensive schools, and was as idle and superficial as any
heiress in the land.
"1I was just sixteen when my kind benefactor suddenly perished on board the ill-fated Lexington, and, as
he died without a will, I had no legal claim to any farther favours.  But George Somers was known as a very
open-handed youth, upright and honourable, and, as he
was perfectly well acquainted with the wishes of his
father; I felt no fears with regard to my pecuniary condition. While yet overwhelmed with grief at the loss of
one whom my heart called father, I received a very kind
and sympathizing letter from George, in which he said
he thought I had better remain at school for another
year, as had been originally intended.
"' Of course,' he added,'the death of my father does
not alter our relation in the least; you are still my dear
and only sister.'
"And, in compliance with his wishes, I passed another year at a very fashionable school-a year of
girlish frivolity, in which my last chance of acquiring
knowledge as a means of future independence was




1 G                 DEPENDENCE.
wholly thrown away. Before the close of this year I
received another letter from George, which somewhat
surprised, but did not at all dishearten me. It was, in
substance, as follows:"' My own dear Sister:-I wrote you, some months
ago, from Savannah, in Georgia, and told you how much
I was delighted with the place and people; how charmed
with Southern frankness and hospitality. But I did not
tell you that I had there met with positively the most
bewitching creature in the world-for I was but a timid
lover, and feared that, as the song says, the course of
true love never would run smooth. My charming Laura
was a considerable heiress, and although no sordid considerations ever had a feather's weight upon her own
preferences, of course, yet her father was naturally and
very properly anxious that the guardian of so fair a
flower should be able to shield it from the biting winds
of poverty. Indeed, I had some difficulty in satisfying
his wishes on this point, and, in order to do so, I will
frankly own that I assumed to myself the unencumbered
possession of my father's estate, of which so large a
share belongs of right to you.  I am confident that
when you know my Laura you will forgive me this
merely nominal injustice.  Of course, this connexion
can make no sort of difference in your rights and expectations.  You will always have a home at my house.
Laura is delighted with the idea of such a companion,
and says she would on no account dispense with that
arrangement.  And whenever you marry, as girls do
and -will, I shall hold myself bound to satisfy any reasonable wishes on the part of the happy youth that wins




DEPENDENCE.                 187
you.  Circumstances hastened my marriage somewhat
unexpectedly, or I should certainly have informed you
previously, and requested your presence at the nuptial
ceremony. We have secured a beautiful house in Brooklyn, and shall expect you to join us as soon as your present year expires. Laura sends her kindest regards,
and I remain, as always, your sincere and affectionate
brother,                        GEORGE SOMERS.'
"' Not long after the receipt of this letter, one of the
instructresses in the institution where I resided requested
the favour of a private interview.  She then said she
knew something generally of my position and prospects,
and, as she had always felt an instinctive interest in my
fortunes, she could not see me leave the place without
seeking my confidence, and rendering me aid, if aid was
in her power. Though surprised and, to say the truth,
indignant, I simply inquired what views had occurred to
her with regard to my future life.'" She said, then, very kindly, that although I was not
very thorough in any branch of study, yet she thought
I had a decided taste for the lighter and more ornamental parts of female education.  That a few months
earnest attention to these would fit me for a position independent of my connexions, and one of which none of
my friends would have cause to be ashamed.
"I am deeply pained to own to you how I answered'her. Drawing myself up, I said, coldly,
"'I am obliged to you, madam, for your quite unsolicited interest in my affairs.  When I leave this place,
it will be to join my brother and sister in Brooklyn,
and, as we are all reasonably wealthy, I must try to




188                  EPETNDENCE.
make gold varnish over any defects in my neglected
education.'
" I looked to see my kind adviser entirely annihilated
by these imposing words, but she answered with perfect
calmness,
"'I know Laura Wentworth, now Mrs. Somers. She
was educated at the North, and was a pupil of my own
for a year. She is wealthy and beautiful, and I hope
you will never have cause to regret assuming a position
with regard to her that might be mistaken for dependence.''"With these words, my well-meaning, but perhaps
injudicious friend, took leave, and I burst into a mocking laugh, that I hoped she might linger long enough to
hear.'This is too good!' I repeated to myself-but I
could not feel perfectly at ease.  However, I soon forgot all thoughts of the future, in the present duties of
scribbling in fifty albums, and exchanging keepsakes,
tears, and kisses, with a like number of very intimate
friends.
" It was not until I had finally left school, and was
fairly on the way to the home of my brother, that I
found a moment's leisure to think seriously of the life
that was before me. I confess that I felt some secret
misgivings, as I stood at last upon the steps of the very
elegant house that was to be my future home.  The servant who obeyed my summons, inquired if I was Miss
Rankin, a name I had never borne since childhood.
"I was about to reply in the negative, when she
added,'If you are the young lady that Mr. Somers is




DEPENDENCE.                 189
expecting from the seminary, I will show you to your
room.'
MG"I followed mechanically, and was left in a very
pretty chalmber, with the information that Mrs. Somers
was a little indisposed, but would meet me at dinner.
The maid added that Mr. Somers was out of town, and
would not return till evening. After a very uncomfortable hour, during which I resolutely suspended my opinion with regard to my position, the dinner-bell rang,
and the domestic again appeared to show me to the
dining-room.'"Mrs. Somers met me with extended hand.'My
dear Miss Rankin[' she exclaimed,'I am most happy
to see you. I have heard George speak of you so often
and so warmly that I consider you quite as a relative.
Come directly to the table. I am sure you must be
famished after your long ride.  I hope you will make
yourself one of us, at once, and let me call you Fanny.
May I call you Cousin Fanny?" she pursued, with an
air of sweet condescension that was meant to be irresistible.
"' I As you please,' I replied coldly.
c"To which she quickly responded,'Oh, that will be
delightful.'
"She then turned to superintend the carving of a
fowl, and I had time to look at her undisturbed.  She
was tall and finely formed, with small delicate features,
and an exquisite grace in every movement; a haughty
sweetness that was perfectly indescribable.  She had
very beautiful teeth, which she showed liberally when
she smiled, and in her graver moments her slight fea



190                 DEPENDENCE.
tures wore an imperturbable serenity, as if the round
world contained nothing that was really worth her attention. An animated statue, cold, polished, and pitiless 
was my inward thotight, as I bent over my dinner.
"' When the meal was over, Mrs. Somers said to me,
in a tone of playful authority,
"'Now, Cousin Fanny, I want you to go to your
room and rest, and not do an earthly thing until tea-.
time.  After that I have a thousand things to show
you.'
" At night I was accordingly shown a great part of
the house; a costly residence, and exquisitely furnished.
But, alas! I already wearied of this icy splendour.
Every smile of my beautiful hostess (I could not now
call her sister), every tone of her soft voice, every movement of her superb form, half queen-like dignity, half
fawn-like grace-seemed to place an insurmountable
barrier between herself and me.  It was not that I
thought more humbly of myself-not that I did not
even consider myself her equal-but her dainty blandishments were a delicate frost-work, that almost made me
shiver; and when she touched her cool lips to mine,
and said' Good-night, dear,' I felt as if even then separated from  her real, living self, by a wall of freezing
marble.
"' I Poor George!' I said, as I retired to rest-' You
have wedded this soulless woman, and she will wind you
round her finger.'
"I did not sit up for him, for he was detained till a
late hour, but I obeyed the breakfast-bell with unfashionable eagerness, as I was becoming nervous about our




DEPENDENCE.                 191
meeting, and really anxious to have it over. After a
delay of some minutes, I heard the wedded pair coming
leisurely down the stairs, in very amicable chatter.
"' I am glad you like her, Laura,' said a voice which
I knew in a moment as that of George. How I shivered
as I caught the smooth reply,'A nice little thing. I
am very glad of the connexion. It will be such a relief
not to rely entirely upon servants. There should be a
middle class in every family.'
"With these words she glided through the door,
looked with" perfect calmness in my flashing eyes, and
said,
"'Ah, Fanny! I was just telling George here how
much I shall like you.'
" The husband came forward with an embarrassed air;
I strove to meet him with dignity, but my heart failed
me, and I burst into tears.
"' IForgive me, madam,' I said, on regaining my composure-' This is our first meeting since the death of
our father.'
"'I understand your feelings perfectly,' she quietly
replied.'IMy father knew the late Mr. Somers well,
and thought very highly of him. Ite was charitable to
a fault, and yet remarkable for discernment. Itis bounty
was seldom unworthily bestowed.'
"His bounty! I had never been thought easy to intimidate, but I quailed before this unapproachable iceberg.
" I made no attempt from that moment to vindicate
what I was pleased to call my rights, but awaited pas



192                  DEPENDENCE.
sively the progress of events.  After breakfast, IMrs.
Somers said to the maid in attendance,'  Dorothy, bring some hot water and towels for Miss
Rankin.'
" She then turned to me and continued,' I shall feel
the china perfectly safe in your hands, cousin.  Theso
servants are so very unreliable.'
" And she followed George to the parlour above,
where their lively tones and light laughter made agreeable music.
"In' the same easy way, I was invested with a variety
of domestic cares, most of them such as I would willingly have accepted, had she waited for me to manifest
such a willingness.  But a few days after my arrival,
we received a visit from little Ella Grey, a cousin of
Laura's, who was taken seriously ill on the first evening
of her stay. A physician was promptly summoned, and,
after a conference with him, Mrs. Somers came to me,
inquiring earnestly,
"' Cousin Fanny, have you ever had the measles?'
I,  replied in the affirmative.
4'Oh, I am very glad!' was her response;'for little
Ella is attacked with them, and very severely; but, if
you will take charge of her, I shall feel no anxiety. It
is dreadful in sickness to be obliged to depend upon
hirelings.'
" So I was duly installed as little Ella's nurse, and,
as she was a spoiled child, my task was neither easy nor
agreeable.
" No sooner was the whining little creature sufficiently
improved to be taken to her own home, than the house




DEPENDENCE.                193
was thrown into confusion by preparations for a brilliant
party. Laura took me with her on a shopping excursion, and bade me seleot whatever I wished, and send
the bill with hers to Mr. Somers. I purchased a few
indispensable articles, but I felt embarrassed by her
calm, scrutinizing gaze, and by the consciousness that
every item  of my expenditures would be scanned by,
perhaps, censorious eyes.
"What with my previous fatigue while acting as Ella's
nurse, and the laborious preparations for the approaching festival, I felt, as the time drew near, completely
exhausted. Yet I was determined not to so far give
way to the depressing influences that surrounded me, as
to absent myself from the party.  So, after snatching
an interval of rest, to relieve my aching head, I dressed
myself with unusual care, and repaired to the brilliantly
lighted rooms.  They were already filled, and murmuring like a swarm of bees; although, as one of the guests
remarked, there were more drones than workers in the
hive. I was now no drone, certainly, and that was some
consolation.  When I entered, Laura was conversing
with a group of dashing young men, who were blundering over a book of charades. Seeing me enter, she came
towards me immediately.
"'Cousin Fanny, you who help everybody, I want
you to come to the aid of these stupid young men.
Gentlemen, this is our Cousin Fanny, the very best
creature in the world.' And with this introduction she
left me, and turned to greet some new arrivals. After
discussing the charades till my ears were weary of empty
and aimless chatter, I was very glad to find my group
13




194                DEPENDENCE.
of young men gradually dispersing, and myself at liberty
to look about me, undisturbed.  George soon came to
me, gave me his arm, and took me to a room where were
several ladies, friends of his father, and who had known
me very well as a child.
"'You remember Fanny,' he said to them; and then
left me, and devoted himself to the courteous duties of
the hour. While I was indulging in a quiet chat with a
very kind old friend, she proposed to go with me to look
at the dancers, as the music was remarkably fine, and
it was thought the collected beauty and fashion of the
evening would make a very brilliant show. We left our
seats, accordingly, but were soon engaged in the crowd,
and while waiting for an opportunity to move on, I heard
one of my young men ask another,
"' How do you like la cousine?'
" I lost a part of the answer, but heard the closing
words distinctly-' et un peu passele.'' Oui, deciddment!' was the prompt response, and a light laugh
followed, while, shrinking close to my kind friend, I
rejoiced that my short stature concealed me from observation. I was not very well taught, but, like most
school-girls, I had a smattering of French, and I knew
the meaning of the very ordinary phrases that had been
used with regard to me. Before the supper-hour, my
headache became so severe that I was glad to take refuge in my own room. There I consulted my mirror,
and felt disposed to forgive the young critics for their
disparaging remarks. Passe!  I looked twenty-five
at least, and yet I was not eighteen, and six months before I had fancied myself a beauty and an heiress!




DEPENDENCE.                 195
"But I will not weary you with details.  Suffice it to
say, that I spent only three months of this kind of life,
and then relinquished the protection of Mr. and Mrs.
Somers, and removed to a second-rate boarding-house,
where I attempted to maintain myself by giving lessons
in music. Every day, however, convinced me of my
unfitness for this task, and, as I soon felt an interest in
the sweet little girls who looked up to me for instruction,
my position with regard to them became truly embarrassing.  One day I had been wearying myself by
attempting the impossible task of making clear to another mind, ideas that lay confusedly in my own, and
at last I said to my pupil,
"'You may go home now, Clara, dear, and practise
the lesson of yesterday. I am really ill to-day, but tomorrow I shall feel better, and I hope I shall then be
able to make you understand me.'
"The child glided out, but a shadow still fell across
the carpet. I looked up, and saw in the doorway a
young man, whose eccentricities sometimes excited a
smile among his fellow-boarders, but who was much respected for his sense and independence.
"' To make yourself understood by others, you must
first learn to understand yourself,' said he, as he came
forward. Then, taking my hand, he continued,-' What
if you should give up all this abortive labour, take a
new pupil, and, instead of imparting to others what you
have not very firmly grasped yourself, try if you can
make a human being of me?'
" I looked into his large gray eyes, and saw the truth
and earnestness shining in their depths, like pebbles at




19 6                DEPENDENCE.
the bottom of a pellucid spring. I never once thought
of giving him a conventional reply. On the contrary,
I stammered out,
"'I am full of faults and errors; I could never do
you any good.'
"' I have studied your character attentively,' returned
he,'and I know you have faults, but they are unlike
mine; and I think that you might be of great service
to me; or, if the expression suits you better, that we
might be of great aid to each other.  Become my wife,
and I will promise to improve more rapidly than any
pupil in your class.'
" And I did become his wife, but not until a much
longer acquaintance had convinced me, that in so doing,
I should not exchange one form of dependence for another, more galling and more hopeless."' Then this eccentric young man was Uncle Robert?"
" Precisely. But you see he has made great improvement, since."
"Well, Aunt Frances, I thank you for your story;
and now for the moral. What do you think I had better
do?"
"I will tell you what you can do, if you choose.
Your uncle has just returned from a visit to his mother.
He finds her a mere child, gentle and amiable, but wholly
unfit to take charge of herself.  Her clothes have taken
fire repeatedly, from her want of judgment with regard
to fuel and lights, and she needs a companion for every
moment of the day.  This, with their present familly, is
impossible, and they are desirous to secure some one
who will devote herself to your grandmother dl:aring the




DEPENDENCE.                 197
hours when your aunt and the domestics are necessarily
engaged.  You were always a favourite there, and I
know they would be very much relieved if you would
take this office for a time, but they feel a delicacy in
making any such proposal.  You can have all your favourites about you-books, flowers, and piano; for the
dear old lady delights to hear reading or music, and will
sit for hours with a vacant smile upon her pale, faded
face. Then your afternoons will be entirely your own,
and Robert is empowered to pay any reliable person a
salary of a fixed and ample amount, which will make
you independent for the time."
"But, aunt, you will laugh at me, I know, yet I do
really fear that Kate will feel this arrangement as a disappointment."
" Suppose I send her a note, stating that you have
given me some encouragement of assuming this important duty, but that you could not think of decilding
without showing a grateful deference to her wishes?"
"That will be just the thing.  We shall get a reply
to-morrow." With to-morrow came the following note:"'LMy Dear Aunrt  }rances:-Your favour of yesterday took us a little by surprise.  I must own I had
promised myself a great deal of pleasure in the society
of our Mary; but since she is inclined (and I think it is
very noble in her) to foster with the dew of her youth
the graceful but fallen stem that lent beauty to us all, I
cannot say a word to prevent it. Indeed, it has occurred to me, since the receipt of your note, that we
shall need the room we had reserved for Mary, to accommodate little Willie, Mr. Howard's pet nephew, who




198         TWO RIDES WITII  THE DOCTOR.
has the misfortune- to be lame. Ilis physicians insist
upon country air, and a room upon the first floor. So
tell Mary I love her a thousand times better for her
self-sacrifice, and will try to imitate it by doing all in
my power for the poor little invalid that is coming.
"With the kindest regards, I remain
"Your affectionate niece,
" KATE HOWARD.'
"Are you now decided, Mary?" asked Aunt Frances,
after their joint perusal of the letter.
"Not only decided, but grateful. I have lost my
fortune, it is true; but while youth and health remain, I
shall hardly feel tempted to taste the luxuries of dependence."
TWO RIDES WITH THE DOCTOR.
JUMP in, if you would ride with the doctor. You
have no time to lose, for the patient horse, thankful for
the unusual blessing which he has enjoyed in obtaining
a good night's rest, stands early at the door this rainy
morning, and the worthy doctor himself is already in
his seat, and is hastily gathering up the reins, for there
have been no less than six rings at his bell within as
many minutes, and immediate attendance is requested in
several different places.
It is not exactly the day one might select for a ride,
for the storm is a regular north-easter, and your hands




TWO RIDES WITH THE DOCTOR.          199
and feet are benumbed with the piercing cold wind, while
you are drenched with the driving rain.
But the doctor is used to all this, and, unmindful of
wind and rain, he urges his faithful horse to his utmost
speed, eager to reach the spot where the most pressing
duty calls. He has at least the satisfaction of being welcome. Anxious eyes are watching for his well-known
vehicle from the window; the door is opened ere he puts
his hand upon the lock, and the heartfelt exclamation,
" Oh, doctor, I am so-thankful you have come!" greets
him as he enters.
Hastily the anxious father leads the way to the room
where his half-distracted wife is bending in agony over
their first-born, a lovely infant of some ten months, who
is now in strong convulsions. The mother clasps her
hands, and raises her eyes in gratitude to heaven, as the
doctor enters, —he is her only earthly hope. Prompt and
efficient remedies are resorted to, and in an hour the
restored little one is sleeping tranquilly in his mother's
arms.
The doctor departs amid a shower of blessings, and
again urging his horse to speed, reaches his second place
of destination.  It is a stately mansion.  A  spruce
waiter hastens to answer his ring, but the lady herself
meets him as he enters the hall.
" We have been expecting you anxiously, doctor. Mr.
Palmer is quite ill, this morning. Walk up, if you
please."
The doctor obeys, and is eagerly welcomed by his patient.
" Do exert your utmost skill to save me from a fever,




200         TWO RIDES WITH THE DOCTOR.
doctor. The symptoms are much the same which I experienced last year, previous to that long siege with the
typhoid. It distracts me to think of it. At this particular juncture I should lose thousands by absence from
my business."
The doctor's feelings are enlisted,-his feelings of
humanity and his feelings of self-interest, for doctors
must live as well as other people; and the thought of
the round sum which would find its way to his own purse,
if he could but succeed in preventing the loss of thousands to his patient, was by no means unpleasing.
The most careful examination of the symptoms is
made, and well-chosen prescriptions given.  He is requested to call as often as possible through the day,
which he readily promises to do, although press of business and a pouring rain render it somewhat difficult.
The result, however, will be favourable to his wishes.
His second and third call give him great encouragement,
and on the second day after the attack, the merchant
returns to his counting-room exulting in the skill of his
physician.
But we must resume our ride. On, on goes the doctor; rain pouring, wind blowing, mud splashing. Ever
and anon he checks his horse's speed, at his various posts
of duty.  High and low, rich and poor anxiously await
his coming.  He may not shrink from the ghastly spectacle of human suffering and death.  Humanity, in its
most loathsome forms, is presented to him.
The nearest and dearest may turn away in grief and
horror, but the doctor blenches not.
Again we are digressing. The doctor's well-known




TWO RIDES'WITHT THIE DOCTOR.        201
tap is heard at the door of a sick-room, where for many
days he has been in constant attendance. Noiselessly
he is admitted.  The young husband kneels at the side
of the bed where lies his dearest earthly treasure. The
calm but deeply-afflicted mother advances to the doctor,
and whispers fearfully low,
"There is a change.  She sleeps.  Is it-oh! can it
be the sleep of death?"
Quickly the physician is at the bedside, and anxiously
bending over his patient.
Another moment and he grasps the husband's hand,
while the glad words " She will live," burst from his
lips.
We may not picture forth their joy. On, on, we are
riding with the doctor. Once more we are at his own
door. Hastily he enters, and takes up the slate containing the list of calls during his absence. At half a dozen
places his presence is requested without delay.
A quick step is heard on the stairs, and his gentle wife
hastens to welcome him.
"I am so glad you have come; how wet you must
be!"
The parlour door is thrown open.  What a cheerful
fire, and how inviting look the dressing-gown and the
nicely warmed slippers!
" Take off your wet clothes, dear; dinner will soon be
ready," urges the wife.
"It is impossible, Miary.  There are several places
to visit yet.  Nay, never look so sad.  Have not six
years taught you what a doctor's wife must expect?"
"I shall never feel easy when you are working so




202         TWO RIDES WITH TItE DOCTOR.
hard, Henry; but surely, you will take a cup of hot
coffee; I have it all ready. It will delay you but a moment."
The doctor consents; and while the coffee is preparing, childish voices are heard, and little feet come
quickly through the hall.
"' Papa has come home!" shouts a manly little fellow
of four years, as he almost drags his younger sister to
the spot where he has heard his father's voice.
The father's heart is gladdened by their innocent joy,
as they cling around him; but there is no time for delay.
A kiss to each, one good jump for the baby, the cup of
coffee is hastily swallowed, the wife receives her embrace
with tearful eyes, and as the doctor springs quickly into
his chaise, and* wheels around the corner, she sighs
deeply as she looks at the dressing-gown and slippers,
and thinks of the favourite dish which she had prepared
for dinner; and now it may be night before he comes
again.  But she becomes more cheerful as she remembers that a less busy season will come, and then they
will enjoy the recompense of this hard labour.
The day wears away, and at length comes the happy
hour when gown and slippers may be brought into requisition. The storm still rages without, but there is quiet
happiness within. The babies are sleeping, and father
and mother are in that snug little parlour, with its
bright light and cheerful fire. The husband is not too
weary to read aloud, and the wife listens, while her
hands are busied with woman's never-ending work.
But their happiness is of short duration. A loud ring
at the bell.




TWO RIDES WITII THE DOCTOR.         20'"Patient in the office, sir," announces the attendant.
The doctor utters a half-impatient exclamation; but
the wife expresses only thankfulness that it is an office
patient.
" Fine night for a sick person to come out!" muttered
the doctor, as he unwillingly lays down his bo k, and
rises from the comfortable lounge.
But he is himself again by the time his hand is on the
door of the office, and it is with real interest that he
greets his patient.
" Tooth to be extracted? Sit down, sir. Here, Biddy,
bring water and a brighter lamp. IHave courage, sir;
one moment will end it."
The hall door closes on the relieved sufferer, and the
doctor throws himself again on the lounge, and smilingly
puts the bright half dollar in his pocket.
"That was not so bad, after all, Mary. I like to
make fifty cents in that way."
" Cruel creature! Do not mention it."
" Cruel!  The poor man blessed me in his heart.
Did I not relieve him from the most intense suffering?"
"Well, never mind. I hope there will be no more
calls to-night."
" So do I. Where is the book? I will read again."
No more interruptions.  Another hour, and all are
sleeping quietly.
Midnight has passed, when the sound of the bell falls
on the doctor's wakeful ear. As quickly as possible he
answers it in person, but another peal is heard ere he
reaches the door.




204         TWO RIDES W"rITIT THE DOCTOR.
A gentleman to whose family he has frequently been
called, appears.
"' Oh! doctor, lose not a moment; my little Willie is
dying with the croup!"
There is no resisting this appeal. The still wet overcoat and boots are drawn on; medicine case hastily
seized, and the doctor rushes forth again into the storm.
Pity for his faithful horse induces him to traverse the
distance on foot, and a rapid walk of half a mile brings
him to the house.
It was no needless alarm.  The attack was a severe
one, and all his skill was required to save the life of the
little one.  It was daylight ere he could leave him with
safety.  Then, as he was about departing for his own
home, an express messenger arrived to entreat him to
go immediately to another place nearly a mile in an
opposite direction.
Breakfast was over ere he reached his own house.
His thoughtful wife suggested a nap; but a glance at
the already well-filled slate showed this to be out of the
question.  A  hasty toilet, and still hastier breakfast,
and the doctor is again seated in his chaise, going on
his accustomed rounds; but we will not now accompany
him.
Let us pass over two or three months, and invite ourselves to another ride.  One pleasant morning, when
less pressed with business, he walks leisurely from the
house to the chaise, and gathering up the reins with a
remarkably thoughtful air, rides slowly down the street.
But few patients are on his list, and these are first
attended to.




TWO lrESi ~IIThlT TUTEl DOCTOR.     205
The doctor then pauses for consideration.  T-ie has
set apart this clay for collecting.  Past experience has
taught him  that the task is by no means an agreeable
one.  It is necessary, however-absolutely so-for, as
we have said before, doctors must live as well as other
people; their house-rent must be paid, food and clothing
must be supplied.
A moment only pauses the doctor, and then we are
again moving onward.  A  short ride brings us to the
door of a pleasantly-situated house.  We remember it
well.  It is where the little one lay in fits when we last
rode out with the doctor.   We recall the scene: the
convulsed countenance of the child; the despair of the
parents, and the happiness which succeeded when their
beloved one was restored to them.
Surely they will now welcome the doctor. Thankfully
will they pay the paltry sum he claims as a recompense
for his services. We are more confident than the doctor.
Experience is a sure teacher. The door does not now
fly open at his approach. Hle gives his name to the girl
who answers the bell, and in clue time the lady of the
house appears.
"'Ah! doctor, how do you do?  You are quite a
stranger! Delightful weather," &c.
The doctor replies politely, and inquires if her husband is in.
" Yes, he is in; but I regret to say he is exceedingly
engaged this morning.  His business is frequently of a
nature which cannot suffer interruption. He would have
been pleased to have seen you."




206        TWO RIDES WITH THE DOCTOR.
The doctor's pocket-book is produced, and the neatly
drawn bill is presented.
"If convenient to MIr. Lawton, the amount would be
acceptable."
" I will hand it to him when he is at leisure. He will
attend to it, no doubt."
The doctor sighs involuntarily as he recalls similar
indefinite promises; but it is impossible to insist upon
interrupting important business. He ventures another
remark, implying that prompt payment would oblige
him; bows, and retires.
On, on goes the faithful horse. Where is to be our
next stopping-place?  At the wealthy merchant's, who
owed so much to the doctor's skill some two months
since. Even the doctor feels confidence here.  Thousands saved by the prevention of that fever. Thirty
dollars is not to be thought of in comparison.
All is favourable. Mr. Palmer is at home, and receives
his visiter in a cordial manner. Compliments are passed.
Now for the bill.
"Our little account, Mr. Palmer."
"Ah! I recollect; I am a trifle in your debt. Let us
see: thirty dollars! So much? I had forgotten that
we had needed medical advice, excepting in my slight
indisposition a few weeks since."
Slight indisposition!  What a memory some people
are blessed with!
The doctor smothers his rising indignation.
" Eight visits, Mr. Palmer, and at such a distance.
You will find the charge a moderate one."
"Oh! very well; I dare say it is all right.  I am




TWO RIDES WIITI TlIHE DOCTOR.       207
orryv I hLave not the money for you to-day, doctor.
Very tight just at present; you know how it is with
men of business."
" It would be a great accommodation if I could have
it at once."
"Impossible, doctor! I wish I could oblige you. In
a week, or fortnight, at the farthest, I will call at your
office."
A week or fortnight! The disappointed doctor once
more seats himself in his chaise, and urges his horse to
speed. He is growing desperate now, and is eager to
reach his next place of destination. Suddenly he checks
the horse. A gentleman is passing whom he recognises
as the young husband whose idolized wife has so lately
been snatched from the borders of the grave.
" Glad to see you, Mr. Wilton; I was about calling at
your house."
" Pray, do so, doctor; Mrs. Wilton will be pleased to
see you."
"Thank you; but my call was on business, to-day. I
believe I must trouble you with my bill for attendance
during your wife's illness."
" Ah! yes; I recollect, Have you it with you? Fifty
dollars! Impossible! Why, she was not ill above three
weeks."
"Very true; but think of the urgency of the case.
Three or four calls during twenty-four hours were necessary, and two whole nights I passed at her bedside."
"And yet the charge appears to me enormous. Call
it forty, and I will hand you the amount at once."




208         TrVTWO RIDES WITH THE DOCTOR.
The doctor hesitates.  "I cannot afford to lose ten
dollars, which is justly my due, Mr. Wilton."
L" Suit yourself, doctor.  Take forty, and receipt the
bill, or stick to your first charge, and wait till I am
ready to pay it. Fifty dollars is no trifle, I can tell
you. "
And this is the man whose life might have been a
blank but for the doctor's skill!
Again we are travelling onward.  The unpaid bill is
left in Mr. Wilton's hand, and yet the doctor half
regrets that he had not submitted to the imposition.
~Money is greatly needed just now, and there seems little
prospect of getting any.
Again and again the horse is stopped at some wellknown post.  A poor welcome has the doctor to-day.
Some bills are collected, but their amount is discouragingly small. Everybody appears to feel astonishingly
healthy, and have almost forgotten that they ever had
occasion for a physician. There is one consolation, however: sickness will come again, and then, perhaps, the
unpaid bill may be recollected.  Homeward goes the
doctor.  Ile is naturally of a cheerful disposition; but
now he is seriously threatened with a fit of the blues.
A list of calls upon his slate has little effect to raise his
spirits. " All work and no pay," he mutters to himself,
as he puts on his dressing-gown and slippers; and,
throwing himself upon the lounge, turns a deaf ear to the
little ones, while he indulges in a revery as to the best
mode of paying the doctor.




KEEP IN STEP.
Those who would walk together must keep in step.-OLD PRovaG.
Ay, the world keeps moving forward,
Like an army marching by;
Hear you not its heavy footfall,
That resoundeth to the sky?
Some bold spirits bear the bannerSouls of sweetness chant the song,Lips of energy and fervour
Make the timid-hearted strong!
Like brave soldiers we march forward;
If you linger or turn back,
You must look to get a jostling
While you stand upon our track.
Keep in step.
MIy good neighbour, Master Standstill,
Gazes on it as it goes;
Not quite sure but he is dreaming,
In his afternoon's repose!
"Nothing good," he says, "can issue
From this endless moving on;
Ancient laws and institutions
Are decaying, or are gone.'We are rushing on to ruin,
With our mad, new-fangled ways."
While he speaks a thousand voices,
As the heart of one man, says"Keep in step!"
Gentle neighbour, will you join us,
Or return to " good old ways g"
Take again the fig-leaf apron
Of Old Adarm's ancient days;l1!4




210                   KEEP IN STEP.
Or become a hardy BritonBeard the lion in his lair,
And lie down in dainty slumber
Wrapped in skins of shaggy bear,Rear the hut amid the forest,
Skim the wave in light canoe?
Ah, I see! you do not like it.
Then if these " old ways" won't do,
Keep in step.
Be assured, good Master Standstill,
All-wise Providence designed
Aspiration and progression
For the yearning human mind.
Generations left their blessings,
In the relics of their skill,
Generations yet are longing
For a greater glory still;
And the shades of our forefathers
Are not jealous of our deedWe but follow where they beckon,
We but go where they do lead I
Keep in step.
One detachment of our army
May encamp upon the hill,
WVhile another in the valley
May enjoy its own sweet will;
This, may answer to one watchword,
That, may echo to another;
But in unity and concord,
They discern that each is brother!
Breast to breast they're marching onward,
In a good now peaceful way;
You'll be jostled if you hinder,
So don't offer let or stayKeep in step.




JOHNNY COLE.
"I GUESS we will have to put out our Johnny," said
Mrs. Cole, with a sigh, as she drew closer to the fire,
one cold day in autumn. This remark was addressed
to her husband, a sleepy, lazy-looking man, who was
stretched on a bench, with his eyes half closed. The
wife, with two little girls of eight and ten, were knitting
as fast as their fingers could fly; the baby was sound
asleep in the cradle; while Johnny, a boy of thirteen,
and a brother of four, were seated on the wide hearth
making a snare for rabbits. The room they occupied
was cold and cheerless; the warmth of the scanty fire
being scarcely felt; yet the floor, and every article of
furniture, mean as they were, were scrupulously neat and
clean.
The appearance of this family indicated that they
were very poor. They were all thin and pale, really
for want of proper food, and their clothes had been
patched until it was difficult to decide what the original
fabric had been; yet this very circumstance spoke volumes in favour of the mother.  She was a woman of
great energy of character, unfortunately united to a man
whose habits were such, that, for the greater part of the
time, he was a dead weight upon her hands; although
not habitually intemperate, he was indolent and goodfor-nothing to a degree, lying in the sun half his time,
when the weather was warm, and never doing a stroke
of work until driven to it by the pangs of hunger.




21?2              JOHNNY COLE.
As for the wife, by taking in sewing, knitting, and
spinning for the farmers' families in the neighbourhood,
she managed to pay a rent of twenty dollars for the
cabin in which they lived; while she and Johnny, with
what assistance they could occasionally get from Jerry,
her husband, tilled the half acre of ground attached;
and the vegetables thus obtained, were their main dependance during the long winter just at hand.  Having thus
introduced the Coles to our reader, we will continue the
conversation.
"I guess we will have to put out Johnny, and you
will try and help us a little more, Jerry, dear."
"Why, what's got into the woman now?" muttered
Jerry, stretching his arms, and yawning to the utmost
capacity of his mouth. The children laughed at their
father's uncouth gestures, and even Mrs. Cole's serious
face relaxed into a smile, as she answered,
"Don't swallow us all, and I will tell you. The winter is beginning early, and promises to be cold. Our
potatoes didn't turn out as well as I expected, and the
truth is, we cannot get along so. We won't have victuals
to last us half the time; and, manage as I will, I can't
much more than pay the rent, I get so little for the kind
of work I do. Now, if Johnny gets a place, it will make
one less to provide for; and he will be learning to do
something for himself."
"' Yes, but mother," said the boy, moving close to her
side, and laying his head on her knee, " yes, but who'll
help you when I am gone? Who'll dig the lot, and hoe,
and cut the wood, and carry the water? You can't go




JOHNNY COLE.                 213
away down to the spring in the deep snow. And who'll
make the fire in the cold mornings?"
The mother looked sorry enough, as her darling boy
— for he was the object around which the fondest affections of her heart had entwined themselves-she looked
sorry enough, as he enumerated the turns he was in the
habit of doing for her; but, woman-like, shecould suffer
and be still; so she answered cheerfully,
" May be father will, dear; and when you grow
bigger, and learn how to do everything, you'll be such a
help to us all."
"'Don't depend on me," said Jerry, now arousing
himself and sauntering to the fire;' I hardly ever feel
well,''-complailing was Jerry's especial forte, an excuse
for all his laziness; yet his appetite never failed; and
when, as was sometimes the case, one of the neighbours
sent a small piece of meat, or any little article of food
to his wife, under the plea of ill health he managed to
appropriate nearly the whole of it. He was selfishness
embodied, and a serious injury to his family, as few
cared to keep him up in his laziness.
One evening, a few days later, Mrs. Cole, who had
been absent several hours, came in looking very tired,
and after laying aside her old bonnet and shawl, informed them that she had obtained a place for Johnny.
I:t was four miles distant, and the farmer's man would
stop for him on his way from town, the next afternoon.
What a beautiful object was farmer Watkins's homestead,
lying as it did on the sunny slope of a, hill; its gray
stone walls, peeping out from between the giant trees
that overshadowed it, while everything around and about




214                JOHNNY COLE.
gave evidence of abundance and comfort. The thrifty
orchard; the huge barn with its overflowing granaries;
the sleek, well-fed cattle; even the low-roofed springhouse, with its superabundance of shining pails and
pans, formed an item which could hardly be dispensed
with, in the tout ensemble of this pleasant home.
Farmer Watkins was an honest, hard-working man,
somewhat past middle age, with a heart not naturally
devoid of kindness, but, where his hirelings were concerned, so strongly encrusted with a layer of habits, that
they acted as an effectual check upon his better feelings.
His family consisted of a wife, said to be a notable
manager, and five or six children, the eldest, a son, at
college. In this household, work, work, was the order
of the day; the farmer himself, with his great brown
fists, set the example, and the others, willing or unwilling, were obliged to follow his lead. He had agreed to
take John Cole, as he said, more to get rid of his
mother's importunities, than for any benefit he expected
to derive from him; and when remonstrated with by his
wife for his folly in giving her the trouble of another
brat, he answered shortly: "Never fear, I'll get the
worth of his victuals and clothes out of him." Johnny
was to have his boarding, clothes, and a dollar a month,
for two years. This dollar a month was the great item
in Mrs. Cole's calculations; twelve dollars a year, she
argued, would almost pay her rent, and when the tears
stood in Johnny's great brown eyes (for he was a pretty,
gentle-hearted boy), as he was bidding them all goodbye, and kissing the baby over and over again, she told
him about the money he would earn, and nerved his




JOTTNNI  COLE.               215
little heart with her glowing representations, until he
was able to choke back the tears, and leave home almost
cheerfully.
Honoe —yes, it was home; for they had much to redeem
the miseries of want within those bare cabin walls, for
gentle hearts and kindly smiles were there. There
" The mother sang at the twilight fall,
To the babe half slumbering on her knee."
There his brother and sisters played; there his associations, his hopes, his wishes, were all centered. When he
arrived at farmer Watkins's, and was sent into the
large carpeted kitchen, everything was so unlike this
home, that his fortitude almost gave way, and it was
as much as he could do, as he told his mother afterwards,
" to keep from  bursting right out."  Mrs. Watkins
looked very cross, nor did she notice him, except to
order him to stand out of the way of the red-armed girl
who was preparing supper and placing it on a table in
the ample apartment. Johnny looked with amazement
at the great dishes of meat, and plates of hot biscuit,
but the odour of the steaming coffee, and the heat, were
almost too much for him, as he had eaten nothing since
morning, for he was too sorry to leave home to care about
dinner. The girl, noticing that his pale face grew paler,
laughingly drew her mistress's attention to "master's
new boy."'" Go out and bring in some wood for the stove," said
Mirs. Watkins, sharply; " the air will do you good."
Johnny went out, and, in a, few minutes, felt revived.
Looking about, he soon found the wood-shed; there was




216               JOHNNY COLE.
plenty of wood, but none cut of a suitable length; it was
all in cord sticks. Taking an axe, he chopped an arm..
ful, and on taking it into the house, found the family
had finished their suppers; the biscuits and meat were
all eaten.
"' Come on here to your supper," said the maid-servant, angrily. " What have you been doing?" and,
without waiting for an answer, she filled a tin basin with
mush and skimmed milk, and set it before him. The
little boy did not attempt to speak, but sat down and ate
what was given him. Immediately after, he was sent
into a loft to bed, where he cried himself to sleep. Ah 
when we count the thousand pulsations that yield pain
or pleasure to the human mind, what a power to do good
or evil is possessed by every one; and how often would
a kind word, or one sympathizing glance, gladden the
hearts of those thus prematurely forced upon the anxieties of the world! But how few there are who care to
bestow them! The next morning, long before dawn, the
farmer's family, with the exception of the younger
children, were astir. The cattle were to be fed and
attended to, the horses harnessed, the oxen yoked, and
great was the bustle until all hands were fairly at work.
As for Johnny, he was taken into the field to assist in
husking corn. The wind was keen, and the stalks, from
recent rain, were wet, and filled with ice. Iis scanty
clothing scarcely afforded any protection from the
cold, and his hands soon became so numb that he could
scarcely use them; but, if he stopped one moment to
rap them, or breathe upon them, in the hope of imparting some warmth, the farmer, who was close at hand, in




JOHNNY COLE.                 217
warm woollen clothes and thick husking gloves, would call
out,
" Hurry up, hurry up, my boy! no idle bread must be
eaten here!"
And bravely did Johnny struggle not to mind the
cold and pain, but it would not do; he began to cry,
when the master, who never thought of exercising anything but severity towards those who laboured for him,
told him sternly that if he did not stop his bawling in a
moment, he would send him home. This was enough
for Johnny; anything was better than to go balck and
be a burden on his mother; he worked to the best of his
ability until noon. At noon, he managed to get thoroughly
warm, behind the stove, while eating his dinner. Still,
the sufferings of the child, with his insufficient clothing,
were very great; but nobody seemed to think of the
hzired boy being an object of sympathy, and thus it continued.  The rule seemed to be to get all that was
possible out of him, and his little frame was so weary at
night, that he had hardly time to feel rested, until called
with the dawn to renew his labour. A monthly Sunday,
however, was the golden period looked forward to in his
day-dreams, for it had been stipulated by his parent,
that on Saturday evening every four weeks, he was to
come home, and stay all the next day. And when the
time arrived, how nimbly did he get over the ground that
stretched between him and the goal of his wishes! How
much he had to tell! But as soon as he began to complain, his mother would say cheerfully, although her
heart bled for the hardships of her child,
"' Never mind, you will get used to work, and after




2 1 8              JOHNNY COLE.
awhile, when you grow up, you can rent a farm, and
take me to keep house for you."
This was the impulse that prompted to action. No
one can be utterly miserable who has a hope, even a remote one, of bettering his condition; and with a motive
such as this to cheer him, Johnny persevered; young as
he was, he understood the necessity. But how often,
during the four weary weeks that succeeded, did the
memory of the Saturday night he had spent at home
come up before his mental vision! The fresh loaf of rye
bread, baked in honour of his arrival, and eaten for supper, with maple molasses-the very molasses he had
helped to boil on shares with Farmer Thrifty's boys in
the spring. What a feast they had!  Then the long
evening afterwards, when the blaze of the hickory fires
lighted up the timbers of the old cabin with a mellow
glow, and mother looked so cheerful and smiled so kindly,
as she sat spinning in its warmth and light. And how
even father had helped to pop corn in the iron pot.
Ah! that was a time long to be remembered; and
he had ample opportunity to draw comparisons, for he
often thought his master cared more for his cattle than
he did for him, and it is quite probable he did; for while
they were warmly housed he was needlessly exposed, and
his comfort utterly disregarded. If there was brush to
cut, or fence to make, or any out-door labour to perform,
a wet, cold, or windy day was sure to be selected, while
in fine weather the wood was required to be chopped,
and, generally speaking, all the work that could be done
under shelter. Yet we dare say Farmer Watkins never




JOHNNY COLE.                219
thought of the inhumanity of this, or the advantage he
would himself derive by arranging it otherwise.
John Cole had been living out perhaps a year. He
had not grown much in this period; his frame had always been slight, and his sunken cheeks and wasted
limbs spoke of the hard usage and suffering of his present situation. The family had many delicacies for
themselves, but the work boy they knew never was used
to such things, and they were indifferent as to what his
fare chanced to be. He generally managed to satisfy
the cravings of hunger on the coarse food given him, but
that was all. About this time it happened that the farmer was digging a ditch, and as he was afraid winter
would set in before it was completed, Johnny and himself weire at work upon it early and late, notwithstanding the wind whistled, and it was so cold they could
hardly handle the tools. While thus employed, it chanced
that they got wet to the skin with a drizzling rain, and
on returning to the house the farmer changed his clothes,
drank some hot mulled cider, and spent the remainder
of the evening in his high-backed chair, before a comfortable fire; while the boy was sent to grease a wagon
in an open shed, and at night crept to his straw pallet,
shaking as though in an ague fit. The next morning he
was in a high fever, and with many a " wonder of what
had got into him," but without one word of sympathy,
or any other manifestation of good-will, he was sent
home to his mother. Late in the evening of the same
day a compassionate physician was surprised to see a
woman enter his office; her garments wet and travel



2290               JOHNNY COLE.
stained, and, with streaming eyes, she besought him  to
come and see her son.
"My Johnny, my Johnny, sir!" she cried, I" he has
been raving'ild all day, and we are afraid he will die."
Mistaking the cause of the good man's hesitation, she
added, with a fresh burst of grief, " Oh! I will work my
fingers to the bone to pay you, sir, if you will only come.
We live in the Gap."
A few inquiries were all that was necessary to learn
the state of the case.  The benevolent doctor took the
woman in his vehicle, and proceeded, over a mountainous
road of six miles, to see his patient. But vain was the
help of man! Johnny continued delirious; it was work,
work, always at work; and pitiful was it to hear his
complaints of being cold and tired, while his heart-broken
parent hung over him, and denied herself the necessaries of life to minister to his wants.  After being ill
about a fortnight, he awok-e one evening apparently free
from fever.  His expression was natural, but he seemed
so weak he could not speak.  His mother, with a heart
overflowing with joy at the change she imagined favourable, bent over him.  With a great effort he placed his
arms about her neck; she kissed his pale lips; a smile
of strange meaning passed over his face, and ere she
could unwind that loving clasp her little Johnny was no
more.  He had gone where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest; but her hopes were
blasted; her house was left unto her desolate; and as
she watched, through the long hours of night, beside the
dead body, it was to our Father who art in Heaven her
anguished heart poured itself out in prayer. Think of




THE THIEF AND HIS BENEFACTOR.        2'.l
this, ye rich! who mprning and evening breathe the
same petition by your own hearthstones. Think of it, ye
who have authority to oppress! Do not deprive the poor
man or woman of the " ewe lamb" that is their sole possession; and remember that He whose ear is ever open
to the cry of the distressed, has power to avenge their
cause.
THE THIEF AND HIS BENEFACTOR.
"CIRCUMSTANCES made me what I am," said a condemned criminal to a benevolent man who visited him
in prison.  "I was driven by necessity to steal."
"Not so," replied the keeper, who was standing by.
c Rather say, that your own character made the circumstances by which you were surrounded. God never
places upon any creature the necessity of breaking his
commandments.  You stole, because, in heart, you were
a thief."
The benevolent man reproved the keeper for what he
called harsh words. He believed that, alone, by the
force of external circumstances, men were made criminals. That, if society were differently arranged, there
would be little or no crime in the world.  And so he
made interest for the criminal, and, in the end, secured
his release from prison.  Nor did his benevolence stop
here.  He took the man into his service, and intrusted
to him his money and his goods.




222        THE THIEF AND HIS BENEFACTOR.
"I will remove from him all temptation to steal," said
he, "by a liberal supply of his wants."
"Have you a wife?" he asked of the man, when he
took him from prison.
"No," was replied.' Nor any one but yourself to support?"
"I am alone in the world."
"' You have received a good education; and can serve
me as a clerk. I therefore take you into my employment, at a fair salary. Will five hundred dollars be
enough?"
" It will be an abundance," said the man, with evident
surprise at an offer so unexpectedly liberal.
"Y Very well. That will place you above temptation."
"And I will be innocent and happy. You are my
benefactor. You have saved me."
"I believe it," said the man of benevolence.
And so he intrusted his goods and his money to the
man he had reformed by placing him in different circumstances.
But it is in the heart of man that evil lies; and from
the heart's impulses spring all our actions. That must
cease to be a bitter fountain before it can send forth
sweet water. The thief was a thief still. Not a month
elapsed ere he was devising the means to enable him to
get from his kind, but mistaken friend, more than the
liberal sum for which he had agreed to serve him. He
coveted his neighbour's goods whenever his eyes fell
upon them; and restlessly sought to acquire their possession. In order to make more sure the attainment of
his ends, he affected sentiments of morality, and even




THE THIEF AND HIS BENEFACTOR.         - 2
went so far as to cover his purposes by a show of religion. And thus he was able to deceive and rob his kind
friend.
Time went on; and the thief, apparently reformed by
a change of relation to society, continued in his post of
responsibility.  How it was, the benefactor could not
make out; but his affairs gradually became less prosperous.  He made investigations into his business, but
was unable to find anything wrong.
"Are you aware that your clerk is a purchaser of
property to a considerable extent?" said a mercantile
friend to him one day.
"My clerk! It cannot be.  His income is only five
hundred dollars a year."
" He bought a piece of property for five thousand last
week."
"Impossible!"
"I know it to be true.  Are you aware that he was
once a convict in the State's Prison?"
"' Oh yes. I took him from prison myself, and gave
him a chance for his life. I do not believe in hunting
men down for a single crime, the result of circumstances
rather than a bad heart."
"A truly honest man, let me tell you," replied the
merchant, "will be honest in any and all circumstances.
And a rogue will be a rogue, place him where you will.
The evil is radical, and must be cured radically.  Your
reformed thief has robbed you, without doubt."
"' I have reason to fear that he has been most ungrateful," replied the kind-hearted man, who, with the harmlessness of the dove, did not unite the wisdom of the
serpent.




224        THE THIEF AND HIS BENEFACTOR.
And so it proved. HIis clerk had robbed him of over
twenty thousand dollars in less than five years, and so
sapped the foundations of his prosperity, that he recos
vered with great difficulty.
"You told me, when in prison," said the wronged
merchant to his clerk,' that circumstances made you
what you were.  This you cannot say now."
"' I can," was the reply.  " Circumstances made me
poor, and I desired to be rich.  The means of attaining
wealth were placed in my hands, and I used them. Is
it strange that I should have done so? It is this social
inequality that makes crime. Your own doctrine, and
I subscribe to it fully."
" Ungrateful wretch!" said the merchant, indignantly,.
" it is the evil of your own heart that prompts to crime.
You would be a thief and a robber if you possessed
millions."
And he again handed him over to the law, and let the
prison walls protect society from his depredations.
No, it is not true that in external circumstances lie
the origins of evil. God tempts no man by these. In
the very extremes of poverty we see examples of honesty; and among the wealthiest, find those who Qeovet
their neighbour's goods, and gain dishonest possession
thereof.  Reformers must seek to elevate the personal
character, if they would regenerate society.  To accomplish the desired good by a different external arrangement, is hopeless; for in the heart of man lies the evil,.-there is the fountain from which flow forth the bitter
and blighting waters of crime.




JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
"AND you will really send Reuben to cut down that
clump of pines?"
"' Yes, Margaret. Well, now, it is necessary, for more
reasons than""Don't tell me so, John," impetuously interrupted
Margaret Greylston.  "I am sure there is no necessity
in the case, and I am sorry to the very heart that you
have no more feeling than to order those trees to be cut
down."
"' Feeling! well, maybe I have more than you think;
yet I don't choose to let it make a fool of me, for all
that. But I wish you would say no more about those
trees, Margaret; they really must come down; I have
reasoned with you on this matter till I am sick of it."
Miss Greylston got up from  her chair, and walked
out on the shaded porch; then she turned and called
her brother.
"Will you come here, John?"
"And what have you to say?"
"' Nothing, just now; I only want you to stand here
and look at the old pines."
And so John Greylston did; and he saw the distant
woods grave and fading beneath the autumn wind-while
the old pines upreared their stately heads against the
blue sky, unchanged in beauty, fresh and green as ever.
" You see those trees, John, and so do I; and standing here, with them full in view, let me plead for them;
15




224 G     JOTiHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
they are very old, those pines, older than either of us;
we played beneath them  when we were children; but
there is still a stronger tie: our mother loved them-out
dear, sainted mother. Thirty years it has been since
she died, but I can never forget or cease to love anything she loved.  Oh! John, you remember just as
well as I do, how often she would sit beneath those trees
and read or talk sweetly to us; and of the dear band
who gathered there with her, only we are left, and the
old pines. Let them stand, John;. time enough to cut
them down when I have gone to sit with those dear
ones beneath the trees of heaven;" and somewhat breathless from long talking, Miss Margaret paused.
John Greylston was really touched, and he laid his
hand kindly on his sister's shoulder.
" Come, come, Madge, don't talk so sadly.  I remember and love those things as well as you do, but then
you see I cannot afford to neglect my interests for weak
sentiment. Now the road must be made, and that clump
of trees stand directly in its course, and they must come
down, or the road will have to take a curve nearly half
a mile round, striking into one of my best meadows, and
a good deal more expense this will be, too. No, no,"
he continued, eagerly, "I can't oblige you in this thing.
This place is mine, and I will improve it as I please. I
have kept back from making many a change for your
sake, but just here I am determined to go on."  And
all this was said with a raised voice and a flushed face.
"You never spoke so harshly to me in your life before,
John, and, after all, what have I done? Call my feelings on this matter weak sentiment, if you choose, but




JOHN AND MBIARGARET GREYLSTON.       227
il is hard to hear such words from your lips;" and, with
a reproachful sigh, Miss Margaret walked into the house.
They had been a large family, those Greylstons, in
their clay, but now all were gone; all but John and
Margaret, the two eldest-the twin brother and sister.
They lived alone in their beautiful country home; neither
had ever been married.  John had once loved a fair
young creature, with eyes like heaven's stars, and rosetinged cheeks and lips, but she fell asleep just one month
before her wedding-day, and John Greylston was left to
mourn over her early grave, and his shivered happiness.
Dearly Margaret loved her twin brother, and tenderly
she nursed him through the long and fearful illness which
came upon him  after Ellen Day's death.  Miargaret
Greylston was radiant in the bloom of young womanhood when this great grief first smote her brother, but
from that very hour she put away from her the gayeties
of life, and sat down by his side, to be to him a sweet,
unselfish controller for evermore, and no lover could
ever tempt her from her post.
" John Greylston will soon get over his sorrow; in a
year or two Ellen will be forgotten for a new face."
So said the world; Margaret knew better.  Her brother's heart lay before her like an open book, and she
saw indelible lines of grief and anguish there.  The old
homestead, with its wide lands, belonged to John Greylston.  He had bought it years before from the other
heirs; and Margaret, the only remaining one, possessed
neither claim  nor right in it.  She had a handsome
annuity, however, and nearly all the rich plate and linen




228       JOIHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
with which the house'was stocked, together with some
valuable pieces of furniture, belonged to her.  And
John and Margaret Greylston lived on in their quiet
and beautiful home, in peace and happiness; their solitude being but now and then invaded by a flock of nieces
and nephews, from the neighbouring city —their only
and well-beloved relatives.
It was long after sunset. For two full hours the moon
and stars had watched John Greylston, sitting so moodily alone upon the porch. Now he got up from his chair,
and tossing his cigar away in the long grass, walked
slowly into the house.  Miss Margaret did not raise her
head; her eyes, as well as her fingers, seemed intent
upon the knitting she held.  So her brother, after a
hurried "Good-night," took a candle and went up to
his own room, never speaking one gentle word; for he
said to himself, " I am not going to worry and coax with
Margaret any longer about the old pines. She is really
troublesome with her sentimental notions." Yet, after
all, John Greylston's heart reproached him, and he felt
restless and ill at ease.
Miss Margaret sat very quietly by the low table,
knitting steadily on, but she was not thinking of her
work, neither did she delight in the beauty of that still
autumn evening; the tears came into her eyes, but she
hastily brushed them away; just as though she feared
John might unawares come back and find her crying.
*      *       *       *       *'
Ah! these way-side thorns are little, but somietimes
they pierce as sharply as the gleaming sword.




JOIIN AND IMARGARET GREYLSTON.       229
"Good-morning, John!"
At the sound of that voice, Mr. Greylston turned
suddenly from the book-case, and his sister was standing
near him, her face lit up with a sweet, yet somewhat
anxious smile.  He threw down in a hurry the papers
he had been tying together, and the bit of red tape, and
holding out his hand, said fervently,
" I was very harsh last night. I am really sorry for
it; will you not forgive me, Margaret?"
" To be sure I will; for indeed, John, I was quite as
much to blame as you."
"No, Madge, you were not," he quickly answered;
"but let it pass now. We will think and say no more
about it;" and, as though he were perfectly satisfied,
and really wished the matter dropped, John Greylston
turned to his papers again.
So Miss Margaret was silent.  She was delighted to
have peace again, even though she felt anxious about the
pines, and when her brother took his seat at the breakfast table, looking and speaking so kindly, she felt comforted to think the cloud had passed away; and John
Greylston himself was very glad. So the two went on
eating their breakfast quite happily.  But alas! the
storm is not always over when the sky grows light.
Reuben crossed the lawn, followed by the gardener, and
Miss Margaret's quick eye caught the gleaming of the
axes swung over their shoulders.  She hurriedly set
down the coffee-pot.
"Where are those men going? Reuben and Tom I
mean."'" Only to the woods," was the careless answer.




230  N AND MlARGARET GREELSTON.'But what woods, John?  Oh! I can tell by your
face; you are determined to have the pines cut down."
" I am."  And John Greylston folded his arms, and
looked fixedly at his sister, but she did not heed him.
She talked on eagerly-'" I love the old trees; I will do anything to save them.
John, you spoke last night of additional expense, should
the road take that curve. I will make it up to you; I
can afford to do this very well. Now listen to reason,
and let the trees stand."
"' Listen to reason, yourself," he answered more gently.
"' I will not take a cent from you. Margaret, you are a
perfect enthusiast about some things. Now, I love my
parents and old times, I am sure, as well as you do, and
that love is not one bit the colder, because I do not let
it stand in the way of interest. Don't say anything
more. My mind is made up in this matter.  The place
is mine, and I cannot see that you have any right to
interfere in the improvements I choose to make on it."
A deep flush stole over Miss Greylston's face.
" I have indeed no legal right to counsel or plead with
you about these things," she answered sadly, "Lbut I
have a sister's right, that of affection-you cannot deny
this, John.  Once again, I beg of you to let the old
pines alone."
"And once again, I tell you I will do as I please in
this matter," and this was said sharply and decidedly.
Margaret Greylston said not another word, but pushing back her chair, she arose from the breakfast-table
and went quickly from the room, even before her brother
could call to her. Reuben and his companion had just




JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.           [t
got in the last meadow when Miss Greylston overtook
them.'You will let the pines alone to-day," she calmly
said, " go to any other work you choose, but remember
those trees are not to be touched."
4 "Very well, Miss Margaret," and Reuben touched his
hat respectfully.
"Mr. John is very changeable in his notions," burst
in Tom;'" not an hour ago he was in such a hurry to
get us at the pines."
N' Never mind," authoritatively said Miss Greylston;
" do just as you are bid, without any remarks;" and she
turned away, and went down the meadow path, even as
she came, with a quick step, without a bonnet, shading
her eyes from the morning sun with her handkerchief.
John Greylston still sat at the breakfast-table, half
dreamily balancing the spoon across the saucer's edge.
When his sister came in again, he raised his head, and
mutely-inquiringly looked at her, and she spoke," I left this room just to go after Reuben and Tom; I
overtook them before they had crossed the last meadow,
and I told them not to touch the pine trees, but to go,
instead, to any other work they choose.  I am sure you
will be angry with me for all this; but, John, I cannot
help it if you are."
"Don't say so, Margaret," Mr. Greylston sharply
answered, getting up at the same time from his chair,
"' don't tell me you could not help it. I have talked and
reasoned with you about those trees, until my patience
is completely worn out; there is no necessity for you to
be such an obstinate fool."




232       JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
"Oh! John, hush, hush!"
" I will not," he thundered.   I am master here, and
I will speak and act in this house as I see fit. Now,
who gave you liberty to countermand my orders; to
send my servants back from the work I had set for them
to do?  Margaret, I warn you; for, any more such
freaks, you and I, brother and sister though we be, will
live no longer under the same roof."'" Be still, John Greylston! Remember her patient,
self-sacrificing love.  Remember the past-be still."
But he would not; relentlessly, stubbornly, the waves
of passion raged on in his soul.
I" Now, you hear all this; do not forget it; and have
done with your silly obstinacy as soon as possible, for I
will be worried no longer with it;" and roughly pushing
away the slight hand which was laid upon his arm, Mr.
Greylston stalked out of the house.
For a moment, Margaret stood where her brother had
left her, just in the centre of the floor. Her cheeks
were very white, but quickly a crimson flush came over
them, and her eyes filled with tears; then she sat down
upon the white chintz-covered settle, and hiding her face
in the pillows, wept violently for a long time.
"I have consulted Margaret's will always; in many
things I have given up to it, but here, where reason is
so fully on my side, I will go on. I have no patience
with her weak stubbornness, no patience with her presumption in forbidding my servants to do as I have
told them; such measures I will never allow in my
house;" and John Greylston, in his angry musings, struck




JOIIN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.         233
his cane smartly against a tall crimson dahlia, which
grew in the grass-plat.  It fell quivering across his
path, but he walked on, never heeding what he had done.
There was a faint sense of shame rising in his heart, a
feeble conviction of having been himself to blame; but
just then they seemed only to fan and increase his keen
indignation. Yet in the midst of his anger, John Greylston had the delicate consideration for his sister and
himself to repeat to the men the command she had given
them.
" Do as Miss Greylston bade you; let the trees stand
until further orders."  But pride prompted this, for he
said to himself, "' If Margaret and I keep at this childish
work of unsaying each other's commands, that sharp old
fellow, Reuben, will suspect that we have quarrelled."
Mr. Greylston's wrath did not abate; and when he
came home at dinner-time, and found the table so nicely
set, and no one but the little servant to wait upon himn
Margaret away, shut up with a bad headache, in her
own room, he somehow felt relieved,-just then he did
not want to see her.  But when eventide came, and he
sat down to supper, and missed again his sister's calm
and pleasant face, a half-regretful feeling stole over him,
and he grew lonely, for John Greylston's heart was the
home of every kindly affection.  Ile loved Margaret
dearly.  Still, pride and anger kept him aloof from her;
still his soul was full of harsh, unforgiving thoughts.
And Margaret Greylston, as she lay with a throbbing
head and an aching heart upon her snowy pillow, thought
the hours of that bright afternoon and evening very long
and very weary. And yet those hours were full of light,




03-4 ~JOHN AND MhARGARET GREYLSTON.
and melody, and fragrance, for the sun shone, and the
sky was blue, the birds sang, and the waters rippled;
even the autumn flowers were giving their sweet, last
kisses to the air.  Earth was fair, —why, then, should
not human hearts rejoice? All! Ncatiure's loveliness
alone cannot cheer the soul. There was once a day when
the beauty even of Eden ceased to gladden two guilty
tremblers who hid in its bowers.
4"A soft answer turneth a+way wrath, but grievous
words stir up anger."  When Margaret Greylston came
across that verse, she closed her Bible, and sat down
beside the window to muse.  "Al,' she thought, "'how
true is that saying of the wise man! If I had only from
the first given John soft answers, instead of grievous
words, we might now have been at peace.  I knew his
quick temper so well; I should have been more gentle
with him."  Then she recalled all John's constant and
tender attention to her wishes; the many instances in
which he had gone back from his own pleasure to gratify
her; but whilst she remembered these things, never once
did her noble, unselfish heart dwell upon the sacrifices,
great and numerous, which she had made for his sake.
MBiss Margaret began to think she had indeed acted
very weakly and unjustly towards her brother. She
had half a mind just then to go to him, and make this
confession.  But she looked out and saw the dear old
trees, so stately and beautiful, and then the memory of
all John's harsh and cruel words rushed back upon her.
She struggled vainly to banish them from her mind; she
strove to quell the angry feelings which arose with those




JOHN AND [MAItRG-ARET GIREYLSTON.     2.35
memories.  At last she knelt and praxyed.  When she
got up from her knees traces of tears were on her face,
but her heart was calm.  Margaret Greylston had been
enabled, in the strength of "that grace which cometh
from  above," to forgive her brother freely, yet she
scarcely hoped that he would give her the opportunity
to tell him this.
"Good-morning," John. Greylston said, curtly and
chillingly enough to his sister.  Somehow she was disappointed, even though she knew his proud temper so
well, yet she had prayed that there would have been
some kindly relentings towards her; but there seemed
none.  So she answered him sadly, and the two sat down
to their gloomy, silent breakfast.  And thus it was all
that day.  Mr. Greylston still mute and ungrxacious; his
sister shrank away from him.  In that mood she scarcely
knew him; and her face was grave, and her voice so sad,
even the servants wondered what was the matter.  Margaret Greylston had fully overcome all angry, reproachftul feelings against her brother.  So far her soul had
peace, yet she mourned for his love, his kind words, and
pleasant smiles; and she longed to tell him this, but his
coldness held her back.  Mr. Greylston found his conmfort in every way consulted; favourite dishes were
silently placed before him; sweet flowers, as of old, laid
upon his table. He knew the hand which wrought these
loving acts.  But did this knowledge melt his heart?
In a little while we shall see.
And the third morning dawned. Yet the cloud seemed
in no wise lifted.  John Greylston's portrait hung in the
parlour; it was painted in his young days, when he was




236       JOIIN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
very handsome.  His sister could not weary of looking
at it; to her this picture seemed the very embodiment
of beauty. Dear, unconscious soul, she never thought
how much it was like herself, or even the portrait of her
which hung in the opposite recess-for brother and sister
strikingly resembled each other. Both had the same
high brows, the same deep blue eyes and finely chiselled
features, the same sweet and pleasant smiles; there was
but one difference: Miss Margaret's hair was of a pale
golden colour, and yet unchanged; she wore it now put
back very smoothly and plainly from her face. When
John was young, his curls were of so dark a brown as
to look almost black in the shade.  They were bleached
a good deal by time, but yet they clustered round his
brow in the same careless, boyish fashion as of old.
Just now Miss Margaret could only look at her brother's picture with tears. On that very morning she
stood before it, her spirit so full of tender memories, so
crowded with sad yearnings, she felt as though they
would crush her to the earth. Oh, weary heart! endure
yet "a little while" longer.  Even now the angel of
reconciliation is on the wing.
Whilst John Greylston sat alone upon the foot of the
porch at the front of the house, and his sister stood so
sadly in the parlour, the city stage came whirling along
the dusty turnpike.  It stopped for a few minutes opposite the lane which led to John Greylston's place.  The
door was opened, and a grave-looking young man sprang
out.  He was followed by a fairy little creature, who
clapped her hands, and danced for-joy when she saw the




JOHIN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.        237
white chimneys and vine-covered porches of 1" Greylston
Cottage."
"' Annie! Annie!" but she only laughed, and gathering up the folds of her travelling dress, managed to get
so quickly and skilfully over the fence, that her brother,
who was unfastening the gate, looked at her in perfect
amazement.
" What in the world," he asked, with a smile on his
grave face, " possessed you to get over the fence in that
monkey fashion? All those people looking at you, too.
For shame, Annie! Will you never be done with those
childish capers?"
"Yes, maybe when I am a gray-haired old woman;
not before. Don't scold now, Richard; you know very
well you, and the passengers beside, would give your
ears to climb a fence as gracefully as I did just now.
There, won't you hand me my basket, please?"
He did so, and then, with a gentle smile, took the
white, ungloved fingers in his.
" My darling Annie, remember"" Stage waits," cried the driver.
So Richard Bermon's lecture was cut short; he had
only time to bid his merry young sister good-bye. Soon
he was lost to sight.
Annie Bermon hurried down the lane, swinging her
light willow basket carelessly on her arm, and humming
a joyous air all the way. Just as she opened the outer
lawn gate, the great -Newfoundland dog came towards
her with a low growl; it changed directly though into a
glad bark.
" I was sure you would know me, you dear old fellow;




238       JOH-N AND MIARGARET GPEYLSTON.
but I can't stop to talk to you just now."  And Annie
patted his silken ears, and then went on to the house,
the dog bounding on before her, as though he had found
an old playmate.
John Greyiston rubbed his eyes. No, it was not a
dream. His darling niece was really by his side, her
soft curls touching his cheek; he flung his arms tightly
around her.
"Dear child, I was just dreaming about you; how
glad I am to see your sweet face again."
w" I was sure you would be, Uncle John," she answered
gayly, " and so I started off from home this morning
just, in a hurry. I took a sudden fancy that I would
come, and they could not keep me. But where is dear
Aunt Margaret?  Oh, I know what I will do. I'll just
run in and take her by surprise.  How well you look,
uncle-so noble and grand too; by the way, I always
think King Robert Bruce must just have been such a
man like you."
"No laughing at your old uncle, you little rogue,"
said John Greylston pleasantly, " but run and find your
aunt.  She is somewhere in the house."  And he looked
after her with a loving smile as she flitted by him.
Annie Bermon passed quickly through the shaded
sitting-room into the cool and matted hall, catching
glimpses as she went of the pretty parlour and wide
library; but her aunt was in neither of these rooms; so
she hurried up stairs, and stealing on tiptoe,'with gentle
fingers she pushed open the door. Margaret Greylston
was sitting by the table, sewing; her face was flushed,
and her eyes red and swollen as with weeping. Annie




JOHN AND MARGARET 0tI, T'L.           D]L5ON.
stood still in wonder.  But Miss Marglaret sudlenly
looked up, and her niece sprang, with a glad cry, into
her arms.
" You are not well, Aunt Margaret?  Oh! how sorry
I am to hear that, but it seems to me I could never get
sick in this sweet place; everything looks so bright and
lovely here.  And I would come this morning, Aunt
Margaret, in spite of everything Sophy and all of them
could -say. They told me I had been here once before
this summer, and stayed a long time, and if I would, come
again, my welcome would be worn out, just as if Ii was
going to believe Such nonsense;" and Annie tossed her
head.  "But I persevered, and you see, aunty dear, I
am here, we will trust for some good purpose, as Richatrd
would say."
A silent Amen to this rose up in Miss iMargaret's
heart, and with it came a hope dim  and shadowy, yet
beautiful withal; she hardly dared to cherish it.  Annie
went on talking,"I can only stay two weeks with you-school commences then, and I must hurry back to it; but I am
always so glad to get here, away from the noise and dust
of the city; this is the best place in the world. Do you
know when we were travelling this summer, I was pining
all the time to get here. I was so tired of Newport and
Saratoga, and all the crowds we met."
"s You are singular in your tastes, some would think,
Annie," said Miss Greylston, smiling fondly on her
darling.
"So Madge and Sophy were always saying; even




240       JfO JOIN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
Clare laughed at me, and my brothers, too,-only Rich
ard, —-0h! by the way, I did torment him this morning,
he is so grave and good, and he was just beginning a
nice lecture at the gate, when the driver called, and poor
Richard had only time to send his love to you. Wasn't
it droll, though, that lecture being cut so short?" and
Annie threw herself down in the great cushioned chair,
and laughed heartily.
Annie Bermond was the youngest of John and Margaret Greylston's nieces and nephews. Her beauty, her
sweet and sunny temper made her a favourite at home
and abroad.  John Greylston loved her dearly; he
always thought she looked like his chosen bride, Ellen
IDay. Perhaps there was some likeness, for Annie had
the same bright eyes, and the same pouting, rose-bud
lips-but Margaret thought she was more like their own
family. She loved to trace a resemblance in the smiling
face, rich golden curls, and slight figure of Annie to her
young sister Edith, who died when Annie was a little
baby. Just sixteen years old was Annie, and wild and
active as any deer, as her city-bred sisters sometimes
declared half mournfully.
Somehow, Annie Bermond thought it uncommonly
grave and dull at the dinner-table, yet why should it be
so?  Her uncle and aunt, as kind and dear as ever, were
there; she, herself, a blithe fairy, sat in her accustomed
seat; the day was bright, birds were singing, flowers
were gleaming, but there was a change. What could it
be?  Annie knew not, yet her quick perception warned
her of the presence of some trouble-some cloud. In




JO()HN A":D MARGAlRET GREYLSTON.     241
hter haste to talk and cheer her uncle and aunt, the poor
child said what would have been best left unsaid.
" How beautiful those trees are; I mean those pines on
the hill; don't you admire them very much, Uncle John?"
"Tolerably," was the rather short answer.  "I am
too well used to trees to go into the raptures of my little
city niece about them;" and all this time Margaret looked
fixedly down upon the floor.
" Don't you frown so, uncle, or I will run right home
to-morrow," said Annie, with the assurance of a privileged pet; "but I was going to ask you about the rock
just back of those pines. Do you and Aunt Margaret
still go there to see the sunset? I was thinking about
you these two past evenings, when the sunsets were so
grand, and wishing I was with you on the rock; and you
were both there, weren't you?"
This time John Greylston gave no answer, but his
sister said briefly,
" No, Annie, we have not been at the rock for several
evenings;" and then a rather painful silence followed.
Annie at last spoke:
"You both, somehow, seem so changed and dull; 1
would just like to know the reason. May be aunty is
going to be married. Is that it, Uncle John?"
Miss Margaret smiled, but the colour came brightly
to her face.
"' If this is really so, I don't wonder you are sad and
grave; you, especially, Uncle John; how lonely and
wretched you would be! Oh! would you not be very
sorry if Aunt Madge should leave you, never to come
back again?  Would not your heart almost break?"
16




t'42      JOHN AND MATA:GARET GREEYLSTON.
John Greylston threw ldown his knife and fork violently upon the table, and pushing back his chair, went
from the room.
Annie Bermond looked in perfect bewilderment at her
aunt, but Miss Margaret was silent and tearful.
"Aunt! darling aunt  don't look so distressed;" and
Annie put her arms around her neck; " but tell me what
have I done; what is the matter?"
Ml[iss Greylston shook her head.
"' You will not speak now, Aunt Margaret; you might
tell me; I am sure something has happened to distress
you. Just as soon as I came here, I saw a change, but
I could not understand it. I cannot yet. Tell me, dear
aunt ]" and she knelt beside her.
So Miss Greylston told her niece the whole story,
softening, as far as truth would permit, many of John's
harsh speeches; but she was not slow to blame herself.
Annie listened attentively.  Young as she was, her
heart took in with the deepest sympathy the sorrow
which shaded her beloved friends.
"' Oh! I am so very sorry for all this," she said half
crying; "' but aunty, dear, I do not think uncle will have
those nice old trees cut down.  Ie loves you too much
to do it; I am sure he is sorry now for all those sharp
things he said; but his pride keeps him back from telling
you this, and maybe he thinks you are angry with him
still.  Aunt Margaret, let me go and say to him that
your love is as warm as ever, and that you forgive him
freely. Oh! it may do so much good. May I not go?"
But Miss Greylston tightened her grasp on the young
girl's hand.




JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.         243
"Annie, you do not know your uncle as well as I do.
Such a step can do no good, —love, you cannot help us."' Only let me try," she returned, earnestly;'" Uncle
John loves me so much, and on the first day of my visit,
he will not refuse to hear me. I will tell him all the
sweet things you said about him. I will tell him there
is not one bit of anger in your heart, and that you forgive and love him dearly. I am sure when he hears
this he will be glad. Any way, it will not make matters
worse. Now, do have some confidence in me. Indeed
I am not so childish as I seem. I am turned of sixteen
now, and Richard and Sophy often say I have the heart
of a woman, even if I have the ways of a child. Let
me go now, dear Aunt Margaret; I will soon come back
to you with such good news."
Miss Greylston stooped down and kissed Annie's brow
solemnly, tenderly.  " Go, my darling, and may God be
with you." Then she turned away.
And with willing feet Annie Bermond went forth upon
her blessed errand.  She soon found her uncle. I-Ie
was sitting beneath the shade of the old pines, and he
seemed to be in very deep thought. Annie got down on
the grass beside him, and laid her soft cheek upon his
sunburnt hand.  How gently he spoke" What did you come here for, sweet bird?"
" Because I love you so much, Uncle John; that is
the reason; but won't you tell me why you look so very
sad and grave?  I wish I knew your thoughts just now."
"' And if you did, fairy, they would not make you any
prettier or better than you are."




244       JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
"I wonder if they do you any good, uncle?" she
quickly replied; but her companion made no answer; he
only smiled.
Let me write here what John Greylston's tongue refused to say.  Those thoughts, indeed, had done him
good; they were tender, self-upbraiding, loving thoughts,
mingled, all the while, with touching memories, mournful glimpses of the past-the days of his sore bereavement, when the coffin-lid was first shut down over Ellen
Day's sweet face, and he was smitten to the earth with
anguish. Then Margaret's sympathy and love, so beautiful in its strength, and unselfishness, so unwearying
and sublime in its sacrifices, became to him a stay and
comfort. And had she not, for his sake, uncomplainingly given up the best years of her life, as it seemed?
Had her love ever faltered? Had it ever wavered inl its
sweet endeavours to make him happy?  These memories,
these thoughts, closed round John Greylston like a circle
of rebuking angels. Not for the first time were they
with him when Annie found him beneath the old pines.
Ever since that morning of violent and unjust anger
they had been struggling in his heart, growing stronger,
it seemed, every hour in their reproachful tenderness.
Those loving, silent attentions to his wishes John Greylston had noted, and they rankled like sharp thorns in
his soul. He was not worthy of them; this he knew.
How he loathed himself for his sharp and angry words!
IHe had it in his heart to tell his sister this, but an overpowering shame held him back.
"If I only knew how Madge felt towards me," he
said many times to himself, "then I could speak; but I




30IIN AND MIARGAARET GREYLSTON.       245
have been such a brute.  She can do nothing else but
repulse me;" and this threw around him that chill reserve which kept Margaret's generous and forgiving
heart at a distance.
Even every-day life has its wonders, and perhaps not
one of the least was that this brother and sister, so long
fellow-pilgrims, so long readers of each other's hearts
should for a little while be kept asunder by mutual blindness.  Yet the hand which is to chase the mists front
their darkened eyes, even now is raised, what though it
be but small?  God in his wisdom and mercy will cause
its strength to be sufficient.
When John Greylston gave his niece no answer, she
looked intently in his Sface and said,
" You will not tell me what you have been thinking
about; but I can guess, Uncle John. I know the reason
you did not take Aunt Margaret to the rock to see the
sunset."
" Do you?" he asked, startled from  his composure,
his face flushing deeply.
" Yes; for I would not rest until aunty told me the
whole story, and I just came out to talk to you about it.
Now, Uncle John, don't frown, and draw away your
hand; just listen to me a little while; I am sure you
will be glad."  Then she repeated, in her pretty, girlish
way, touching in its earnestness, all Miss Greylston had
told her.  " Oh, if you had only heard her say those
sweet things, I know you would not keep vexed one
minute longer! Aunt IMargaret told me that she did not
blame you at all, only herself; that she loved you dearly,
and she is so sorry because you seem  cold and angry
in~'T




246       JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
yet, for she wants so very, very much to beg your forgiveness, and tell you all this, dear Uncle John, if you
would only-"
"Annie," he suddenly interrupted, drawing her closely
to his bosom; I" Annie, you precious child, in telling me
all this you have taken a great weight off of my heart.
You have done your old uncle a world of good. God
bless you a thousand times! If I had known this at
once; if I had been sure, from the first, of Margaret's
forgiveness for my cruel words, how quickly I would
have sought it.  My dear, noble sister!"  The tears
filled John Greylston's dark blue eyes, but his smile was
so exceedingly tender and beautiful, that Annie drew
closer to his side.
"' Oh, that lovely smile!" she cried, " how it lights
your face; and now you look so good and forgiving,
dearer and better even than a king.  Uncle John, kiss
me again; my heart is so glad! shall I run now and
tell Aunt Margaret all this sweet news?"
"No, no, darling little peace-maker, stay here; I will
go to her myself;" and he hurried away.
Annie Beriond sat alone upon the hill, musingly
platting the long grass together, but she heeded not the
work of her fingers.  Her face was bright with joy, her
heart full of happiness. Dear child! in one brief hour
she had learned the blessedness of that birthright which
is for all God's sons and daughters, if they will but
claim it.  I mean the privilege of doing good, of being
useful.
Miss Greylston sat by the parlour window, just where




JOHIN AND MIARGARET GREYLSTON.      24 7
she could see who crossed the lawn. She was waiting
with a kind of nervous impatience for Annie. She
heard a footstep, but it was only Liddy going down to
the dairy. Then Reuben went by on his way to the
meadow, and all was silent again. Where was Annie?
-but now quick feet sounded upon the crisp and faded
leaves. Miss Margaret looked out, and saw her brother
coming,-then she was sure Annie had in some way
missed him, and she drew back from the window keenly
disappointed, not even a faint suspicion of the blessed
truth crossing her mind. As John Greylston entered
the hall, a sudden and irresistible desire prompted Margaret to go and tell him all the loving and forgiving
thoughts of her heart, no matter what his mood should
be. So she threw down her work, and went quickly
towards the parlour door. And the brother and sister
met, just on the threshold.
" John-John," she said, falteringly, "'  I must speak
to you; I cannot bear this any longer."
I" Nor can I, Margaret."
Miss Greylston looked up in her brother's face; it
was beaming with love and tenderness.  Then she knew
the hour of reconciliation had come, and with a quick,
glad cry, she sprang into his arms, and laid her head
down upon his shoulder.
" Can you ever forgive me, Madge?"
She made no reply-words had melted into tears, but
they were eloquent, and for a little while it was quite
still in the parlour.
" You shall blame yourself no longer, Margaret.  All




248       JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
along you have behaved like a sweet Christian woman as
you are, but I have been an old fool, unreasonable and
cross from the very beginning.  Can you really forgive
me all those harsh words, for which I hated myself not
ten hours after they were said?  Can you, indeed, forgive and forget these? Tell me so again."
"John," she said, raising her tearful face from  his
shoulder, " I do forgive you most completely, with my
whole heart, and, O! I wanted so to tell you this two
days ago, but your coldness kept me back. I was afraid
your anger was not over, and that you would repel me."
" Ah, that coldness was but shame-deep and painful
shame. I was needlessly harsh with you, and moments
of reflection only served to fasten on me the belief that
I had lost all claim to your love, that you could not forgive me. Yes! I did misjudge you, Madge, I know,
but when I looked back upon the past, and all your
faithful love for me, I saw you as I had ever seen you,
the best of sisters, and then my shameful and ungrateful conduct rose up clearly before me. I felt so utterly
unworthy."
Miss Greylston laid her finger upon her brother's lips.'" Nor will I listen to you blaming yourself so heavily
any longer. John, you had cause to be angry with me;
I was unreasonably urgent about the trees," and she
sighed;; I forgot to be gentle and patient; so you see
I am to blame as well as yourself."
"But I forgot even common kindness and courtesy,"
he said gravely.  " What demon was in my heart, Margaret, I do not know. Avarice, I am afraid, was at the
bottom of all this, for rich as I am, I somehow felt very




JOHN AND MA iGARET GREYLSTON.        249
obstinate about running into any more expense or trouble
about the road; and then, you remember, I never could
love inanimate things as you do. But from this time
forth I will try-and the pines""Let the pines go down, my dear brother, I see now
how unreasonable I have been," suddenly interruapted
Miss Greylston; "and indeed these few days past I
could'not look at them with any pleasure; they only
reminded me of our separation.  Cut them  down: I
will not say one word."
" Now, what a very woman you are, Madge! Just
when you have gained your will, you want to turn about;
but, love, the trees shall not come down.  I will give
them to you; and you cannot refuse my peace-offering;
and never, whilst John Greylston lives, shall an axe
touch those pines, unless you say so, Margaret."
He laughed when he said this, but her tears were
falling fast.
"Next month will be November; then comes our
birth-day; we will be fifty years old, Margaret.  Time
is hurrying on with us; he has given me gray locks, and
laid some wrinkles on your dear face; but that is nothing
if our hearts are untouched.  0, for so many long years,
ever since my Ellen was snatched from me,"-and here
John Greylston paused a moment-" you have been to
ne a sweet, faithful comforter. Madge, dear twin sister,
your love has always been a treasure to me; but you
well know for many years past it has been my only
earthly treasure.  Henceforth, God helping me, I will
seek to restrain my evil temper. I will be more watch



-O     3JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
ffil; if sometimes I fail, Margaret, will you not love me,
and bear with me?"
Was there any need for that question?  Miss Margaret only answered by clasping her brother's hand more
closely in her own. As they stood there in the autumn
sunlight, united so lovingly, hand in hand, each silently
prayed that thus it might be with them always; not
only through life's autumn, but in that winter so surely
for them approaching, and which would give place to the
fair and beautiful spring of the better land.
Annie Bermond's bright face looked in timidly at the
open door.
"Come here, darling, come and stand right beside
your old uncle and aunt, and let us thank you with all
our hearts for the good you have done us. Don't cry
any more, Margaret.  Why, fairy, what is the matter
with you?" for Annie's tears were falling fast upon his
hand.
" I hardly know, Uncle John; I never felt so glad in
my life before, but I cannot help crying. Oh, it is so
sweet to think the cloud has gone."
" And whose dear hand, under God's blessing, drove
the cloud away, but yours, my child?"
Annie was silent; she only clung the tighter to her
uncle's arm, and Miss Greylston said, with a beaming
smile,
""Now, Annie, we see the good purpose God had in
sending you here to-day. You have dofie for us the
blessed work of a peace-maker."
*k     *       *       *       *       *




JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.         251
Annie had always been dear to her uncle and aunt,
but from that golden autumn day, she became, if such a
thing could be, dearer than ever-bound to them by an
exceedingly sweet tie.
*      *       *       *      *       *
Years went by. One snowy evening, a merry Christmas party was gathered together in the wide parlour at
Greylston Cottage,-nearly all the nephews and nieces
were there. Mrs. Lennox, the " Sophy" of earlier days,
with her husband; Richard Bermond and his pretty
little wife were amongst the number; and Annie, dear,
bright Annie-her fair face only the fairer and sweeter
for time-sat, talking in a corner with young Walter
Selwyn. John Greylston went slowly to the window,
and pushed aside the curtains, and as he stood there
looking out somewhat gravely in the bleak and wintry
night, he felt a soft hand touch him, and he turned and
found Annie Bermond by his side.
"You looked so lonely, my dear uncle."
"' And that is the reason you deserted Walter?" he
said, laughing.  "Well, I will soon send you back to
him. But, look out here first, Annie, and tell me what
you see;" and she laid her face close to the window-pane,
and, after a minute's silence, said,
"I see the ground white with snow, the sky gleaming
with stars, and the dear old pines, tall and stately as
ever."
"Yes, the pines; that is what I meant, my child.
Ah, they have been my silent monitors ever since that
day; you remember it, Annie!  Bless you, child! how
much good you did us then."




2552      JOIHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON.
But Annie was silently crying beside him.  John
Greylston wiped his eyes, and then he called his sister
Margaret to the window.
"'Annie and I have been looking at the old pines, and
you can guess what we were thinking'about.  As for
myself," he added, " I never see those trees without
feeling saddened and rebuked.  I never recall that
season of error, without the deepest shame and grief.
And still the old pines stand.  Well, Madge, one day
they will shade our graves; and of late I have thought
that day would dawn very soon."
Annie Bermondcl let the curtain fall very slowly forward, and buried her face in her hands; but the two
old pilgrims by her side, John and Margaret Greylston,
looked at each other with a smile of hope and joy. They
had long been " good and faithful servants," and now
they awaited the coming of'" the Master," with a calm,
sweet patience, knowing it would be well with them,
when He would call them hence.
The pines creaked mournfully in the winter wind, and
the stars looked down upon bleak wastes, and snowshrouded meadows; yet the red blaze heaped blithely
on the hearth, taking in, in its fair light, the merry
circle sitting side by side, and the thoughtful little group
standing so quietly by the window.  *  *  *  And
even now the picture fades, and is gone. The curtain
falls-the story of John and Margaret Greylston is
ended.








~!~!~!~.'.....  ~ ~, ~_.,!~ i~~ ~.~?_ -.....:.,.~~~~~~~~i,~'!' i'~
ii~~ ~..'~
~,, t




THE WORLD W7OULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.
IF men cared less for wealth and fame,
And less for battle-fields and glory;
If, writ in human hearts, a name
Seemed better than in song and story;
If men, instead of nursing pride,
Would learn to hate and to abhor it —
If more relied
On Love to guide,
The world would be the better for it.
If men dealt less in stocks and lands,
And more in bonds and deeds fraternal;
If Love's work had more willing hands
To link this world to the supernal;
If men stored up Love's oil and wine,
And on bruised human hearts would pour it;
If' yours" and " mine"
Would once combine,
The world would be the better for it.
If more would act the play of Life,
And fewer spoil it in rehearsal;
If Bigotry would sheathe its knife
Till Good became more universal;
If Custom, gray with ages grown,
Had fewer blind men to adore it —
If talent shone
In truth alone,
The world would be the better for it.




254             TWO SIDES TO A STORY.
If men were wise in little things —
Affecting less in all their dealingsIf hearts had fewer rusted strings
To isolate their kindly feelings;
If men, when Wrong beats down the Right,
Would strike together and restore itIf Right made Might
In every fight,
The world would be the better for it.
TWO SIDES TO A STORY.
" HAVE you seen much of your new neighbours, yet?"
asked Mrs. Morris, as she stepped in to have an hour's
social chat with her old friend, Mrs. Freeman.
"' Very little," was the reply.  " Occasionally I have
seen the lady walking in her garden, and have sometimes watched the sports of the children on the sidewalk, but this is all. It is not like the country, you
know. One may live here for years, and not become
acquainted with the next-door neighbours."
"' Some may do so," replied Mrs. Morris, "but, for
my part, I always like to know something of those around
me.  It is not always desirable to make the acquaintance of near neighbours, but by a little observation it is
very easy to gain an insight into their characters and
position in society. The family which has moved into
the house next to yours, for instance, lived near to me
for nearly two years, and although I never spoke to one




TWO SIDES TO A STORY.             255
of them, 1 can tell you of some strange transactions
which took place in their house."
a" Indeed!" replied Mrs. Freeman, with little manifestation of interest or curiosity; but Mrs. Morris was too
eager to communicate her information to notice her
friend's manner, and lowering her voice to a confidential
tone, continued:"There is an old lady in their family whom  they
abuse in the most shocking manner. She is very rich,
and they by threats and ill-treatment extort large sums
of money from her."' A  singular way of inducing any one to bestow
favours," replied Mrs. Freeman, dryly. "Why does not
the old lady leave there?"
" Bless your heart, my dear friend, she cannot get an
opportunity! They never suffer her to leave the house
unattended.  Once or twice, indeed, she succeeded in
getting into the street, but they discovered her in a moment, and actually forced her into the house. You smile
incredulously, but if you had been an eye-witness of
their proceedings, as I have, or had heard the screams
of the poor creature, and the heavy blows which they
inflict, you would be convinced of the truth of what I
tell you."
"' I do not doubt the truth of your story in the least,
my dear Mrs. Morris. I only think that in this case, as
in most others, there must be two sides to the story. It
is almost incredible that such barbarous treatment could
continue for any great length of time without discovery
and exposure."
4" Oh, as to that, people are not fond of getting them



256           rTWO SIDES TO A STORY.
selves into trouble by meddling with their neighbours'
affairs. I am very cautious about it myself. I would
not have mentioned this matter to any one but an old
friend like yourself. It seemed best to put you on your
guard."'" Thank you," was the smiling reply.  "It is hardly
probable that I shall be called upon to make any acquaintance with my new neighbours; but if I am, I certainly shall not forget your caution."
Satisfied that she had succeeded, at least partially, in.
awakening the suspicions of her friend, Mrs. Morris took
her departure, while Mrs. [Freeman, quite undisturbed
by her communications, continued her usual quiet round
of domestic duties, thinking less of the affairs of her
neighbours than of those of her own household.
Occasionally she saw the old lady whom Mrs. Morris
had mentioned walking in the adjoining garden, sometimes alone, and sometimes accompanied by the lady of
the house, or one of the children.  There was nothing
striking in her appearance.  She looked cheerful and
contented, and showed no signs of confinement or abuse.
Once, when Mrs. Freeman was in her garden, she had
looked over the fence, and praised the beauty of her
flowers, and when a bunch was presented to her, had received them with that almost childish delight which aged
people often manifest.
Weeks passed on, and the remarks of Mrs. Morris
were almost forgotten, when Mrs. Freeman was aroused
one night by loud cries, apparently proceeding from the
adjoining house; and on listening intently could plainly
distinguish the sound of heavy blows, and also the voice




TWO SIDES TO A STORY.            257
of the old lady in question, as if in earnest expostulation and entreaty.
Mrs. Freeman aroused her husband, and together
they listened in anxiety and alarm. For nearly an hour
the sounds continued, but at length all was again quiet.
It was long, however, before they could compose themselves to rest. It was certainly strange and unaccountable, and there was something so inhuman in the thought
of abusing an aged woman that their hearts revolted at
the idea.
Still Mrs. Freeman maintained, as was her wont, that
there must be two sides to the story; and after vainly
endeavouring to imagine what the other side could be, she
fell asleep, and was undisturbed until morning.
All seemed quiet the next day, and Mrs. Freeman
had somewhat recovered from the alarm of the previous
night, when she was again visited by her friend, Mrs.
Morris.  As usual, she had confidential communications
to make, and particularly wished the advice of Mrs.
Freeman in a matter which she declared weighed heavily
upon her mind; and being assured that they should be
undisturbed, began at once to impart the weighty secret.
"You remember Mrs. Dawson, who went with her
husband to Europe, a year or two ago?"
"Certainly I do," was the reply.  "I was well acquainted with her."
"' Do you recollect a girl who had lived with her for
several years?  I think her name was Mary Berkly."
"' Quite well.  Mrs. Dawson placed great confidence
in her, and wished to take her abroad, but Mary was
engaged to an honest carpenter, in good business, and
17




.. 8           TWO SIDES TO A STORY.
wisely preferred a comfortable house in her own country."
"She had other reasons, I suspect," replied Mrs.
Morris, mysteriously, " but you will hear.  This Mary
]3erkly, or as she is now called, Mary White, lives not
far from my present residence.  Her husband is comfortably off, and his wife is not obliged to work, excepting in her own family, but still she will occasionally, as
a favour, do up a few muslins for particular persons.
You know she was famous for her skill in those things.
The other day, having a few pieces which I was particularly anxious to have look nice, I called upon her to see
if she would wash them for me.  She was not at home,
but her little niece, who lives with her, a child of four
years old, said that Aunt Mary would be in directly, and
asked me to walk into the parlour. I did so, and the
little thing stood by my side chattering away like a magpie. In reply to my questions as to whether she liked
to live with her aunt, what she amused herself with,
&c., &c., she entered into a long account of her various
playthings, and ended by saying that she would show
me a beautiful new doll which her good uncle had given
her, if I would please to unlock the door of a closet near
where I was sitting, as she could not turn the key.
" To please the child I unlocked the door. She threw
it wide open, and to my astonishment I saw that it was
filled with valuable silver plate, china, and other articles'of similar kind, some of which I particularly remembered having seen at Mrs. Dawson's."'Perhaps she gave them  to Mary," suggested Mrs.
Freeman. 1" She was quite attached to her."




TWO SIDES TO A STORY.            259
"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Morris.  "Valuable
silver plate is not often given to servants.  But I have
not yet finished. Just as the child had found the doll
Mrs. White entered, and on seeing the closet-door open,
said sternly to the child,
"' I Rosy, you did very wrong to open that door without my leave. I shall not let you take your doll again
for a week;' and looking very red and confused, she
hastily closed it, and turned the key. Now, to my mind,
these are suspicious circumstances, particularly as I recollect that Mr. and Mrs. Dawson were robbed of silver
plate shortly before they went to Europe, and no trace
could be found of the thieves."
" True," replied Mrs. Freeman, thoughtfully; " I
recollect the robbery very well. Still I cannot believe
that Mary had anything to do with it. I was always
pleased with her modest manner, and thought her an
honest, capable girl."
" She is very smooth-faced, I know," answered Mrs.
Morris, "but appearances are certainly against her.  I
am confident that the articles I saw belonged to Mrs.
Dawson."
"There may be another side to the story, however,"
remarked her friend; "but why not mention your suspicions to Mrs. Dawson? You know she has returned, and
is boarding in the upper part of the city. I have her
address, somewhere."
"I know where she lives; but would you really advise me to meddle with the affair? I shall make enemies
of Mr. and Mrs. White, if they hear of it, and I like to
have the good-will of all, both rich and poor."




260            TWO SIDES TO A STORY.
"I do not believe that Mary would take anything
wrongfully," replied Mrs. Freeman; "but if my suspicions were as fully aroused as yours seem to be, I presume I should mention what I saw to Mrs. Dawson, if it
were only for the sake of hearing the other side of the
story, and thus removing such unpleasant doubts from
my mind. And, indeed, if you really think that the
articles which you saw were stolen, it becomes your duty
to inform the owners thereof, or you become, in a measure, a partaker of the theft."
" That is true," said Mrs. Morris, rising, "and in
that way I might ultimately gain the ill-will of Mrs.
Dawson; therefore I think I will go at once and tell her
my suspicions."
" Which, I am convinced, you will find erroneous,"
replied Mrs. Freeman.
"We shall see," was the answer of her friend, accompanied by an ominous shake of the head; and promising
to call upon Mrs. Freeman on her return, she took
leave.
During her absence, the alarming cries from the next
house were again heard; and presently the old lady appeared on the side-walk, apparently in great agitation
and alarm, and gazing wildly about her, as if seeking a
place of refuge; but she was instantly seized in the
forcible manner Mrs. Morris had described, and carried
into the house.
"This is dreadful!" exclaimed Mrs. Freeman. "What
excuse can there be for such treatment?" and for a moment her heart was filled with indignation toward her
supposed barbarous neighbours; but a little reflection




TWO SIDES TO A STORY.            261
caused her still to suspend her judgment, and endeavour
to learn both sides of the story.
As she sat ruminating on this singular occurrence,
and considering what was her duty in regard to it, she
was aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Morris, who, with
an air of vexation and disappointment, threw herself
upon the nearest chair, exclaiming,
"A pretty piece of work I have been about 1 It is
all owing to your advice, Mrs. Freeman.  If it had not
been for you I should not have made such a fool of
nmyvself."' Why, what has happened to you?" asked Mrs. Freeman, anxiously. "What advice have I given you which
has caused trouble?"
" You recommended my calling upon Mrs. Dawson,
did you not?"
"" Certainly: I thought it the easiest way to relieve
your mind from painful suspicions. What did she say?"
" Say! I wish you could have seen the look she gave
me when I told her what I saw at Mrs. White's.  You
know her haughty manner? She thanked me for the
trouble I had taken on her account, and begged leave to
assure me that she had perfect confidence in the honesty
of Mrs. White.  The articles which had caused me so
much unnecessary anxiety were intrusted to her care
when they went to Europe, and it had not yet been convenient to reclaim them. I cannot tell you how contemptuously she spoke. I never felt so mortified in my
life."
" There is no occasion for feeling so, if your intentions were good," answered Mrs. Freeman; "and cer



262            TWO SIDES TO A STORY.
tainly it must be a relief to you to hear the other side
of the story. Nothing less would have convinced you
of Mrs. White's honesty."
Mrs. Morris was prevented from replying by the sudden and violent ringing of the bell, and an instant after
the door was thrown open, and the old lady, whose supposed unhappy condition had called forth their sympathies, rushed into the room.
"Oh, save me! save me!" she exclaimed, frantically.
" I am pursued, —protect me, for the love of Heaven!"
" Poor creature!" said Mrs. Morris.  "You see that
I was not mistaken in this story, at least. There can
be no two sides to this."
"Depend upon it there is," replied Mrs. Freeman;
but she courteously invited her visiter to be seated, and
begged to know what had occasioned her so much alarm.
The poor lady told a plausible and piteous tale of illtreatment, and, indeed, actual abuse.  Mrs. Morris
listened with a ready ear, and loudly expressed her
horror and indignation. Mrs. Freeman was more guarded. There was something in the old lady's appearance
and manners that excited an undefinable feeling of fear
and aversion. Mrs. Freeman felt much perplexed as to
the course she ought to pursue, and looked anxiously at
the clock to see if the time for her husband's return was
nea r.
It still wanted nearly two hours, and after a little
more consideration she decided to go herself into the
next door, ask for an interview with the lady of the
house, frankly state what had taken place, and demand
an explanation. This resolution she communicated in a




TWO SIDES TO A STORY.            263
low voice to Mrs. Morris, who opposed it as imprudent
and ill-judged.
" Of course they will deny the charge," slie argued,'and by letting them know where the poor creature has
taken shelter, you will again expose her to their cruelty.
Besides, you will get yourself into trouble. My advice
to you is to keep quiet until your husband returns, and
then to assist the poor lady secretly to go to her friends
in the country, who she says will gladly receive her."
" But I am anxious to hear both sides of the story
before I decide to assist her," replied Mrs. Freeman.
" Nonsense!" exclaimed her friend.  " Even you
must see that there cannot be two sides to this story.
There is no possible excuse for cruelty, and to an inoffensive, aged woman."
While they were, thus consulting together, their visiter
regarded them with a troubled look, and a fierce gleaming eye, which did not escape Mrs. Freeman's observation; and just as Mrs. Morris finished speaking, the
maniac sprang upon her, like a tiger on his prey, and,
seizing her by the throat, demanded what new mischief
was plotting against her.
The screams of the terrified women drew the attention of the son of the old lady, who had just discovered
her absence, and was hastening in search of her. At
once suspecting the truth, he rushed without ceremony
into his neighbour's house, and speedily rescued Mrs.
Morris from  her unpleasant and somewhat dangerous
situation. After conveying his mother to her own room,
and consigning her to strict custody, he returned, and




264            TWO SIDES TO A STORY.
respectfully apologized to Mrs. Freeman for what had
taken place.
"His p6or mother," he said, 1" had for several years
been subject to occasional fits of insanity.  Generally
she had appeared harmless, excepting as regarded herself. Unless prevented by force, she would sometimes
beat her own flesh in a shocking manner, uttering at the
same time loud cries and complaints of the abuse of
those whom she supposed to be tormenting her.
" In her lucid intervals she had so earnestly besought
them not to place her in the asylum for the insane, but
to continue to bear with her under their own roof, that
they had found it impossible to refuse their solemn promise to comply with her wishes.
"For themselves, their love for her rendered them
willing to bear with her infirmities, but it should be their
earnest care that their neighbours should not again be
disturbed."
Mrs. Freeman kindly expressed her sympathy and
forgiveness for the alarm which she had experienced, and
the gentleman took leave.
Poor Mrs. Morris had remained perfectly silent since
her release; but as the door closed on their visiter, and
her friend kindly turned to inquire how she found herself,
she recovered her speech, and exclaimed, energetically,
" I will never, never say again that there are not two
sides to a story. If I am ever tempted to believe one
side without waiting to hear the other, I shall surely feel
again the hands of that old witch upon my throat."
" Old witch!" repeated Mrs. Freeman.  " Surely she
demands our sympathy as much as when we thought her




LITTLE KINDNESSES.             265
suffering under ill-treatment.  It is indeed a sad thing
to be bereft of reason. But this will be a useful lesson
to both of us: for I will readily acknowledge that in
this instance I was sometimes tempted to forget that
there are always' two sides to a story.'
LITTLE KINDNESSES.
NOT long since, it was announced that a large fortune
had been left to a citizen of the United States by a
foreigner, who, some years before, had "become ill"
while travelling in this country, and whose sick-bed was
watched with the utmost care and kindness by the citizen referred to. The stranger recovered, continued his
journey, and finally returned to his own country.  The
conduct of the American at a moment so critical, and
when, without relatives or friends, the invalid was languishing in a strange land, was not forgotten.  He remembered it in his thoughtful and meditative moments,
and when about to prepare for another world, his gratitude was manifested in a truly signal manner.  A year
or two ago, an individual in this city was labouring
under great pecuniary difficulty.  He was unexpectedly
called upon for a considerable sum of money; and, although his means were abundant, they were not at that
time immediately available.  Puzzled and perplexed,
he hesitated as to his best course, when, by the merest
chance, he met an old acquaintance, and incidentally
mentioned the facts of the case.  The other referred to




2 6              LITTLTE KINDNESSES.
an act of kindness that he had experienced years before,
said that he had never forgotten it, and that nothing
would afford him more pleasure than to extend the relief
that was required, and thus show his grateful appreciation of the courtesy of former years! The kindness
alluded to was a mere trifle, comparatively speaking,
and its recollection had passed entirely from the memory of the individual who had performed it.  Not so,
however, with the obliged. He had never forgotten it,
and the result proved, in the most conclusive manner,
that he was deeply grateful.
We have mentioned the two incidents with the object
of inculcating the general policy of courtesy and kindness, of sympathy and assistance, in our daily intercourse with our fellow-creatures.  It is the true course
iunder all circumstances. "Little kindnesses" sometimes
make an impression that "lingers and lasts" for years.
This is especially the case with the sensitive, the generous, and the high-minded. And how much may be
accomplished by this duty of courtesy and humanity!
How the paths of life may be smoothed and softened!
How the present may be cheered, and the future rendered bright and beautiful!
There are, it is true, some selfish spirits, who can neither appreciate nor reciprocate a courteous or a generous
act.  They are for themselves-" now and for ever"if we may employ such a phrase-and appear never to
be satisfied. You can never do enough for them. Nay,
the deeper the obligation, the colder the heart.  They
grow jealous, distrustful, and finally begin to hate their
benefactors.  But these, we trust, are "'the exccptions,"




LITTLE KINDNESSES.             267
not "the rule." Many a heart has been won, many a
friendship has been secured, many a position has been
acquired, through the exercise of such little kindnesses
and courtesies as are natural to the generous in spirit
and the noble of soul-to all, indeed, who delight, not
only in promoting their own prosperity, but in contributing to the welfare of every member of the human family.
Who cannot remember some incident of his own life, in
which an individual, then and perhaps now a strangerone who has not been seen for years, and never may be
seen again on this side the grave, manifested the true,
the genuine, the gentle spirit of a gentleman and a
Christian, in some mere trifle-some little but impulsive
and spontaneous act, which nevertheless developed the
whole heart, and displayed the real character!  Distance and time may separate, and our pursuits and
vocations may be in paths distinct, dissimilar, and far
apart.  Yet, there are moments-quiet, calm, and contemplative, when memory will wander back to the incidents referred to, and we will feel a secret bond of
affinity, friendship, and brotherhood.  The name will
be mentioned with respect if not affection, and a desire
will be experienced to repay, in some way or on some
occasion, the generous courtesy of the by-gone time. It,
is so easy to be civil and obliging, to be kindly and humane  We not only thus assist the comfort of others,
but we promote our own mental enjoyment. Life, moreover, is full of chances and changes.  A  few years,
sometimes, produce extraordinary revolutions in the
fortunes of men.  The haughty of to-day may be the
humble of to-morrow; the feeble may be the powerfil;




-6c8          LEAVING OFF CONTENTION
the rich may be the poor. But, if elevated by affluence
or by position, the greater the necessity, the stronger
the duty to be kindly, courteous, and conciliatory to
those less fortunate.  We can afford to be so; and a
proper appreciation of our position, a due sympathy for
the misfortunes of others, and a grateful acknowledgment to Divine Providence, require that we should be
so. Life is short at best. We are here a few yearswe sink into the grave-and even our memory is phantom-like and evanescent. How plain, then, is our duty!
It is to be true to our position, to our conscience, and
to the obligations imposed upon us by society, by circumstances, and by our responsibility to the Author of
all that is beneficent and good.
LEAVING OFF CONTENTION BEFORE IT BE MEDDLED
WITH.
WE are advised to leave off contention before it be
meddled with, by one usually accounted a very wise man.
Had he never given the world any other evidence of
superior wisdom, this admonition alone would have been
sufficient to have established his claims thereto. It shows
that he had power to penetrate to the very root of a
large share of human misery.  For. what is the great
evil in our condition here? Is it not misunderstanding,
disagreement, alienation, contention, and the passions
and results flowing from these? Are not contempt,




BEFORE IT BE MEDDLED WVITH.          2g9
and hatred, and strife, and altercation, and slander, and
evil-speaking, the things hardest to bear, and most prolific of suffering, in the lot of human life?  The worst
woes of life are such as spring from these sources.
Is there any cure for these maladies? Is there anything to prevent or abate these exquisite sufferings?
The wise man directs our attention to a remedial preventive in the advice above referred to. His counsel to
those whose lot unites them in the same local habitations
and name; to those who are leagued in friendship or
business, in the changes of sympathy and the chances
of collision) is, to suppress anger or dissatisfaction, to
be candid and charitable in judging, and, by all means,
to leave off contention before it be meddled with. His
counsel to all is to endure injury meekly, not to give
expression to the sense of wrong, even when we might
seem justified in resistance or complaint. His counsel
is to yield something we might fairly claim, to pardon
when we might punish, to sacrifice somewhat of our
rights for the sake of peace and friendly affection.  His
counsel is not to fire at every provocation, not to return
evil for evil, not to cherish any fires of revenge, burning
to be even with the injurious person.  His counsel is to
curb our imperiousness, to repress our impatience, to
pause in the burst of another's feeling, to pour water
upon the kindling flames, or, at the very least, to abstain
from adding any fresh fuel thereto.
One proof of the superior wisdom of this counsel is,
that few seem to appreciate or perceive it. To many it
seems no great virtue or wisdom, no great and splendid
thing, in some small issue of feeling or opinion, in the




270           LEAVING OFF CONTENTION
family or among friends, to withhold a little, to tighten
the rein upon some headlong propensity, and await a
calm for fair adjustment.  Such a course is not usually
held to be a proof of wisdom or virtue; and men are
much more ready to praise and think well of smartness,
and spirit, and readiness for an encounter. To leave
off contention before it is meddled with does not command any very general admiration; it is too quiet a
virtue, with no striking attitudes, and with lips which
answer nothing. This is too often mistaken for dullness,
and want of proper spirit.  It requires discernment and
superior wisdom to see a beauty in such repose and selfcontrol, beyond the explosions of anger and retaliation.
With the multitude, self-restraining meekness under
provocation is a virtue which stands quite low in the
catalogue.  It is very frequently set down as pusillanimity and cravenness of spirit.  But it is not so; for
there is a self-restraint under provocation which is far
from being cowardice, or want of feeling, or shrinking
from consequences; there is a victory over passionate
impulses which is more difficult and more meritorious
than a victory on the bloody battle-field. It requires
more power, more self-command, often, to leave off contention, when provocation and passion are causing the
blood to boil, than to rush into it.
Were this virtue more duly appreciated, and the admonition of the ~Wise Man more extensively heeded,
what a change would be effected in human life! How
many of its keenest sufferings would be annihilated!
The spark which kindles many great fires would be withheld; and, great as are the evils and sufferings caused




BEFORE IT BE MEDILED WITI,          271
by war, they are not as great, probably, as those oriiinating in impatience and want of temper. The fretfulness of human life, it seems not hard to believe, is a
greater evil, and destroys more happiness, than all the
bloody scenes of the battle-field. The evils of war have
generally something to lighten the burden of them in a
sense of necessity, or of rights or honour invaded; but
there is nothing of like importance to alleviate the sufferings caused by fretfulness, impatience, want of temper. The excitable peevishness which kindles at trifles,
that roughens the daily experience of a million families,
that scatters its little stings at the table and by the
hearth-stone, what does this but unmixed harm?  What
ingredient does it furnish but of gall?  Its fine wounding may be of petty consequence in any given cas6, and
its tiny darts easily extracted; but, when habitually
carried into the whole texture of life, it destroys more
peace than plague and famine and the sword.  It is a
deeper anguish than grief; it is a sharper pang than the
afflicted moan with; it is a heavier pressure from human
hands than when affliction lays her hand upon you. All
this deduction from human comfort, all this addition to
human suffering, may be saved by heeding the admonition of wisdom given by one of her sons. When provoked
by the follies or the passions, the offences or neglects,
the angry words or evil-speaking of others, restrain
your propensity to complain or contend; leave off contention before you take the first step towards it.  You
will then be greater than he that taketh a city. You
will be a genial companion in your family and among
your neighbours. You will be loved at home and blessed




272           LEAVING OFF CONTENTION
abroad.  You will be a source of comfort to others, and
carry a consciousness of praiseworthiness in your own
bosom.  On the contrary, an acrid disposition, a readiness to enter into contention, is like vinegar to the teeth,
like caustic to an open sore.  It eats out all the beauty,
tenderness, and affection of domestic and social life.
For all this the remedy is simple. Put a restraint upon
your feelings; give up a little; take less than belongs
to you; endure more than should be put upon you;
make allowance for another's judgment or educational
defects; consider circumstances and constitution; leave
off contention before it be meddled with. If you do
otherwise, quick resentment and stiff maintenance of
your position will breed endless disputes and bitterness.
But happy will be the results of the opposite course, accomplished every day and every hour in the family, with
friends, with companions, with all with whom you have
any dealings or any commerce in life.
Let any one set himself to the cultivation of this virtue of meekness and self-restraint, and he will find that
it cannot be secured by one or a few efforts, however
resolute; by a few struggles, however severe.  It requires industrious culture; it requires that he improve
every little occasion to quench strife and fan concord,
till a constant sweetness smooths the face of domestic
life, and kindness and tenderness become the very expression of the countenance.  This virtue of self-control
must grow by degrees.  It must grow by a succession
of abstinences from returning evil for evil, by a succession of leaving off contention before the first angry word
escapes.




BEFORE IT BE AIEDDLED WITHI.        27,3
It may help to cultivate this virtue, to practise some
forethought.  When tempted to irritable, censorious
speech, one might with advantage call to recollection
the times, perhaps frequent, when words uttered in haste
have caused sorrow or repentance. Then, again, the
fact might be called to mind, that when we lose a friend,
every harsh word we may have spoken rises to condemn
us. There is a resurrection, not for the dead only, but
for the injuries we have fixed in their hearts-in hearts,
it may be, bound to our own, and to which we owed
gentleness instead of harshness. The shafts of reproach,
which come from the graves of those who have been
wounded by. our fretfulness and irritability, are often
hard to bear. Let meek forbearance and self-control
prevent such suffering, and guard us against the condemnations of' the tribunal within.
There is another-tribunal, also, which it were wise to
think of.  The rule of that tribunal is, that if we forgive not those who trespass against us, we ourselves shall
not be forgiven.  "Fie shall have judgment without
mercy that hath showed no mercy."  Only, then, if we
do not need, and expect never to beg the mercy of the
Lord to ourselves, may we withhold our mercy from our
fellow-men.




"ALL THE DAY IDLE."
WfIEREFORE idle? —when the harvest beckoning,
Nods its ripe tassels to the brightening sky?
Arise and labour ere the time of reckoning,
Ere the long shadows and the night draw nigh.
Wherefore idle?-Swing the sickle stoutly!
Bind thy rich sheaves exultingly and fast!
Nothing dismayed, do thy great task devoutlyPatient and strong, and hopeful to the last 
Wherefore idle?-Labour, not inaction,
Is the soul's birthright, and its truest rest;
Up to thy work! —'tis Nature's fit exxactionHie who toils humblest, bravest, toils the best.
Wherefore idle? —God himself is working;
His great thought wearieth not, nor standeth still,
In every throb of his vast heart is lurking'Some mighty purpose of his mightier will.
Wherefore idle?-Not a leaf's slight rustle
But chides thee in thy vain, inglorious rest;
Be a strong actor in the great world,-bustle,Not a weak minion or a pampered guest!
Wherefore idle?-Oh! my faint soul, wherefore?
Shake first from thine own powers dull sloth's control 
Then lift thy voice with an exulting " Therefore
Thou, too, shalt conquer, oh, thou striving soul "'




TIHE BUSHEL OF CORN.
FARMER GRAY had a neighbour who was not the besttempered man in the world, though mainly kind and
obliging. He was a shoemaker. His name was Barton.
One day, in harvest-time, when every man on the farm
was as busy as a bee, this man came over to Farmer
Gray's, and said, in rather a petulant tone of voice,
"' Mr. Gray, I wish you would send over, and drive
your geese home."
"Why so, Mr. Barton; what have my geese been
doing?" said the farmer, in a mild, quiet tone.
"They pick my pigs' ears when they are eating, and
go into my garden, and I will not have it!" the neighbour replied, in a still more petulant voice.
"I am really sorry for it, Neighbour Barton, but what
can I do?"
"Why, yoke them, and thus keep them on your own
premises. It's no kind of a way to let your geese run
all over every farm and garden in the neighbourhood."
"' But I cannot see to it, now. It is harvest-time,
Friend Barton, and every man, woman, and child on the
farm has as much as he or she can do. Try and bear it
for a week or so, and then I will see if I can possibly
remedy the evil."
"I can't bear it, and I won't bear it any longer!" said
the shoemaker. " So, if you do not take care of them,
Friend Gray, I shall have to take care of them for you."
"Well, Neighbour Barton, you can do as you please,"




27 X6          THE BUSHEL OF CORN.
Farmer Gray replied, in his usual quiet tone.  " I am
sorry that they trouble you, but I cannot attend to them
now."
"I'll attend to them for you, see if I don't," said the
shoemaker, still more angrily than when he first called
upon Farmer Gray; and then turned upon his heel, and
strode off hastily towards his own house, which was quite
near to the old farmer's.
"What upon earth can be the matter with them
geese?" said Mrs. Gray, about fifteen minutes afterwards.
" I really cannot tell, unless Neighbour Barton is
taking care of them. He threatened to do so, if I didn't
yoke them right off."
" Taking care of them! How taking care of them?"
" As to that, I am quite in the dark. Killing them,
perhaps.  He said they picked at his pigs' ears, and
drove them away when they were eating, and that he
wouldn't have it. He wanted me to yoke them right
off, but that I could not do, now, as all the hands are
busy. So, I suppose, he is engaged in the neighbourly
business of taking care of our geese."
"John! William! run over and see what Mr. Barton
is doing with my geese," said Mrs. Gray, in a quick and
anxious tone, to two little boys who were playing near.
The urchins scampered off, well pleased to perform
any errand.
" Oh, if he has dared to do anything to my geese, I
will never forgive him!" the good wife said, angrily.
" H-u-s-h, Sally! make no rash speeches. It is more
than probable that he has killed some two or three of




TrE EBUSHEL OF COrN.             277
them.  But never mind, if he has.  He will get over
his pet, and be sorry for it."
" Yes; but what good will his being sorry do me?
Will it bring my geese to life?"' Ahb, well, Sally, never mind. Let us wait until we
learn what all this disturbance is about."
In about ten minutes the children came home, bearing
the bodies of three geese, each without a head.
" Oh, is not that too much for human endurance?"
cried Mrs. Gray.  "Where did you find them?"
I"  We found them lying out in the road," said the
oldest of the two children, "and when we picked them
up, AMr. B]arton said,' Tell your father that I have yoked
his geese for him, to sa.ve him the trouble, as his hands
are all too busy to do it.' "
"I'd sue him for it!" said Mrs. Gray, in an indignant
tone.
"And what good would that do, Sally?"
"Why, it would do a great deal of good. It would
teach him better manners.  It would punish him; and
he deserves punishment."
"' And punish us into the bargain. We have lost three
geese, now, but we still have their good fat bodies to eat.
A lawsuit would cost us many geese, and not leave us
even so much as the feathers, besides giving us a world
of trouble and vexation. No, no, Sally; just let it rest,
and he will be sorry for it, I know."
" Sorry for it, indeed! And what good will his being
sorry for it do us, I should like to know? Next he will
kill a cow, and then we must be satisfied with his being
sorry for it! Now, I can tell you, that I don't believe




278            THE BUSHEL OF CORN.
in that doctrine. Nor do I believe anything about his
being sorry —the crabbed, ill-natured wretch!"
"Don't call hard names, Sally," said Farmer Gray,
in a mild, soothing tone. " Neighbour Barton was not
himself when he killed the geese. Like every other
angry person, he was a little insane, and did what he
would not have done had he been perfectly in his right
mind. When you are a little excited, you know, Sally,
that even you do and say unreasonable things."
"Me do and say unreasonable things!" exclaimed
Mrs. Gray, with a look and tone of indignant astonishment; " me do and say unreasonable things, when I am
angry! I don't understand you, Mr. Gray."
" May-be I can help you a little. Don't you remember how angry you were when Mr. Mellon's old brindle
got into our garden, and trampled over your lettuce-bed,
and how you struck her with the oven-pole, and knocked
off one of her horns?"
" But I didn't mean to do that, though."
"No; but then you were angry, and struck old Brindle with a right good will. And if Mr. Mellon had felt
disposed, he might have prosecuted for damages."
" But she had no business there."
"Of course not. Neither had our geese any business
in Neighbour Barton's yard. But, perhaps, I can help
you to another instance, that will be more conclusive, in
regard to your doing and saying unreasonable things,
when you are angry. You remember the patent churn?"
"Yes; but never mind about that."
"So you have not forgotten how unreasonable you
was about the churn. It wasn't good for anything-you




THE BUSHEL OF CORN.             279
knew it wasn't; and you'd never put a jar of cream into
it as long as you lived-that you wouldn't.  And yet,
on trial, you found that churn the best you had ever
used, and you wouldn't part with it on any consideration. So you see, Sally, that even you can say and do
unreasonable things, when you are angry, just as well
as Mr. Barton can. Let us then consider him a little,
and give him time to get over his angry fit. It will be
much better to do so."
Mrs. Gray saw that her husband was right, but still
she felt indignant at the outrage committed on her geese.
She did not, however, say anything about suing the
shoemaker-for old Brindle's head, from which the horn
had been knocked off, was not yet entirely well, and one
prosecution very naturally suggested the idea of another.
So she took her three fat geese, and after stripping off
their feathers, had them prepared for the table.
On the next morning, as Farmer Gray was going along
the road, he met the shoemaker, and as they had to pass
very near to each other, the farmer smiled, and bowed,
and spoke kindly.  Mr. Barton looked and felt very
uneasy, but Farmer Gray did not seem to remember the
unpleasant incident of the day before.
It was about eleven o'clock of the same day that one
of Farmer Gray's little boys came running to him, and
crying,
"Oh, father! father! Mr. Barton's hogs are in our
cornfield."
6 Then I must go and drive them out," said Mr. Gray,
in a quiet tone.
"'Drive them  out!" ejaculated Mrs. Gray;' drive




280            THE BUSHEL OF CORN.'em out, indeed! I'd shoot them, that's what I'd do I
I'd serve them as he served my geese yesterday."
"But that wouldn't bring the geese to life again,
Sally."
"I don't care if it wouldn't. It would be paying him
in his own coin, and that's all he deserves."
"You know what the Bible says, Sally, about grievous words, and they apply with stronger force to grievous
actions. No, no, I will return Neighbour Barton good
for evil. That is the best way. He has done wrong,
and I am sure is sorry for it. And as I wish him still
to remain sorry for so unkind and unneighbourly an
action, I intend making use of the best means for keeping him sorry."
"Then you will be revenged on him, anyhow."
"No, Sally-not revenged. I hope I have no such
feeling. For I am not angry with Neighbour Barton,
who has done himself a much greater wrong than he has
done me. But I wish him to see clearly how wrong he
acted, that he may do so no more. And then we shall
not have any cause to complain of him, nor he any to
be grieved, as I am sure he is, at his own hasty conduct.
But whilij am talking here, his hogs are destroying my
corn."
And so saying, Farmer Gray hurried off, towards his
cornfield. When he arrived there, he found four large
hogs tearing down the stalks, and pulling off and eating
the ripe ears of corn. They had already destroyed a
good deal. But he drove them out very calmly, and put
up the bars through which they had entered, and then
commenced gathering up the half-eaten ears of corn, and




THE BUSHEL OF CORN.             281
throwing them out into the lane for the hogs, that had
been so suddenly disturbed in the process of obtaining
a liberal meal.  As he was thus engaged, Mr. Barton,
who had from his own house seen the farmer turn the
hogs out of his cornfield, came hurriedly up,.and said,
"I am very sorry, Mr. Gray, indeed I am, that my
hogs have done this! I will most cheerfully pay you for
what they have destroyed."'4 Oh, never mind, Friend Barton. —never mind. Such
things will happen, occasionally.  My geese, you know,
annoy you very much, sometimes."
" Don't speak of it, Mr. Gray. They didn't annoy
me half as much as I imagined they did. But how much
corn do you think my hogs have destroyed? One bushel,
or two bushels? or how much? Let it be estimated, and
I will pay for it most cheerfully."
"' Oh, no.  Not for the world, Friend Barton.  Such
things will happen sometimes.  And, besides, some of
my men must have left the bars down, or your hogs
could never have got in. So don't think any more about
it.  It would be dreadful if one neighbour could not
bear a little with another."
All this cut poor iMr. Barton to the heart.  His own
ill-natured language and conduct, at a much smaller
trespass on his rights, presented itself to his mind, and
ideeply mortified him. After a few moments' silence, he
said,
"1 The fact is, Mr. Gray, I shall feel better if you will
let me pay for this corn.  My hogs should not be fattened at your expense, and I will not consent to its being done. So I shall insist on paying you for at least




282            TTHE BUSHEL OF CORN.
one bushel of corn, for I am sure they have destroyed
that much, if not more."
But Mr. Gray shook his head and smiled pleasantly,
as he replied,
" Don't think anything more about it, Neighbour Barton. It is a matter deserving no consideration. No
doubt my cattle have often trespassed on you and will
trespass on you again. Let us then bear and forbear."
All this cut the shoemaker still deeper, and he felt
still less at ease in mind after he parted from the farmer
than he did before. But on one thing he resolved, and
that was, to pay Mr. Gray for the corn which his hogs
had eaten.
"You told him your mind pretty plainly, I hope,"
said Mrs. Gray, as her husband came in.
"I certainly did," was the quiet reply.
"And I am glad you had spirit enough to do it! I
reckon he will think twice before he kills any more of
my geese!"
"I expect you are right, Sally. I don't think we
shall be troubled again."
"' And what did you say to him?  And what did he
say for himself?"
1 "Why he wanted very much to pay me for the corn
his pigs had eaten, but I wouldn't hear to it. I told
him that it made no difference in the world; that such
accidents would happen sometimes."
"' You did?"
"Certainly, I did."
L" And that's the way you spoke your mind to him?"
6' Precisely. And it had the desired effect. It made




THE BUSHEL OF CORN.            283
him feel ten times worse than if I had spoken angrily
to him. He is exceedingly pained at what he has done,
and says he will never rest until he has paid for that
corn. But I am resolved never to take a cent for it.
It will be the best possible guarantee I can have for his
kind and neighbourly conduct hereafter."
"Well, perhaps you are right," said Mrs. Gray, after
a few moments of thoughtful silence.  "I like Mrs.
Barton very much-and now I come to think of it, I
should not wish to have any difference between our
families."
"And so do I like Mr. Barton. He has read a good
deal, and I find it very pleasant to sit with him, occasionally, during the long winter evenings.  His only
fault is his quick temper-but I am sure it is much better for us to bear with and soothe that, than to oppose
and excite it, and thus keep both his family and our own
in hot water."
"You are certainly right," replied Mrs. Gray; "and
I only wish that I could always think and feel as you
do. But I am a little quick, as they say."
"And so is Mr. Barton.  Now just the same consideration that you would desire others to have for you,
should you exercise towards Mr. Barton, or any one else
whose hasty temper leads him into words or actions that,
in calmer and more thoughtful moments, are subjects
of regret."
On the next day, while Mr. Gray stood in his own
door, from which he could see over the two or three
acres of ground that the shoemaker cultivated, he observed two of his cows in his neighbour's cornfield,




284             THE BUSE-I  OF CORN.
browsing away in quite a contented manner.  As he
was going to call one of the farm hands to go over and
drive them out, he perceived that Mr. Barton had become aware of the mischief that was going on, and had
already started for the field of corn.'"Now we will see the effect of yesterday's lesson,"
said the farmer to himself; and then paused to observe
the manner of the shoemaker towards his cattle in driving them out of the field.  In a few minutes Mr. Barton
came up to the cows, but, instead of throwing stones at
them, or striking them with a stick, he merely drove
them out in a quiet way, and put up the bars through
which they had entered.
" Admirable!" ejaculated Farmer Gray.' What is admirable?" asked his wife, who came
within hearing distance at the moment.
"Why the lesson I gave our friend Barton yesterday.
It works admirably."
" How so?"
" Two of our cows were in his cornfield a few minutes
ago, destroying the corn at a rapid rate."
"Well! what did he do to them?" in a quick, anxious
tone.
"He drove then out."
" Did he stone them, or beat them?'
"Oh no.  He was gentle as a child towards them."
"You are certainly jesting."
"Not I.  Friend Barton has not forgotten that his
pigs were in my cornfield yesterday, and that I turned
them out without hurting a hair of one of them.  Now,
suppose I had got angry and beaten his pigs, what do




THE BUSHEL OF CORN.             2,5.5
yOU think the result would have been? Why, it is much
more than probable that one or both of our fine cows
would have been at this moment in the condition of Mr.
Mlellon's old Brindle."
"I wish you wouldn't say anything more about old
Brindle," said Mrs. Gray, trying to laugh, while her
face grew red in spite of her efforts to keep down her
feelings.
"Well, I -won't, Sally, if it worries you. But it is
such a good illustration that I can't help using it sometimes."
" I am glad he didn't hurt the cows," said Mrs. Gray,
after a pause.
"'And so am I, Sally.  Glad on more than one account. It shows that he has made an effort to keep
down his hasty, irritable temper —and if he can do that,
it will be a favour conferred on the whole neighbourhood, for almost every one complains, at times, of this
fault in his character."
" It is certainly the best policy, to keep fair weather
with him," Mrs. Gray remarked, "for a man of his temper could annoy us a good deal."
"' That word policy, Sally, is not a good word," replied her husband.  "It conveys a thoroughly selfish
idea.  Now, we ought to look for some higher motives
of action than mere policy-motives grounded in correct
and unselfish principles."
" But what other motive but policy could we possibly
have for putting up with Mr. Barton's outrageous conduct?"
"Other, and far higher motives, it seems to me. We




286             THE BUSHEL OF CORN.
should reflect that Mr. Barton has naturally ta hasty
temper, and that when excited he does things for which
he is sorry afterwards-and that, in nine cases out of
ten, he is a greater sufferer from those outbreaks than
any one else. In our actions towards him, then, it is a
much higher and better motive for us to be governed by
a desire to aid him in the correction of this evil, than to
look merely to the protection of ourselves from its effects.
Do you not think so?"' Yes. It does seem so."'"When thus moved to action, we are, in a degree,
regarding the whole neighbourhood, for the evil of which
we speak affects all.  And in thus suffering ourselves to
be governed by such elevated and unselfish motives, we
gain all that we possibly could have gained under the
mere instigation of policy-and a great deal more. But
to bring the matter into a still narrower compass. In all
our actions towards him and every one else, we should
be governed by the simple consideration-is it right?
If a spirit of retaliation be not right, then it cannot be
indulged without a mutual injury. Of course, then, it
should never prompt us to action. If cows or hogs get
into my field or garden, and destroy my property, who
is to blame most? Of course, myself. I should have
kept my fences in better repair, or my gate closed. The
animals, certainly, are not to blame, for they follow only
the promptings of nature; and their owners should not
be censured, for they know nothing about it. It would
then be very wrong for me to injure both the animals
and their owners for my own neglect, would it not?"
"Yes,-I suppose it would."




THE BUSHEL OF CORN.             287
"So, at least, it seems to me.  Then, of course, [
ought not to injure Neighbour Barton's cows or hogs,
even if they do break into my cornfield or garden, simply because it would be wrong to do so. This is the
principle upon which we should act, and not from any
selfish policy."
After this there was no trouble about Farmer Gray's
geese or cattle. Sometimes the geese would get among
Mr. Barton's hogs, and annoy them while eating, but it
did not worry him as it did formerly.  If they became
too troublesome he would drive them away, but not by
throwing sticks and stones at them as he once did.
Late in the -fall the shoemaker brought in his bill for
work.  It was a pretty large bill, with sundry credits.
"Pay-day has come at last," said Farmer Gray, goodhumouredly, as the shoemaker presented his account.
"Well, let us see 1" and he took the bill to examine it
item after item.
" What is this?" he asked, reading aloud.
"' Cr. 1By one/bushel of corn, fifty cents.'"
I' It's some corn I had from you."
"I reckon you must be mistaken. You never got any
corn from me."
" Oh, yes I did. I remember it perfectly. It is all
right."
"But when did you get it, Friend Barton?  I am
sure that I haven't the most distant recollection of it."
"My hogs got it," the shoemaker,said, in rather a
low and hesitating tone.
"' Your hogs i"




288             THE BUSHEL OF CORN.
" Yes. Don't you remember when my hogs broke
into your field, and destroyed your corn?"
"' Oh, dear! is that it?  Oh, no, no, Friend Barton!
I cannot allow that item in the bill."
"6 Yes, but you must. It is perfectly just, and I shall
never rest until it is paid."
"I can't, indeed. You couldn't help the hogs getting
into my field; and then you know, Friend Barton (lowering his tone), my geese were very troublesome!"
The shoemaker blushed and looked confused; but
Farmer Gray slapped him familiarly on the shoulder,
and said, in a lively, cheerful way,
"Don't think any more about it, Friend Barton! And
hereafter let us endeavour to'do as we would be done
by,' and then everything will go on as smooth as clockwork."' But you will allow that item in the bill?" the shoemaker urged perseveringly.
II Oh, no, I couldn't do that. I should think it wrong
to make you pay for my own or some of my men's negligence in leaving the bars down."
"But then (hesitatingly), those geese —I killed three.
Let it go for them."
"If you did kill them, we ate them.  So that is even.
No, no, let the past be forgotten, and if it makes better
neighbours and friends of us, we never need regret what
has happened."
Farmer Gray-remained firm, and the bill was settled,
omitting the item of " corn."  From that time forth he
never had a better neighbour than the shoemaker. The
cows, hogs, and geese of both would occasionally tres



THE ACCOUNT.                   289
pass, but the trespassers were always kindly removed.
The lesson was not lost on either of them —for even
Farmer Gray used to feel, sometimes, a little annoyed
when his neighbour's cattle broke into his field.  But in
teaching the shoemaker a lesson, he had taken a little
of it himself.
THE ACCOUNT.
THE clock from the city hall struck one;
The merchant's task was not yet done;
He knew the old year was passing away,
And his accounts must all be settled that day:
He must know for a truth how much he should win,
So fast the money was rolling in.
He took the last cash-book from the pile,
And he summed it up with a happy smile;
For a just and upright man was he,
Dealing with all most righteously,
And now he was sure how much he should win,
How fast the money was rolling in.
He heard not the soft touch on the doorHe heard not the tread on the carpeted floorSo still was her coming, he thought him alone,
Till she spake in a sweet and silvery tone:
"Thou knowest not yet how much thou shalt winHow fast the money is rolling in."
Then from'neath her white, fair arm, she took
A golden-clasped, and beautiful book19




290      CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTH.
"'Tis my account thou hast to pay,
In the coming of the New Year's dayRead-ere thou knowest how much thou shalt win,
fIow fast the money is rolling in."
He open'd the clasps with a trembling hand —
Therein was Charity's firm demand:
"To the widow, the orphan, the needy, the poor,
Much owest thou of thy yearly store;
Give, ere thou knowest how much thou shalt winWhile fast the money is rolling in."
The merchant took from his box of gold
A goodly sum for the lady bold;
I-Iis heart was richer than e'er before,
As she bore the prize from the chamber door.
Ye who would know how much ye can win,
Give, when the money is rolling in.
CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTH.
"IT is vain to urge, Brother Robert.  Out into the
world I must go.  The impulse is on me.  I should die
of inaction here."
"You need not be inactive.  There is work to do.  I
shall never be idle."
" And such work! Delving in, and grovelling close to
the ground. And for what? Oh, no, Robert. My ambition soars beyond your' quiet cottage in a sheltered
vale.' My appetite craves something more than simple
herbs, and water from the brook. I have set my heart




CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WTEALTH.        291
on attaining wealth; and where there is a will there is
always a way."
" Contentment is better than wealth."
"A proverb for drones."
"No, William, it is a proverb for the wise."'" Be it for the wise or simple, as commonly understood, it is no proverb for me. As a poor plodder along
the way of life, it were impossible for me to know content. So urge no farther, Robert. I am going out into
the world a wealth-seeker, and not until wealth is gained
do I purpose to return."
"' What of Ellen, Robert?"
The young man turned quickly towards his brother,
visibly disturbed, and fixed his eyes upon him with an
earnest expression.
" I love her as my life," he said, with a strong emphasis on his words.
" Do you love wealth more than life, William?"
" Robert!"
"If you love Ellen as your life, and leave her for the
sake of getting riches, then you must love money more
than life."
" Don't talk to me after this fashion.  I love her tenderly and truly.  I am going forth as well for her sake
as my own.  In all the good fortune that comes as a
meed of effort, she will be the sharer."
"You will see her before you leave us?"
" No; I will neither pain her nor myself by a parting
interview. Send her this letter and this ring."
A few hours later, and the brothers stood with tightlygrasped hands, gazing into each other's faces.




292      CONTENTAMENT BETTER TITAN WEALTtH.
"Farewell, Robert."
"Farewell, William.  T[hink of the old homestead as
still your home. Though it is mine, in the division of
our patrimony, let your heart come back to it as yours.
Think of it as home; and, should Fortune cheat you
with the apples of Sodom, return to it again. Its doors
will ever be open, and its hearth-fire bright for you as
of old. Farewell!"
And they turned from each other, one going out into
the restless world, an eager seeker for its wealth and
honours; the other to linger among the pleasant places
dear to him by every association of childhood, there to
fill up the measure of his days —not idly, for he was no
drone in the social hive.
On the evening of that day two maidens sat alone,
each in the sanctuary of her:0own chamber.  There was
a warm glow on the cheeks of one, and a glad light in
her eyes. Pale was the other's face, and wet her drooping lashes. And she that' sorrowed held an open letter
in her hand.  It was fill of tender words; but the
writer loved wealth more thein the maiden, and had gone
forth to seek the mistress of his soul. He would "' come
back," but when?  Ah, what a veil of uncertainty was
upon the future! Poor, stricken heart!  The other
maiden-she of the glowing cheeks and dancing eyesheld also a letter in her hand.  It wnas from the brother
of the wealth-seeker; and it was also full of loving
words; and it said that, on the morrow, he would come
to bear her as his bride to his pleasant home. Happy
maiden!




CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTH.        O93
Ten years have passed. And what of the wealthseeker? Has he won the glittering prize? What of the
pale-faced maiden he left in tears? Has he returned to
her? Does she share now his wealth and honour? Not
since the day he went forth from the home of his childhood has a word of intelligence from the wanderer been
received; and to those he left behind him he is as one
who has passed the final bourne. Yet he still dwells
among the living.
In a far-away, sunny clime stands a stately mansion.
We will not linger to describe the elegant interior, to
hold up before the reader's imagination a picture of
rural beauty, exquisitely heightened by art, but enter
its spacious hall, and pass up to one of its most luxurious chambers. How hushed and solemn the pervading
atmosphere! The inmates, few in number, are grouped
around one on whose white forehead Time's trembling
finger has written the word " Death 1" Over her bends
a manly form. There-his face is towards you. Ah!
you recognise the wanderer-the wealth-seeker.  What
does he here?  What to him is the dying one?  His
wife! And has he, then, forgotten the maiden whose
dark lashes lay wet on her pale cheeks for many hours
after she read his parting words? He has not forgotten, but been false to her. Eagerly sought he the prize,
to contend for which he went forth. Years came and
departed; yet still hope mocked him with ever-attractive
and ever-fading illusions. To-day he stood with his
hand just ready to seize the object of his wishes, tomorrow a shadow mocked him. At last, in an evil hour,




294     CONTENTMENT BETTER TI-IAN WEALTH.
he bowed down his manhood prostrate even to the dust
in woman worship, and took to himself a bride, rich in
golden attractions, but poorer as a woman than ever the
beggar at her father's gate. What a thorn in his side
she proved! A thorn ever sharp and ever piercing.
The closer he attempted to draw her to his bosom, the
deeper went the points into his own, until, in the anguish
of his soul, again and again he flung her passionately
from him.
Five years of such a life! Oh, what is there of
earthly good to compensate therefor?  But in this last
desperate throw did the worldling gain the wealth, station, and honour he coveted? He had wedded the only
child of a man whose treasure might be counted by hundreds of thousands; but, in doing so, he had failed to
secure the father's approval or confidence. The stern
old man regarded him as a mercenary interloper, and
ever treated him as such. For five years, therefore, he
fretted and chafed in the narrow prison whose gilded
bars his own hands had forged. How often, during that
time, had his heart wandered back to the dear old home,
and the beloved ones with whom he had passed his early
years! And, ah! how many, many times came between
him and the almost hated countenance of his wife the
gentle, the loving face of that one to whom he had been
false! How often her soft blue eyes rested on his own!
How often he started and looked up suddenly, as if her
sweet voice came floating on the air!
And so the years moved on, the chain galling more
deeply, and a bitter sense of humiliation as well as bondage robbing him of all pleasure in his life.




CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTH.       295
Thus it is with him when, after ten years, we find him
waiting, in the chamber of death, for the stroke that is
to break the fetters that so long have bound him. It
has fallen. He is free again. In dying, the sufferer
made no sign. Suddenly she plunged into the dark profound, so impenetrable to mortal eyes, and as the turbid
waves closed, sighing over her, he who had called her
-wife turned from the couch on which her frail body remained, with an inward "Thank God! I am  a man
again i"
One more bitter dreg yet remained for his cup. Not
a week had gone by ere the father of his dead wife spoke
to him these cutting words:" You were nothing to me while my daughter lived —,
you are less than nothing to me now. It was my wealth,
not my child you loved. She has passed away. What
affection would have given to her, dislike will never bestow on you.  Henceforth we are strangers."
When the next sun went down on that stately mansion, which the wealth-seeker had coveted, he was a wanderer again —poor, humiliated, broken in spirit.
How bitter had been the mockery of all his early
hopes! How terrible the punishment he had suffered!
One more eager, almost fierce struggle with alluring
fortune, with which the worldling came near steeping
his soul in crime, and then fruitless ambition died in his
bosonm.
"' My brother said well," he murmured, as a ray of
light fell suddenly on the darkness of his spirit; "'contentment is better than wealth.' Dear brother! Dear




296     CONTENTIMENT BETTER T-IAN WEALTH
old home!  Sweet Ellen! Ah, why did I leave you?
Too late! too late! A cup, full of the wine of life, was
at my lips; but I turned my head away, asking for a
more fiery and exciting draught. How vividly comes
before me now that parting scene! I am looking into
my brother's face. I feel the tight grasp of his hand.
His voice is in my ears. Dear brother! And his parting words, I hear them now, even more earnestly than
when they were first spoken.'Should fortune cheat
you with the apples of Sodom, return to your home
again. Its doors will ever be open, and its hearth-fires
bright for you as of old.' Ah, do the fires still burn?
How many years have passed since I went forth! And
Ellen?  Even if she be living and unchanged in her
affections, I can never lay this false heart at her feet.
Her look of love would smite me as with a whip of scorpions."
The step of time has fallen so lightly on the flowery
path of those to whom contentment was a higher boon
than wealth, but few footmarks were visible. Yet there
had been changes in the old homestead. As the smiling
years went by, each, as it looked in at the cottage window, saw the home circle widening, or new beauty
crowning the angel brows of happy children. No thorn
to his side had Robert's gentle wife proved. As time
passed on, closer and closer was she drawn to his bosom;
yet never a point had pierced him. Their home was a
type of Paradise.
It is near the close of a summer day. The evening
meal is spread, and they are about gathering round the
table, when a stranger enters. His words are vague




'CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTH.       297t
and brief, his manner singular, his air slightly mysterious. Furtive, yet eager glances go from face to face.
"Are these all your children?" he asks, surprise and
admiration mingling in his tones.
"All ours, and, thank God, the little flock is yet unbroken."
The stranger averts his face.  He is disturbed by
emotions that it is impossible to conceal.
"' Contentment is better than wealth," he murmurs.'" Oh that I had comprehended the truth."
The words were not meant for others; but the utterance had been too distinct. They have reached the ears
of Robert, who instantly recognises in the stranger his
long-wandering, long-mourned brother.
" William!"
The stranger is on his feet. A moment or two the
brothers stand gazing at each other, then tenderly embrace.'" William!"
How the stranger starts and trembles! He had not
seen, in the quiet maiden, moving among and ministering to the children so unobtrusively, the one he had
parted from years before-the one to whom he had been
so false. But her voice has startled his ears with the
familiar tones of yesterday.'"Ellen i"  Here is an instant oblivion of all the
intervening years. He has leaped back over the gulf,
and stands now as he stood ere ambition and lust for
gold lured him away from the side of his first and only
love. It is well both for him and the faithful maiden
that he cannot so forget the past as to take her in his




299.8.       RAINBOWS EVERIYWHERE.
arms and clasp her almost wildly to his heart. But for
this, conscious shame would have betrayed his deeplyrepented perfidy.
And here we leave them, reader.  "Contentment is
better than wealth." So the worldling proved, after a
bitter experience, which may you be spared! It is far
better to realize a truth perceptibly, and thence make
it a rule of action, than to prove its verity in a life of
sharp agony. But how few are able to rise into such a
realization!
RAINBOWS EVERYWHERE.
BENDING over a steamer's side, a face looked down
into the clear, green depths of Lake Erie, where the
early moonbeams were showering rainbows through the
dancing spray, and chasing the white-crusted waves with
serpents of gold. The face was clouded with thought,
a shade too sombre, yet there glowed over it something
like a reflection from the iris-hues beneath. A voice of
musing was borne away into the purple and vermilion
haze that twilight began to fold over the bosom of the
lake.' Rainbows! Ye follow me everywhere! Gloriously
your arches arose from the horizon of the prairies, when
the storm-lking and the god of day met within them to
proclaim a treaty and an alliance. You spanned the




RAINBOWS EVERYWHERE.             299
Father of Waters with a bridge that put to the laugh
man's clumsy structures of chain, and timber, and wire.
You floated in a softening veil before the awful grandeur
of Niagara; and here you gleam out from the light foam
in the steamboat's wake.
"Grateful am I for you, oh rainbows,.! for the clouds,
the drops, and the sunshine of which you are wrought,
and for the gift of vision through which my spirit quaffs
the wine of your beauty.
" Grateful also for faith, which hangs an ethereal hal-o
over the fountains of earthly joy, and wraps grief in
robes so resplendent that, like Iris of the olden time,
she is at once recognised as a messenger from Heaven.
" Blessings on sorrow, whether past or to come! for
in the clear shining of heavenly love, every tear-drop
becomes a pearl. The storm of affliction crushes weak
human nature to the dust; the glory of the eternal
light overpowers it; but, in the softened union of both,
the stricken spirit beholds the bow of promise, and
knows that it shall not utterly be destroyed. When we
say that for us there is nothing but darkness and tears,
it is because we are weakly brooding over the shadows
within us. If we dared look up, and face our sorrow,
we should see upon it the seal of God's love, and be
calm.
"' Grant me, Father of Light, whenever my eyes droop
heavily with the rain of grief, at least to see the reflection of thy signet-bow upon the waves over which I am
sailing unto thee. And through the steady toiling of
the voyage, through the smiles and tears of every day's




300            R.AINBOWS EVERYWHIERE.
progress, let the iris-flash appear, even as now it bright.
ens the spray that rebounds from the labouring wheels."
The voice died away into darkness which returned no
answer to its murmurings. The face vanished from the
boat's side, but a flood of light was pouring into the
serene depths of a trusting soul.
TliE END.




(1)
In the preparation of the following bools it has been the aim of the publishers to
produce a series of volumes of the utmost elegance, each containing matter of an
anstructive, entertaining, and permanent character, in every respect suitable for pre.
sents and the family circle.
VIIE FLORA. OFFERING: Comprising the Language and Poetry of Flowers.
With six coloured illustrations from original drawings. 300 pp., 12mo.,
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Do., full gilt.1.50
THE BOOK OF PARLOUR GAMES: Containing Explanations of the most approved Games of Society; viz.. Games of Motion, Attention, Memory, Mystification and Fun, Gallantry and Wit, Forfeits, Penalties, &c., &c. Translated
from the French. With six illustrations. 12mo., muslin.        75
Do., full gilt.... 1.25
THE LADY'S ORACLE: An Elegant Pastime for Social Parties and the Family
Circle. With six illustrations. 250 pp., 12mo., muslin.           75
Do., full gilt                                                  1.25
This work is a prize for young and old, and serves to pass an evening in
the happiest manner. Some of the answers in the " Lady's Oracle" are exquisitely humorous, others sentimental; all are entertaining.
THE YOUNG LADY'S MENTOR: A Guide to the Formation of Character. With
six illustrations. 288 pp., 12mo., muslin..                          75
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The "Mentor" is a high-toned and elegant preceptive work on education,
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THE LADY'S COMPANION: or, Sketches of Life, Manners, and Morals at the
present day. With six illustrations. 288 pp., 12mo., muslin.       75
Do., full gilt..1.25
The " Companion" abounds with useful essays on the various themes which
are calculated to interest ladies, and interesting tales illustrative of female
duties, cares, and enjoyments.                                        m
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. A new edition, with ten illustrations by Devereux. 288 pp., 12mo., muslin.75
Do., full gilt.1.25
PAUL AND VIRGINIA; With a Memoir of the Author. A new edition, with
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XZ-We supply the last six volumes named above, comprising "TIlE YOUNG
LADIES' PARLOUR LIBRARY," in a neat case, and of uniform colour. 6
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SUNSIINE ON DAILY PATHS; or, the Revelation of Beauty and Wonder in
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eight original illustrations. 452 pages, large 12mo., muslin... $1.01,
Published by PECK & BLISS, Philadelphia.




(2)
STRAY LEAVES FROM FAIRY LAND, for Boys and Girls. New Translation
from;thle Gellrma of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. With six beautiful illustrations by Van ingen & Snyder. 12mo., muslin.                       75
Do., full gilt.....                  1.25
T'HE CAMP FIRES OF NAPOLEON: Comprising the most Brilliant Achievements of the Emperor and his Marshals.  Illustrated with one hundred
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Do., embossed, marble edge..                          2.50
The six following works (just issued), edited by the universally esteemed writer,
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THE WEDDING GUEST: A Friend of the Bride and Bridegroom.
WORDS OF CIEE lR; For the Toiling and the Sorrowing.
OUR HOMES: Their Joys, and Cares, and Duties.
TIHE MOTHER'S RULE; or, the Right Way and the Wrong Way.
FRIENDS AND NEIGHIBOURS; or, Two Ways of Living in the World.
THE TRUE PATH; and how to Walk Therein.
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HEROES AND HUNTERS OF THE WEST; Comprising Sketches and Adventures of Boone, Kenton, Brady, Logan, Whitzel, Fleehart, Hughes, Johnston,
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ROMANCE OF TRAVEL; Sketches and Adventures in Foreign Countries, and
Descriptions of Manners, Customs, and Places. With about one hundred
illustrations. 12mo., 300 pages, muslin, gilt back.....    75
THRILLING STORIES OF FOREST AND FRONTIER. With about one hundred illustrations. 12mo., 300 pages, muslin, gilt back....    75
&DVENTURES OF HUNTERS AND TRAVELLERS, and Narratives of Border
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VOYAGE AND VENTURE; or, the Pleasures and Perils of a Sailor's Life. Near
one hundred illustrations. 300 pages, 12mo., muslin....    75
I-OUSEIIOLD NARRATIVES, for the Family Circle. Profusely illustrated. 300
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MIINIATURE JUVENILES, 64mo., UNIFORM  SERIES.
These little volumes contain each 48 engravings, are neatly bound in gilt cloth.
with gilt edges, and are a very popular series of juvenile books.
CHILD'S PICTURE BIBLE; PICTURE TESTAMENT; NATURAL HISTORY OF
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WATTS'S DIVINE SONGS; COUNTRY WALKS; CITY SIGHTS; LITTLE HISTORY
OF ENGLAND; FAMOUS MEN OF BRITAIN; LITTLE HISTORY OF THE UNITF.D
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One of each of the above in neat cases, making the most attractive and convenient series of Juveniles published. 16 vols..                   $3.00
Published by PECK & BLISS, Philadelphia.




The fillsOving( twelve  3olues (just published) contain the sme number of page
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MILITARY HEROES OF AMERICA; NAVAL HIEROES OF AMERICA; INDIANS
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OF AMERICA; BOOK OF FAMOUS KINGS AND QUEENS; BOOK OP TRADES;
BOOK OF THE NATIONS; BOOK OF SPORTS; SCENES IN EUROPE; FOREST
SCENES.
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LOVECHILD'S NEW  JUVENILE LIBRARY, Twelve Volumes.  With beautiful
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2. The Indian Chief and the Little White Boy.
3. Archy Sonrmerville, and other Stories.
4. Charley's Pets, a Story for Young People.
5. The Kind Father, and other Stories.
6. Charley's Museum, a Story for'Young People.
7. The Little Pilgrim's Progress.
S. The Little Rsop.
9. The Little Robinson Crusoe.
10. The Little Pilgrim's Progress, Part II.
11. Country Sights, for Little Folks.
12. City Sights, for Little Folks.
A new series of 16mo. Juveniles, convenient for wholesale or retail sales.
Boxes of One Dozen, red and blue muslin.                              $2.40
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THE ODD-FELLOWS' MANUAL: Illustrating the IIistory, Principles, and Government of the Order, and the Instructions and Duties of every Degree,
Station, and Office in Odd-Fellowship. With directions for Laying CornerStones, dedicating Cemeteries, Chapels, Halls, and other Public Edifices, marshalling Funeral and other Processions. Forms for Petitions, Reports, &c.
Also Odes, with music for various occasions. By P. G. Aaron B. Grosh.
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FIRST PRINCIPLES OF CHEMISTRY, for the use of Colleges and Schools. By
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ELEMENTS OF ALGEBRA; Being a School Edition of Day's large Algebra.
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KEY TO ELEMENTS OF ALGEBRA; containing the Answers, -with numerous
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ELEMENTS OF GEOMETRY; Being a School Edition of Legendre's Geometry,
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DAY'S LARGE ALGEBRA; Being the first part of a course of MBathema-tics,
adapted to the method of instruction in the American Colleges. Ne1w revised
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of Yale College. Arabesque back.                                      1.25
Published by PECK & BLISS, Philadelphia,




(4)
DAY'S MATlHEM3ATICS; Containinl the three parts in one volume..   2.25
BRIDGE'S CONIC SECTIONS; Used as a text-book in Yale College..    75
TYPOGRAPHIA; OR, TItE PRINTER'S INSTRLUCTOR: A Brief Sketch of the
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OLNEY'S HISTORY OF TIHE UNITED STATES. New edition...   37
TIHE YOUNG SPEAKER; or, Introduction to the United States Speaker. By J. E.
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GREENFIELD'S GREEK TESTAMENT (Polymicrian), carefully revised and read
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SALLUST DELPHINI. 12mo., half roan....  75
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(Great Primer Type.)
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