Lessons in Life, For All Who Will Read Them
by
T.S. Arthur
Part 3 out of 4
told, would not make mine. I have lived long enough to get a cool
head and understand something of the springs of action that lie in
the human heart. The best, at best, have little to be proud of, and
much to lament over, in the matter of high and honourable impulses.
It is a far easier thing to do wrong than right; far easier to be
led away by our evil passions than to compel ourselves always to
regard justice and judgment in our dealings with others. Test
yourself by this rule. Would your feelings for Marston be the same
if he had only acted toward another as he has acted toward you? Do
not say 'yes' from a hasty impulse. Reflect coolly about it. If not,
then it is not so much a regard to principle, as your regard to
yourself, that causes you to be so bitterly offended."
This plain language was not relished by the young man. It was
touching the very thing in him that Marston had offended--his
self-love. He replied, coldly--
"As for that, I am very well satisfied with my own reasons for being
displeased with Marston; and am perfectly willing to be responsible
for my own action in this case. I will change very much from my
present feelings, if I ever have any thing more to do with him."
"God give you a better mind then," replied Mr. Welford. "It is the
best wish I can express for you."
The two young men who were now at variance with each other had been
friends for many years. As they entered the world, the hereditary
character of each came more fully into external manifestation, and
revealed traits not before seen, and not always the most agreeable
to others. Edward Marston had his faults, and so had Herbert Arnest:
the latter quite as many as the former. There was a mutual
observation of these, and a mutual forbearance towards each other
for a considerable time, although each thought more than was
necessary about things in the other that ought to be corrected. A
fault with Marston was quickness of temper and a disposition to say
unpleasant, cutting things, without due reflection. But he had a
forgiving disposition, and very many amiable and excellent
qualities. Arnest was also quick-tempered. His leading defect of
character was self-esteem, which made him exceedingly sensitive in
regard to the conduct of others as affecting the general estimation
of himself. He could not bear to have any freedom taken with him, in
company, even by his best friend. He felt it to be humiliating, if
not degrading. He, therefore, was a man of many dislikes, for one
and another were every now and then doing or saying something that
hurt more or less severely his self-esteem.
Marston had none of this peculiar weakness of his friend. He rarely
thought about the estimation in which he was held, and never let the
mere opinions of others influence him. But he was careful not to do
any thing that violated his own self-respect.
The breach between the young men occurred thus. The two friends were
in company with several others, and there was present a young lady
in whose eyes Arnest wished to appear in as favourable a light as
possible. He was relating an adventure in which he was the principal
hero, and, in doing so, exaggerated his own action so far as to
amuse Marston, who happened to know all about the circumstances, and
provoke from him some remarks that placed the whole affair in rather
a ridiculous light, and caused a laugh at Arnest's expense.
The young man's self-esteem was deeply wounded. Even the lady, for
whose ears the narrative had been more especially given, laughed
heartily, and made one or two light remarks; or, rather, heavy ones
for the ears of Arnest. He was deeply disturbed though at the time
he managed to conceal almost entirely what he felt.
Marston, however, saw that his thoughtless words had done more (sic)
than he had intended them to do, both upon the company and upon the
sensitive mind of his friend. He regretted having uttered them and
waited only until he should leave the company with Arnest, to
express his sorrow for what he had done. But his friend did not give
him this opportunity, for he managed to retire alone, thus
expressing to Marston the fact that he was seriously offended.
Early the next morning, Marston called at the residence of his
friend, in order to make an apology for having offended him; but he
happened not to be at home. On arriving at his office, he found a
note from Arnest, couched in the most offensive terms. The language
was such as to extinguish all desire or intention to apologize.
"Henceforth we are strangers," he said, as he thrust the note aside.
An hour afterward, they met on the street, looked coldly into each
other's face, and passed without even a nod. That act sealed the
record of estrangement.
Mr. Wellford was an old gentleman who was well acquainted with both
of the young men, and esteemed them for the good qualities they
possessed. When he heard of the occurrence just related, he was much
grieved, and sought to heal the breach that had been made; but
without success. Arnest's self-esteem had been sorely wounded, and
he would not forgive what he considered a wanton outrage. Marston
felt himself deeply insulted by the note he had received, and
maintained that he would forfeit his self-respect were he to hold
any intercourse whatever with a man who could, on so small a
provocation, write such a scandalous letter. Thus the matter stood;
wounded self-esteem on one side, and insulted self-respect on the
other, not only maintaining the breach, but widening it every day.
Mr Wellford used his utmost influence with his young friends to bend
them from their anger, but he argued the matter in vain. The voice
of pride was stronger than the voice of reason.
Months were suffered to go by, and even years to elapse, and still
they were as strangers. Circumstances threw them constantly
together; they met in places of business; they sat in full view of
each other in church on the holy Sabbath; they mingled in the same
social circles; the friends of one were the friends of the other;
but they rarely looked into each other's face, and never spoke. Did
this make them happier? No! For, "_If ye forgive not men their
trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive your
trespasses_." Did they feel indifferent toward each other? Not by
any means! Arnest still dwelt on and magnified the provocation he
had received, but thought that the expression of his indignation had
not been of a character to give as great offence to Marston as it
had done. And Marston, as time passed, thought more and more lightly
of the few jesting words he had spoken, and considered them less and
less provocation for the insulting note he had received, which he
still had, and sometimes turned up and read.
The old friends were forced to think of each other often, for both
were rising in the world, and rising into general esteem and
respectability. The name of the one was often mentioned with
approbation in the presence of the other; and it sometimes happened
that they were thrown together in such a way as to render their
position toward each other really embarrassing: as, for instance,
one was called to preside at a public meeting, and the other chosen
secretary. Neither could refuse, and there had to be an official
intercourse between them; it was cold and formal in the extreme; and
neither could see as he looked into the eyes of the other, a glimmer
of the old light of friendship.
Mr. Wellford was present at this meeting, and marked the fact that
the intercourse between Arnest and Marston was official only--that
they did not unbend to each other in the least. He was grieved to
see it, for he knew the good qualities of both, and he had a high
respect for them.
"This must not be," said he to himself, as he walked thoughtfully
homeward. "They are making themselves unhappy, and preventing a
concert of useful efforts for good in society, and all for nothing.
I will try again to reconcile them; perhaps I may be more successful
than before."
So, on the next day, the old gentleman made it his business to call
upon Arnest, who expressed great pleasure in meeting him.
"I noticed," said Mr. Wellford, after he had conversed some time,
and finally introduced the subject of the meeting on the previous
evening, "that your intercourse with the secretary was exceedingly
formal; in fact, hardly courteous."
"I don't like Marston, as you are very well aware," replied Arnest.
"In which feeling you stand nearly alone, friend Arnest. Mr. Marston
is highly esteemed by all who know him."
"All don't know him as I do."
"Perhaps others know him better than you do; there may lie the
difference."
"If a man knocks me down, I know the weight of his arm much better
than those who have never felt it."
"Still nursing your anger, still harbouring unkind thoughts! Forgive
and forget, my friend--forgive and forget; no longer let the sun go
down upon your wrath."
"I can forgive, Mr. Wellford--I do forgive; for Heaven knows I wish
him no harm; but I cannot forget: that is asking too much."
"You do not forget, because you will not forgive," replied the old
gentleman. "Forgive, and you will soon forget. I am sure you will
both be happier in forgetting than you can be in remembering the
past."
But Arnest shook his head, remarking, as he so--"I would rather let
things remain as they are. At least, I cannot stoop to any
humiliating overtures for a reconciliation. When Marston outraged my
feelings so wantonly, I wrote him a pretty warm expression of my
sentiments in regard to his conduct. This gave him mortal offence. I
do not now remember what I wrote, but nothing, certainly, to have
prevented his coming forward and apologizing for his conduct; but he
did not choose to do this, and there the matter rests. I cannot
recall the angry rebuke I gave him, for it was no doubt just."
"A man who writes a letter in a passion, and afterwards forgets what
he has written," said Mr. Wellford, "may be sure that he has said
what his sober reason cannot approve. If you could have the letter
you then sent before you now, I imagine that you would no longer
wonder that Marston was offended."
"That is impossible; without doubt, he burned my note the moment he
received it."
Mr. Wellford tried in vain to induce Arnest to consent to forget
what was past; but he affirmed that this was impossible, and that he
had no wish to renew an acquaintance with his old friend.
About the same time that this interview took place, Marston was
alone, thinking with sad and softened feelings of the past. The
letter of Arnest was before him; he had turned it over by accident.
"He could not have been himself when he wrote this," he thought. It
was the first time he had permitted himself to think so. "My words
must have stung him severely, lightly as I uttered them, and with no
intention to wound. This matter ought not to have gone on so long.
Friends are not so plentiful that we may carelessly cast those we
have tried and proved aside. He has many excellent qualities."
Pride came quickly, with many suggestions about self-respect, and
what every man owed to himself.
"He owes it to himself to be just to others," Marston truly thought.
"Was I just in failing to apologize to my friend, notwihstanding
this offensive letter? No, I was not; for his action did not
exonerate me from the responsibility of mine. Ah, me! How passion
blinds us!"
After musing for some time, Marston drew towards him a sheet of
paper, and, taking up a pen, wrote:
"MY DEAR SIR:--What I ought to have done years ago, I do now, and
that is, offer you a sincere apology for light words thoughtlessly
spoken, but which I ought not to have used, as they were calculated
to wound, and, I am grieved to think, did wound. But for your note,
which I enclose, I should have made this apology the moment I had an
opportunity. But its peculiar tenor, I then felt, precluded me from
doing so. I confess that I erred in letting my feelings blind my
cooler judgment.
"Your old friend, MARSTON.
"To Mr. Herbert Arnest."
Enclosing the note alluded to in this letter, Marston sealed, and,
ringing for an attendant, despatched it.
"Better to do right late than never," he murmured, as he leaned
pensively back in his chair.
"Let what will come of it, I shall feel better, for I will gain my
own self-respect, and have an inward assurance that I have done
right,--more than I have for a long time had, in regard to this
matter at least."
Relieved in mind, Marston commenced looking over some papers in
reference to matters of business then on hand, and was soon so much
absorbed in them, that the subject which had lately filled his
thoughts faded entirely therefrom. Some one opened the door, and he
turned to see who was entering. In an instant he was on his feet. It
was Arnest.
The face of the latter was pale and agitated, and his lips quivered.
He came forward hurriedly, extending his hand, not to grasp that of
his old friend, but to hold up his own letter that had been just
returned to him.
"Marston," he said, huskily, "did I send you _this_ note?"
"You did," was the firm but mild answer.
"Thus I cancel it!" And he tore it into shreds, and scattered them
on the floor. "Would that its contents could be as easily
obliterated from your memory!" he added, in a most earnest voice.
"They are no longer there, my friend," returned Marston, with
visible emotion, now grasping the hand of Arnest. "You have wiped
them out."
Arnest returned the pressure with both hands, his eyes fixed on
those of Marston, until they grew so dim that he could no longer
read the old familiar lines and forgiving look.
"Let us forgive and forget," said Marston, speaking in a broken
voice. "We have wronged each other and ourselves. We have let evil
passions rule instead of good affections."
"From my heart do I say 'Amen,'" replied Arnest. "Yes, let us
forgive and forget. Would that we had been as wise as we now are,
years ago!"
Thus were they reconciled. And now the question is, What did either
gain by his indignation against the other? Did Arnest rise higher in
his self-esteem, or Marston gain additional self-respect? We think
not. Alas! how blinding is selfish passion! How it opens in the mind
the door for the influx of multitudes of evil and false suggestions!
How it hides the good in others, and magnifies, weakness into
crimes! Let us beware of it.
"Reconciled at last," said old Mr. Wellford, when he next saw Arnest
and heard the fact from his lips.
"Yes," replied the latter. "I can now forget as well as forgive."
"Rather say you can forget, _because_ you forgive. If you had
forgiven truly, you could have ceased to think of what was wrong in
your friend long ago. People talk of forgiving and not forgetting,
but it isn't so: they do not forget because they do not forgive."
"I believe you are right," said Arnest. "I think, now, as naturally
of my friend's good qualities as I ever did before of what was evil.
I forget the evil in thinking of the good."
"Because you have forgiven him," returned Mr. Wellford. "Before you
forgave him, your thought of evil gave no room for the thought of
good."
Mr. Wellford was right. After we have forgiven, we find it no hard
matter to forget.
PAYING THE MINISTER.
"MONEY, money, money! That's the everlasting cry! I'll give up my
pew. I won't go to church. I'll stay at home and read the Bible. Not
that I care for a few dollars more than I do for the dust that blows
in the wind; but this selling of salvation for gold disgusts me. I'm
sick to death of it!"
"But hear, first, Mr. Larkin, what we want money for," said Mr.
Elder, one of the vestrymen of the church to which the former
belonged. "You know that our minister's salary is very small; in
fact, entirely insufficient for the maintenance of his family. He
has, as might be supposed, fallen into debt, and we are making an
effort to raise a sufficient sum to relieve him from his unpleasant
embarrassment."
"But what business has he to go in debt, Mr. Elder? He knows the
amount of his income, and, as an honest man, should not let his
expenses exceed it."
"But you know as well as I do that he cannot live on four hundred
dollars a year."
"I don't know any such thing, friend Elder. But I do know, that
there are hundreds and thousands who live on much less, and save a
little into the bargain. That, however, is neither here nor there.
Four hundred dollars a year is all this parish can afford to pay a
minister, and that Mr. Malcolm was distinctly told before he came.
If he could not live on the salary offered, why did he come? Mr.
Pelton never received more."
"Beg your pardon, Mr. Larkin. Mr. Pelton never received less than
seven hundred dollars a year. There were always extra subscriptions
made for him."
"I never gave any thing more than my regular subscription and
pew-rent."
"It is more than I can say, then. In presents of one kind and
another and in money it never cost me less than from fifty to
seventy-five dollars a year extra. Having been in the vestry for the
last ten years, I happen to know that there was always something to
make up at the end of the year, and it generally came out of the
pockets of a few."
"Well, it isn't right, that is all I have to say," returned Mr.
Larkin. "A minister has no business to saddle himself upon a
congregation in that way for less than his real weight. It's an
imposition, and one that I am not going to stand. I'm opposed to all
these forced levies, from principle."
"I rather think the first error is on the side of the congregation,"
said Mr. Elder. "I think they are not only to blame, but really
dishonest, in fixing upon a sum for the support of a minister that
is plainly inadequate to his maintenance. Here, in our parish, for
instance, a thousand dollars might be paid to a minister with the
greatest ease in the world, and no one be oppressed by his
subscription. And yet, we are very content and self-complacent in
our niggardly tender of four hundred dollars."
"A thousand dollars! I don't believe any minister ought to receive
such a salary. I have no notion of tempting, by inducements like
that, money-lovers into the sacred office."
"Pardon me, Mr. Larkin, but how much does it cost you to live? Not
less than two thousand five hundred dollars a year, I presume."
"But I don't put my expenses alongside of the minister's. I can
afford to spend all that it costs me. I have honestly made what I
possess, and have a right to enjoy it."
"I didn't question that, Mr. Larkin. I only turned your thoughts in
this direction, that you might realize in your own mind how hard it
must be for a man with a family of three children, just the number
that you have, to live on four hundred dollars a year."
But the allusion to matters personal to Mr. Larkin gave that
gentleman a fine opportunity to feel offended; which he did not fail
to embrace, and thus close the interview.
This was Mr. Elder's first effort to obtain a subscription for
paying off the minister's debt. It quite disheartened him. He had
intended making three calls on his way to his store that morning,
for the purpose of trying to raise something for Mr. Malcolm; but he
felt so discouraged by the reception he had met with from Mr.
Larkin, that he passed on without doing so. Near his store was a
carriage repository. The owner of it put his hand upon his shoulder
as he was going by, and said, "Just step in, I want to show you
something beautiful."
Mr. Elder went in, and was shown a very handsome and
fashionably-made carriage, with all the modern improvements.
"This is something very elegant, certainly. Who is it for?"
"One of the members of your church."
"Ah?"
"Yes. It is for Larkin."
"Indeed! How much does it cost him?"
"Eight hundred dollars."
"He ought to have a fine pair of horses for so fine a carriage."
"And so he has. He bought a noble span, last week, for a thousand
dollars."
Mr. Elder said what he could in praise of the elegant carriage; but
he couldn't say much, for he had no heart to do so. He felt worse
than ever about the deficiency in Mr. Malcolm's salary. On the next
day he was in better spirits, and called in upon one of the members
of the church, as he passed to his store. He stated his errand, and
received this reply--
"I'll tell you what, Mr. Elder, I am of Larkin's opinion in this
matter. If our minister agreed to come for four hundred dollars, he
should stick to his contract. He's no business to go in debt, and
then call upon us to get him out of his difficulties. It isn't the
clean thing. I don't mind a few dollars any more than you do; but I
like principle. I like to see all men, especially ministers, stick
to their text. Malcolm knew before he came here what we could afford
to give him, and if he couldn't live upon that, he had no business
to come. That's what I think of it, and I always speak out my mind
plainly."
Mr. Elder made no more begging calls on that day. But he tried it
again on the next, and found that Larkin had been over the ground
before him, and said so much about "the imposition of the thing,"
that he could do little or nothing. There was a speciousness about
Larkin's manner of alluding to the subject, that carried people away
with him; particularly as what he said favoured their inclination to
keep a tight hold on their purse-strings. He was piqued with Elder,
and this set him to talking, and doing more mischief than he thought
for.
The Rev. Mr. Malcolm was a man of about thirty years of age. He had
taken orders a couple of years previous to the date of his call to
the parish where he now preached. At the time of doing so, he was
engaged in teaching a school; from which he received a very
comfortable income. The bishop who ordained him recommended the
parish at C--, when Mr. Pelton left there, to apply for Mr.
Malcolm; which was done. The latter was an honest, conscientious
man, and sincere in his desire to do good in the sacred office to
which he believed himself called. When the invitation to settle at
C--came, he left home and visited the parish, in order that he
might determine whether it was his duty to go there or not. On his
return, his wife inquired, with a good deal of interest, how he
liked the place, and if he thought he would go there.
"I think I shall accept the call," said he. This was not spoken with
much warmth.
"Don't you like the people?" inquired Mrs. Malcolm.
"Yes; as far as I saw them, they were very pleasant, good sort of
people. But the salary is entirely too small."
"How much?"
"Four hundred dollars a year, and the parsonage--a little affair,
that would rent for about a hundred dollars."
"We can't live on that," said Mrs. Malcolm, in a disappointed tone;
"it is out of the question."
"No, certainly not. But I am assured that at least seven or eight
hundred will be made up during the year. This has always been done
for Mr. Pelton and will be done for me, if I accept the call."
"That might do, if we practised close economy. But why do they not
make the salary seven or eight hundred dollars at once? It would be
just the same to them, and make the minister feel a great deal more
independent."
"True; but we must let people do things in their own way. We can
live on seven hundred dollars, and I therefore think it my duty to
give up my school, and accept the call."
"No one, certainly, can charge you with sordid views in doing so,
for your school yields you now over a thousand dollars, and is
increasing."
"I will try and keep my mind free from all thought of what people
may say or think," returned Mr. Malcolm, "and endeavour to do right
for the sake of right."
The wife of the Rev. Mr. Malcolm fully sympathized with her husband
in his wish to enter upon the duties of his sacred calling, and was
ready to make any sacrifice that could be made in order to see him
in the position he so much desired to occupy. She did not,
therefore, make any objection to giving up their pleasant home and
sufficient income, but went with him cheerfully to C--, and there
made every effort to reduce all their expenses to their reduced
means of living.
It is a much easier thing to increase our expenses than to reduce
them. We get used to a certain free way of living, and it is one of
the most difficult things in the world to give up this little
luxury, and that pleasant indulgence, and come right down to the
meagre necessaries of life. This fact was soon apparent to Mr. and
Mrs. Malcolm; but they were in earnest in what they were about, and
practised the required self-denial. Their expenses were kept within
the limits of seven hundred dollars, the lowest sum that had been
named.
At the end of the first three months, one hundred dollars were paid
to the minister. When he gave up his school, he sold it out to a
person who wished to succeed him, for two hundred dollars. The
expense of removing to C--, and living there for three months, had
quite exhausted this sum. Mr. Malcolm paid away his last dollar
before the quarter's salary was due, and was forced to let his
bread-bill and his meat-bill run on for a couple of weeks; these
were paid the moment he received his salary.
"I don't like these bills at all," said he to his wife, after they
were paid. "A minister should never owe a dollar; it does him no
good. Above all things, his mind should live in a region above the
anxieties that a deficient income and consequent debt always
occasion. We must husband what we have, and make it go as far as
possible."
By the end of two months, the hundred dollars were all expended; but
not a word had been said about the additional three or four hundred
that had been promised, or that Mr. Malcolm fully believed had been
promised. Bills had now to be run up with the baker, grocer, and
butcher, which amounted to nearly fifty dollars when the next
quarter's salary was paid.
Mr. Malcolm did not doubt but the additional amount promised when he
consented to accept the call would be made up; still he could not
help feeling troubled. If things went on as they were going, by the
end of the year he would be in debt at least two hundred dollars;
and, of all things in the world, he had a horror of debt.
During this time, he was in familiar intercourse with the principal
members of his church, and especially with the leading vestrymen who
held out inducements to him beyond the fixed salary; but no allusion
was made to the subject, and he had too much delicacy to introduce
it.
At last, matters approached a climax. The minister was about two
hundred dollars in debt, and bills were presented almost every week,
and their settlement politely urged. This was a condition of things
not to be endured by a man of Mr. Malcolm's high sense of right and
peculiar delicacy of feeling. At length, after lying awake for half
of the night, thinking over what was to be done, he came to the
reluctant conclusion that it was his imperative duty to those he
owed, to mention the necessities of his case to the vestry, and
learn from them, without further delay, whether he had any thing
beyond the four hundred dollars to expect.
The hardest task Mr. Malcolm had ever performed was now before him,
and he shrunk from it with painful reluctance. But the path of duty
was plain, and he was not a man to hold back when he saw his way
clear. If there had been any hesitation, an imperative dun received
before he sat down to breakfast, and another before nine o'clock,
would have effectually dispelled it.
Mr. Malcolm went to the store of Mr. Elder, one of the vestrymen,
and found him quite busy with customers. He waited for half an hour
for him to be disengaged, and then went out, saying, as he passed
him at the counter, that he would call in again.
"Oh, dear!" he murmured to himself, with a long-drawn sigh, as he
emerged upon the street, "is not this humiliating? If I had engaged
for only four hundred dollars a year, I would have lived on bread
and water rather than have exceeded my income; but at least seven
hundred were promised. It was, however, an informal promise; and I
was wrong, perhaps, in trusting to any thing so unsettled as this.
Of course, it will be paid to me when I make known my present
situation; but the doing of that I shrink from."
"Mr. T--was here again for his bill," were the first words that
saluted the ears of the minister when he returned home.
"What did you say to him?" he asked.
"I told him that you would settle it very soon. He said he hoped you
would, for he wanted money badly, and it had been running for some
time."
"He was rude, then!"
"A little so," replied the wife, in a meek voice.
Mr. Malcolm paced the floor with rapid steps; he felt deeply
disturbed.
An hour afterwards, he entered the store of Mr. Elder, and found the
owner disengaged. He did not linger in preliminaries, but approached
the subject thus:--
"You remember, Mr. Elder, that in the interview I had with you and
two of the vestry previous to my accepting the call of this parish,
you stated that my income would not be limited to the four hundred
dollars named as the minister's salary, which I then told you was a
smaller sum than I could possibly live upon?"
Mr. Elder exhibited a momentary confusion when the minister said
this; but he immediately replied--"Yes, I believe something was said
on that subject, though I have not thought of it since. We always
had to make up something for Mr. Pelton, and I suppose we must do
the same for you, if it is necessary. Do you find your salary
inadequate?"
"Entirely so; and I knew it would be inadequate from the first. It
is impossible for me to support my family on four hundred dollars;
and had I not been assured that at least three or four hundred
dollars extra would be made up during the year, I never would have
dreamed of accepting the call. It has been a principle with me not
to go in debt; and since I have been a man, I have not, until this
time, owed a dollar; and should not have owed it now, had I
received, since I have resided in C--the income I fully expected."
Mr. Malcolm spoke with warmth, for he felt some risings of the
natural man at the indifference with which a promise of so much
consequence to him had been disregarded.
"How much do you owe?" inquired the vestryman.
"About two hundred dollars."
"Indeed! so much?"
A bitter remark arose to the minister's lips, but he forced himself
to keep silence. He was a man, with all the natural feelings of a
man.
"Well, I suppose we must make it for you somehow," said Mr. Elder,
the tone in which he spoke showing that the subject worried him.
"Are any of the demands on you pressing?" he inquired, after a
pause.
"All of them are pressing," replied the minister. "I am dunned every
day."
"Indeed! That's bad!" returned Mr. Elder, speaking with more real
kindness and sympathy than at first. "I am sorry you have been
permitted to get into so unpleasant a situation."
"It certainly is very unpleasant, and entirely destroys my peace.
Were I not thus unhappily situated, I should not have said a word to
you on the subject of my salary."
"Don't let it distress you so much, Mr. Malcolm. I will see that the
amount you need is at once made up."
The minister returned home, disturbed, mortified, and humiliated.
"If this is the way they pay their minister," he remarked to his
wife, after relating to her what had happened, "it is the last year
that I shall enjoy the benefits of their peculiar system. But little
good will my preaching or that of any one else do them, while they
disregard the first and plainest principles of honesty. There is no
lack of ability to give a minister the support he needs; and the
withholding of that support, or the supplying of it by constraint,
shows a moral obtuseness that argues but poorly for their love of
any thing but themselves. I believe that the labourer is worthy of
his hire; that when men build a church and call a minister for their
own spiritual good, they are bound to supply his natural wants; and
that, if they fail to do so, it is a sign to the minister that he
ought to leave them. Some may call this a selfish doctrine, and
unworthy of a minister of God; but I believe it to be the true
doctrine, and shall act up to it. It does men no good to let them
quietly go on, year after year, starving their ministers, while they
have abundant means to make them comfortable. If they prize their
wealth higher than they do spiritual riches, it is but casting
pearls before swine to scatter even the most brilliant gems of
wisdom before them; and in this unprofitable task I am the last man
to engage. I gave up all hope of worldly good, in order to preach
the everlasting gospel for the salvation of men. In order to do this
successfully, my mind must be kept free from the depressing cares of
life, and there must be something reciprocal in those to whom I
minister in heavenly things. If this be not the case, all my labour
will be in vain."
On the next day, as the minister was walking down the street, he met
Mr. Larkin. The allusion to this gentleman's personal matters, which
the vestryman had made, still caused him to feel sore; it touched
him in a vulnerable part. He had been talking quite freely, since
then, to every member of the church he happened to meet about the
coolness with which Mr. Malcolm, after running himself in debt, a
thing he had no business to do, called upon the church to raise him
more money. He for one he said, was not going to stand any such
nonsense, and he hoped every member of the church would as firmly
set his face against all such impositions. If they were to pay off
this debt, they would have another twice as large to settle in a few
months. It was the principle of the thing he went against; not that
he cared about a few dollars. As soon as Mr. Larkin saw the minister
a little ahead of him, he determined to give him a piece of his
mind. So when they paused, face to face, and while their hands were
locked in a friendly clasp, he said--
"Look here, friend Malcolm, I have got something against you; and as
I am an independent plain-spoken man, you must not be offended with
me for telling you my mind freely."
"The truth never offends me, Mr. Larkin," said the minister, with a
smile. "I am not faultless, though willing to correct my faults when
I see them."
"Very well." Mr. Larkin spoke in a resolute voice, and seemed to
feel pleasure rather than pain in what he was doing. "In the first
place, then, I am sorry to find that you possess one very bad fault,
common to most ministers, and that is, a disposition to live beyond
your means, and then come down upon the parish to pay your debts."
The blood came rushing to the face of the minister, which his
monitor took to be the plainest kind of evidence that he had hit the
nail fully upon the head. He went on more confidently.
"Now, this, Mr. Malcolm, I consider to be very wrong--very wrong,
indeed!--and especially so in a young minister in his first year,
and in his first parish. If such things are in the green tree, what
are we to expect in the dry? You accepted our call, and were plainly
informed that the salary would be four hundred dollars and rent
free. Upon this our former minister had lived quite comfortably. If
you thought the salary too little, you should not have accepted the
call--accepting it, you should have lived upon it, if you had lived
on bread and water."
Mr. Larkin paused. The minister stood with his eyes cast upon the
pavement, but made no answer. Mr. Larkin resumed--
"It is such things as this that bring scandal upon the church, and
drive right thinking men out of it. It isn't that I value a few
dollars more than I do the wind; but I like to see principle; and
hate all imposition. You are a young man, Mr. Malcolm, and I speak
thus plainly to you for your good. I hope you will not feel
offended."
Mr. Larkin paused, thinking, perhaps, that he had said enough. The
minister's eyes were still upon the pavement, from which he lifted
them as soon as his monitor was done speaking. The flush had left
his cheeks, that were now pale.
"I thank you for your honesty in speaking so plainly, and will try
to profit by what you have told me," said he, calmly. "The best of
us are liable to err."
There was something in the words, voice, and manner of the minister
that Mr. Larkin did not clearly comprehend. He had spoken harshly,
and, he now felt, with some rudeness; but, while there was nothing
in the air with which his reproof was received that evidenced the
conviction of error there was no resentment. A moment before, he
felt like a superior severely reprimanding an inferior; but now he
stood in the presence of one whose calmness and dignity oppressed
him. He was about commencing a confused apology for his apparent
harshness, when Mr. Malcolm bowed and passed on.
Larkin did not feel very comfortable as he walked away. He soon more
than half repented of what he had done, and before night, by way of
atonement for his error, called upon Mr. Elder, and handed him a
check for twenty-five dollars, to help pay off the minister's debt.
So much for the principle concerned.
On the next Sabbath, to his great surprise, when the text was
announced, it was in the following unexpected words--
"Owe no man any thing."
The sermon was didactive and narrative. In the didactic portion, the
minister was exceedingly close in laying down the principles of
honesty in all transactions between man and man, and showed that for
a man to live beyond his known income, when that was sufficient to
supply his actual wants, was dishonest. Then he gave sundry examples
of very common but dishonest practices in those who withhold from
others what is justly their due, and concluded this portion of his
discourse, by plainly stating the glaring dishonesty of which too
many congregations were guilty, in owing their ministers the
difference between their regular and fixed income, and what they
actually needed for their comfortable support and freedom from care.
This, he said, was but a poor commentary upon their love for the
church, and showed too plainly its sordid and selfish quality.
This was felt by many to be quite too pointed and out of place; and
for a young man, like him, very bold and immodest. One member took
out his box and struck the lid a smart, emphatic rap before taking a
pinch of snuff,--another coughed--and three or four of the older
ones gave several loud "a-h-h-hems!" Throughout the church there was
an uneasy movement. But soon all was still again, for the minister
had commenced the narrative of something which he said had occurred
in a parish at no great distance. For a narrative, introduced in a
sermon, all ears are open.
Very deliberately and very minutely did Mr. Malcolm give the leading
facts which we have already placed before the reader, even down to
the sound lecture he had received from Mr. Larkin, and then closed
his sermon, after a few words of application, with a firm repetition
of his text:
"My brethren, 'Owe no man any thing.'"
Of course, there was a buzzing in the hive after this. One made
inquiries of another, and it was soon pretty well understood
throughout, that seven or eight hundred dollars had actually been
promised to the minister instead of the four, which all were very
content that he should receive, thinking little and caring little
whether he lived well or ill upon it. But who was it that had rated
him so soundly? That was the next question. But nobody knew. Some of
those most familiar with Mr. Malcolm boldly asked him the question,
but he declined giving an answer. Poor Mr. Larkin trembled but the
minister kept his own counsel.
On the Tuesday following this pointed discourse, Mr. Malcolm
received his last quarter's salary four weeks in advance, and three
hundred dollars besides. Two hundred of this had been loaned by Mr.
Larkin until such time as it could be collected.
At the next meeting of the vestry, the resignation of Mr. Malcolm as
minister of the parish was received. Before acting upon it, a
church-meeting was called, at which it was unanimously voted to
double the ministers salary. That is, make it eight hundred. Much
was said in his favour as a man of fine talents and sincere piety.
In fact, the congregation generally had become much attached to him,
and could not bear to think of his leaving them. Money was no
consideration now.
The vote of the meeting was conveyed to Mr. Malcolm. He expressed
his thanks for the liberal offer, but again declined remaining.
Another church-meeting was called, and a thousand dollars
unhesitatingly named as the minister's salary, if he would stay.
Many doubled their subscriptions, and said that, if necessary, they
would quadruple them.
When Mr. Malcolm determined to leave C--, he had no parish in
view; but he did not think it would be useful for him to remain. Nor
had he any in view when he declined accepting the offer of eight
hundred dollars. But it was different when the offer of a thousand
dollars came, for then he held in his hand a call to a neighbouring
parish, where the salary was the same.
The committee to wait upon him, and urge him to accept the still
better terms offered, was composed of Messrs. Elder, Larkin, and
three others among the oldest and most influential members. He
answered their renewed application by handing them the letter he had
just received. It was read aloud.
"If money is any object, Mr. Malcolm," said Larkin, promptly, "you
need not leave us. Twelve hundred can be as easily made up to you as
a thousand."
The minister was slightly disturbed at this. He replied in a low,
unsteady voice:
"Money has no influence with me in this matter. All I ask is a
comfortable maintenance for my family. This, your first offer of
eight hundred dollars would have given; but I declined it, with no
other place in view, because I thought it best for both you and me
that we should separate. I have tried only to look to the good of
the church in my decisions, and I will still endeavour to keep that
end before my eyes."
"Have you accepted the call?" asked Mr. Elder.
"No, I have but just received it!"
"Have you positively determined that you will not remain with us?"
"I should not like to say positively."
"Very well. Now, let me say that the desire to have you remain is
general, and that the few who have the management of the church
affairs, and not the many who make up the congregation, are to blame
for previously existing wrongs and errors. From the many comes a
strong desire to have you stay. They say that your ministrations
have been of great spiritual benefit to them, and that if you go
away, they will suffer loss. Under these circumstances, Mr. Malcolm,
are you willing to break your present connection?"
"Give me a few hours to reflect," replied the minister, a good deal
affected by this unlooked-for appeal. "I wish to do right; and in
doing it, am ready to cut off the right hand and pluck out the right
eye. As Heaven is my witness, I set before me no earthly reward. If
I do consent to remain, I will not receive more than your first
offer of eight hundred dollars, for on that I can live comfortably."
When the committee again waited on Mr. Malcolm, to receive his
answer, it was in the affirmative; but he was decided in his
resolution not to receive more than eight hundred dollars. But the
congregation was just as much decided on the other side, and
although only two hundred dollars a quarter were paid to their
minister by the treasurer, more than fifty dollars flowed in to him
during the same period in presents of one useful thing and another,
from friends known and unknown.
The parish of C--had quite reformed its mode of paying the
minister.
HAD I BEEN CONSULTED.
"HE'S too independent for me," said Matthew Page. "Too independent
by half. Had I been consulted he would have done things very
differently. But as it is, he will drive his head against the wall
before he knows where he is."
"Why don't you advise him to act differently?"
"Advise him, indeed! Oh, no--let him go on in his own way, as he's
so fond of it. Young men now-a-days think they know every thing. The
experience of men like me goes for nothing with them. Advise him! He
may go to the dogs; but he'll get no advice from me unasked."
"You really think he will ruin himself if he goes on in the way he
is now going?"
"I know it. Simple addition will determine that, in five minutes. In
the first place, instead of consulting me, or some one who knows all
about it, he goes and buys that mill for just double what it is
worth, and on the mere representation of a stranger, who had been
himself deceived, and had an interest in misleading him, in order to
get a bad bargain off of his hands. But that is just like your young
chaps, now-a-days. They know every thing, and go ahead without
talking to anybody. I could have told him, had he consulted me,
that, instead of making money by the concern, he would sink all he
had in less than two years."
"He is sanguine as to the result."
"I know. He told me, yesterday, that he expected not only to clear
his land for nothing, but to make two or three thousand dollars a
year out of the lumber for the next ten years. Preposterous!"
"Why didn't you disabuse him of his error, Mr. Page? It was such a
good opportunity."
"Let him ask for my advice, if he wants it. It's a commodity I never
throw away."
"You might save him from the loss of his little patrimony."
"He deserves to lose it for being such a fool. Buy a steam saw-mill
two miles from his land, and expect to make money by clearing it?
Ridiculous!"
"Your age and experience will give your advice weight with him, I am
sure, Mr. Page. I really think you ought to give a word or two of
warning, at least, and thus make an effort to prevent his running
through with what little he has. A capital to start with in the
world is not so easily obtained, and it is a pity to see Jordan
waste his as he is doing."
"No, sir," replied Page. "I shall have nothing to say to him. If he
wants my opinion, and asks for it, he shall have it in welcome; not
without."
The individuals about whom these persons were conversing was a young
man named Jordan, who, at majority, came into the possession of
fifty acres of land and about six thousand dollars. The land was
still in forest and lay about two miles from a flourishing town in
the West, which stood on the bank of a small river that emptied into
the Ohio some fifty miles below.
As soon as Jordan became the possessor of the property, he began to
turn his thoughts toward its improvement, in order to increase its
value. The land did not lie contiguous to his native town, but near
to S--, where he was a stranger. To S--he went, and staying at
one of the hotels, met with a very pleasant old gentleman who had
just built a steam saw-mill on the banks of the river, and was
getting in the engine preparatory to putting it in operation. This
man's name was Barnaby. He had conceived the idea that a steam
saw-mill at that point would be a fortune to any one, and had
proceeded to the erection of one forthwith. Logs were to be cut
some miles up the river and floated down to the mill, and, after
being there manufactured into lumber, to be rafted to a market
somewhere between that and New Orleans. Mr. Barnaby had put the
whole thing down upon paper, and saw at a glance that it was an
operation in which any man's fortune was certain. But, before his
mill was completed, he had good reason to doubt the success of his
new scheme. He had become acquainted with Matthew Page, a shrewd old
resident of S--, who satisfied him, after two or three interviews,
that, instead of making a fortune, he would stand a fair chance of
losing his whole investment.
Barnaby was about as well satisfied as he wished to be on this head,
when young Jordan arrived in S--. His business there was soon
known, and Barnaby saw a chance of getting out of his unpromising
speculation. To Jordan he became at once very attentive and polite;
and gradually drew from him a full statement of the business that
brought him to S--. It did not take a very long time for Barnaby
to satisfy him, that, by purchasing his mill and sawing up the heavy
timber with which his land was covered, he would make a great deal
of money, and double the price of his land at the same time. Figures
showed the whole result as plain as daylight, and Jordan saw it
written out before him as distinctly as he ever saw in his
multiplication table that two and two are four. The fairness of
Barnaby he did not think of doubting for an instant. His age,
address, intelligence, and asseveration of strict honour in every
transaction in life, were enough to win his entire confidence.
Five thousand dollars was the price of the mill. The terms upon
which it was offered to Jordan were, three thousand dollars in cash,
a thousand in six months, and the balance in twelve months.
Shortly after Jordan arrived in the village, he became acquainted
with Mr. Page into whose family, a very pleasant one, he had been
introduced by a friend. For the old gentleman he felt a good deal of
respect; and although it did not occur to him to consult him in
regard to his business, thinking that he understood what he was
about very well, yet, if Mr. Page had volunteered a suggestion, he
would have listened to it and made it the subject of reflection. In
fact, a single seriously expressed doubt as to the safety of the
investment he was about making, coming from a man like Mr. Page,
would have effectually prevented its being made, for Jordan would
not have rested until he understood the very nature and groundwork
of the objection. He would then have seen a new statement of
figures, heard a new relation of facts and probabilities, and
learned that Barnaby was selling at the suggestion of Mr. Page,
after being fully convinced of the folly of proceeding another step.
But no warning came. The self-esteem of old Matthew Page, who felt
himself to be something of an oracle in S--, was touched, because
the young man had not consulted him; and now he might go to the
dogs, for all he cared.
The preliminaries of sale were soon arranged. Jordan was as eager to
enter upon his money-making as Barnaby was to get rid of his
money-losing scheme. Three thousand dollars cash were paid, and
notes given for the balance. An overseer, or manager of the whole
business to be entered upon, was engaged at five hundred dollars a
year; some twenty hands to cut timber, haul it to the mill, and saw
it up when there, were hired; and twenty yokes of oxen bought for
the purpose of hauling the logs from the woods, a distance of two
miles. The price of a dollar a log, which Barnaby expected to pay
for timber floated down the river, had been considered so dear a
rate as to preclude all hope of profit in the business. The great
advantages which Jordan felt that he possessed was in himself owning
the timber, which had only to be cut and taken to the mill. He had,
strangely enough, forgotten to make a calculation of what each log
would cost him to cut and haul two miles. There were the
wood-choppers at a dollar a day, the teamsters at seventy-five cents
a day, and four pairs of oxen to each log to feed. Eight logs a day
he was told that each team would haul, and he believed it. But two
or three logs were the utmost that could be accomplished, for in the
whole distance there was not a quarter of a mile of good solid road.
Six months in time, and a thousand dollars in money, over and above
wages to his men, were spent in getting the mill into running order.
Jordan had bought under the representation that it was all ready for
starting. After he had got in possession, he learned that Barnaby
had tried, but in vain, to get the mill to work.
In the mean time, the young man was extending his circle of
acquaintance among the families of the place in most of which he was
well received and well liked. Old Matthew Page had an only daughter,
a beautiful young girl, who was the pride of the village. The first
time she and Jordan met, they took a fancy to each other. But as
Jordan was rather a modest young man, he did not make very bold
advances toward the maiden, although he felt as if he should like to
do so, were there any hope of his advances being met in a right
spirit.
At the end of a year, all the young man's money was gone, and his
last note to Barnaby was due. There was a small pile of lumber by
his mill--a couple of hundred dollars worth, perhaps--for which he
had found no sale, as the place was fully supplied, and had been for
years, by a small mill that was worked by the owner with great
economy. The sending of his lumber down the river was rather a
serious operation for him, and required a good deal more lumber than
he had yet been able to procure from his mill, which had never yet
run for twenty-four hours without something getting wrong. These two
or three hundred dollars' worth of lumber had cost him about fifteen
hundred dollars in wages, &c. Still he was sanguine, and saw his way
clear through the whole of it, if it were not for the fact that his
capital were exhausted.
Matthew Page was looking on very coolly, and saying to himself, "If
he had consulted me," but not offering the young man a word of
voluntary counsel.
To continue his operations and bring out the ultimate prosperous
result, Jordan threw one-half of his land into market and forced the
sale at five dollars an acre. The proceeds of this sale did not last
him over six months. Then he got a raft afloat, containing about a
thousand dollars' worth of lumber, and sent it off under charge of
his overseer, who sold it at Cincinnati, and absconded with the
money.
In the mean time, Barnaby was pressing for the payment of the last
note, which had been protested, and after threatening to sue, time
after time, finally put his claim into the hands of an attorney, who
had a writ served upon Jordan.
By this time, old Mr. Page began to think it best, even though not
consulted, to volunteer a little advice to the young man. The reason
of this may be inferred. Jordan was beginning to be rather
particular in attention to Edith, his daughter; and apart from the
fact that he had wasted his money in an unprofitable scheme, and had
not been prudent enough to consult him, old Matthew Page had no
particular objection to him as a son-in-law. His family stood high
in the State, and his father, previous to his death, had been for
many years in the State senate. The idea that Jordan would take a
fancy to his daughter had not once crossed the mind of Mr. Page, or
he would not have stood so firmly upon his dignity in the matter of
being consulted.
Rather doubting as to the reception he should meet from the young
man, he called upon him, one day, when the following conversation
took place:
"I'm afraid, Mr. Jordan," said Page, after some commonplace
chitchat, "that your saw-mill business is not going to turn out as
well as you expected."
"It has not, so far, certainly," replied Jordan, frankly. "But this
is owing to the fact of my having been deceived in the mill, and in
the integrity of my manager; not to the nature of the business
itself. I am still sanguine of success."
"Will you allow me to make a suggestion or two? I think I can show
you that you are in error in regard to the business itself."
"Most gladly will I receive any suggestion," returned Jordan.
"Though I am not apt to seek advice--a fault of character,
perhaps--I am ever ready to listen to it and weigh it
dispassionately, when given. A doubt as to the result of the
business, if properly carried out, has never yet crossed my mind."
"I have always doubted it from the first. Indeed, I knew that you
could not succeed."
"Then, my dear sir, why did you not tell me so?" said Jordan,
earnestly.
"If you had consulted me, I would"--
"I never dreamed of consulting any one about it. I had confidence in
Mr. Barnaby's statements; but more in my own judgment, based upon
the data he furnished me."
"But I have none in either Barnaby or his data."
"I have none in him, for he has shamefully deceived me; but his data
are fixed facts, and therefore cannot lie."
"There you err again. Barnaby knew that the data he gave you was
incorrect. I had, myself, demonstrated this to him before he went
far enough to involve himself seriously. Something led him to doubt
the success of his project, and he came and consulted me on the
subject. I satisfied him in ten minutes that it wouldn't do, and he
at once abandoned it. Unfortunately, you arrived just at this time,
and were made to bear the loss of his mistake."
"You are certainly not serious in what you say, Mr. Page!"
"I never was more serious in my life," returned the old gentleman.
"And you permitted me to be made the victim, upon your own
acknowledgment, of a shameful swindle, and did not expend even a
breath to save me!"
"I am not used to be spoken to in that way, young man," replied Mr.
Page, coldly, and with a slightly offended air. "Nor am I in the
habit of forcing my advice upon everybody."
"If you saw a man going blindfold towards the brink of a precipice,
wouldn't you force your advice upon him?"
"Perhaps I might. But as you were not going blindfold over a
precipice, I did not see that it was my business to interfere."
A cutting reply was on the lips of Jordan, but a thought of Edith
cooled him off suddenly, and he in a milder and more respectful tone
of voice, "I should be glad, Mr. Page, if you would demonstrate the
error under which I have been labouring in regard to this business.
If there is an error, I wish to see it; and can see it as quickly as
any one, if it really exists, and the proper means of seeing it are
furnished."
The change in the young man's manner softened Mr. Page, and he sat
down, pencil in hand, and by the aid of the answers which the actual
experience of Jordan enabled him to give, showed him, in ten
minutes, that the more land he cleared and the more logs he sawed
up, the poorer he would become.
"And you knew all this before?" said Jordan.
"Certainly I did. In fact, I built the saw-mill owned by Tompkins,
and after sinking a couple of thousand dollars, was glad to get it
off of my hands at any price. Tompkins makes a living with it, and
nothing more. But then he is his own engineer, manager, clerk, and
almost every thing else, and lives with the closest economy in his
family--much closer than you or I would like to live."
"And you let me go on blindly and ruin myself, when a word from you
might have saved me!"
There was something indignant in the young man's manner.
"You didn't consult me on the subject. It is not my place to look
after everybody's business; I have enough to do to take care of my
own concerns."
Both were getting excited. Jordan retorted still more severely, and
then they parted in anger, each feeling that he had just cause to be
offended.
On the next day, Jordan, who was too well satisfied that Mr. Page
was right, stopped his mill, discharged his hands, and sold his
oxen. On looking over his accounts, he found that he was over a
thousand dollars in debt: In order to pay this, he sold the balance
of his land, and then advertised his saw-mill for sale in all the
county papers, and in the State Gazette.
Meantime, the suit which had been instituted on the note given to
Barnaby came up for trial, and Jordan made an effort to defend it on
the plea that value had not been received. His fifty acres of land
were gone, and all that remained of his six thousand dollars, were a
half-weatherboarded, frame building, called a saw-mill, in which
were a secondhand steam-engine, some rough gearing, and a few saws.
This stood in the centre of a small piece of ground--perhaps the
fourth of an acre--upon which there was the moderate annual rent of
one hundred dollars! More than the whole building, leaving out the
engine, would sell for.
After waiting for two months, and not receiving an offer for the
mill, he sold the engine for a hundred and fifty dollars, and
abandoned the old frame building in which it had stood, to the owner
of the land for rent, on condition of his cancelling the lease, that
had still three years and a half to run.
His defence of the suit availed nothing. Judgment was obtained upon
the note, an execution issued, and, as there was no longer any
property in the young man's possession, his person was seized and
thrown into the county prison.
From the time old Mr. Page considered himself insulted by Jordan,
all intercourse between them had ceased. The latter had not
considered himself free to visit any longer at his house, and
therefore no meeting between him and Edith had taken place for three
months.
The cause of so sudden a cessation of her lover's visits, all
unknown to Edith, was a great affliction to the maiden. Her father
noticed that her countenance wore a troubled aspect, and that she
scarcely tasted food when at the table. This did not, in any way,
lessen the number of his self-reproaches for having suffered a young
man to ruin himself, when a word from him might have saved him.
Edith was paying a visit to a friend one day, the daughter of a
lawyer. While conversing, the friend said--
"Poor Jordan? Have you heard of his misfortunes?"
"No! What are they?" And Edith turned pale. The friend was not aware
of her interest in him.
"He was terribly cheated in some saw-mill property he bought," she
made answer, "and has since lost every dollar he had. Yesterday he
was sent to prison for debt which he is unable to pay."
Edith heard no more, but, starting up, rushed from the house, and
flew, rather than walked, home. Her father was sitting in his
private office when she entered with pale face and quivering lips.
Uttering an exclamation of surprise and alarm, he rose to his feet.
Edith fell against him, sobbing as she did so, while the tears found
vent, and poured over her cheeks--
"Oh, father! He is in prison!"
"Who? Jordan?"
"Yes," was the maiden's lowly-murmured reply.
"Good heavens! Is it possible?"
With this exclamation, Mr. Page pushed his daughter from him, and
leaving the house instantly, took his way to the office of the
attorney who had conducted the suit in favour of Barnaby.
"I will go bail for this young man whom you have thrown into
prison," said he as soon as he met the lawyer.
"Very well, Mr. Page. We will take you. But you will have to pay the
amount--he has nothing."
"I said I would go his bail," returned the old man, impatiently.
In less than twenty minutes, Mr. Page entered the apartment where
the young man was confined. Jordan looked at him angrily. He had
just been thinking of the cruel neglect to warn him of his errors,
of which Mr. Page had been guilty, and of the consequences, so
disastrous and so humbling to himself.
"You are at liberty," said the old gentleman, as he approached him
and held out his hand.
Jordan stood like one half-stupified, for some moments.
"I have gone your security, my young friend," Mr. Page added kindly.
"You are at liberty."
"_You_ my security!" returned Jordan, taking the offered hand, but
not grasping it with a hearty pressure. He felt as if he couldn't do
that. "I am sorry you have done so," said he, after a slight
pause--"I am not worth a dollar, and you will have my debt to pay."
"It's no time to talk about that now, Mr. Jordan. I have gone your
security, because I thought it right to do so. Come home with me,
and we will soon arrange all the rest."
Jordan felt passive. A child could have led him anywhere. He did not
refuse to go with Mr. Page.
Edith was sitting in the room where her father left her, when the
opening of the door caused her to start. There was an exclamation of
delight and surprise; a movement forward, and then deep blushes
threw a crimson veil over the maiden's face, as she sank back in her
chair and covered her face with her hands. But the tears could not
be hidden; they came trickling through her fingers.
Enough, further to say, that within two months there was a wedding
at the house of Mr. Page, and Edith was the bride.
It has been noticed since, that the old gentleman does not stand so
much on his dignity when there is a chance of doing good by
volunteering a word of advice in season. "Had I been consulted," is
a form of speech which he is now rarely, if ever known to use.
THE MISTAKES OF A "RISING FAMILY."
MR. MINTURN was a rising man; that is, he was gaining money and
reputation in his profession. That he felt himself rising, was
clearly apparent to all who observed him attentively. His good lady,
Mrs. Minturn, was also conscious of the upward movement, and
experienced a consequent sense of elevation. From the height they
had gained in a few years, it was but natural for them to cast their
eyes below, and to note how far beneath them were certain
individuals with whom they had once been on a level. The observation
of this fact as naturally created an emotion of contempt for these
individuals as inferiors.
Among those ranging below the Minturns,--in their estimation,--was a
family named Allender. Mr. Allender was, or had been, a merchant,
and was highly esteemed by all who knew him, as a gentleman and a
man of fine intelligence. He and Minturn started together in life;
the one as a lawyer, and the other as a merchant. Possessing some
capital, Mr. Allender was able, in commencing business, to assume a
comfortable style of living in his family, while Minturn, who had
nothing but his profession to depend upon, and that at the time of
his marriage a very small dependence, was compelled to adopt, in his
domestic relations, a very humble scale.
Having been well acquainted, for some years, with Mr. Minturn, Mr.
Allender, soon after the marriage of the former, called upon him
with his wife. The visit was promptly returned, and from that time
the two families kept up intimate relations. The Minturns lived in a
small house, in a retired street, for which they paid the annual
rent of one hundred and seventy-five dollars. Their house was
furnished with exceeding plainness, and their only domestic was a
stout girl of fourteen. The Allenders, on the other hand, lived in a
fashionable neighbourhood, so called. For their house, which was
handsomely furnished, they paid a rent of four hundred dollars; and
lived in what the Minturns thought to be great elegance. And so it
was, in contrast with their style of living. Mrs. Minturn felt quite
proud of having such acquaintances, and of being able to visit
familiarly in such good society as was to be found at the house of
Mr. and Mrs. Allender. You could not be in her company for ten
minutes, at any time, without hearing some allusion to the
Allenders. What they said, was repeated as oracular; and to those
who had never been in their house, Mrs. Minturn described the
elegance of every thing pertaining thereto, in the most graphic
manner.
Well, as time went on, Mr. Minturn, by strict devotion to business,
gradually advanced himself in his profession. At the end of four or
five years, he was able to move into a larger house and to get
better furniture. Still, every thing was yet on an inferior scale to
that enjoyed by Mr. Allender, to whose family his own was indebted
for an introduction into society, and for an acquaintance with many
who were esteemed as valued friends.
Ten years elapsed, and the Minturns were on a level with the
Allenders, as far as external things were concerned. The lawyer's
business had steadily increased, but the merchant had not been very
successful in trade, and was not esteemed, in the community, a
rising man. No change in his style of living had taken place since
he first became a housekeeper; and his furniture began, in
consequence, to look a little dingy and old-fashioned. This was
particularly observed by Mrs. Minturn, who had, at every upward
movement,--and three of these movements had already taken
place,--furnished her house from top to bottom.
Five years more reversed the relations between to families. The
Minturns still went up, and the Allenders commenced going down. One
day, about this time, Mr. Minturn came home from his office, and
said to his wife
"I've got bad news to tell you about our friends the Allenders."
"What is that?" inquired Mrs. Minturn, evincing a good deal of
interest, though not exactly of the right kind.
"He's stopped payment."
"What?"
"He failed to meet his notes in bank yesterday, and to-day, I
understand, he has called his creditors together."
"I'm sorry to hear that, really," said Mrs. Minturn. "What is the
cause?"
"I believe his affairs have been getting involved for the last four
or five years. He does not seem to possess much business energy."
"I never thought there was a great deal of life about him."
"He's rather a slow man. It requires more activity and energy of
character than he possesses to do business in these times. Men are
getting too wide awake. I'm sorry for Allender. He's a good-hearted
man--too good-hearted, in fact, for his own interest. But, it's
nothing more than I expected."
"And I am sorry for poor Mrs. Allender," said his wife. "What a
change it will be for her! Ah, me! Will they lose every thing?"
"I have no means of knowing at present. But I hope not."
"Still, they will have to come down a great way."
"No doubt of it."
A week passed, after news of Mr. Allender's business disaster had
reached the ears of Mrs. Minturn, and in that time she had not
called to see her friend in distress. Each of these ladies had a
daughter about the same age; and that age was fifteen.
"Where are you going, Emeline?" asked Mrs. Minturn of her daughter,
who came down, with her bonnet on, one afternoon about this time.
"I'm going to run around and see Clara Allender," was replied.
"I'd rather you wouldn't go there, just now," said the mother.
"Why not?" asked Emeline.
"I have my reasons for it," returned Mrs. Minturn.
Emeline looked disappointed. She was much attached to Clara, who was
a sweet-tempered girl, and felt a week's absence from her as a real
privation. Observing the disappointment of Emeline, Mrs. Minturn
said, a little impatiently:
"I think you might live without seeing Clara every day. For some
time past, you have been little more than her shadow. I don't like
these girlish intimacies; they never come to any good."
Tears were in Emeline's eyes as she turned from her mother and went
back to her room.
Mr. Allender, at the age of forty, found himself unable, through the
exhaustion of his means, to continue in business. He would have
resigned every thing into the hands of his creditors before
suffering a protest, had he not failed to receive an expected
payment on the day of his forced suspension. When he did call
together the men to whom he was indebted, he rendered them up all
his effects, and in all possible ways aided in the settlement of
every thing. The result was better than he had anticipated. No one
lost a dollar; but he was left penniless. Just then, the president
of one of the Marine Insurance Companies resigned his office, and
Mr. Allender was unanimously chosen to fill his place. The salary
was two thousand dollars. This was sufficient to meet the expense at
which his family had been living. So there was no change in their
domestic economy. This being the case, the Minturns had no good
reason for cutting the acquaintance of their old friends, much as
they now felt disposed to do so. The family visiting, however, was
far from being as frequent and as familiar as in former times.
Still, on the part of the Minturns the movement was upward, while
the Allender's retained their dead level. The lawyer, who was a man
of talents and perseverance, and withal not over scrupulous on
points of abstract morality, gained both money and reputation in his
profession, and was at length known as one of the most acute and
successful men at the bar. At last, he was brought forward by one of
the political parties as a candidate for a seat in Congress, and
elected.
If Mrs. Minturn's ideas of her own elevation and importance in the
social world had been large, they were now increased threefold. A
winter's residence at the seat of government,--during which time she
mingled freely with the little great people who revolve around
certain fixed stars that shine with varied light in the political
metropolis,--raised still higher the standard of self-estimation.
Her daughter Emeline, now a beautiful and accomplished young lady,
accompanied her mother wherever she went, and attracted a large
share of attention. Among those who seemed particularly pleased with
Emeline was a young man, a member of Congress from New York, who
belonged to a wealthy and distinguished family, and who was himself
possessed of brilliant talent, that made him conspicuous on the
floor of Congress, even among men of long-acknowledged abilities.
His name was Erskine.
Soon after meeting with the Hon. Mr. Erskine, Mrs. Minturn felt a
strong desire to bring him to the feet of her daughter. He presented
just the kind of alliance she wished for Emeline. In imagination she
soon began to picture to herself the elevated and brilliant position
her child would occupy as the wife of Erskine, and she resolved to
leave no means untried for the accomplishment of her wishes.
Accordingly, she was particularly attentive to the young man
whenever thrown into his company; and sought, by flattering his
self-love, to make him feel in the best possible humour with himself
while in her society. In this way she succeeded in drawing him
frequently to her side, where Emeline was always to be found. A
sprightly, well-educated, and finely accomplished girl, Emeline soon
interested the young M. C.; and he showed her, as has been said, a
good deal of attention during the winter, and Mrs. Minturn flattered
herself that her daughter had made a conquest.
When the session of Congress closed, the Minturns returned home in
the enjoyment of a much higher opinion of themselves than they had
ever before entertained, and quite disposed to be rather more choice
than before in regard to their visiting acquaintance. A few days
after their reappearance in old circles, a card of invitation to
meet some friends at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Allender was
received. It extended to themselves and their eldest daughter,
Emeline. Mrs. Minturn handed the card to her husband on his return
from his office in the evening.
"What is this?" he asked, on taking it. "Ah, indeed!" he added, in
rather an equivocal voice, on perceiving its tenor. "Are you going?"
"I rather think not."
"Just as you say about it," remarked the acquiescing husband.
"The truth is," said Mrs. Minturn, "a regard for our position makes
it necessary for us to be more select in our acquaintances. I don't
wish Emeline to be on terms of intimacy with Clara Allender any
longer. There is too great a difference in their social relations.
As people are judged by the company they keep, they should be a
little choice in their selection. I like Mrs. Allender very well in
her place. She is a good, plain, common-sense sort of a woman, but
she occupies a grade below us; and we should remember and act upon
this for the sake of our children, if for nothing else."
"No doubt you are right," replied Mr. Minturn. "Mr. Allender has
neither energy of character nor enterprise; he, therefore, occupies
a dead level in society. At that level he cannot expect every one
else to remain."
"Not us, at least."
"No."
"Clara called to see Emeline yesterday. I saw her in the parlour,
and asked her to excuse Emeline, as she was a little indisposed. It
is true, I had to fib a little. But that was better than a renewal
of an acquaintance that ought now to cease. She seemed a little
hurt, but I can't help it."
"Of course not. I am sorry, for their sakes, that we must give up
the acquaintance. No loss can come to us, as we have more friends,
now, than are just convenient."
"It would help Clara a good deal," remarked Mrs. Minturn, "to mingle
in our circle. Her mother feels this, and, therefore, does not wish
to give us up. I've not the least doubt but this party is made on
our account. It won't do, however; they will have to let us go."
"It will be sufficient to send our regrets," said Mr. Minturn.
"We'd better not even do that," replied his wife. "That will
indicate a wish to retain the acquaintance, and we have no such
desire. Better sever the relation at once and be done with the
matter. It is unpleasant at least, and there is no use in prolonging
disagreeable sensations."
"Be it so, then," remarked Mr. Minturn, rising; and so the thing was
decided.
Mrs. Minturn had lapsed into a small mistake touching the reason
that induced Mr. and Mrs. Allender to give an entertainment just at
that time. It was not in honour of their return from Washington, and
designed to unite the families in a firmer union; no, a thought like
this had not entered the mind of the Allenders. The honour was
designed for another--even for the Hon. Mr. Erskine, who was the son
of one of Mr. Allender's oldest and most valued friends, whom he had
not seen for many years, yet with whom he had enjoyed an
uninterrupted correspondence. On his return home, Mr. Erskine
remained a few days in the city, as much to see Mr. Allender as for
any thing else, his father having particularly desired him to do so.
He had never met Mr. Allender before, but was charmed with his
gentlemanly character and fine intelligence at the first interview,
and still more pleased with him at each subsequent meeting. With
Mrs. Allender he was also pleased; but, most of all, with Clara.
About the latter there was a charm that won his admiration. She was
beautiful; but how different her beauty from that of the brilliant
belles who had glittered in the gay circles of fashion he had just
left! It was less the beauty of features than that which comes
through them, as a transparent medium, from the pure and lovely
spirit within. Erskine had been more than pleased with Miss Minturn;
but he thought of her as one in a lower sphere while in the presence
of Clara, who, like a half-hidden violet, seemed all unconscious of
beauty or fragrance.
Yes, it was for Mr. Erskine that the party was given, and in order
to introduce him to a highly refined and intellectual circle, of
which Mr. Allender and his wife notwithstanding external reverses,
were still the centre. Not from any particular pleasure that was
expected to be derived from the company of the Minturns, were they
invited; for, in going up, they had changed so for the worse, that
their society had become irksome, if not offensive. But, for the
sake of old friendship, they were included. But they did not come;
and no one missed them.
On the next day, Mr. Erskine called upon Mrs. Minturn and her
daughter, as he intended leaving the city in the afternoon.
"We looked for you all last evening," said Mrs. Minturn. "Why did
you not call around?"
"I was at a select party last night," replied the young man.
"Were you, indeed?"
"Yes. At Mr. Allender's. Do you know the family?"
"At Allender's!" The tone of surprise, not altogether unmingled with
contempt, with which this was uttered by Mrs. Minturn, put Erskine a
little on his guard.
"Do you know them?" he asked, with some gravity of manner.
"Not very intimately. We had some acquaintance in former years, but
we have broken it off. They sent us cards of invitation, but we did
not notice them."
"What is their standing?"
"Not high. I believe none of our first people visit them."
"Ah!"
"Who was there?" asked Emeline.
The tone in which this was spoken caused Mr. Erskine to turn and
look somewhat closely into the young lady's face, to mark its
expression. She had never appeared less lovely in his eyes.
"Not a great many," he replied.
"I suppose not," said Mrs. Minturn.
"It was a select party," remarked the young man.
"And select enough, no doubt, you found it."
"You speak truly. I have never been in one more so," replied
Erskine.
"You have not answered my question as to who were there," said
Emeline.
"Young ladies, do you mean?"
"Yes, young ladies."
"Do you know Miss B--?"
"I have no particular acquaintance with her. But she was not there!"
"Oh, yes, she was. And so was her father, General B--."
"You astonish me!" said Mrs. Minturn. "Certainly you are in error."
"I believe not. I had a good deal of interesting conversation with
General B--, who is well acquainted with my father."
"Who else was there?"
"Senator Y--, and his beautiful niece, who created such a sensation in
Washington last winter. She and Miss Allender, who is, it strikes me, a
charming girl, seemed delighted with each other, and were side by side
most of the evening. They sang together many times with exquisite
effect. Then there were Mr. and Mrs. T--, Mr. and Mrs. R--, Miss
Julia S--, and Miss G--."
All these belonged to a circle yet above that in which the Minturns
had moved.
"I am astonished," said Mrs. Minturn, but poorly concealing her
mortification. "I had no idea that the Allenders kept such company.
How did you happen to be invited?"
"Mr. Allender is one of my father's oldest and most valued friends.
I called at his desire, and found both him and his family far above
the 'common run' of people. I do not in the least wonder at the
class of persons I met at their house. I am sorry that you have been
led so far astray in your estimation of their characters. You never
could have known them well."
"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Minturn, in a subdued voice. "Did you hear
us asked for?" she ventured to add. "We were invited, as I
mentioned, and would have gone, but didn't expect to find any there
with whom it would be agreeable to associate."
This remark did not in the least improve the matter in the eyes of
Mr. Erskine, who now understood the Minturns rather better than
before. A feeling of repugnance took the place of his former
friendly sentiments; and in a briefer time than he had intended, he
brought his visit to a close, and bade them good morning.
What was now to be done? The Minturns had fallen into an error,
which must, if possible, be repaired. The Allenders were of far more
consequence than they had believed, and their estimation of them
rose correspondingly. A note of regret at not being able to attend
the party, in consequence of a previous engagement, was written, and
this enclosed in another note, stating that in consequence of the
neglect of a servant, it had not been delivered on the day before.
Both were despatched within half an hour after Mr. Erskine left the
house.
On the day after, Mrs. Minturn and her daughter called at Mrs.
Allender's, and offered verbal regrets at not having been able to
attend the party.
"We wanted to come very much, but both Emeline and I were so much
indisposed, that the doctor said we mustn't think of going
out,"--forgetting at the moment the tenor of the note she had
written only the day before. But scarcely were the words out of her
mouth, when a glance of uneasy surprise from Emeline brought a
recollection of this fact, and caused the blood to mount to her
face.
A sudden change in the manner of Mrs. Allender was conclusive
evidence that she, too, was laying side by side the two conflicting
statements.
"But even," added Mrs. Minturn, in a voice that betrayed some
disturbance of mind, "if we had not been indisposed, a previously
made engagement would have been in the way of a pleasure that we
shall always regret having lost. You had a highly select party, I
understood."
"Only a few old and much esteemed friends, that we invited to meet a
gentleman who was passing through the city, whose father and Mr.
Allender are old acquaintances."
"The Hon. Mr. Erskine, you mean," said Mrs. Minturn, whose vanity
led her to betray herself still more.
Yes. Have you met him?"
"Oh, yes," was replied with animation. "We were very intimate at
Washington. He showed Emeline very particular attentions."
"Ah! I was not aware that you knew him."
"Intimately. He called to see us yesterday, on the eve of his
departure for New York."
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Emeline, as soon as they had stepped beyond
the street-door, on leaving the house of Mrs. Allender, "why did you
say any thing at all about Mr. Erskine, and especially after
blundering so in the matter of apology? She'll see through it all,
as clear as daylight. And won't we look beautiful in her eyes? I'm
mortified to death!"
"I don't know what came over me," returned the mother, with evident
chagrin. "To think that I should have been so beside myself!"
So much mortified were both the mother and daughter, on reflection,
that they could not venture to call again upon Mrs. Allender and
Clara, who did not return the last visit. And the intimacy from that
time was broken off.
The next winter came round, and the Minturns repaired again to
Washington. Emeline had hoped to receive a letter from Mr. Erskine,
whom she half believed to be in love with her; but no such desired
communication came. But she would meet him at the Capitol; and to
that time of meeting she looked forward with feelings of the
liveliest interest. On arriving in Washington, at the opening of the
session, she repaired, on the first day, to the Capitol. But much to
her disappointment, a certain member from New York was not in his
place.
"Where is Mr. Erskine," she asked of his colleague, whom she met in
the evening.
"Has not arrived yet," was replied. "Will probably be along
to-morrow. or next day. He stopped in your city as he came along;
and I shrewdly suspect that he had in contemplation a very desperate
act."
"Indeed! What was that?" returned Emeline, endeavouring to appear
unconcerned.
"Taking to himself a wife."
"You surprise me," said the young lady. "Who is the bride?"
"I don't know. He said nothing to me on that subject. Others, who
appear to be in the secret, aver that his detention is occasioned by
the cause I have alleged."
It required a strong effort on the part of Miss Minturn to keep from
betraying the painful shock her feelings had sustained. She changed
the subject as quickly as possible.
On the next day, it was whispered about that Mr. Erskine had arrived
in company with his newly-made bride.
"Who is she?" asked both Mrs. Minturn and her daughter; but no one
to whom they applied happened to know. Those who had seen her
pronounced her very beautiful. Two days passed, and then a bridal
party was given, to which Mrs. Minturn and Emeline were invited.
They had been sitting in the midst of a large company for about ten
minutes, their hearts in a flutter of anticipation, when there was a
slight movement at the door, and then Mr. Erskine entered with his
bride upon his arm. One glance sufficed for Mrs. Minturn and her
daughter--it was Clara! While others were pressing forward to greet
the lovely bride, they, overcome with disappointment, and oppressed
by mortification, retired from the room, and, ordering their
carriage, left the house unobserved.
Up to this day, they have never sought to renew the acquaintance.
THE MEANS OF ENJOYMENT.
ONE of the most successful merchants of his day was Mr. Alexander.
In trade he had amassed a large fortune, and now, in the sixtieth
year of his age, he concluded that it was time to cease getting and
begin the work of enjoying. Wealth had always been regarded by him
as a means of happiness; but, so fully had his mind been occupied in
business, that, until the present time, he had never felt himself at
leisure to make a right use of the means in his hands.
So Mr. Alexander retired from business in favour of his son and
son-in-law. And now was to come the reward of his long years of
labour. Now were to come repose, enjoyment, and the calm delights of
which he had so often dreamed. But, it so happened, that the current
of thought and affection which had flowed on so long and steadily
was little disposed to widen into a placid lake. The retired
merchant must yet have some occupation. His had been a life of
purposes, and plans for their accomplishment; and he could not
change the nature of this life. His heart was still the seat of
desire, and his thought obeyed, instinctively, the heart's
affection.
So Mr. Alexander used a portion of his wealth in various ways, in
order to satisfy the ever active desire of his heart for something
beyond what was in actual possession. But, it so happened, that the
moment an end was gained, the moment the bright ideal became a fixed
and present fact, its power to delight the mind was gone.
Mr. Alexander had some taste for the arts. Many fine pictures
already hung upon his walls. Knowing this, a certain picture-broker
threw himself in his way, and, by adroit management and skilful
flattery, succeeded in turning the pent-up and struggling current of
the old gentleman's feelings and thoughts in this direction. The
broker soon found that he had opened a new and profitable mine. Mr.
Alexander had only to see a fine picture, to desire its possession;
and to desire was to have. It was not long before his house was a
gallery of pictures.
Was he any happier? Did these pictures afford him a pure and
perennial source of enjoyment? No; for, in reality, Mr. Alexander's
taste for the arts was not a passion of his mind. He did not love
the beautiful in the abstract. The delight he experienced when he
looked upon a fine painting, was mainly the desire of possession;
and satiety soon followed possession.
One morning, Mr. Alexander repaired alone to his library, where, on
the day before, had been placed a new painting, recently imported by
his friend the picture-dealer. It was exquisite as a work of art,
and the biddings for it had been high. But he succeeded in securing
it for the sum of two thousand dollars. Before he was certain of
getting this picture, Mr. Alexander would linger before it, and
study out its beauties with a delighted appreciation. Nothing in his
collection was deemed comparable therewith. Strangely enough, after
it was hung upon the walls of his library, he did not stand before
it for as long a space as five minutes; and then his thoughts were
not upon its beauties. During the evening that followed, the mind of
Mr. Alexander was less in repose than usual. After having completed
his purchase of the picture, he had overheard two persons, who were
considered autocrats in taste, speaking of its defects, which were
minutely indicated. They likewise gave it as their opinion that the
painting was not worth a thousand dollars. This was throwing cold
water on his enthusiasm. It seemed as if a veil had suddenly been
drawn from before his eyes. Now, with a clearer vision, he could see
faults where, before, every defect was thrown into shadow by an
all-obscuring beauty.
On the next morning, as we have said, Mr. Alexander entered his
library, to take another look at his purchase. He did not feel very
happy. Many thousands of dollars had he spent in order to secure the
means of self-gratification; but the end was not yet gained.
A glance at the new picture sufficed, and then Mr. Alexander turned
from it with an involuntary sigh. Was it to look at other pictures?
No. He crossed his hands behind him, bent his eyes upon the floor,
and for the period of half an hour, walked slowly backwards and
forwards in his library. There was a pressure on his feelings, he
knew not why; a sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction.
No purpose was in the mind of Mr. Alexander when he turned from his
library, and, drawing on his overcoat, passed forth to the street.
It was a bleak winter morning, and the muffled pedestrians hurried
shivering on their way.
"Oh! I wish I had a dollar."
These words, in the voice of a child, and spoken with impressive
earnestness, fell suddenly upon the ears of Mr. Alexander, as he
moved along the pavement. Something in the tone reached the old
man's feelings, and he partly turned himself to look at the speaker.
She was a little girl, not over eleven years of age, and in company
with a lad some year or two older. Both were coarsely clad.
"What would you do with a dollar, sis?" replied the boy.
"I'd buy brother William a pair of nice woollen gloves, and a
comforter, and a pair of rubber shoes. That's what I'd do with it.
He has to go away, so early, in the cold, every morning; and he's
'most perished, I know, sometimes. Last night his feet were soaking
with wet. His shoes are not good; and mother says she hasn't money
to buy him a new pair just now. Oh, I wish I had a dollar!"
Instinctively Mr. Alexander's hand was in his pocket, and, a moment
after, a round, bright silver dollar glittered in that of the girl.
But little farther did Mr. Alexander extend his walk. As if by
magic, the hue of his feelings had changed. The pressure on his
heart was gone, and its fuller pulses sent the blood bounding and
frolicking along every expanding artery. He thought not of pictures
nor possessions. All else was obscured by the bright face of the
child, as she lifted to his her innocent eyes, brimming with
grateful tears.
One dollar spent unselfishly, brought more real pleasure than
thousands parted with in the pursuit of merely selfish
gratification. And the pleasure did not fade with the hour, nor the
day. That one truly benevolent act, impulsive as it had been,
touched a sealed spring of enjoyment, and the waters that gushed
instantly forth continued to flow unceasingly.
Homeward the old man returned, and again he entered his library.
Choice works of art were all around him, purchased as a means of
enjoyment.
They had cost thousands,--yet did they not afford him a tithe of the
pleasure he had secured by the expenditure of a single dollar. He
could turn from them with a feeling of satiety; not so from the
image of the happy child whose earnestly expressed wish he had
gratified.
And not alone on the pleasure of the child did the thoughts of Mr.
Alexander linger. There came before his imagination another picture.
He saw a poorly furnished room, in which were a humble, toiling
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