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Andrew E. Durham. Compiled by J. Frank Durham, Edited by - "Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will"

Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe - "Faust Part 1"

William Dean Howells - "Ragged Lady, Complete"

Georg Ebers - "An Egyptian Princess, Volume 8."

Friends and Neighbors, or Two Ways of Living in the World

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Friends and Neighbors, or Two Ways of Living in the World




We have mentioned the two incidents with the object of inculcating
the general policy of courtesy and kindness, of sympathy and
assistance, in our daily intercourse with our fellow-creatures. It
is the true course under all circumstances. "Little kindnesses"
sometimes make an impression that "lingers and lasts" for years.
This is especially the case with the sensitive, the generous, and
the high-minded. And how much may be accomplished by this duty of
courtesy and humanity! How the paths of life may be smoothed and
softened! How the present may be cheered, and the future rendered
bright and beautiful!

There are, it is true, some selfish spirits, who can neither
appreciate nor reciprocate a courteous or a generous act. They are
for themselves--"now and for ever"--if we may employ such a
phrase--and appear never to be satisfied. You can never do enough
for them. Nay, the deeper the obligation, the colder the heart. They
grow jealous, distrustful, and finally begin to hate their
benefactors. But these, we trust, are "the exceptions," not "the
rule." Many a heart has been won, many a friendship has been
secured, many a position has been acquired, through the exercise of
such little kindnesses and courtesies as are natural to the generous
in spirit and the noble of soul--to all, indeed, who delight, not
only in promoting their own prosperity, but in contributing to the
welfare of every member of the human family. Who cannot remember
some incident of his own life, in which an individual, then and
perhaps now a stranger--one who has not been seen for years, and
never may be seen again on this side the grave, manifested the true,
the genuine, the gentle spirit of a gentleman and a Christian, in
some mere trifle--some little but impulsive and spontaneous act,
which nevertheless developed the whole heart, and displayed the real
character! Distance and time may separate, and our pursuits and
vocations may be in paths distinct, dissimilar, and far apart. Yet,
there are moments--quiet, calm, and contemplative, when memory will
wander back to the incidents referred to, and we will feel a secret
bond of affinity, friendship, and brotherhood. The name will be
mentioned with respect if not affection, and a desire will be
experienced to repay, in some way or on some occasion, the generous
courtesy of the by-gone time. It is so easy to be civil and
obliging, to be kindly and humane! We not only thus assist the
comfort of others, but we promote our own mental enjoyment. Life,
moreover, is full of chance's and changes. A few years, sometimes,
produce extraordinary revolutions in the fortunes of men. The
haughty of to-day may be the humble of to-morrow; the feeble may be
the powerful; the rich may be the poor, But, if elevated by
affluence or by position, the greater the necessity, the stronger
the duty to be kindly, courteous, and conciliatory to those less
fortunate. We can afford to be so; and a proper appreciation of our
position, a due sympathy for the misfortunes of others, and a
grateful acknowledge to Divine Providence, require that we should be
so. Life is short at best. We are here a few years--we sink into the
grave--and even our memory is phantom-like and evanescent. How
plain, then, is our duty! It is to be true to our position, to our
conscience, and to the obligations imposed upon us by society, by
circumstances, and by our responsibility to the Author of all that
is beneficent and good.






LEAVING OFF CONTENTION BEFORE IT BE MEDDLED WITH.





WE are advised to leave off contention before it be meddled with, by
one usually accounted a very wise man. Had he never given the world
any other evidence of superior wisdom, this admonition alone would
have been sufficient to have established his claims thereto. It
shows that he had power to penetrate to the very root of a large
share of human misery. For what is the great evil in our condition
here? Is it not misunderstanding, disagreement, alienation,
contention, and the passions and results flowing from these? Are not
contempt, and hatred, and strife, and alteration, and slander, and
evil-speaking, the things hardest to bear, and most prolific of
suffering, in the lot of human life? The worst woes of life are such
as spring from, these sources.

Is there any cure for these maladies? Is there anything to prevent
or abate these exquisite sufferings? The wise man directs our
attention to a remedial preventive in the advice above referred to.
His counsel to those whose lot unites them in the same local
habitations and name to those who are leagued in friendship or
business, in the changes of sympathy and the chances of collision,
is, to suppress anger or dissatisfaction, to be candid and
charitable in judging, and, by all means, to leave off contention
before it be meddled with. His counsel to all is to endure injury
meekly, not to give expression to the sense of wrong, even when we
might seem justified in resistance or complaint. His counsel is to
yield something we might fairly claim, to pardon when we might
punish, to sacrifice somewhat of our rights for the sake of peace
and friendly affection. His counsel is not to fire at every
provocation, not to return evil for evil, not to cherish any fires
of revenge, burning to be even with the injurious person. His
counsel is to curb our imperiousness, to repress our impatience, to
pause in the burst of another's feeling, to pour water upon the
kindling flames, or, at the very least, to abstain from adding any
fresh fuel thereto.

One proof of the superior wisdom of this counsel is, that few seem
to appreciate or perceive it. To many it seems no great virtue or
wisdom, no great and splendid thing, in some small issue of feeling
or opinion, in the family or among friends, to withhold a little, to
tighten the rein upon some headlong propensity, and await a calm for
fair adjustment. Such a course is not usually held to be a proof of
wisdom or virtue; and men are much more ready to praise and think
well of smartness, and spirit, and readiness for an encounter. To
leave off contention before it is meddled with does not command any
very general admiration; it is too quiet a virtue, with no striking
attitudes, and with lips which answer nothing. This is too often
mistaken for dullness, and want of proper spirit. It requires
discernment and superior wisdom to see a beauty in such repose and
self-control, beyond the explosions of anger and retaliation. With
the multitude, self-restraining meekness under provocation is a
virtue which stands quite low in the catalogue. It is very
frequently set down as pusillanimity and cravenness of spirit. But
it is not so; for there is a self-restraint under provocation which
is far from being cowardice, or want of feeling, or shrinking from
consequences; there is a victory over passionate impulses which is
more difficult and more meritorious than a victory on the bloody
battle-field. It requires more power, more self-command, often, to
leave off contention, when provocation and passion are causing the
blood to boil, than to rush into it.

Were this virtue more duly appreciated, and the admonition of the
Wise Man more extensively heeded, what a change would be effected in
human life! How many of its keenest sufferings would be annihilated!
The spark which kindles many great fires would be withheld; and,
great as are the evils and sufferings caused by war, they are not as
great, probably, as those originating in impatience and want of
temper. The fretfulness of human life, it seems not hard to believe,
is a greater evil, and destroys more happiness, than all the bloody
scenes of the, battle-field. The evils of war have generally
something to lighten the burden of them in a sense of necessity, or
of rights or honour invaded; but there is nothing of like importance
to alleviate the sufferings caused by fretfulness, impatience, want
of temper. The excitable peevishness which kindles at trifles, that
roughens the daily experience of a million families, that scatters
its little stings at the table and by the hearth-stone, what does
this but unmixed harm? What ingredient does it furnish but of gall?
Its fine wounding may be of petty consequence in any given case, and
its tiny darts easily extracted; but, when habitually carried into
the whole texture of life, it destroys more peace than plague and
famine and the sword. It is a deeper anguish than grief; it is a
sharper pang than the afflicted moan with; it is a heavier pressure
from human hands than when affliction lays her hand upon you. All
this deduction from human comfort, all this addition to human
suffering, may be saved, by heeding the admonition of wisdom given
by one of her sons. When provoked by the follies or the passions,
the offences or neglects, the angry words or evil-speaking of
others, restrain your propensity to complain or contend; leave off
contention before you take the first step towards it. You will then
be greater than he that taketh a city. You will be a genial
companion in your family and among your neighbours. You will be
loved at home and blessed abroad. You will be a source of comfort to
others, and carry a consciousness of praiseworthiness in your own
bosom. On the contrary, an acrid disposition, a readiness to enter
into contention, is like vinegar to the teeth, like caustic to an
open sore. It eats out all the beauty, tenderness, and affection of
domestic and social life. For all this the remedy is simple. Put a
restraint upon your feelings; give up a little; take less than
belongs to you; endure more than should be put upon you; make
allowance for another's judgment or educational defects; consider
circumstances and constitution; leave off contention before it be
meddled with. If you do otherwise, quick resentment and stiff
maintenance of your position will breed endless disputes and
bitterness. But happy will be the results of the opposite course,
accomplished every day and every hour in the family, with friends,
with companions, with all with whom you have any dealings or any
commerce in life.

Let any one set himself to the cultivation of this virtue of
meekness and self-restraint, and he will find that it cannot be
secured by one or a few efforts, however resolute; by a few
struggles, however severe. It requires industrious culture; it
requires that he improve every little occasion to quench strife and
fan concord, till a constant sweetness smooths the face of domestic
life, and kindness and tenderness become the very expression of the
countenance. This virtue of self-control must grow by degrees. It
must grow by a succession of abstinences from returning evil for
evil, by a succession of leaving off contention before the first
angry word escapes.

It may help to cultivate this virtue, to practise some forethought.
When tempted to irritable, censorious speech, one might with
advantage call to recollection the times, perhaps frequent, when
words uttered in haste have caused sorrow or repentance. Then,
again, the fact might be called to mind, that when we lose a friend,
every harsh word we may have spoken rises to condemn us. There is a
resurrection, not for the dead only, but for the injuries we have
fixed in their hearts--in hearts, it may be, bound to our own, and
to which we owed gentleness instead of harshness. The shafts of
reproach, which come from the graves of those who have been wounded
by our fretfulness and irritability, are often hard to bear. Let
meek forbearance and self-control prevent such suffering, and guard
us against the condemnations of the tribunal within.

There is another tribunal, also, which it were wise to think of. The
rule of that tribunal is, that if we forgive not those who trespass
against us, we ourselves shall not be forgiven. "He shall have
judgment without mercy that hath showed no mercy." Only, then, if we
do not need, and expect never to beg the mercy of the Lord to
ourselves, may we withhold our mercy from our fellow-men.






"ALL THE DAY IDLE."





WHEREFORE idle?--when the harvest beckoning,
Nods its ripe tassels to the brightening sky?
Arise and labour ere the time of reckoning,
Ere the long shadows and the night draw night.

Wherefore idle?--Swing the sickle stoutly!
Bind thy rich sheaves exultingly and fast!
Nothing dismayed, do thy great task devoutly--
Patient and strong, and hopeful to the last!

Wherefore idle?--Labour, not inaction,
Is the soul's birthright, and its truest rest;
Up to thy work!--It is Nature's fit exaction--
He who toils humblest, bravest, toils the best.

Wherefore idle?--God himself is working;
His great thought wearieth not, nor standeth still,
In every throb of his vast heart is lurking
Some mighty purpose of his mightier will.

Wherefore idle?--Not a leaf's slight rustle
But chides thee in thy vain, inglorious rest;
Be a strong actor in the great world,--bustle,--
Not a, weak minion or a pampered guest!

Wherefore idle?--Oh I _my_ faint soul, wherefore?
Shake first from thine own powers dull sloth's control;
Then lift thy voice with an exulting "Therefore
Thou, too, shalt conquer, oh, thou striving soul!"






THE BUSHEL OF CORN.





FARMER GRAY had a neighbour who was not the best-tempered man in the
world though mainly kind and obliging. He was shoemaker. His name
was Barton. One day, in harvest-time, when every man on the farm was
as busy as a bee, this man came over to Farmer Gray's, and said, in
rather a petulant tone of voice,

"Mr. Gray, I wish you would send over, and drive your geese home."

"Why so, Mr. Barton; what have my geese been doing?" said the
farmer, in a mild, quiet-tone.

"They pick my pigs' ears when they are eating, and go into my
garden, and I will not have it!" the neighbour replied, in a still
more petulant voice.

"I am really sorry it, Neighbour Barton, but what can I do?"

"Why, yoke them, and thus keep them on your own premises. It's no
kind of a way to let your geese run all over every farm and garden
in the neighborhood."

"But I cannot see to it, now. It is harvest-time, Friend Barton, and
every man, woman, and child on the farm has as much as he or she can
do. Try and bear it for a week or so, and then I will see if I can
possibly remedy the evil."

"I can't bear it, and I won't bear it any longer!" said the
shoemaker. "So if you do not take care of them, Friend Gray, I shall
have to take care of them for you."

"Well, Neighbour Barton, you can do as you please," Farmer Gray
replied, in his usual quiet tone. "I am sorry that they trouble you,
but I cannot attend to them now."

"I'll attend to them for you, see if I don't," said the shoemaker,
still more angrily than when he first called upon Farmer Gray; and
then turned upon his heel, and strode off hastily towards his own
house, which was quite near to the old farmer's.

"What upon earth can be the matter with them geese?" said Mrs. Gray,
about fifteen minutes afterwards.

"I really cannot tell, unless Neighbour Barton is taking care of
them. He threatened to do so, if I didn't yoke them right off."

"Taking care of them! How taking care of them?"

"As to that, I am quite in the dark. Killing them, perhaps. He said
they picked at his pigs' ears, and drove them away when they were
eating, and that he wouldn't have it. He wanted me to yoke them
right off, but that I could not do, now, as all the hands are busy.
So, I suppose, he is engaged in the neighbourly business of taking
care of our geese."

"John! William! run over and see what Mr. Barton is doing with my
geese," said Mrs. Gray, in a quick and anxious tone, to two little
boys who were playing near.

The urchins scampered off, well pleased to perform any errand.

"Oh, if he has dared to do anything to my geese, I will never
forgive him!" the good wife said, angrily.

"H-u-s-h, Sally! make no rash speeches. It is more than probable
that he has killed some two or three of them. But never mind, if he
has. He will get over this pet, and be sorry for it."

"Yes; but what good will his being sorry do me? Will it bring my
geese to life?"

"Ah, well, Sally, never mind. Let us wait until we learn what all
this disturbance is about."

In about ten minutes the children came home, bearing the bodies of
three geese, each without a head.

"Oh, is not that too much for human endurance?" cried Mrs. Gray.
"Where did you find them?"

"We found them lying out in the road," said the oldest of the two
children, "and when we picked them up, Mr. Barton said, 'Tell your
father that I have yoked his geese for him, to save him the trouble,
as his hands are all too busy to do it.'"

"I'd sue him for it!" said Mrs. Gray, in an indignant tone.

"And what good would that do, Sally?"

"Why, it would do a great deal of good. It would teach him better
manners. It would punish him; and he deserves punishment."

"And punish us into the bargain. We have lost three geese, now, but
we still have their good fat bodies to eat. A lawsuit would cost us
many geese, and not leave us even so much as the feathers, besides
giving us a world of trouble and vexation. No, no, Sally; just let
it rest, and he will be sorry for it, I know."

"Sorry for it, indeed! And what good will his being sorry for it do
us, I should like to know? Next he will kill a cow, and then we must
be satisfied with his being sorry for it! Now, I can tell you, that
I don't believe in that doctrine. Nor do I believe anything about
his being sorry--the crabbed, ill-natured wretch!"

"Don't call hard names, Sally," said Farmer Gray, in a mild,
soothing tone. "Neighbour Barton was not himself when he killed the
geese. Like every other angry person, he was a little insane, and
did what he would not have done had he been perfectly in his right
mind. When you are a little excited, you know, Sally, that even you
do and say unreasonable things."

"Me do and say unreasonable things!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray, with a
look and tone of indignant astonishment; "me do and say unreasonable
things, when I am angry! I don't understand you, Mr. Gray."

"May-be I can help you a little. Don't you remember how angry you
were when Mr. Mellon's old brindle got into our garden, and trampled
over your lettuce-bed, and how you struck her with the oven-pole,
and knocked off one of her horns?"

"But I didn't mean to do that, though."

"No; but then you were angry, and struck old Brindle with a right
good will. And if Mr. Mellon had felt disposed, he might have
prosecuted for damages."

"But she had no business there."

"Of course not. Neither had our geese any business in Neighbour
Barton's yard. But, perhaps, I can help you to another instance,
that will be more conclusive, in regard to your doing and saying
unreasonable things, when you are angry. You remember the patent
churn?"

"Yes; but never mind about that."

"So you have not forgotten how unreasonable you was about the churn.
It wasn't good for anything--you knew it wasn't; and you'd never put
a jar of cream into it as long as you lived--that you wouldn't. And
yet, on trial, you found that churn the best you had ever used, and
you wouldn't part with it on any consideration. So you see, Sally,
thai even you can say and do unreasonable things, when you are
angry, just as well as Mr. Barton can. Let us then consider him a
little, and give him time to get over his angry fit. It will be much
better to do so."

Mrs. Gray saw that her husband was right, but still she felt
indignant at the outrage committed on her geese. She did not,
however, say anything about suing the shoemaker--for old Brindle's
head, from which the horn had been knocked off, was not yet entirely
well, and one prosecution very naturally suggested the idea of
another. So she took her three fat geese, and after stripping off
their feathers, had them prepared for the table.

On the next morning, as Farmer Gray was going along the road, he met
the shoemaker, and as they had to pass very near to each other, the
farmer smiled, and bowed, and spoke kindly. Mr. Barton looked and
felt very uneasy, but Farmer Gray did not seem to remember the
unpleasant incident of the day before.

It was about eleven o'clock of the same day that one of Farmer
Gray's little boys came running to him, and crying,

"Oh, father! father! Mr. Barton's hogs are in our cornfield."

"Then I must go and drive them out," said Mr. Gray, in a quiet tone.

"Drive them out!" ejaculated Mrs. Gray; "drive 'em out, indeed! I'd
shoot them, that's what I'd do! I'd serve them as he served my geese
yesterday."

"But that wouldn't bring the geese to life again, Sally."

"I don't care if it wouldn't. It would be paying him in his own
coin, and that's all he deserves."

"You know what the Bible says, Sally, about grievous words, and they
apply with stronger force to grievous actions. No, no, I will return
Neighbour Barton good for evil. That is the best way. He has done
wrong, and I am sure is sorry for it. And as I wish him still to
remain sorry for so unkind and unneighbourly an action, I intend
making use of the best means for keeping him sorry."

"Then you will be revenged on him, anyhow."

"No, Sally--not revenged. I hope I have no such feeling. For I am
not angry with Neighbour Barton, who has done himself a much greater
wrong than he has done me. But I wish him to see clearly how wrong
he acted, that he may do so no more. And then we shall not have any
cause to complain of him, nor he any to be grieved, as I am sure he
is, at his own hasty conduct. But while I am talking here, his hogs
are destroying my corn."

And so saying, Farmer Gray hurried off, towards his cornfield. When
he arrived there, he found four large hogs tearing down the stalks,
and pulling off and eating the ripe ears of corn. They had already
destroyed a good deal. But he drove them out very calmly, and put up
the bars through which they had entered, and then commenced
gathering up the half-eaten ears of corn, and throwing them out into
the lane for the hogs, that had been so suddenly disturbed in the
process of obtaining a liberal meal. As he was thus engaged, Mr.
Barton, who had from his own house seen the farmer turn the hogs out
of his cornfield, came hurriedly up, and said,

"I am very sorry, Mr. Gray, indeed I am, that my hogs have done
this! I will most cheerfully pay you for what they have destroyed."

"Oh, never mind, Friend Barton--never mind. Such things will happen,
occasionally. My geese, you know, annoy you very much, sometimes."

"Don't speak of it, Mr. Gray. They didn't annoy me half as much as I
imagined they did. But how much corn do you think my hogs have
destroyed? One bushel, or two bushels? or how much? Let it be
estimated, and I will pay for it most cheerfully."

"Oh, no. Not for the world, Friend Barton. Such things will happen
sometimes. And, besides, some of my men must have left the bars
down, or your hogs could never have got in. So don't think any more
about it. It would be dreadful if one neighbour could not bear a
little with another."

All this cut poor Mr. Barton to the heart. His own ill-natured
language and conduct, at a much smaller trespass on his rights,
presented itself to his mind, and deeply mortified him. After a few
moments' silence, he said,

"The fact is, Mr. Gray, I shall feel better if you will let me pay
for this corn. My hogs should not be fattened at your expense, and I
will not consent to its being done. So I shall insist on paying you
for at least one bushel of corn, for I am sure they have destroyed
that much, if not more."

But Mr. Gray shook his head and smiled pleasantly, as he replied,

"Don't think anything more about it, Neighbour Barton. It is a
matter deserving no consideration. No doubt my cattle have often
trespassed on you and will trespass on you again. Let us then bear
and forbear."

All this cut the shoemaker still deeper, and he felt still less at
ease in mind after he parted from the farmer than he did before. But
on one thing he resolved, and that was, to pay Mr. Gray for the corn
which his hogs had eaten.

"You told him your mind pretty plainly, I hope," said Mrs. Gray, as
her husband came in.

"I certainly did," was the quiet reply.

"And I am glad you had spirit enough to do it! I reckon he will
think twice before he kills any more of my geese!"

"I expect you are right, Sally. I don't think we shall be troubled
again."

"And what did you say to him? And what did he say for himself?"

"Why he wanted very much to pay me for the corn his pigs had eaten,
but I wouldn't hear to it. I told him that it made no difference in
the world; that such accidents would happen sometimes."

"You did?"

"Certainly, I did."

"And that's the way you spoke your mind to him?"

"Precisely. And it had the desired effect. It made him feel ten
times worse than if I had spoken angrily to him. He is exceedingly
pained at what he has done, and says he will never rest until he has
paid for that corn. But I am resolved never to take a cent for it.
It will be the best possible guarantee I can have for his kind and
neighbourly conduct hereafter."

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