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

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"Well, perhaps you are right," said Mrs. Gray, after a few moments
of thoughtful silence. "I like Mrs. Barton very much--and now I come
to think of it, I should not wish to have any difference between our
families."

"And so do I like Mr. Barton. He has read a good deal, and I find it
very pleasant to sit with him, occasionally, during the long winter
evenings. His only fault is his quick temper--but I am sure it is
much better for us to bear with and soothe that, than to oppose rand
excite it and thus keep both his family and our own in hot water."

"You are certainly right," replied Mrs. Gray; "and I only wish that
I could always think and feel as you do. But I am little quick, as
they say."

"And so is Mr. Barton. Now just the same consideration that you
would desire others to have for you, should you exercise towards Mr.
Barton, or any one else whose hasty temper leads him into words or
actions that, in calmer and more thoughtful moments, are subjects of
regret."

On the next day, while Mr. Gray stood in his own door, from which he
could see over the two or three acres of ground that the shoemaker
cultivated, he observed two of his cows in his neighbour's
cornfield, browsing away in quite a contented manner. As he was
going to call one of the farm hands to go over and drive them out,
he perceived that Mr. Barton had become aware of the mischief that
was going on, and had already started for the field of corn.

"Now we will see the effect of yesterday's lesson," said the farmer
to himself; and then paused to observe the manner of the shoemaker
towards his cattle in driving them out of the field. In a few
minutes Mr. Barton came up to the cows, but, instead of throwing
stones at them, or striking them with a stick, he merely drove them
out in a quiet way, and put up the bars through which they had
entered.

"Admirable!" ejaculated Farmer Gray.

"What is admirable?" asked his wife, who came within hearing
distance at the moment.

"Why the lesson I gave our friend Barton yesterday. It works
admirably."

"How so?"

"Two of our cows were in his cornfield a few minutes ago, destroying
the corn at a rapid rate."

"Well! what did he do to them?" in a quick, anxious tone.

"He drove them out."

"Did he stone them, or beat them?"

"Oh no. He was gentle as a child towards them."

"You are certainly jesting."

"Not I. Friend Barton has not forgotten that his pigs were in my
cornfield yesterday, and that I turned them out without hurting a
hair of one of them. Now, suppose I had got angry and beaten his
pigs, what do you think the result would have been? Why, it is much
more than probable that one or both of our fine cows would have been
at this moment in the condition of Mr. Mellon's old Brindle."

"I wish you wouldn't say anything more about old Brindle," said Mrs.
Gray, trying to laugh, while her face grew red in spite of her
efforts to keep down her feelings.

"Well, I won't, Sally, if it worries you. But it is such a good
illustration that I can't help using it sometimes."

"I am glad he didn't hurt the cows," said Mrs. Gray, after a pause.

"And so am I, Sally. Glad on more than one account. It shows that he
has made an effort to keep down his hasty, irritable temper--and if
he can do that, it will be a favour conferred on the whole
neighbourhood, for almost every one complains, at times, of this
fault in his character."

"It is certainly the best policy, to keep fair weather with him,"
Mrs. Gray remarked, "for a man of his temper could annoy us a good
deal."

"That word policy, Sally, is not a good word," replied her husband.
"It conveys a thoroughly selfish idea. Now, we ought to look for
some higher motives of action than mere policy--motives grounded in
correct and unselfish principles."

"But what other motive but policy could we possibly have for putting
up with Mr. Barton's outrageous conduct?"

"Other, and far higher motives, it seems to me. We should reflect
that Mr. Barton has naturally a hasty temper, and that when excited
he does things for which he is sorry afterwards--and that, in nine
cases out of ten, he is a greater sufferer from those outbreaks than
any one else. In our actions towards him, then, it is a much higher
and better motive for us to be governed by a desire to aid him in
the correction of this evil, than to look merely to the protection
of ourselves from its effects. Do you not think so?"

"Yes. It does seem so."

"When thus moved to action, we are, in a degree, regarding the whole
neighbourhood, for the evil of which we speak affects all. And in
thus suffering ourselves to be governed by such elevated and
unselfish motives, we gain all that we possibly could have gained
under the mere instigation of policy--and a great deal more. But to
bring the matter into a still narrower compass. In all our actions
towards him and every one else, we should be governed by the simple
consideration--is it right? If a spirit of retaliation be not right,
then it cannot be indulged without a mutual injury. Of course, then,
it should never prompt us to action. If cows or hogs get into my
field or garden, and destroy my property, who is to blame most? Of
course, myself. I should have kept my fences in better repair, or my
gate closed. The animals, certainly, are not to blame, for they
follow only the promptings of nature; and their owners should not be
censured, for they know nothing about it. It would then be very
wrong for me to injure both the animals and their owners for my own
neglect, would it not?"

"Yes,--I suppose it would."

"So, at least, it seems to me. Then, of course, I ought not to
injure Neighbour Barton's cows or hogs, even if they do break into
my cornfield or garden, simply because it would be wrong to do so.
This is the principle upon which we should act, and not from any
selfish policy."

After this there was no trouble about Farmer Gray's geese or cattle.
Sometimes the geese would get among Mr. Barton's hogs, and annoy
them while eating, but it did not worry him as it did formerly. If
they became too troublesome he would drive them away, but not by
throwing sticks and stones at them as he once did.

Late in the fall the shoemaker brought in his bill for work. It was
a pretty large bill, with sundry credits.

"Pay-day has come at last," said Farmer Gray, good-humouredly, as
the shoemaker presented his account.

"Well, let us see!" and he took the bill to examine it item after
item.

"What is this?" he asked, reading aloud.

"'Cr. By one bushel of corn, fifty cents.'"

"It's some corn I had from you."

"I reckon you must be mistaken. You never got any corn from me."

"Oh, yes I did. I remember it perfectly. It is all right."

"But when did you get it, Friend Barton? I am sure that I haven't
the most distant recollection of it."

"My hogs got it," the shoemaker said, in rather a low and hesitating
tone.

"Your hogs!"

"Yes. Don't you remember when my hogs broke into your field, and
destroyed your corn?"

"Oh, dear! is that it? Oh, no, no, Friend Barton! Ii cannot allow
that item in the bill."

"Yes, but you must. It is perfectly just, and I shall never rest
until it is paid."

"I can't, indeed. You couldn't help the hogs getting into my field;
and then you know, Friend Barton (lowering his tone), my geese were
very troublesome!"

The shoemaker blushed and looked confused; but Farmer Gray slapped
him familiarly on the shoulder, and said, in a lively, cheerful way,

"Don't think any more about it, Friend Barton! And hereafter let us
endeavour to 'do as we would be done by,' and then everything will
go on as smooth as clock-work."

"But you will allow that item in the bill?" the shoemaker urged
perseveringly.

"Oh, no, I couldn't do that. I should think it wrong to make you pay
for my own or some of my men's negligence in leaving the bars down."

"But then (hesitatingly), those geese--I killed three. Let it go for
them."

"If you did kill them, we ate them. So that is even. No, no, let the
past be forgotten, and if it makes better neighbours and friends of
us, we never need regret what has happened."

Farmer Gray remained firm, and the bill was settled, omitting the
item of "corn." From that time forth he never had a better neighbour
than the shoemaker. The cows, hogs, and geese of both would
occasionally trespass, but the trespassers were always kindly
removed. The lesson was not lost on either of them--for even Farmer
Gray used to feel, sometimes, a little annoyed when his neighbour's
cattle broke into his field. But in teaching the shoemaker a lesson,
he had taken a little of it himself.

THE ACCOUNT.

THE clock from the city hall struck one;
The merchant's task was not yet done;
He knew the old year was passing away,
And his accounts must all be settled that day;
He must know for a truth how much he should win,
So fast the money was rolling in.

He took the last cash-book, from the pile,
And he summed it up with a happy smile;
For a just and upright man was he,
Dealing with all most righteously,
And now he was sure how much he should win,
How fast the money was rolling in.

He heard not the soft touch on the door--
He heard not the tread on the carpeted floor--
So still was her coming, he thought him alone,
Till she spake in a sweet and silvery tone:
"Thou knowest not yet how much thou shalt win--
How fast the money is rolling in."

Then from 'neath her white, fair arm, she took
A golden-clasped, and, beautiful book--
"'Tis my account thou hast to pay,
In the coming of the New Year's day--
Read--ere thou knowest how much thou shalt win,
How fast the money is rolling in."

He open'd the clasps with a trembling hand--
Therein was Charity's firm demand:
"To the widow, the orphan, the needy, the poor,
Much owest thou of thy yearly store;
Give, ere thou knowest how much thou shalt win--
While fast the money is rolling in."

The merchant took from his box of gold
A goodly sum for the lady bold;
His heart was richer than e'er before,
As she bore the prize from the chamber door.
Ye who would know how much ye can win,
Give, when the money is rolling in.

CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTH.

"IT is vain, to urge, Brother Robert. Out into the world I must go.
The impulse is on me. I should die of inaction here."

"You need not be inactive. There is work to do. I shall never be
idle."

"And such work! Delving in, and grovelling close to the ground. And
for what? Oh no Robert. My ambition soars beyond your 'quiet cottage
in a sheltered vale.' My appetite craves something more than simple
herbs, and water from the brook. I have set my heart on attaining
wealth; and where there is a will there is always a way."

"Contentment is better than wealth."

"A proverb for drones."

"No, William, it is a proverb for the wise."

"Be it for the wise or simple, as commonly, understood, it is no
proverb for me. As poor plodder along the way of life, it were
impossible for me to know content. So urge no farther, Robert. I am
going out into the world a wealth-seeker, and not until wealth is
gained do I purpose to return."

"What of Ellen, Robert?"

The young man turned quickly towards his brother, visibly disturbed,
and fixed his eyes upon him with an earnest expression.

"I love her as my life," he said, with a strong emphasis on his
words.

"Do you love wealth more than life, William?"

"Robert!"

"If you love Ellen as your life, and leave her for the sake of
getting riches, then you must love money more than life."

"Don't talk to me after this fashion. I love her tenderly and truly.
I am going forth as well for her sake as my own. In all the good
fortune that comes as a meed of effort, she will be the sharer."

"You will see her before you leave us?"

"No; I will neither pain her nor myself by a parting interview. Send
her this letter and this ring."

A few hours later, and there brothers stood with tightly-grasped
hands, gazing into each other's faces.

"Farewell, Robert."

"Farewell, William. Think of the old homestead as still your home.
Though it is mine, in the division of our patrimony, let your heart
come back to it as yours. Think of it as home; and, should Fortune
cheat you with the apples of Sodom, return to it again. Its doors
will ever be open, and its hearth-fire bright for you as of old.
Farewell!"

And they turned from each other, one going out into the restless
world, an eager seeker for its wealth and honours; the other to
linger among the pleasant places dear to him by every association of
childhood, there to fill up the measure of his days--not idly, for
he was no drone in the social hive.

On the evening of that day two maidens sat alone, each in the
sanctuary of her own chamber. There was a warm glow on the cheeks of
one, and a glad light in her eyes. Pale was the other's face, and
wet her drooping lashes. And she that sorrowed held an open letter
in her hand. It was full of tender words; but the writer loved
wealth more than the maiden, and had gone forth to seek the mistress
of his soul. He would "come back," but when? Ah, what a veil of
uncertainty was upon the future! Poor, stricken heart! The other
maiden--she of the glowing cheeks and dancing eyes--held also a
letter in her hand. It was from the brother of the wealth-seeker;
and it was also full of loving words; and it said that, on the
morrow, he would come to bear her as his bride to his pleasant home.
Happy maiden!

Ten years have passed. And what of the wealth-seeker? Has he won the
glittering prize? What of the pale-faced maiden he left in tears?
Has he returned to her? Does she share now his wealth and honour?
Not since the day he went forth from the home of his childhood has a
word of intelligence from the wanderer been received; and to those
he left behind him he is as one who has passed the final bourne. Yet
he still dwells among the living.

In a far-away, sunny clime stands a stately mansion. We will not
linger to describe the elegant interior, to hold up before the
reader's imagination a picture of rural beauty, exquisitely
heightened by art, but enter its spacious hall, and pass up to one
of its most luxurious chambers. How hushed and solemn the pervading
atmosphere! The inmates, few in number, are grouped around one on
whose white forehead Time's trembling finger has written the word
"Death!" Over her bends a manly form. There--his face is towards
you. Ah! you recognise the wanderer--the wealth-seeker. What does he
here? What to him is the dying one? His wife! And has he, then,
forgotten the maiden whose dark lashes lay wet on her pale cheeks
for many hours after she read his parting words? He has not
forgotten, but been false to her. Eagerly sought he the prize, to
contend for which he went forth. Years came and departed; yet still
hope mocked him with ever-attractive and ever-fading illusions.
To-day he stood with his hand just ready to seize the object of his
wishes, to-morrow a shadow mocked him. At last, in an evil hour, he
bowed down his manhood prostrate even to the dust in woman worship,
and took to himself a bride, rich in golden, attractions, but poorer
as a woman than ever the beggar at her father's gate. What a thorn
in his side she proved! A thorn ever sharp and ever piercing. The
closer he attempted to draw her to his bosom, the deeper went the
points into his own, until, in the anguish of his soul, again and
again he flung her passionately from him.

Five years of such a life! Oh, what is there of earthly good to
compensate therefor? But in this last desperate throw did the
worldling gain the wealth, station, and honour he coveted? He had
wedded the only child of a man whose treasure might be counted by
hundreds of thousands; but, in doing so, he had failed to secure the
father's approval or confidence. The stern old man regarded him as a
mercenary interloper, and ever treated him as such. For five years,
therefore, he fretted and chafed in the narrow prison whose gilded
bars his own hands had forged. How often, during that time, had his
heart wandered back to the dear old home, and the beloved ones with
whom he had passed his early years! And, ah! how many, many times
came between him and the almost hated countenance of his wife the
gentle, the loving face of that one to whom he had been false! How
often her soft blue eyes rested on his own How often he started and
looked up suddenly, as if her sweet voice came floating on the air!

And so the years moved on, the chain galling more deeply, and a
bitter sense of humiliation as well as bondage robbing him of all
pleasure in his life.

Thus it is with him when, after ten years, we find him waiting, in
the chamber of death, for the stroke that is to break the fetters
that so long have bound him. It has fallen. He is free again. In
dying, the sufferer made no sign. Suddenly she plunged into the dark
profound, so impenetrable to mortal eyes, and as the turbid waves
closed, sighing over her, he who had called her wife turned from the
couch on which her frail body remained, with an inward "Thank God! I
am a man again!"

One more bitter dreg yet remained for his cup. Not a week had gone
by ere the father of his dead wife spoke to him these cutting
words:--

"You were nothing to me while my daughter lived--you are less than
nothing to me now. It was my wealth, not my child you loved. She has
passed away. What affection would have given to her, dislike will
never bestow on you. Henceforth we are strangers."

When the next sun went down on that stately mansion, which the
wealth-seeker had coveted, he was a wanderer again--poor,
humiliated, broken in spirit.

How bitter had been the mockery of all his early hopes! How terrible
the punishment he had suffered!

One more eager, almost fierce struggle with alluring fortune, with
which the worldling came near steeping his soul in crime, and then
fruitless ambition died in his bosom.

"My brother said well," he murmured, as a ray of light fell suddenly
on the darkness of his spirit; "'contentment is better than wealth.'
Dear brother! Dear old home! Sweet Ellen! Ah, why did I leave you?
Too late! too late! A cup, full of the wine of life, was at my lips;
but, I turned my head away, asking for a more fiery and exciting
draught. How vividly comes before me now that parting scene! I am
looking into my brother's face. I feel the tight grasp of his hand.
His voice is in my ears. Dear brother! And his parting words, I hear
them now, even more earnestly than when they were first spoken.
'Should fortune cheat you with the apples of Sodom, return to your
home again. Its doors will ever be open, and its hearth-fires bright
for you as of old.' Ah, do the fires still burn? How many years have
passed since I went forth! And Ellen? Even if she be living and
unchanged in her affections, I can never lay this false heart at her
feet. Her look of love would smite me as with a whip of scorpions."

The step of time has fallen so lightly on the flowery path of those
to whom contentment was a higher boon than wealth, but few footmarks
were visible. Yet there had been changes in the old homestead. As
the smiling years went by, each, as it looked in at the cottage
window, saw the home circle widening, or new beauty crowning the
angel brows of happy children. No thorn to his side had Robert's
gentle wife proved. As time passed on, closer and closer was she
drawn to his bosom; yet never a point had pierced him. Their home
was a type of Paradise.

It is near the close of a summer day. The evening meal is spread,
and they are about gathering round the table, when a stranger
enters. His words are vague and brief, his manner singular, his air
slightly mysterious. Furtive, yet eager glances go from face to
face.

"Are these all your children?" he asks, surprise and admiration
mingling in his tones.

"All ours, and, thank God, the little flock is yet unbroken."

The stranger averts his face. He is disturbed by emotions that it is
impossible to conceal.

"Contentment is better than wealth," he murmurs. "Oh that I had
comprehended the truth."

The words were not meant for others; but the utterance had been too
distinct. They have reached the ears of Robert, who instantly
recognises in the stranger his long-wandering, long-mourned brother.

"William!"

The stranger is on his feet. A moment or two the brothers stand
gazing at each other, then tenderly embrace.

"William!"

How the stranger starts and trembles! He had not seen, in the quiet
maiden, moving among and ministering to the children so
unobtrusively, the one he had parted from years before--the one to
whom he had been so false. But her voice has startled his ears with
the familiar tones of yesterday.

"Ellen!" Here is an instant oblivion of all the intervening years.
He has leaped back over the gulf, and stands now as he stood ere
ambition and lust for gold lured him away from the side of his first
and only love. It is well both for him and the faithful maiden that
he cannot so forget the past as to take her in his arms and clasp
her almost wildly to his heart. But for this, conscious shame would
have betrayed his deeply-repented perfidy.

And here we leave them, reader. "Contentment is better than wealth."
So the worldling proved, after a bitter experience, which may you be
spared! It is far better to realize a truth perceptibly, and thence
make it a rule of action, than to prove its verity in a life of
sharp agony. But how few are able to rise into such a realization!

RAINBOWS EVERYWHERE.

BENDING over a steamer's side, a face looked down into the clear,
green depths of Lake Erie, where the early moonbeams were showering
rainbows through the dancing spray, and chasing the white-crusted
waves with serpents of gold. The face was clouded with thought, a
shade too sombre, yet there glowed over it something like a
reflection from the iris-hues beneath. A voice of using was borne
away into the purple and vermilion haze that twilight began to fold
over the bosom of the lake.

"Rainbows! Ye follow me everywhere! Gloriously your arches arose
from the horizon of the prairies, when the storm-king and the god of
day met within them to proclaim a treaty and an alliance. You
spanned the Father of Waters with a bridge that put to the laugh
man's clumsy structures of chain, and timber, and wire. You floated
in a softening veil before the awful grandeur of Niagara; and here
you gleam out from the light foam in the steamboat's wake.

"Grateful am I for you, oh rainbows! for the clouds, the drops, and
the sunshine of which you are wrought, and for the gift of vision
through which my spirit quaffs the wine of your beauty.

"Grateful also for faith, which hangs an ethereal halo over the
fountains of earthly joy, and wraps grief in robes so resplendent
that, like Iris of the olden time, she is at once recognised as a
messenger from Heaven.

"Blessings on sorrow, whether past or to come! for in the clear
shining of heavenly love, every tear-drop becomes a pearl. The storm
of affliction crushes weak human nature to the dust; the glory of
the eternal light overpowers it; but, in the softened union of both,
the stricken spirit beholds the bow of promise, and knows that it
shall not utterly be destroyed. When we say that for us there is
nothing but darkness and tears, it is because we are weakly brooding
over the shadows within us. If we dared look up, and face our
sorrow, we should see upon it the seal of God's love, and be calm.

"Grant me, Father of Light, whenever my eyes droop heavily with the
rain of grief, at least to see the reflection of thy signet-bow upon
the waves over which I am sailing unto thee. And through the steady
toiling of the voyage, through the smiles and tears of every day's
progress, let the iris-flash appear, even as now it brightens the
spray that rebounds from the labouring wheels."

The voice died away into darkness which returned no answer to its
murmurings. The face vanished from the boat's side, but a flood of
light was pouring into the serene depths of a trusting soul.

THE END.

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