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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One was caught away sinless to the bosom of the Good Shepherd, and
one was left to weep pitiless tears, to eat the bread of toil, and
to think the bitter thoughts of misery,--left "to clasp a phantom
and to find it air." For often has the adversary pressed me sore,
and out of my arms has slid ever that which my soul pronounced good:
slid out of my arms and coiled about my feet like a serpent,
dragging me back and holding me down from all that is high and
great.

Pity me, dear one, if thy sweet sympathies can come out of the
glory, if the lovelight of thy beautiful life can press through the
cloud and the evil, and fold me again as a garment; pity and plead
for me with the maiden mother whose arms in human sorrow and human
love cradled our blessed Redeemer.

She hath known our mortal pain and passion--our more than mortal
triumph--she hath heard the "blessed art thou among women." My
unavailing prayers goldenly syllabled by her whose name sounds from
the manger through all the world, may find acceptance with Him who,
though our sins be as scarlet, can wash them white as wool.

Our hearts grew together as one, and along the headlands and the
valleys one shadow went before us, and one shadow followed us, till
the grave gaped hungry and terrible, and I was alone. Faltering in
fear, but lingering in love, I knelt by the deathbed--it was the
middle night, and the first moans of the autumn came down from the
hills, for the frost specks glinted on her golden robes, and the
wind blew chill in her bosom. Heaven was full of stars, and the
half-moon scattered abroad her beauty like a silver rain. Many have
been the middle nights since then, for years lie between me and that
fearfulest of all watches; but a shadow, a sound, or a thought,
turns the key of the dim chamber, and the scene is reproduced.

I see the long locks on the pillow, the smile on the ashen lips, the
thin, cold fingers faintly pressing my own, and hear the broken
voice saying, "I am going now. I am not afraid. Why weep ye? Though
I were to live the full time allotted to man, I should not be more
ready, nor more willing than now." But over this there comes a
shudder and a groan that all the mirthfulness of the careless was
impotent to drown.

Three days previous to the death-night, three days previous to the
transit of the soul from the clayey tabernacle to the house not;
made with hands--from dishonour to glory--let me turn theme over as
so many leaves.

The first of the November mornings, but the summer had tarried late,
and the wood to the south of our homestead lifted itself like a
painted wall against the sky--the squirrel was leaping nimbly and
chattering gayly among the fiery tops of the oaks or the dun foliage
of the hickory, that shot up its shelving trunk and spread its
forked branches far over the smooth, moss-spotted boles of the
beeches, and the limber boughs of the elms. Lithe and blithe he was,
for his harvest was come.

From the cracked beech-burs was dropping the sweet, angular fruit,
and down from the hickory boughs with every gust fell a shower of
nuts--shelling clean and silvery from their thick black hulls.

Now and then, across the stubble-field, with long cars erect, leaped
the gray hare, but for the most part he kept close in his burrow,
for rude huntsmen were on the hills with their dogs, and only when
the sharp report of a rifle rung through the forest, or the hungry
yelping of some trailing hound startled his harmless slumber, might
you see at the mouth of his burrow the quivering lip and great timid
eyes.

Along the margin of the creek, shrunken now away from the blue and
gray and yellowish stones that made its cool pavement, and projected
in thick layers from the shelving banks, the white columns of
gigantic sycamores leaped earthward, their bases driven, as it
seemed, deep into the ground--all their convolutions of roots buried
out, of view. Dropping into the stagnant waters below, came one by
one the broad, rose-tinted leaves, breaking the shadows of the
silver limbs.

Ruffling and widening to the edges of the pools went the circles, as
the pale, yellow walnuts plashed into their midst; for here, too,
grew the parent trees, their black bark cut and jagged and broken
into rough diamond work.

That beautiful season was come when

"Rustic girls in hoods
Go gleaning through the woods."

Two days after this, we said, my dear mate and I, we shall have a
holiday, and from sunrise till sunset, with our laps full of ripe
nuts and orchard fruits, we shall make pleasant pastime.

Rosalie, for so I may call her, was older than I, with a face of
beauty and a spirit that never flagged. But to-day there was
heaviness in her eyes, and a flushing in her cheek that was deeper
than had been there before.

Still she spoke gayly, and smiled the old smile, for the gaunt form
of sickness had never been among us children, and we knew not how
his touch made the head sick and the heart faint.

The day looked forward to so anxiously dawned at last; but in the
dim chamber of Rosalie the light fell sad. I must go alone.

We had always been together before, at work and in play, asleep and
awake, and I lingered long ere I would be persuaded to leave her;
but when she smiled and said the fresh-gathered nuts and shining
apples would make her glad, I wiped her forehead, and turning
quickly away that she might not see my tears, was speedily wading
through winrows of dead leaves.

The sensations of that day I shall never forget; a vague and
trembling fear of some coming evil, I knew not what, made me often
start as the shadows drifted past me, or a bough crackled beneath my
feet.

From the low, shrubby hawthorns, I gathered the small red apples,
and from beneath the maples, picked by their slim golden stems the
notched and gorgeous leaves. The wind fingered playfully my hair,
and clouds of birds went whirring through the tree-tops; but no
sight nor sound could divide my thoughts from her whose voice had so
often filled with music these solitary places.

I remember when first the fear distinctly defined itself. I was
seated on a mossy log, counting the treasures which I had been
gathering, when the clatter of hoof-strokes on the clayey and
hard-beaten road arrested my attention, and, looking up--for the
wood thinned off in the direction of the highway, and left it
distinctly in view--I saw Doctor H----, the physician, in attendance
upon my sick companion. The visit was an unseasonable one. She, whom
I loved so, might never come with me to the woods any more.

Where the hill sloped to the roadside, and the trees, as I said,
were but few, was the village graveyard. No friend of mine, no one
whom I had ever known or loved, was buried there--yet with a child's
instinctive dread of death, I had ever passed its shaggy solitude
(for shrubs and trees grew there wild and unattended) with a hurried
step and averted face.

Now, for the first time in my life, I walked voluntarily
thitherward, and climbing on a log by the fence-side, gazed long and
earnestly within. I stood beneath a tall locust-tree, and the small,
round leaves; yellow now as the long cloud-bar across the sunset,
kept dropping, and dropping at my feet, till all the faded grass was
covered up. There the mattock had never been struck; but in fancy I
saw the small Heaves falling and drifting about a new and
smooth-shaped mound--and, choking with the turbulent outcry in my
heart, I glided stealthily homeward--alas! to find the boding shape
I had seen through mists and, shadows awfully palpable. I did not
ask about Rosalie. I was afraid; but with my rural gleanings in my
lap, opened the door of her chamber. The physician had preceded me
but a moment, and, standing by the bedside, was turning toward the
lessening light the little wasted hand, the one on which I had
noticed in the morning a small purple spot. "Mortification!" he
said, abruptly, and moved away, as though his work were done.

There was a groan expressive of the sudden and terrible
consciousness which had in it the agony of agonies--the giving up of
all. The gift I had brought fell from my relaxed grasp, and, hiding
my face in the pillow, I gave way to the passionate sorrow of an
undisciplined nature.

When at last I looked up, there was a smile on her lips that no
faintest moan ever displaced again.

A good man and a skilful physician was Dr. H----, but his infirmity
was a love of strong drink; and, therefore, was it that he softened
not the terrible blow which must soon have fallen. I link with his
memory no reproaches now, for all this is away down in the past; and
that foe that sooner or later biteth like a serpent, soon did his
work; but then my breaking heart judged him, hardly. Often yet, for
in all that is saddest memory is faithfulest, I wake suddenly out of
sleep, and live over that first and bitterest sorrow of my life; and
there is no house of gladness in the world that with a whisper will
not echo the moan of lips pale with the kisses of death.

Sometimes, when life is gayest about me, an unseen hand leads me
apart, and opening the door of that still chambers I go in--the
yellow leaves are at my feet again, and that white band between me
and the light.

I see the blue flames quivering and curling close and the
smouldering embers on the hearth. I hear soft footsteps and sobbing
voices and see the clasped hands and placid smile of her who, alone
among us all, was untroubled; and over the darkness and the pain I
hear voice, saying, "She is not dead, but sleepeth." Would, dear
reader, that you might remember, and I too all ways, the importance
of soft and careful words. One harsh or even thoughtlessly chosen
epithet, may bear with it a weight which shall weigh down some heart
through all life. There are for us all nights of sorrow, in which we
feel their value. Help us, our Father, to remember it!

MR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATION.

"HE is a good man, suppose, and an excellent doctor," said Mrs.
Salina Simmons, with a dubious shake of her head but----"

"But what, Mrs. Simmons?"

"They say he _drinks!_"

"No, impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Josiah Query, with emphasis.

"Impossible? I hope so," said Mrs. Simmons. "And--mind you, I don't
say he _drinks_, but that such is the report. And I have it upon
tolerably good authority, too, Mr. Query."

"What authority?"

"Oh, I couldn't tell that: for you know I never like to make
mischief. I can only say that the _report_ is--he drinks."

Mr. Josiah Query scratched his head.

"Can it be that Dr. Harvey drinks?" he murmured. "I thought him pure
Son of Temperance. And his my family physician, too! I must look
into this matter forthwith. Mrs. Simmons, you still decline slating
who is your authority for this report?"

Mrs. Simmons was firm; her companion could gain no satisfaction. She
soon compelled him to promise that he would not mention her name, if
he spoke of the affair elsewhere, repeating her remark that she
never liked to make mischief.

Dr. Harvey was a physician residing in a small village, where he
shared the profits of practice with another doctor, named Jones. Dr.
Harvey was generally liked and among his friends was Mr. Josiah
Query, whom Mrs. Simmons shocked with the bit of gossip respecting
the doctor's habits of intemperance. Mr. Query was a good-hearted
man, and he deemed it his duty to inquire into the nature of the
report, and learn if it had any foundation in truth. Accordingly, be
went to Mr. Green, who also employed the doctor in his family.

"Mr. Green," said he, "have you heard anything about this report of
Dr. Harvey's intemperance?"

"Dr. Harvey's intemperance?" cried Mr. Green, astonished.

"Yes--a flying report."

"No, I'm sure I haven't."

"Of course, then, you don't know whether it is true or not?"

"What?"

"That he drinks."

"I never heard of it before. Dr. Harvey is my family physician, and
I certainly would not employ a man addicted to the use of ardent
spirits."

"Nor I," said Mr. Query "and for this reason, and for the doctor's
sake, too, I want to know the truth of the matter. I don't really
credit it myself; but I thought it would do no harm to inquire."

Mr. Query next applied to Squire Worthy for information.

"Dear me!" exclaimed the squire, who was a nervous man; "does Dr.
Harvey drink?"

"Such is the rumour; how true it is, I can't say."

"And what if he should give one of my family a dose of arsenic
instead of the tincture of rhubarb, some time, when he is
intoxicated? My mind is made up now. I shall send for Dr. Jones in
future."

"But, dear sir," remonstrated Mr. Query. "I don't say the report is
true."

"Oh, no; you wouldn't wish to commit yourself. You like to know the
safe side, and so do I. I shall employ Dr. Jones."

Mr. Query turned sorrowfully away.

"Squire Worthy must have bad suspicions of the doctor's intemperance
before I came to him," thought he; "I really begin to fear that
there is some foundation for the report. I'll go to Mrs. Mason; she
will know."

Mr. Query found Mrs. Mason ready to listen to and believe any
scandal. She gave her head a significant toss, as if she knew more
about the report than she chose to confess.

Mr. Query begged of her to explain herself.

"Oh, _I_ sha'n't say anything," exclaimed Mrs. Mason; "I've no ill
will against Dr. Harvey, and I'd rather cut off my right hand than
injure him."

"But is the report true?"

"True, Mr. Query? Do you suppose _I_ ever saw Dr. Harvey drunk? Then
how can you expect me to know? Oh, I don't wish to say anything
against the man, and I won't."

After visiting Mrs. Mason, Mr. Query went to half a dozen others to
learn the truth respecting Dr. Harvey's habits. Nobody would confess
that they knew anything, about his drinking; but Mr. Smith "was not
as much surprised as others might be;" Mr. Brown "was sorry if the
report was true," adding, that the best of men had their faults.
Miss Single had frequently remarked the doctor's florid complexion,
and wondered if his colour was natural; Mr. Clark remembered that
the doctor appeared unusually gay, on the occasion of his last visit
to his family; Mrs. Rogers declared that, when she came to reflect,
she believed she had once or twice smelt the man's breath; and Mr.
Impulse had often seen him riding at an extraordinary rate for a
sober Gentleman. Still Mr. Query was unable to ascertain any
definite facts respecting the unfavourable report.

Meanwhile, with his usual industry, Dr. Harvey went about his
business, little suspecting the scandalous gossip that was
circulating to his discredit. But he soon perceived he was very
coldly received by some of his old friends, and that others employed
Dr. Jones. Nobody sent for him, and he might have begun to think
that the health of the town was entirely re-established, had he not
observed that his rival appeared driven with business, and that he
rode night and day.

One evening Dr. Harvey sat in his office, wondering what could have
occasioned the sudden and surprising change in his affairs, when,
contrary to his expectations, he received a call to visit a sick
child of one of his old friends, who had lately employed his rival.
After some hesitation, and a struggle between pride and a sense of
duty, he resolved to respond to the call, and at the same time
learn, if possible, why he had been preferred to Dr. Jones, and why
Dr. Jones had on other occasions been preferred to him.

"The truth is, Dr. Harvey," said Mr. Miles, "we thought the child
dangerously ill, and as Dr. Jones could not come immediately, we
concluded to send for you."

"I admire your frankness," responded Dr. Harvey, smiling; "and shall
admire it still more, if you will inform me why you have lately
preferred Dr. Jones to me. Formerly I had the honour of enjoying
your friendship and esteem, and you have frequently told me
yourself, that you would trust no other physician."

"Well," replied Mr. Miles, "I am a plain man, and never hesitate to
tell people what they wish to know. I sent for Dr. Jones instead of
you, I confess not that I doubted your skill--"

"What then?"

"It is a delicate subject, but I will, nevertheless, speak out.
Although I had the utmost confidence in your skill and
faithfulness--I--you know, I--in short, I don't like to trust a
physician who drinks."

"Sir!" cried the astonished doctor.

"Yes--drinks," pursued Mr. Miles. "It is plain language, but I am a
plain man. I heard of your intemperance, and thought it unsafe--that
is, dangerous--to employ you."

"My intemperance!" ejaculated Dr. Harvey.

"Yes, sir! and I am sorry to know it. But the fact that you
sometimes drink a trifle too much is now a well known fact, and is
generally talked of in the village."

"Mr. Miles," cried the indignant doctor, "this is scandalous--it is
false! Who is your authority for this report?"

"Oh, I have heard it from several mouths but I can't say exactly who
is responsible for the rumour."

And Mr. Miles went on to mention several names, as connected with
the rumour, and among which was that of Mr. Query.

The indignant doctor immediately set out on a pilgrimage of
investigation, going from one house to another, in search of the
author of the scandal.

Nobody, however, could state where it originated, but it was
universally admitted that the man from whose lips it was first
heard, was Mr. Query.

Accordingly Dr. Harvey hastened to Mr. Query's house, and demanded
of that gentleman what he meant by circulating such scandal.

"My dear doctor," cried Mr. Query, his face beaming with conscious
innocence, "_I_ haven't been guilty of any mis-statement about you,
I can take my oath. I heard that there was a report of your
drinking, and all I did was to tell people I didn't believe it, nor
know anything about it, and to inquire were it originated. Oh, I
assure you, doctor, I haven't slandered you in any manner."

"You are a poor fool!" exclaimed Dr. Harvey, perplexed and angry.
"If you had gone about town telling everybody that you saw me drunk,
daily, you couldn't have slandered me more effectually than you
have."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," cried Mr. Query, very sad; "but I thought I
was doing you a service!"

"Save me from my friends!" exclaimed the doctor, bitterly. "An
_enemy_ could not have done me as much injury as you have done. But
I now insist on knowing who first mentioned the report to you."

"Oh, I am not at liberty to say that."

"Then I shall hold you responsible for the scandal--for the base
lies you have circulated. But if you are really an honest man, and
my friend, you will not hesitate to tell me where this report
originated."

After some reflection, Mr. Query, who stood in mortal fear of the
indignant doctor, resolved to reveal the secret, and mentioned the
name of his informant, Mrs. Simmons. As Dr. Harvey had not heard her
spoken of before, as connected with the report of his intemperance,
he knew very well that Mr. Query's "friendly investigations" had
been the sole cause of his loss of practice. However, to go to the
roots of this Upas tree of scandal, he resolved to pay an immediate
visit to Mrs. Simmons.

This lady could deny nothing; but she declared that she had not
given the rumour as a fact, and that she had never spoken of it
except to Mr. Query. Anxious to throw the responsibility of the
slander upon others, she eagerly confessed that, on a certain
occasion upon entering a room in which were Mrs. Guild and Mrs.
Harmless, she overheard one of these ladies remark that "Dr. Harvey
drank more than ever," and the other reply, that "she had heard him
say he could not break himself, although he knew his health suffered
in consequence."

Thus set upon the right track, Dr. Harvey visited Mrs. Guild and
Mrs. Harmless without delay.

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed those ladies, when questioned respecting
the matter, "we perfectly remember talking about your _drinking
coffee_, and making such remarks as you have heard through Mrs.
Simmons. But with regard to your _drinking liquor_, we never heard
the report until a week ago, and never believed it at all."

As what these ladies had said of his _coffee-drinking_ propensities
was perfectly true, Dr. Harvey readily acquitted them of any designs
against his character for sobriety, and well satisfied with having
at last discovered the origin of the rumour, returned to the
friendly Mr. Query.

The humiliation of this gentleman was so deep, that Dr. Harvey
avoided reproaches, and confined himself to a simple narrative of
his discoveries.

"I see, it is all my fault," said Mr. Query. "And I will do anything
to remedy it. I never could believe you drank--and now I'll go and
tell everybody that the report _was_ false."

"Oh! bless you," cried the doctor, "I wouldn't have you do so for
the world. All I ask of you, is to say nothing whatever on the
subject, and if you ever again hear a report of the kind, don't make
it a subject of friendly investigation."

Mr. Query promised; and, after the truth was known, and, Dr. Harvey
had regained the good-will of the community, together with his share
of medical practice, he never had reason again to exclaim--"Save me
from my friends!" And Mr. Query was in future exceedingly careful
how he attempted to make friendly investigations.

ROOM IN THE WORLD.

THERE is room in the world for the wealthy and great,
For princes to reign in magnificent state;
For the courtier to bend, for the noble to sue,
If the hearts of all these are but honest and true.

And there's room in the world for the lowly and meek,
For the hard horny hand, and the toil-furrow'd cheek;
For the scholar to think, for the merchant to trade,
So these are found upright and just in their grade.

But room there is none for the wicked; and nought
For the souls that with teeming corruption are fraught.
The world would be small, were its oceans all land,
To harbour and feed such a pestilent band.

Root out from among ye, by teaching the mind,
By training the heart, this chief curse of mankind!
'Tis a duty you owe to the forthcoming race--
Confess it in time, and discharge it with grace!

WORDS.

"THE foolish thing!" said my Aunt Rachel, speaking warmly, "to get
hurt at a mere word. It's a little hard that people can't open their
lips but somebody is offended."

"Words are things!" said I, smiling.

"Very light things! A person must be tender indeed, that is hurt by
a word."

"The very lightest thing may hurt, if it falls on a tender place."

"I don't like people who have these tender places," said Aunt
Rachel. "I never get hurt at what is said to me. No--never! To be
ever picking and mincing, and chopping off your words--to be afraid
to say this or that--for fear somebody will be offended! I can't
abide it."

"People who have these tender places can't help it, I suppose. This
being so, ought we not to regard their weakness?" said I. "Pain,
either of body or mind, is hard to bear, and we should not inflict
it causelessly."

"People who are so wonderfully sensitive," replied Aunt Rachel,
growing warmer, "ought to shut themselves up at home, and not come
among sensible, good-tempered persons. As far as I am concerned, I
can tell them, one and all, that I am not going to pick out every
hard word from a sentence as carefully as I would seeds from a
raisin. Let them crack them with their teeth, if they are afraid to
swallow them whole."

Now, for all that Aunt Rachel went on after this strain, she was a
kind, good soul, in the main, and, I could see, was sorry for having
hurt the feelings of Mary Lane. But she didn't like to acknowledge
that she was in the wrong; that would detract too much from the
self-complacency with which she regarded herself. Knowing her
character very well, I thought it best not to continue the little
argument about the importance of words, and so changed the subject.
But, every now and then, Aunt Rachel would return to it, each time
softening a little towards Mary. At last she said,

"I'm sure it was a little thing. A very little thing. She might have
known that nothing unkind was intended on my part."

"There are some subjects, aunt," I replied, "to which we cannot bear
the slightest allusion. And a sudden reference to them is very apt
to throw us off of our guard. What you said to Mary has, in all
probability touched some weakness of character, or probed some wound
that time has not been able to heal. I have always thought her a
sensible, good-natured girl."

"And so have I. But I really cannot think that she has showed her
good sense or good nature in the present case. It is a very bad
failing this, of being over sensitive; and exceedingly annoying to
one's friends."

"It is, I know; but still, all of, us have a weak point, and to her
that is assailed, we are very apt to betray our feelings."

"Well, I say now, as I have always said--I don't like to have
anything to do with people who have these weak points. This being
hurt by a word, as if words were blows, is something that does not
come within the range of my sympathies."

"And yet, aunt," said I, "all have weak points. Even you are not
entirely free from them."

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