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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

"Me!" Aunt Rachel bridled.

"Yes; and if even as light a thing as a word were to fall upon them,
you would suffer pain."

"Pray, sir," said Aunt Rachel, with much dignity of manner; she was
chafed by my words, light as they were, "inform me where these
weaknesses, of which you are pleased to speak, lie."

"Oh, no; you must excuse me. That would be very much out of place.
But I only stated a general fact that appertains to all of us."

Aunt Rachel looked very grave. I had laid the weight of words upon a
weakness of her character, and it had given her pain. That weakness
was a peculiarly good opinion of herself. I had made no allegation
against her; and there was none in my mind. My words simply
expressed the general truth that we all have weaknesses, and
included her in their application. But she imagined that I referred
to some particular defect or fault, and mail-proof as she was
against words, they had wounded her.

For a day or two Aunt Rachel remained more sober than was her wont.
I knew the cause, but did not attempt to remove from her mind any
impression my words had made. One day, about a week after, I said to
her,

"Aunt Rachel, I saw Mary Lane's mother this morning."

"Ah?" The old lady looked up at me inquiringly.

"I don't wonder your words hurt the poor girl," I added.

"Why? What did I say?" quickly asked Aunt Rachel.

"You said that she was a jilt."

"But I was only jest, and she knew it. I did not really mean
anything. I'm surprised that Mary should be so foolish."

"You will not be surprised when you know all," was my answer.

"All? What all? I'm sure I wasn't in earnest. I didn't mean to hurt
the poor girl's feelings." My aunt looked very much troubled.

"No one blames you, Aunt Rachel," said I. "Mary knows you didn't
intend wounding her."

"But why should she take a little word go much to heart? It must
have had more truth in it than I supposed."

"Did you know that Mary refused an offer of marriage from Walter
Green last week?"

"Why no! It can't be possible! Refused Walter Green?"

"They've been intimate for a long time."

"I know."

"She certainly encouraged him."

"I think it more than probable."

"Is it possible, then, that she did really jilt the young man?"
exclaimed Aunt Rachel.

"This has been said of her," I replied. "But so far as I can learn,
she was really attached to him, and sufferred great pain in
rejecting his offer. Wisely she regarded marriage as the most
important event of her life, and refused to make so solemn a
contract with one in whose principles she had not the fullest
confidence."

"But she ought not to have encouraged Walter, if she did not intend
marrying him," said Aunt Rachel, with some warmth.

"She encouraged him so long as she thought well of him. A closer
view revealed points of character hidden by distance. When she saw
these her feelings were already deeply involved. But, like a true
woman, she turned from the proffered hand, even though while in
doing so her heart palpitated with pain. There is nothing false
about Mary Lane. She could no more trifle with a lover than she
could commit a crime. Think, then, how almost impossible it would be
for her to hear herself called, under existing circumstances, even
in sport, a jilt, without being hurt. Words sometimes have power to
hurt more than blows. Do you not see this, now, Aunt Rachel?"

"Oh, yes, yes. I see it; and I saw it before," said the old lady.
"And in future I will be more careful of my words. It is pretty late
in life to learn this lesson--but we are never too late to learn.
Poor Mary! It grieves me to think that I should have hurt her so
much."

Yes, words often have in them a smarting force, and we cannot be too
guarded how we use them. "Think twice before you speak once," is a
trite but wise saying. We teach it to our children very carefully,
but are too apt to forget that it has not lost its application to
ourselves.

THE THANKLESS OFFICE.

"AN object of real charity," said Andrew Lyon to his wife, as a poor
woman withdrew from the room in which they were seated.

"If ever there was a worthy object she is one, returned Mrs. Lyon.
"A widow, with health so feeble that even ordinary exertion is too
much for her; yet obliged to support, with the labour of her own
hands, not only herself, but three young children. I do not wonder
that she is behind with her rent."

"Nor I," said Mr. Lyon, in a voice of sympathy. "How much, did she
say, was due to her landlord?"

"Ten dollars."

"She will not be able to pay it."

"I fear not. How can she? I give her all my extra sewing, and have
obtained work for her from several ladies; but with her best efforts
she can barely obtain food and decent clothing for herself and
babes."

"Does it not seem hard," remarked Mr. Lyon, "that one like Mrs.
Arnold, who is so earnest in her efforts to take care of herself and
family, should not receive a helping hand from some one of the many
who could help her without feeling the effort? If I didn't find it
so hard to make both ends meet, I would pay off her arrears of rent
for her, and feel happy in so doing."

"Ah!" exclaimed the kind-hearted wife, "how much I wish that we were
able to do this! But we are not."

"I'll tell you what we can do," said Mr. Lyon, in a cheerful voice;
"or rather what _I_ can do. It will be a very light matter for say
ten persons to give a dollar apiece, in order to relieve Mrs. Arnold
from her present trouble. There are plenty who would cheerfully
contribute, for this good purpose; all that is wanted is some one to
take upon himself the business of making the collections. That task
shall be mine."

"How glad I am, James, to hear you say so!" smilingly replied Mrs.
Lyon. "Oh, what a relief it will be to poor Mrs. Arnold. It will
make her heart as light as a feather. That rent has troubled her
sadly. Old Links, her landlord, has been worrying her about it a
good deal, and, only a week ago, threatened to put her things in the
street, if she didn't pay up."

"I should have thought of this before," remarked Andrew Lyon. "There
are hundreds of people who are willing enough to give if they were
only certain in regard to the object. Here is one worthy enough in
every way. Be it my business to present her claims to benevolent
consideration. Let me see. To whom shall I go? There are Jones, and
Green, and Tompkins. I can get a dollar from each of them. That will
be three dollars,--and one from myself, will make four. Who else is
there? Oh, Malcolm! I'm sure of a dollar from him; and also from
Smith, Todd, and Perry."

Confident in the success of his benevolent scheme, Mr. Lyon started
forth, early on the very next day, for the purpose of obtaining, by
subscription, the poor widow's rent. The first person he called on
was Malcolm.

"Ah, friend Lyon!" said Malcolm, smiling blandly, "Good morning!
What can I do for you, to-day?"

"Nothing for me, but something for a poor widow, who is behind with
her rent," replied Andrew Lyon. "I want just one dollar from you,
and as much more from some eight or nine as benevolent as yourself."

At the word poor widow the countenance of Malcolm fell, and when his
visiter ceased, he replied, in a changed and husky voice, clearing
his throat two or three times as he spoke.

"Are you sure she is deserving, Mr. Lyon?" The man's manner had
become exceedingly grave.

"None more so," was the prompt answer. "She is in poor health, and
has three children to support with the product of her needle. If any
one needs assistance, it is Mrs. Arnold."

"Oh! Ah! The widow of Jacob Arnold?"

"The same," replied Andrew Lyon.

Malcolm's face did not brighten with a feeling of heart-warm
benevolence. But he turned slowly away, and opening his
money-drawer, _very slowly_ toyed with his fingers amid its
contents. At length he took therefrom a dollar bill, and said, as he
presented it to Lyon,--signing involuntarily as he did so,--

"I suppose I must do my part. But we are called upon so often."

The ardour of Andrew Lyon's benevolent feelings suddenly cooled at
this unexpected reception. He had entered upon his work under the
glow of a pure enthusiasm; anticipating a hearty response the moment
his errand was made known.

"I thank you in the widow's name," said he, as he took the dollar.
When he turned from Mr. Malcolm's store, it was with a pressure on
his feelings, as if he had asked the coldly-given favour for
himself.

It was not without an effort that Lyon compelled himself to call
upon Mr. Green, considered the "next best man" on his list. But he
entered his place of business with far less confidence than he had
felt when calling upon Malcolm. His story told, Green, without a
word or smile, drew two half dollars from his pocket and presented
them.

"Thank you," said Lyon.

"Welcome," returned Green.

Oppressed with a feeling of embarrassment, Lyon stood for a few
moments. Then bowing, he said,

"Good morning."

"Good morning," was coldly and formally responded.

And thus the alms-seeker and alms-giver parted.

"Better be at his shop, attending to his work," muttered Green to
himself, as his visiter retired. "Men ain't very apt to get along
too well in the world who spend their time in begging for every
object of charity that happens to turn up. And there are plenty of
such, dear knows. He's got a dollar out of me; may it do him, or the
poor widow he talked so glibly about, much good."

Cold water had been poured upon the feelings of Andrew Lyon. He had
raised two dollars for the poor widow, but, at what a sacrifice for
one so sensitive as himself! Instead of keeping on in his work of
benevolence, he went to his shop, and entered upon the day's
employment. How disappointed he felt;--and this disappointment was
mingled with a certain sense of humiliation, as if he had been
asking alms for himself.

"Catch me at this work again!" he said half aloud, as his thoughts
dwelt upon what had so recently occurred. "But this is not right,"
he added, quickly. "It is a weakness in me to feel so. Poor Mrs.
Arnold must be relieved; and it is my duty to see that she gets
relief. I had no thought of a reception like this. People can talk
of benevolence; but putting the hand in the pocket is another affair
altogether. I never dreamed that such men as Malcolm and Green could
be insensible to an appeal like the one I made."

"I've got two dollars towards paying Mrs. Arnold's rent," he said to
himself, in a more cheerful tone, some time afterwards; "and it will
go hard if I don't raise the whole amount for her. All are not like
Green and Malcolm. Jones is a kind-hearted man, and will instantly
respond to the call of humanity. I'll go and see him."

So, off Andrew Lyon started to see this individual.

"I've come begging, Mr. Jones," said he, on meeting him. And he
spoke in a frank, pleasant manner,

"Then you've come to the wrong shop; that's all I have to say," was
the blunt answer.

"Don't say that, Mr. Jones. Hear my story first."

"I do say it, and I'm in earnest," returned Jones. "I feel as poor
as Job's turkey to-day."

"I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her rent," said Lyon.

"Oh, hang all the poor widows! If that's your game, you'll get
nothing here. I've got my hands full to pay my own rent. A nice time
I'd have in handing out a dollar to every poor widow in town to help
pay her rent! No, no, my friend, you can't get anything here."

"Just as you feel about it," said Andrew Lyon. "There's no
compulsion in the matter."

"No, I presume not," was rather coldly replied.

Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened than before. He
had undertaken a thankless office.

Nearly two hours elapsed before his resolution to persevere in the
good work he had begun came back with sufficient force to prompt to
another effort. Then he dropped in upon his neighbour Tompkins, to
whom he made known his errand.

"Why, yes, I suppose I must do something in a case like this," said
Tompkins, with the tone and air of a man who was cornered. "But
there are so many calls for charity, that we are naturally enough
led to hold on pretty tightly to our purse strings. Poor woman! I
feel sorry for her. How much do you want?"

"I am trying to get ten persons, including myself, to give a dollar
each."

"Well, here's my dollar." And Tompkins forced a smile to his face as
he handed over his contribution,--but the smile did not conceal an
expression which said very plainly--

"I hope you will not trouble me again in this way."

"You may be sure I will not," muttered Lyon, as he went away. He
fully understood the meaning of the expression.

Only one more application did the kind-hearted man make. It was
successful; but there was something in the manner of the individual
who gave his dollar, that Lyon felt as a rebuke.

"And so poor Mrs. Arnold did not get the whole of her arrears of
rent paid off," says some one who has felt an interest in her
favour.

Oh, yes she did. Mr. Lyon begged five dollars, and added five more
from his own slender purse. But, he cannot be induced again to
undertake the thankless office of seeking relief from the benevolent
for a fellow creature in need. He has learned that a great many who
refuse alms on the plea that the object presented is not worthy, are
but little more inclined to charitable deeds, when on this point
there is no question.

How many who read this can sympathize with Andrew Lyon! Few men who
have hearts to feel for others but have been impelled, at some time
in their lives, to seek aid for a fellow creature in need. That
their office was a thankless one, they have too soon become aware.
Even those who responded to their call most liberally, in too many
instances gave in a way that left an unpleasant impression behind.
How quickly has the first glow of generous feeling, that sought to
extend itself to others, that they might share the pleasure of
humanity, been chilled; and, instead of finding the task an easy
one, it has proved to be hard, and, too often, humiliating! Alas
that this should be! That men should shut their hearts so
instinctively at the voice of charity!

We have not written this to discourage active efforts in the
benevolent; but to hold up a mirror in which another class may see
themselves. At best, the office of him who seeks of his fellow men
aid for the suffering and indigent, is an unpleasant one. It is all
sacrifice on his part, and the least that can be done is to honour
his disinterested regard for others in distress, and treat him with
delicacy and consideration.

LOVE.

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

"EVERY LITTLE HELPS."

WHAT if a drop of rain should plead--
"So small a drop as I
Can ne'er refresh the thirsty mead;
I'll tarry in the sky?"

What, if the shining beam of noon
Should in its fountain stay;
Because its feeble light alone
Cannot create a day?

Does not each rain-drop help to form
The cool refreshing shower?
And every ray of light, to warm
And beautify the flower?

LITTLE THINGS.

SCORN not the slightest word or deed,
Nor deem it void of power;
There's fruit in each wind-wafted seed,
Waiting its natal hour.
A whispered word may touch the heart,
And call it back to life;
A look of love bid sin depart,
And still unholy strife.

No act falls fruitless; none can tell
How vast its power may be,
Nor what results enfolded dwell
Within it silently.
Work and despair not; give thy mite,
Nor care how small it be;
God is with all that serve the right,
The holy, true, and free!

CARELESS WORDS.

FIVE years ago, this fair November day,--five years? it seems but
yesterday, so fresh is that scene in my memory; and, I doubt not,
were the period ten times multiplied, it would be as vivid still to
us--the surviving actors in that drama! The touch of time, which
blunts the piercing thorn, as well as steals from the rose its
lovely tints, is powerless here, unless to give darker shades to
that picture engraven on our souls; and tears--ah, they only make it
more imperishable!

We do not speak of her now; her name has not passed our lips in each
other's presence, since we followed her--grief-stricken mourners-to
the grave, to which--alas, alas! but why should not the truth be
spoken? the grave to which our careless words consigned her. But on
every anniversary of that day we can never forget, uninvited by me,
and without any previous arrangement between themselves, those two
friends have come to my house, and together we have sat, almost
silently, save when Ada's sweet voice has poured forth a low,
plaintive strain to the mournful chords Mary has made the harp to
breathe. Four years ago, that cousin came too; and since then,
though he has been thousands of miles distant from us, when, that
anniversary has returned, he has written to me: he cannot look into
my face when that letter is penned; he but looks into his own heart,
and he cannot withhold the words of remorse and agony.

Ada and Mary have sat with me to-day, and we knew that Rowland, in
thought, was here too; ah, if we could have known another had been
among us,--if we could have felt that an eye was upon us, which will
never more dim with tears, a heart was near us which carelessness
can never wound again;--could we have known she had been here--that
pure, bright angel, with the smile of forgiveness and love on that
beautiful face--the dark veil of sorrow might have been lifted from
our souls! but we saw only with mortal vision; our faith was feeble,
and we have only drawn that sombre mantle more and more closely
about us. The forgiveness we have so many tim es prayed for, we have
not yet dared to receive, though we know it is our own.

That November day was just what this has been fair, mild, and sweet;
and how much did that dear one enjoy it! The earth was dry, and as
we looked from the window we saw no verdure but a small line of
green on the south side of the garden enclosure, and around the
trunk of the old pear-tree, and here and there a little oasis from
which the strong wind of the previous day, had lifted the thick
covering of dry leaves, and one or two shrubs, whose foliage feared
not the cold breath of winter. The gaudy hues, too, which nature had
lately worn, were all faded; there was a pale, yellow-leafed vine
clambering over the verdureless lilac, and far down in the garden
might be seen a shrub covered with bright scarlet berries. But the
warm south wind was sweet and fragrant, as if it had strayed through
bowers of roses and eglantines. Deep-leaden and snow-white clouds
blended together, floated lazily through the sky, and the sun
coquetted all day with the earth, though his glance was not, for
once, more than half averted, while his smile was bright and loving,
as it bad been months before, when her face was fair and blooming.

But how sadly has this day passed, and how unlike is this calm,
sweet evening to the one which closed that November day! Nature is
the same. The moonbeams look as bright and silvery through the
brown, naked arms of the tall oaks, and the dark evergreen forest
lifts up its head to the sky, striving, but in vain, to shut out
the, soft light from the little stream, whose murmurings, seem more
sad and complaining than at another season of the year, perhaps
because it feels how soon the icy bands of winter will stay its free
course, and hush its low whisperings. The soft breeze sighs as sadly
through the vines which still wreath themselves around the window;
though seemingly conscious they have ceased to adorn it, they are
striving to loosen their bold, and bow themselves to the earth; and
the, chirping of a cricket in the chimney is as sad and mournful as
it was then. But the low moan of the sufferer, the but
half-smothered, agonized sobs of those fair girls, the deep groan
which all my proud cousin's firmness could not hush, and the words
of reproach, which, though I was so guilty myself, and though I saw
them so repentant, I could not withhold, are all stilled now.

Ada and Mary have just left me, and I am sitting alone in my
apartment. Not a sound reaches me but the whisperings of the wind,
the murmuring of the stream, and the chirping of that solitary
cricket. The family know my heart is heavy to-night, and the voices
are hushed, and the footsteps fall lightly. Lily, dear Lily, art
thou near me?

Five years and some months ago--it was in early June--there came to
our home from far away in the sunny South, a fair young creature, a
relative of ours, though we had never seen her before. She had been
motherless rather less than a year, but her father had already found
another partner, and feeling that she would not so soon see the
place of the dearly-loved parent filled by a stranger, she had
obtained his permission to spend a few months with those who could
sympathize with her in her griefs.

Lily White! She was rightly named; I have never seen such a fair,
delicate face and figure, nor watched the revealings of a nature so
pure and gentle as was hers. She would have been too fair and
delicate to be beautiful, but for the brilliancy of those deep blue
eyes, the dark shade of that glossy hair, and the litheness of that
fragile form; but when months had passed away, and, though the brow
was still marble white, and the lip colourless, the cheek wore that
deep rose tint, how surpassingly beautiful she was! We did not dream
what had planted that rose-tint there--we thought her to be throwing
off the grief which alone, we believed, had paled her cheek; and we
did not observe that her form was becoming more delicate, and that
her step was losing its lightness and elasticity. We loved the sweet
Lily dearly at first sight, and she had been with us but a short
time before we began to wonder how our home had ever seemed perfect
to us previous to her coming. And our affection was returned by the
dear girl. We knew how much she loved us, when, as the warm season
had passed, and her father sent for her to return home, we saw the
expression of deep sorrow in every feature, and the silent entreaty
that we would persuade him to allow her to remain with us still.

She did not thank me when a letter reached me from her father, in
reply to one which, unknown to her, I had sent him, saying, if I
thought Lily's health would not be injured by a winter's residence
in our cold climate, he would comply with my urgent request, and
allow her to remain with us until the following spring--the dear
girl could not speak. She came to me almost totteringly, and wound
her arms about my neck, resting her head on mine, and tears from
those sweet eyes fell fast over my face; and all the remainder of
that afternoon she lay on her couch. Oh, why did I not think
wherefore she was so much overcome?

Ada L----and Mary R----, two friends whom I had loved from
childhood, I had selected as companions for our dear Lily on her
arrival among us, and the young ladies, from their first
introduction to her, had vied with me in my endeavours to dispel the
gloom from that fair face, and to make her happy; and they shared,
almost equally with her relatives, dear Lily's affections.

Ada--she is changed now--was a gay, brilliant, daring girl; Mary,
witty and playful, though frank and warm-hearted; but it made me
love them more than ever. The gaiety and audacity of the one was
forgotten in the presence of the thoughtful, timid Lily: and the
other checked the merry jest which trembled on her lips, and sobered
that roguish eye beside the earnest, sensitive girl; so that, though
we were together almost daily, dear Lily did not understand the
character of the young ladies.

The warm season had passed away, and October brought an addition to
our household--Cousin Rowland--as handsome, kind-hearted, and
good-natured a fellow as ever lived, but a little cowardly, if the
dread of the raillery of a beautiful woman may be called cowardice.

Cousin Rowland and dear Lily were mutually pleased with each other,
it was very evident to me, though Ada and Mary failed to see it;
for, in the presence of the young ladies, Rowland did not show her
those little delicate attentions which, alone with me, who was very
unobservant, he took no pains to conceal; and Lily did not hide from
me her blushing face--her eyes only thanked me for the expression
which met her gaze.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17