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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That November day--I dread to approach it! Lily and I were sitting
beside each other, looking down the street, and watching the return
of the carriage which Rowland had gone out with to bring Ada and
Mary to our house; or, rather, Lily was looking for its coming--my
eyes were resting on her face. It had never looked so beautiful to
me before. Her brow was so purely white, her cheek was so deeply
red, and that dark eye was so lustrous; but her face was very thin,
and her breathing, I observed, was faint and difficult. A pang shot
through my heart.

"Lily, are you well?" I exclaimed, suddenly.

She fixed her eyes on mine. I was too much excited by my sudden fear
to read their expression, but when our friends came in, the dear
girl seemed so cheerful and happy--I remembered, afterwards, I had
never seen her so gay as on that afternoon--that my suspicions
gradually left me.

The hours were passing pleasantly away, when a letter was brought in
for Lily. It was from her father, and the young lady retired to
peruse it. The eye of Rowland followed her as she passed out of the
room, and I observed a shadow flit across his brow. I afterwards
learned that at the moment a thought was passing through his mind
similar to that which had so terrified me an hour before. Our
visiters remarked it, too, but little suspected its cause; and
Mary's eye met, with a most roguish look, Ada's rather inquiring
gaze.

"When does Lily intend to return home, S----?" she inquired, as she
bent, very demurely, over her embroidery. "I thought she was making
preparations to go before Rowland came here!" and she raised her
eyes so cunningly to my face, that I could not forbear answering,

"I hear nothing of her return, now. Perhaps she will remain with us
during the winter."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Ada, and her voice expressed much surprise. "I
wonder if I could make such a prolonged visit interesting to a
friend!"

"Why, Lily considers herself conferring a great favour by remaining
here," replied Mary.

"On whom?" asked Rowland, quickly.

"On all of use of course;" and to Mary's great delight she perceived
that her meaning words had the effect she desired on the young man.

"I hope she will not neglect the duty she owes her family, for the
sake of showing us this great kindness," said Rowland, with affected
carelessness, though he walked across the apartment with a very
impatient step.

"Lily has not again been guilty of the error she so frequently
commits, has she, S----?" asked Ada, in a lower but still far too
distinct tone; "that of supposing herself loved and admired where
she is only pitied and endured?" and the merry creature fairly
exulted in the annoyance which his deepened colour told her she was
causing the young man.

A slight sound from the apartment adjoining the parlour attracted my
attention. Had Lily stopped there to read her letter instead of
going to her chamber? and had she, consequently, overheard our
foolish remarks? The door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open.
There was a slight rustling, but I thought it only the waving of the
window curtain.

A half-hour passed away, and Lily had not returned to us. I began to
be alarmed, and my companions partook of my fears. Had she overheard
us? and, if so, what must that sensitive heart be suffering?

I went out to call her; but half way up the flight of stairs I saw
the letter from her father lying on the carpet, unopened, though it
had been torn from its envelope. I know not how I found my way up
stairs, but I stood by Lily's bed.

Merciful Heaven! what a sight was presented to my gaze. The white
covering was stained with blood, and from those cold, pale lips the
red drops were fast falling. Her eyes turned slowly till they rested
on mine. What a look was that! I see it now; so full of grief; so
full of reproach; and then they closed. I thought her dead, and my
frantic shrieks called my companions to her bedside. They aroused
her, too, from that swoon, but they did not awaken her to
consciousness. She never more turned a look of recognition on us, or
seemed to be aware that we were near her. Through all that night, so
long and so full of agony to us, she was murmuring, incoherently, to
herself,

"They did not know I was dying," she would say; "that I have been
dying ever since I have been here! They have not dreamed of my
sufferings through these long months; I could not tell them, for I
believed they loved me, and I would not grieve them. But no one
loves me--not one in the wide world cares for me! My mother, you
will not have forgotten your child when you meet me in the
spirit-land! Their loved tones made me deaf to the voice which was
calling to me from the grave, and the sunshine of _his_ smile broke
through the dark cloud which death was drawing around me. Oh, I
would have lived, but death, I thought, would lose half its
bitterness, could I breathe my last in their arms! But, now, I must
die alone! Oh, how shall I reach my home--how shall I ever reach
my home?"

Dear Lily! The passage was short; when morning dawned, she was
_there._

HOW TO BE HAPPY.

A BOON of inestimable worth is a calm, thankful heart--a treasure
that few, very few, possess. We once met an old man, whose face was
a mixture of smiles and sunshine. Wherever he went, he succeeded in
making everybody about him as pleasant as himself.

Said we, one day,--for he was one of that delightful class whom
everybody feels privileged to be related to,--"Uncle, uncle, how
_is_ it that you contrive to be so happy? Why is your face so
cheerful, when so many thousands are craped over with a most
uncomfortable gloominess?"

"My dear young friend," he answered, with his placid smile, "I am
even as others, afflicted with infirmities; I have had my share of
sorrow--some would say more--but I have found out the secret of
being happy, and it is this:

"_Forget self_."

"Until you do that, you can lay but little claim to a cheerful
spirit. 'Forget what manner of man you are,' and think more with,
rejoice more for, your neighbours. If I am poor, let me look upon my
richer friend, and in estimating his blessings, forget my
privations.

"If my neighbour is building a house, let me watch with him its
progress, and think, 'Well, what a comfortable place it will be, to
be sure; how much he may enjoy it with his family.' Thus I have a
double pleasure--that of delight in noting the structure as it
expands into beauty, and making my neighbour's weal mine. If he has
planted a fine garden, I feast my eyes on the flowers, smell their
fragrance: could I do more if it was my own?

"Another has a family of fine children; they bless him and are
blessed by him; mine are all gone before me; I have none that bear
my name; shall I, therefore, envy my neighbour his lovely children?
No; let me enjoy their innocent smiles with him; let me _forget
myself_--my tears when they were put away in darkness; or if I weep,
may it be for joy that God took them untainted to dwell with His
holy angels for ever.

"Believe an old man when he says there is great pleasure in living
for others. The heart of the selfish man is like a city full of
crooked lanes. If a generous thought from some glorious temple
strays in there, wo to it--it is lost. It wanders about, and wanders
about, until enveloped in darkness; as the mist of selfishness
gathers around, it lies down upon some cold thought to die, and is
shrouded in oblivion.

"So, if you would be happy, shun selfishness; do a kindly deed for
this one, speak a kindly word for another. He who is constantly
giving pleasure, is constantly receiving it. The little river gives
to the great ocean, and the more it gives the faster it runs. Stop
its flowing, and the hot sun would dry it up, till it would be but
filthy mud, sending forth bad odours, and corrupting the fresh air
of Heaven. Keep your heart constantly travelling on errands of
mercy--it has feet that never tire, hands that cannot be
overburdened, eyes that never sleep; freight its hands with
blessings, direct its eyes--no matter how narrow your sphere--to the
nearest object of suffering, and relieve it.

"I say, my dear young friend, take the word of an old man for it,
who has tried every known panacea, and found all to fail, except
this golden rule,

"_Forget self, and keep the heart busy for others._"

CHARITY.--ITS OBJECTS.

THE great Teacher, on being asked "Who is my neighbour?" replied "A
man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho," and the parable which
followed is the most beautiful which language has ever recorded.
Story-telling, though often abused, is the medium by which truth can
be most irresistibly conveyed to the majority of minds, and in the
present instance we have a desire to portray in some slight degree
the importance of Charity in every-day life.

A great deal has been said and written on the subject of
indiscriminate giving, and many who have little sympathy with the
needy or distressed, make the supposed unworthiness of the object an
excuse for withholding their alms; while others, who really possess
a large proportion of the milk of human kindness, in awaiting
_great_ opportunities to do good, overlook all in their immediate
pathway, as beneath their notice. And yet it was the "widow's mite"
which, amid the many rich gifts cast into the treasury, won the
approval of the Searcher of Hearts; and we have His assurance that a
cup of cold water given in a proper spirit shall not lose its
reward.

Our design in the present sketch is to call the attention of the
softer sex to a subject which has in too many instances escaped
their attention; for our ideas of Charity embrace a wide field, and
we hold that it should at all times be united with justice, when
those less favoured than themselves are concerned.

"I do not intend hereafter to have washing done more than once in
two weeks," said the rich Mrs. Percy, in reply to an observation of
her husband, who was standing at the window, looking at a woman who
was up to her knees in the snow, hanging clothes on a line in the
yard. "I declare it is too bad, to be paying that poking old thing a
half-a-dollar a week for our wash, and only six in the family. There
she has been at it since seven o'clock this morning, and now it is
almost four. It will require but two or three hours longer if I get
her once a fortnight, and I shall save twenty-five cents a week by
it."

"When your own sex are concerned, you women are the _closest_
beings," said Mr. P., laughing. "Do just as you please, however," he
continued, as he observed a brown gather on the brow of his wife;
"for my part I should be glad if washing-days were blotted entirely
from the calendar."

At this moment the washerwoman passed the window with her stiffened
skirts and almost frozen hands and arms. Some emotions of pity
stirring in his breast at the sight, he again asked, "Do you think
it will be exactly right, my dear, to make old Phoebe do the same
amount of labour for half the wages?"

"Of course it will," replied Mrs. Percy, decidedly; "we are bound to
do the best we can for ourselves. If she objects, she can say so.
There are plenty of poor I can get who will be glad to come, and by
this arrangement I shall save thirteen dollars a year."

"So much," returned Mr. P., carelessly; "how these things do run
up!" Here the matter ended as far as they were concerned. Not so
with "old Phoebe," as she was called. In reality, however, Phoebe
was not yet forty; it was care and hardship which had seamed her
once blooming face, and brought on prematurely the appearance of
age. On going to Mrs. Percy in the evening after she had finished
her wash, for the meagre sum she had earned, that lady had spoken
somewhat harshly about her being so slow, and mentioned the new
arrangement she intended to carry into effect, leaving it optional
with the poor woman to accept or decline. After a moment's
hesitation, Phoebe, whose necessities allowed her no choice, agreed
to her proposal, and the lady, who had been fumbling in her purse,
remarked:--

"I have no change, nothing less than this three-dollar bill. Suppose
I pay you by the month hereafter; it will save me a great deal of
trouble, and I will try to give you your dollar a month regularly."

Phoebe's pale cheek waxed still more ghastly as Mrs. Percy spoke,
but it was not within that lady's province to notice the colour of a
washerwoman's face. She did, however, observe her lingering, weary
steps as she proceeded through the yard, and conscience whispered
some reproaches, which were so unpleasant and unwelcome, that she
endeavoured to dispel them by turning to the luxurious supper which
was spread before her. And here I would pause to observe, that
whatever method may be adopted to reconcile the conscience to
withholding money so justly due, so hardly earned, she disobeyed the
positive injunction of that God who has not left the time of payment
optional with ourselves, but who has said--"The wages of him that is
hired, shall not abide with thee all night until the morning."--Lev.
19 chap. 13th verse.

The husband of Phoebe was a day labourer; when not intoxicated he
was kind; but this was of rare occurrence, for most of his earnings
went for ardent spirits, and the labour of the poor wife and mother
was the main support of herself and four children--the eldest nine
years, the youngest only eighteen months old. As she neared the
wretched hovel she had left early in the morning, she saw the faces
of her four little ones pressed close against the window.

"Mother's coming, mother's coming!" they shouted, as they watched
her approaching through the gloom, and as she unlocked the door,
which she had been obliged to fasten to keep them from straying
away, they all sprang to her arms at once.

"God bless you, my babes!" she exclaimed, gathering them to her
heart, "you have not been a minute absent from my mind this day. And
what have _you_ suffered," she added, clasping the youngest, a
sickly, attenuated-looking object, to her breast. "Oh! it is hard,
my little Mary, to leave you to the tender mercies of children
hardly able to take care of themselves." And as the baby nestled its
head closer to her side, and lifted its pale, imploring face, the
anguished mother's fortitude gave way, and she burst into an agony
of tears and sobbings. By-the-by, do some mothers, as they sit by
the softly-lined cradles of their own beloved babes, ever think upon
the sufferings of those hapless little ones, many times left with a
scanty supply of food, and no fire, on a cold winter day, while the
parent is earning the pittance which is to preserve them from
starvation? And lest some may suppose that we are drawing largely
upon our imagination, we will mention, in this place, that we knew
of a child left under such circumstances, and half-perishing with
cold, who was nearly burned to death by some hops (for there was no
fuel to be found), which it scraped together in its ragged apron,
and set on fire with a coal found in the ashes.

Phoebe did not indulge long in grief, however she forgot her weary
limbs, and bustling about, soon made up a fire, and boiled some
potatoes, which constituted their supper--after which she nursed the
children, two at a time, for a while, and then put them tenderly to
bed. Her husband had not come home, and as he was nearly always
intoxicated, and sometimes ill-treated her sadly, she felt his
absence a relief. Sitting over a handful of coals, she attempted to
dry her wet feet; every bone in her body ached, for she was not
naturally strong, and leaning her head on her hand, she allowed the
big tears to course slowly down her cheeks, without making any
attempt to wipe them away, while she murmured:

"Thirteen dollars a year gone! What is to become of us? I cannot get
help from those authorized by law to assist the poor, unless I agree
to put out my children, and I cannot live and see them abused and
over-worked at their tender age. And people think their father might
support us; but how can I help it that he spends all his earnings in
drink? And rich as Mrs. Percy is, she did not pay me my wages
to-night, and now I cannot get the yarn for my baby's stockings, and
her little limbs must remain cold awhile longer; and I must do
without the flour, too, that I was going to make into bread, and the
potatoes are almost gone."

Here Phoebe's emotions overcame her, and she ceased speaking. After
a while, she continued--

"Mrs. Percy also blamed me for being so slow; she did not know that
I was up half the night, and that my head has ached ready to split
all day. Oh! dear, oh! dear, oh! dear, if it were not for my babes,
I should yearn for the quiet of the grave!"

And with a long, quivering sigh, such as one might heave at the
rending of soul and body, Phoebe was silent.

Daughters of luxury! did it ever occur to you that we are all the
children of one common Parent? Oh, look hereafter with pity on those
faces where the records of suffering are deeply graven, and remember
"_Be ye warmed and filled_," will not suffice, unless the hand
executes the promptings of the heart. After awhile, as the fire died
out, Phoebe crept to her miserable pallet, crushed with the prospect
of the days of toil which were still before her, and haunted by the
idea of sickness and death, brought on by over-taxation of her
bodily powers, while in case of such an event, she was tortured by
the reflection--"what is to become of my children?"

Ah, this anxiety is the true bitterness of death, to the friendless
and poverty-stricken parent. In this way she passed the night, to
renew, with the dawn, the toils and cares which were fast closing
their work on her. We will not say what Phoebe, under other
circumstances, might have been. She possessed every noble attribute
common to woman, without education, or training, but she was not
prepossessing in her appearance; and Mrs. Percy, who never studied
character, or sympathized with menials, or strangers, would have
laughed at the idea of dwelling with compassion on the lot of her
washerwoman with a drunken husband. Yet her feelings sometimes
became interested for the poor she heard of abroad, the poor she
read of, and she would now and then descant largely on the few cases
of actual distress which had chanced to come under her notice, and
the little opportunity she enjoyed of bestowing alms. Superficial in
her mode of thinking and observation, her ideas of charity were
limited, forgetful that to be true it must be a pervading principle
of life, and can be exercised even in the bestowal of a gracious
word or smile, which, under peculiar circumstances, may raise a
brother from the dust--and thus win the approval of Him, who,
although the Lord of angels, was pleased to say of her who brought
but the "box of spikenard"--with tears of love--"_She hath done what
she could._"

THE VISION OF BOATS.

ONE morn, when the Day-god, yet hidden
By the mist that the mountain enshrouds,
Was hoarding up hyacinth blossoms,
And roses, to fling at the clouds;
I saw from the casement, that northward
Looks out on the Valley of Pines,
(The casement, where all day in summer,
You hear the drew drop from the vines),

White shapes 'mid the purple wreaths glancing,
Like the banners of hosts at strife;
But I knew they were silvery pennons
Of boats on the River of Life.
And I watched, as the, mist cleared upward,
Half hoping, yet fearing to see
On that rapid and rock-sown River,
What the fate of the boats might be.

There were some that sped cheerily onward,
With white sails gallantly spread
Yet ever there sat at the look-out,
One, watching for danger ahead.
No fragrant and song-haunted island,
No golden and gem-studded coast
Could win, with its ravishing beauty,
The watcher away from his post.

When the tempest crouched low on the waters,
And fiercely the hurricane swept,
With furled sails, cautiously wearing,
Still onward in safety they kept.
And many sailed well for a season,
When river and sky were serene,
And leisurely swung the light rudder,
'Twixt borders of blossoming green.

But the Storm-King came out from his caverns,
With whirlwind, and lightning, and rain;
And my eyes, that grew dim for a moment,
Saw but the rent canvas again.
Then sorely I wept the ill-fated!
Yea, bitterly wept, for I knew
They had learned but the fair-weather wisdom,
That a moment of trial o'erthrew.

And one in its swift sinking, parted
A placid and sun-bright wave;
Oh, deftly the rock was hidden,
That keepeth that voyager's grave!
And I sorrowed to think how little
Of aid from, a kindly hand,
Might have guided the beautiful vessel
Away from the treacherous strand.

And I watched with a murmur of, blessing,
The few that on either shore
Were setting up signals of warning,
Where many had perished before.
But now, as the sunlight came creeping
Through the half-opened lids of the morn,
Fast faded that wonderful pageant,
Of shadows and drowsiness born.

And no sound could I hear but the sighing
Of winds, in the Valley of Pines;
And the heavy, monotonous dropping
Of dew from the shivering vines.
But all day, 'mid the clashing of Labour,
And the city's unmusical notes,
With thoughts that went seeking the hidden,
I pondered that Vision of Boats.

REGULATION OF THE TEMPER.

THERE is considerable ground for thinking that the opinion very
generally prevails that the temper is something beyond the power of
regulation, control, or government. A good temper, too, if we may
judge from the usual excuses for the want of it, is hardly regarded
in the light of an attainable quality. To be slow in taking offence,
and moderate in the expression of resentment, in which things good
temper consists, seems to be generally reckoned rather among the
gifts of nature, the privileges of a happy constitution, than among
the possible results of careful self-discipline. When we have been
fretted by some petty grievance, or, hurried by some reasonable
cause of offence into a degree of anger far beyond what the occasion
required, our subsequent regret is seldom of a kind for which we are
likely to be much better. We bewail ourselves for a misfortune,
rather than condemn ourselves for a fault. We speak of our unhappy
temper as if it were something that entirely removed the blame from
us, and threw it all upon the peculiar and unavoidable sensitiveness
of our frame. A peevish and irritable temper is, indeed, an
_unhappy_ one; a source of misery to ourselves and to others; but it
is not, in _all_ cases, so valid an excuse for being easily
provoked, as it is usually supposed to be.

A good temper is too important a source of happiness, and an ill
temper too important a source of misery, to be treated with
indifference or hopelessness. The false excuses or modes of
regarding this matter, to which we have referred, should be exposed;
for until their invalidity and incorrectness are exposed, no
efforts, or but feeble ones, will be put forth to regulate an ill
temper, or to cultivate a good one.

We allow that there are great differences of natural constitution.
One who is endowed with a poetical temperament, or a keen sense of
beauty, or a great love of order, or very large ideality, will be
pained by the want or the opposites of these qualities, where one
less amply endowed would suffer no provocation whatever. What would
grate most harshly on the ear of an eminent musician, might not be
noticed at all by one whose musical faculties were unusually small.
The same holds true in regard to some other, besides musical
deficiencies or discords. A delicate and sickly frame will feel
annoyed by what would not at all disturb the same frame in a state
of vigorous health. Particular circumstances, also, may expose some
to greater trials and vexations than others. But, after all this is
granted, the only reasonable conclusion seems to be, that the
attempt to govern the temper is more difficult in some cases than in
others; not that it is, in any case, impossible. It is, at least,
certain that an opinion of its impossibility is an effectual bar
against entering upon it. On the other hand, "believe that you will
succeed, and you will succeed," is a maxim which has nowhere been
more frequently verified than in the moral world. It should be among
the first maxims admitted, and the last abandoned, by every earnest
seeker of his own moral improvement.

Then, too, facts demonstrate that much has been done and can be done
in regulating the worst of tempers. The most irritable or peevish
temper has been restrained by company; has been subdued by interest;
has been awed by fear; has been softened by grief; has been soothed
by kindness. A bad temper has shown itself, in the same individuals,
capable of increase, liable to change, accessible to motives. Such
facts are enough to encourage, in every case, an attempt to govern
the temper. All the miseries of a bad temper, and all the blessings
of a good one, may be attained by an habitual tolerance, concern,
and kindness for others--by an habitual restraint of considerations
and feelings entirely selfish.

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