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, really, Mrs. Walters, you were one of the last persons I
should have imagined to be nicely balancing a point of duty, or
searching out the place designed for them by Providence. I must
confess myself at fault in my judgment of character for once."

"Indeed, madam," replied Mrs. Walters, "I have no doubt you judged
me very correctly at the time you knew me. My first ideas of the
duties and responsibilities of life were aroused by Margaret Winne;
and I recollect that my intimacy with her commenced after you left
the country."

"Margaret Winne? Who was she? Not the wife of that little Dr. Winne
we used to hear of occasionally? They attended the same church with
us, I believe?"

"Yes; she was the one. We grew up together, and were familiar with
each other's faces from childhood; but this was about all. She was
always in humble circumstances, as I had myself been in early life;
and, after my marriage, I used positively to dislike her, and to
dread meeting her, for she was the only one of my former
acquaintances who met me on the same terms as she had always done. I
thought she wished to remind me that we were once equals in station;
but I learned, when I came to know her well, how far she was above
so mean a thought. I hardly know how I came first to appreciate her,
but we were occasionally thrown in contact, and her sentiments were
so beautiful--so much above the common stamp--that I could not fail
to be attracted by her. She was a noble woman. The world knows few
like her. So modest and retiring--with an earnest desire to do all
the good in the world of which she was capable, but with no ambition
to shine. Well fitted as she was, to be an ornament in any station
of society, she seemed perfectly content to be the idol of her own
family, and known to few besides. There were few subjects on which
she had not thought, and her clear perceptions went at once to the
bottom of a subject, so that she solved simply many a question on
which astute philosophers had found themselves at fault. I came at
last to regard her opinion almost as an oracle. I have often
thought, since her death, that it was her object to turn my life
into that channel to which it has since been devoted, but I do not
know. I had never thought of the work that has since occupied me at
the time of her death, but I can see now how cautiously and
gradually she led me among the poor, and taught me to sympathize
with their sufferings, and gave me, little by little, a clue to the
evils that had sprung up in the management of our public charities.
She was called from her family in the prime of life, but they who
come after her do assuredly rise up and call her blessed. She has
left a fine family, who will not soon forget, the instructions of
their mother."

"Ah! yes, there it is, Mrs. Walters. A woman's sphere, after all, is
at home. One may do a great deal of good in public, no doubt, as you
have done; but don't you think that, while you have devoted yourself
so untiringly to other affairs, you have been obliged to neglect
your own family in order to gain time for this? One cannot live two
lives at once, you know."

"No, madam, certainly we cannot live two lives at once, but we can
glean a much larger harvest from the one which is, bestowed upon us
than we are accustomed to think. I do not, by any means, think that
I have ever neglected my own family in the performance of other
duties, and I trust my children are proving, by their hearty
co-operation with me, that I am not mistaken. Our first duty,
certainly is at home, and I determined, at the outset, that nothing
should call me from the performance of this first charge. I do not
think anything can excuse a mother from devoting a large portion of
her life in personal attention to the children God has given her.
But I can assure you that, to those things which I have done of
which the world could take cognisance, I have given far less time
than I used once to devote to dress and amusement, I found, by
systematizing everything, that my time was more than doubled; and,
certainly, I was far better fitted to attend properly to my own
family, when my eyes, were opened to the responsibilities of life,
than when my thoughts were wholly occupied by fashion and display."

ANTIDOTE FOR MELANCHOLY.

"AH, friend K----, good-morning to you; I'm really happy to see you
looking so cheerful. Pray, to what unusual circumstance may we be
indebted for this happy, smiling face of yours, this morning?" (Our
friend K----had been, unfortunately, of a, very desponding and
somewhat of a choleric turn of mind, previously.)

"Really, is the change so perceptible, then? Well, my dear sir, you
shall have the secret; for, happy as I appear--and be assured, my
appearances are by no means deceptive, for I never felt more happy
in my life--it will still give me pleasure to inform you, and won't
take long, either. It is simply this; I have made a whole family
happy!"

"Indeed! Why, you have discovered a truly valuable: recipe for
blues, then, which may be used _ad libitum_, eh, K----?"

"You may well say that. But, really, my friend, I feel no little
mortification at not making so simple and valuable a discovery at an
earlier period of my life, Heaven knows," continued K----, "I have
looked for contentment everywhere else. First, I sought for wealthy
in the gold mines of California, thinking that was the true source
of all earthly joys; but after obtaining it, I found myself with
such a multiplicity of cares and anxieties, that I was really more
unhappy than ever. I then sought for pleasure in travelling. This
answered somewhat the purpose of dissipating cares, &c., so long as
it lasted; but, dear me, it gave no permanent satisfaction. After
seeing the whole world, I was as badly off as Alexander the Great.
He cried for another world to _conquer_, and I cried for another
world to _see_."

The case of our friend, I imagine, differs not materially from that
of a host of other seekers of contentment in this productive world.
Like "blind leaders of the blind," our invariable fate is to go
astray in the universal race for happiness. How common is it, after
seeking for it in every place but the right one, for the selfish man
to lay the whole blame upon this fine world--as if anybody was to
blame but himself. Even some professors of religion are too apt to
libel the world. "Well, this is a troublesome world, to make the
best of it," is not an uncommon expression; neither is it a truthful
one. "Troubles, disappointments, losses, crosses, sickness, and
death, make up the sum and substance of our existence here," add
they, with tremendous emphasis, as if they had no hand in producing
the sad catalogue. The trouble is, we set too high a value on our
own merits; we imagine ourselves deserving of great favours and
privileges, while we are doing nothing to merit them. In this
respect, we are not altogether unlike the young man in the parable,
who, by-the-by, was also a professor--he professed very loudly of
having done all those good things "from his youth up." But when the
command came, "go sell all thou hast, and give to the poor," &c., it
soon took the conceit out of him.

In this connexion, there are two or three seemingly important
considerations, which I feel some delicacy in touching upon here.
However, in the kindest possible spirit, I would merely remark, that
there is a very large amount of wealth in the Church--by this I
include its wealthy members, of course; and refer to no particular
denomination; by Church, I mean all Christian denominations. Now, in
connexion with this fact, such a question as this arises in my
mind--and I put it, not, for the purpose of fault-finding, for I
don't know that I have a right view of the matter, but merely for
the consideration of those who are fond of hoarding up their earthly
gains, viz.: Suppose the modern Church was composed of such
professors as the self-denying disciples of our Saviour,--with their
piety, simplicity, and this wealth; what, think you, would be the
consequence? Now I do not intend to throw out any such flings as,
"comparisons are odious"--"this is the modern Christian age"--"the
age of Christian privileges," and all that sort of nonsense. Still,
I am rather inclined to the opinion, that if we were all--in and out
of the Church--disposed to live up to, or carry out what we
professedly know to be right, it would be almost as difficult to
find real trouble, as it is now to find real happiness.

The sources of contentment and discontentment are discoverable,
therefore, without going into a metaphysical examination of the
subject. Just in proportion as we happen to discharge, or neglect
known duties, are we, according to my view, happy or miserable on
earth. Philosophy tells us that our happiness and well-being depends
upon a conformity to certain unalterable laws--moral, physical, and
organic--which act upon the intellectual, moral, and material
universe, of which man is a part, and which determine, or regulate
the growth, happiness, and well-being of all organic beings. These
views, when reduced to their simple meaning, amount to the same
thing, call it by what name we will. Duties, of course, imply legal
or moral obligations, which we are certainly legally or morally
bound to pay, perform, or discharge. And certain it is, there is no
getting over them--they are as irresistible as Divine power, as
universal as Divine presence, as permanent as Divine existence, and
no art nor cunning of man can disconnect unhappiness from
transgressing them. How necessary to our happiness, then, is it, not
only to know, but to perform our whole duty?

One of the great duties of man in this life, and, perhaps, the most
neglected, is that of doing good, or benefiting one another. That
doing good is clearly a duty devolving upon man, there can be no
question. The benevolent Creator, in placing man in the world,
endowed him with mental and physical energies, which clearly denote
that he is to be active in his day and generation.

Active in what? Certainly not in mischief, for that would not be
consistent with Divine goodness. Neither should we suppose that we
are here for our own sakes simply. Such an idea would be
presumptuous. For what purpose, then, was man endowed with all these
facilities of mind and body, but to do good and glorify his Maker?
True philosophy teaches that benevolence was not only the design of
the Creator in all His works, but the fruits to be expected from
them. The whole infinite contrivances of everything above, around,
and within us, are directed to certain benevolent issues, and all
the laws of nature are in perfect harmony with this idea.

That such is the design of man may also be inferred from the
happiness which attends every good action, and the misery of
discontentment which attends those who not only do wrong, but are
useless to themselves and to society. Friend K----'s case, above
quoted, is a fair illustration of this truth.

Now, then, if it is our duty to do all the good we can, and I think
this will be admitted, particularly by the Christian, and this be
measured by our means and opportunity, then there are many whom
Providence has blessed with the means and opportunity of doing a
very great amount of good. And if it be true, as it manifestly is,
that "it is more blessed to give than receive," then has Providence
also blessed them with very great privileges. The privilege of
giving liberally, and thus obtaining for themselves the greater
blessing, which is the result of every benevolent action, the simple
satisfaction with ourselves which follows a good act, or
consciousness of having done our duty in relieving a
fellow-creature, are blessings indeed, which none but the good or
benevolent can realize. Such kind spirits are never cast down. Their
hearts always light and cheerful--rendered so by their many kind
offices,--they can always enjoy their neighbours, rich or poor, high
or low, and love them too; and with a flow of spirits which bespeak
a heart all right within, they make all glad and happy around them.

Doing good is an infallible antidote for melancholy. When the heart
seems heavy, and our minds can light upon nothing but little naughty
perplexities, everything going wrong, no bright spot or relief
anywhere for our crazy thoughts, and we are finally wound up in a
web of melancholy, depend upon it there is nothing, nothing which
can dispel this angry, ponderous, and unnatural cloud from our
_rheumatic minds_ and _consciences_ like a charity visit--to give
liberally to those in need of succour, the poor widow, the
suffering, sick, and poor, the aged invalid, the lame, the blind,
&c., &c.; all have a claim upon your bounty, and how they will bless
you and love you for it--anyhow, they will thank kind Providence for
your mission of love. He that makes one such visit will make another
and another; he can't very well get weary in such well-doing, for
his is the greater blessing. It is a blessing indeed: how the heart
is lightened, the soul enlarged, the mind improved, and even health;
for the mind being liberated from perplexities, the body is at rest,
the nerves in repose, and the blood, equalized, courses freely
through the system, giving strength, vigour, and equilibrium to the
whole complicated machinery. Thus we can think clearer, love better,
enjoy life, and be thankful for it.

What a beautiful arrangement it is that we can, by doing good to
others, do so much good to ourselves! The wealthy classes, who "rise
above society like clouds above the earth, to diffuse an abundant
dew," should not forget this fact. The season has now about arrived,
when the good people of all classes will be most busily engaged in
these delightful duties. The experiment is certainly worth trying by
all. If all those desponding individuals, whose chief comfort is to
growl at this "troublesome world," will but take the hint, look
trouble full in the face. and relieve it, they will, like friend
K----, feel much better.

It may be set down as a generally correct axiom, (with some few
exceptions, perhaps, such as accidents, and the deceptions and
cruelties of those whom we injudiciously select for friends and
confidants, from our want of discernment), that life is much what we
make it, and so is the world.

THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.

AH me! Am I really a rich man, or am I not? That is the question. I
am sure I don't feel rich; and yet, here I am written down among the
"wealthy citizens" as being worth seventy thousand dollars! How the
estimate was made, or who furnished the data, is all a mystery to
me. I am sure I wasn't aware of the fact before. "Seventy thousand
dollars!" That sounds comfortable, doesn't it? Seventy thousand
dollars!--But where is it? Ah! There is the rub! How true it is that
people always know more about you than you do yourself.

Before this unfortunate book came out ("The Wealthy Citizens of
Philadelphia"), I was jogging on very quietly. Nobody seemed to be
aware of the fact that I was a rich man, and I had no suspicion of
the thing myself. But, strange to tell, I awoke one morning and
found myself worth seventy thousand dollars! I shall never forget
that day. Men who had passed me in the street with a quiet, familiar
nod, now bowed with a low salaam, or lifted their hats
deferentially, as I encountered them on the _pave_.

"What's the meaning of all this?" thought I. "I haven't stood up to
be shot at, nor sinned against innocence and virtue. I haven't been
to Paris. I don't wear moustaches. What has given me this
importance?"

And, musing thus, I pursued my way in quest of money to help me out
with some pretty heavy payments. After succeeding, though with some
difficulty in obtaining what I wanted, I returned to my store about
twelve o'clock. I found a mercantile acquaintance awaiting me, who,
without many preliminaries, thus stated his business:

"I want," said he, with great coolness, "to get a loan of six or
seven thousand dollars; and I don't know of any one to whom I can
apply with more freedom and hope of success than yourself. I think I
can satisfy you, fully, in regard to security.

"My dear sir," replied I, "if you only wanted six or seven hundred
dollars, instead of six or seven thousand dollars, I could not
accommodate you. I have just come in from a borrowing expedition
myself."

I was struck with the sudden change in the man's countenance. He was
not only disappointed, but offended. He did not believe my
statement. In his eyes, I had merely resorted to a subterfuge, or,
rather, told a lie, because I did not wish to let him have my money.
Bowing with cold formality, he turned away and left my place of
business. His manner to me has been reserved ever since.

On the afternoon of that day, I was sitting in the back part of my
store musing on some, matter of business, when I saw a couple of
ladies enter. They spoke to one of my clerks, and he directed them
back to where I was taking things comfortably in an old arm-chair.

"Mr. G----, I believe?" said the elder of the two ladies, with a
bland smile.

I had already arisen, and to this question, or rather affirmation, I
bowed assent.

"Mr. G----," resumed the lady, producing a small book as she spoke,
"we are a committee, appointed to make collections in this district
for the purpose of setting up a fair in aid of the funds of the
Esquimaux Missionary Society. It is the design of the ladies who
have taken this matter in hand to have a very large collection of
articles, as the funds of the society are entirely exhausted. To the
gentlemen of our district, and especially to those who leave been
liberally _blessed with this world's goods_"--this was particularly
emphasized--"we look for important aid. Upon you, sir, we have
called first, in order that you may head the subscription, and thus
set an example of liberality to others."

And the lady handed me the book in the most "of course" manner in
the world, and with the evident expectation that I would put down at
least fifty-dollars.

Of course I was cornered, and must do something, I tried to be bland
and polite; but am inclined to think that I failed in the effort. As
for fairs, I never did approve of them. But that was nothing. The
enemy had boarded me so suddenly and so completely, that nothing,
was left for me but to surrender at discretion, and I did so with as
good grace as possible. Opening my desk, I took out a five dollar
bill and presented it; to the elder of the two ladies, thinking that
I was doing very well indeed. She took the money, but was evidently
disappointed; and did not even ask me to head the list with my name.

"How money does harden the heart!" I overheard one of my fair
visiters say to the other, in a low voices but plainly intended for
my edification, as they walked off with their five dollar bill.

"Confound your impudence!" I said to myself, thus taking my revenge
out of them. "Do you think I've got nothing else to do with my money
but scatter it to the four winds?"

And I stuck my thumbs firmly in the armholes of my waistcoat, and
took a dozen turns up and down my store, in order to cool off.

"Confound your impudence!" I then repeated, and quietly sat down
again in the old arm-chair.

On the next day I had any number of calls from money-hunters.
Business men, who had never thought of asking me for loans, finding
that I was worth seventy thousand dollars, crowded in upon me for
temporary favours, and, when disappointed in their expectations,
couldn't seem to understand it. When I spoke of being "hard up"
myself, they looked as if they didn't clearly comprehend what I
meant.

A few days after the story of my wealth had gone abroad, I was
sitting, one evening, with my family, when I was informed that a
lady was in the parlour, and wished to see me.

"A lady!" said I.

"Yes, sir," replied the servant.

"Is she alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"What does she want?"

"She did not say, sir."

"Very well. Tell her I'll be down in a few moments."

When I entered the parlour, I found a woman, dressed in mourning,
with her veil closely drawn.

"Mr. G----?" she said, in a low, sad voice.

I bowed, and took a place upon the sofa where she was sitting, and
from which she had not risen upon my entrance.

"Pardon the great liberty I have taken," she began, after a pause of
embarrassment, and in an unsteady voice. "But, I believe I have not
mistaken your character for sympathy and benevolence, nor erred in
believing that your hand is ever ready to respond to the generous
impulses of our heart."

I bowed again, and my visiter went on.

"My object in calling upon you I will briefly state. A year ago my
husband died. Up to that time I had never known the want of anything
that money could buy. He was a merchant of this city, and supposed
to be in good circumstances. But he left an insolvent estate; and
now, with five little ones to care for, educate, and support, I have
parted with nearly my last dollar, and have not a single friend to
whom I can look for aid."

There was a deep earnestness and moving pathos in the tones of the
woman's voice, that went to my heart. She paused for a few moments,
overcome with her feelings, and then resumed:--

"One in an extremity like mine, sir, will do many things from which,
under other circumstances she should shrink. This is my only excuse
for troubling you at the present time. But I cannot see my little
family in want without an effort to sustain them; and, with a little
aid, I see my way clear to do so. I was well educated, and feel not
only competent, but willing to undertake a school. There is one, the
teacher of which being in bad health, wishes to give it up, and if I
can get the means to buy out her establishment, will secure an ample
and permanent income for my family. To aid me, sir, in doing this, I
now make an appeal to you. I know you are able, and I believe you
are willing to put forth your hand and save my children from want,
and, it may be, separation."

The woman still remained closely veiled; I could not, therefore, see
her face. But I could perceive that she was waiting with trembling
suspense for my answer. Heaven knows my heart responded freely to
her appeal.

"How much will it take to purchase this establishment?" I inquired.

"Only a thousand dollars," she replied.

I was silent. A thousand dollars!

"I do not wish it, sir, as a gift," she said "only as a loan. In a
year or two I will be able to repay it."

"My dear madam," was my reply, "had I the ability most gladly would
I meet your wishes. But, I assure you I have not. A thousand dollars
taken from my business would destroy it."

A deep sigh, that was almost a groan, came up from the breast of the
stranger, and her head dropped low upon her bosom. She seemed to
have fully expected the relief for which she applied; and to be
stricken to the earth by my words! We were both unhappy.

"May I presume to ask your name, madam?" said I, after a pause.

"It would do no good to mention it," she replied, mournfully. "It
has cost me a painful effort to come to you; and now that my hope
has proved, alas! in vain, I must beg the privilege of still
remaining a stranger."

She arose, as she said this. Her figure was tall and dignified.
Dropping me a slight courtesy, she was turning to go away, when I
said,

"But, madam, even if I have not the ability to grant your request, I
may still have it in my power to aid you in this matter. I am ready
to do all I can; and, without doubt, among the friends of your
husband will be found numbers to step forward and join in affording
you the assistance so much desired, when they are made aware of your
present extremity."

The lady made an impatient gesture, as if my words were felt as a
mockery or an insult, and turning from me, again walked from the
room with a firm step. Before I could recover myself, she had passed
into the street, and I was left standing alone. To this day I have
remained in ignorance of her identity. Cheerfully would I have aided
her to the extent of my ability to do so. Her story touched my
feelings and awakened my liveliest sympathies, and if, on learning
her name and making proper inquiries into her circumstances, I had
found all to be as she had stated, I would have felt it a duty to
interest myself in her behalf, and have contributed in aid of the
desired end to the extent of my ability. But she came to me under
the false idea that I had but to put my hand in my pocket, or write
a check upon the bank, and lo! a thousand dollars were forthcoming.
And because I did not do this, she believed me unfeeling, selfish,
and turned from me mortified, disappointed, and despairing.

I felt sad for weeks after this painful interview. On the very next
morning I received a letter from an artist, in which he spoke of the
extremity of his circumstances, and begged me to purchase a couple
of pictures. I called at his rooms, for I could not resist his
appeal. The pictures did not strike me as possessing much artistic
value.

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