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Friends and Neighbors; Or, Two Ways of Living in the World

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Title: Friends and Neighbors; Or, Two Ways of Living in the World

Editor: T. S. Arthur


        
Release date: October 1, 2003 [eBook #4593]
                Most recently updated: March 9, 2018

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS; OR, TWO WAYS OF LIVING IN THE WORLD ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo





FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS;

or, Two Ways of Living in the World.

Edited by By T. S. Arthur

PHILADELPHIA:

1856





PREFACE.



WE were about preparing a few words of introduction to this volume, the
materials for which have been culled from the highways and byways of
literature, where our eyes fell upon these fitting sentiments, the
authorship of which we are unable to give. They express clearly and
beautifully what was in our own mind:--

“If we would only bring ourselves to look at the subjects that surround
as in their true flight, we should see beauty where now appears
deformity, and listen to harmony where we hear nothing but discord. To
be sure there is a great deal of vexation and anxiety in the world; we
cannot sail upon a summer sea for ever; yet if we preserve a calm eye
and a steady hand, we can so trim our sails and manage our helm, as to
avoid the quicksands, and weather the storms that threaten shipwreck.
We are members of one great family; we are travelling the same road, and
shall arrive at the same goal. We breathe the same air, are subject
to the same bounty, and we shall, each lie down upon the bosom of
our common mother. It is not becoming, then, that brother should hate
brother; it is not proper that friend should deceive friend; it is not
right that neighbour should deceive neighbour. We pity that man who can
harbour enmity against his fellow; he loses half the enjoyment of life;
he embitters his own existence. Let us tear from our eyes the coloured
medium that invests every object with the green hue of jealousy and
suspicion; turn, a deal ear to scandal; breathe the spirit of charity
from our hearts; let the rich gushings of human kindness swell up as a
fountain, so that the golden age will become no fiction and islands of
the blessed bloom in more than Hyperian beauty.”

It is thus that friends and neighbours should live. This is the right
way. To aid in the creation of such true harmony among men, has the book
now in your hand, reader, been compiled. May the truths that glisten on
its pages be clearly reflected in your mind; and the errors it points
out be shunned as the foes of yourself and humanity.



CONTENTS.


     GOOD IN ALL
     HUMAN PROGRESS
     MY WASHERWOMAN
     FORGIVE AND FORGET
     OWE NO MAN ANYTHING
     RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL
     PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR'S POCKET
     KIND WORDS
     NEIGHBOURS' QUARRELS
     GOOD WE MIGHT DO
     THE TOWN LOT
     THE SUNBEAM AND THE RAINDROP
     A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS
     MR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATIONS
     ROOM IN THE WORLD
     WORDS
     THE THANKLESS OFFICE.
     LOVE
     “EVERY LITTLE HELPS”
      LITTLE THINGS
     CARELESS WORDS
     HOW TO BE HAPPY
     CHARITY--ITS OBJECTS
     THE VISION OF BOATS
     REGULATION OF THE TEMPER
     MANLY GENTLENESS
     SILENT INFLUENCE
     ANTIDOTE FOR MELANCHOLY
     THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN
     “WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE”
      BLIND JAMES
     DEPENDENCE
     TWO RIDES WITH THE DOCTOR
     KEEP IN STEP
     JOHNNY COLE
     THE THIEF AND HIS BENEFACTOR
     JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON
     THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT
     TWO SIDES TO A STORY
     LITTLE KINDNESSES
     LEAVING OFF CONTENTION BEFORE IT BE MEDDLED WITH
     “ALL THE DAY IDLE”
      THE BUSHEL OF CORN
     THE ACCOUNT
     CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTH
     RAINBOWS EVERYWHERE





FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS.





GOOD IN ALL.



THERE IS GOOD IN ALL. Yes! we all believe it: not a man in the depth
of his vanity but will yield assent. But do you not all, in practice,
daily, hourly deny it? A beggar passes you in the street: dirty, ragged,
importunate. “Ah! he has a _bad_ look,” and your pocket is safe. He
starves--and he steals. “I thought he was _bad_.” You educate him in
the State Prison. He does not improve even in this excellent school.
“He is,” says the gaoler, “thoroughly _bad_.” He continues his course of
crime. All that is bad in him having by this time been made apparent
to himself, his friends, and the world, he has only to confirm the
decision, and at length we hear when he has reached his last step. “Ah!
no wonder--there was never any _Good_ in him. Hang him!”

Now much, if not all this, may be checked by a word.

If you believe in Good, _always appeal to it._ Be sure whatever there is
of Good--is of God. There is never an utter want of resemblance to the
common Father. “God made man in His own image.” “What! yon reeling,
blaspheming creature; yon heartless cynic; yon crafty trader; yon
false statesman?” Yes! All. In every nature there is a germ of eternal
happiness, of undying Good. In the drunkard's heart there is a memory of
something better--slight, dim: but flickering still; why should you not
by the warmth of your charity, give growth to the Good that is in him?
The cynic, the miser, is not all self. There is a note in that sullen
instrument to make all harmony yet; but it wants a patient and gentle
master to touch the strings.

You point to the words “There is _none_ good.” The truths do not oppose
each other. “There is none good--_save one._” And He breathes in all.
In our earthliness, our fleshly will, our moral grasp, we are helpless,
mean, vile. But there is a lamp ever burning in the heart: a guide to
the source of Light, or an instrument of torture. We can make it either.
If it burn in an atmosphere of purity, it will warm, guide, cheer us. If
in the midst of selfishness, or under the pressure of pride, its flame
will be unsteady, and we shall soon have good reason to trim our light,
and find new oil for it.

There is Good in All--the impress of the Deity. He who believes not in
the image of God in man, is an infidel to himself and his race. There is
no difficulty about discovering it. You have only to appeal to it. Seek
in every one the _best_ features: mark, encourage, educate _them._ There
is no man to whom some circumstance will not be an argument.

And how glorious in practice, this faith! How easy, henceforth, all
the labours of our law-makers, and how delightful, how practical the
theories of our philanthropists! To educate the _Good_--the good in
_All_: to raise every man in his own opinion, and yet to stifle all
arrogance, by showing that all possess this Good. _In_ themselves, but
not _of_ themselves. Had we but faith in this truth, how soon should
we all be digging through the darkness, for this Gold of Love--this
universal Good. A Howard, and a Fry, cleansed and humanized our prisons,
to find this Good; and in the chambers of all our hearts it is to be
found, by labouring eyes and loving hands.

Why all our harsh enactments? Is it from experience of the strength of
vice in ourselves that we cage, chain, torture, and hang men? Are none
of us indebted to friendly hands, careful advisers; to the generous,
trusting guidance, solace, of some gentler being, who has loved us,
despite the evil that is in _us_--for our little Good, and has nurtured
that Good with smiles and tears and prayers? O, we know not how like we
are to those whom we despise! We know not how many memories of kith and
kin the murderer carries to the gallows--how much honesty of heart the
felon drags with him to the hulks.

There is Good in All. Dodd, the forger, was a better man than most of
us: Eugene Aram, the homicide, would turn his foot from a worm. Do
not mistake us. Society demands, requires that these madmen should be
rendered harmless. There is no nature dead to all Good. Lady Macbeth
would have slain the old king, Had he not resembled her father as he
slept.

It is a frequent thought, but a careless and worthless one, because
never acted on, that the same energies, the same will to great vices,
had given force to great virtues. Do we provide the opportunity? Do we
_believe_ in Good? If we are ourselves deceived in any one, is not all,
thenceforth, deceit? if treated with contempt, is not the whole world
clouded with scorn? if visited with meanness, are not all selfish? And
if from one of our frailer fellow-creatures we receive the blow,
we cease to believe in women. Not the breast at which we have drank
life--not the sisterly hands that have guided ours--not the one voice
that has so often soothed us in our darker hours, will save the sex: All
are massed in one common sentence: all bad. There may be Delilahs: there
are many Ruths. We should not lightly give them up. Napoleon lost France
when he lost Josephine. The one light in Rembrandt's gloomy life was his
sister.

And all are to be approached at some point. The proudest bends to some
feeling--Coriolanus conquered Rome: but the husband conquered the
hero. The money-maker has influences beyond his gold--Reynolds made an
exhibition of his carriage, but he was generous to Northcote, and had
time to think of the poor Plympton schoolmistress. The cold are not all
ice. Elizabeth slew Essex--the queen triumphed; the woman _died._

There is Good in All. Let us show our faith in it. When the lazy whine
of the mendicant jars on your ears, think of his unaided, unschooled
childhood; think that his lean cheeks never knew the baby-roundness
of content that ours have worn; that his eye knew no youth of fire--no
manhood of expectancy. Pity, help, teach him. When you see the trader,
without any pride of vocation, seeking how he can best cheat you, and
degrade himself, glance into the room behind his shop and see there his
pale wife and his thin children, and think how cheerfully he meets
that circle in the only hour he has out of the twenty-four. Pity his
narrowness of mind; his want of reliance upon the God of Good; but
remember there have been Greshams, and Heriots, and Whittingtons; and
remember, too, that in our happy land there are thousands of almshouses,
built by the men of trade alone. And when you are discontented with the
great, and murmur, repiningly, of Marvel in his garret, or Milton in his
hiding-place, turn in justice to the Good among the great. Read how John
of Lancaster loved Chaucer and sheltered Wicliff. There have been Burkes
as well as Walpoles. Russell remembered Banim's widow, and Peel forgot
not Haydn.

Once more: believe that in every class there is Good; in every man,
Good. That in the highest and most tempted, as well as in the lowest,
there is often a higher nobility than of rank. Pericles and Alexander
had great, but different virtues, and although the refinement of the
one may have resulted in effeminacy, and the hardihood of the other in
brutality, we ought to pause ere we condemn where we should all have
fallen.

Look only for the Good. It will make you welcome everywhere, and
everywhere it will make you an instrument to good. The lantern of
Diogenes is a poor guide when compared with the Light God hath set in
the heavens; a Light which shines into the solitary cottage and the
squalid alley, where the children of many vices are hourly exchanging
deeds of kindness; a Light shining into the rooms of dingy warehousemen
and thrifty clerks, whose hard labour and hoarded coins are for wife
and child and friend; shining into prison and workhouse, where sin and
sorrow glimmer with sad eyes through rusty bars into distant homes and
mourning hearths; shining through heavy curtains, and round sumptuous
tables, where the heart throbs audibly through velvet mantle and silken
vest, and where eye meets eye with affection and sympathy; shining
everywhere upon God's creatures, and with its broad beams lighting up
a virtue wherever it falls, and telling the proud, the wronged, the
merciless, or the despairing, that there is “Good in All.”




HUMAN PROGRESS.



     WE are told to look through nature
       Upward unto Nature's God;
     We are told there is a scripture
       Written on the meanest sod;
     That the simplest flower created
       Is a key to hidden things;
     But, immortal over nature,
       Mind, the lord of nature, springs!

     Through _Humanity_ look upward,--
       Alter ye the olden plan,--
     Look through man to the Creator,
       Maker, Father, God of Man!
     Shall imperishable spirit
       Yield to perishable clay?
     No! sublime o'er Alpine mountains
       Soars the Mind its heavenward way!

     Deeper than the vast Atlantic
       Rolls the tide of human thought;
     Farther speeds that mental ocean
       Than the world of waves o'er sought!
     Mind, sublime in its own essence
       Its sublimity can lend
     To the rocks, and mounts, and torrents,
       And, at will, their features bend!

     Some within the humblest _floweret_
       “Thoughts too deep for tears” can see;
     Oh, the humblest man existing
       Is a sadder theme to me!
     Thus I take the mightier labour
       Of the great Almighty hand;
     And, through man to the Creator,
       Upward look, and weeping stand.

     Thus I take the mightier labour,
       --Crowning glory of _His_ will;
     And believe that in the meanest
       Lives a spark of Godhead still:
     Something that, by Truth expanded,
       Might be fostered into worth;
     Something struggling through the darkness,
       Owning an immortal birth!

     From the Genesis of being
       Unto this imperfect day,
     Hath Humanity held onward,
       Praying God to aid its way!
     And Man's progress had been swifter,
       Had he never turned aside,
     To the worship of a symbol,
       Not the spirit signified!

     And Man's progress had been higher,
       Had he owned his brother man,
     Left his narrow, selfish circle,
       For a world-embracing plan!
     There are some for ever craving,
       Ever discontent with place,
     In the eternal would find briefness,
       In the infinite want space.

     If through man unto his Maker
       We the source of truth would find,
     It must be through man enlightened,
       Educated, raised, refined:
     That which the Divine hath fashioned
       Ignorance hath oft effaced;
     Never may we see God's image
       In man darkened--man debased!

     Something yield to Recreation,
       Something to Improvement give;
     There's a Spiritual kingdom
       Where the Spirit hopes to live!
     There's a mental world of grandeur,
       Which the mind inspires to know;
     Founts of everlasting beauty
       That, for those who seek them, flow!

     Shores where Genius breathes immortal--
       Where the very winds convey
     Glorious thoughts of Education,
       Holding universal sway!
     Glorious hopes of Human Freedom,
       Freedom of the noblest kind;
     That which springs from Cultivation,
       Cheers and elevates the mind!

     Let us hope for Better Prospects,
       Strong to struggle for the night,
     We appeal to Truth, and ever
       Truth's omnipotent in might;
     Hasten, then, the People's Progress,
       Ere their last faint hope be gone;
     Teach the Nations that their interest
       And the People's good, ARE ONE.




MY WASHERWOMAN.



SOME people have a singular reluctance to part with money. If waited
on for a bill, they say, almost involuntarily, “Call to-morrow,” even
though their pockets are far from being empty.

I once fell into this bad habit myself; but a little incident, which I
will relate, cured me. Not many years after I had attained my majority,
a poor widow, named Blake, did my washing and ironing. She was the
mother of two or three little children, whose sole dependence for food
and raiment was on the labour of her hands.

Punctually, every Thursday morning, Mrs. Blake appeared with my clothes,
“white as the driven snow;” but not always, as punctually, did I pay the
pittance she had earned by hard labour.

“Mrs. Blake is down stairs,” said a servant, tapping at my room-door one
morning, while I was in the act of dressing myself.

“Oh, very well,” I replied. “Tell her to leave my clothes. I will get
them when I come down.”

The thought of paying the seventy-five cents, her due, crossed my mind.
But I said to myself,--“It's but a small matter, and will do as well
when she comes again.”

There was in this a certain reluctance to part with money. My funds
were low, and I might need what change I had during the day. And so
it proved. As I went to the office in which I was engaged, some small
article of ornament caught my eye in a shop window.

“Beautiful!” said I, as I stood looking at it. Admiration quickly
changed into the desire for possession; and so I stepped in to ask the
price. It was just two dollars.

“Cheap enough,” thought I. And this very cheapness was a further
temptation.

So I turned out the contents of my pockets, counted them over, and found
the amount to be two dollars and a quarter.

“I guess I'll take it,” said I, laying the money on the shopkeeper's
counter.

“I'd better have paid Mrs. Blake.” This thought crossed my mind, an
hour afterwards, by which time the little ornament had lost its power of
pleasing. “So much would at least have been saved.”

I was leaving the table, after tea, on the evening that followed, when
the waiter said to me,

“Mrs. Blake is at the door, and wishes to see you.”

I felt a little worried at hearing this; for I had no change in my
pockets, and the poor washerwoman had, of course, come for her money.

“She's in a great hurry,” I muttered to myself, as I descended to the
door.

“You'll have to wait until you bring home my clothes next week, Mrs.
Blake. I haven't any change, this evening.”

The expression of the poor woman's face, as she turned slowly away,
without speaking, rather softened my feelings.

“I'm sorry,” said I, “but it can't be helped now. I wish you had said,
this morning, that you wanted money. I could have paid you then.”

She paused, and turned partly towards me, as I said this. Then she moved
off, with something so sad in her manner, that I was touched sensibly.

“I ought to have paid her this morning, when I had the change about
me. And I wish I had done so. Why didn't she ask for her money, if she
wanted it so badly?”

I felt, of course, rather ill at ease. A little while afterwards I met
the lady with whom I was boarding.

“Do you know anything about this Mrs. Blake, who washes for me?” I
inquired.

“Not much; except that she is very poor, and has three children to feed
and clothe. And what is worst of all, she is in bad health. I think she
told me, this morning, that one of her little ones was very sick.”

I was smitten with a feeling of self-condemnation, and soon after left
the room. It was too late to remedy the evil, for I had only a sixpence
in my pocket; and, moreover, did not know where to find Mrs. Blake.

Having purposed to make a call upon some young ladies that evening, I
now went up into my room to dress. Upon my bed lay the spotless linen
brought home by Mrs. Blake in the morning. The sight of it rebuked me;
and I had to conquer, with some force, an instinctive reluctance, before
I could compel myself to put on a clean shirt, and snow-white vest, too
recently from the hand of my unpaid washerwoman.

One of the young ladies upon whom I called was more to me than a mere
pleasant acquaintance. My heart had, in fact, been warming towards her
for some time; and I was particularly anxious to find favour in her
eyes. On this evening she was lovelier and more attractive than ever,
and new bonds of affection entwined themselves around my heart.

Judge, then, of the effect produced upon me by the entrance of her
mother--at the very moment when my heart was all a-glow with love, who
said, as she came in--

“Oh, dear! This is a strange world!”

“What new feature have you discovered now, mother?” asked one of her
daughters, smiling.

“No new one, child; but an old one that looks more repulsive than
ever,” was replied. “Poor Mrs. Blake came to see me just now, in great
trouble.”

“What about, mother?” All the young ladies at once manifested unusual
interest.

Tell-tale blushes came instantly to my countenance, upon which the eyes
of the mother turned themselves, as I felt, with a severe scrutiny.

“The old story, in cases like hers,” was answered. “Can't get her money
when earned, although for daily bread she is dependent on her daily
labour. With no food in the house, or money to buy medicine for her sick
child, she was compelled to seek me to-night, and to humble her spirit,
which is an independent one, so low as to ask bread for her little ones,
and the loan of a pittance with which to get what the doctor has ordered
her feeble sufferer at home.”

“Oh, what a shame!” fell from the lips of Ellen, the one in whom my
heart felt more than a passing interest; and she looked at me earnestly
as she spoke.

“She fully expected,” said the mother, “to get a trifle that was due her
from a young man who boards with Mrs. Corwin; and she went to see him
this evening. But he put her off with some excuse. How strange that
any one should be so thoughtless as to withhold from the poor their
hard-earned pittance! It is but a small sum at best, that the toiling
seamstress or washerwoman can gain by her wearying labour. That, at
least, should be promptly paid. To withhold it an hour is to do, in many
cases, a great wrong.”

For some minutes after this was said, there ensued a dead silence. I
felt that the thoughts of all were turned upon me as the one who had
withheld from poor Mrs. Blake the trifling sum due her for washing. What
my feelings were, it is impossible for me to describe; and difficult for
any one, never himself placed in so unpleasant a position, to imagine.

My relief was great when the conversation flowed on again, and in
another channel; for I then perceived that suspicion did not rest upon
me. You may be sure that Mrs. Blake had her money before ten o'clock on
the next day, and that I never again fell into the error of neglecting,
for a single week, my poor washerwoman.




FORGIVE AND FORGET.



     THERE'S a secret in living, if folks only knew;
     An Alchymy precious, and golden, and true,
     More precious than “gold dust,” though pure and refined,
     For its mint is the heart, and its storehouse the mind;
     Do you guess what I mean--for as true as I live
     That dear little secret's--forget and forgive!

     When hearts that have loved have grown cold and estranged,
     And looks that beamed fondness are clouded and changed,
     And words hotly spoken and grieved for with tears
     Have broken the trust and the friendship of years--
     Oh! think 'mid thy pride and thy secret regret,
     The balm for the wound is--forgive and forget!

     Yes! look in thy spirit, for love may return
     And kindle the embers that still feebly burn;
     And let this true whisper breathe high in thy heart,
     _'Tis better to love than thus suffer apart_--

     Let the Past teach the Future more wisely than yet,
     For the friendship that's true can forgive and forget.

     And now, an adieu! if you list to my lay
     May each in your thoughts bear my motto away,
     'Tis a crude, simple ryhme, but its truth may impart
     A joy to the gentle and loving of heart;
     And an end I would claim far more practical yet
     In behalf of the Rhymer--_forgive and forget!_




OWE NO MAN ANYTHING.



THUS says an Apostle; and if those who are able to “owe no man anything”
 would fully observe this divine obligation, many, very many, whom their
want of punctuality now compels to live in violation of this precept,
would then faithfully and promptly render to every one their just dues.

“What is the matter with you, George?” said Mrs. Allison to her husband,
as he paced the floor of their little sitting-room, with an anxious,
troubled expression of countenance.

“Oh! nothing of much consequence: only a little worry of business,”
 replied Mr. Allison.

“But I know better than that, George. I know it is of consequence; you
are not apt to have such a long face for nothing. Come, tell me what it
is that troubles you. Have I not a right to share your griefs as well as
your joys?”

“Indeed, Ellen, it is nothing but business, I assure you; and as I am
not blessed with the most even temper in the world, it does not take
much you know to upset me: but you heard me speak of that job I was
building for Hillman?”

“Yes. I think you said it was to be five hundred dollars, did you not?”

“I did; and it was to have been cash as soon as done. Well, he took it
out two weeks ago; one week sooner than I promised it. I sent the bill
with it, expecting, of course, he would send me a check for the amount;
but I was disappointed. Having heard nothing from him since, I thought I
would call on him this morning, when, to my surprise, I was told he had
gone travelling with his wife and daughter, and would not be back for
six weeks or two months. I can't tell you how I felt when I was told
this.”

“He is safe enough for it I suppose, isn't he, George?”

“Oh, yes; he is supposed to be worth about three hundred thousand. But
what good is that to me? I was looking over my books this afternoon,
and, including this five hundred, there is just fifteen hundred dollars
due me now, that I ought to have, but can't get it. To a man doing a
large business it would not be much; but to one with my limited means,
it is a good deal. And this is all in the hands of five individuals, any
one of whom could pay immediately, and feel not the least inconvenience
from it.”

“Are you much pressed for money just now, George?”

“I have a note in bank of three hundred, which falls due to-morrow, and
one of two hundred and fifty on Saturday. Twenty-five dollars at least
will be required to pay off my hands; and besides this, our quarter's
rent is due on Monday, and my shop rent next Wednesday. Then there are
other little bills I wanted to settle, our own wants to be supplied,
&c.”

“Why don't you call on those persons you spoke of; perhaps they would
pay you?”

“I have sent their bills in, but if I call on them so soon I might
perhaps affront them, and cause them to take their work away; and that
I don't want to do. However, I think I shall have to do it, let the
consequence be what it may.”

“Perhaps you could borrow what you need, George, for a few days.”

“I suppose I could; but see the inconvenience and trouble it puts me
to. I was so certain of getting Hillman's money to meet these two notes,
that I failed to make any other provision.”

“That would not have been enough of itself.”

“No, but I have a hundred on hand; the two together would have paid
them, and left enough for my workmen too.”

As early as practicable the next morning Mr. Allison started forth to
raise the amount necessary to carry him safely through the week. He
thought it better to try to collect some of the amounts owing to him
than to borrow. He first called on a wealthy merchant, whose annual
income was something near five thousand.

“Good morning, Mr. Allison,” said he, as that individual entered his
counting-room. “I suppose you want some money.”

“I should like a little, Mr. Chapin, if you please.”

“Well, I intended coming down to see you, but I have been so busy that
I have not been able. That carriage of mine which you did up a few weeks
ago does not suit me altogether.”

“What is the matter with it?”

“I don't like the style of trimming, for one thing; it has a common look
to me.”

“It is precisely what Mrs. Chapin ordered. You told me to suit her.”

“Yes, but did she not tell you to trim it like General Spangler's?”

“I am very much mistaken, Mr. Chapin, if it is not precisely like his.”

“Oh! no; his has a much richer look than mine.”

“The style of trimming is just the same, Mr. Chapin; but you certainly
did not suppose that a carriage trimmed with worsted lace, would look as
well as one trimmed with silk lace?”

“No, of course not; but there are some other little things about it that
don't suit me. I will send my man down with it to-day, and he will show
you what they are. I would like to have it to-morrow afternoon, to take
my family out in. Call up on Monday, and we will have a settlement.”

Mr. Allison next called at the office of a young lawyer, who had
lately come into possession of an estate valued at one hundred thousand
dollars. Mr. Allison's bill was three hundred dollars, which his young
friend assured him he would settle immediately, only that there was a
slight error in the way it was made out, and not having the bill with
him, he could not now correct it.

He would call on Mr. Allison with it, sometime during the next week, and
settle it.

A Custom-House gentleman was next sought, but his time had been so much
taken up with his official duties, that he had not yet been able to
examine the bill. He had no doubt but it was all correct; still, as he
was not accustomed to doing business in a loose way, he must claim Mr.
Allison's indulgence a few days longer.

Almost disheartened, Mr. Allison entered the store of the last
individual who was indebted to him for any considerable amount, not
daring to hope that he would be any more successful with him than with
the others he had called on. But he was successful; the bill, which
amounted to near one hundred and fifty dollars, was promptly paid, Mr.
Allison's pocket, in consequence, that much heavier, and his heart that
much lighter. Fifty dollars was yet lacking of the sum requisite for
that day. After calling on two or three individuals, this amount was
obtained, with the promise of being returned by the middle of the next
week.

“I shall have hard work to get through to-day, I know,” said he to
himself, as he sat at his desk on the following morning.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars to be raised by borrowing. I don't know
where I can get it.”

To many this would be a small sum, but Mr. Allison was peculiarly
situated. He was an honest, upright mechanic, but he was poor. It was
with difficulty he had raised the fifty dollars on the day previous.
Although he had never once failed in returning money at the time
promised, still, for some reason or other, everybody appeared unwilling
to lend him. It was nearly two O'clock and he was still a hundred
dollars short.

“Well,” said he to himself, “I have done all I could, and if Hall won't
renew the note for the balance, it will have to be protested. I'll go
and ask him, though I have not much hope that he will do it.”

As he was about leaving his shop for that purpose, a gentleman entered
who wished to buy a second-hand carriage. Mr. Allison had but one, and
that almost new, for which he asked a hundred and forty dollars.

“It is higher than I wished to go,” remarked the gentleman. “I ought to
get a new one for that price.”

“So you can, but not like this. I can sell you a new one for a hundred
and twenty-five dollars. But what did you expect to pay for one?”

“I was offered one at Holton's for seventy-five; but I did not like it.
I will give you a hundred for yours.”

“It is too little, indeed, sir: that carriage cost three hundred dollars
when it was new. It was in use a very short time. I allowed a hundred
and forty dollars for it myself.”

“Well, sir, I would not wish you to sell at a disadvantage, but if you
like to, accept of my offer I'll take it. I'm prepared to pay the cash
down.”

Mr. Allison did not reply for some minutes. He was undecided as to what
was best.

“Forty dollars,” said he to himself, “is a pretty heavy discount. I
am almost tempted to refuse his offer and trust to Hall's renewing the
note. But suppose he won't--then I'm done for. I think, upon the whole,
I had better accept it. I'll put it at one hundred and twenty-five, my
good friend,” said he, addressing the customer.

“No, sir; one hundred is all I shall give.”

“Well, I suppose you must have it, then; but indeed you have got a
bargain.”

“It is too bad,” muttered Allison to himself, as he left the bank after
having paid his note. “There is just forty dollars thrown away. And why?
Simply because those who are blessed with the means of discharging their
debts promptly, neglect to do so.”

“How did you make out to-day, George?” asked his wife, as they sat at
the tea-table that same evening.

“I met my note, and that was all.”

“Did you give your men anything?”

“Not a cent. I had but one dollar left after paying that. I was sorry
for them, but I could not help them. I am afraid Robinson's family will
suffer, for there has been sickness in his house almost constantly for
the last twelvemonth. His wife, he told me the other day, had not been
out; of her bed for six weeks. Poor fellow! He looked quite dejected
when I told him I had nothing for him.”

At this moment; the door-bell rang and a minute or two afterwards, a
young girl entered the room in which Mr. and Mrs. Allison were sitting.
Before introducing her to our readers, we will conduct them to the
interior of an obscure dwelling, situated near the outskirts of the
city. The room is small, and scantily furnished, and answers at once
for parlour, dining-room, and kitchen. Its occupants, Mrs. Perry and her
daughter, have been, since the earliest dawn of day, intently occupied
with their needles, barely allowing themselves time to partake of their
frugal meal.

“Half-past three o'clock!” ejaculated the daughter, her eyes glancing,
as she spoke, at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I am afraid we shall not
get this work done in time for me to take it home before dark, mother.”

“We must try hard, Laura, for you know we have not a cent in the house,
and I told Mrs. Carr to come over to-night, and I would pay her what I
owe her for washing. Poor thing! I would not like to disappoint her, for
I know she needs it.”

Nothing more was said for near twenty minutes, when Laura again broke
the silence.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, “what a pain I have in my side!” And for a
moment she rested from her work, and straightened herself in her chair,
to afford a slight relief from the uneasiness she experienced. “I
wonder, mother, if I shall always be obliged to sit so steady?”

“I hope not, my child; but bad as our situation is, there are hundreds
worse off than we. Take Annie Carr, for instance--how would you like to
exchange places with her?”

“Poor Annie! I was thinking of her awhile go, mother. How hard it must
be for one so young to be so afflicted as she is!”

“And yet, Laura, she never complains; although for five years she has
never left her bed, and has often suffered, I know, for want of proper
nourishment.”

“I don't think she will suffer much longer, mother. I stopped in to see
her the other day, and I was astonished at the change which had taken
place in a short time. Her conversation, too, seems so heavenly, her
faith in the Lord so strong, that I could not avoid coming to the
conclusion that a few days more, at the most, would terminate her
wearisome life.”

“It will be a happy release for her, indeed, my daughter. Still, it will
be a sore trial for her mother.”

It was near six when Mrs. Perry and her daughter finished the work upon
which they were engaged.

“Now Laura, dear,” said the mother, “get back as soon as you can, for I
don't like you to be out after night, and more than that, if Mrs. Carr
comes, she won't want to wait.”

About twenty minutes after the young girl had gone, Mrs. Carr called.
“Pray, be seated, my dear friend,” said Mrs. Perry, “my daughter has
just gone to Mrs. Allison's with some work, and as soon as she returns I
can pay you.”

“I think I had better call over again, Mrs. Perry,” answered the poor
woman; “Mary begged me not to stay long.”

“Is Annie any worse, then?”

“Oh, yes, a great deal; the doctor thinks she will hardly last till
morning.”

“Well, Mrs. Carr, death can be only gain to her.”

“Very true; still, the idea of losing her seems dreadful to me.”

“How does Mary get on at Mrs. Owring's?”

“Not very well; she has been at work for her just one month to-day; and
although she gave her to understand that her wages would be at least a
dollar and a quarter a week, yet to-night, when she settled with her,
she wouldn't give her but three dollars, and at the same time told her
that if she didn't choose to work for that she could go.”

“What do you suppose was the reason for her acting so?”

“I don't know, indeed, unless it is because she does not get there quite
as early as the rest of her hands; for you see I am obliged to keep her
a little while in the morning to help me to move Annie while I make her
bed. Even that little sum, small it was, would have been some help to
us, but it had all to go for rent. My landlord would take no denial. But
I must go; you think I can depend on receiving your money to-night?”

“I do. Mrs. Allison is always prompt in paying for her work as soon
as it is done. I will not trouble you to come again for it, Mrs. Carr.
Laura shall bring it over to you.”

Let us now turn to the young girl we left at Mr. Allison's, whom our
readers, no doubt, recognise as Laura Perry.

“Good evening, Laura,” said Mrs. Allison, as she entered the room; “not
brought my work home already! I did not look for it till next week. You
and your mother, I am afraid, confine yourselves too closely to your
needles for your own good. But you have not had your tea? sit up, and
take some.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Allison; mother will be uneasy if I stay long.”

“Well, Laura, I am sorry, but I cannot settle with you to-night. Tell
your mother Mr. Allison was disappointed in collecting to-day, or she
certainly should have had it. Did she say how much it was?”

“Two dollars, ma'am.”

“Very well: I will try and let her have it next week.”

The expression of Laura's countenance told too plainly the
disappointment she felt. “I am afraid Mrs. Perry is in want of that
money,” remarked the husband after she had gone.

“Not the least doubt of it,” replied his wife. “She would not have sent
home work at this hour if she had not been. Poor things! who can tell
the amount of suffering and wretchedness that is caused by the rich
neglecting to pay promptly.”

“You come without money, Laura,” said her mother, as she entered the
house.

“How do you know that, mother?” she replied, forcing a smile.

“I read it in your countenance. Is it not so?”

“It is: Mr. Allison was disappointed in collecting--what will we do,
mother?”

“The best we can, my child. We will have to do without our beef for
dinner to-morrow; but then we have plenty of bread; so we shall not
starve.”

“And I shall have to do without my new shoes. My old ones are too shabby
to go to church in; so I shall have to stay at home.”

“I am sorry for your disappointment, my child, but I care more for Mrs.
Carr than I do for ourselves. She has been here, and is in a great deal
of trouble. The doctor don't think Annie will live till morning, and
Mrs. Owrings hag refused to give Mary more than three dollars for her
month's work, every cent of which old Grimes took for rent. I told her
she might depend on getting what I owed her, and that I would send you
over with it when you returned. You had better go at once and tell her,
Laura; perhaps she may be able to get some elsewhere.”

“How much is it, mother?”

“Half a dollar.”

“It seems hard that she can't get that small sum.”

With a heavy heart Laura entered Mrs. Carr's humble abode.

“Oh how glad I am that you have come, my dear!” exclaimed the poor
woman. “Annie has been craving some ice cream all day; it's the only
thing she seems to fancy. I told her she should have it as soon as you
came.”

Mrs. Carr's eyes filled with tears as Laura told of her ill success. “I
care not for myself,” she said “but for that poor suffering child.”

“Never mind me, mother,” replied Annie. “It was selfish in me to want
it, when I know how hard you and Mary are obliged to work for every cent
you get. But I feel that I shall not bother you much longer; I have a
strange feeling here now.” And she placed her hand upon her left side.

“Stop!” cried Laura; “I'll try and get some ice cream for you Annie.”
 And off she ran to her mother's dwelling. “Mother,” said she, as she
entered the house, “do you recollect that half dollar father gave me the
last time he went to sea?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well, I think I had better take it and pay Mrs. Carr. Annie is very
bad, and her mother says she has been wanting some ice cream all day.”

“It is yours, Laura, do as you like about it.”

“It goes hard with me to part with it, mother, for I had determined
to keep it in remembrance of my father. It is just twelve years to-day
since he went away. But poor Annie--yes, mother, I will take it.”

So saying, Laura went to unlock the box which contained her treasure,
but unfortunately her key was not where she had supposed it was. After
a half hour's search she succeeded in finding it. Tears coursed down her
cheeks like rain as she removed from the corner of the little box, where
it had lain for so many years, this precious relic of a dear father, who
in all probability, was buried beneath the ocean. Dashing them hastily
away, she started again for Mrs. Carr's. The ice cream was procured on
the way, and, just as the clock struck eight, she arrived at the door.
One hour has elapsed since she left. But why does she linger on the
threshold? Why but because the sounds of weeping and mourning have
reached her ears, and she fears that all is over with her poor friend,
Her fears are indeed true, for the pure spirit of the young sufferer has
taken its flight to that blest land where hunger and thirst are known
no more. Poor Annie! thy last earthly wish, a simple glass of ice-cream,
was denied thee--and why? We need not pause to answer: ye who have an
abundance of this world's goods, think, when ye are about to turn
from your doors the poor seamstress or washerwoman, or even those less
destitute than they, without a just recompense for their labour,
whether the sufferings and privations of some poor creatures will not be
increased thereby.




RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL.



OBADIAH LAWSON and Watt Dood were neighbours; that is, they lived within
a half mile of each other, and no person lived between their respective
farms, which would have joined, had not a little strip of prairie land
extended itself sufficiently to keep them separated. Dood was the oldest
settler, and from his youth up had entertained a singular hatred against
Quakers; therefore, when he was informed that Lawson, a regular disciple
of that class of people had purchased the next farm to his, he declared
he would make him glad to move away again. Accordingly, a system of
petty annoyances was commenced by him, and every time one of Lawson's
hogs chanced to stray upon Dood's place, he was beset by men and dogs,
and most savagely abused. Things progressed thus for nearly a year, and
the Quaker, a man of decidedly peace principles, appeared in no way to
resent the injuries received at the hands of his spiteful neighbour. But
matters were drawing to a crisis; for Dood, more enraged than ever at
the quiet of Obadiah, made oath that he would do something before long
to wake up the spunk of Lawson. Chance favoured his design. The Quaker
had a high-blooded filly, which he had been very careful in raising, and
which was just four years old. Lawson took great pride in this animal,
and had refused a large sum of money for her.

One evening, a little after sunset, as Watt Dood was passing around
his cornfield, he discovered the filly feeding in the little strip of
prairie land that separated the two farms, and he conceived the hellish
design of throwing off two or three rails of his fence, that the horse
might get into his corn during the night. He did so, and the next
morning, bright and early, he shouldered his rifle and left the house.
Not long after his absence, a hired man, whom he had recently employed,
heard the echo of his gun, and in a few minutes Dood, considerably
excited and out of breath, came hurrying to the house, where he stated
that he had shot at and wounded a buck; that the deer attacked him, and
he hardly escaped with his life.

This story was credited by all but the newly employed hand, who had
taken a dislike to Watt, and, from his manner, suspected that something
was wrong. He therefore slipped quietly away from the house, and going
through the field in the direction of the shot, he suddenly came upon
Lawson's filly, stretched upon the earth, with a bullet hole through the
head, from which the warm blood was still oozing.

The animal was warm, and could not have been killed an hour. He hastened
back to the dwelling of Dood, who met him in the yard, and demanded,
somewhat roughly, where he had been.

“I've been to see if your bullet made sure work of Mr. Lawson's filly,”
 was the instant retort.

Watt paled for a moment, but collecting himself, he fiercely shouted,

“Do you dare to say I killed her?”

“How do you know she is dead?” replied the man.

Dood bit his lip, hesitated a moment, and then turning, walked into the
house.

A couple of days passed by, and the morning of the third one had broken,
as the hired man met friend Lawson, riding in search of his filly.

A few words of explanation ensued, when, with a heavy heart, the Quaker
turned his horse and rode home, where he informed the people of the fate
of his filly. No threat of recrimination escaped him; he did not even
go to law to recover damages; but calmly awaited his plan and hour of
revenge. It came at last.

Watt Dood had a Durham heifer, for which he had paid a heavy price, and
upon which he counted to make great gains.

One morning, just as Obadiah was sitting down, his eldest son came in
with the information that neighbour Dood's heifer had broken down the
fence, entered the yard, and after eating most of the cabbages, had
trampled the well-made beds and the vegetables they contained, out of
all shape--a mischief impossible to repair.

“And what did thee do with her, Jacob?” quietly asked Obadiah.

“I put her in the farm-yard.”

“Did thee beat her?”

“I never struck her a blow.”

“Right, Jacob, right; sit down to thy breakfast, and when done eating I
will attend to the heifer.”

Shortly after he had finished his repast, Lawson mounted a horse, and
rode over to Dood's, who was sitting under the porch in front of his
house, and who, as he beheld the Quaker dismount, supposed he was coming
to demand pay for his filly, and secretly swore he would have to law for
it if he did.

“Good morning, neighbour Dood; how is thy family?” exclaimed Obadiah, as
he mounted the steps and seated himself in a chair.

“All well, I believe,” was the crusty reply.

“I have a small affair to settle with you this morning, and I came
rather early.”

“So I suppose,” growled Watt.

“This morning, my son found thy Durham heifer in my garden, where she
has destroyed a good deal.”

“And what did he do with her?” demanded Dood, his brow darkening.

“What would thee have done with her, had she been my heifer in thy
garden?” asked Obadiah.

“I'd a shot her!” retorted Watt, madly, “as I suppose you have done; but
we are only even now. Heifer for filly is only 'tit for tat.'”

“Neighbour Dood, thou knowest me not, if thou thinkest I would harm a
hair of thy heifer's back. She is in my farm-yard, and not even a blow
has been struck her, where thee can get her at any time. I know thee
shot my filly; but the evil one prompted thee to do it, and I lay no
evil in my heart against my neighbours. I came to tell thee where thy
heifer is, and now I'll go home.”

Obadiah rose from his chair, and was about to descend the steps, when he
was stopped by Watt, who hastily asked,

“What was your filly worth?”

“A hundred dollars is what I asked for her,” replied Obediah.

“Wait a moment!” and Dood rushed into the house, from whence he soon
returned, holding some gold in his hand. “Here's the price of your
filly; and hereafter let there be a pleasantness between us.”

“Willingly, heartily,” answered Lawson, grasping the proffered hand of
the other; “let there be peace between us.”

Obadiah mounted his horse, and rode home with a lighter heart, and from
that day to this Dood has been as good a neighbour as one could wish to
have; being completely reformed by the RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL.




PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR'S POCKET.



“DO you recollect Thomas, who lived with us as waiter about two years
ago, Mary?” asked Mr. Clarke, as he seated himself in his comfortable
arm-chair, and slipped his feet into the nicely-warmed, embroidered
slippers, which stood ready for his use.

“Certainly,” was the reply of Mrs. Clarke. “He was a bright, active
fellow, but rather insolent.”

“He has proved to be a regular pickpocket,” continued her husband, “and
is now on his way to Blackwell's Island.”

“A very suitable place for him. I hope he will be benefited by a few
months' residence there,” returned the lady.

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed Mr. Joshua Clarke, an uncle of the young
couple, who was quietly reading a newspaper in another part of the room.
“There are many of high standing in the world, who deserve to go to
Blackwell's Island quite as much as he does.”

“You are always making such queer speeches, Uncle Joshua,” said his
niece. “I suppose you do not mean that there are pickpockets among
respectable people?”

“Indeed, there are, my dear niece. Your knowledge of the world must be
very limited, if you are not aware of this. Putting your hand in your
neighbour's pocket, is one of the most fashionable accomplishments of
the day.”

Mrs. Clarke was too well acquainted with her uncle's peculiarities to
think of arguing with him. She therefore merely smiled, and said to her
husband:--

“Well, Henry, I am glad that neither you nor myself are acquainted with
this fashionable accomplishment.”

“Not acquainted with it!” exclaimed the old gentleman. “I thought
you knew yourselves better. Why, you and Henry are both regular
pickpockets!”

“I wonder that you demean yourself by associating with us!” was the
playful reply.

“Oh, you are no worse than the rest of the world; and, besides, I hope
to do you some good, when you grow older and wiser. At present, Henry's
whole soul is absorbed in the desire to obtain wealth.”

“In a fair and honourable way, uncle,” interrupted Mr. Clarke, “and for
honourable purposes.”

“Certainly,” replied Uncle Joshua, “in the common acceptation of the
words _fair_ and _honourable_. But, do you never, in your mercantile
speculations, endeavour to convey erroneous impressions to the minds
of those with whom you are dealing? Do you not sometimes suppress
information which would prevent your obtaining a good bargain? Do you
never allow your customers to purchase goods under false ideas of
their value and demand in the market? If you saw a man, less skilled
in business than yourself, about to take a step injurious to him, but
advantageous to you, would you warn him of his danger--thus obeying the
command to love your neighbour as yourself?”

“Why, uncle, these questions are absurd. Of course, when engaged in
business, I endeavour to do what is for my own advantage--leaving others
to look out for themselves.”

“Exactly so. You are perfectly willing to put your hand in your
neighbour's pocket and take all you can get, provided he is not wise
enough to know that your hand is there.”

“Oh, for shame, Uncle Joshua! I shall not allow you to talk to Henry in
this manner,” exclaimed Mrs. Clarke perceiving that her husband looked
somewhat irritated. “Come, prove your charge against me. In what way do
I pick my neighbour's pockets?”

“You took six shillings from the washerwoman this morning,” coolly
replied Uncle Joshua.

“_Took_ six shillings from the washerwoman! Paid her six shillings, you
mean, uncle. She called for the money due for a day's work, and I gave
it to her.”

“Yes, but not till you had kept her waiting nearly two hours. I heard
her say, as she left the house, 'I have lost a day's work by this delay,
for I cannot go to Mrs. Reed's at this hour; so I shall be six shillings
poorer at the end of the week.'”

“Why did she wait, then? She could have called again. I was not ready to
attend to her at so early an hour.”

“Probably she needed the money to-day. You little know the value of six
shillings to the mother of a poor family, Mary; but, you should remember
that her time is valuable, and that it is as sinful to deprive her of
the use of it, as if you took money from her purse.”

“Well, uncle, I will acknowledge that I did wrong to keep the poor woman
waiting, and I will endeavour to be more considerate in future. So
draw your chair to the table, and take a cup of tea and some of your
favourite cakes.”

“Thank you, Mary; but I am engaged to take tea with your old friend,
Mrs. Morrison. Poor thing! she has not made out very well lately. Her
school has quite run down, owing to sickness among her scholars; and
her own family have been ill all winter; so that her expenses have been
great.”

“I am sorry to hear this,” replied Mrs. Clarke. “I had hoped that her
school was succeeding. Give my love to her, uncle, and tell her I will
call upon her in a day or two.”

Uncle Joshua promised to remember the message, and bidding Mr. and Mrs.
Clarke good evening, he was soon seated in Mrs. Morrison's neat little
parlour, which, though it bore no comparison with the spacious and
beautifully furnished apartments he had just left, had an air of comfort
and convenience which could not fail to please.

Delighted to see her old friend, whom she also, from early habit,
addressed by the title of Uncle Joshua, although he was no relation,
Mrs. Morrison's countenance, for awhile beamed with that cheerful,
animated expression which it used to wear in her more youthful days;
but an expression of care and anxiety soon over shadowed it, and, in
the midst of her kind attentions to her visiter, and her affectionate
endearment to two sweet children, who were playing around the room, she
would often remain thoughtful and abstracted for several minutes.

Uncle Joshua was an attentive observer, and he saw that something
weighed heavily upon her mind. When tea was over, and the little ones
had gone to rest, he said, kindly,

“Come, Fanny, draw your chair close to my side, and tell me all your
troubles, as freely as you used to do when a merry-hearted school-girl.
How often have listened to the sad tale of the pet pigeon, that had
flown away, or the favourite plant killed by the untimely frost. Come, I
am ready, now as then, to assist you with my advice, and my purse, too,
if necessary.”

Tears started to Mrs. Morrison's eyes, as she replied.

“You were always a kind friend to me, Uncle Joshua, and I will gladly
confide my troubles to you. You know that after my husband's death I
took this house, which, though small, may seem far above my limited
income, in the hope of obtaining a school sufficiently large to enable
me to meet the rent, and also to support myself and children. The small
sum left them by their father I determined to invest for their future
use. I unwisely intrusted it to one who betrayed the trust, and
appropriated the money to some wild speculation of his own. He says that
he did this in the hope of increasing my little property. It may be so,
but my consent should have been asked. He failed and there is little
hope of our ever recovering more, than a small part of what he owes
us. But, to return to my school. I found little difficulty in obtaining
scholars, and, for a short time, believed myself to be doing well, but I
soon found that a large number of scholars did not insure a large
income from the school. My terms were moderate, but still I found great
difficulty in obtaining what was due to me at the end of the term.

“A few paid promptly, and without expecting me to make unreasonable
deductions for unpleasant weather, slight illness, &c., &c. Others paid
after long delay, which often put me to the greatest inconvenience; and
some, after appointing day after day for me to call, and promising each
time that the bill should be settled without fail, moved away, I knew
not whither, or met me at length with a cool assurance that it was not
possible for them to pay me at present--if it was ever in their power
they would let me know.”

“Downright robbery!” exclaimed Uncle Joshua. “A set of pickpockets! I
wish they were all shipped for Blackwell's Island.”

“There are many reasons assigned for not paying,” continued Mrs.
Morrison. “Sometimes the children had not learned as much as the parents
expected. Some found it expedient to take their children away long
before the expiration of the term, and then gazed at me in astonishment
when I declared my right to demand pay for the whole time for which they
engaged. One lady, in particular, to whose daughter I was giving music
lessons, withdrew the pupil under pretext of slight indisposition, and
sent me the amount due for a half term. I called upon her, and stated
that I considered the engagement binding for twenty-four lessons, but
would willingly wait until the young lady was quite recovered. The
mother appeared to assent with willingness to this arrangement, and took
the proffered money without comment. An hour or two after I received
a laconic epistle stating that the lady had already engaged another
teacher, whom she thought preferable--that she had offered me the amount
due for half of the term, and I had declined receiving it--therefore she
should not offer it again. I wrote a polite, but very plain, reply to
this note, and enclosed my bill for the whole term, but have never heard
from her since.”

“Do you mean to say that she actually received the money which you
returned to her without reluctance, and gave you no notice of her
intention to employ another teacher?” demanded the old gentleman.

“Certainly; and, besides this, I afterwards ascertained that the young
lady was actually receiving a lesson from another teacher, when I called
at the house--therefore the plea of indisposition was entirely false.
The most perfect satisfaction had always been expressed as to the
progress of the pupil, and no cause was assigned for the change.”

“I hope you have met with few cases as bad as this,” remarked Uncle
Joshua. “The world must be in a worse state than even I had supposed, if
such imposition is common.”

“This may be an extreme case,” replied Mrs. Morrison, “but I could
relate many others which are little better. However, you will soon weary
of my experience in this way, Uncle Joshua, and I will therefore mention
but one other instance. One bitter cold day in January, I called at the
house of a lady who had owed me a small amount for nearly a year, and
after repeated delay had reluctantly fixed this day as the time when she
would pay me at least a part of what was due. I was told by the servant
who opened the door that the lady was not at home.

“What time will she be in?” I inquired.

“Not for some hours,” was the reply.

Leaving word that I would call again towards evening, I retraced my
steps, feeling much disappointed at my ill success, as I had felt quite
sure of obtaining the money. About five o'clock I again presented myself
at the door, and was again informed that the lady was not at home.

“I will walk in, and wait for her return,” I replied.

The servant appeared somewhat startled at this, but after a little delay
ushered me into the parlour. Two little boys, of four and six years of
age, were playing about the room. I joined in their sports, and soon
became quite familiar with them. Half an hour had passed away, when I
inquired of the oldest boy what time he expected his mother?

“Not till late,” he answered, hesitatingly.

“Did she take the baby with her this cold day?” I asked.

“Yes, ma'am,” promptly replied the girl, who, under pretence of
attending to the children, frequently came into the room.

The youngest child gazed earnestly in my face, and said, smilingly,

“Mother has not gone away, she is up stairs. She ran away with baby when
she saw you coming, and told us to say she had gone out. I am afraid
brother will take cold, for there is no fire up stairs.”

“It is no such thing,” exclaimed the girl and the eldest boy. “She is
not up stairs, ma'am, or she would see you.”

But even as they spoke the loud cries of an infant were heard, and a
voice at the head of the stairs calling Jenny.

The girl obeyed, and presently returned with the child in her arms, its
face, neck, and hands purple with cold.

“Poor little thing, it has got its death in that cold room,” she said.
“Mistress cannot see you, ma'am, she is sick and gone to bed.”

“This last story was probably equally false with the other, but I felt
that it was useless to remain, and with feelings of deep regret for the
poor children who were so early taught an entire disregard for truth,
and of sorrow for the exposure to cold to which I had innocently
subjected the infant, I left the house. A few days after, I heard that
the little one had died with croup. Jenny, whom I accidentally met in
the street, assured me that he took the cold which caused his death from
the exposure on the afternoon of my call, as he became ill the following
day. I improved the opportunity to endeavour to impress upon the mind
of the poor girl the sin of which she had been guilty, in telling a
falsehood even in obedience to the commands of her mistress; and I hope
that what I said may be useful to her.

“The want of honesty and promptness in the parents of my pupils often
caused me great inconvenience, and I frequently found it difficult
to meet my rent when it became due. Still I have struggled through my
difficulties without contracting any debts until this winter, but the
sickness which has prevailed in my school has so materially lessened my
income, and my family expenses have, for the same reason, been so much
greater, that I fear it will be quite impossible for me to continue in
my present situation.”

“Do not be discouraged,” said Uncle Joshua; “I will advance whatever sum
you are in immediate need of, and you may repay me when it is convenient
to yourself. I will also take the bills which are due to you from
various persons, and endeavour to collect them. Your present term is, I
suppose, nearly ended. Commence another with this regulation:--That the
price of tuition, or at least one-half of it, shall be paid before the
entrance of the scholar. Some will complain of this rule, but many will
not hesitate to comply with it, and you will find the result beneficial.
And now I would leave you, Fanny, for I have another call to make this
evening. My young friend, William Churchill, is, I hear, quite ill, and
I feel desirous to see him. I will call upon you in a day or two, and
then we will have another talk about your affairs, and see what can be
done for you. So good night, Fanny; go to sleep and dream of your old
friend.”

Closing the door after Uncle Joshua, Mrs. Morrison returned to her room
with a heart filled with thankfulness that so kind a friend had been
sent to her in the hour of need; while the old gentleman walked with
rapid steps through several streets until he stood at the door of a
small, but pleasantly situated house in the suburbs of the city. His
ring at the bell was answered by a pretty, pleasant-looking young
woman, whom he addressed as Mrs. Churchill, and kindly inquired for her
husband.

“William is very feeble to-day, but he will be rejoiced to see you, sir.
His disease is partly owing to anxiety of mind, I think, and when his
spirits are raised by a friendly visit, he feels better.”

Uncle Joshua followed Mrs. Churchill to the small room which now served
the double purpose of parlour and bedroom. They were met at the door
by the invalid, who had recognised the voice of his old friend, and had
made an effort to rise and greet him. His sunken countenance, the hectic
flush which glowed upon his cheek, and the distressing cough, gave
fearful evidence that unless the disease was soon arrested in its
progress, consumption would mark him for its victim.

The friendly visiter was inwardly shocked at his appearance, but wisely
made no allusion to it, and soon engaged him in cheerful conversation.
Gradually he led him to speak openly of his own situation,--of his
health, and of the pecuniary difficulties with which he was struggling.
His story was a common one. A young family were growing up around
him, and an aged mother and invalid sister also depended upon him for
support. The small salary which he obtained as clerk in one of the most
extensive mercantile establishments in the city, was quite insufficient
to meet his necessary expenses. He had, therefore, after being
constantly employed from early morning until a late hour in the evening,
devoted two or three hours of the night to various occupations which
added a trifle to his limited income. Sometimes he procured copying
of various kinds; at others, accounts, which he could take to his own
house, were intrusted to him. This incessant application had gradually
ruined his health, and now for several weeks he had been unable to leave
the house.

“Have you had advice from an experienced physician, William?” inquired
Uncle Joshua. The young man blushed, as he replied, that he was
unwilling to send for a physician, knowing that he had no means to repay
his services.

“I will send my own doctor to see you,” returned his friend. “He can
help you if any one can, and as for his fee I will attend to it, and if
you regain your health I shall be amply repaid.--No, do not thank me,”
 he continued, as Mr. Churchill endeavoured to express his gratitude.
“Your father has done me many a favour, and it would be strange if I
could not extend a hand to help his son when in trouble. And now tell
me, William, is not your salary very small, considering the responsible
situation which you have so long held in the firm of Stevenson & Co.?”

“It is,” was the reply; “but I see no prospect of obtaining more.
I believe I have always given perfect satisfaction to my employer,
although it is difficult to ascertain the estimation in which he holds
me, for he is a man who never praises. He has never found fault with me,
and therefore I suppose him satisfied, and indeed I have some proof of
this in his willingness to wait two or three months in the hope that I
may recover from my present illness before making a permanent engagement
with a new clerk. Notwithstanding this, he has never raised my salary,
and when I ventured to say to him about a year ago, that as his business
had nearly doubled since I had been with him, I felt that it would be
but just that I should derive some benefit from the change, he coolly
replied that my present salary was all that he had ever paid a clerk,
and he considered it a sufficient equivalent for my services. He knows
very well that it is difficult to obtain a good situation, there are so
many who stand ready to fill any vacancy, and therefore he feels quite
safe in refusing to give me, more.”

“And yet,” replied Uncle Joshua, “he is fully aware that the advantage
resulting from your long experience and thorough acquaintance with his
business, increases his income several hundred dollars every year, and
this money he quietly puts into his own pocket, without considering or
caring that a fair proportion of it should in common honesty go into
yours. What a queer world we live in! The poor thief who robs you of
your watch or pocket-book, is punished without delay; but these wealthy
defrauders maintain their respectability and pass for honest men, even
while withholding what they know to be the just due of another.

“But cheer up, William, I have a fine plan for you, if you can but
regain your health. I am looking for a suitable person to take charge of
a large sheep farm, which I propose establishing on the land which I own
in Virginia. You acquired some knowledge of farming in your early
days. How would you like to undertake this business? The climate is
delightful, the employment easy and pleasant; and it shall be my care
that your salary is amply sufficient for the support of your family.”

Mr. Churchill could hardly command his voice sufficiently to express his
thanks, and his wife burst into tears, as she exclaimed,

“If my poor husband had confided his troubles to you before, he would
not have been reduced to this feeble state.”

“He will recover,” said the old gentleman. “I feel sure, that in one
month, he will look like a different man. Rest yourself, now, William,
and to-morrow I will see you again.”

And, followed by the blessings and thanks of the young couple, Uncle
Joshua departed.

“Past ten o'clock,” he said to himself, as he paused near a lamp-post
and looked at his watch. “I must go to my own room.”

As he said this he was startled by a deep sigh from some one near,
and on looking round, saw a lad, of fourteen or fifteen years of age,
leaning against the post, and looking earnestly at him.

Uncle Joshua recognised the son of a poor widow, whom he had
occasionally befriended, and said, kindly,

“Well, John, are you on your way home from the store? This is rather a
late hour for a boy like you.”

“Yes, sir, it is late. I cannot bear to return home to my poor mother,
for I have bad news for her to-night. Mr. Mackenzie does not wish to
employ me any more. My year is up to-day.”

“Why, John, how is this? Not long ago your employer told me that he was
perfectly satisfied with you; indeed, he said that he never before had
so trusty and useful a boy.”

“He has always appeared satisfied with me, sir, and I have endeavoured
to serve him faithfully. But he told me to-day that he had engaged
another boy.”

Uncle Joshua mused for a moment, and then asked,

“What was he to give you for the first year, John?”

“Nothing, sir. He told my mother that my services would be worth nothing
the first year, but the second he would pay me fifty dollars, and so
increase my salary as I grew older. My poor mother has worked very hard
to support me this year, and I had hoped that I would be able to help
her soon. But it is all over now, and I suppose I must take a boy's
place again, and work another year for nothing.”

“And then be turned off again. Another set of pickpockets,” muttered his
indignant auditor.

“Pickpockets!” exclaimed the lad. “Did any one take your watch just now,
sir? I saw a man look at it as you took it out. Perhaps we can overtake
him. I think he turned into the next street.”

“No, no, my boy. My watch is safe enough. I am not thinking of street
pickpockets, but of another class whom you will find out as you grow
older. But never mind losing your place, John. My nephew is in want of
a boy who has had some experience in your business, and will pay him a
fair salary--more than Mr. Mackenzie agreed to give you for the second
year. I will mention you to him, and you may call at his store to-morrow
at eleven o'clock, and we will see if you will answer his purpose.”

“Thank you, Sir, I am sure I thank you; and mother will bless you for
your kindness,” replied the boy, his countenance glowing with animation;
and with a grateful “good night,” he darted off in the direction of his
own home.

“There goes a grateful heart,” thought Uncle Joshua, as he gazed after
the boy until he turned the corner of the street and disappeared. “He
has lost his situation merely because another can be found who will do
the work for nothing for a year, in the vain hope of future recompense.
I wish Mary could have been with me this evening; I think she would have
acknowledged that there are many respectable pickpockets who deserve to
accompany poor Thomas to Blackwell's Island;” and thus soliloquizing,
Uncle Joshua reached the door of his boarding-house, and sought repose
in his own room.




KIND WORDS.



WE have more than once, in our rapidly written reflections, urged the
policy and propriety of kindness, courtesy, and good-will between man
and man. It is so easy for an individual to manifest amenity of spirit,
to avoid harshness, and thus to cheer and gladden the paths of all over
whom he may have influence or control, that it is really surprising
to find any one pursuing the very opposite course. Strange as it may
appear, there are among the children of men, hundreds who seem to take
delight in making others unhappy. They rejoice at an opportunity of
being the messengers of evil tidings. They are jealous or malignant; and
in either case they exult in inflicting a wound. The ancients, in most
nations, had a peculiar dislike to croakers, prophets of evil, and the
bearers of evil tidings. It is recorded that the messenger from the
banks of the Tigris, who first announced the defeat of the Roman army
by the Persians, and the death of the Emperor Julian, in a Roman city of
Asia Minor, was instantly buried under a heap of stones thrown upon
him by an indignant populace. And yet this messenger was innocent, and
reluctantly discharged a painful duty. But how different the spirit
and the motive of volunteers in such cases--those who exult in an
opportunity of communicating bad news, and in some degree revel over
the very agony which it produces. The sensitive, the generous, the
honourable, would ever be spared from such painful missions. A case of
more recent occurrence may be referred to as in point. We allude to the
murder of Mr. Roberts, a farmer of New Jersey, who was robbed and
shot in his own wagon, near Camden. It became necessary that the sad
intelligence should be broken to his wife and family with as much
delicacy as possible. A neighbour was selected for the task, and at
first consented. But, on consideration, his heart failed him. He could
not, he said, communicate the details of a tragedy so appalling and he
begged to be excused. Another, formed it was thought of sterner stuff,
was then fixed upon: but he too, rough and bluff as he was in his
ordinary manners, possessed the heart of a generous and sympathetic
human being, and also respectfully declined. A third made a like
objection, and at last a female friend of the family was with much
difficulty persuaded, in company with another, to undertake the mournful
task. And yet, we repeat, there are in society, individuals who delight
in contributing to the misery of others--who are eager to circulate a
slander, to chronicle a ruin, to revive a forgotten error, to wound,
sting, and annoy, whenever they may do so with impunity. How much better
the gentle, the generous, the magnanimous policy! Why not do everything
that may be done for the happiness of our fellow creatures, without
seeking out their weak points, irritating their half-healed wounds,
jarring their sensibilities, or embittering their thoughts! The magic of
kind words and a kind manner can scarcely be over-estimated. Our fellow
creatures are more sensitive than is generally imagined. We have known
cases in which a gentle courtesy has been remembered with pleasure for
years. Who indeed cannot look back into “bygone time,” and discover some
smile, some look or other demonstration of regard or esteem, calculated
to bless and brighten every hour of after existence! “Kind words,” says
an eminent writer, “do not cost much. It does not take long to utter
them. They never blister the tongue or lips on their passage into the
world, or occasion any other kind of bodily suffering; and we have never
heard of any mental trouble arising from this quarter. Though they do
not cost much, yet they accomplish much. 1. They help one's own good
nature and good will. One cannot be in a habit of this kind, without
thereby pecking away something of the granite roughness of his own
nature. Soft words will soften his own soul. Philosophers tell us that
the angry words a man uses in his passion are fuel to the flame of his
wrath, and make it blaze the more fiercely. Why, then, should not
words of the opposite character produce opposite results, and that most
blessed of all passions of the soul, kindness, be augmented by
kind words? People that are for ever speaking kindly, are for ever
disinclining themselves to ill-temper. 2. Kind words make other people
good-natured. Cold words freeze people, and hot words scorch them, and
sarcastic words irritate them, and bitter words make them bitter, and
wrathful words make them wrathful. And kind words also produce their
own image on men's souls; and a beautiful image it is. They soothe, and
quiet, and comfort the hearer. They shame him out of his sour, morose,
unkind feelings; and he has to become kind himself. There is such a rush
of all other kinds of words in our days, that it seems desirable to give
kind words a chance among them. There are vain words, idle words, hasty
words, spiteful words, silly words, and empty words. Now kind words
are better than the whole of them; and it is a pity that, among the
improvements of the present age, birds of this feather might not have
more of a chance than they have had to spread their wings.”

It is indeed! Kind words should be brought into more general use. Those
in authority should employ them more frequently, when addressing
the less fortunate among mankind. Employers should use them in their
intercourse with their workmen. Parents should utter them on every
occasion to their children. The rich should never forget an opportunity
of speaking kindly to the poor. Neighbours and friends should emulate
each other in the employment of mild, gentle, frank, and kindly
language. But this cannot be done unless each endeavours to control
himself. Our passions and our prejudices must be kept in check. If we
find that we have a neighbour on the other side of the way, who has been
more fortunate in a worldly sense than we have been, and if we discover
a little jealousy or envy creeping into our opinions and feelings
concerning said neighbour--let us be careful, endeavour to put a
rein upon our tongues, and to avoid the indulgence of malevolence or
ill-will. If we, on the other hand, have been fortunate, have enough and
to spare, and there happens to be in our circle some who are dependent
upon us, some who look up to us with love and respect--let us be
generous, courteous, and kind--and thus we shall not only discharge a
duty, but prove a source of happiness to others.




NEIGHBOURS' QUARRELS.



MOST people think there are cares enough in the world, and yet many are
very industrious to increase them:--One of the readiest ways of doing
this is to quarrel with a neighbour. A bad bargain may vex a man for a
week, and a bad debt may trouble him for a month; but a quarrel with his
neighbours will keep him in hot water all the year round.

Aaron Hands delights in fowls, and his cocks and hens are always
scratching up the flowerbeds of his neighbour William Wilkes, whose
mischievous tom-cat every now and then runs off with a chicken. The
consequence is, that William Wilkins is one half the day occupied in
driving away the fowls, and threatening to screw their long ugly necks
off; while Aaron Hands, in his periodical outbreaks, invariably vows to
skin his neighbour's cat, as sure as he can lay hold of him.

Neighbours! Neighbours! Why can you not be at peace? Not all the fowls
you can rear, and the flowers you can grow, will make amends for a
life of anger, hatred, malice, and uncharitableness. Come to some
kind-hearted understanding one with another, and dwell in peace.

Upton, the refiner, has a smoky chimney, that sets him and all the
neighbourhood by the ears. The people around abuse him without mercy,
complaining that they are poisoned, and declaring that they will indict
him at the sessions. Upton fiercely sets them at defiance, on the ground
that his premises were built before theirs, that his chimney did not
come to them, but that they came to his chimney.

Neighbours! Neighbours! practise a little more forbearance. Had half a
dozen of you waited on the refiner in a kindly spirit, he would years
ago have so altered his chimney, that it would not have annoyed you.

Mrs. Tibbets is thoughtless--if it were not so she would never have had
her large dusty carpet beaten, when her neighbour, who had a wash,
was having her wet clothes hung out to dry. Mrs. Williams is hasty and
passionate, or she would never have taken it for granted that the carpet
was beaten on purpose to spite her, and give her trouble. As it is, Mrs.
Tibbets and Mrs. Williams hate one another with a perfect hatred.

Neighbours! Neighbours! bear with one another. We are none of us angels,
and should not, therefore, expect those about us to be free from faults.

They who attempt to out-wrangle a quarrelsome neighbour, go the wrong
way to work. A kind word, and still more a kind deed, will be more
likely to be successful. Two children wanted to pass by a savage dog:
the one took a stick in his hand and pointed it at him, but this only
made the enraged creature more furious than before. The other child
adopted a different plan; for by giving the dog a piece of his bread and
butter, he was allowed to pass, the subdued animal wagging his tail in
quietude. If you happen to have a quarrelsome neighbour, conquer him by
civility and kindness; try the bread and butter system, and keep your
stick out of sight. That is an excellent Christian admonition, “A soft
answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger.”

Neighbours' quarrels are a mutual reproach, and yet a stick or a straw
is sufficient to promote them. One man is rich, and another poor; one
is a churchman, another a dissenter; one is a conservative, another a
liberal; one hates another because he is of the same trade, and another
is bitter with his neighbour because he is a Jew or a Roman Catholic.

Neighbours! Neighbours! live in love, and then while you make others
happy, you will be happier yourselves.

  “That happy man is surely blest,
  Who of the worst things makes the best;
  Whilst he must be of temper curst,
  Who of the best things makes the worst.”

“Be ye all of one mind,” says the Apostle, “having compassion one of
another; love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous; not rendering evil
for evil, or railing for railing, but contrariwise blessing. “To a rich
man I would say, bear with and try to serve those who are below you; and
to a poor one--

  “Fear God, love peace, and mind your labour;
  And never, never quarrel with your neighbour.”




GOOD WE MIGHT DO.



     WE all might do good
       Where we often do ill;
     There is always the way,
       If we have but the will;
     Though it be but a word
       Kindly breathed or supprest,
     It may guard off some pain,
       Or give peace to some breast.

     We all might do good
       In a thousand small ways--
     In forbearing to flatter,
       Yet yielding _due_ praise--
     In spurning ill humour,
       Reproving wrong done,
     And treating but kindly
       Each heart we have won.

     We all might do good,
       Whether lowly or great,
     For the deed is not gauged
       By the purse or estate;
     If it be but a cup
       Of cold water that's given,
     Like “the widow's two mites,”
        It is something for Heaven.




THE TOWN LOT.



ONCE upon a time it happened that the men who governed the municipal
affairs of a certain growing town in the West, resolved, in grave
deliberation assembled, to purchase a five-acre lot at the north end
of the city--recently incorporated--and have it improved for a park or
public square. Now, it also happened, that all the saleable ground lying
north of the city was owned by a man named Smith--a shrewd, wide-awake
individual, whose motto was “Every man for himself,” with an occasional
addition about a certain gentleman in black taking “the hindmost.”

Smith, it may be mentioned, was secretly at the bottom of this scheme
for a public square, and had himself suggested the matter to an
influential member of the council; not that he was moved by what is
denominated public spirit--no; the spring of action in the case was
merely “private spirit,” or a regard for his own good. If the council
decided upon a public square, he was the man from whom the ground
would have to be bought; and he was the man who could get his own price
therefor.

As we have said, the park was decided upon, and a committee of two
appointed whose business it was to see Smith, and arrange with him for
the purchase of a suitable lot of ground. In due form the committee
called upon the landholder, who was fully prepared for the interview.

“You are the owner of those lots at the north end?” said the spokesman
of the committee.

“I am,” replied Smith, with becoming gravity.

“Will you sell a portion of ground, say five acres, to the city?”

“For what purpose?” Smith knew very well for what purpose the land was
wanted.

“We have decided to set apart about five acres of ground, and improve it
as a kind of park, or public promenade.”

“Have you, indeed? Well, I like that,” said Smith, with animation. “It
shows the right kind of public spirit.”

“We have, moreover, decided that the best location will be at the north
end of the town.”

“Decidedly my own opinion,” returned Smith.

“Will you sell us the required acres?” asked one of the councilmen.

“That will depend somewhat upon where you wish to locate the park.”

The particular location was named.

“The very spot,” replied Smith, promptly, “upon which I have decided to
erect four rows of dwellings.”

“But it is too far out for that,” was naturally objected.

“O, no; not a rod. The city is rapidly growing in that direction. I have
only to put up the dwellings referred to, and dozens will, be anxious to
purchase lots, and build all around them. Won't the ground to the left
of that you speak of answer as well?”

But the committee replied in the negative. The lot they had mentioned
was the one decided upon as most suited for the purpose, and they were
not prepared to think of any other location.

All this Smith understood very well. He was not only willing, but
anxious for the city to purchase the lot they were negotiating for. All
he wanted was to get a good round price for the same--say four or five
times the real value. So he feigned indifference, and threw difficulties
in the way.

A few years previous to this time, Smith had purchased a considerable
tract of land at the north of the then flourishing village, at fifty
dollars an acre. Its present value was about three hundred dollars an
acre. After a good deal of talk on both sides, Smith finally agreed to
sell the particular lot pitched upon. The next thing was to arrange as
to price.

“At what do you hold this ground per acre?”

It was some time before Smith answered this question. His eyes were cast
upon the floor, and earnestly did he enter into debate with himself as
to the value he should place upon the lot. At first he thought of five
hundred dollars per acre. But his cupidity soon caused him to advance
on that sum, although, a month before, he would have caught at such
an offer. Then he advanced to six, to seven, and to eight hundred. And
still he felt undecided.

“I can get my own price,” said he to himself. “The city has to pay, and
I might just as well get a large sum as a small one.”

“For what price will you sell?” The question was repeated.

“I must have a good price.”

“We are willing to pay what is fair and right.”

“Of course. No doubt you have fixed a limit to which you will go.”

“Not exactly that,” said one of the gentlemen.

“Are you prepared to make an offer?”

“We are prepared to hear your price, and to make a report thereon,” was
replied.

“That's a very valuable lot of ground,” said Smith.

“Name your price,” returned one of the committeemen, a little
impatiently.

Thus brought up to the point, Smith, after thinking hurriedly for a few
moments, said--

“One thousand dollars an acre.”

Both the men shook their heads in a very positive way. Smith said that
it was the lowest he would take; and so the conference ended.

At the next meeting of the city councils, a report on the town lot
was made, and the extraordinary demand of Smith canvassed. It was
unanimously decided not to make the proposed purchase.

When this decision reached the landholder, he was considerably
disappointed. He wanted money badly, and would have “jumped at” two
thousand dollars for the five acre lot, if satisfied that it would bring
no more. But when the city came forward as a purchaser, his cupidity
was subjected to a very strong temptation. He believed that he could get
five thousand dollars as easily as two; and quieted his conscience by
the salvo--“An article is always worth what it will bring.”

A week or two went by, and Smith was about calling upon one of the
members of the council, to say that, if the city really wanted the lot
he would sell at their price, leaving it with the council to act justly
and generously, when a friend said to him,

“I hear that the council had the subject of a public square under
consideration again this morning.”

“Indeed!” Smith was visibly excited, though he tried to appear calm.

“Yes; and I also hear that they have decided to pay the extravagant
price you asked for a lot of ground at the north end of the city.”

“A thousand dollars an acre?”

“Yes.”

“Its real value, and not cent more,” said Smith.

“People differ about that. How ever, you are lucky,” the friend replied.
“The city is able to pay.”

“So I think. And I mean they shall pay.”

Before the committee, to whom the matter was given in charge, had time
to call upon Smith, and close with him for the lot, that gentleman had
concluded in his own mind that it would be just as easy to get twelve
hundred dollars an acre as a thousand. It was plain that the council
were bent upon having the ground, and would pay a round sum for it.
It was just the spot for a public square; and the city must become the
owner. So, when he was called upon, by the gentlemen, and they said to
him,

“We are authorized to pay you your price,” he promptly answered, “The
offer is no longer open. You declined it when it was made. My price for
that property is now twelve hundred dollars an acre.”

The men offered remonstrance; but it was of no avail. Smith believed
that he could get six thousand dollars for the ground as easily as five
thousand. The city must have the lot, and would pay almost any price.

“I hardly think it right, Mr. Smith,” said one of his visiters, “for you
to take such an advantage. This square is for the public good.”

“Let the public pay, then,” was the unhesitating answer. “The public is
able enough.”

“The location of this park, at the north end of the city, will greatly
improve the value of your other property.”

This Smith understood very well. But he replied,

“I am not so sure of that. I have some very strong doubts on the
subject. It's my opinion, that the buildings I contemplated erecting
will be far more to my advantage. Be that as it may, however, I am
decided in selling for nothing less than six thousand dollars.”

“We are only authorized to pay five thousand,” replied the committee.
“If you agree to take that sum, will close the bargain on the spot.”

Five thousand dollars was a large sum of money, and Smith felt strongly
tempted to close in with the liberal offer. But six thousand loomed up
before his imagination still more temptingly.

“I can get it,” said he to himself; “and the property is worth what it
will bring.”

So he positively declined to sell it at a thousand dollars per acre.

“At twelve hundred you will sell?” remarked one of the committee, as
they were about retiring.

“Yes. I will take twelve hundred the acre. That is the lowest rate, and
I am not anxious even at that price. I can do quite as well by keeping
it in my own possession. But, as you seem so bent on having it, I will
not stand in your way. When will the council meet again?”

“Not until next week.”

“Very well. If they then accept my offer, all will be right. But,
understand me; if they do not accept, the offer no longer remains open.
It is a matter of no moment to me which way the thing goes.”

It was a matter of moment to Smith, for all this assertion--a matter of
very great moment. He had several thousand dollars to pay in the
course of the next few months on land purchases, and no way to meet
the payments, except by mortgages, or sales of property; and, it may
naturally be concluded, that he suffered considerable uneasiness during
the time which passed until the next meeting of the council.

Of course, the grasping disposition shown by Smith, became the town
talk; and people said a good many hard things of him. Little, however,
did he care, so that he secured six thousand dollars for a lot not worth
more than two thousand.

Among other residents and property holders in the town, was a
simple-minded, true-hearted, honest man, named Jones. His father had
left him a large farm, a goodly portion of which, in process of time,
came to be included in the limits of the new city; and he found a much
more profitable employment in selling building lots than in tilling the
soil. The property of Mr. Jones lay at the west side of the town.

Now, when Mr. Jones heard of the exorbitant demand made by Smith for a
five acre lot, his honest heart throbbed with a feeling of indignation.

“I couldn't have believed it of him,” said he. “Six thousand dollars!
Preposterous! Why, I would give the city a lot of twice the size, and do
it with pleasure.”

“You would?” said a member of the council, who happened to hear this
remark.

“Certainly I would.”

“You are really in earnest?”

“Undoubtedly. Go and select a public square from any of my
unappropriated land on the west side of the city, and I will pass you
the title as a free gift to-morrow, and feel pleasure in doing so.”

“That is public spirit,” said the councilman.

“Call it what you will. I am pleased in making the offer.”

Now, let it not be supposed that Mr. Jones was shrewdly calculating the
advantage which would result to him from having a park at the west side
of the city. No such thought had yet entered his mind. He spoke from the
impulse of a generous feeling.

Time passed on, and the session day of the council came round--a day to
which Smith had looked forward with no ordinary feelings of interest,
that were touched at times by the coldness of doubt, and the agitation
of uncertainty. Several times he had more than half repented of his
refusal to accept the liberal offer of five thousand dollars, and of
having fixed so positively upon six thousand as the “lowest figure.”

The morning of the day passed, and Smith began to grow uneasy. He did
not venture to seek for information as to the doings of the council,
for that would be to expose the anxiety he felt in the result of their
deliberations. Slowly the afternoon wore away, and it so happened that
Smith did not meet any one of the councilmen; nor did he even know
whether the council was still in session or not. As to making allusion
to the subject of his anxious interest to any one, that was carefully
avoided; for he knew that his exorbitant demand was the town talk--and
he wished to affect the most perfect indifference on the subject.

The day closed, and not a whisper about the town lot had come to the
ears of Mr. Smith. What could it mean? Had his offer to sell at six
thousand been rejected? The very thought caused his heart to grow heavy
in his bosom. Six, seven, eight o'clock came, and still it was all dark
with Mr. Smith. He could bear the suspense no longer, and so determined
to call upon his neighbour Wilson, who was a member of the council, and
learn from him what had been done.

So he called on Mr. Wilson.

“Ah, friend Smith,” said the latter; “how are you this evening?”

“Well, I thank you,” returned Smith, feeling a certain oppression of the
chest. “How are you?”

“Oh, very well.”

Here there was a pause. After which Smith said, “About that ground of
mine. What did you do?”

“Nothing,” replied Wilson, coldly.

“Nothing, did you say?” Smith's voice was a little husky.

“No. You declined our offer; or, rather, the high price fixed by
yourself upon the land.”

“You refused to buy it at five thousand, when it was offered,” said
Smith.

“I know we did, because your demand was exorbitant.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” returned Smith quickly.

“In that we only differ,” said Wilson. “However, the council has decided
not to pay you the price you ask.”

“Unanimously?”

“There was not a dissenting voice.”

Smith began to feel more and more uncomfortable.

“I might take something less,” he ventured to say, in a low, hesitating
voice.

“It is too late now,” was Mr. Wilson's prompt reply.

“Too late! How so?”

“We have procured a lot.”

“Mr. Wilson!” Poor Smith started to his feet in chagrin and
astonishment.

“Yes; we have taken one of Jones's lots on the west side of the city. A
beautiful ten acre lot.”

“You have!” Smith was actually pale.

“We have; and the title deeds are now being made out.”

It was some time before Smith had sufficiently recovered from the
stunning effect of this unlooked-for intelligence, to make the inquiry,

“And pray how much did Jones ask for his ten acre lot.”

“He presented it to the city as a gift,” replied the councilman.

“A gift! What folly!”

“No, not folly--but true worldly wisdom; though I believe Jones did not
think of advantage to himself when he generously made the offer. He is
worth twenty thousand dollars more to-day than he was yesterday, in the
simple advanced value of his land for building lots. And I know of no
man in this town whose good fortune affects me with more pleasure.”

Smith stole back to his home with a mountain of disappointment on his
heart. In his cupidity he had entirely overreached himself, and he saw
that the consequences were to react upon all his future prosperity. The
public square at the west end of the town would draw improvements in
that direction, all the while increasing the wealth of Mr. Jones, while
lots at the north end would remain at present prices, or, it might be,
take a downward range.

And so it proved. In ten years, Jones was the richest man in the town,
while half of Smith's property had been sold for taxes. The five acre
lot passed from his hands, under the hammer, in the foreclosure of a
mortgage, for one thousand dollars!

Thus it is that inordinate selfishness and cupidity overreach
themselves; while the liberal man deviseth liberal things, and is
sustained thereby.




THE SUNBEAM AND THE RAINDROP.



   A SUNBEAM and a raindrop met together in the sky
   One afternoon in sunny June, when earth was parched and dry;
   Each quarrelled for the precedence ['twas so the story ran),
   And the golden sunbeam, warmly, the quarrel thus began:--

   “What were the earth without me? I come with beauty bright,
   She smiles to hail my presence, and rejoices in my light;
   I deck the hill and valley with many a lovely hue,
   I give the rose its blushes, and the violet its blue.

   “I steal within the window, and through the cottage door,
   And my presence like a blessing gilds with smiles the broad earth o'er;
   The brooks and streams flow dancing and sparkling in my ray,
   And the merry, happy children in the golden sunshine play.”

   Then the tearful raindrop answered--“Give praise where praise is due,
   The earth indeed were lonely without a smile from you;
   But without my visits, also, its beauty would decay,
   The flowers droop and wither, and the streamlets dry away.

   “I give the flowers their freshness, and you their colours gay,
   My jewels would not sparkle, without your sunny ray.
   Since each upon the other so closely must depend,
   Let us seek the earth together, and our common blessings blend.”

   The raindrops, and the sunbeams, came laughing down to earth,
   And it woke once more to beauty, and to myriad tones of mirth;
   The river and the streamlet went dancing on their way,
   And the raindrops brightly sparkled in the sunbeam's golden ray.

   The drooping flowers looked brighter, there was fragrance in the air,
   The earth seemed new created, there was gladness everywhere;
   And above the dark clouds, gleaming on the clear blue arch of Heaven,
   The Rainbow, in its beauty, like a smile of love was given.

   'Twas a sweet and simple lesson, which the story told, I thought,
   Not alone and single-handed our kindliest deeds are wrought;
   Like the sunbeam and the raindrop, work together, while we may,
   And the bow of Heaven's own promise shall smile upon our way.




A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS.



STRANGE and subtle are the influences which affect the spirit and touch
the heart. Are there bodiless creatures around us, moulding our thoughts
into darkness or brightness, as they will? Whence, otherwise, come the
shadow and the sunshine, for which we can discern no mortal agency?

Oftener, As we grow older, come the shadows; less frequently the
sunshine. Ere I took up my pen, I was sitting with a pleasant company of
friends, listening to music, and speaking, with the rest, light words.

Suddenly, I knew not why, my heart was wrapt away in an atmosphere of
sorrow. A sense of weakness and unworthiness weighed me down, and I felt
the moisture gather to my eyes and my lips tremble, though they kept the
smile.

All my past life rose up before me, and all my short-comings--all, my
mistakes, and all my wilful wickedness, seemed pleading trumpet-tongued
against me.

I saw her before me whose feet trod with mine the green holts and
meadows, when the childish thought strayed not beyond the near or the
possible. I saw her through the long blue distances, clothed in the
white beauty of an angel; but, alas! she drew her golden hair across
her face to veil from her vision the sin-darkened creature whose eyes
dropped heavily to the hem of her robe!

O pure and beautiful one, taken to peace ere the weak temptation had
lifted itself up beyond thy stature, and compelled thee to listen, to
oppose thy weakness to its strength, and to fall--sometimes, at least,
let thy face shine on me from between the clouds. Fresh from the springs
of Paradise, shake from thy wings the dew against my forehead. We two
were coming up together through the sweet land of poesy and dreams,
where the senses believe what the heart hopes; our hands were full of
green boughs, and our laps of cowslips and violets, white and purple.
We were talking of that more beautiful world into which childhood was
opening out, when that spectre met us, feared and dreaded alike by the
strong man and the little child, and one was taken, and the other left.

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, he 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.”

“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 suffered 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 hold, 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.

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.

To those of our readers who feel moved or resolved by the considerations
we have named to attempt to regulate their temper, or to cultivate one
of a higher order of excellence, we would submit a few suggestions which
may assist them in their somewhat difficult undertaking.

See, first of all, that you set as high a value on the comfort of those
with whom you have to do as you do on your own. If you regard your own
comfort _exclusively_, you will not make the allowances which a _proper_
regard to the happiness of others would lead you to do.

Avoid, particularly in your intercourse with those to whom it is of
most consequence that your temper should be gentle and forbearing--avoid
raising into undue importance the little failings which you may perceive
in them, or the trifling disappointments which they may occasion you.
If we make it a subject of vexation, that the beings among whom we tire
destined to live, are not perfect, we must give up all hope of attaining
a temper not easily provoked. A habit of trying everything by the
standard of perfection vitiates the temper more than it improves the
understanding, and disposes the mind to discern faults with an unhappy
penetration. I would not have you shut your eyes to the errors or
follies, or thoughtlessnesses of your friends, but only not to magnify
them or view them microscopically. Regard them in others as you
would have them regard the same things in you, in an exchange of
circumstances.

Do not forget to make due allowances for the original constitution and
the manner of education or bringing up, which has been the lot of
those with whom you have to do. Make such excuses for Others as the
circumstances of their constitution, rearing, and youthful associations,
do fairly demand.

Always put the best construction on the motives of others, when their
conduct admits of more than one way of understanding it. In many cases,
where neglect or ill intention seems evident at first sight, it may
prove true that “second thoughts are best.” Indeed, this common slaying
is never more likely to prove true than in cases in which the _first_
thoughts were the dictates of anger And even when the first thoughts
are confirmed by further evidence, yet the habit of always waiting for
complete evidence before we condemn, must have a calming; and moderating
effect upon the temper, while it will take nothing from the authority of
our just censures.

It will further, be a great help to our efforts, as well as our
desires, for the government of the temper, if we consider frequently and
seriously the natural consequences of hasty resentments, angry replies,
rebukes impatiently given or impatiently received, muttered discontents,
sullen looks, and harsh words. It may safely be asserted that the
consequences of these and other ways in which ill-temper may show
itself, are _entirely_ evil. The feelings, which accompany them in
ourselves, and those which they excite in others, are unprofitable as
well as painful. They lessen our own comfort, and tend often rather
to prevent than to promote the improvement of those with whom we find
fault. If we give even friendly and judicious counsels in a harsh and
pettish tone, we excite against _them_ the repugnance naturally felt to
_our manner_. The consequence is, that the advice is slighted, and the
peevish adviser pitied, despised, or hated.

When we cannot succeed in putting a restraint on our _feelings_ of anger
or dissatisfaction, we can at least check the _expression_ of those
feelings. If our thoughts are not always in our power, our words and
actions and looks may be brought under our command; and a command over
these expressions of our thoughts and feelings will be found no mean
help towards obtaining an increase of power over our thoughts and
feelings themselves. At least, one great good will be effected: time
will be gained; time for reflection; time for charitable allowances and
excuses.

Lastly, seek the help of religion. Consider how you may most certainly
secure the approbation of God. For a good temper, or a well-regulated
temper, _may be_ the constant homage of a truly religious man to that
God, whose love and long-suffering forbearance surpass all human love
and forbearance.




MANLY GENTLENESS.



WHO is the most wretched man living? This question might constitute a
very fair puzzle to those of our readers whose kind hearts have given
them, in their own experience, no clue to the true answer. It is a
species of happiness to be rich; to have at one's command an abundance
of the elegancies and luxuries of life. Then he, perhaps, is the most
miserable of men who is the poorest. It is a species of happiness to be
the possessor of learning, fame, or power; and therefore, perhaps, he is
the most miserable man who is the most ignorant, despised, and helpless.
No; there is a man more wretched than these. We know not where he may be
found; but find him where you will, in a prison or on a throne, steeped
in poverty or surrounded with princely affluence; execrated, as he
deserves to be, or crowned with world-wide applause; that man is the
most miserable whose heart contains the least love for others.

It is a pleasure to be beloved. Who has not felt this? Human affection
is priceless. A fond heart is more valuable than the Indies. But it is
a still greater pleasure to love than to be loved; the emotion itself
is of a higher kind; it calls forth our own powers into more agreeable
exercise, and is independent of the caprice of others. Generally
speaking, if we deserve to be loved, others will love us, but this is
not always the case. The love of others towards us, is not always
in proportion to our real merits; and it would be unjust to make our
highest happiness dependent on it. But our love for others will always
be in proportion to our real goodness; the more amiable, the more
excellent we become, the more shall we love others; it is right,
therefore, that this love should be made capable of bestowing upon
us the largest amount of happiness. This is the arrangement which the
Creator has fixed upon. By virtue of our moral constitution, to love is
to be happy; to hate is to be wretched.

Hatred is a strong word, and the idea it conveys is very repulsive. We
would hope that few of our readers know by experience what it is in its
full extent. To be a very demon, to combine in ourselves the highest
possible degree of wickedness and misery, nothing more is needful than
to hate with sufficient intensity. But though, happily, comparatively
few persons are fully under the influence of this baneful passion, how
many are under it more frequently and powerfully than they ought to be?
How often do we indulge in resentful, revengeful feelings, with all
of which hatred more or less mixes itself? Have we not sometimes
entertained sentiments positively malignant towards those who have
wounded our vanity or injured our interests, secretly wishing them ill,
or not heartily wishing them happiness? If so, we need only consult
our own experience to ascertain that such feelings are both sinful and
foolish; they offend our Maker, and render us wretched.

We know a happy man; one who in the midst of the vexations and crosses
of this changing world, is always happy. Meet him anywhere, and at any
time, his features beam with pleasure. Children run to meet him, and
contend for the honour of touching his hand, or laying hold of the skirt
of his coat, as he passes by, so cheerful and benevolent does he always
look. In his own house he seems to reign absolute, and yet he never uses
any weapon more powerful than a kind word. Everybody who knows him is
aware, that, in point of intelligence, ay, and in physical prowess,
too--for we know few men who can boast a more athletic frame--he is
strong as a lion, yet in his demeanour he is gentle as a lamb. His wife
is not of the most amiable temper, his children are not the most docile,
his business brings him into contact with men of various dispositions;
but he conquers all with the same weapons. What a contrast have we often
thought he presents to some whose physiognomy looks like a piece of
harsh handwriting, in which we can decipher nothing but _self, self,
self_; who seem, both at home and abroad, to be always on the watch
against any infringement of their dignity. Poor men! their dignity
can be of little value if it requires so much care in order to be
maintained. True manliness need take but little pains to procure
respectful recognition. If it is genuine, others will see it, and
respect it. The lion will always be acknowledged as the king of the
beasts; but the ass, though clothed in the lion's skin, may bray loudly
and perseveringly indeed, but he will never keep the forest in awe.

From some experience in the homes of working-men, and other homes too,
we are led to think that much of the harsh and discordant feeling which
too often prevails there may be ascribed to a false conception of what
is truly great. It is a very erroneous impression that despotism is
manly. For our part we believe that despotism is inhuman, satanic, and
that wherever it is found--as much in the bosom of a family, as on
the throne of a kingdom. We cannot bring ourselves to tolerate the
inconsistency with which some men will inveigh against some absolute
sovereign, and straight-way enact the pettiest airs of absolutism in
their little empire at home. We have no private intimacy with “the
autocrat of all the Russias,” and may, with all humility, avow that
we do not desire to have any; but this we believe, that out of the
thousands who call him a tyrant, it would be no difficult matter to pick
scores who are as bad, if not worse. Let us remember that it is not a
great empire which constitutes a great tyrant. Tyranny must be measured
by the strength of those imperious and malignant passions from which it
flows, and carrying this rule along with us, it would not surprise us,
if we found the greatest tyrant in the world in some small cottage, with
none to oppress but a few unoffending children, and a helpless woman.
O! when shall we, be just!--when shall we cease to prate about wrongs
inflicted by others, and magnified by being beheld through the haze of
distance, and seek to redress those which lie at our own doors, and to
redress which we shall only have to prevail upon ourselves to be just
and gentle! Arbitrary power is always associated either with cruelty, or
conscious weakness. True greatness is above the petty arts of tyranny.
Sometimes much domestic suffering may arise from a cause which is easily
confounded with a tyrannical disposition--we refer to an exaggerated
sense of justice. This is the abuse of a right feeling, and requires
to be kept in vigilant check. Nothing is easier than to be one-sided in
judging of the actions of others. How agreeable the task of applying
the line and plummet! How quiet and complete the assumption of our own
superior excellence which we make in doing it! But if the task is in
some respects easy, it is most difficult if we take into account the
necessity of being just in our decisions. In domestic life especially,
in which so much depends on circumstances, and the highest questions
often relate to mere matters of expediency, how easy it is to be
“always finding fault,” if we neglect to take notice of explanatory and
extenuating circumstances! Anybody with a tongue and a most moderate
complement of brains can call a thing stupid, foolish, ill-advised, and
so forth; though it might require a larger amount of wisdom than the
judges possessed to have done the thing better. But what do we want with
captious judges in the bosom of a family? The scales of household polity
are the scales of love, and he who holds them should be a sympathizing
friend; ever ready to make allowance for failures, ingenious in
contriving apologies, more lavish of counsels than rebukes, and less
anxious to overwhelm a person with a sense of deficiency than to awaken
in the bosom, a conscious power of doing better. One thing is certain:
if any member of a family conceives it his duty to sit continually in
the censor's chair, and weigh in the scales of justice all that happens
in the domestic commonwealth, domestic happiness is out of the question.
It is manly to extenuate and forgive, but a crabbed and censorious
spirit is contemptible.

There is much more misery thrown into the cup of life by domestic
unkindness than we might at first suppose. In thinking of the evils
endured by society from malevolent passions of individuals, we are apt
to enumerate only the more dreadful instances of crime: but what are
the few murders which unhappily pollute the soil of this Christian
land--what, we ask, is the suffering they occasion, what their
demoralizing tendency--when compared with the daily effusions of
ill-humour which sadden, may we not fear, many thousand homes? We
believe that an incalculably greater number are hurried to the grave
by habitual unkindness than by sudden violence; the slow poison of
churlishness and neglect, is of all poisons the most destructive. If
this is true, we want a new definition for the most flagrant of all
crimes: a definition which shall leave out the element of time, and call
these actions the same--equally hateful, equally diabolical, equally
censured by the righteous government of Heaven--which proceed from the
same motives, and lead to the same result, whether they be done in a
moment, or spread out through a series of years. Habitual unkindness is
demoralizing as well as cruel. Whenever it fails to break the heart,
it hardens it. To take a familiar illustration: a wife who is never
addressed by her husband in tones of kindness, must cease to love him
if she wishes to be happy. It is her only alternative. Thanks to the
nobility of our nature, she does not always take it. No; for years she
battles with cruelty, and still presses with affection the hand which
smites her, but it is fearfully at her own expense. Such endurance preys
upon her health, and hastens her exit to the asylum of the grave. If
this is to be avoided, she must learn to forget, what woman should never
be tempted to forget, the vows, the self-renunciating devotedness of
impassioned youth; she must learn to oppose indifference, to neglect
and repel him with a heart as cold as his own. But what a tragedy lies
involved in a career like this! We gaze on something infinitely more
terrible than murder; we see our nature abandoned to the mercy of
malignant passions, and the sacred susceptibilities which were intended
to fertilize with the waters of charity the pathway of life, sending
forth streams of bitterest gall. A catalogue of such cases, faithfully
compiled, would eclipse, in turpitude and horror, all the calendars of
crime that have ever sickened the attention of the world.

The obligations of gentleness and kindness are extensive as the claims
to manliness; these three qualities must go together. There are some
cases, however, in which such obligations are of special force. Perhaps
a precept here will be presented most appropriately under the guise of
an example. We have now before our mind's eye a couple, whose marriage
tie was, a few months since, severed by death. The husband was a strong,
hale, robust sort of a man, who probably never knew a day's illness
in the course of his life, and whose sympathy on behalf of weakness or
suffering in others it was exceedingly difficult to evoke; while his
partner was the very reverse, by constitution weak and ailing, but
withal a woman of whom any man might and ought to have been proud. Her
elegant form, her fair transparent skin, the classical contour of her
refined and expressive face, might have led a Canova to have selected
her as a model of feminine beauty. But alas! she was weak; she could not
work like other women; her husband could not _boast_ among his shopmates
how much she contributed to the maintenance of the family, and how
largely she could afford to dispense with the fruit of his labours.
Indeed, with a noble infant in her bosom, and the cares of a household
resting entirely upon her, she required help herself, and at least
she needed, what no wife can dispense with, but she least of
all--_sympathy_, forbearance, and all those tranquilizing virtues which
flow from a heart of kindness. She least of all could bear a harsh
look; to be treated daily with cold, disapproving reserve, a petulant
dissatisfaction could not but be death to her. We will not say it
_was_--enough that she is dead. The lily bent before the storm, and at
last was crushed by it. We ask but one question, in order to point
the moral:--In the circumstances we have delineated, what course
of treatment was most consonant with a manly spirit; that which was
actually pursued, or some other which the reader can suggest?

Yes, to love is to be happy and to make happy, and to love is the very
spirit of true manliness. We speak not of exaggerated passion and false
sentiment; we speak not of those bewildering, indescribable feelings,
which under that name, often monopolize for a time the guidance of the
youthful heart; but we speak of that pure emotion which is benevolence
intensified, and which, when blended with intelligence, can throw the
light of joyousness around the manifold relations of life. Coarseness,
rudeness, tyranny, are so many forms of brute power; so many
manifestations of what it is man's peculiar glory not to be; but
kindness and gentleness can never cease to be MANLY.

     Count not the days that have lightly flown,
       The years that were vainly spent;
     Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own,
     When thy spirit stands before the Throne,
       To account for the talents lent.

     But number the hours redeemed from sin,
       The moments employed for Heaven;--
     Oh few and evil thy days have been,
     Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene,
       For a nobler purpose given.

     Will the shade go back on the dial plate?
       Will thy sun stand still on his way?
     Both hasten on; and thy spirit's fate
     Rests on the point of life's little date:--
       Then live while 'tis called to-day.

     Life's waning hours, like the Sibyl's page,
       As they lessen, in value rise;
     Oh rouse thee and live! nor deem that man's age
     Stands on the length of his pilgrimage,
       But in days that are truly wise.




SILENT INFLUENCE.



“HOW finely she looks!” said Margaret Winne, as a lady swept by them in
the crowd; “I do not see that time wears upon her beauty at all.”

“What, Bell Walters!” exclaimed her companion. “Are you one of those who
think her such a beauty?”

“I think her a very fine-looking woman, certainly,” returned Mrs. Winne;
“and, what is more, I think her a very fine woman.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Hall; “I thought you were no friends?”

“No,” replied the first speaker; “but that does not make us enemies.”

“But I tell you she positively dislikes you, Margaret,” said Mrs. Hall.
“It is only a few days since I knew of her saying that you were a bold,
impudent woman, and she did not like you at all.”

“That is bad,” said Margaret, with a smile; “for I must confess that I
like her.”

“Well,” said her companion, “I am sure I could never like any one who
made such unkind speeches about me.”

“I presume she said no more than she thought,” said Margaret, quietly.

“Well, so much the worse!” exclaimed Mrs. Hall, in surprise. “I hope you
do not think that excuses the matter at all?”

“Certainly, I do. I presume she has some reason for thinking as she
does; and, if so, it was very natural she should express her opinion.”

“Well, you are very cool and candid about it, I must say. What reason
have you given her, pray, for thinking you were bold and impudent?”

“None, that I am aware of,” replied Mrs. Winne, “but I presume she
thinks I have. I always claim her acquaintance, when we meet, and I have
no doubt she would much rather I would let it drop.”

“Why don't you, then? I never knew her, and never had any desire for
her acquaintance. She was no better than you when you were girls, and I
don't think her present good fortune need make her so very scornful.”

“I do not think she exhibits any more haughtiness than most people would
under the same circumstances. Some would have dropped the acquaintance
at once, without waiting for me to do it. Her social position is higher
than mine, and it annoys her to have me meet her as an equal, just I
used to do.”

“You do it to annoy her, then?”

“Not by any means. I would much rather she would feel, as I do, that
the difference between us is merely conventional, and might bear to be
forgotten on the few occasions when accident throws us together. But she
does not, and I presume it 

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