Earlier text: *NOTE TO THE READER.*Mr. Taggard frowned as he observed the pile of bills by his plate, placed there by his prudent, economical wife, not without an anxious flutter at the heart, in anticipation of the scene that invariably followed. He actually groaned as he read the sum total. “There must be some mistake, Mary,” he said, pushing back his plate, with a desperate air; “it is absolutely impossible for us to have used all these things in one month!” “The bills are correct, John,” was the meek response; “I looked them over myself.” “Then one thing is certain, provisions are either wasted, thrown out of the window, as it were, or stolen. Jane has relatives in the place, and I haven’t the least doubt but that she supports them out of what she steals.” “Mrs. Taggard’s temper was evidently rising; there were two round crimson spots upon her cheeks, and she tapped her foot nervously upon the floor. “I am neither wasteful, nor extravagant, John. And as for Jane, I know her to be perfectly honest and trustworthy.” “It is evident that there is a leak somewhere, Mary; and it is your duty, as a wife, to find out where it is, and stop it. Our bills are perfectly enormous; and if this sort of thing goes on much longer, I shall be a bankrupt.” Mrs. Taggard remained silent, trying to choke down the indignant feelings that struggled for utterance. “You will have to order some coal,” she said, at last; “we have hardly sufficient for the day.” “Is there anything more, Mrs. Taggard?” inquired her husband, ironically. “Yes; neither myself nor the children are decently or comfortably clothed; all need an entire new outfit.” “Go on, madam. As I am a man of unlimited means, if you have any other wants, I hope you won’t be at all backward about mentioning them.” “I don’t intend to be,” was the quiet, but spirited reply. “I wouldn’t do for another what I do for you, for double my board and35 clothing. Both the parlor and sitting-room need re-furnishing; everything looks so faded and shabby, that I am ashamed to have any one call. And the stairs need re-carpeting, the blinds and gate to be repaired, and the fence needs painting.” “That can’t be all, Mrs. Taggard. Are you sure that there isn’t something else?” “I don’t think of anything else just now, Mr. Taggard; though if there should be a few dollars over and above what these will cost, they won’t come amiss. I should like to have a little change in my pocket, if only for the novelty of the thing. You needn’t fear its being wasted.” Mr. Taggard was evidently not a little astonished at this sudden outbreak in his usually quiet and patient wife, but who, like most women of that stamp, had considerable spirit when it was aroused. “Now that you are through, Mrs. Taggard, perhaps you will let me say a word. Here is all the money I can spare you this month; so you can make the most of it.” Laying a roll of bills on the table, Mr. Taggard walked to the door; remarking, just before he closed it, that he should leave36 town on the next train, to be absent about a week. The revery into which Mrs. Taggard fell, as she listened to the sound of his retreating steps, was far from being a pleasant one. Aside from her natural vexation, she felt grieved and saddened by the change that had come over her once kind, indulgent husband. His mind seemed to be entirely filled with the greed of gain, the desire to amass money—not for the sake of the good that it might enable him to enjoy, or confer, but for the mere pleasure of hoarding it. And this miserly feeling grew upon him daily, until he seemed to grudge his family the common comforts of life. And yet Mrs. Taggard knew that he was not only in receipt of a comfortable income from his business, but had laid by a surplus, yearly, ever since their marriage. She taxed her ingenuity to save in every possible way, but when the monthly bills were presented the same scene was enacted, only it grew worse and worse. And this penuriousness extended to himself. He grudged himself, as well as wife and children, clothing suitable to his means and station, and went about looking so rusty37 and shabby that Mrs. Taggard often felt ashamed of him, inwardly wondering if he could be the same man who had wooed and won her. With a heavy sigh Mrs. Taggard took up the roll of bills upon the table, hoping to find enough to pay what was already due—she did not look for more. An ejaculation of astonishment burst from her lips as she unrolled the paper in which it was folded. It contained $500 in bills, and a check for $500 more. With a look of quiet determination in her eyes, Mrs. Taggard arose to her feet. “The family should now have some of the comforts to which they were entitled, if they never did again.” First, she settled every bill; a heavy weight being lifted from her heart as she did so; besides getting a fresh supply of fuel and other comforts. Her next move was to order new furniture for the sitting-room and parlor, have the hall re-carpeted and papered, the broken door step mended, and the fence and blinds repaired and painted. She then took the children out, and got them new garments from hats to shoes. She bought herself three38 new dresses; a neat gingham for morning wear, a delaine for afternoons, and something nicer for best. And before going home she took the children into a toy-shop; delighted the boy with the skates he had so often asked for, and giving the girl the chief wish of her heart, a doll and doll’s wardrobe—not forgetting some blocks for the baby. For like a wise, as well as kind mother, Mrs. Taggard desired to make their childhood a happy one; something to look back upon with pleasure through their whole life. Neither was John forgotten; by the aid of some old garments, for a pattern, she got him an entire new suit, together with stuff for dressing-gown and slippers. The day on which Mrs. Taggard expected her husband’s return was a very busy one; but at last the carpets were down, the paper hung, and everything in the best of order. He was expected on the five o’clock train, and Mrs. Taggard set the children, attired in their pretty new dresses, at the window to watch for papa, while she went below to assist Jane in preparing something extra for supper. She had just returned when Mr. Taggard was seen approaching the house. It looked so different from what it did when he left, that he stared at it in amazement, and would have hesitated about entering, had it not been for the name on the newly burnished door-plate. But he was still more astonished when he entered. “Am I in my own house, or somebody’s else?” he ejaculated, as he looked around the bright and pleasant room. “It is the new furniture I have been buying,” said his wife, smiling. “How do you like it?” “Have you been running me in debt, Mary?” “Not in the least, John, it was all bought with the money you so generously left me when you went away.” Mr. Taggard clapped his hand into one of his pockets. “My goodness!” he exclaimed, in an agitated tone and manner, “I gave it to you out of the wrong pocket!” Mrs. Taggard did not look at all astonished or disturbed at this announcement; on the contrary, her countenance wore a very smiling and tranquil aspect. “You don’t mean to say that you’ve40 spent it?” inquired Mr. Taggard, desperately. “Why, what else should I do with it, John? You told me to make the most of it; and I rather think I have.” “I am a ruined man!” groaned Mr. Taggard. “Not a bit of it, my dear husband,” said his wife, cheerfully; you wouldn’t be ruined if you had given me twice that amount. Besides, I have saved enough for our housekeeping expenses, for three months, at least. I think you had better give me an allowance for that purpose in future; it will save us both much annoyance.” The children, who had been led to consider what their mother had bought them as “presents from papa,” now crowded eagerly around him. Mr. Taggard loved his children, and it would be difficult for any one having the kind and tender heart that he really possessed, to turn away from the innocent smiles and caresses that were lavished upon him. It was a smiling group that gathered round the cheerful supper-table. And as Mr. Taggard glanced from the gleeful children to the smiling face of his wife, who certainly41 looked ten years younger, attired in her new and becoming dress, he came to the conclusion that though it might cost something to make his family comfortable, on the whole, it paid. We do not mean to say that Mr. Taggard was entirely cured; a passion so strong is not so easily eradicated. But when the old miserly feeling came over him, and he began to dole out grudgingly the means with which to make his family comfortable, his wife would pleasantly say: “You are taking it out of the wrong pocket, John!”—words which seemed to have a magical effect upon both heart and purse-strings. “Let us not deprive ourselves of the comforts of life,” she would often say, “nor grudge our children the innocent pleasures natural to youth, for the purpose of laying up for them the wealth that is, too often, a curse rather than a blessing.” FOREVER the sun is pouring his gold
On a hundred worlds that beg and borrow;
His warmth he squanders on summits cold,
His wealth on the homes of want and sorrow.
To withhold his largess of precious light
Is to bury himself in eternal night;
To give
Is to live.
The flower shines not for itself at all;
Its joy is the joy it freely diffuses;
Of beauty and balm it is prodigal.
And it lives in the life it sweetly loses.
No choice for the rose but glory or doom—
To exhale or smother, to wither or bloom.
To deny
Is to die.
The seas lend silvery rain to the land,
The land its sapphire streams to the ocean;
The heart sends blood to the brain of command,
The brain to the heart its lightning motion;
And ever and ever we yield our breath,
Till the mirror is dry, and images death.
To live
Is to give.
He is dead, whose hand is not open wide
To help the need of a human brother;
He doubles the length of his life-long ride,43
Who gives his fortunate place to another;
And a thousand million lives are his,
Who carries the world in his sympathies.
To deny
Is to die.
Throw gold to the far-dispersing wave,
And your ships sail home with tons of treasure
Care not for comfort, all hardships brave,
And evening and age shall sup with pleasure;
Fling health to the sunshine, wind, and rain,
And roses shall come to the cheek again.
To give
Is to live.
What is our life? Is it wealth and strength?
If we, for the Master’s sake, will lose it,
We shall find it a hundred-fold, at length,
While they shall forever lose, who refuse it;
And nations that save their union and peace
At the cost of right, their woes shall increase.
They save
A grave.
When Enoch Wilton died, people said that Daniel Naylor was sure to come into the possession of a handsome property, since Uncle Enoch was known to be rich, and Daniel was his favorite nephew. But when the will came to be read, they changed their minds, for the only clause it contained relating to him read as follows :— “And to Daniel Naylor my beloved nephew, I give and bequeath, the framed copy of the temperance pledge to which under Divine Providence, I owe salvation from a drunkard’s grave as well as all the material prosperity which has gladdened my latter years. And I recommend that he remove it from its frame, and affix his signature beneath mine, satisfied that he will find the pledge an unfailing source of wealth to him, as it has been to me.” Daniel Naylor resented this, as he was a drinking man, and he indignantly stowed away his uncle’s bequest, among the old rubbish in the attic, assuring his wife that as45 his uncle had treated him so shabbily, he should not trouble himself farther about that piece of property anyway; and there, for years, it slumbered utterly forgotten. Meanwhile, Daniel Naylor’s affairs went from bad to worse, for his drinking habits had deepened their hold upon him. One day, about five years subsequent to his uncle’s death, he returned to his now squalid home, to tell his wife that the last cent of his little property had gone, and that “Squire Grip,” the village lawyer, would, the next day, foreclose the mortgage upon their little place, leaving them homeless. “Oh Daniel,” exclaimed the poor woman in a tone of despair, “What shall we do? Where can we go?” “I do not know,” he responded moodily—“to the poorhouse, perhaps.” “Don’t say that, Daniel!” pleaded the wife, “you still have two hands left, and if—” “I cannot get employment,” he interrupted. “I have been to all my employers, and they only shake their heads, and say they are sorry, but the times are so hard they cannot give me work. I shall have to give it up.”46 “But you must not give it up, there must be employment somewhere.” “I am unable to find it.” His wife paused a moment in deep reflection. “If I will tell you how, you can find employment, will you promise to fulfill the conditions necessary to obtain it?” she asked at length, in a very solemn tone. “What are the conditions!” “I would rather know the conditions first.” “The conditions are, that you quit your habits of intoxication, and sign the temperance pledge.” “What!” he cried in astonishment. “Do you intend to say that my having an occasional spree interferes with my obtaining work?” “It certainly does, Daniel,” was the sorrowful reply, “for I have heard at least one of your old employers say as much.” “You recollect the time about three weeks ago, when you were—were—” Drunk. “Yes, when you were drunk. You were at work for him then, and when he came after you, and I told him you could not come, he guessed the truth, and I heard him say to his clerk who accompanied him, as he drove off, ‘Well, this is the second time Dan Naylor has failed me when I needed him most, but I shall be sure he does not do it again.’ And that, my husband, is the source of all our adversity, as I believe you, yourself, will admit when you think the matter over.” It was Daniel Naylor’s turn to reflect now, and for a few moments he did vigorously. “Well, I believe you are right,” he said, at last. But what can I do now? Our home is gone, and I have lost the confidence of my employers, so signing the pledge cannot amount to much.” “Yes, it would amount to a great deal,” his wife replied. It would restore your self-respect, and in a great measure you would be able to regain the confidence you have forfeited.” Here was another period of silence and then looking up he cried:— “Bring me a paper, and I will sign it, and may God give me strength to keep it!” “Why not sign uncle Enoch’s pledge!” his wife inquired. “I saw it lying up in the attic the other day, and if you wish I will bring it.” “Certainly that will save writing another.” The pledge was soon brought, and Daniel Naylor received it from the frame, and placed it upon the table. As he did so, a roll of brown paper fell out of its back, and dropped unnoticed at his feet. His name was speedily appended to the document, and then he turned to replace it in the frame. In doing this his eye fell upon the small parcel of brown paper lying on the floor. Stooping to pick it up, he uttered a sudden cry of astonishment, as he beheld the corner of a bank note protruding, and with fingers trembling with emotion, he undid the package to find seven one thousand dollar notes, and a scrap of paper on which was written:— “Is not the pledge a sure road to wealth?” “God bless good uncle Enoch!” he exclaimed fervently. “I can now take up the mortgage, and as for the pledge I will keep49 that sacred as long as I shall live, for my own sake as well as in gratitude for this timely assistance.” And his wife responded with a fervent “Amen.” As mid the ever rolling sea,
The Eternal Isles established be,
’Gainst which the billows of the main
Fret, rage, and break themselves in vain ;
As in the Heavens, the urns divine
Of golden light forever shine;
Though clouds may darken, storms may rage,
They still shine on from age to age.
So, through the ocean tide of years,
The memory of the just appears ;
So, through the tempest and the gloom,
The good man’s virtues light the tomb.
One dreary morning, while Mary Reed was making her customary visits among the poor, she passed a little shanty close by the roadside, whence issued the sound of a child crying loudly, but apparently from grief rather than physical pain. Mary paused; suddenly the cries ceased for a moment, and a low, broken voice was heard, and then from the child again suppressed sobs. Mary knocked at the door; it was opened by a child of some seven years old. The traces of tears were visible on the child’s damp cheeks and swollen eyes; her long golden curls fell disordered about her shoulders, and her voice trembled so that she could scarcely speak. “What is the matter, dear child?” asked Mary. “Oh, my mother is going to die!” sobbed the child. Mary entered a small bed-room, where lay a woman in the last stages of consumption. On her bed was a German Bible. “He keepeth them in perfect peace who51 put their trust in Him,” said Mary in German, taking, as she spoke, the invalid’s hand. “God has surely sent you here, as you can speak to me in my own tongue, before I die,” said the woman. “Are you dying?” asked Mary. “Yes; only a few days more remain for me on earth.” “Are you afraid to die?” inquired Mary. “No, not afraid. I trust in the Lamb of God; but, oh, my faith is weak! my poor little child, my Henrietta, penniless and friendless; where will she find a home?” Mary soon gathered from the woman that she had come four years before to America. After remaining a year in New York they came to Chicago, where her husband died shortly after. The widow had toiled bravely for herself and only child, but grief and hard labor had thrown her into a consumption, in which she had lingered five months. Her money had been spent, her clothing and furniture pawned, and but for the kindness of a neighbor, a poor Irish washerwoman, she and her child might have starved. Mary, having learned these particulars, took her leave, promising to return in an hour or two,52 and encouraging the little girl to hope for the best. She went to the benevolent washer woman and made some inquiries. The woman was loud in her eulogies of her afflicted neighbors, enlarging on their goodness and poverty, but modestly abstaining from mentioning her charities towards them. “Indeed,” she said, in conclusion, “often, have I thought that I’d change places with the dear creature, sick as she is, for the sake of being such a good, holy woman—so well prepared to die.” Mary was not one of those who, having discovered a case of great necessity, go home and spend a day or two considering what course they had better take for relieving the misery they compassionate, leaving the sufferers meanwhile to suffer or die of despair. Mary decided quickly, and was careful not to overstep what in any case might be the bounds of prudence. She now hastened to the market and procured a basket of provisions and returned to the widow. Her busy hands soon made a fire and prepared some broth ready for the mother, and half-famished child. Mary was a most skillful nurse, and she arranged the sick woman’s bed in so comfortable a way,53 that for the time a visible change for the better appeared. The pain that had racked the poor woman’s worn-out frame was alleviated for a few hours and she lay refreshed and strengthened, in whispered words thanking and blessing Mary. The little room now called for Mary’s attention. She restored it to unwonted order, and placed a little stand by the bed, the sole relic, besides the Bible, of former and happier days, and upon it the Bible, a few flowers in a glass, and the oranges she had brought. It was the middle of the afternoon before Mary departed, having promised to call the next day on her return from the mission school. She continued her visits to her new proteges for several days. The mother grew feebler, and it was evident she had not many days to live. Mary saw that the thoughts of leaving her child alone and friendless in the world, were filling her last hours with grief. She said to her, “Would you be willing to have me find a home for your little Henrietta? Can you trust me to find one, where she will be happy and under good influences?” “Oh, my kind friend,” said the widow, “if you will but promise to do this, I will die in peace.54 I can trust you with all I have—my child.” Mary went to a friend of hers, Mrs. Captain Carroll. “Mrs. Carroll,” she said, “I want you to adopt a little girl.” “Oh, Mary Reed, are you crazy?” cried Mrs. Carroll, lifting up her hands. “Not at all, Mrs. Carroll, but there is a little girl—a widow’s only child; the mother is dying, and I wish to make her last hours happy by finding another mother for her little girl.” “Oh, I can’t think of such a thing, Mary,” said Mrs. Carroll. “Why, madam, who has a better opportunity? You are rich and childless. I have never seen any one better fitted to train up a child for happiness and usefulness than you. I really think it is your duty to take a child to adopt,” said Mary. “Oh, what would the Captain say. I’m sure he would never consent. Then, grandfather and grandmother, you know, I feel just as if they were my own parents, as I have always lived with them, and they wouldn’t fancy the idea at all. Really, Mary you must find some one else.” Mary departed, but in a day or two called again. “Come, Mrs. Carroll,” she said, “I am going to visit a sick friend, a poor person, and I wish you would come with me, and take one of your glasses of currant jelly for her.” Mrs. Carroll, who was very benevolent, at once consented. “Have you found any one to adopt that child yet?” asked Mrs. Carroll. “No; every one has some good excuse,” replied Mary. “Every one?” said Mrs. Carroll. “Every one except one lady, Mrs. Captain Carroll,” answered Mary, smiling. “Oh, you are too bad to say that,” said her friend. Mary walked on silently until her companion resumed, “Well, Mary, what are you thinking about now? You have been in a brown study for ten minutes.” “I was thinking of this, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me.’ If we feed, clothe, love, and shelter one poor child, Christ graciously receives it as done unto Himself.” Before Mrs. Carroll could reply, they entered the German widow’s little dwelling. Mrs. Carroll was so absorbed in thoughts, called up by Mary’s last remark, that she did not56 think of its being the house of the child she desired her to take. After a while she began to notice the extreme beauty of little Henrietta, and the refinement and Christian humility, and patience under suffering, of the mother. She was finally startled by hearing the woman say, “And does the lady you spoke of still refuse to take my little girl?” “Yes, she thinks she cannot,” replied Mary. “And have you found any other place?” she inquired. “None; I have done my best,” replied Mary. “Oh, this is very hard! God help me to bear it. I have only a few days or hours to live, and I had hoped to see my little one provided for. God help thee, poor little Henrietta!” and as she said this, she turned away her face to hide her grief from those about her. Mrs. Carroll could no longer refuse; coming up to the bed, she said, “Take courage; I will help you. I am the lady asked to adopt your child; I cannot refuse it now. I will take her for my own, and love her as my own.” The woman clasped her thin hands, and whispered a prayer before she spoke, “With57 all my heart; I thank you, let the blessings of a dying mother follow you. Oh, you have made me happy indeed! Come here, my Henrietta, see how good God is. He is taking me from you, but He gives you another mother in this good lady. Love her, Henrietta, and obey her, and try all your life to be a blessing to her.” Mrs. Carroll took the child in her arms. The little creature bent over and kissed her mother, and then overcome by her excited feelings, turned away and hid her face on Mrs. Carroll’s shoulder. A few days after, the sick mother died, and Henrietta was taken from the grave to her new mother’s home. Live for something! All created
Nature doth reciprocate
Her kindness. Should the animated
This great law invalidate?
Rather show thy grateful praises
To thy God who reigns above,
In acts that Sorrow’s soul releases—
“Words of kindness”—“deeds of love.”
MR. ROSE, a merchant, now residing in Philadelphia, who formerly lived in rather an extravagant style, was in the habit, every Monday morning, of giving his wife a certain sum of money for table and other household expenses of the week. He never mentioned his business to his wife, and she, deeming him sufficiently capable of attending to his own affairs, never inquired into them. About fifteen years after their marriage, through some slight mismanagement and the rascality of his confidential clerk, Mr. Rose suddenly broke, and his fall was mentioned sympathizingly on ‘Change, and—like all such matters—there sympathy ended. The merchant kept the affair secret, and the first intimation his lady had of it was by a paragraph in a paper. Shortly after dinner was over, on the day of the discovery of the startling facts, Mrs. Rose desired her husband to remain in the parlor a few moments, as she had something to say to him.59 She then left the room and hurried up stairs and shortly afterwards returned with a splendidly bound Bible in her hand. Handing it to her husband, she said:— “George, the day following our marriage you gave me this precious book, as a token of your love, and as a rich fountain to look to in the day of trouble. Its pages have been precious to me, and, as your brow looks sad to-day, I now return it to you, that you may glean from it some consolation in the hour of gloom.” The merchant opened the book carelessly, and a bank bill fell out of it. He picked it up and glanced at its face—it was a $10 bill. He opened it at the first page and continued to find an X between every two leaves till he arrived at the commencement of the Book of Revelation. He was saved—could again commence business, and that, too, with a capital of $9,000. He rang the bell. A servant appeared. “Request your mistress to come to me immediately,” said the merchant. The lady obeyed, entering the room with something between a tear and a smile. “Kate! Kate! where did you procure all this money?” “’Tis the weekly savings of our household expenses for the last fifteen years,” was the modest reply. “Every week I put ten out of twenty dollars which you gave me into our Bible bank, that when a day of trouble came upon us, we should have something to save us from the wolf.” “But why put it in the Bible, Kate?” “Because it is a good bank, and one which will not suddenly break,” replied the lady. “It is a consolation in weal or woe, the friend to which we can always come and find comfort in distress; and it was a fancy of mine to place my savings in this book of richer treasures, and to present it to you, that in looking for spiritual consolation, you might also find the means for your temporal relief.”