Earlier text: OUTWARD APPEARANCE.JUDGING FROM APPEARANCES.
The cars were waiting at a station of one of our western railroads. The baggage-master was busy with his checks. The men were hurrying to and fro with chests and valises, packages and trunks. Men, women and children were rushing for the cars, hastily securing seats, while the locomotive snorted and puffed. A man, carelessly dressed, was standing on the platform of the depot. He was looking around him, and seemingly paid little attention to what was passing. It was easy to see that he was lame, and at a hasty glance one might have supposed that he was a man neither of wealth nor influence. The conductor gave him a contemptuous look, and slapping him familiarly on the shoulder, called out,— “Halloo, Limpy, better get aboard, or the cars will leave you behind.” “Time enough, I reckon,” replied the individual,117 and he resumed his seemingly listless air. “All aboard!” cried the conductor. “Get on, Limpy!” said he, passing the carelessly dressed man. The lame man made no reply. Just as the train was slowly moving away, the lame man stepped onto the platform of the last car, walked quietly in, and took a seat. The train had gone a few miles when the conductor appeared at the door of the car where our friend was sitting. Passing along, he soon discovered the stranger whom he had seen at the station. “I don’t pay,” replied the lame man quietly. “We’ll see about that; I shall put you off at the next station;” and he seized a valise which was over the head of our friend. “Better not be so rough, young man,” returned the stranger. The conductor released the carpet-bag for a moment, and seeing that he could do no118 more then, passed on to collect the fare from the other passengers. As he stopped at a seat a few paces off, a gentleman who had heard the conversation just mentioned looked up to the conductor, and asked,— “Do you know whom you were speaking to just now?” “That is Peter Warburton, the President of the road.” “Are you sure?” asked the conductor, trying to conceal his agitation. The color rose a little in the young man’s face, but with a strong effort he controlled himself, and went on collecting his fares as usual. Meanwhile, Mr. Warburton sat quietly in his seat; none of those near him could unravel the expression of his face, nor tell what the next movement in the scene would be. And he, what thought he? He had been rudely treated; he had been unkindly taunted with the infirmity which perhaps had come through no fault of his. He could revenge himself if he chose. He could tell the119 directors the simple truth, and the young man would be deprived of his place at once. Should he do it? And yet why should he care? He knew what he was worth. He knew how he had risen to the position he now held. When a little orange pedlar he stood by the street crossings, he had many a rebuff. He had outlived those days of hardship; he was respected now. Should he care for a stranger’s roughness and taunt? Those who sat near him waited curiously for the end. Presently the conductor came back. With a steady energy he walked up to Mr. Warburton’s side; he took his books from his pocket, the bank bills and the tickets he had collected, and laid them in Mr. Warburton’s hand. “I resign my place, sir,” he said. The President looked over the accounts for a moment, then motioning him to a vacant seat, said:— “Sit down, sir; I would like to talk with you.” As the young man sat down, the President turned to him a face in which there was no120 angry feeling, and spoke to him in an undertone:— “My young friend, I have no revengeful feelings to gratify in this matter; but you have been imprudent. Your manner, had it been thus to a stranger, would have been injurious to the company. I might tell the directors of this, but I will not. But in the future, remember to be polite to all you meet. You cannot judge a man by the coat he wears, and even the poorest should be treated with civility. Take up your books, sir. I shall tell no one of what has happened. If you change your course, nothing that has passed shall injure you. Your situation is continued. Good morning, sir.” A LONDON merchant engaged in Mediterranean commerce, had successfully prosecuted his business, and amassed what all merchants desire, an ample fortune. His, indeed, was a princely one. He had purchased a large and beautiful estate in the country, and had built and furnished a splendid mansion in town, on the Surrey-side of the river, and now that he was verging towards sixty, he concluded to retire and enjoy the remnant of his life in peaceful leisure. He negotiated for the sale of his abundance-making business, and sold it for another fortune. He then retired. He was a bachelor. He had his halls, his parlors, dining rooms and drawing rooms, his library and cabinets of curiosities. The floors were covered with the most mosaic specimens of Brussels and Turkey carpetings, the furniture was of the most complete and exquisite selections,122 the walls were adorned with splendid mirrors and with classic paintings, and fine linen decorated all. Carriages, horses, grooms and servants were at his command. Books, pictures and engravings were at hand to interest him. The daily and the weekly papers, and the periodicals, brought to his table all the news of the great world, and his friends and his acquaintances paid him homage. How happy must the man be who has all this! He was not happy. He had no aim, no motive. The zest with which he read the papers when he was a merchant, he had lost now he had ceased to be engaged in commerce. A storm, a fleet, a pestilence along the Mediterranean shores, was full of interest to him before, because he had investments there. Now, they were of no consequence to him. The views and aims of government were watched by him before with searching scrutiny, because his destiny was bound up with theirs. The parliamentary debates were of the greatest consequence before, as indicating British policy; but that to him now ceased to be an object of importance. His123 fortune was achieved, his course was run, his destiny fulfilled. Soon, every thing and place appeared to him one uniform and universal blank. His beautiful apartments were unused, his carriage and horses unemployed, his books unread, his papers unopened, his meals untasted, and his clothes unworn. He had lost all enjoyment of life, and contemplated suicide. Saturday night arrived, and he resolved on Sunday morning early, before the busy populace were stirring, he would make his way to Waterloo bridge and jump into the river, or tumble off. At three o’clock, he set out on his final expedition, and had nearly reached the bridge, the shadows of the night protecting him from observation, when a figure stood before him. Amazed at being seen by any one, he turned out of the path, when the figure crouching low before him, revealed a tattered, miserable man, bearing his head in abjectness. “What are you doing here,” inquired the retired merchant. “I have a wife and family, whom I can’t help from starving, and I am afraid to go and124 see them. Last night I knew they would be turned into the streets,” replied the man. “Take that,” replied the merchant, giving him his purse, with gold and silver in it—thinking to himself, “how much more useful this will be to him, than in my pockets in the water.” “God bless you, sir—God bless you, sir,” exclaimed the man several times, kneeling before the astonished merchant. “Stop,” said the merchant, “do not overwhelm me so with your thanksgivings—but tell me where you live.” “Then why are you here this morning?” said the merchant. “I do not like to tell you,” said the man. “I am ashamed to tell a gentleman like you.” “Why so?” replied the merchant. “Well, sir,” replied the man, “as I had not a single penny, and did not know how to get one, I came here to drown myself, although I knew ’twas wicked!” The merchant was astonished and appalled, and after a long silence, said, “Sir, I am overwhelmed with wealth, and yet I am so miserable that I came here this morning for125 the same purpose as yourself. There’s something more in this than I can understand at present. Let me go with you to see your family.” The man made every excuse to hinder the merchant, but he would go. “Have you lost your character?” said the merchant. “No, sir,” replied the man, “but I am so miserably poor and wretched—and, for anything I know, my wife and children may be turned into the street.” “Why are you out of work and pay?” resumed the merchant. “I used to groom the horses of the stage coaches,” said the man, “but since the railroads are come up the coaches are put down, and many men, like me, have no employment.” They plodded on their way, two miles of brick and mortar piled on either side. At last they came to a third-rate house, when a rough, common-looking woman opened the door and shutter. As soon as she saw the man, she let loose her tongue upon him for all the villainy in the world, but something which passed from his hand to hers hushed her in an instant; and observing the126 merchant, she courtesied to him quite civilly. The man ran up stairs, leaving the merchant and woman together, which gave the former an opportunity to make inquiries. Having satisfied himself that want was the crime of the family, he told the woman who he was, promised to see her paid, and induced her to set on and cook a breakfast for the family, and supply them with any thing which they needed. The man returned, and the merchant went up stairs to see, for the first time, the wretched family in rags, dirt, and misery. He comforted them with hope of better days, and bidding the man take a hasty meal below, took him with him, and helped with his own hands to load a cart with bed, bedding, clothes, furniture and food for the family. The man was gone, and the merchant for the first moment, reflected on all that had passed. He was relieved of his misery by doing something for another, and out of mere selfishness he resolved on doing good to others, to prevent the necessity for drowning himself. He employed the man in his stable, removed the family near, and placed them in a127 cottage, sending the children to school. Soon he sought out misery to relieve, and was led to consider the cause of all misery—sin. He turned to God and found Him—and sought to turn his fellow sinners. He aided every good word and work, and was the humble teller of his own humbling story. He had been a merchantman seeking goodly pearls—and having found the pearl of great price, he went and sold all that he had, and bought it—and the retired earthly merchant became an actively heavenly merchant. BEAR on. Our life is not a dream,
Though often such its mazes seem;
We were not born for lives of ease,
Ourselves alone to aid and please.
To each a daily task is given;
A labor which shall fit for Heaven;
When duty calls, let Love grow warm—
Amid the sunshine and the storm
With Faith life's trials boldly breast,
And come, a conqueror, to thy rest.
Bear on, bear bravely on!
A HERMIT AND HIS PITCHER.
He who bids adieu to the world, and retires into the wilderness, does not for that reason become a saint; for so long as the inclination to evil dwells in the heart, temptation from without is easily found and sin is committed. Experience taught this to the man of whom an old story gives account. This man was by nature prone to sudden bursts of passion, but, instead of seeking the cause of this fault in himself, he cast the blame upon the man who excited him to anger, and he thought,— “If this is so, the world is an injury to me, and it is better that I should leave it, rather than lose my soul.” He withdrew, therefore, into the wilderness, and built himself a hut in the midst of a wood, close by a spring; and the bread that he ate was brought daily to him by a129 boy, who had been directed to place it upon a rock at a distance from the hut. And thus all went well for several days, and he thought that he had become the most mild and even-tempered man in the world. One day, he went, as usual, with his pitcher to the spring, and placed it so that the water might run into it. But as the ground was stony and uneven, the pitcher fell over. He placed it upright again; and more carefully than before; but it was overturned a second time. Then he angrily seized the vessel and dashed it violently upon the ground, so that it broke in pieces. He now remarked that his old anger had broken forth again, and he thought,— “If that is the case, the wilderness can in no way profit me; and it is better that I try to save my soul in the world, by avoiding that which is evil, and practicing that which is good.” And he returned into the world. Observe—there are evil inclinations which may be conquered by avoiding the occasions which call them forth, and there are others which must be vanquished by resistance. But to perform either, we need not fly from the world, but from ourselves only. Ah! Jacob, now you see how all your hopes are gone. Here we are, worn-out with age—all our children removed from us by the hand of death, and ere long we must be the inmates of the poor-house. Where now is all the bread you have cast upon the waters?” The old, white-haired man looked up at his wife. He was, indeed, bent down with years, and age sat tremblingly upon him. Jacob Manfred had been a comparatively wealthy man, and while fortune had smiled upon him he had ever been among the first to lend a listening ear and a helping hand to the call of distress. But now misfortune was his. Of his four boys not one was left. Sickness and failing strength found him with but little, and had left him penniless. An oppressive embargo upon the shipping business had been the first weight upon his head, and other misfortunes came in painful succession. Jacob131 and his wife were all alone, and gaunt poverty looked them coldly in the face. “Don’t repine, Susan,” said the old man. “True we are poor, but we are not yet forsaken.” “Not forsaken, Jacob? Who is there to help us now?” Jacob Manfred raised his trembling finger toward heaven. “Ah! Jacob, I know God is our friend, but we should have friends here. Look back and see how many you have befriended in days long past. You cast your bread upon the waters with a free hand, but it has not returned to you.” “Hush, Susan, you forget what you say. To be sure I may have hoped that some kind of earth would lift me from the cold depths of utter want; but I do not expect it as a reward for anything I may have done. If I have helped the unfortunate in days gone by, I have had my full reward in knowing that I have done my duty to my fellows. Oh! of all the kind deeds I have done to many suffering fellows, I would not for gold have one of them blotted from my memory. Ah! my fond wife, ’tis the memory of the132 good done in life that makes old age happy. Even now, I can hear again the warm thanks of those whom I have befriended, and again ‘I can see their smiles.’ “Yes, Jacob,” returned the wife, in a lower tone, “I know you have been good, and in your memory you can be happy; but, alas! there is a present upon which we must look—there is a reality upon which we must dwell. We must beg for food or starve!” The old man started, and a deep mark of pain was drawn across his features. “Beg!” he replied, with a quick shudder.
“No, Susan, we are—” He hesitated, and a big tear rolled down his furrowed cheek. “We are going to the poor-house!” “O God! I thought so!” fell from the poor wife’s lips, as she covered her face with her hands. “I have thought so, and I have tried to school myself to the thought; but my poor heart will not bear it!” “Do not give up,” softly urged the old man, laying his hand upon her arm. “It makes but little difference to us now. We have not long to remain on earth, and let us133 not wear out our last days in useless repinings. Come, come.” “But when—when—shall we go?” “Then God have mercy on us!” “He will,” murmured Jacob. That old couple sat for awhile in silence. When they were aroused from their painful thoughts it was by the stopping of a wagon in front of the door. A man entered the room where they sat. He was the keeper of the poor-house. “Come, Mr. Manfred,” he said, “the selectmen have managed to crowd you into the poor-house. The wagon is at the door, and you can get ready as soon as possible.” Jacob Manfred had not calculated the strength he should need for this ordeal. There was a coldness in the very tone and manner of the man who had come for him that went like an ice-bolt to his heart, and with a deep groan he sank back in his seat. “Come, be in a hurry,” impatiently urged the keeper. At that moment a heavy covered carriage drove up to the door. “Is this the house of Jacob Manfred?” This question was asked by a man who entered from the carriage. He was a kind-looking man, about forty years of age. “That is my name,” said Jacob. “Then they told me truly,” uttered the new-comer. “Are you from the almshouse?” he continued, turning toward the keeper. “And are you after these people?” “Then you may return. Jacob Manfred goes to no poor-house while I live.” The keeper gazed inquisitively into the face of the stranger, and left the house. “Don’t you remember me?” exclaimed the new-comer, grasping the old man by the hand. “I cannot call you to my memory now.” “Do you remember Lucius Williams?” “Williams?” repeated Jacob, starting up and gazing earnestly into the stranger’s face. “Yes, Jacob Manfred—Lucius Williams, that little boy whom, thirty years ago, you saved from the house of correction; that poor boy whom you kindly took from the bonds of the law, and placed on board one of your own vessels.” “Yes—yes, I am the man you made. You found me a rough stone from the hand of poverty and bad example. It was you who brushed off the evil, and who first led me to the sweet waters of moral life and happiness. I have profited by the lesson you gave me in early youth, and the warm spark which your kindness lighted up in my bosom has grown brighter and brighter ever since. With an affluence for life I have settled down to enjoy the remainder of my days in peace and quietness. I heard of your losses and bereavements. Come, I have a home and a heart, and your presence will make them both warmer, brighter, and happier. Come, my more than father—and you my mother, come. You made my youth all bright, and I will not see your old age doomed to darkness.” Jacob Manfred tottered forward and sank upon the bosom of his preserver. He could not speak his thanks, for they were too heavy for words. When he looked up again he sought his wife. “Susan,” he said, in a choking, trembling tone, “my bread has come back to me!” “No, no, Susan. It is not I who must forgive—God holds us in his hand.” “Ah!” murmured the wife, as she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, “I will never doubt him again.” All my griefs by Him are ordered
Needful is each one for me,
Every tear by Him is counted.
One too much there cannot be;
And if when they fall so thickly,
I can own His way is right,
Then each bitter tear of anguish
Precious is in Jesus’ sight.
Far too well my Saviour loved me
To allow my life to be
One long, calm, unbroken summer,
One unruffled, stormless sea;
He would have me fondly nestling
Closer to his loving breast,
He would have that world seem brighter
Where alone is perfect rest.
Though His wise and loving purpose,
Once I could not clearly see,
I believe with faith unshaken,
All will work for good to me;
Therefore when my way is gloomy,
And my eyes with tears are dim,
I will go to God, my Father,
And will tell my griefs to him.