"I cannot wait any longer. I must have my money, and if you cannot pay
it I must foreclose the mortgage and sell the place," said Mr. Merton.
"In that case," said Mr. Bishop, "it will of course be sold at a great
sacrifice, and after the struggles I have made, my family will again
be homeless. It is hard. I only wish you had to earn your money as I
do mine; you might then know something of the hard life of a poor man.
If you could only in imagination, put yourself in my place, I think
you would have a little mercy on me."
"It is useless talking; I extended this one year, and I can do so no
longer," replied Mr. Merton, as he turned to his desk and continued
writing.
The poor man rose from his seat, and walked sadly out of Mr. Merton's
office. His last hope was gone. He had just recovered from a long
illness which had swallowed up the means with which he had intended to
make the last payment on his house. True, Mr. Merton had waited one
year when he failed to meet the demand owing to illness in his family,
and he had felt very much obliged to him for so doing. This year he
had been laid up for seven months, during which time he could earn
nothing, and all his savings were then needed for the support of his
family. Again he failed, and now he would again be homeless, and have
to begin the world anew. Had heaven forsaken him, and given him over
to the tender mercies of the wicked?
After he had left the office, Mr. Merton could not drive away from his
thoughts the remarks to which the poor man gave utterance, "I wish you
had to earn your money as I do mine."
In the midst of a row of figures, "Put yourself in my place" intruded.
Once after it had crossed his mind he laid down his pen, saying,
"Well, I think I should find it rather hard. I have a mind to drop in
there this afternoon and see how it fares with his family; that man
has aroused my curiosity."
About five o'clock he put on a gray wig and some old cast-off clothes,
and walked to the door. Mrs. Bishop, a pale, weary-looking woman
opened it. The poor old man requested permission to enter and rest a
while, saying he was very tired with his long journey, for he had
walked many miles that day.
Mrs. Bishop cordially invited him in, and gave him the best seat the
room afforded; she then began to make preparations for tea.
The old gentleman watched her attentively. He saw there was no
elasticity in her steps, no hope in her movements, and pity for her
began to steal into his heart. When her husband entered, her features
relaxed into a smile, and she forced a cheerfulness into her manner.
The traveler noted it all, and he was forced to admire this woman who
could assume a cheerfulness she did not feel, for her husband's sake.
After the table was prepared (there was nothing on it but bread and
butter and tea), they invited the stranger to eat with them, saying,
"We have not much to offer you, but a cup of tea will refresh you
after your long journey."
He accepted their hospitality, and, as they discussed the frugal meal,
led them without seeming to do so, to talk of their affairs.
"I bought this piece of land," said Mr. Bishop, "at a low price, and
instead of waiting, as I ought to have done, until I saved the money
to build, I thought I would borrow a few hundred dollars. The interest
on the money would not be near so much as the rent I was paying, and I
would save something by it. I did not think there would be any
difficulty in paying back the money; but the first year my wife and
one of the children were ill, and the expense left me without means to
pay the debt. Mr. Merton agreed to wait another year if I would pay
the interest, which I did. This year I was for seven months unable to
work at my trade and earn anything, and, of course, when pay-day comes
around--and that will be very soon--I shall be unable to meet the
demand."
"But," said the stranger, "will not Mr. Merton wait another year, if
you make all the circumstances known to him?"
"No, sir," replied Mr. Bishop; "I saw him this morning, and he said he
must have the money and should be obliged to foreclose."
"He must be very hard-hearted," remarked the traveler.
"Not necessarily so," replied Mr. Bishop. "The fact is, these rich men
know nothing of the struggles of the poor. They are men, just like the
rest of mankind, and I am sure if they had but the faintest idea of
what the poor have to pass through, their hearts and purses would
open. You know it has passed into a proverb, 'When a poor man needs
help he should apply to the poor.' The reason is obvious. Only the
poor know the curse of poverty. They know how heavily it falls,
crushing the heart of man, and (to use my favorite expression) they
can at once put themselves in the unfortunate one's place and
appreciate difficulties, and are therefore ready to render assistance
as far as they are able. If Mr. Merton had the least idea what I and
my family had to pass through, I think he would be willing to wait
several years for his money rather than distress us."
With what emotion the stranger listened may be imagined. A new world
was being opened to him. He was passing through an experience that had
never been his before. Shortly after the conclusion of the meal he
arose to take his leave, thanking Mr. and Mrs. Bishop for their kind
hospitality. They invited him to stay all night, telling him he was
welcome to what they had.
He thanked them, and said, "I will trespass on your kindness no
longer. I think I can reach the next village before dark, and be so
much further on my journey."
Mr. Merton did not sleep much that night; he lay awake thinking. He
had received a new revelation. The poor had always been associated in
his mind with stupidity and ignorance, and the first poor family he
had visited he had found far in advance, in intelligent sympathy and
real politeness, of the exquisite and fashionable butterflies of the
day.
The next day a boy called at the cottage, and left a package in a
large blue envelope, addressed to Mr. Bishop.
Mrs. Bishop was very much alarmed when she took it, for large blue
envelopes were associated in her mind with law and lawyers, and she
thought that it boded no good. She put it away until her husband came
home from his work, when she handed it to him.
He opened it in silence, read its contents, and said, fervently,
"Thank Heaven!"
"What is it, John?" inquired his anxious wife.
"Good news, wife," replied John; "such news as I never hoped for or
even dreamed of."
"What is it? What is it? Tell me quickly! I want to hear, if it is
anything good."
"Mr. Merton has canceled the mortgage; released me from the debt, both
interest and principal; and says any time I need further assistance,
if I will let him know, I shall have it."
"I am so glad! It puts new life into me," said the now happy wife.
"But what can have come over Mr. Merton?"
"I do not know. It seems strange after the way he talked to me
yesterday morning. I will go right over to Mr. Merton's, and tell him
how happy he has made us."
He found Mr. Merton in, and expressed his gratitude in glowing terms.
"What could have induced you," he asked, "to show us so much
kindness?"
"I followed your suggestion," replied Mr. Merton, "and put myself in
your place. I expect that it will surprise you very much to learn that
the strange traveler to whom you showed so much kindness yesterday was
I."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Bishop, "can that be true? How did you
disguise yourself so well?"
"I was not so much disguised, after all; but you could not very
readily associate Mr. Merton, the lawyer, with a poor wayfaring man."
"Well, it is a good joke," said Mr. Bishop; "good in more senses than
one. It has terminated very pleasantly for me."
"I was surprised," said Mr. Merton, "at the broad and liberal views
you expressed of men and their actions generally. I supposed I had
greatly the advantage over you in means and education; yet how cramped
and narrow-minded have been my views beside yours! That wife of yours
is an estimable woman, and that boy of yours will be an honor to any
man. I tell you, Bishop," said the lawyer, becoming animated, "you are
rich--rich beyond what money could make; you have treasures that gold
will not buy. I tell you, you owe me no thanks. Somehow I seem to have
lived years since yesterday morning. What I have learned at your house
is worth more than you owe me, and I am your debtor yet. Hereafter I
shall take as my motto, 'Put yourself in his place,' and try to
regulate my actions by it."
We cannot measure the need
Of even the tiniest flower,
Nor check the flow of the golden sands
That run through a single hour.
But the morning dews must fall,
And the sun and summer rain
Must do their part and perform it all,
Over and over again.
The path that has once been trod
Is never so rough to the feet;
And the lesson we once have learned
Is never so hard to repeat.
Though sorrowful tears may fall,
And the heart to its depths be driven
With storm and tempest; we need them all
To render us meet for heaven.