"Tom," said Mr. Cleveland, "put me in mind in the morning, to send a
load of wood to old Mrs. Peters."
"Yes, sir," said Tom, "an' you better sen' some bacon, 'cause I bin
yerry (hear) little Mas Jack Peter say him ain't bin hab no meat for
eat sence I do' know de day when. I rispec dey drudder hab de meat
sted o' de wood, 'cause dey can pick up wood nuf all about."
"You mind your own business, sir," said Mr. Cleveland, "I'll send
just what I please. How long is it since I came to you for advice?
Confound the fellow!" he muttered aside, "I meant to send the woman
some meat, and now if I do it, that impudent fellow will think I do
it because he advised it. Any how, I'll not send bacon, I'll send
beef or mutton."
Just at this moment, there was a knock at the door, and Tom, going
to open it, admitted Dick, the coachman.
"What do you want, Dick, at this time of night?" inquired his
master.
"Dere's a man down stays, sir," replied Dick, "and he seem to be in
great 'fliction. He says dey is campin' out 'bout half a mile below,
sir, and de trees is fallin' so bad he is 'fraid dey will all be
killed. He ask you if you kin let dem stay in one of de out-houses
tell to-morrow."
"Camping out such a night as this?" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, "the
Lord have pity on them! How many are there of them, Dick?"
"He, an' his wife, and six little children, sir," answered Dick.
"No negroes?" inquired his master.
"Not a nigger, sir," said Dick. "I ain't like poor buckrah, no how,
sir, but I 'spect you best take dese people in, lest dey might die
right in our woods."
Tom, knowing his master's dislike of advice, and fearing that Dick
had taken the surest method to shut them out, now chimed in, and
said, "Massa, ef I bin you, I no would tek dem in none 't all."
"What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland; "you surely must
be taking leave of your senses. Dick, you'll have to give that boy
of yours a thrashing. I'll not stand his insolence much longer.
Don't stand there, grinning at me, sir."
"No, sir," snickered Tom, skulking behind Dick, who was his father.
"Let the man come up here, Dick," said Mr. Cleveland.
When the traveller made his appearance, Mr. Cleveland was startled
at his wan and wo-begone appearance. "Sit down, my man," said he.
"I thank you, sir," replied the stranger, "but I must be back as
soon as possible to my family. Can you grant us a night's lodging,
sir?"
"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Cleveland; "have you any means of
getting your family hither? I am told you have six little ones."
"They must walk, sir," replied the stranger, "for our only horse has
been killed by a falling tree; but I have not a word to say. It
might have been my wife or one of my little ones, and, poor as I am,
I can spare none of them."
Mr. Cleveland, whose feelings were at this time in an usually
softened state, got up, and walked rapidly to the book-case to
conceal his emotion, dashed away a tear, and muttered to himself, as
was his wont, "'Tis confoundedly affecting, that's a fact." Then
turning to the stranger, who was in the act of leaving the room, he
said, "If you will wait a few moments I will have my carriage got;
your wife and little ones must not walk on such a night as this."
"God bless you, sir!" said the stranger, in a trembling voice; "but
I am too uneasy to stay a moment longer."
"Well, go on," said Mr. Cleveland, "and the carriage shall come
after you, and I will go in it myself." The stranger brushed his
hand across his eyes, and left the room without speaking a word;
while Dick and Tom exchanged glances of surprise at their master's
uncommon fit of philanthropy; Tom feeling fully assured that the
"poor buckrahs," as he termed them, owed their good fortune to his
seasonable interference.
The carriage was soon in readiness, and Mr. Cleveland rode in it to
the spot. He found the family all gathered around the dead horse,
and lamenting over it; while the father, having just arrived, was
expatiating upon his kind reception by Mr. Cleveland. It took them
some little time to stow themselves away in the carriage, and Mr.
Cleveland actually carried two sturdy children on his knees. Yes,
there he was, riding through the dreadful storm, in danger every
moment from the trees which were falling all around him, with an
infant in its mother's arms squalling with all its might, and a
heavy boy on each knee, and squeezed almost to death into the
bargain--for there were nine in the carriage--and yet feeling so
happy! ay, far happier than he had felt for many a long day. Truly,
charity brings its own reward.
When they arrived at Mr. Cleveland's house, instead of being stowed
away in an out-building, as the poor man had modestly requested,
they were comfortably provided for beneath his own roof. That night,
as he laid his head upon his pillow, he could not help feeling
surprised at his sudden accession of happiness. "Well, I will go
on," he soliloquized; "I will pursue the path I have this night
taken, and if I always feel as I do now, I am a new man, and will
never again talk about blowing my brains out." He slept that night
the sleep of peace, and rose in the morning with a light heart and
buoyant spirits.
His first care was to take the father of the family aside, and
gather from him the story of his misfortunes. It was a long and
mournful tale, and Mr. Cleveland was obliged, more than once, to
pretend a sudden call out of the room, that he might hide his
emotion. And the tale was by no means told in vain. True to his new
resolutions, Mr. Cleveland thankfully accepted the work which
Providence had given him to do, and the family of emigrants, to this
day, mention the name of Cleveland with tears of gratitude and love,
and, when they implore God's mercy for themselves, never forget to
invoke, for their kind benefactor, Heaven's choicest blessings. Nor
is that the only family whose hearts glow at the mention of Mr.
Cleveland's name. Far and wide his name is known, and honoured, and
beloved.
And Mr. Cleveland has found out the real secret of happiness. It is
true that he and Tom still have their squabbles, for Tom is really a
provoking fellow, and Mr. Cleveland is, and always will be, an
eccentric, impulsive man, but his heart, which, when we first
introduced him to our readers, was far from being right with God, or
with his fellow-men, is now the dwelling-place of love and kindness,
and the experience of every day contributes to strengthen the new
principles he has imbibed, and to confirm him in the right.
Reader! art thou sad or solitary? I can offer thee a certain cure
for all thy woes. Contemplate the life of Him who spake as never man
spake. Follow him through all those years of toil and suffering. See
him wherever called by the sorrows of his human brethren, and
witness his deeds of mercy and his offices of love, and then--"go
thou and do likewise."