ONE of the most successful merchants of his day was Mr. Alexander. In
trade he had amassed a large fortune, and now, in the sixtieth year of
his age, he concluded that it was time to cease getting and begin the
work of enjoying. Wealth had always been regarded by him as a means of
happiness; but, so fully had his mind been occupied in business, that,
until the present time, he had never felt himself at leisure to make a
right use of the means in his hands.
So Mr. Alexander retired from business in favour of his son and
son-in-law. And now was to come the reward of his long years of labour.
Now were to come repose, enjoyment, and the calm delights of which he
had so often dreamed. But, it so happened, that the current of thought
and affection which had flowed on so long and steadily was little
disposed to widen into a placid lake. The retired merchant must yet
have some occupation. His had been a life of purposes, and plans for
their accomplishment; and he could not change the nature of this life.
His heart was still the seat of desire, and his thought obeyed,
instinctively, the heart's affection.
So Mr. Alexander used a portion of his wealth in various ways, in order
to satisfy the ever active desire of his heart for something beyond
what was in actual possession. But, it so happened, that the moment an
end was gained, the moment the bright ideal became a fixed and present
fact, its power to delight the mind was gone.
Mr. Alexander had some taste for the arts. Many fine pictures already
hung upon his walls. Knowing this, a certain picture-broker threw
himself in his way, and, by adroit management and skilful flattery,
succeeded in turning the pent-up and struggling current of the old
gentleman's feelings and thoughts in this direction. The broker soon
found that he had opened a new and profitable mine. Mr. Alexander had
only to see a fine picture, to desire its possession; and to desire was
to have. It was not long before his house was a gallery of pictures.
Was he any happier? Did these pictures afford him a pure and perennial
source of enjoyment? No; for, in reality, Mr. Alexander's taste for the
arts was not a passion of his mind. He did not love the beautiful in
the abstract. The delight he experienced when he looked upon a fine
painting, was mainly the desire of possession; and satiety soon
followed possession.
One morning, Mr. Alexander repaired alone to his library, where, on the
day before, had been placed a new painting, recently imported by his
friend the picture-dealer. It was exquisite as a work of art, and the
biddings for it had been high. But he succeeded in securing it for the
sum of two thousand dollars. Before he was certain of getting this
picture, Mr. Alexander would linger before it, and study out its
beauties with a delighted appreciation. Nothing in his collection was
deemed comparable therewith. Strangely enough, after it was hung upon
the walls of his library, he did not stand before it for as long a
space as five minutes; and then his thoughts were not upon its
beauties. During the evening that followed, the mind of Mr. Alexander
was less in repose than usual. After having completed his purchase of
the picture, he had overheard two persons, who were considered
autocrats in taste, speaking of its defects, which were minutely
indicated. They likewise gave it as their opinion that the painting was
not worth a thousand dollars. This was throwing cold water on his
enthusiasm. It seemed as if a veil had suddenly been drawn from before
his eyes. Now, with a clearer vision, he could see faults where,
before, every defect was thrown into shadow by an all-obscuring beauty.
On the next morning, as we have said, Mr. Alexander entered his
library, to take another look at his purchase. He did not feel very
happy. Many thousands of dollars had he spent in order to secure the
means of self-gratification; but the end was not yet gained.
A glance at the new picture sufficed, and then Mr. Alexander turned
from it with an involuntary sigh. Was it to look at other pictures? No.
He crossed his hands behind him, bent his eyes upon the floor, and for
the period of half an hour, walked slowly backwards and forwards in his
library. There was a pressure on his feelings, he knew not why; a sense
of disappointment and dissatisfaction.
No purpose was in the mind of Mr. Alexander when he turned from his
library, and, drawing on his overcoat, passed forth to the street. It
was a bleak winter morning, and the muffled pedestrians hurried
shivering on their way.
"Oh! I wish I had a dollar."
These words, in the voice of a child, and spoken with impressive
earnestness, fell suddenly upon the ears of Mr. Alexander, as he moved
along the pavement. Something in the tone reached the old man's
feelings, and he partly turned himself to look at the speaker. She was
a little girl, not over eleven years of age, and in company with a lad
some year or two older. Both were coarsely clad.
"What would you do with a dollar, sis?" replied the boy.
"I'd buy brother William a pair of nice woollen gloves, and a
comforter, and a pair of rubber shoes. That's what I'd do with it. He
has to go away, so early, in the cold, every morning; and he's 'most
perished, I know, sometimes. Last night his feet were soaking with wet.
His shoes are not good; and mother says she hasn't money to buy him a
new pair just now. Oh, I wish I had a dollar!"
Instinctively Mr. Alexander's hand was in his pocket, and, a moment
after, a round, bright silver dollar glittered in that of the girl.
But little farther did Mr. Alexander extend his walk. As if by magic,
the hue of his feelings had changed. The pressure on his heart was
gone, and its fuller pulses sent the blood bounding and frolicking
along every expanding artery. He thought not of pictures nor
possessions. All else was obscured by the bright face of the child, as
she lifted to his her innocent eyes, brimming with grateful tears.
One dollar spent unselfishly, brought more real pleasure than thousands
parted with in the pursuit of merely selfish gratification. And the
pleasure did not fade with the hour, nor the day. That one truly
benevolent act, impulsive as it had been, touched a sealed spring of
enjoyment, and the waters that gushed instantly forth continued to flow
unceasingly.
Homeward the old man returned, and again he entered his library. Choice
works of art were all around him, purchased as a means of enjoyment.
They had cost thousands,--yet did they not afford him a tithe of the
pleasure he had secured by the expenditure of a single dollar. He could
turn from them with a feeling of satiety; not so from the image of the
happy child whose earnestly expressed wish he had gratified.
And not alone on the pleasure of the child did the thoughts of Mr.
Alexander linger. There came before his imagination another picture. He
saw a poorly furnished room, in which were a humble, toiling widow and
her children. It is keen and frosty without; and her eldest boy has
just come home from his work, shivering with cold. While he is warming
himself by the fire, his little sister presents him with the comforter,
the thick gloves, and the overshoes, which his benevolence has enabled
her to buy. What surprise and pleasure beam in the lad's face! How
happy looks the sister! How full of a subdued and thankful pleasure is
the mother's countenance.
And for weeks and months, did Mr. Alexander gaze, at times, upon this
picture, and always with a warmth and lightness of heart unfelt when
other images arose in his mind and obscured it.
And for a single dollar was all this obtained, while thousands and
thousands were spent in the fruitless effort to buy happiness.
Strange as it may seem, Mr. Alexander did not profit by this
lesson--grew no wiser by this experience. The love of self was too
strong for him to seek the good of others, to bless both himself and
his fellows by a wise and generous use of the ample means which
Providence had given into his hands. He still buys pictures and works
of art, but the picture in his imagination, which cost but a single
dollar, is gazed at with a far purer and higher pleasure than he
receives from his entire gallery of paintings and statues.
If Mr. Alexander will not drink from the sweet spring of true delight
that has gushed forth at his feet, and in whose clear waters the sun of
heavenly love is mirrored, we hope that others, wiser than he, will
bend to its overflowing brim, and take of its treasures freely.