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THE
LAST PENNY,
AND
OTHER STORIES.
By T. S. ARTHUR.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY CROOME.
PHILADELPHIA:
LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.
1852.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of
Pennsylvania.
STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON & CO.
PHILADELPHIA.
PRINTED BY C. SHERMAN.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE LAST PENNY 7
HOW TO ATTAIN TRUE GREATNESS 26
THE FAIR COURIER: A STORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION 56
THE APRIL FOOL 104
A WAY TO BE HAPPY 126
THE LAST PENNY.
Thomas Claire, a son of St. Crispin, was a clever sort of a man; though
not very well off in the world. He was industrious, but, as his
abilities were small, his reward was proportioned thereto. His skill
went but little beyond half-soles, heel-taps, and patches. Those who,
willing to encourage Thomas, ventured to order from him a new pair of
boots or shoes, never repeated the order. That would have been carrying
their good wishes for his prosperity rather too far.
As intimated, the income of Thomas Claire was not large. Industrious
though he was, the amount earned proved so small that his frugal wife
always found it insufficient for an adequate supply of the wants of the
family, which consisted of her husband, herself, and three children. It
cannot be denied, however, that if Thomas had cared less about his pipe
and mug of ale, the supply of bread would have been more liberal. But
he had to work hard, and must have some little self-indulgence. At
least, so he very unwisely argued. This self-indulgence cost from two
to three shillings every week, a sum that would have purchased many
comforts for the needy family.
The oldest of Claire's children, a girl ten years of age, had been
sickly from her birth. She was a gentle, loving child, the favourite of
all in the house, and more especially of her father. Little Lizzy would
come up into the garret where Claire worked, and sit with him sometimes
for hours, talking in a strain that caused him to wonder; and
sometimes, when she did not feel as well as usual, lying upon the floor
and fixing upon him her large bright eyes for almost as long a period.
Lizzy was never so contented as when she was with her father; and he
never worked so cheerfully, as when she was near him.
Gradually, as month after month went by, Lizzy wasted away with some
disease, for which the doctor could find no remedy. Her cheeks became
paler and paler, her eyes larger and brighter, and such a weakness fell
upon her slender limbs that they could with difficulty sustain her
weight. She was no longer able to clamber up the steep stairs into the
garret, or loft, where her father worked; yet she was there as often as
before. Claire had made for her a little bed, raised a short space from
the floor, and here she lay, talking to him or looking at him, as of
old. He rarely went up or down the garret-stairs without having Lizzy
in his arms. Usually her head was lying upon his shoulder.
And thus the time went on, Claire, for all the love he felt for his
sick child--for all the regard he entertained for his family--indulging
his beer and tobacco as usual, and thus consuming, weekly, a portion of
their little income that would have brought to his children many a
comfort. No one but himself had any luxuries. Not even for Lizzy's weak
appetite were dainties procured. It was as much as the mother could do,
out of the weekly pittance she received, to get enough coarse food for
the table, and cover the nakedness of her family.
To supply the pipe and mug of Claire, from two to three shillings a
week were required. This sum he usually retained out of his earnings,
and gave the balance, whether large or small, to his frugal wife. No
matter what his income happened to be, the amount necessary to obtain
these articles was rigidly deducted, and as certainly expended. Without
his beer, Claire really imagined that he would not have strength
sufficient to go through with his weekly toil--how his wife managed to
get along without even her regular cup of good tea, it had never
occurred to him to ask--and not to have had a pipe to smoke in the
evening, or after each meal, would have been a deprivation beyond his
ability to endure. So, the two or three shillings went regularly in the
old way. When the six-pences and pennies congregated in goodly numbers
in the shoemaker's pocket, his visits to the ale-house were often
repeated, and his extra pipe smoked more frequently. But, as his
allowance for the week diminished, and it required some searching in
the capacious pockets, where they hid themselves away, to find the
straggling coins, Claire found it necessary to put some check upon his
appetite. And so it went on, week after week and month after month. The
beer was drunk, and the pipe smoked as usual, while the whole family
bent under the weight of poverty that was laid upon them.
Weaker and weaker grew little Lizzy. From the coarse food that was
daily set before her, her weak stomach turned, and she hardly took
sufficient nourishment to keep life in her attenuated frame.
"Poor child!" said the mother one morning, "she cannot live if she
doesn't eat. But coarse bread and potatoes and buttermilk go against
her weak stomach. Ah me! If we only had a little that the rich waste."
"There is a curse in poverty!" replied Claire, with a bitterness that
was unusual to him, as he turned his eyes upon his child, who had
pushed away the food that had been placed before her, and was looking
at it with an expression of disappointment on her wan face. "A curse in
poverty!" he repeated. "Why should my child die for want of nourishing
food, while the children of the rich have every luxury?"
In the mind of Claire, there was usually a dead calm. He plodded on,
from day to day, eating his potatoes and buttermilk, or whatever came
before him, and working steadily through the hours allotted to labour,
his hopes or fears in life rarely exciting him to an expression of
discontent. But he loved Lizzy better than any earthly thing, and to
see her turn with loathing from her coarse food, the best he was able
to procure for her, aroused his sluggish nature into rebellion against
his lot. But he saw no remedy.
"Can't we get something a little better for Lizzy?" said he, as he
pushed his plate aside, his appetite for once gone before his meal was
half eaten.
"Not unless you can earn more," replied the wife. "Cut and carve, and
manage as I will, it's as much as I can do to get common food."
Claire pushed himself back from the table, and without saying a word
more, went up to his shop in the garret, and sat down to work. There
was a troubled and despondent feeling about his heart. He did not light
his pipe as usual, for he had smoked up the last of his tobacco on the
evening before. But he had a penny left, and with that, as soon as he
had finished mending a pair of boots and taken them home, he meant to
get a new supply of the fragrant weed. The boots had only half an
hour's work on them. But a few stitches had been taken by the cobbler,
when he heard the feeble voice of Lizzy calling to him from the bottom
of the stairs. That voice never came unregarded to his ears. He laid
aside his work, and went down for his patient child, and as he took her
light form in his arms, and bore her up into his little work-shop, he
felt that he pressed against his heart the dearest thing to him in
life. And with this feeling, came the bitter certainty that soon she
would pass away and be no more seen. Thomas Claire did not often
indulge in external manifestations of feeling; but now, as he held
Lizzy in his arms, he bent down his face and kissed her cheek tenderly.
A light, like a gleam of sunshine, fell suddenly upon the pale
countenance of the child, while a faint, but loving smile played about
her lips. Her father kissed her again, and then laid her upon the
little bed that was always ready for her, and once more resumed his
work.
Claire's mind had been awakened from its usual leaden quiet. The wants
of his failing child aroused it into disturbed activity. Thought beat,
for a while, like a caged bird, against the bars of necessity, and then
fluttered back into panting imbecility.
At last the boots were done, and with his thoughts now more occupied
with the supply of tobacco he was to obtain than with any thing else,
Claire started to take them home. As he walked along he passed a
fruit-shop, and the thought of Lizzy came into his mind.
"If we could afford her some of these nice things!" he said to himself.
"They would be food and medicine both, to the dear child. But," he
added, with a sigh, "we are poor!--we are poor! Such dainties are not
for the children of poverty."
He passed along, until he came to the ale-house where he intended to
get his pennyworth of tobacco. For the first time a thought of
self-denial entered his mind, as he stood by the door, with his hand in
his pocket, feeling for his solitary copper.
"This would buy Lizzy an orange," he said to himself. "But then," was
quickly added, "I would have no tobacco to-day, nor to-morrow, for I
won't be paid for these boots before Saturday, when Barton gets his
wages."
Then came a long, hesitating pause. There was before the mind of Claire
the image of the faint and feeble child with the refreshing orange to
her lips; and there was also the image of himself encheered for two
long days by his pipe. But could he for a moment hesitate, if he really
loved that sick child? is asked. Yes, he could hesitate, and yet love
the little sufferer; for to one of his order of mind and habits of
acting and feeling, a self-indulgence like that of the pipe, or a
regular draught of beer, becomes so much like second nature, that it is
as it were a part of the very life; and to give it up, costs more than
a light effort.
The penny was between his fingers, and he took a single step toward the
ale-house door; but so vividly came back the image of little Lizzy,
that he stopped suddenly. The conflict, even though the spending of a
single penny was concerned, now became severe: love for the child plead
earnestly, and as earnestly plead the old habit that seemed as if it
would take no denial.
It was his last penny that was between the cobbler's fingers. Had there
been two pennies in his pocket, all difficulty would have immediately
vanished. Having thought of the orange, he would have bought it with
one of them, and supplied his pipe with the other. But, as affairs now
stood, he must utterly deny himself, or else deny his child.
For minutes the question was debated.
"I will see as I come back," said Claire at last, starting on his
errand, and thus, for the time, making a sort of a compromise. As he
walked along, the argument still went on in his mind. The more his
thoughts acted in this new channel, the more light came into the
cobbler's mind, at all times rather dark and dull. Certain
discriminations, never before thought of, were made; and certain
convictions forced themselves upon him.
"What is a pipe of tobacco to a healthy man, compared with an orange to
a sick child!" uttered half-aloud, marked at last the final conclusion
of his mind; and as this was said, the penny which was still in his
fingers was thrust determinedly into his pocket.
As he returned home, Claire bought the orange, and in the act
experienced a new pleasure. By a kind of necessity he had worked on,
daily, for his family, upon which was expended nearly all of his
earnings; and the whole matter came so much as a thing of course, that
it was no subject of conscious thought, and produced no emotion of
delight or pain. But, the giving up of his tobacco for the sake of his
little Lizzy was an act of self-denial entirely out of the ordinary
course, and it brought with it its own sweet reward.
When Claire got back to his home, Lizzy was lying at the bottom of the
stairs, waiting for his return. He lifted her, as usual, in his arms,
and carried her up to his shop. After placing her upon the rude couch
he had prepared for her, he sat down upon his bench, and as he looked
upon the white, shrunken face of his dear child, and met the fixed, sad
gaze of her large earnest eyes, a more than usual tenderness came over
his feelings. Then, without a word, he took the orange from his pocket,
and gave it into her hand.
Instantly there came over Lizzie's face a deep flush of surprise and
pleasure. A smile trembled around her wan lips, and an unusual light
glittered in her eyes. Eagerly she placed the fruit to her mouth and
drank its refreshing juice, while every part of her body seemed
quivering with a sense of delight.
"Is it good, dear?" at length asked the father, who sat looking on with
a new feeling at his heart.
The child did not answer in words; but words could not have expressed
her sense of pleasure so eloquently as the smile that lit up and made
beautiful every feature of her face.
While the orange was yet at the lips of Lizzy, Mrs. Claire came up into
the shop for some purpose.
"An orange!" she exclaimed with surprise. "Where did that come from?"
"Oh, mamma? it is _so_ good!" said the child, taking from her lips the
portion that yet remained, and looking at it with a happy face.
"Where in the world did that come from, Thomas?" asked the mother.
"I bought it with my last penny," replied Claire. "I thought it would
taste good to her."
"But you had no tobacco."
"I'll do without that until to-morrow," replied Claire.
"It was kind in you to deny yourself for Lizzy's sake."
This was said in an approving voice, and added another pleasurable
emotion to those he was already feeling. The mother sat down, and, for
a few moments, enjoyed the sight of her sick child, as with unabated
eagerness she continued to extract the refreshing juice from the fruit.
When she went down-stairs, and resumed her household duties, her heart
beat more lightly in her bosom than it had beaten for a long time.
Not once through that whole day did Thomas Claire feel the want of his
pipe; for the thought of the orange kept his mind in so pleased a
state, that a mere sensual desire like that for a whiff of tobacco had
no power over him.
Thinking of the orange, of course, brought other thoughts; and before
the day closed, Claire had made a calculation of how much his beer and
tobacco money would amount to in a year. The sum astonished him. He
paid rent for the little house in which he lived, two pounds sterling a
year, which he always thought a large sum. But his beer and tobacco
cost nearly seven pounds! He went over and over the calculation a dozen
times, in doubt of the first estimate, but it always came out the same.
Then he began to go over in his mind the many comforts seven pounds per
annum would give to his family; and particularly how many little
luxuries might be procured for Lizzy, whose delicate appetite turned
from the coarse food that was daily set before her.
But to give up the beer and tobacco in toto, when it was thought of
seriously, appeared impossible. How could he live without them?
On that evening the customer whose boots he had taken home in the
morning, called in, unexpectedly, and paid for them. Claire retained a
sixpence of the money and gave the balance to his wife. With this
sixpence in his pocket he went out for a mug of beer, and some tobacco
to replenish his pipe. He stayed some time--longer than he usually took
for such an errand.
When he came back he had three oranges in his pocket; and in his hands
were two fresh bunns, and a cup of sweet new milk. No beer had passed
his lips, and his pipe was yet unsupplied. He had passed through
another long conflict with his old appetites; but love for his child
came off, as before, the conqueror.
Lizzy, who drooped about all day, lying down most of her time, never
went to sleep early. She was awake, as usual, when her father returned.
With scarcely less eagerness than she had eaten the orange in the
morning, did she now drink the nourishing milk and eat the sweet bunns,
while her father sat looking at her, his heart throbbing with
inexpressible delight.
From that day the pipe and the mug were thrown aside. It cost a
prolonged struggle. But the man conquered the mere animal. And Claire
found himself no worse off in health. He could work as many hours, and
with as little fatigue; in fact, he found himself brighter in the
morning, and ready to go to his work earlier, by which he was able to
increase, at least a shilling or two, his weekly income. Added to the
comfort of his family, eight or ten pounds a year produced a great
change. But the greatest change was in little Lizzy. For a few weeks,
every penny saved from the beer and tobacco the father regularly
expended for his sick child: and it soon became apparent that it was
nourishing food, more than medicine, that Lizzy needed. She revived
wonderfully; and no long time passed before she could sit up for hours.
Her little tongue, too, became free once more, and many an hour of
labour did her voice again beguile. And the blessing of better food
came also in time to the other children, and to all.
"So much to come from the right spending of a single penny," Claire
said to himself, as he sat and reflected one day. "Who could have
believed it!"
And as it was with the poor cobbler, so it will be with all of us.
There are little matters of self-denial, which, if we had but the true
benevolence, justice, and resolution to practise, would be the
beginning of more important acts of a like nature, that, when
performed, would bless not only our families, but others, and be
returned upon us in a reward of delight incomparably beyond any thing
that selfish and sensual indulgences have it in their power to bring.
HOW TO ATTAIN TRUE GREATNESS.
"My voice shall yet be heard in those halls!" said a young man, whom we
will call James Abercrombie, to his friend Harvey Nelson, as the two
walked slowly, arm in arm, through the beautiful grounds of the Capitol
at Washington.
"Your ambition rises," Nelson replied, with a smile. "A seat in our
State Legislature was, at one time, your highest aim."
"Yes. But as we ascend the mountain, our prospect becomes enlarged. Why
should I limit my hopes to any halfway position, when I have only to
resolve that I will reach the highest point? I feel, Harvey, that I
have within me the power to do any thing that I choose. And I am
resolved that the world shall know me as one of its great men."
[Illustration: A TALK ABOUT THE FUTURE. Page 39.]
"Some, if they were to hear you speak thus, James, might smile at what
they would consider a weak and vain assumption. But I know that you
have a mind capable of accomplishing great things; that you have only
to use the means, and take an elevated position as the natural result.
Still I must say, that I do not like the spirit in which you speak of
these things."
"Why not?"
"You seem to desire an elevated station more for the glory of filling
it, than for the enlarged sphere of usefulness that it must necessarily
open to you."
"I do not think, Harvey," his friend replied, "that I am influenced by
the mere glory of greatness to press forward. There is something too
unsubstantial in that. Look at the advantages that must result to me if
I attain a high place."
"In either case, I cannot fully approve your motive."
"Then, from what motive would you have me act, Harvey? I am sure that I
know of none other sufficiently strong to urge me into activity. Both
of these have their influence; and, in combination, form the impulse
that gives life to my resolutions."
"There is a much higher, and purer, and more powerful motive, James. A
motive to which I have just alluded."
"What is that?"
"The end of being useful to our fellow-men."
"You may act from that motive, if you can, Harvey, but I shall not
attempt the vain task. It is too high and pure for me."
"Do not say so. We may attain high motives of action, as well as
attain, by great intellectual efforts, high positions in the world."
"How so?"
"It is a moral law, that any peculiar tendency or quality of the mind
grows stronger by indulgence. The converse of the proposition is, of
course, true also. You feel, then, that your motives of action are
selfish--that they regard your own elevation and honour as first, and
good to your neighbour as only secondary. Now, by opposing instead of
indulging this propensity to make all things minister to self, it must
grow weaker, as a natural consequence. Is not that clear?"
"Why, yes, I believe it is; or at least, the inference is a logical
one, though I must confess that I do not see it as an unquestionable
truth."
"That is because your natural feelings are altogether opposed to it."
"Perhaps so--for undoubtedly they are. I cannot see any thing so very
desirable in the motive of which you speak, that I should seek to act
from it. There is something tame in the idea of striving only to do
good to others."
"It really pains me to hear you say so," the friend replied in a
serious tone. "But now that we are on this subject, you must pardon me
if I attempt to make you see in a rational light the truth that it is a
much nobler effort to do good to others, than to seek only our own
glory."
"Well, go on."
"You have, doubtless, heard the term 'God-like' used, as indicating a
high degree of excellence in some individual, who has stood prominently
before the eyes of his fellow-men?"
"Often."
"And to your mind it is no doubt clear, that the nearer we can approach
the character of the Divine Being, the higher will be the position that
we attain?"
"Certainly."
"And that the purest motives from which we can act, are an approach
toward those from which we see Him acting."
"Certainly."
"Now, so far as we can judge of His motives of action, as exhibited in
His Word and in His Works, do we see a desire manifested to promote His
own glory, or to do good to His creatures, and make them happy?"
"Well, I cannot say, at this moment, for I have not thought upon the
subject."
"Suppose, then, we think of it now. It is certainly worth a little
serious attention. And first, let us refer to His Word, in which we
shall certainly find a transcript of his character. In that, we
perceive a constant reference to his nature as being, in one of its
principal constituents, _love_. Not love of himself, but love going
out in the desire to benefit His creatures. And His wisdom, which
infinitely transcends that of man, is ever active in devising means
whereby to render those creatures happy. And not only is His love ever
burning with the desire to do good to His creatures, and His wisdom
ever devising the best means for this end, but His divine love and His
divine wisdom unite in divine activity, producing all that is required
to give true happiness to all. In all parts of His Word we discover
evidences of the strongest character, which go to prove that such is
the nature and activity of the Lord. There could have been no seeking
of His own glory, when he assumed a material body, and an infirm human
principle, in which were direful hereditary evils, that he might redeem
man from the corruptions of his own fallen nature, and from the
influence and power of hell. Little glory was ascribed to him by the
wicked men who persecuted him, and condemned him, and finally put him
to death. But he sought not His own glory. In his works, how clearly
displayed is His divine benevolence! I need only direct your thoughts
to nature. I need only refer you to the fact that the Lord causes the
sun to shine upon the evil and the good, and the rain to fall alike
upon the just and the unjust. Even upon those who oppose His laws, and
despise and hate his precepts, does He pour down streams of perpetual
blessings. How unlike man--selfish, vain man--ever seeking his own
glory."
"You draw a strong picture, Harvey," the friend said.
"But is it not a true one?"
"Perhaps so."
"Very well. Now if we are seeking to be truly great, let us imitate Him
who made us and all the glorious things by which we are surrounded. He
that would be chief among you, said the Lord to his disciples, let him
be your servant. Even He washed his disciples' feet."
"Yes, but Harvey, I do not profess to be governed by religious
principle. I only account myself a moral man."
"But there cannot be any true morality without religion."
"That is a new doctrine."
"I think not. It seems to me to be as old as the Divine Word of God. To
be truly moral is to regard others as well as ourselves in all our
actions. And this we can never do apart from the potency and life of a
religious principle."
"But what do you mean by a religious principle?"
"I mean a principle of pure love to the Lord, united with an unselfish
love to our neighbour, flowing out in a desire to do him good."
"But no man can have these. It is impossible for any one to feel the
unselfish love of which you speak."
"Of course it is, naturally--for man is born into hereditary evils. But
if he truly desires to rise out of these evils into a higher and better
state, the Lord will be active in his efforts--and in just so far as he
truly shuns evils as sins against him, looking to him all the while for
assistance, will he remove those evils from their central position in
his mind, and then the opposite good of those evils will flow in to
take their place, (for spiritually, as well as naturally, there can be
no vacuum,) and he will be a new man. Then, and only then, can he begin
to lead truly a moral life. Before, he may be externally moral from
mere external restraints; now, he becomes moral from an internal
principle. Do you apprehend the difference?"
"Yes, I believe that I do. But I must confess that I cannot see how I
am ever to act from the motives you propose. If I wait for them, I
shall stand still and do nothing."
"Still, you can make the effort. Every thing must have a beginning.
Only let the germ be planted in your mind, and, like the seed that
seems so small and insignificant, it will soon exhibit signs of life,
and presently shoot up, and put forth its green leaves, and, if
fostered, give a permanent strength that will be superior to the power
of every tempest of evil principles that may rage against it."
"Your reasonings and analogies are very beautiful, and no doubt true,
but I cannot _feel_ their force," James Abercrombie said, with
something in his tone and manner so like a distaste for the whole
subject, that his friend felt unwilling to press it further upon his
attention.
The two young men here introduced had just graduated at one of our
first literary institutions, and were about selecting professions. But
in doing so, their acknowledged motives were, as may be gathered from
what has gone before, very different. The one avowed a determination to
be what he called a great man, that he might have the glory of
greatness. The other tried to cherish a higher and better motive of
action. Abercrombie was not long in deciding upon a profession. His
choice was law. And the reason of his choice was, not that he might be
useful to his fellow-men, but because in the profession of law he could
come in contact with the great mass of the people in a way to make just
such an impression upon them as he wished. In the practice of law, too,
he could bring out his powers of oratory, and cultivate a habit of
public speaking. It would, in fact, be a school in which to prepare
himself for a broader sphere of action in the legislative halls of his
country; for, at no point below a seat in the national legislature, did
his ambition rest.
"You have made your choice, I presume, before this," he said to his
friend Harvey, in allusion to this subject.
"Indeed, I have not," was the reply. "And I never felt so much at a
loss how to make a decision in my life."
"Well, I should think that you might decide very readily. I found no
difficulty."
"Then you have settled that matter?"
"Oh, certainly; the law is to be my sphere of action--or rather, my
stepping-stone to a higher place."
"I cannot so easily decide the matter!"
"Why not? If you study law, you will rise, inevitably. And in this
profession, there is a much broader field of action for a man of
talent, than there is in any other profession."
"Perhaps you are right. But the difficult question with me is--'Can I
be as useful in it?'"
"Nonsense, Harvey! Do put away these foolish notions. If you don't,
they will be the ruin of you."
"I hope not. But if they do, I shall be ruined in a good cause."
"I am really afraid, Harvey," Abercrombie said in a serious tone, "that
you affect these ultra sentiments, or are self-deceived. It is my
opinion that no man can act from such motives as you declare to be
yours."
"I did not know that I had declared myself governed by such motives. To
say that, I know, would be saying too much, for I am painfully
conscious of the existence and activity of motives very opposite. But
what I mean to say is, that I am so clearly convinced that the motives
of which I speak are the true ones, that I will not permit myself to
come wholly under the influence of such as are opposite. And that is
why I find a difficulty in choosing a profession. If I would permit
myself to think only of rising in the world, for the sake of the
world's estimation, I should not hesitate long. But I am afraid of
confirming what I feel to be evil. And therefore it is that I am
resolved to compel myself to choose from purer ends."
"Then you are no longer a free agent."
"Why not?"
"Because, in that kind of compulsion, you cease to act from freedom."
"Is it right, James, for us to compel ourselves to do right when we are
inclined to do wrong? Certainly there is more freedom in being able to
resist evil, than in being bound by it hand and foot, so as to be its
passive slave."
"You are a strange reasoner, Harvey."
"If my conclusions are not rational, controvert them."
"And have to talk for ever?"
"No doubt you would, James, to drive me from positions that are to me
as true as that the sun shines in heaven."
"Exactly; and therefore it is useless to argue with you. But, to drop
that point of the subject, to what profession do you most incline?"
"To law."
"Then why not choose it?"
"Perhaps I shall. But I wish first to define with myself my own
position. I must understand truly upon what ground I stand, or I will
not move forward one inch."
"Well, you must define your own position for yourself, for I don't see
that I can help you much." And there the subject was dropped.
It was some time before the debate in Harvey's mind was decided. His
predilections were all in favour of the law--but in thinking of it,
ambition and purely selfish views would arise in his mind, and cause
him to hesitate, for he did not wish to act from them. At last he
decided to become a law student, with the acknowledgment to himself
that he had low and selfish motives in his mind, but with the
determination to oppose them and put them away whenever they should
arise into activity. Under this settled principle of action, he entered
upon the study of the profession he had chosen.
Thus, with two opposite leading motives did the young men commence
life. Let us see the result of these motives upon their characters and
success after the lapse of ten years. Let us see which is farthest on
the road to true greatness. Both, in an ardent and untiring devotion to
the duties of their profession, had already risen to a degree of
eminence, as lawyers, rarely attained under double the number of years
of patient toil. But there was a difference in the estimation in which
both were held by those who could discriminate. And this was apparent
in the character of the cases referred to them. A doubtful case,
involving serious considerations, was almost certain to be placed in
the hands of Abercrombie, for his acuteness and tact, and determination
to succeed at all hazards, if possible, made him a very desirable
advocate under these circumstances. Indeed, he often said that he would
rather have a bad cause to plead than a good one, for there was some
"honour" in success where every thing was against the case. On the
contrary, in the community where Harvey had settled, but few thought of
submitting to him a case that had not equity upon its side; and in such
a case, he was never known to fail. He did not seek to bewilder the
minds of a jury or of the court by sophistry, or to confuse a witness
by paltry tricks; but his course was straightforward and manly,
evolving the truth at every step with a clearness that made it apparent
to all.
"It's all your fault," said an unsuccessful client to him one day in an
angry tone.
"No, sir, it was the fault of your cause. It was a bad one."
"But I should have gained it, if you had mystified that stupid witness,
as you could easily enough have done."
"Perhaps I might; but I did not choose to do that."
"It was your duty, sir, as an advocate, to use every possible means to
gain the cause of your client."
"Not dishonest means, remember. Bring me a good cause, and I will do
you justice. But when you place me in a position where success can only
be had in the violation of another's rights, I will always regard
justice first. Right and honour have the first claims upon me--my
client the next."
"It's the last cause you will ever have of mine, then," replied the
angry client.
"And most certainly the last I want, if you have no higher claims than
those you presented in the present instance."
About the same time that this incident occurred, an individual,
indicted for a large robbery, sent for Lawyer Abercrombie. That
individual came to the prisoner's cell, and held a preliminary
interview with him.
"And the first thing to be done, if I take charge of your case," said
the lawyer, "is for you to make a clean confession to me of every
thing. You know that the law protects you in this. It is necessary that
I may know exactly the ground upon which we stand, that I may keep the
prosecution at fault."
The prisoner, in answer to this, made promptly a full confession of his
guilt, and stated where a large portion of the property he had taken
was concealed.
"And now," said he, after his confession, "do you think that you can
clear me?"
"Oh yes, easily enough, if I have sufficient inducement to devote
myself to the case."
"Will five thousand dollars secure your best efforts?"
"Yes."
"Very well. The day after I am cleared, I will place that sum in your
hands."
"You shall be cleared," was the positive answer. And he was cleared.
Justice was subverted--property to a large value lost--and an
accomplished villain turned loose upon the community, by the venal tact
and eloquence of a skilful lawyer.
In these two instances we have an exhibition of the characters of the
two individuals, ripening for maturity. Both possessing fine talents,
both were eminent, both successful,--but the one was a curse, and the
other a blessing to society. And all this, because their ends of life
were different.
Time passed on, and Abercrombie, as the mere tool of a political party,
elected by trick and management, under circumstances humiliating to a
man of feeling and principle, became a representative in the State
legislature. But he was a representative, and this soothing opiate to
his ambition quieted every unpleasant emotion. Conscious, in the state
of political feeling, that there was little or no possible chance of
maintaining even his present elevation, much less of rising higher,
unless he became pliant in the hands of those who had elected him, he
suffered all ideas of the general good to recede from his mind, and
gave himself up wholly to furthering the schemes and interested views
of his own party. By this means, he was enabled to maintain his
position. But what a sacrifice for an honourable, high-minded man! A
few years in the State legislature, where he was an active member,
prepared him for going up higher. He was, accordingly, nominated for
Congress, and elected, but by the same means that had accomplished all
of his previous elections. And he went there under the mistaken idea
that he was becoming a great man, when it was not with any particular
reference to his fitness for becoming a representative of one section
of the country for the good of the whole that he was sent there, but as
a fit tool for the performance of selfish party ends. Thus he became
the exponent in Congress of the same principles that he had laid down
for his own government, viz. such as were thoroughly selfish and
interested.
In the course of time, it so happened that, as eminent lawyers, the
two individuals we have introduced were again thrown together as
inhabitants of the same city, and became practitioners at the same bar.
At first, Abercrombie did not fear Harvey; but he soon learned that, as
an opponent, not even he could gain over him, unless his cause were
just. For some years Abercrombie went regularly to Congress, usually
elected over the opposing candidate by a large majority--for his party
far outnumbered the other. At length the time seemed to have arrived
for him to take another step. The senatorial term for the district in
which he lived was about to expire, and there was to be an election for
a United States senator. For this vacancy he was nominated as a
candidate by his party, and as that was the strongest party, he looked
confidently for an election. The opposing interest cast about them for
some time, and at last fixed upon Harvey, who, after mature
deliberation, accepted the nomination.
It is needless here to recapitulate the principles which governed these
two individuals; they have already been fully stated. At the time that
they became rivals for a high station, each had confirmed in himself
the views of life expressed many years before, and was acting them out
fully. One was thoroughly selfish--the other strove to regard, in all
that he did, the good of others.
A few months before the day of election, a woman dressed in deep
mourning came into the office of Mr. Harvey. She stated that she was a
widow with a large family--that her husband had been dead about a year,
and that the executor of her husband's estate, formerly his partner in
business, was about to deprive her of all the property that had been
left to her for the maintenance of her family and the education of her
children, under the plea that there were, in reality, no assets, after
the settlement of the estate.
"Well, madam, what do you wish done?" asked Mr. Harvey, a good deal
interested in the woman's case.
"I want justice, sir, and no more. If there are really no assets, then
I want nothing. But if there is, as I am confident that there must be a
handsome property really due me, then I wish my rights maintained. Will
you undertake my case?"
"Certainly I will, madam; and if there is justice on your side, I will
see that justice is done."
Accordingly, suit was brought against the executor, who at once
employed Abercrombie, with the promise of a large fee, if he gained the
cause for him.
By some means, the facts of the case, or at least that such a case was
to come up, became known through the medium of the newspapers, and also
that the two rival candidates were to be opposed to each other. Much
interest was excited, and when the trial came on, the court-room was
crowded. The case occupied the attention of the court for three days,
during which time Abercrombie made some of the most brilliant speeches
that had ever fallen from his lips. He managed his case, too, with a
tact, spirit, and sagacity, unusual even for him, as keen a lawyer as
he was. To all this, Harvey opposed a steady, clear, and rational mode
of presenting the claims of the individual he represented, so that
conviction attended him at every step. It was in vain that Abercrombie
would tear into tatters the lucid arguments, full of calm and truthful
positions, that he presented--he would gather them all up again, and
present them in new and still more convincing forms. At every step of
the trial, it was plainly evident to all, opponents and friends, that
Abercrombie cared solely for success in his cause, and nothing for
justice; and as the sympathies of nearly all were in favour of the
widow, his manner of conducting the case was exceedingly offensive to
nearly every one. On the contrary, in Harvey, all could see a deep and
conscientious regard for justice. He never took any undue advantage of
his opponent, and resorted to no tricks and feints to blind and confuse
him, but steadily presented the justice of the side he argued, in bold
and strong relief, against the evident, wicked injustice of the
defendant.
At last the trial came to a close, and the whole case was submitted to
the jury, who decided that the widow's cause was just. This righteous
decision was received by a universal burst of applause. Abercrombie was
deeply chagrined at the result, and this feeling was apparent to
all--so apparent, that nearly every one, friends and enemies, were
indignant. In an electioneering handbill, which came out in two or
three days afterward, was this appeal:--
"Why do we send a man to the Senate-chamber of the United States? To
legislate from generous and enlarged principles, or to be a narrow,
selfish seeker of his own glory? Do we want the generous philanthropist
there--the man who loves justice for its own sake--the man of strong
natural powers, rendered stronger and clearer by honest principles?--or
the narrow-minded timeserver--the man who would sacrifice any thing,
even the liberties of his country, for a selfish end--the legal
oppressor of the widow and the fatherless? Need these questions be
answered from honest, high-souled voters? No! let every man answer for
himself, when he goes to assert the rights of a freeman."
This, and similar appeals, added to the general disapprobation already
felt, completed the work. Harvey was elected to fill the vacant seat in
the Senate for the ensuing six years, by a majority of double the votes
polled for Abercrombie.
From that time, the latter took his position as a third-rate man.
Indeed, he never afterward reached even to the House of Representatives
at Washington, while Harvey still retains his place in the
Senate-chamber, one of the most esteemed and valuable members of that
distinguished body.
No man, we would remark, in closing this sketch, can ever be a truly
great man, who is not a good man. The mere selfishness of ambition
defeats its own ends; while the generous impulse to do good to others,
gives to every man a power and an influence that must be felt and
appreciated.
THE FAIR COURIER.
A STORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
Fort Motte, Fort Granby, Fort Watson, the fort at Orangeburg, and every
other post in South Carolina, except Charleston and Ninety-Six, had
yielded successively to the American arms, under the command of Greene,
Sumter, Marion, and Lee; and now General Greene turned all his energies
to the reduction of Ninety-Six, giving orders at the same time, for
General Sumter to remain in the country south and west of the Congaree,
so as to cut off all communication between Lord Rawdon, who was at
Charleston awaiting reinforcements from England, and Colonel Cruger,
who was in command at Ninety-Six.
Day after day the siege of Ninety-Six went on, the Americans slowly
approaching the fort by a series of works constructed under the
superintendence of Kosciusko, and Cruger still holding out in
expectations of reinforcements from Charleston, although not a single
word of intelligence from Lord Rawdon had reached him since the
investment of the post which he held with so much bravery and
perseverance.
On the 3d of June, the long-expected reinforcement from England reached
Lord Rawdon, and on the 7th he started for the relief of Colonel Cruger
with a portion of three Irish regiments, and was joined soon after by
the South Carolina royalists, swelling his force to two thousand men.
But all his efforts to transmit intelligence of his approach to the
beleaguered garrison at Ninety-Six proved unavailing. His messengers
were intercepted by Sumter and Marion, who held possession of the
intermediate region.
On the 11th of June, General Greene received intelligence from General
Sumter of the approach of Rawdon. Directing Sumter to keep in front of
the enemy, he reinforced him with all his cavalry under
Lieutenant-Colonel Washington, and urged him to use every means in his
power to delay the advancing British army, until he should be able to
complete the investment of the fort at Ninety-Six, and compel it to
surrender. Then with renewed diligence he pressed the siege, hoping to
obtain a capitulation before Colonel Cruger should receive news of the
approaching succour, and thus break up, with the exception of
Charleston, the last rallying point of the enemy in South Carolina. But
the commander of the fort was ever on the alert to make good his
defences and to annoy and retard the besiegers in every possible way;
and, though ignorant of the near approach of aid, he would listen to no
overtures for a capitulation.
One evening, while affairs retained this aspect, a countryman rode
along the American lines, conversing familiarly with the officers and
soldiers on duty. No particular notice was taken of this, as, from the
beginning of the siege, the friends of our cause were permitted to
enter the camp and go wherever their curiosity happened to lead them.
The individual here mentioned moved along, seemingly much interested
with all he saw and heard, until he arrived at the great road leading
directly to the town, in which quarter were only some batteries thrown
up for the protection of the guards. Pausing here for a few moments, he
glanced cautiously around him, and then, suddenly putting spurs to his
horse, he dashed at full speed into the town. Seeing this, the guard
and sentinels opened their fire upon him, but he escaped unhurt,
holding up a letter as soon as he was out of danger. The garrison,
which had observed this movement, understood its meaning, and the gates
were instantly thrown open to receive the messenger, who proved to be
from Lord Rawdon, and brought the welcome intelligence of his near
approach.
Hoping still to reduce the fort before the arrival of Lord Rawdon,
General Greene urged on the work of investment, and by every means in
his power sought to weaken the garrison, so as to make victory certain
when all was ready for the final assault. But before he had
accomplished his task, a messenger from Sumter arrived with the
unwelcome intelligence that Rawdon had succeeded in passing him and was
pushing on rapidly for Ninety-Six. The crisis had now come. Greene must
either hazard an assault upon the fort ere his works were in complete
readiness, risk a battle with Rawdon, or retire over the Saluda, and
thus give confidence and strength to the tories and royalist army. His
first determination was to meet the relieving army under Rawdon, but
every thing depending on his not giving the enemy, at this particular
crisis of affairs in the South, a victory, and seeing that his force
was much inferior to that of the British, he resolved to make an attack
upon the fort, and, if not successful in reducing it, to retire with
his army toward North Carolina before Rawdon came up.
The 18th of June, 1781, was the day chosen for this assault. But made,
as it was, with the besiegers' works incomplete, though the men fought
with desperate courage, the fort was successfully defended, and General
Greene ordered his troops to retire, after they had suffered the loss
of one hundred and eighty-five killed and wounded.