she leans back in her chair, and her eye rests on the pale face of her
daughter, who has been sitting for two hours intent on her stitching.
"Ellen, my child, your head aches; don't work so steadily."
"O, no, it don't ache _much_," said she, too conscious of looking very
much tired. Poor girl! had she remained in the situation in which she
was born, she would now have been skipping about, and enjoying life as
other young girls of fifteen do; but now there is no choice of
employments for her--no youthful companions--no visiting--no pleasant
walks in the fresh air. Evening and morning, it is all the same;
headache or sideache, it is all one. She must hold on the same unvarying
task--a wearisome thing for a girl of fifteen.
But see! the door opens, and Mrs. Ames's face brightens as her other
daughter enters. Mary has become a domestic in a neighboring family,
where her faithfulness and kindness of heart have caused her to be
regarded more as a daughter and a sister than as a servant. "Here,
mother, is your rent money," she exclaimed; "so do put up your work and
rest a while. I can get enough to pay it next time before the month
comes around again."
"Dear child, I do wish you would ever think to get any thing for
yourself," said Mrs. Ames. "I cannot consent to use up all your
earnings, as I have done lately, and all Ellen's too; you must have a
new dress this spring, and that bonnet of yours is not decent any
longer."
"O, no, mother! I have made over my blue calico, and you would be
surprised to see how well it looks; and my best frock, when it is washed
and darned, will answer some time longer. And then Mrs. Grant has given
me a ribbon, and when my bonnet is whitened and trimmed it will look
very well. And so," she added, "I brought you some wine this afternoon;
you know the doctor says you need wine."
"Dear child, I want to see you take some comfort of your money
yourself."
"Well, I do take comfort of it, mother. It is more comfort to be able to
help you than to wear all the finest dresses in the world."
* * * * *
Two months from this dialogue found our little family still more
straitened and perplexed. Mrs. Ames had been confined all the time with
sickness, and the greater part of Ellen's time and strength was occupied
with attending to her.
Very little sewing could the poor girl now do, in the broken intervals
that remained to her; and the wages of Mary were not only used as fast
as earned, but she anticipated two months in advance.
Mrs. Ames had been better for a day or two, and had been sitting up,
exerting all her strength to finish a set of shirts which had been sent
in to make. "The money for them will just pay our rent," sighed she;
"and if we can do a little more this week----"
"Dear mother, you are so tired," said Ellen; "do lie down, and not worry
any more till I come back."
Ellen went out, and passed on till she came to the door of an elegant
house, whose damask and muslin window curtains indicated a fashionable
residence.
Mrs. Elmore was sitting in her splendidly-furnished parlor, and around
her lay various fancy articles which two young girls were busily
unrolling. "What a lovely pink scarf!" said one, throwing it over her
shoulders and skipping before a mirror; while the other exclaimed, "Do
look at these pocket handkerchiefs, mother! what elegant lace!"
"Well, girls," said Mrs. Elmore, "these handkerchiefs are a shameful
piece of extravagance. I wonder you will insist on having such things."
"La, mamma, every body has such now; Laura Seymour has half a dozen that
cost more than these, and her father is no richer than ours."
"Well," said Mrs. Elmore, "rich or not rich, it seems to make very
little odds; we do not seem to have half as much money to spare as we
did when we lived in the little house in Spring Street. What with new
furnishing the house, and getting every thing you boys and girls say you
must have, we are poorer, if any thing, than we were then."
"Ma'am, here is Mrs. Ames's girl come with some sewing," said the
servant.
"Show her in," said Mrs. Elmore.
Ellen entered timidly, and handed her bundle of work to Mrs. Elmore, who
forthwith proceeded to a minute scrutiny of the articles; for she prided
herself on being very particular as to her sewing. But, though the work
had been executed by feeble hands and aching eyes, even Mrs. Elmore
could detect no fault in it.
"Well, it is very prettily done," said she. "What does your mother
charge?"
Ellen handed a neatly-folded bill which she had drawn for her mother. "I
must say, I think your mother's prices are very high," said Mrs. Elmore,
examining her nearly empty purse; "every thing is getting so dear that
one hardly knows how to live." Ellen looked at the fancy articles, and
glanced around the room with an air of innocent astonishment. "Ah," said
Mrs. Elmore, "I dare say it seems to you as if persons in our situation
had no need of economy; but, for my part, I feel the need of it more and
more every day." As she spoke she handed Ellen the three dollars, which,
though it was not a quarter the price of one of the handkerchiefs, was
all that she and her sick mother could claim in the world.
"There," said she; "tell your mother I like her work very much, but I do
not think I can afford to employ her, if I can find any one to work
cheaper."
Now, Mrs. Elmore was not a hard-hearted woman, and if Ellen had come as
a beggar to solicit help for her sick mother, Mrs. Elmore would have
fitted out a basket of provisions, and sent a bottle of wine, and a
bundle of old clothes, and all the _et cetera_ of such occasions; but
the sight of _a bill_ always aroused all the instinctive sharpness of
her business-like education. She never had the dawning of an idea that
it was her duty to pay any body any more than she could possibly help;
nay, she had an indistinct notion that it was her _duty_ as an economist
to make every body take as little as possible. When she and her
daughters lived in Spring Street, to which she had alluded, they used to
spend the greater part of their time at home, and the family sewing was
commonly done among themselves. But since they had moved into a large
house, and set up a carriage, and addressed themselves to being genteel,
the girls found that they had altogether too much to do to attend to
their own sewing, much less to perform any for their father and
brothers. And their mother found her hands abundantly full in
overlooking her large house, in taking care of expensive furniture, and
in superintending her increased train of servants. The sewing,
therefore, was put out; and Mrs. Elmore _felt it a duty_ to get it done
the cheapest way she could. Nevertheless, Mrs. Elmore was too notable a
lady, and her sons and daughters were altogether too fastidious as to
the make and quality of their clothing, to admit the idea of its being
done in any but the most complete and perfect manner.
Mrs. Elmore never accused herself of want of charity for the poor; but
she had never considered that the best class of the poor are those who
never ask charity. She did not consider that, by paying liberally those
who were honestly and independently struggling for themselves, she was
really doing a greater charity than by giving indiscriminately to a
dozen applicants.
"Don't you think, mother, she says we charge too high for this work!"
said Ellen, when she returned. "I am sure she did not know how much work
we put in those shirts. She says she cannot give us any more work; she
must look out for somebody that will do it cheaper. I do not see how it
is that people who live in such houses, and have so many beautiful
things, can feel that they cannot afford to pay for what costs us so
much."
"Well, child, they are more apt to feel so than people who live
plainer."
"Well, I am sure," said Ellen, "we cannot afford to spend so much time
as we have over these shirts for less money."
"Never mind, my dear," said the mother, soothingly; "here is a bundle of
work that another lady has sent in, and if we get it done, we shall have
enough for our rent, and something over to buy bread with."
It is needless to carry our readers over all the process of cutting, and
fitting, and gathering, and stitching, necessary in making up six fine
shirts. Suffice it to say that on Saturday evening all but one were
finished, and Ellen proceeded to carry them home, promising to bring the
remaining one on Tuesday morning. The lady examined the work, and gave
Ellen the money; but on Tuesday, when the child came with the remaining
work, she found her in great ill humor. Upon reexamining the shirts, she
had discovered that in some important respects they differed from
directions she meant to have given, and supposed she had given; and,
accordingly, she vented her displeasure on Ellen.
"Why didn't you make these shirts as I told you?" said she, sharply.
"We did," said Ellen, mildly; "mother measured by the pattern every
part, and cut them herself."
"Your mother must be a fool, then, to make such a piece of work. I wish
you would just take them back and alter them over;" and the lady
proceeded with the directions, of which neither Ellen nor her mother
till then had had any intimation. Unused to such language, the
frightened Ellen took up her work and slowly walked homeward.
"O, dear, how my head does ache!" thought she to herself; "and poor
mother! she said this morning she was afraid another of her sick turns
was coming on, and we have all this work to pull out and do over."
"See here, mother," said she, with a disconsolate air, as she entered
the room; "Mrs. Rudd says, take out all the bosoms, and rip off all the
collars, and fix them quite another way. She says they are not like the
pattern she sent; but she must have forgotten, for here it is. Look,
mother; it is exactly as we made them."
"Well, my child, carry back the pattern, and show her that it is so."
"Indeed, mother, she spoke so cross to me, and looked at me so, that I
do not feel as if I could go back."
"I will go for you, then," said the kind Maria Stephens, who had been
sitting with Mrs. Ames while Ellen was out. "I will take the pattern and
shirts, and tell her the exact truth about it. I am not afraid of her."
Maria Stephens was a tailoress, who rented a room on the same floor with
Mrs. Ames, a cheerful, resolute, go-forward little body, and ready
always to give a helping hand to a neighbor in trouble. So she took the
pattern and shirts, and set out on her mission.
But poor Mrs. Ames, though she professed to take a right view of the
matter, and was very earnest in showing Ellen why she ought not to
distress herself about it, still felt a shivering sense of the hardness
and unkindness of the world coming over her. The bitter tears would
spring to her eyes, in spite of every effort to suppress them, as she
sat mournfully gazing on the little faded miniature before mentioned.
"When _he_ was alive, I never knew what poverty or trouble was," was the
thought that often passed through her mind. And how many a poor forlorn
one has thought the same!
Poor Mrs. Ames was confined to her bed for most of that week. The doctor
gave absolute directions that she should do nothing, and keep entirely
quiet--a direction very sensible indeed in the chamber of ease and
competence, but hard to be observed in poverty and want.
What pains the kind and dutiful Ellen took that week to make her mother
feel easy! How often she replied to her anxious questions, "that she was
quite well," or "that her head did not ache _much_!" and by various
other evasive expedients the child tried to persuade herself that she
was speaking the truth. And during the times her mother slept, in the
day or evening, she accomplished one or two pieces of plain work, with
the price of which she expected to surprise her mother.
It was towards evening when Ellen took her finished work to the elegant
dwelling of Mrs. Page. "I shall get a dollar for this," said she;
"enough to pay for mother's wine and medicine."
"This work is done very neatly," said Mrs. Page, "and here is some more
I should like to have finished in the same way."
Ellen looked up wistfully, hoping Mrs. Page was going to pay her for the
last work. But Mrs. Page was only searching a drawer for a pattern,
which she put into Ellen's hands, and after explaining how she wanted
her work done, dismissed her without saying a word about the expected
dollar.
Poor Ellen tried two or three times, as she was going out, to turn round
and ask for it; but before she could decide what to say, she found
herself in the street.
Mrs. Page was an amiable, kind-hearted woman, but one who was so used to
large sums of money that she did not realize how great an affair a
single dollar might seem to other persons. For this reason, when Ellen
had worked incessantly at the new work put into her hands, that she
might get the money for all together, she again disappointed her in the
payment.
"I'll send the money round to-morrow," said she, when Ellen at last
found courage to ask for it. But to-morrow came, and Ellen was
forgotten; and it was not till after one or two applications more that
the small sum was paid.
But these sketches are already long enough, and let us hasten to close
them. Mrs. Ames found liberal friends, who could appreciate and honor
her integrity of principle and loveliness of character, and by their
assistance she was raised to see more prosperous days; and she, and the
delicate Ellen, and warm-hearted Mary were enabled to have a home and
fireside of their own, and to enjoy something like the return of their
former prosperity.
We have given these sketches, drawn from real life, because we think
there is in general too little consideration on the part of those who
give employment to those in situations like the widow here described.
The giving of employment is a very important branch of charity, inasmuch
as it assists that class of the poor who are the most deserving. It
should be looked on in this light, and the arrangements of a family be
so made that a suitable compensation can be given, and prompt and
cheerful payment be made, without the dread of transgressing the rules
of economy.
It is better to teach our daughters to do without expensive ornaments or
fashionable elegances; better even to deny ourselves the pleasure of
large donations or direct subscriptions to public charities, rather than
to curtail the small stipend of her whose "candle goeth not out by
night," and who labors with her needle for herself and the helpless dear
ones dependent on her exertions.
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
A SKETCH FROM NATURE.
Of all the marvels that astonished my childhood, there is none I
remember to this day with so much interest as the old man whose name
forms my caption. When I knew him, he was an aged clergyman, settled
over an obscure village in New England. He had enjoyed the advantages of
a liberal education, had a strong, original power of thought, an
omnipotent imagination, and much general information; but so early and
so deeply had the habits and associations of the plough, the farm, and
country life wrought themselves into his mind, that his after
acquirements could only mingle with them, forming an unexampled amalgam
like unto nothing but itself.
He was an ingrain New Englander, and whatever might have been the source
of his information, it came out in Yankee form, with the strong
provinciality of Yankee dialect.
It is in vain to attempt to give a full picture of such a genuine
_unique_; but some slight and imperfect dashes may help the imagination
to a faint idea of what none can fully conceive but those who have seen
and heard old Father Morris.
Suppose yourself one of half a dozen children, and you hear the cry,
"Father Morris is coming!" You run to the window or door, and you see a
tall, bulky old man, with a pair of saddle bags on one arm, hitching his
old horse with a fumbling carefulness, and then deliberately stumping
towards the house. You notice his tranquil, florid, full-moon face,
enlightened by a pair of great round blue eyes, that roll with dreamy
inattentiveness on all the objects around; and as he takes off his hat,
you see the white curling wig that sets off his round head. He comes
towards you, and as you stand staring, with all the children around, he
deliberately puts his great hand on your head, and, with deep, rumbling
voice, inquires,--
"How d'ye do, my darter? is your daddy at home?" "My darter" usually
makes off as fast as possible, in an unconquerable giggle. Father Morris
goes into the house, and we watch him at every turn, as, with the most
liberal simplicity, he makes himself at home, takes off his wig, wipes
down his great face with a checked pocket handkerchief, helps himself
hither and thither to whatever he wants, and asks for such things as he
cannot lay his hands on, with all the comfortable easiness of childhood.
I remember to this day how we used to peep through the crack of the
door, or hold it half ajar and peer in, to watch his motions; and how
mightily diverted we were with his deep, slow manner of speaking, his
heavy, cumbrous walk, but, above all, with the wonderful faculty of
"_hemming_" which he possessed.
His deep, thundering, protracted "A-hem-em" was like nothing else that
ever I heard; and when once, as he was in the midst of one of these
performances, the parlor door suddenly happened to swing open, I heard
one of my roguish brothers calling, in a suppressed tone, "Charles!
Charles! Father Morris has _hemmed_ the door open!"--and then followed
the signs of a long and desperate titter, in which I sincerely
sympathized.
But the morrow is Sunday. The old man rises in the pulpit. He is not now
in his own humble little parish, preaching simply to the hoers of corn
and planters of potatoes, but there sits Governor D., and there is Judge
R., and Counsellor P., and Judge G. In short, he is before a refined and
literary audience. But Father Morris rises; he thinks nothing of this;
he cares nothing; he knows nothing, as he himself would say, but "Jesus
Christ, and him crucified." He takes a passage of Scripture to explain;
perhaps it is the walk to Emmaus, and the conversation of Jesus with his
disciples. Immediately the whole start out before you, living and
picturesque: the road to Emmaus is a New England turnpike; you can see
its mile stones, its mullein stalks, its toll gates. Next the disciples
rise, and you have before you all their anguish, and hesitation, and
dismay talked out to you in the language of your own fireside. You
smile; you are amused; yet you are touched, and the illusion grows every
moment. You see the approaching stranger, and the mysterious
conversation grows more and more interesting. Emmaus rises in the
distance, in the likeness of a New England village, with a white meeting
house and spire. You follow the travellers; you enter the house with
them; nor do you wake from your trance until, with streaming eyes, the
preacher tells you that "they saw it was the Lord Jesus--and _what a
pity_ it was they could not have known it before!"
It was after a sermon on this very chapter of Scripture history that
Governor Griswold, in passing out of the house, laid hold on the sleeve
of his first acquaintance: "Pray tell me," said he, "who is this
minister?"
"Why, it is old Father Morris."
"Well, he is an oddity--and a genius too, I declare!" he continued. "I
have been wondering all the morning how I could have read the Bible to
so little purpose as not to see all these particulars he has presented."
I once heard him narrate in this picturesque way the story of Lazarus.
The great bustling city of Jerusalem first rises to view, and you are
told, with great simplicity, how the Lord Jesus "used to get tired of
the noise;" and how he was "tired of preaching, again and again, to
people who would not mind a word he said;" and how, "when it came
evening, he used to go out and see his friends in Bethany." Then he told
about the house of Martha and Mary: "a little white house among the
trees," he said; "you could just see it from Jerusalem." And there the
Lord Jesus and his disciples used to go and sit in the evenings, with
Martha, and Mary, and Lazarus.
Then the narrator went on to tell how Lazarus died, describing, with
tears and a choking voice, the distress they were in, and how they sent
a message to the Lord Jesus, and he did not come, and how they wondered
and wondered; and thus on he went, winding up the interest by the
graphic _minutiae_ of an eye witness, till he woke you from the dream by
his triumphant joy at the resurrection scene.
On another occasion, as he was sitting at a tea table, unusually
supplied with cakes and sweetmeats, he found an opportunity to make a
practical allusion to the same family story. He said that Mary was quiet
and humble, sitting at her Savior's feet to hear his words; but Martha
thought more of what was to be got for tea. Martha could not find time
to listen to Christ. No; she was "'cumbered with much serving'--around
the house, frying fritters and making gingerbread."
Among his own simple people, his style of Scripture painting was
listened to with breathless interest. But it was particularly in those
rustic circles, called "conference meetings," that his whole warm soul
unfolded, and the Bible in his hands became a gallery of New England
paintings.
He particularly loved the evangelists, following the footsteps of Jesus
Christ, dwelling upon his words, repeating over and over again the
stories of what he did, with all the fond veneration of an old and
favored servant.
Sometimes, too, he would give the narration an exceedingly practical
turn, as one example will illustrate.
He had noticed a falling off in his little circle that met for social
prayer, and took occasion, the first time he collected a tolerable
audience, to tell concerning "the conference meeting that the disciples
attended" after the resurrection.
"But Thomas was not with them." "Thomas not with them!" said the old
man, in a sorrowful voice. "Why, what could keep Thomas away? Perhaps,"
said he, glancing at some of his backward auditors, "Thomas had got
cold-hearted, and was afraid they would ask him to make the first
prayer; or perhaps," said he, looking at some of the farmers, "Thomas
was afraid the roads were bad; or perhaps," he added, after a pause,
"Thomas had got proud, and thought he could not come in his old
clothes." Thus he went on, significantly summing up the common excuses
of his people; and then, with great simplicity and emotion, he added,
"But only think what Thomas lost! for in the middle of the meeting, the
Lord Jesus came and stood among them! How sorry Thomas must have been!"
This representation served to fill the vacant seats for some time to
come.
At another time Father Morris gave the details of the anointing of David
to be king. He told them how Samuel went to Bethlehem, to Jesse's house,
and went in with a "How d'ye do, Jesse?" and how, when Jesse asked him
to take a chair, he said he could not stay a minute; that the Lord had
sent him to anoint one of his sons for a king; and how, when Jesse
called in the tallest and handsomest, Samuel said "he would not do;" and
how all the rest passed the same test; and at last, how Samuel says,
"Why, have not you any more sons, Jesse?" and Jesse says, "Why, yes,
there is little David down in the lot;" and how, as soon as ever Samuel
saw David, "he slashed the oil right on to him;" and how Jesse said "he
never was so beat in all his life."
Father Morris sometimes used his illustrative talent to very good
purpose in the way of rebuke. He had on his farm a fine orchard of
peaches, from which some of the ten and twelve-year-old gentlemen helped
themselves more liberally than even the old man's kindness thought
expedient.