“AN object of real charity,” said Andrew Lyon to his wife, as a poor
woman withdrew from the room in which they were seated.
“If ever there was a worthy object she is one,” returned Mrs. Lyon. “A
widow, with health so feeble that even ordinary exertion is too much for
her; yet obliged to support, with the labour of her own hands, not only
herself, but three young children. I do not wonder that she is behind
with her rent.”
“Nor I,” said Mr. Lyon, in a voice of sympathy. “How much, did she say,
was due to her landlord?”
“Ten dollars.”
“She will not be able to pay it.”
“I fear not. How can she? I give her all my extra sewing, and have
obtained work for her from several ladies; but with her best efforts she
can barely obtain food and decent clothing for herself and babes.”
“Does it not seem hard,” remarked Mr. Lyon, “that one like Mrs. Arnold,
who is so earnest in her efforts to take care of herself and family,
should not receive a helping hand from some one of the many who could
help her without feeling the effort? If I didn't find it so hard to make
both ends meet, I would pay off her arrears of rent for her, and feel
happy in so doing.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the kind-hearted wife, “how much I wish that we were
able to do this! But we are not.”
“I'll tell you what we can do,” said Mr. Lyon, in a cheerful voice;
“or rather what _I_ can do. It will be a very light matter for say ten
persons to give a dollar apiece, in order to relieve Mrs. Arnold from
her present trouble. There are plenty who would cheerfully contribute,
for this good purpose; all that is wanted is some one to take upon
himself the business of making the collections. That task shall be
mine.”
“How glad I am, James, to hear you say so!” smilingly replied Mrs. Lyon.
“Oh, what a relief it will be to poor Mrs. Arnold. It will make her
heart as light as a feather. That rent has troubled her sadly. Old
Links, her landlord, has been worrying her about it a good deal, and,
only a week ago, threatened to put her things in the street, if she
didn't pay up.”
“I should have thought of this before,” remarked Andrew Lyon. “There
are hundreds of people who are willing enough to give if they were only
certain in regard to the object. Here is one worthy enough in every way.
Be it my business to present her claims to benevolent consideration. Let
me see. To whom shall I go? There are Jones, and Green, and Tompkins. I
can get a dollar from each of them. That will be three dollars,--and one
from myself, will make four. Who else is there? Oh, Malcolm! I'm sure of
a dollar from him; and also from Smith, Todd, and Perry.”
Confident in the success of his benevolent scheme, Mr. Lyon started
forth, early on the very next day, for the purpose of obtaining, by
subscription, the poor widow's rent. The first person he called on was
Malcolm.
“Ah, friend Lyon!” said Malcolm, smiling blandly, “Good morning! What
can I do for you, to-day?”
“Nothing for me, but something for a poor widow, who is behind with her
rent,” replied Andrew Lyon. “I want just one dollar from you, and as
much more from some eight or nine as benevolent as yourself.”
At the word poor widow the countenance of Malcolm fell, and when his
visiter ceased, he replied, in a changed and husky voice, clearing his
throat two or three times as he spoke.
“Are you sure she is deserving, Mr. Lyon?” The man's manner had become
exceedingly grave.
“None more so,” was the prompt answer. “She is in poor health, and has
three children to support with the product of her needle. If any one
needs assistance, it is Mrs. Arnold.”
“Oh! Ah! The widow of Jacob Arnold?”
“The same,” replied Andrew Lyon.
Malcolm's face did not brighten with a feeling of heart-warm
benevolence. But he turned slowly away, and opening his money-drawer,
_very slowly_ toyed with his fingers amid its contents. At length
he took therefrom a dollar bill, and said, as he presented it to
Lyon,--signing involuntarily as he did so,--
“I suppose I must do my part. But we are called upon so often.”
The ardour of Andrew Lyon's benevolent feelings suddenly cooled at this
unexpected reception. He had entered upon his work under the glow of a
pure enthusiasm; anticipating a hearty response the moment his errand
was made known.
“I thank you in the widow's name,” said he, as he took the dollar.
When he turned from Mr. Malcolm's store, it was with a pressure on his
feelings, as if he had asked the coldly-given favour for himself.
It was not without an effort that Lyon compelled himself to call upon
Mr. Green, considered the “next best man” on his list. But he entered
his place of business with far less confidence than he had felt when
calling upon Malcolm. His story told, Green, without a word or smile,
drew two half dollars from his pocket and presented them.
“Thank you,” said Lyon.
“Welcome,” returned Green.
Oppressed with a feeling of embarrassment, Lyon stood for a few moments.
Then bowing, he said,
“Good morning.”
“Good morning,” was coldly and formally responded.
And thus the alms-seeker and alms-giver parted.
“Better be at his shop, attending to his work,” muttered Green to
himself, as his visiter retired. “Men ain't very apt to get along too
well in the world who spend their time in begging for every object of
charity that happens to turn up. And there are plenty of such, dear
knows. He's got a dollar out of me; may it do him, or the poor widow he
talked so glibly about, much good.”
Cold water had been poured upon the feelings of Andrew Lyon. He had
raised two dollars for the poor widow, but, at what a sacrifice for
one so sensitive as himself! Instead of keeping on in his work of
benevolence, he went to his shop, and entered upon the day's employment.
How disappointed he felt;--and this disappointment was mingled with a
certain sense of humiliation, as if he had been asking alms for himself.
“Catch me at this work again!” he said half aloud, as his thoughts dwelt
upon what had so recently occurred. “But this is not right,” he added,
quickly. “It is a weakness in me to feel so. Poor Mrs. Arnold must
be relieved; and it is my duty to see that she gets relief. I had no
thought of a reception like this. People can talk of benevolence; but
putting the hand in the pocket is another affair altogether. I never
dreamed that such men as Malcolm and Green could be insensible to an
appeal like the one I made.”
“I've got two dollars towards paying Mrs. Arnold's rent,” he said to
himself, in a more cheerful tone, some time afterwards; “and it will go
hard if I don't raise the whole amount for her. All are not like Green
and Malcolm. Jones is a kind-hearted man, and will instantly respond to
the call of humanity. I'll go and see him.”
So, off Andrew Lyon started to see this individual.
“I've come begging, Mr. Jones,” said he, on meeting him. And he spoke in
a frank, pleasant manner,
“Then you've come to the wrong shop; that's all I have to say,” was the
blunt answer.
“Don't say that, Mr. Jones. Hear my story first.”
“I do say it, and I'm in earnest,” returned Jones. “I feel as poor as
Job's turkey to-day.”
“I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her rent,” said Lyon.
“Oh, hang all the poor widows! If that's your game, you'll get nothing
here. I've got my hands full to pay my own rent. A nice time I'd have in
handing out a dollar to every poor widow in town to help pay her rent!
No, no, my friend, you can't get anything here.”
“Just as you feel about it,” said Andrew Lyon. “There's no compulsion in
the matter.”
“No, I presume not,” was rather coldly replied.
Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened than before. He had
undertaken a thankless office.
Nearly two hours elapsed before his resolution to persevere in the good
work he had begun came back with sufficient force to prompt to another
effort. Then he dropped in upon his neighbour Tompkins, to whom he made
known his errand.
“Why, yes, I suppose I must do something in a case like this,” said
Tompkins, with the tone and air of a man who was cornered. “But there
are so many calls for charity, that we are naturally enough led to hold
on pretty tightly to our purse strings. Poor woman! I feel sorry for
her. How much do you want?”
“I am trying to get ten persons, including myself, to give a dollar
each.”
“Well, here's my dollar.” And Tompkins forced a smile to his face as
he handed over his contribution,--but the smile did not conceal an
expression which said very plainly--
“I hope you will not trouble me again in this way.”
“You may be sure I will not,” muttered Lyon, as he went away. He fully
understood the meaning of the expression.
Only one more application did the kind-hearted man make. It was
successful; but there was something in the manner of the individual who
gave his dollar, that Lyon felt as a rebuke.
“And so poor Mrs. Arnold did not get the whole of her arrears of rent
paid off,” says some one who has felt an interest in her favour.
Oh, yes she did. Mr. Lyon begged five dollars, and added five more from
his own slender purse. But, he cannot be induced again to undertake
the thankless office of seeking relief from the benevolent for a fellow
creature in need. He has learned that a great many who refuse alms on
the plea that the object presented is not worthy, are but little more
inclined to charitable deeds, when on this point there is no question.
How many who read this can sympathize with Andrew Lyon! Few men who have
hearts to feel for others but have been impelled, at some time in their
lives, to seek aid for a fellow creature in need. That their office
was a thankless one, they have too soon become aware. Even those who
responded to their call most liberally, in too many instances gave in a
way that left an unpleasant impression behind. How quickly has the first
glow of generous feeling, that sought to extend itself to others, that
they might share the pleasure of humanity, been chilled; and, instead of
finding the task an easy one, it has proved to be hard, and, too often,
humiliating! Alas that this should be! That men should shut their hearts
so instinctively at the voice of charity!
We have not written this to discourage active efforts in the benevolent;
but to hold up a mirror in which another class may see themselves.
At best, the office of him who seeks of his fellow men aid for the
suffering and indigent, is an unpleasant one. It is all sacrifice on
his part, and the least that can be done is to honour his disinterested
regard for others in distress, and treat him with delicacy and
consideration.