Washington Square were rich; and some of them proud and selfish,
perhaps; for money sometimes does sad mischief to the hearts of
people. We asked ourselves, “What will they care for old Aunty?”
Whatever their tempers might be, however, when the lady or
gentleman came and saw the bright, eager faces, and the young eyes
glistening with sympathy, and the little hands pointing out there
at the aged woman on the sidewalk,--while they were in their gilded
and cushioned houses,--they could not refuse a name, and the list
swelled fast.
At one house lived three Jewesses, who were so pleased with the
children’s scheme, that they not only gave their own names, but
obtained many more. “They are Jews, ma’am, but they’re Christians!”
said Aunty afterwards; by which she meant, it is not _names_, but
_actions_, that prove us followers of the loving, compassionate
Christ.
So large was the Square, so many houses to visit, that the
ladies’ help was very welcome. They could state Aunty’s case with
propriety; and what with their words and the children’s eloquent
faces, all went well.
So the paper was filled with signatures, and Joanna’s father took
it to the Mayor. He smiled, and signed his name, in big letters, to
an order that Aunty should return at once to her old seat, and have
all the privileges she had ever enjoyed in the Park; and the next
morning there she was, in her own old corner!
As soon as she came, the children ran out to welcome her. As she
shook hands with them, and looked up in their pleased faces, we saw
her again and again wipe the tears from her old eyes.
Everybody that spoke to Aunty that day, congratulated her; and when
the schools in the neighborhood were dismissed, the scholars and
teachers went together, in procession, and bought everything Aunty
had to sell; till the poor old woman could only cover her face and
cry, to think that she had so many friends. If ever you go to the
Parade Ground, in New York, you may talk with old Aunty, and ask
her if this story is not true.
B.
[Illustration]
RICHARD AND KATE.
A SUFFOLK BALLAD.
The following verses were written by Robert Bloomfield,
an English shoemaker, more than sixty years ago, when the
working-classes of England had far more limited opportunities
for obtaining education than they now have. Criticism could
easily point out imperfections in the style of this simple
story, but the consolations of age among the poor are presented
in such a touching manner that it is worthy of preservation.
“Come, Goody! stop your humdrum wheel!
Sweep up your orts, and get your hat!
Old joys revived once more I feel,
’Tis Fair-day! Ay, and _more_ than that!
“Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say,
How many seasons here we’ve tarried?
’Tis forty years, this very day,
Since you and I, old girl, were _married_.
“Look out! The sun shines warm and bright;
The stiles are low, the paths all dry:
I know you cut your corns last night;
Come! be as free from care as I.
“For I’m resolved once more to see
That place where we so often met;
Though few have had more cares than we,
We’ve none just now to make us fret.”
Kate scorned to damp the generous flame,
That warmed her aged partner’s breast;
Yet, ere determination came,
She thus some trifling doubts expressed:--
“Night will come on, when seated snug,
And you’ve perhaps begun some tale;
Can you then leave your dear stone mug?
Leave all the folks, and all the ale?”
“Ay, Kate, I wool; because I know,
Though time _has_ been we both could run,
Such days are gone and over now.
I only mean to see the fun.”
His mattock he behind the door,
And hedging gloves, again replaced;
And looked across the yellow moor,
And urged his tottering spouse to haste.
The day was up, the air serene,
The firmament without a cloud;
The bees hummed o’er the level green,
Where knots of trembling cowslips bowed.
And Richard thus, with heart elate,
As past things rushed across his mind,
Over his shoulder talked to Kate,
Who, snug tucked up, walked slow behind:
“When once a giggling mauther[G] you,
And I a red-faced, chubby boy,
Sly tricks you played me, not a few;
For mischief was your greatest joy.
“Once, passing by this very tree,
A gotch[H] of milk I’d been to fill;
You shouldered me; then laughed to see
Me and my gotch spin down the hill.”
“’Tis true,” she said; “but here behold,
And marvel at the course of time!
Though you and I are both grown old,
This tree is only in its prime.”
“Well, Goody, don’t stand preaching now!
Folks don’t preach sermons at a Fair.
We’ve reared ten boys and girls, you know;
And I’ll be bound they’ll all be there.”
Now friendly nods and smiles had they,
From many a kind Fair-going face;
And many a pinch Kate gave away,
While Richard kept his usual pace.
At length, arrived amid the throng,
Grandchildren, bawling, hemmed them round,
And dragged them by the skirts along,
Where gingerbread bestrewed the ground.
And soon the aged couple spied
Their lusty sons, and daughters dear;
When Richard thus exulting cried:
“Didn’t I _tell_ you they’d be here?”
The cordial greetings of the soul
Were visible in every face;
Affection, void of all control,
Governed with a resistless grace.
’Twas good to see the honest strife,
Who should contribute most to please;
And hear the long-recounted life,
Of infant tricks and happy days.
But now, as at some nobler places,
Among the leaders ’twas decreed
Time to begin the Dicky-Races,
More famed for laughter than for speed.
Richard looked on with wondrous glee,
And praised the lad who chanced to win.
“Kate, wa’n’t I such a one as he?
As like him, ay, as pin to pin?
“Full fifty years have passed away,
Since I rode this same ground about;
Lord! I was lively as the day!
I won the High-lows, out and out.
“I’m surely growing young again,
I feel myself so kedge and plump!
From head to feet I’ve not one pain.
Nay, hang me, if I couldn’t jump!”
Thus spake the ale in Richard’s pate;
A very little made him mellow;
But still he loved his faithful Kate,
Who whispered thus: “My good old fellow,
“Remember what you promised me!
And, see, the sun is getting low!
The children want an hour, ye see,
To talk a bit before we go.”
Like youthful lover, most complying,
He turned and chucked her by the chin
Then all across the green grass hieing;
Right merry faces, all akin.
Their farewell quart beneath a tree,
That drooped its branches from above,
Awaked the pure felicity,
That waits upon parental love.
Kate viewed her blooming daughters round,
And sons who shook her withered hand;
Her features spoke what joy she found.
But utterance had made a stand.
The children toppled on the green,
And bowled their fairings down the hill
Richard with pride beheld the scene,
Nor could he, for his life, sit still.
A father’s unchecked feelings gave
A tenderness to all he said:
“My boys, how proud am I to have
My name thus round the country spread.
“Through all my days I’ve labored hard,
And could of pains and crosses tell;
But this is labor’s great reward,
To meet ye thus, and see ye well.
“My good old partner, when at home,
Sometimes with wishes mingles tears;
Goody, says I, let what wool come,
We’ve nothing for them but our prayers.
“May you be all as old as I,
And see your sons to manhood grow;
And many a time, before you die,
Be just as pleased as I am now.”
Then (raising still his mug and voice),
“An old man’s weakness don’t despise!
I love you well, my girls and boys.
God bless you all!” So said his eyes;
For, as he spoke, a big round drop
Fell bounding on his ample sleeve;
A witness which he could not stop;
A witness which all hearts believe.
Thou, filial piety, wert there;
And round the ring, benignly bright,
Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear,
And in the parting words, “Good Night!”
With thankful hearts and strengthened love
The poor old pair, supremely blest,
Saw the sun sink behind the grove,
And gained once more their lowly rest.
[G] A giddy young girl.
[H] A pitcher.
[Illustration]
LUDOVICO CORNARO.
DERIVED FROM THE WRITINGS OF CORNARO.
“I do not woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore, my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly.”
_Varied from_ SHAKESPEARE.
Ludovico Cornaro, descended from a noble family in Venice, was born
in 1462, thirty years before America was discovered. He removed
to Padua, where he married, and late in life had an only child, a
daughter, who married one of the Cornaro family.
As an illustration of the physical laws of our being, the
outlines of his history are worthy of preservation. He was
wealthy, and indulged in the habits common to young men of his
class. He was fond of sensual indulgences, and especially drank
wine intemperately. The consequence was, that from twenty-five
years of age to forty, he was afflicted with dyspepsia, gout,
and frequent slow fevers. Medicines failed to do any permanent
good, and physicians told him that nothing could restore him but
simplicity and regularity of living. This advice was very contrary
to his taste, and he continued to indulge in the luxuries of the
table, paying the penalty of suffering for it afterwards. At last
his health was so nearly ruined, that the doctors predicted he
could not live many months. At this crisis, being about forty
years old, he resolved to become temperate and abstemious; but
it required so much effort to change his dissipated habits, that
he frequently resorted to prayer for aid in keeping the virtuous
resolution. His perseverance was more speedily rewarded than might
have been expected; for in less than a year he was freed from the
diseases which had so long tormented him. In order to preserve the
health thus restored to him, he observed the peculiarities of his
constitution, and carefully conformed to them in his habits and
modes of living. He says: “It is a favorite maxim with epicures
that whatever pleases the palate must agree with the stomach and
nourish the body; but this I found to be false; for pork, pastry,
salads, rough wines, &c., were very agreeable to my palate, yet
they disagreed with me.” There seems to have been nothing peculiar
in the kinds of food which constituted his nourishment; moderation
as to quantity, and simplicity in modes of cooking, were the
principal things he deemed of importance. He speaks of mutton,
fish, poultry, birds, eggs, light soups and broths, and new wine in
moderate quantities, as among his customary articles of diet. He
is particularly earnest in his praises of bread. He says: “Bread,
above all things, is man’s proper food, and always relishes well
when seasoned by a good appetite; and this natural sauce is never
wanting to those who eat but little; for when the stomach is not
burdened, there is no need to wait long for an appetite. I speak
from experience; for I find such sweetness in bread, that I should
be afraid of sinning against temperance in eating it, were it not
for my being convinced of the absolute necessity for nourishment,
and that we cannot make use of a more natural kind of food.”
He does not lay down specific rules for others, but very wisely
advises each one to govern himself according to the laws of his own
constitution. He says every man ought carefully to observe what
kinds of food and drink agree or disagree with him, and indulge
or refrain accordingly; but whatever he eats or drinks, it should
be in quantities so moderate as to be easily digested. He grows
eloquent in his warnings against the fashionable luxury, by which
he had himself suffered so severely. He exclaims: “O, unhappy
Italy! Do you not see that intemperance causes more deaths than
plague, or fire, or many battles? These profuse feasts, now so
much in fashion, where the tables are not large enough to hold the
variety of dishes, I tell you these cause more murders than so
many battles. I beseech you to put a stop to these abuses. Banish
luxury, as you would the plague. I am certain there is no vice more
abominable in the eyes of the Divine Majesty. It brings on the body
a long and lasting train of disagreeable sensations and diseases,
and at length it destroys the soul also. I have seen men of fine
understanding and amiable disposition carried off by this plague,
in the flower of their youth, who, if they had lived abstemiously,
might now be among us, to benefit and adorn society.”
His dissertations on health may be condensed into the following
concise general rules, which are worthy of all acceptance:--
Let every man study his own constitution, and regulate food, drink,
and other habits in conformity thereto.
Never indulge in anything which has the effect to render the body
uncomfortable or lethargic, or the mind restless and irritable.
Even healthy food should be cooked with simplicity, and eaten with
moderation. Never eat or drink to repletion, but make it a rule to
rise from the table with inclination for a little more.
Be regular in the hours for meals and sleep.
Be in the open air frequently; riding, walking, or using other
moderate exercise.
Avoid extremes of heat or cold, excessive fatigue, and places
where the air is unwholesome, for want of ventilation.
Restrain anger and fretfulness, and keep all malignant or sensual
passions in constant check. Banish melancholy, and do everything to
promote cheerfulness. All these things have great influence over
bodily health.
Interest yourself constantly in employments of some kind.
He gives it as his opinion that anger, peevishness, and despondency
are not likely to trouble those who are temperate and regular in
their habits, and diligent in their occupations. He says: “I was
born with a very choleric disposition, insomuch that there was
no living with me. But I reflected that a person under the sway
of passion was for the time being no better than a lunatic. I
therefore resolved to make my temper give way to reason. I have so
far succeeded, that anger never entirely overcomes me, though I do
not guard myself so well as not to be sometimes hurried away by it.
I have, however, learned by experience that hurtful passions of any
kind have but little power over those who lead a sober and useful
life. Neither despondency nor any other affection of the mind will
harm bodies governed by temperance and regularity.”
In answer to the objection that he lived too sparingly to make
the change which is sometimes necessary in case of sickness, he
replies: “Nature is so desirous to preserve men in good health,
that she herself teaches them how to ward off illness. When it is
not good for them to eat, appetite usually diminishes. Whether a
man has been abstemious or not, when he is ill it is necessary to
take only such nourishment as is suited to his disorder, and even
that in smaller quantities than he was accustomed to in health.
But the best answer to this objection is, that those who live very
temperately are not liable to be sick. By removing the _cause_ of
diseases, they prevent the _effects_.”
He also maintains that external injuries are very easily cured,
when the blood has been kept in a pure state by abstemious living
and regular habits. In proof of it, he tells his own experience
when, at seventy years of age, he was overturned in a coach, and
dragged a considerable distance by the frightened horses. He was
severely bruised, and a leg and arm were broken; but his recovery
was so rapid and complete, that physicians were astonished.
Much of his health and cheerfulness he attributes to constant
occupation. He says: “The greatest source of my happiness is the
power to render some service to my dear country. O, what a glorious
amusement! I delight to show Venice how her important harbor can
be improved, and how large tracts of lands, marshes and barren
sands can be rendered productive; how her fortifications can be
strengthened; how her air, though excellent, can be made still
purer; and how, beautiful as she is, the beauty of her buildings
can still be increased. For two months together, during the heat
of summer, I have been with those who were appointed to drain the
public marshes; and though I was seventy-five years old, yet, such
is the efficacy of an orderly life, that I found myself none the
worse for the fatigue and inconveniences I suffered. It is also
a source of satisfaction to me that, having lost a considerable
portion of my income, I was enabled to repair it for my
grandchildren, by that most commendable of arts, agriculture. I did
this by infallible methods, worked out by dint of thought, without
any fatigue of body, and very little of mind. I owned an extensive
marshy district, where the air was so unwholesome that it was more
fit for snakes than men. I drained off the stagnant waters, and the
air became pure. People resorted thither so fast, that a village
soon grew up, laid out in regular streets, all terminating in a
large square, in the middle of which stands the church. The village
is divided by a wide and rapid branch of the river Brenta, on both
sides of which is a considerable extent of well-cultivated fertile
fields. I may say with truth, that in this place I have erected
an altar to God, and brought thither souls to adore him. When I
visit these people, the sight of these things affords me infinite
satisfaction and enjoyment. In my gardens, too, I always find
something to do that amuses me. It is also a great satisfaction to
me, that I can write treatises with my own hand, for the service of
others; and that, old as I am, I can study important, sublime, and
difficult subjects, without fatigue.”
His writings consisted of short treatises on health, agriculture,
architecture, etc. In an essay, entitled, “A Guide to Health,”
written when he was eighty-three years old, he says: “My faculties
are all perfect; particularly my palate, which now relishes better
the simple fare I eat than it formerly did the most luxurious
dishes, when I led an irregular life. Change of beds gives me no
uneasiness. I sleep everywhere soundly and quietly, and my dreams
are always pleasant. I climb hills from bottom to top, afoot, with
the greatest ease and unconcern. I am cheerful and good-humored,
being free from perturbations and disagreeable thoughts. Joy and
peace have so firmly fixed their residence in my bosom, that they
never depart from it.”
In another essay, called “A Compendium of a Sober Life,” he says:
“I now find myself sound and hearty, at the age of eighty-six. My
senses continue perfect; even my teeth, my voice, my memory, and my
strength. What is more, the powers of my mind do not diminish, as I
advance in years; because, as I grow older, I lessen the quantity
of my solid food. I greatly enjoy the beautiful expanse of this
visible world, which is really beautiful to those who know how to
view it with a philosophic eye. O, thrice-holy Sobriety, thou hast
conferred such favors on thine old man, that he better relishes
his dry bread, than he did the most dainty dishes in the days of
his youth! My spirits, not oppressed by too much food, are always
brisk, especially after eating; so that I am accustomed then to
sing a song, and afterward to write. I do not find myself the worse
for writing immediately after meals; I am not apt to be drowsy, and
my understanding is always clearer, the food I take being too small
in quantity to send up any fumes into my brain. O, how advantageous
it is to an old man to eat but little!”
In a letter to a friend, written when he was ninety-one, the old
man rejoices over his vigor and friskiness, as a boy does over his
exploits on the ice. He says: “The more I advance in years, the
sounder and heartier I grow, to the amazement of the world. My
memory, spirits, and understanding, and even my voice and my teeth,
remain unimpaired. I employ eight hours a day in writing treatises
with my own hand; and when I tell you that I write to be useful to
mankind, you may easily conceive what pleasure I enjoy. I spend
many hours daily in walking and singing. And O, how melodious my
voice has grown! Were you to hear me chant my prayers to my lyre,
after the example of David, I am certain it would give you great
pleasure, my voice is so musical.”
In an essay, entitled, “An Earnest Exhortation,” he says: “Arrived
at my ninety-fifth year, I still find myself sound and hearty,
content and cheerful. I eat with good appetite, and sleep soundly.
My understanding is clear, and my memory tenacious. I write seven
or eight hours a day, walk, converse, and occasionally attend
concerts. My voice, which is apt to be the first thing to fail,
grows so strong and sonorous, that I cannot help chanting my
prayers aloud, morning and evening, instead of murmuring them
to myself, as was formerly my custom. Apprehensions of death do
not disturb my mind, for I have no sensuality to nourish such
thoughts. I have reason to think that my soul, having so agreeable
a dwelling in my body, as not to meet with anything in it but
peace, love, and harmony, not only between its humors, but between
my reason and my senses, is exceedingly contented and pleased
with her present situation, and that, of course, it will require
many years to dislodge her. Whence I conclude that I have still
a series of years to live in health and spirits, and enjoy this
beautiful world, which is indeed beautiful to those who know how
to make it so by virtue and divine regularity of life. If men
would betake themselves to a sober, regular, and abstemious course
of life, they would not grow infirm in their old age, but would
continue strong and hearty as I am, and might attain to a hundred
years and upwards, as I expect will be my case. God has ordained
that whoever reaches his natural term should end his days without
sickness or pain, by mere dissolution. This is the natural way of
quitting mortal life to enter upon immortality, as will be my case.”
Once only, in the course of his long life, did Cornaro depart
from the strict rules he had laid down for himself. When he was
seventy-eight years old, his physician and family united in urging
him to take more nutrition; saying, that he required it to keep
up his strength, now that he was growing so old. He argued that
habit had become with him a second nature, and that it was unsafe
to change; moreover, that as the stomach grew more feeble, it
was reasonable to suppose that it ought to have less work to do,
rather than more. But as they continued to remonstrate, he finally
consented to add a little to his daily portion of food and wine. He
says: “In eight days, this had such an effect upon me, that from
being cheerful and brisk, I began to be peevish and melancholy, so
that nothing could please me. I was so strangely disposed, that I
neither knew what to say to others, nor what to do with myself.”
The result was a terrible fever, which lasted thirty-five days, and
reduced him almost to a skeleton. He attributes his recovery to the
abstinence he had practised for so many years. “During all which
time,” says he, “I never knew what sickness was; unless it might
be some slight indisposition, that continued merely for a day or
two.” He gives it, as the result of his long experience, that it
is well for people, as they become aged, to diminish the quantity
of solid food. He also advises that such nourishment as they take
should be less at any one time, and taken more frequently.