IN WHICH BOBBY STEPS OFF THE STAGE, AND THE AUTHOR MUST FINISH "NOW OR
NEVER."
The few days which Bobby remained at home before entering upon the
duties of his new situation were agreeably filled up in calling upon
his many friends, and in visiting those pleasant spots in the woods and
by the river, which years of association had rendered dear to him. His
plans for the future too, occupied some of his time, though, inasmuch
as his path of duty was already marked out, these plans were but little
more than a series of fond imaginings; in short, little more than day
dreams. I have before hinted that Bobby was addicted to castle
building, and I should pity the man or boy who was not--who had no
bright dream of future achievements, of future usefulness. "As a man
thinketh, so is he," the Psalmist tells us, and it was the pen of
inspiration which wrote it. What a man pictures as his ideal of that
which is desirable in this world and the world to come, he will
endeavor to attain. Even if it be no higher aim than the possession of
wealth or fame, it is good and worthy as far as it goes. It fires his
brain, it nerves his arm. It stimulates him to action, and action is
the soul of progress. We must all work; and this world were cold and
dull if it had no bright dreams to be realized. What Napoleon dreamed,
he labored to accomplish, and the monarchs of Europe trembled before
him. What Howard wished to be, he labored to be; his ideal was
beautiful and true, and he raised a throne which will endure through
eternity.
Bobby dreamed great things. That bright picture of the little black
house transformed into a white cottage, with green blinds, and
surrounded by a pretty fence, was the nearest object; and before Mrs.
Bright was aware that he was in earnest, the carpenters and the
painters were upon the spot.
"Now or never," replied Bobby to his mother's remonstrance. "This is
your home, and it shall be the pleasantest spot upon earth, if I can
make it so."
Then he had to dream about his business in Boston and I am not sure but
that he fancied himself a rich merchant, like Mr. Bayard, living in an
elegant house in Chestnut Street, and having clerks and porters to do
as he bade them. A great many young men dream such things, and though
they seem a little silly when spoken out loud, they are what wood and
water are to the steam engine--they are the mainspring of action. Some
are stupid enough to dream about these things, and spend their time in
idleness, and dissipation, waiting for "the good time coming." It will
never come to them. They are more likely to die in the almshouse or
the state prison, than to ride in their carriages; for constant
exertion is the price of success.
Bobby enjoyed himself to the utmost of his capacity during these few
days of respite from labor. He spent a liberal share of his time at
Squire Lee's where he was almost as much at home as in his mother's
house. Annie read Moore's Poems to him, till he began to have quite a
taste for poetry himself.
In connection with Tom Spicer's continued absence, which had to be
explained, Bobby's trials in the eastern country leaked out, and the
consequence was, that he became a lion in Riverdale. The minister
invited him to tea, as well as other prominent persons, for the sake of
hearing his story; but Bobby declined the polite invitations from sheer
bashfulness. He had not brass enough to make himself a hero; besides,
the remembrance of his journey was any thing but pleasant to him.
On Monday morning he took the early train for Boston, and assumed the
duties of his situation in Mr. Bayard's store. But as I have carried
my hero through the eventful period of his life, I cannot dwell upon
his subsequent career. He applied himself with all the energy of his
nature to the discharge of his duties. Early in the morning and late
in the evening he was at his post, Mr. Bigelow was his friend from the
first, and gave him all the instruction he required. His intelligence
and quick perception soon enabled him to master the details of the
business, and by the time he was fifteen, he was competent to perform
any service required of him.
By the advice of Mr. Bayard, he attended an evening school for six
months in the year, to acquire a knowledge of book keeping, and to
compensate for the opportunities of which he had been necessarily
deprived in his earlier youth. He took Dr. Franklin for his model, and
used all his spare time in reading good books, and in obtaining such
information and such mental culture as would fit him to be, not only a
good merchant, but a good and true man.
Every Saturday night he went home to Riverdale to spend the Sabbath
with his mother. The little black house no longer existed, for it had
become the little paradise of which he had dreamed, only that the house
seemed whiter, the blinds greener, and the fence more attractive than
his fancy had pictured them. His mother, after a couple of years, at
Bobby's earnest pleadings, ceased to close shoes and take in washing;
but she had enough and to spare, for her son's salary was now six
hundred dollars. His kind employer boarded him for nothing, (much
against Bobby's will, I must say,) so that every month he carried to
his mother thirty dollars, which more than paid her expenses.
* * * * *
Eight years have passed by since Bobby--we beg his pardon; he is now
Mr. Robert Bright--entered the store of Mr. Bayard. He has passed from
the boy to the man. Over the street door a new sign has taken the
place of the old one, and the passer-by reads,--
BAYARD & BRIGHT,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS.
The senior partner resorts to his counting room every morning from the
force of habit; but he takes no active part in the business. Mr.
Bright has frequent occasion to ask his advice, though every thing is
directly managed by him; and the junior is accounted one of the ablest,
but at the same time one of the most honest, business men in the city.
His integrity has never been sacrificed, even to the emergencies of
trade. The man is what the boy was; and we can best sum up the results
of his life by saying that he has been true to himself, true to his
friends and true to his God.
Mrs. Bright is still living at the little white cottage, happy in
herself and happy in her children. Bobby--we mean Mr. Bright--has
hardly missed going to Riverdale on a Saturday night since he left
home, eight years before. He has the same partiality for those famous
apple pies, and his mother would as soon think of being without bread
as being without apple pies when he comes home.
Of course Squire Lee and Annie were always glad to see him when he came
to Riverdale; and for two years it had been common talk in Riverdale
that our hero did not go home on Sunday evening when the clock struck
nine. But as this is a forbidden topic, we will ask the reader to go
with us to Mr. Bayard's house in Chestnut Street.
What! Annie Lee here?
No; but as you are here, allow me to introduce Mrs. Robert Bright.
They were married a few months before, and Mr. Bayard insisted that the
happy couple should make their home at his house.
But where is Ellen Bayard?
O, she is Mrs. Bigelow now, and her husband is at the head of a large
book establishment in New York.
Bobby's dream had been realised, and he was the happiest man in the
world--at least he thought so, which is just the same thing. He had
been successful in business; his wife--the friend and companion of his
youth, the brightest filament of the bright vision his fancy had
woven--had been won, and the future glowed with brilliant promises.
He had been successful; but neither nor all of the things we have
mentioned constituted his highest and truest success--not his business
prosperity, not the bright promise of wealth in store for him, not his
good name among men, not even the beautiful and loving wife who had
cast her lot with his to the end of time. These were successes, great
and worthy, but not the highest success.
He had made himself a man,--this was his real success,--a true, a
Christian man. He had lived a noble life. He had reared the lofty
structure of his manhood upon a solid foundation--principle. It is the
rock which the winds of temptation and the rains of selfishness cannot
move.
Robert Bright is happy because he is good. Tom Spicer, now in the
state prison, is unhappy,--not _because_ he is in the state prison, but
because the evil passions of his nature are at war with the peace of
his soul. He has fed the good that was within him upon straw and
husks, and starved it out. He is a body only; the soul is dead in
trespasses and sin. He loves no one, and no one loves him.
During the past summer, Mr. Bright and his lady took a journey "down
east." Annie insisted upon visiting the State Reform School; and her
husband drove through the forest by which he had made his escape on
that eventful night. Afterwards they called upon Sam Ray, who had been
"dead sure that Bobby would one day be a great man." He was about the
same person, and was astonished and delighted when our hero introduced
himself.
They spent a couple of hours in talking over the past, and at his
departure, Mr. Bright made him a handsome present in such a delicate
manner that he could not help accepting it.
Squire Lee is still as hale and hearty as ever, and is never so happy
as when Annie and her husband come to Riverdale to spend the Sabbath.
He is fully of the opinion that Mr. Bright is the greatest man on the
western continent, and he would not be in the least surprised if he
should be elected president of the United States one of these days.
The little merchant is a great merchant now. But more than this, he is
a good man. He has formed his character, and he will probably die as
he has lived.
Reader, if yon have any good work to do, do it now, for with you it may
be "NOW OR NEVER."