last summer. She died in October. Maybe you will understand now why I
said that we should have had a singer, if she had lived."
But Summerman was in doubt about this, as, from the point to which he
immediately retired, he cast a glance at the face of the stranger, who
took the picture, and surveyed it, with such a look.
At first, it appeared as if a glance would suffice him. But he did not
return it with a glance. Was it the brightness and innocence of the young
face that won upon him, or did it for the moment take its place as the
type of all beauty and innocence, and hold him to contemplation, as for
the last time. Was it really into the face of _that_ little child, dead
and buried since October, that he looked? or was _he_ really _here_, under
the roof of this poor organist, shut up with the warmth of his coal stove
this bright Christmas day, locked safe his secret thoughts, himself secure
with them?
At last some word or sound escaped the organist. He had gazed at Mr. Rush
till he seemed possessed of nightmare. So wild, so haggard, so awful, the
man's face appeared to him, that the cry, an involuntary one, expressed
better than any inquiry could have done, how much disturbed he was. The
stranger heard, and seemed to understand, for at the sound he rose
quickly, and laid the picture on the counter; not gently; at the same time
he looked at Summerman and laughed; but without merriment.
"Come," said Summerman quickly, "let me take your portrait. I have quite a
collection here, you see." And as he spoke he did not remove his eyes from
the stranger--he had come to the conclusion that he was mad, or in some
direful strait that made him almost irresponsible, and his first purpose
was one of helpful commiseration.
Instead of quitting the shop straightway, as Summerman expected he would
do when he made this proposition (and if he did depart he meant to
follow), the stranger walked toward the instrument, and on his way picked
up the picture he had thrown down with so little ceremony. He seemed to
think he owed this courtesy:
"Do you find much patronage here?" he asked.
"Oh, considerable," replied Summerman. "Just now more than common. Your
likeness is such a good present to make your friend!"
"Do you think so?"
"Certainly," was the emphatic response.
"You ask to take my likeness--what for?"
"I want it myself."
"Oh--for a sign. Well, young man, you don't know what it's the sign of,
after all," and here Mr. Rush evidently set himself against the world.
"I hope it's the sign of a friend," answered Summerman, who was keeping up
his spirits by an effort, for the mere presence of this man weighed on
them with an almost intolerable weight. Yet he was sparing no effort to
retain that presence.
"Why do you hope that?" asked Mr. Rush with a disagreeable show of
authority.
"Because we met at the church door on Christmas day." Simple answer--yet
it was spoken so gently, so truthfully, it seemed to make an impression.
"Christmas day. So it is. But it's getting late. How high is the sun yet?"
"Three hours, maybe."
Hearing this, the gentleman turned away, and walked to the further
extremity of the shop. Summerman's eyes followed him with anxiety. But he
went on polishing a plate, and seemed beyond all things intent on that.
Presently Mr. Rush came back.
"You may take my likeness," said he. "You are a good fellow. And it will
help pass time."
So the artist stepped quickly about, and looked pleased, but not too much
so. The work was soon done. While Summerman was putting it through the
process of perfection, the gentleman stood and watched him.
"How did you want your choir to sing 'good will to men?'" he asked.
Summerman did not look up to answer--did not express any surprise, but the
whole man was in the reply given:
"From the heart, sir. Full, confident, assuring. They owe that to God and
man, or they've no business in a choir."
"Do you suppose they could do it?" asked Mr. Rush, not immediately, but,
as it seemed, when he had controlled the unpleasant influence the
speaker's enthusiastic mode of address had upon him. It seemed as if he
were not merely speaking, and engaging the organist in speech for
pastime--but rather because he could not help it. His questions, when he
asked them, had a more surprising sound to himself than to the person who
answered. And they vexed him--but not Summerman. When Mr. Rush asked him
if he supposed it possible for them to sing in the way signified, he
replied quite confidently:
"Yes, if they only knew what they were about."
"But you explained that to them?"
"Well, then, yes, if they believed it; for after all, belief is of the
heart."
"You don't think they believe it?"
"It's a hard thing to say. But if they did, they would do better. They
are not a happy set altogether. They whine--they talk one thing, and live
another. One of them lost a little money the other day--pretty nearly all
he had, I suppose--but what of that?"
"What of that!" exclaimed Mr. Rush, and he looked at the organist amazed.
"Yes, what of it? The man has his health and his faculties. What's money?"
"What's money!"
"Yes, sir, when you come to the point--what is it? Eyes, hands,
feet--blood, brain, heart, soul? You would think so to hear him talk. It's
dust! I've seen that proved, sir, and I know 'tis true!"
"You don't allow for circumstances," said the stranger, sharply.
"Circumstances!" repeated Summerman, incredulous.
"Yes, the difference between your affairs and those of your neighbors. You
seem to judge others by yourself?"
"My affairs! I haven't any to speak of," said the organist, with a grave
sort of wonder.
"I suppose," replied the stranger, almost angrily, "you are a human
creature; things happen to you, and they do not. If you have any feeling
at all you are affected by what happens." He ceased speaking with the
manner of a man who is annoyed that he should have been so far beguiled
into speech.
"Some things have happened to me," answered Summerman quietly, seeing
everything, pretending to see nothing. "I lived ten years among the
Gipsies. I belonged to them. That's where I had my schooling. I worked in
the tin ware; and clock mending I took up of myself. I left my people on
account of a church-organ. My father and mother were dead. I had no
brother or sister; nor any relation. But I had friends, and they would
have kept me; but I had to choose between them and the rest. I couldn't
learn the organ in the woods and meadows; I was caught by the music as
easily as a pink by a pin. But I kept to the clock mending. I used to
travel about on my business once in a while, for a man can't settle down
to four walls and a tread-mill in a minute, when he's been used to all
creation. Then I learned to take pictures, and I travelled about for a
time, carrying the machine with me. But for the last year I've lived in
this shop and had the church organ. So you see how it is. I have all these
things to look after, and I try to keep in tune, and up to pitch.
"You are a happy man," said Mr. Rush, who had listened with attention to
this humble story. "But," he added, "you could not understand--for you
have had no cares, no one dependent on you--how necessary to some persons
money is for happiness. What ruin follows the loss of it. How many a man
would prefer death to such a loss."
"I guess not," said Summerman, in a low tone. "I believe in the Good Will
doctrine."
"What has that to do with it?" asked the stranger, impatiently.
To this Summerman replied, speaking slowly--humblest acquiescence sounding
through his speech.
"When I settled down, and got the situation in the church, I was about to
bring her here.... You understand.... She died about that time. I have not
seen her picture. Her brother had died before. I was to be the son of the
old people. We were sure that after awhile they would be attracted by our
happy home, and by our fireside all their wanderings would end. They
should be free as in the forests.... It is all changed now--but I am still
their son, and I wish nothing better than to work for them. The old man is
failing, and I think that I shall yet persuade them to come and live with
me--we might be one family still--and it would please her. If I succeed,
there are two or three rooms close by where we can be tolerably happy,
all together. God is not indifferent. He sees all. And sure I am that He
bears me no ill will. So it must be for the best. She used to wear this
ribbon around her splendid hair. She was so young and gay! It would have
done you good to look at such a face. Sometimes I catch myself thinking
what a long, gay life we ought to have lived together--and I know there's
no wickedness in that. It's more pleasant than bitter."
"So you support the old people," was the listener's sole comment. Not
loss, but fidelity--not grief, but constancy, impressed him while he
hearkened to this story.
"I have adopted them," answered the organist. "Yes, they are mine now.
Just as they were to have been. Just as she and I used to talk it over.
Only she is not here."
"So you support them," repeated Mr. Rush. And he seemed to ponder that
point, as if it involved somewhat beyond his comprehension.
The organist replied, wondering. And he looked at the questioner--but the
questioner looked not at him.
"Yes, certainly," he said.
"I suppose they are moderate in their wants. They don't require suites of
chambers with frescoed ceilings, and walls hung with white satin, rose
color, lavender--and the rest. They don't need a four-story palace, with
carpets of velvet to cover the floors from attic to basement. Do they?"
All the scorn and bitterness expressed in these words the organist happily
could never perceive. But he discerned enough to make him shudder, and he
believed that the speaker was mad.
"I don't think I understand you," he answered, perplexed and cautious. He
feared the effect of his words. But anything that he might say would
produce now one sole result.
"Very likely you don't understand," said Mr. Rush.
"But," said the organist, "I wish I did."
"Why, man?"
"You look so troubled, sir."
"Troubled?"
"As if you--hadn't--tried out the Good Will doctrine. I mean--yes, I do!
that I shouldn't suppose you believed in it," said Summerman, bravely.
Mr. Rush laughed bitterly. "I'll tell you a story," said he.
"No--no--I mean not yet--don't," exclaimed Summerman, quickly.
"Why, it's a short tale. I'm not going to trouble you much longer. A fine
holiday you're having! But you'll never have another like it, I believe.
I--I want your advice before I go. Besides, you have kept to your green,
sunny love so long, I would like to give you a notion of what's going on
the other side of the fence."
"Then we will walk," said Summerman, "if it's agreeable to you, sir, I
mean, of course. I always walk around the lake at this hour." The little
man had put on his overcoat while he spoke, and now stood waiting the
stranger's pleasure, cap in hand.
"Dare you leave that face of mine among the other faces?" asked Mr. Rush,
with all seriousness.
The organist looked nervously around as if he expected something to
justify the trouble this question occasioned him.
"Yes--yes--I'll take the risk," he answered, but he spoke without a smile.
One thought alone prevented him from heartily wishing himself rid of this
companion, who, in spite of him, had cast such a gloom over his Christmas
day. The man seemed to have more need of him than Summerman had of his
dinner deferred.
They set out together to walk through the frosty air under the cloudless
sky. The sun was near to setting. In half an hour a deep orange belt
would unroll round the east, flaming signs would mark the heavens, and a
great star hang in the midst of an amethyst hemicycle.
They noticed that the sun was near to setting, and one of them saw the
glory.
"I want you to tell me honestly," said the other. "You have taken my
picture; what do you think it looks like? That is a fair question."
"Like misery," replied Summerman, promptly enough.
"Is that all? I thought worse. I thought it looked like a very devil's
face. When I go back, I'll destroy it. But, then, it looks like me! Now, I
can't afford to live a scarecrow. I believe I wasn't made to frighten
others to death. I'd choose to die myself first." He dropped his voice to
a whisper. "I've been trying to do that. Tried twice. Is there any
particular luck in a third time, that you know of?"
Summerman did not answer, though Rush was looking full upon him; neither
did he avoid the long and piercing gaze the stranger fixed upon him. He
met that like a man.
"You think I'm mad," at last said Mr. Rush.
"Not exactly."
"Thank you. But you are a gipsy. Read my fortune."
Gravely Summerman looked at the fair, smooth palm that was suddenly
stretched before him.
"You have been unfortunate," said he.
"Oh, no; you mustn't admit that. Only a little money lost, that's all."
"Is it all, indeed?" asked Summerman, and he dropped the palm. Then he
shook his head. "I do not think it could have served you so. A little
loss!" said he.
"That is because fortune never made a fool of you. Let me alone; I want to
think." He spoke in the quick, peremptory manner of a man who is
accustomed to command; but he came very near to smiling the next moment,
as he looked down at the little person whom he had ordered into silence.
Then he broke the silence he had enjoined.
"Suppose you were in my case," said he, "how would you act?"
"I am not. How can I tell?" was Summerman's prudent answer.
These words, as indeed any words that he could have spoken, were the best
that Redman Rush could hear; for now he was leaning with the whole weight
of his moral nature on the life of this strong-hearted, true-hearted
organist. He liked the unpresuming, modest, generous word.
"I'll tell you what you would be," said he, quickly. "A month ago worth
half a million--to-day not a cent. Brought up like a fool, you would
probably be one. Turned out of house, helpless as a baby. You have
yourself--master of your wits and your hands. Look at these hands! And all
my wits can advise me is, this life isn't worth the keeping."
"Oh, no; not to-day! They don't say that to-day!" exclaimed Summerman,
speaking as if he knew. And he ventured further, boldly: "They advise you,
go home to your wife and your child; live for them and yourself, and God's
honor."
"Wife--child!" repeated Rush; and he blushed when he added; "you read
fortunes. Your pardon."
"I saw it in your face," said the organist, quietly. "When you looked at
our little Mary, I believed you were thinking of some other little child.
And it reminded you of some other young lady, when I told you what I
expected once. If it hadn't been for them, you would never have thought of
destroying yourself; and I'm sure, on their account, what you ought to ask
and hope is, that your life may be spared."
It is said that drowning men will grasp at straws. This elegant stranger,
who had emerged from mystery to disturb the Christmas day of a humble
organist, now leaned on the friendly arm of the little man, walking along
with him, _not_ as he once sauntered through the promenade, a butterfly
disdaining all but the brightest of sunbeams, the sweetest of flowers.
Poor worm! he was half frozen in this wintry brightness, this exhilarating
atmosphere, in which Summerman throve so well.
"Are all the men that are born in woods and meadows, and brought up
tinkers, like you?" he asked.
"No," answered Summerman. "Some turn out fools, and some knaves, and some
ten times better men and wiser men, than I shall ever be."
"Like the rest of the world. Are men, men everywhere?"
"Pretty much. You talk about your wits. You were made to do a bigger
business than I shall ever do. Go home and begin it. I've a mind to go
with you, so you shan't lose your way."
"You know the way so well," said Rush. He had not before spoken as he now
spoke, almost cheerfully, almost hopefully. Here was this fellow that told
fortunes, daring to prophesy good days for him! But then, was he not a
bankrupt? And if he lived--a beggar still?
* * * * *
The sun had set, and the faces of the two men were again turned to the
village. They had walked quite round the lake, and Summerman had concluded
that he would invite the gentleman to dine with him when they came back to
the inn; would he accept the courtesy? Summerman looked at Mr. Rush, that
he might ascertain the probabilities, and thought that he could see a
breaking of the black clouds which held this man a prisoner. He wanted to
preach to him. He wanted exceedingly to launch out again on the Good Will
doctrine; and at length he did, but not exactly in the manner he would
have chosen, had he been left to himself.
As they walked along in silence, suddenly came and met them the sound of a
quick clanging church bell; then rose a mighty cry, and a still more
potent flame ascending heavenward.
"It's a fire!" cried Summerman. And, true to his living impulse and
instinct, which was forever--first and last, and ever--the good of the
public, the little man set off on a run. His companion, the gentleman who
had never, in his thirty years, run to a fire, with generous intent,
followed on as fleetly. So they came together to the village street, when,
lo! the shop of Daniel Summerman, was making all this stir! drawing such
crowds about it as never before the artist's varied powers had done.
There was neither door nor roof, wall or window, visible, but a pit of
flame, and within, as everybody knew, the entire stock, sum total of the
organist's worldly goods.
"Well! well!" said he, as, panting, he came to a stand-still in the middle
of the street, his companion close beside him.
"Curse God, and die!" was all that the wife of Job could think to say to
him, in his extremity.
"Well! well!" was the comment Redman Rush could make on this disaster,
repeating Summerman's words with an emphasis not all his own. It was
evident that, for a moment at least, he had forgotten himself; his face
was no longer dark with misery, but full of consternation, alive with
sympathy. And still he said:
"Where's your Good Will doctrine, though?"
"Safe!" cried the organist, and he crossed his arms on his breast with a
look of perfect triumph.
"You eat your words with a vengeance. You preach the best sermon I ever
heard, _I_ swear," said Mr. Rush, looking at him with amazement.
"Humph!" ejaculated Summerman.
"I believe, after all, 'twas my cursed picture that did it," continued
Rush. He was not able to stand there in silence listening to the roaring
of the fire, by the side of the man whose property was being destroyed in
this relentless manner. He must talk; and no one hindered him, for the
most of the working force of the village was busy trying to draw water
from the frozen pumps of the neighborhood.
"I might have known such a face would raise the devil," muttered he.
"Then, they are both done for!" was Summerman's quick answer. "If you are
burnt to death, it's clear you can't be drowned. So, it seems you're a new
man altogether. Sir, your wife calls you! But, before you go, pray, take
the Good Will doctrine in. A present from me, if you please."
Having said these words, the organist wiped his eyes, and laughed.
"If this is a dream," said Redman Rush, astonished into doubt of all he
saw and heard, "let me get home before I wake up, for God's sake." And he
turned away from the organist, and was hid in the crowd from the eyes that
followed him.
He turned away, but would he ever lose the memory of a soft voice, saying:
"Mr. Summerman, my boys and I insist on your coming to spend the holidays
with us."
Or, of a grey-haired gentleman's aspect, who came hurrying through the
crowd till he stood face to face with the little organist, whose hands he
grasped as he said:
"Never mind, lad; never mind. You'll be a richer man before night than you
ever were before. Here is a year's salary in advance, from the church,
sir. You understand. And we all want our daguerreotypes; so order an
instrument."
Or, of an agitated voice, that followed him like the voice of a spirit,
mysterious and persuasive:
"Oh, believe in the Good Will Doctrine!"
SEA-WEED.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Not always unimpeded can I pray,
Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession claim:
Too closely clings the burden of the day,
And all the mint and anise that I pay
But swells my debt and deepens my self-blame.
Shall I less patience have than Thou, who know
That Thou revisit'st all who wait for Thee,
Nor only fill'st the unsounded depths below
But dost refresh with measured overflow
The rifts where unregarded mosses be?
The drooping sea-weed hears, in night abyssed,
Far and more far the waves' receding shocks,
Nor doubts, through all the darkness and the mist
That the pale shepherdess will keep her tryst,
And shoreward lead once more her foam-fleeced flocks.
For the same wave that laps the Carib shore
With momentary curves of pearl and gold,
Goes hurrying thence to gladden with its roar
The lorn shells camped on rocks of Labrador,
By love divine on that glad errand rolled.
And, though Thy healing waters far withdraw,
I, too, can wait and feed on hopes of Thee,
And of the dear recurrence of thy Law,
Sure that the parting grace which morning saw,
Abides its time to come in search of me.
TREFOIL.
BY EVERT A. DUYCKINCK.
"Hope, by the ancients, was drawn in the form of a sweet and
beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or
three-leaved grass in her hand."
_Citation from old Peacham in Dr. Johnson's Dictionary._
Three names, clustered together in more than one marked association, have
a pleasant fragrance in English literature. A triple-leaved clover in a
field thickly studded with floral beauties, the modest merits of
HERBERT, VAUGHAN and CRASHAW
"Smell sweet and blossom in the dust"--
endeared to us not merely by the claim of intellect, but by the warmer
appeal to the heart, of kindred sympathy and suffering. True poets, they
have placed in their spiritual alembic the common woes and sorrows of
life, and extracted from them "by force of their so potent art," a cordial
for the race.
Has it ever occurred to the reader to reflect how much the world owes to
the poets in the alleviation of sorrow? It is much to hear the simple
voice of sympathy in its plainest utterances from the companions around
us; it is something to listen to the same burden from the good of former
generations, as the universal experience of humanity; but we owe the
greatest debt to those who by the graces of intellect and the pains of a
profounder passion, have triumphed over affliction, and given eloquence to
sorrow.
There is a common phrase, which some poet must first have invented--"the
luxury of woe." Poets certainly have found their most constant themes in
suffering. When the late Edgar Poe, who prided himself on reducing
literature to an art, sat down to write a poem which should attain the
height of popularity, he said sorrow must be its theme, and wrote "The
Raven." Tragedy will always have a deeper hold upon the public than
comedy; it appeals to deeper principles, stirs more powerful emotions,
imparts an assured sense of strength, is more intimate with our nature, or
certainly it would not be tolerated. There is no delight in the exhibition
of misery as such, it is only painful and repulsive; we discard all vulgar
horrors utterly, and keep no place for them in the mind. Let, however, a
poet touch the string, and there is another response when he brings before
us pictures of regal grief, and gives grandeur to humiliation and penalty.
Nor is it only in the higher walks of tragedy, with its pomp and
circumstances of action, that the poet here serves us. His humbler
minstrelsy has soothed many an English heart from the tale of "Lycidas" to
the elegiac verse of Tennyson. George Herbert still speaks to this
generation as two centuries ago he spoke to his own. His quaint verses
gather new beauties from time as they come to us redolent with the prayers
and aspirations of many successions of the wives, mothers and daughters of
England and America; bedewed with the tears of orphans and parents; an
incitement to youth, a solace to age, a consolation for humanity to all
time.