A day or two later the loft of the sail-maker, instead of the shed of
the boat-builder, happened to be my lounging place, and thinking of this
theme, now uppermost in my mind, I said to him:
"Do you know a man around here by the name of Charlie Potter?"
"Well, I might say that I do. He lived here for over fifteen years."
"What sort of a man is he?"
He stopped in his stitching a moment to look at me, and then said:
"How d'ye mean? By trade, so to speak, or religious-like?"
"What is it he has done," I said, "that makes him so popular with all
you people? Everybody says he's a good man. Just what do you mean by
that?"
"Well," he said, ceasing his work as though the subject were one of
extreme importance to him, "he's a peculiar man, Charlie is. He believes
in giving nearly everything he has away, if any one else needs it. He'd
give the coat off his back if you asked him for it. Some folks condemn
him for this, and for not giving everything to his wife and them orphans
he has, but I always thought the man was nearer right than most of us.
I've got a family myself--but, then, so's he, now, for that matter. It's
pretty hard to live up to your light always."
He looked away as if he expected some objection to be made to this, but
hearing none, he went on. "I always liked him personally very much. He
ain't around here now any more--lives up in Norwich, I think. He's a man
of his word, though, as truthful as kin be. He ain't never done nothin'
for me, I not bein' a takin' kind, but that's neither here nor there."
He paused, in doubt apparently, as to what else to say.
"You say he's so good," I said. "Tell me one thing that he ever did that
struck you as being preëminently good."
"Well, now, I can't say as I kin, exactly, offhand," he replied, "there
bein' so many of them from time to time. He was always doin' things one
way and another. He give to everybody around here that asked him, and to
a good many that didn't. I remember once"--and a smile gave evidence of
a genial memory--"he give away a lot of pork that he'd put up for the
winter to some colored people back here--two or three barrels, maybe.
His wife didn't object, exactly, but my, how his mother-in-law did go on
about it. She was livin' with him then. She went and railed against him
all around."
"She didn't like to give it to them, eh?"
"Well, I should say not. She didn't set with his views, exactly--never
did. He took the pork, though--it was right in the coldest weather we
had that winter--and hauled it back about seven miles here to where they
lived, and handed it all out himself. Course they were awful hard up,
but then they might 'a' got along without it. They do now, sometimes.
Charlie's too good that way. It's his one fault, if you might so speak
of it."
I smiled as the evidence accumulated. Houseless wayfarers, stopping to
find food and shelter under his roof, an orphan child carried seven
miles on foot from the bedside of a dead mother and cared for all
winter, three children, besides two of his own, being raised out of a
sense of affection and care for the fatherless.
One day in the local post office I was idling a half hour with the
postmaster, when I again inquired:
"Do you know Charlie Potter?"
"I should think I did. Charlie Potter and I sailed together for
something over eleven years."
"How do you mean sailed together?"
"We were on the same schooner. This used to be a great port for mackerel
and cod. We were wrecked once together"
"How was that?"
"Oh, we went on rocks."
"Any lives lost?"
"No, but there came mighty near being. We helped each other in the boat.
I remember Charlie was the last one in that time. Wouldn't get in until
all the rest were safe."
A sudden resolution came to me.
"Do you know where he is now?"
"Yes, he's up in Norwich, preaching or doing missionary work. He's kind
of busy all the time among the poor people, and so on. Never makes much
of anything out of it for himself, but just likes to do it, I guess."
"Do you know how he manages to live?"
"No, I don't, exactly. He believes in trusting to Providence for what he
needs. He works though, too, at one job and another. He's a carpenter
for one thing. Got an idea the Lord will send 'im whatever he needs."
"Well, and does He?"
"Well, he lives." A little later he added:
"Oh, yes. There's nothing lazy about Charlie. He's a good worker. When
he was in the fishing line here there wasn't a man worked harder than he
did. They can't anybody lay anything like that against him."
"Is he very difficult to talk to?" I asked, meditating on seeking him
out. I had so little to do at the time, the very idlest of summers, and
the reports of this man's deeds were haunting me. I wanted to discover
for myself whether he was real or not--whether the reports were true.
The Samaritan in people is so easily exaggerated at times.
"Oh, no. He's one of the finest men that way I ever knew. You could see
him, well enough, if you went up to Norwich, providing he's up there. He
usually is, though, I think. He lives there with his wife and mother,
you know."
I caught an afternoon boat for New London and Norwich at one-thirty, and
arrived in Norwich at five. The narrow streets of the thriving little
mill city were alive with people. I had no address, could not obtain
one, but through the open door of a news-stall near the boat landing I
called to the proprietor:
"Do you know any one in Norwich by the name of Charlie Potter?"
"The man who works around among the poor people here?"
"That's the man."
"Yes, I know him. He lives out on Summer Street, Number Twelve, I think.
You'll find it in the city directory."
The ready reply was rather astonishing. Norwich has something like
thirty thousand people.
I walked out in search of Summer Street and finally found a beautiful
lane of that name climbing upward over gentle slopes, arched completely
with elms. Some of the pretty porches of the cottages extended nearly to
the sidewalk. Hammocks, rocking-chairs on verandas, benches under the
trees--all attested the love of idleness and shade in summer. Only the
glimpse of mills and factories in the valley below evidenced the grimmer
life which gave rise mayhap to the need of a man to work among the poor.
"Is this Summer Street?" I inquired of an old darky who was strolling
cityward in the cool of the evening. An umbrella was under his arm and
an evening paper under his spectacled nose.
"Bress de Lord!" he said, looking vaguely around. "Ah couldn't say. Ah
knows dat street--been on it fifty times--but Ah never did know de name.
Ha, ha, ha!"
The hills about echoed his hearty laugh.
"You don't happen to know Charlie Potter?"
"Oh, yas, sah. Ah knows Charlie Potter. Dat's his house right ovah dar."
The house in which Charlie Potter lived was a two-story frame,
overhanging a sharp slope, which descended directly to the waters of the
pretty river below. For a mile or more, the valley of the river could be
seen, its slopes dotted with houses, the valley itself lined with mills.
Two little girls were upon the sloping lawn to the right of the house. A
stout, comfortable-looking man was sitting by a window on the left side
of the house, gazing out over the valley.
"Is this where Charlie Potter lives?" I inquired of one of the children.
"Yes, sir."
"Did he live in Noank?"
"Yes, sir."
Just then a pleasant-faced woman of forty-five or fifty issued from a
vine-covered door.
"Mr. Potter?" she replied to my inquiry. "He'll be right out."
She went about some little work at the side of the house, and in a
moment Charlie Potter appeared. He was short, thick-set, and weighed no
less than two hundred pounds. His face and hands were sunburned and
brown like those of every fisherman of Noank. An old wrinkled coat and a
baggy pair of gray trousers clothed his form loosely. Two inches of a
spotted, soft-brimmed hat were pulled carelessly over his eyes. His face
was round and full, but slightly seamed. His hands were large, his walk
uneven, and rather inclined to a side swing, or the sailor's roll. He
seemed an odd, pudgy person for so large a fame.
"Is this Mr. Potter?"
"I'm the man."
"I live on a little hummock at the east of Mystic Island, off Noank."
"You do?"
"I came up to have a talk with you."
"Will you come inside, or shall we sit out here?"
"Let's sit on the step."
"All right, let's sit on the step."
He waddled out of the gate and sank comfortably on the little low
doorstep, with his feet on the cool bricks below. I dropped into the
space beside him, and was greeted by as sweet and kind a look as I have
ever seen in a man's eyes. It was one of perfect courtesy and good
nature--void of all suspicion.
"We were sitting down in the sailboat maker's place at Noank the other
day, and I asked a half dozen of the old fellows whether they had ever
known a contented man. They all thought a while, and then they said they
had. Old Mr. Main and the rest of them agreed that Charlie Potter was a
contented man. What I want to know is, are you?"
I looked quizzically into his eyes to see what effect this would have,
and if there was no evidence of a mist of pleasure and affection being
vigorously restrained I was very much mistaken. Something seemed to hold
the man in helpless silence as he gazed vacantly at nothing. He breathed
heavily, then drew himself together and lifted one of his big hands, as
if to touch me, but refrained.
"Yes, brother," he said after a time, "I _am_."
"Well, that's good," I replied, taking a slight mental exception to the
use of the word brother. "What makes you contented?"
"I don't know, unless it is that I've found out what I ought to do. You
see, I need so very little for myself that I couldn't be very unhappy."
"What ought you to do?"
"I ought to love my fellowmen."
"And do you?"
"Say, brother, but I do," he insisted quite simply and with no evidence
of chicane or make-believe--a simple, natural enthusiasm. "I love
everybody. There isn't anybody so low or so mean but I love him. I love
you, yes, I do. I love you."
He reached out and touched me with his hand, and while I was inclined to
take exception to this very moral enthusiasm, I thrilled just the same
as I have not over the touch of any man in years. There was something
effective and electric about him, so very warm and foolishly human. The
glance which accompanied it spoke, it seemed, as truthfully as his
words. He probably did love me--or thought he did. What difference?
We lapsed into silence. The scene below was so charming that I could
easily gaze at it in silence. This little house was very simple, not
poor, by no means prosperous, but well-ordered--such a home as such a
man might have. After a while I said:
"It is very evident that you think the condition of some of your
fellowmen isn't what it ought to be. Tell me what you are trying to do.
What method have you for improving their condition?"
"The way I reason is this-a-way," he began. "All that some people have
is their feelings, nothing else. Take a tramp, for instance, as I often
have. When you begin to sum up to see where to begin, you find that all
he has in the world, besides his pipe and a little tobacco, is his
feelings. It's all most people have, rich or poor, though a good many
think they have more than that. I try not to injure anybody's feelings."
He looked at me as though he had expressed the solution of the
difficulties of the world, and the wonderful, kindly eyes beamed in rich
romance upon the scene.
"Very good," I said, "but what do you do? How do you go about it to aid
your fellowmen?"
"Well," he answered, unconsciously overlooking his own personal actions
in the matter, "I try to bring them the salvation which the Bible
teaches. You know I stand on the Bible, from cover to cover."
"Yes, I know you stand on the Bible, but what do you do? You don't
merely preach the Bible to them. What do you do?"
"No, sir, I don't preach the Bible at all. I stand on it myself. I try
as near as I can to do what it says. I go wherever I can be useful. If
anybody is sick or in trouble, I'm ready to go. I'll be a nurse. I'll
work and earn them food. I'll give them anything I can--that's what I
do."
"How can you give when you haven't anything? They told me in Noank that
you never worked for money."
"Not for myself alone. I never take any money for myself alone. That
would be self-seeking. Anything I earn or take is for the Lord, not me.
I never keep it. The Lord doesn't allow a man to be self-seeking."
"Well, then, when you get money what do you do with it? You can't do and
live without money."
He had been looking away across the river and the bridge to the city
below, but now he brought his eyes back and fixed them on me.
"I've been working now for twenty years or more, and, although I've
never had more money than would last me a few days at a time, I've never
wanted for anything and I've been able to help others. I've run pretty
close sometimes. Time and time again I've been compelled to say, 'Lord,
I'm all out of coal,' or 'Lord, I'm going to have to ask you to get me
my fare to New Haven tomorrow,' but in the moment of my need He has
never forgotten me. Why, I've gone down to the depot time and time
again, when it was necessary for me to go, without five cents in my
pocket, and He's been there to meet me. Why, He wouldn't keep you
waiting when you're about His work. He wouldn't forget you--not for a
minute."