TWO WAYS OF FACING LIFE.
"Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait."
LONGFELLOW.
TO Joseph's infinite satisfaction, Mr. Girling was at home, and he
was at once ushered into a little back room, where the latter, seated
before a table covered with volumes of all shapes and sizes, was poring
over his studies.
Mr. Girling was unmistakeably a book-worm; a single glance sufficed to
ascertain that. A hard frown knit his brow, as he bent over the paper
before him, and so absorbed was he that he seemed hardly to remark
Joseph's entrance. He simply looked quickly up, as the lad obeyed his
"Come in," nodding towards a chair with the words, "Sit down a minute,"
and returned to his task, frowning more intently than ever as he ran
over the words half aloud.
It was Greek he was translating, and Joseph smiled involuntarily as the
unintelligible sounds caught his ear. But the smile died away almost
immediately. The schoolmaster's face was so sallow and careworn, so
lined and furrowed, that it looked more like the countenance of a man
of fifty, than that of one who was barely thirty-five. Joseph decided
very peremptorily in his own mind that the bargain was not worth the
price.
"Better far have a sound digestion," he said to himself, "than such
tightly-packed brains."
And Joseph was right in a certain degree. But he was ignorant of the
motive that prompted such unremitting toil. Mr. Girling's salary was
very small, and a widowed mother and an invalid sister were dependent
on his exertions; so the noble fellow was wearing away his own life in
the endeavour to fit himself to secure greater comfort for them.
After a short space of time during which Mr. Girling appeared to Joseph
to have consulted half the books on the table, he raised his head,
and throwing himself back in his chair in a manner which plainly told
how weary he was, prepared to learn the object of Joseph's visit. But
the frown vanished in an instant,—he kept that for his books,—and the
kindliest light imaginable shone in his grey eyes as he looked at the
fresh young face before him.
"Have you come for a Greek lesson, Joseph?" he asked, with a smile,
passing one hand behind his back, which evidently ached with continuous
stooping forward.
Joseph shook his head. "Greek wouldn't be of much use to 'me,' sir," he
answered.
"Probably not," rejoined the schoolmaster; "though I know more than one
lad your age who is learning it."
"I can read my carpenter's rule without it," said Joseph.
"Just so; but that isn't all that life consists in."
"There'll be more carpenter's rule than Greek in mine, I fancy,"
returned Joseph. "I've done with school, and chosen my trade."
"And you'll do right to stick to it. Depend upon it, it's the only way
to get on; but do not forget that you have a 'mind' as well as hands
to work with—and, above all, that this is what distinguishes you from
the brutes. Cultivate and store your mind—if not with 'Greek,' with
'something' worth learning. All knowledge is useful; and you need not
condemn your brains to starvation because you have chosen to follow
your father's trade. What do you do with yourself of an evening now?"
"I read, sir—"
"Ah!—"
"And I help Ruth—that's my sister—with her lessons—"
"Good! We learn most of all in teaching others, because we have
to search out 'the reason why,' before we can give them the least
instruction. Lads at school generally take as much as possible for
granted. And if they 'do' chance upon a reason for anything, they say
at once, 'Ah! So it is,'—without stopping to make sure that it's clear
to them 'why' it is. That habit gained me a good many floggings once
upon a time, for when I came to be questioned, I was dumb. But it is
altogether different when you are called upon to explain the same thing
to another. You are 'obliged' to look into reasons."
Joseph was beginning to like Mr. Girling. He had never conversed with
him before, having left school before the latter came into office, and
had no idea he could speak so pleasantly. He had well-nigh forgotten
what he had come for.
"You've got a good many books, sir," he said, looking round at the
shelves on which Mr. Girling's small library was arranged.
Mr. Girling smiled. "More than you have read in your whole lifetime, I
suppose," he said. "They seem few enough to me, though. You would be
welcome to any of them, only I am afraid they would not be of a nature
to interest you—unless it is this one." And reaching out his hand
without rising, Mr. Girling took down a volume. "If you haven't read
it," he added, handing it to Joseph, "take it home and see how you like
it; and when you have finished it, come and tell me your impression of
it."
Joseph took the book, ascertained that it was new to him, and having
thanked Mr. Girling, was about to make some further remark, when the
schoolmaster interrupted him.
"You haven't yet told me what brought you here," he said.
Whereupon Joseph unfolded the history of Daddy's wrongs and his own
championship. Mr. Girling's eyes grew bright as he listened.
"Well done!" he exclaimed, "I like you for that. I wouldn't give much
for a lad who could stand by and see grey hairs insulted. But I do not
know that I can visit the offence with the cane. My cane is for the
punishment of offences committed against school discipline; and I do
not use it even then, if it can be avoided. However, I am glad you told
me, and I shall not forget to speak of it to-morrow."
Joseph's countenance fell.
"They deserve a caning, sir," he said, in a disappointed tone of voice.
"They 'do,'" rejoined the schoolmaster heartily; "and had I been on the
spot, I should have done as you did, beyond a doubt. But I have not
much faith in the power of the cane."
"Mr. Outhwaite had," said Joseph.
"My predecessor? Ah! I've heard he used it pretty freely, and you seem
to know something about it. But tell me candidly, now, didn't you defy
its authority 'when you were out of its reach?'"
Joseph could not refrain from laughing as he admitted this fact. "You
know what boys are made of, sir," he said.
"And I was one myself, once," rejoined the schoolmaster. "The cane is a
very convincing argument as long as the tingle lasts; but if boys can
only be made to listen to their own consciences—'to the voice of reason
within them'—they will not need it."
"They will obey themselves, in a manner of speaking, sir."
"Exactly. I see you catch my meaning quickly. Well, we have all to
remember that we are 'children of a larger growth,' as Dryden says,
and that—metaphorically speaking—we may spare ourselves a good many
floggings by listening to the voice which God has put within us. If
we can only come to see how virtue is its own reward, we shall have
far less inclination to tread 'the pleasant paths of vice'—as they are
ignorantly called. Now I am going to ask you to do me a favour."
Mr. Girling rose and crossed the room, and diving his hands into the
bottom of a little cupboard which flanked the chimney-piece, brought
out a parcel tied up in brown paper. "My boots," he said, holding it
up to view. "I was going to carry them round to Sandy David presently,
which would have taken me ten minutes—precisely the time you have been
here. You pass the top of his street on your way home; and if you will
kindly leave them with him, I shall be enabled to make up the Greek I
have lost in talking to you."
Joseph willingly undertook the commission, and again thanking Mr.
Girling for the book, and receiving a parting injunction to come and
give his report upon it as soon as he had made acquaintance with the
contents, he set out.
The house where Sandy David lived, along with his aged father, was—as
we have seen—not far distant from the market-place. The turning was
narrow and dirty, and the buildings were more or less dilapidated for
want of repair. Sandy's, in common with the rest, had a good many
odds to fight against in presenting any sort of appearance. The worm
had been at work for years upon the wood, and the weather-worn paint
truthfully declined to conceal the fact. The constant dripping of
spouts in rainy seasons, too, had rotted the plaster, so that great
leprous patches disfigured the walls, which, in places, were eaten away
to the skeleton.
In Mrs. David's time, in spite of these disadvantages, there had been
evident signs of painstaking within, for she was a woman who believed
in a whitened step and a bit of clean window muslin, and would keep
her room tidy in spite of the dirty nature of Sandy's avocation. But
when she sickened, things rapidly went wrong, for she had no daughter
to keep the place straight, and poor Sandy was one of those despondent
characters who relinquish every bit of hope when evil days close in,
and allow everything to sink with them.
The step soon became the colour of the road. The curtains gradually
changed from white to ashy brown, until they seemed to have put on a
mourning tint for the mistress who was being carried from the narrow
doorway to her last resting-place. And there they still hung, although
summer had given place to autumn since that sad occurrence.
Joseph did not remark all this; he simply rapped on the door with his
knuckles, and hearing a melancholy voice say, "Come in," lifted the
latch and entered.
On one side of the hearth sat old Daddy, drumming with the fingers of
one hand upon the wooden arm of his chair, whilst in the other, he
clutched his stick, as though ready at any moment to set off upon his
search after rags and paper, a heap of which was accumulating in the
corner behind him.
Opposite, seated on a low stool, surrounded by his tools and numerous
odd scraps of leather and boots in various stages of progress, was
Sandy, slowly plying his awl on the soles of a high-low which he was
mending. He evidently knew the shape of a parcel of boots pretty
quickly, for he gave it a keen glance as Joseph advanced. Then dropping
his eyes on to his work again, without so much as returning the
latter's "Good evening," waited until he should be pleased to announce
his business.
"Mr. Girling's boots, to be soled and heeled," said Joseph, holding
them out towards him.
Sandy David put down his tool, and taking the parcel in his hand,
proceeded in silence to untie the string.
"To be soled and heeled," he repeated sententiously, after having duly
examined them. Then setting them down by his side, he picked up the
awl, and went on with the sole of the high-low.
Having discharged his errand, Joseph was about to leave the room, the
atmosphere of which was somewhat oppressive. But meanwhile, Daddy had
recognised him, and the sight of his gallant defender revived his
indignation.
"Aha!" he cried, in his sharp, cracking voice. "I'll pay them out—the
young rascals—that a' will!" And he got up and began to flourish about
with his stick, as if the boys were still compassing him on every hand.
At a word from Sandy, however, he sat down again, and contented himself
with muttered threats.
"It was you that took his part against the boys then, I suppose?" said
Sandy, looking up with a little more show of interest than he had
hitherto betrayed.
Joseph replied in the affirmative.
"And they had better not give me occasion again," he added.
"He's always getting into scrapes," remarked Sandy; "poor old Daddy! He
don't often find any one to side with him—all the more thanks to you
for what you did. It's a shame, the way they serve him."
"That a' will!" suddenly chimed in Daddy, bursting out again.
"It's a wonder he keeps a whole skin," continued Sandy, without heeding
the interruption. "I expect the secret is, he can't resist. It's the
way of the world. Those that 'will' hold up their heads get their necks
broken when they are compelled to go through low doorways. It's not
worth while, to my thinking. A few years more or less, and we shall
all be dust. Why should we strive and struggle to be looked up to by
others?"
"That depends," said Joseph, answering the shoemaker's words, which in
reality had been addressed to himself, rather than to any one else. "I
suppose if it's something in ourselves that others look up to, it's
worth striving for."
Sandy shook his head. "There's nothing lasting," he said.
Joseph did not answer. He had a sort of general impression that
uprightness and knowledge were lasting; and that when a man came to
his final account, he would enter the new life with a better start for
having cultivated and refined his own nature, and done what he could to
improve himself; but his ideas on the subject were rather dim, so he
said nothing.
"I began life with the same notions as you," Sandy went on. "I thought
a good deal depended on the strength of my own arm, and my mind was
made up about getting ahead; so I went at it with a will. But I soon
found out—what you'll learn—that 'the race is not to the swift,' 'time
and chance happen to all,'—and as long as I can keep a roof over my
head and life in my body, I'm content."
Indifferent, he should have said. Contentment means something more
cheerful than the sulky indifference of a man who is too helpless and
lazy to exert himself to mend matters. He should also have taken into
account a fact which Joseph's father mentioned when the former was
recounting what had passed between them.
"A man who makes up his mind to get ahead," he said, "must let
public-houses alone. If Sandy David had begun life with the idea that
he would have to give an account of the time and money that went in
that way, as well as of all the faculties of mind and body that were
given him to improve, he might have shown a more cheerful countenance
now; and perhaps have had his poor wife with him still."