before, had become involved in trouble with an evil-disposed person, and
been forced to defend himself by means of the law. He had employed Mr.
Herriot to do what was requisite in the case, for which service the
charge was five dollars. The bill had been rendered a few days before,
and the man, who was poor, felt very anxious to pay it. He had the money
all made up to within a dollar. That dollar Mrs. Lee owed him, and she
had promised to give it to him during this day. For hours he had waited,
expecting her to come in; but now had nearly given her up. There was
another little bill of three dollars which had been sent in to him, and
he had just concluded to go and pay that, when Mrs. Lee called with the
balance of the money, one dollar, which she had received from the
shoemaker, Grant.
Half an hour later, and the pocket-book of Mr. Herriot was no longer
empty. His client had called and paid his bill. The five dollars had
come back to him.
LOOK AT T'OTHER SIDE.
"I don't like Mr. Monto at all," said Mr. Jones.
"Nor I," replied Mrs. Mayberry.
"Take him for better or worse," added Mr. Lee, "and I think he is the
strangest and most inconsistent man I ever saw."
"Inconsistent!" resumed Mr. Jones. "He is worse than inconsistent.
Inconsistencies may be pardoned, as constitutional defects and
peculiarities of character. But he is worse than inconsistent, as I
said."
"Yes, that he is," chimed in Mrs. Mayberry. "What do you think I heard
of him last week?"
"What?" said Mr. Jones.
"Yes, what did you hear?" asked Mrs. Lee.
"You know Mr. Barker?"
"Yes."
"There isn't a more gentlemanly man living than Mr. Barker."
"Well, what of him?"
"He was in Mr. Monto's store one day last week, and happened to say
something the little man did not like, when he fired up and insulted him
most grossly."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. Mr. Barker told me himself. He said he was never more hurt in his
life."
"He left the store, of course."
"Oh, yes. He turned on his heel and walked out, and says he will never
darken the door of Monto's store again."
"It is too bad, this habit of insulting people which Monto has. I know
several persons who are hot as fire against him."
"If there were nothing worse about him than that," said Mr. Jones, "I
would be glad. His conduct towards the young man he raised was
unpardonable."
"What was that? I never heard about it," remarked Mr. Lee.
"He had a young man whom he had raised from a lad, and who, it is said,
was always faithful to his interests. Toward the last he became wild,
having fallen into bad company. If Monto had been patient and forbearing
toward him, the young man might have been reclaimed from his error; but
his irascibility and impatience with every thing that did not go by
square and rule, caused him to deal harshly with faults that needed a
milder corrective. The young man, of course, grew worse. At last he got
himself into a difficulty, and was arrested. Bail was demanded for his
appearance to stand a trial for misconduct and breach of law. Monto was
sent for to go his bail; but he heartlessly refused, and the poor fellow
was thrown into prison, where he lay four months, and was then, after a
trial, dismissed with a reprimand from the court. Feeling himself
disgraced by confinement in a jail, he enlisted in the army as soon as
he got free, and has gone off to the Indian country in the West. Isn't
it melancholy? The ruin of that young man lies at Monto's door. His
blood is on the skirts of his garments!"
"Dreadful to think of! Isn't it?" said Mrs. Mayberry. "Just imagine my
son or your son thus cruelly dealt by! A fiend in human shape couldn't
have done more!"
"It'll come back upon him one of these days. I believe in retribution.
No man can do such things with impunity," added Mr. Lee. "Mark my words
for it--Monto will repent of this, as well as a good many other acts of
his life, before he dies."
"He's the meanest man I ever saw," said Mr. Jones. "I don't believe he
ever gave a dollar for charitable purposes in his life."
"You may possibly err, there," remarked a fourth in the company, who had
not before spoken.
"I should like to see the man, Mr. Berry, who can point to a benevolent
act of Monto's," returned Mr. Jones in a decided voice.
"Perhaps," said Mr. Berry, "if we were as willing to look at the other
side of men's characters, we should not entertain the poor opinion of
them we do. If we were to look as closely at the good as we do at the
bad, we might find, perhaps, as much to praise as we do to blame. When I
was a boy, I had a penny given to me, and was about buying a large,
seemingly fine apple, when my brother said in a warning voice, 'Look at
t'other side.' I did look, and found it rotten. When I became a man, I
remembered the lesson, and determined that I would not be deceived by
fair appearances of character, but would be careful to look at t'other
side for blemishes. I saw enough of these, even in the best, to sicken
me with mankind. A few years passed, and I was glad to change my habit
of observation. I began to look at the other and brighter side. The
result surprised and pleased me. I found more good in men than I had
supposed. Even in the worst there were some redeeming qualities."
"You will find few in Monto," said Mr. Lee.
"Do you see that man on the other side of the street?" asked Mr. Berry.
"Who? Miller?"
"Yes; that's the one I mean. I'll call him over, if you have no
objection, and ask him a question or two. I think he can say something
bearing on the subject of our present discourse."
The man was called, and he came over and entered the store of Mr. Jones,
where the conversation happened to occur.
"Good morning, Miller! How are you to-day?" said Mr. Berry.
"Good morning! You've quite a party here. All friends, I see."
"We seem to have met by one of those happy accidents that sometimes
occur. How are you getting along now, Miller? You've been through some
pretty tight places, I believe."
"Yes; and, thanks to a good Providence! I am through them with a whole
skin."
"Cause for congratulation, certainly. We meet with some hard rubs in our
journey through life."
"Indeed we do. Adverse circumstances try us severely, and try our
friends also. It has been so in my case. I thought I had a good many
friends, until trouble came; but, as you know, there were few to stand
by me when I most needed support."
"But you met with friends?"
"Yes, friends in need, who are friends indeed."
"And they were among those who had made no professions, and upon whom
you did not feel that you had any claims?"
"Exactly so. This was particularly the case in one instance. Through
losses, mistakes, and from errors on account of which I do not attempt
to excuse myself, my business became embarrassed. What little real
estate I had was thrown into market and sacrificed, but this did not
meet my necessities. In the hope of weathering the storm, I removed from
the handsome store I occupied into one at half the rent, reduced all
expenses both in my business and family, but still I was not able,
without the most untiring exertions, to meet my payments. More than half
my time I was on the street, engaged in temporary expedients to raise
money. I was harassed to death, and in daily dread of failure. In this
unhappy posture of my affairs, I tried to get some permanent assistance
from friends who were able enough to afford it, and who knew me well.
But they were all afraid to risk any thing.
"One day I had been out from nine o'clock until two, using my best
efforts to obtain sufficient money to meet my notes. I had a thousand
dollars to pay, and could only thus far raise five hundred. Everywhere
that I could think of going I went, but no one would help me through my
difficulty. Dispirited and alarmed at the perilous position of my
affairs, I returned to my store, in order to sit down and reflect for a
few minutes. I thought over all my business acquaintance, but there were
none upon whom I had not already called, that I felt free to ask for the
loan of money. Things seemed desperate. Something must be done, or I
would be ruined. Already the finger of time was past the mark of two. In
less than an hour my paper would be dishonoured, unless I could in some
way command the sum of five hundred dollars. I thought, and thought,
until I felt stupid. At last a man whom I had never liked much came up
before my mind. I had some little acquaintance with him, and knew, or
supposed, that he had money. The idea of going to him I would not at
first entertain. But things were desperate. At last I started up,
determined to see this man.
"'He can but refuse me,' I murmured to myself.
"'It is past two o'clock,' said I abruptly, as I met him standing at his
counter, 'and I am still five hundred dollars short. Can you lend me
that sum for a few days?'
"I expected him to say 'no.' What was my surprise then to hear him
reply--
"'I can, and with pleasure.'
"I could hardly believe my ears. But by the assistance of my eyes, when
he put a check for the amount I had asked for into my hands, I was fully
assured that he was in earnest. I don't know that I ever stopped to
thank him, so overjoyed was I at such unexpected and cheerfully tendered
relief. Three or four days afterward I took him the money he had loaned
me.
"'Keep it longer, if you desire to do so. I have no present use for it,'
said he.
"I hardly knew whether to take him at his word or not. But necessity is
an eloquent pleader.
"'If you can spare it as well as not, it will be an accommodation. My
payments are heavy in the next ten days,' I replied.
"'Retain the use of it and welcome,' said he kindly. After a pause, he
inquired how I was getting along, and did it with so much sincerity
that I was tempted to state frankly the position of my affairs, and did
so. He listened with a good deal of interest, and afterward asked many
questions as to the nature and profits of my business. I concealed
nothing from him in favour or against myself as a business-man.
"'You must be sustained, Mr. Miller,' said he. 'I have a few thousand
dollars uninvested, that I will keep free for six months or so. As far
as you need assistance in meeting your payments, I will afford it. Pay
no more exorbitant interests; waste no more time in running about after
money; but put all your thoughts and energies down to your business, and
twelve months from to-day will see you freed from embarrassment.'
"And he was right."
"He was certainly a noble fellow," said Mr. Jones. "Pity there were not
more like him!"
"That it is," remarked Mrs. Mayberry.
"He belongs to another grade of beings than your Montos."
"Who?" Miller spoke quickly.
"We were talking of Monto when I called you," said Mr. Berry. "Our
friends have a very poor opinion of him."
"Of Mr. Monto? Why, it is of him that I just now spoke."
"Of Monto!" ejaculated Lee.
"Certainly. He it was who so generously befriended me."
"Impossible!" ejaculated Mrs. Mayberry.
"Not at all, for it is true. I never was more mistaken in any one in my
life than in Mr. Monto. He has his faults and defects of character, as
all men have. He is irascible and impatient, and makes in consequence a
great many enemies."
"He was certainly kind to you, Mr. Miller," said Mrs. Mayberry. "But
still, I don't believe in him. Look at the way he treated that poor
young man whom he raised from a boy. That stamps his character. That
shows him to be cruel and vindictive."
"There is another side to that story, without doubt," remarked Mr.
Berry.
"That there is," said Miller; "and suppose we look at it. Monto knew
that young man much better than you or I, or any of us. He had borne
with his irregular habits and evil conduct for years, as well as a man
of his peculiar temperament could bear with them."
"A precious kind of forbearance it was, no doubt. It isn't in him to
bear with any one," broke in Mr. Jones.
"Will you censure a man for what he can't help?" asked Mr. Miller.
"I don't know that we should," was replied.
"It is clear that we ought not; for to do so would be for us to ask of
him an impossibility, and censure him for not performing it. Mr. Monto
is a man, as we all know, of exceedingly impatient temper. Keep that in
view. He takes this boy when quite young, and educates him as well as
teaches him his business. Before he is of age he abuses the confidence
reposed in him by his benefactor, neglects his business, associates with
vicious companions, and purloins his money. Still Monto bears with him,
in the hope that he will change. But he grows worse and worse; and at
length, after a long series of peculations at home, gets into a
difficulty, and is sent to jail to await the judgment of the law in his
case. I happened to be in Mr. Monto's store when he was sent for to bail
the young man out.
"'No,' he said firmly to the messenger, 'he is much better in prison
than out.'
"The man went away, and Monto, turning to me, said--
"'That, Mr. Miller, is the most painful thing I have done in my whole
life. But to have acted otherwise would have been wrong. Kind
admonition, stern reproof, angry expostulation, all have failed with
this young man, in whom I cannot help feeling a strong interest. I will
now leave him to the consequences of his own acts, and to the, I hope,
salutary results of his own reflections. If these fail to reform him,
there is no hope.' This was the spirit in which it was done. He did not
attend court when the trial came on, but he had a messenger there, who
kept him constantly advised of the proceedings. The acquittal gave him
great pleasure, and he expected the young man would return to him,
changed and penitent. He was, alas! grievously mistaken. The enlistment
hurt him exceedingly. I could perceive that his voice was unsteady when
he spoke of it. If he erred in his conduct, it was an error of judgment.
He meant to do good. But I do not believe he erred. In my opinion, the
young man is fit only for the grade he now occupies, and he is better
off where he is."
"There is good in every one," said Mr. Berry, when Miller ceased
speaking; "and we will find it, if we look at the other side."
"No truer word than that was ever spoken," returned Mr. Miller. "Yes,
there is good in every one; and more good than evil in Monto, you may
all be assured."
The censurers of Monto approved the words by a marked and half-mortified
silence.
Yes, there is good in every one; there is another side. Let us look for
this good rather than for what is evil, and we will think better of
mankind than we are now disposed to do.
[Illustration: THIN SHOES.]
THIN SHOES.
"Why, Lizzy, dear!" exclaimed Uncle Thomas, to his pretty niece, Miss
Walton, as she stepped upon the pavement from her mother's dwelling, one
morning in midwinter--"You are not going in this trim?"
"In what trim?" said Lizzy, glancing first at her gloves, then upon her
dress, and then placing her hand upon her neck and bosom to feel if all
was right there. "Is any thing wrong with my dress, uncle?"
"Just look at your feet."
"At my feet!" And Lizzy's eyes fell to the ground. "I don't see any
thing the matter with them."
"Why, child, you have nothing on your feet but paper-soled French
lasting boots."
"They have thick soles, uncle."
"Thick! If you call them thick, you will have to find a new term for
thinness. Go right back, and put on your leather boots."
"Leather boots!" Lizzy's voice and countenance showed an undisguised
amazement.
"Yes, leather boots. You certainly wouldn't think of going out on a day
like this without having your feet well protected with leather boots."
"Leather boots! Why, Uncle Thomas!"--and the musical laugh of Miss
Walton echoed on the air--"who ever heard of such a thing?"
Uncle Thomas glanced involuntarily down at his own thick, double-soled,
calfskin understandings.
"Boots like them!" exclaimed the merry girl, laughing again.
"But come along, my good uncle," she added more seriously, drawing her
arm within his, and attempting to move away. "We'll have all the
neighbourhood staring at us. You can't be in earnest, I'm sure, about my
wearing clumsy leather boots. Nancy, the Irish cook, has a pair; but
I"----
"And pray, Lizzy," returned the old gentleman, as he yielded to the
impulse given him by his niece, and moved down the street beside
her--"are you so much heartier than Nancy, so much stouter and stronger,
that you can bear exposure to damp and even wet pavements, in thin
shoes, while she will not venture out unless with feet well protected by
leather boots?"
"My shoes are not thin, uncle," persisted Lizzy. "They have thick
soles."
"Not thin! Thick soles! Look at mine."
Lizzy laughed aloud, as she glanced down at her uncle's heavy boots, at
the thought of having her delicate feet encased in leather.
"Look at mine!" repeated Uncle Thomas. "And am I so much more delicate
than you are?"
But Miss Walton replied to all this serious remonstrance of her uncle
(who was on a visit from a neighbouring town) with laughing evasion.
A week of very severe weather had filled the gutters and blocked the
crossings with ice. To this had succeeded rain, but not of long enough
continuance to free the streets from their icy encumbrance. A clear,
warm day for the season followed; and it was on this day that Miss
Walton and her uncle went out for the purpose of calling on a friend or
two, and then visiting the Art-Union Gallery.
Uncle Thomas Walton was the brother of Lizzy's father. The latter died
some few years before, of pulmonary consumption. Lizzy, both in
appearance and bodily constitution, resembled her father. She was now in
her nineteenth year, her veins full of young life, and her spirits as
buoyant as the opening spring. It was just four years since the last
visit of Uncle Thomas to the city--four years since he had looked upon
the fair face of his beautiful niece. Greatly had she changed in that
time. When last he kissed her blushing cheek, she was a half-grown
school-girl--now she burst upon him a lovely and accomplished young
woman.
But Uncle Thomas did not fail to observe in his niece certain signs,
that he understood too well as indications of a frail and susceptible
constitution. Two lovely sisters, who had grown up by his side, their
charms expanding like summer's sweetest flowers, had, all at once,
drooped, faded, withered, and died. Long years had they been at rest;
but their memory was still green in his heart. When he looked upon the
pure face of his niece, it seemed to Uncle Thomas as if a long-lost
sister were restored to him in the freshness and beauty of her young and
happy life ere the breath of the destroyer was upon her. No wonder that
he felt concern when he thought of the past. No wonder that he made
remonstrance against her exposure, in thin shoes, to cold and damp
pavements. But Lizzy had no fear. She understood not how fatal a
predisposition lurked in her bosom.
The calls were made; the Art-Union Gallery visited, and then Uncle
Thomas and his niece returned home. But the enjoyment of the former had
only been partial; for he could think of little else, and see little
else, besides Lizzy's thin shoes and the damp pavements.
The difficulty of crossing the streets, without stepping into the water,
was very great; and, in spite of every precaution, Lizzy's feet dipped
several times into little pools of ice-water, that instantly penetrated
the light materials of which her shoes were made. In consequence, she
had a slight hoarseness by the time she reached home, and Uncle Thomas
noticed that the colour on her cheeks was very much heightened.
"Now go and change your shoes and stockings, immediately," said he, as
soon as they entered the house. "Your feet must be thoroughly
saturated."
"Oh no, indeed they are not," replied Lizzy. "At the most, they are only
a little damp."
"A little damp!" said the old gentleman, seriously. "The grass waves
over many a fair young girl, who, but for damp feet, would now be a
source of joy to her friends."
"Why, uncle, how strangely you talk!" exclaimed Lizzy, becoming a little
serious in turn. Just then Mrs. Walton came in.
"Do, sister," said the old gentleman, "see that this thoughtless girl of
yours changes her wet stockings and shoes immediately. She smiles at my
concern."
"Why, Lizzy dear," interposed Mrs. Walton, "how can you be so imprudent!
Go and put on dry stockings at once."
Lizzy obeyed, and as she left the room, her uncle said--
"How can you permit that girl to go upon the street, in midwinter, with
shoes almost as thin as paper."
"Her shoes have thick soles," replied Mrs. Walton. "You certainly don't
think that I would let her wear thin shoes on a day like this."
Uncle Thomas was confounded. Thick shoes! French lasting, and soles of
the thickness of half-a-dollar!
"She ought to have leather boots, sister," said the old gentleman
earnestly. "Stout leather boots. Nothing less can be called a protection
for the feet in damp, wintry weather."
"Leather boots!"
Mrs. Walton seemed little less surprised than her daughter had been at
the same suggestion.
"It is a damp, cold day," said Uncle Thomas.
"True, but Lizzy was warmly clad. I am very particular on this point,
knowing the delicacy of her constitution. She never goes out in
winter-time without her furs."
"Furs for the neck and hands, and lasting shoes and thin cotton
stockings for the feet!"
"Thick-soled boots," said Mrs. Walton, quickly.
"There are thick-soled boots."
And the old gentleman thrust out both of his feet, well clad in heavy
calfskin.
Mrs. Walton could not keep from laughing, as the image of her daughter's
feet, thus encased, presented itself to her mind.
"Perhaps," said Uncle Thomas, just a little captiously, "Lizzy has a
stronger constitution than I have, and can bear a great deal more. For
my part, I would almost as lief take a small dose of poison as go out,
on a day like this, with nothing on my feet but thin cotton stockings
and lasting shoes."
"Boots," interposed Mrs. Walton.
"I call them boots," said the old gentleman, glancing down again at his
stout double-soled calfskins.
But it was of no avail that Uncle Thomas entered his protest against
thin shoes, when, in the estimation of city ladies, they were "thick."
And so, in due time, he saw his error and gave up the argument.
When Lizzy came down from her room, her colour was still high--much
higher than usual, and her voice, as she spoke, was a very little
veiled. But she was in fine spirits, and talked away merrily. Uncle
Thomas did not, however, fail to observe that every little while she
cleared her throat with a low _h-h-em_; and he knew that this was
occasioned by an increased secretion of mucus by the lining membrane of
the throat, consequent upon slight inflammation. The cause he attributed
to thin shoes and wet feet; and he was not far wrong. The warm boa and
muff were not sufficient safeguards for the throat when the feet were
exposed to cold and wet.
That evening, at tea-time, Mr. Walton observed that Lizzy eat scarcely
any thing, and that her face was a little pale. He also noted an
expression that indicated either mental or bodily suffering--not
severe, but enough to make itself visible.
"Are you not well?" he asked.
"Oh yes, very well," was the quick reply.
"You are fatigued, then?"
"A little."
"Go early to bed. A night's sleep will restore all."
Mr. Walton said this, rather because he hoped than believed that it
would be so.
"Oh yes. A night's rest is all I want," replied Lizzy.
But she erred in this.
"Where is Lizzy?" asked Mr. Walton, on meeting his sister-in-law at the
breakfast-table on the next morning. The face of the latter wore a sober
expression.
"Not very well, I am sorry to say," was the answer.
"What ails her?"
"She has taken a bad cold; I hardly know how--perhaps from getting her
feet wet yesterday; and is so hoarse this morning that she can scarcely
speak above a whisper."
"I feared as much," was the old gentleman's reply. "Have you sent for
your doctor?"
"Not yet."
"Then do so immediately. A constitution like her's will not bear the
shock of a bad cold, unless it is met instantly by appropriate
remedies."
In due time the family physician came. He looked serious when he saw the
condition of his patient.
"To what are you indebted for this?" he asked.
"To thin shoes," was the prompt reply of the uncle, who was present.
"I have warned you against this more than once," said the doctor, in a
tone of gentle reproof.
"Oh, no; brother is mistaken," spoke up Mrs. Walton. "She wore
thick-soled shoes. But the streets, as you know, were very wet
yesterday, and it was impossible to keep the feet dry."
"If she had worn good, stout, sensible leather boots, as she ought to
have done, the water would never have touched her feet," said Mr.
Walton.
"You had on your gums?" remarked the physician, turning to Lizzy.
"They are so clumsy and unsightly--I never like to wear them," answered
the patient, in a husky whisper, and then she coughed hoarsely.
The doctor made no reply to this, but looked more serious.