I WAS pacing the floor, impatiently waiting the arrival of the steamer.
The other passengers had come in, till the seats in the "gentlemen's
room" were quite filled, when the door again opened and a woman
entered. She held in her hands some boxes of blacking, and approaching
me, as the person nearest the door, offered them for sale. I had
scarcely declined purchasing, when, noticing the woman more closely,
regretted not having favored her. Her face was pale, sad, and careworn.
Her dross was neat, yet cheap and scant, and her manner timid in the
extreme. It was plain that my refusal had well nigh frightened away
her small stock of courage, for she stood irresolute a moment, as if
fearing a similar repulse from others to whom she might apply; then,
summoning resolution, she passed to the man at my right, and asked,
faintly, "Will you buy some blacking, sir?"
He also shook his head. She paused once more with a pained look,
then mutely tendered the boxes to each person in the room, going
unsuccessfully round the entire circle. The last one accosted was a
young sailor, in tarpaulin and blue jacket. He sat leaning over a
paper, reading, when she found voice to say, despondently, "Won't you
take a box?"
By this time the attention of all the persons present was fixed on her
with deepening interest. The downcast eyes; the alternate pallor and
crimson of cheek, and neck, and brow; the slow, hesitating step, now
advancing, now stopping, as if powerless to proceed; utterance overcome
by emotion,—impressed us that some great trouble or an inexorable
emergency had brought her thus before us.
"I don't want your blacking," said the seaman, heartily; "and if I did,
'twould be of no use to me, for I am more than two hundred miles from
home; but if you want money," drawing forth a handful of loose change,
"you can have it!" At the first movement of his hand pocketward,
before his words had interpreted the action, most of the men present,
with evident feeling, were doing the same, and, pouring their united
contributions into the apron of the astonished woman, she retired,
overpowered with gratitude and joy.
As I stepped aboard the boat I thought, how eloquent is silence! No
tale of sorrow did this woman present to excite pity. Her mute appeal
was understood. And is not many a good cause injured, rather than
helped, by the wordiness of its advocates? Are we not often conscious
of internal revolt, as we listen to verbose appeals to our sympathies,
whether on behalf of private or public charities? We get accustomed
to declamation, to argument, and to peroration, but who can resist
sincerity, modesty, sensibility,—the condensed, broken, or speechless
plea of a full heart?
And then, too, the power of example,—of frank, disinterested,
beneficent action,—do we ponder this as we ought? The generous sailor,
in his homely sea-garb, led nearly a score of men that day in the
work of mercy, and the lowliest and poorest are never so low and poor
as to be without the opportunity and means of influencing others by
efficiency in well-doing.