gathering tears. He was more than ever desirous to do something for the
high culture of that generous and affectionate soul. The way to earn a
moderate income was soon opened to him. The widowed sister of one of the
college professors wanted a private tutor for her sons; and John Golding
was recommended by her brother. Here he came in contact, for the first
time, with the outward refinements of life. Charming music, harmonious
colours, elegant furniture, and, above all, the daily conversation of a
cultivated woman, breathed their gentle and refining influences over his
strong and honest soul. At first, he was shy and awkward, but the kindly
atmosphere around him, gradually unfolded the sleeping flower-buds
within, and without thinking of the process, the scholar became a
gentleman. By careful economy, he repaid Esther the sums she had
advanced for his education; but the question was forever renewed how he
should manage to have her share his advantages, without sacrificing her
noble spirit of independence. His visits to the old homestead reminded
him, sometimes a little painfully, that he was leaving his family far
behind him in the career of knowledge and refinement. His father chewed
tobacco, without much regard to cleanliness. His kind old mother _would_
cut the butter with the same knife she had used in eating. She had done
so all her life, but he had never before noticed it, and it vexed him to
the heart to find himself so much annoyed by it now. His serious, gentle
sister, was endowed with an unusual degree of natural refinement, which
is usually a better teacher of manners, than mere conventional
politeness. But once, when he brought home one of his pupils, she came
out to meet them dressed in a new gown, of dingy blue and brick-red,
with figures large enough for bed-curtains. He blushed, and was for a
moment ashamed of her; then he reproached himself that his darling
Esther could seem to him in any respect vulgar. The next week he sent
her a dress of delicate material and quiet colours, and she had tact
enough to perceive, that this was a silent mode of improving her taste.
The most painful thing connected with his own superior culture was the
spiritual distance it produced between him and his honest parents. Their
relative positions were reversed. Father and mother looked up with
wondering deference to their children. Like hens that have hatched
ducks, they knew not what to make of their progeny, thus launching out
on a fluid element, which they had never tried. But he perceived the
distance between them far more clearly than they could. He could receive
the whole of _their_ thought, but was constantly obliged to check the
utterance of his own, from a consciousness that allusions the most
common to him, would be quite unintelligible to them. “The butterfly may
remember the grub, but the grub has no knowledge of the butterfly.” With
Esther he had unalloyed pleasure of companionship; for though ignorant
of the world, and deficient in culture, she was an intelligent listener,
and it charmed him to see her grow continually under the influence of
the sunshine he could bring to her. How he loved to teach her! How he
longed to prove his gratitude by the consecration of all his faculties
and means to her use!
In little more than a year after he left college, a delightful change
came over his prospects. A brother of the widow in whose family he had
been tutor, was appointed ambassador to Spain, and through her influence
he selected John Golding for his private secretary. Esther, true to her
unselfish nature, urged him by all means to accept the offer. “When you
were a little boy,” said she, “you were always eager to know about
countries a great way off. But we little thought then that our cackling
hens would ever bring you such a golden opportunity.”
John’s satisfaction would have been complete, if he could have taken
Esther with him to that balmy clime. But she had many objections to
offer. She said her rustic manners unfitted her for the elegant circles
in which he would move; and he replied that she would catch the tone of
polished society far more readily than he could. She reminded him that
their parents needed his assistance to repair the old dilapidated
homestead, and to purchase cows; and that he had promised to devote to
their use the first money he could spare. He sighed, and made no answer;
for he felt that his pecuniary resources were altogether inadequate to
his generous wishes. Again the question returned, “Why cannot women go
abroad, and earn their own way in the world, as well as men?” The coming
ages answered him, but he did not hear the prophecy.
At last the hour of parting came. Painful it was to both, but far more
painful to Esther. The young man went forth to seek novelty and
adventure; the young woman remained alone, in the dull monotony of an
uneventful life. And more than this, she felt a mournful certainty that
she should never behold her darling brother again, while he was cheered
by hopes of a happy reunion, and was forever building the most romantic
“castles in Spain.” She never told him how very ill she was; and he
thought her interrupted breath was caused merely by the choking emotions
of an over-charged heart.
He deposited with a friend more money than he could have prevailed upon
her to accept, and made a choice collection of books and engravings, to
cheer her during his absence. To the last moment, he spoke of coming for
her next year, and carrying her to the sunny hills of Spain. With a
faint smile she promised to learn Spanish, that she might be able to
talk with her brother Don Scolardo; and so with mutual struggle to
suppress their tears, the brother and sister, who had gone so lovingly,
hand in hand, over the rough paths of life, parted just where the
glancing summit of his hopes rose bright before him.
A letter written on board ship was full of cheerful visions of the quiet
literary home they would enjoy together in the coming years. The next
letter announced his arrival in Spain. Oh, the romantic old castles, the
picturesque mills, the rich vineyards, the glowing oranges, the great
swelling bunches of grapes! He was half wild with enthusiasm, and seemed
to have no annoyance, except the fact that he could not speak modern
languages. “I ought not,” said he, “to complain of the college-education
for which we toiled so hard, and which has certainly opened for me the
closed gateway of a far nobler life than I could probably have entered
by any other means. But after all, dear Esther, much of my time and
money was spent for what I cannot bring into use, and shall therefore
soon for get. Even my Latin was not taught me in a way that enables me
to talk freely with the learned foreigners I meet. By the light of my
present experience, I can certainly devise a better plan of education
for my son, if I ever have one. Meanwhile, dear sister, do not work too
hard; and pray study French and Spanish with all diligence; for laugh as
thou wilt at my ‘castles in Spain,’ I will surely come and bring thee
here. Think of the golden oranges and great luscious grapes, which thou
wilt never see in their beauty, till thou seest them here! Think of
seeing the Alhambra, with its golden lattice-work, and flowery
arabesques! Above all, imagine thyself seated under a fig-tree, leaning
on the bosom of thy ever-loving brother!”
Poor Esther! This description of a genial climate made her sigh; for
while she read it, the cold East winds of New England were cutting her
wounded lungs like dagger-points. But when she answered the precious
letter, she made no allusion to this. She wrote playfully, concerning
the health of the cows and the hens; asked him to inform her what was
cackle in Spanish, for she reverenced the word, and would fain know it
in all languages. Finally, she assured him, that she was studying
busily, to make herself ready to reside in the grand castle he was
building. The tears came to her eyes, as she folded the letter, but she
turned hastily aside, that they might not drop on the paper. Never in
her life had she been willing to let her shadow cross his sunshine.
It was the last letter she ever wrote. She had sought to crown her
brother with laurels on earth, and his ministering angel crowned her
with garlands in heaven.
* * * * *
Three years afterwards, John stood by her humble grave in his native
village. The tears flowed fast, as he thought to himself, “And I once
blushed for thee, thou great and noble soul, because thou wert clothed
in a vulgar dress! Ah, mean, ungrateful wretch, that I was! And how
stinted was thy life, thou poor one!--A slow grinding martyrdom from
beginning to end.”
He remembered the wish she had so meekly expressed, that women might
have a more liberal education, and a wider scope for their faculties.
“For thy sake, thou dear one,” said he, “I will be the friend and
brother of all women. To their improvement and elevation will I
consecrate my talent and my education. This is the monument I will build
to thee; and I believe thy gentle spirit will bless me for it in
heaven.”
He soon after married a young woman, whose character and early history
strongly resembled his beloved sister’s. Aided by her, he devoted all
his energies to the establishment of a Normal School for Young Women.
Mind after mind unfolds under his brotherly care, and goes forth to aid
in the redemption of woman, and the slow harmonizing of our social
discords.
Well might little brown feather-top cackle aloud; for verily her mission
was a great one.
THE STREAM OF LIFE
In morning hours,
Full of flowers,
Our swift boats glide
O’er life’s bright tide;
And every time the oars we raise
The falling drops like diamonds blaze.
From earth and sky
Comes melody;
And ev’ry voice
Singeth, “Rejoice!”
While echoes all around prolong
The cadence of that wondrous song.
Above each boat
Bright fairies float,
Mounting on air
To castles there.
The earth is full of glorious things
All tinged with light from rainbow wings.
Dear Friendship’s smile,
And Love’s sweet wile,
Make Life all bright
With genial light,
And seem to shine with steady ray,
That ne’er can change, or fade away.
* * * * *
More slowly glides life’s _evening_ boat,
And withered flowers around it float.
The drops fall dark from weary oars,
And dismal fogs shroud all the shores.
Like widowed bird that mourns alone,
Sings Music, in her minor tone,
Of flowers that blossom but to die;
And echoes answer plaintively.
Bright fairies change to limping hags;
Their rainbow wings to dingy rags.
Dark heavy clouds sail through the air,
Where golden castles shone so fair.
Strong hearts grow faint, and young ones old;
Friendships decline, and Love is cold.
Dim twilight changes morn’s ideal
To flick’ring shadows, all unreal.
But joy remains, if we have thrown
Fresh flowers to boats around our own.
Though currents part us far and wide,
Sweet perfumes live from flowers that died.
Or if our blossoms formed good seeds,
Such as the growing future needs,
Those little germs perchance may yield
Rich waving crops in Time’s ripe fields.
Though dark the tide we’re drifting o’er,
It brings us near that brighter shore,
Where longing souls at length will know
The use of this world’s changing show.
Meanwhile, though sunlight has gone down,
Life’s ev’ning wears a starry crown,
Where weary ones, who look above,
May read the letters, “God is love.”
THE MAN THAT KILLED HIS NEIGHBOURS.
THE PRINCIPAL INCIDENTS OF THIS STORY ARE FACTS.
Send thou abroad a love for all who live,
And feel the deep content in turn they give.
Kind wishes and good deeds--they make not poor;
They’ll home again, full laden to thy door.
The streams of love flow back where they begin;
For springs of outward joys lie deep within.
R. W. DANA.
It is curious to observe how a man’s spiritual state reflects itself in
the people and animals around him; nay, in the very garments, trees and
stones.
Reuben Black was an infestation in the neighbourhood where he resided.
The very sight of him produced effects similar to the Hindoo magical
tune, called Raug, which is said to bring on clouds, storms, and
earthquakes. His wife seemed lean, sharp, and uncomfortable. The heads
of his boys had a bristling aspect, as if each individual hair stood on
end with perpetual fear. The cows poked out their horns horizontally, as
soon as he opened the barn-yard gate. The dog dropped his tail between
his legs, and eyed him askance, to see what humour he was in. The cat
looked wild and scraggy, and had been known to rush straight up the
chimney when he moved toward her. Fanny Kemble’s expressive description
of the Pennsylvanian stage-horses was exactly suited to Reuben’s poor
old nag. “His hide resembled an old hair-trunk.” Continual whipping and
kicking had made him such a stoic, that no amount of blows could quicken
his pace, and no chirruping could change the dejected drooping of his
head. All his natural language said, as plainly as a horse _could_ say
it, that he was a most unhappy beast. Even the trees on Reuben’s
premises had a gnarled and knotted appearance. The bark wept little
sickly tears of gum, and the branches grew awry, as if they felt the
continual discord, and made sorry faces at each other, behind their
owner’s back. His fields were red with sorrel, or run over with mullein.
Every thing seemed as hard and arid as his own visage. Every day, he
cursed the town and the neighbourhood, because they poisoned his dogs,
and stoned his hens, and shot his cats. Continual law-suits involved him
in so much expense, that he had neither time nor money to spend on the
improvement of his farm.
Against Joe Smith, a poor labourer in the neighbourhood, he had brought
three suits in succession. Joe said he had returned a spade he borrowed,
and Reuben swore he had not. He sued Joe, and recovered damages, for
which he ordered the sheriff to seize his pig. Joe, in his wrath,
called him an old swindler, and a curse to the neighbourhood. These
remarks were soon repeated to Reuben. He brought an action for slander,
and recovered twenty-five cents. Provoked at the laugh this occasioned,
he watched for Joe to pass by, and set his big dog upon him, screaming
furiously, “Call me an old swindler again, will you?” An evil spirit is
more contagious than the plague. Joe went home and scolded his wife, and
boxed little Joe’s ears, and kicked the cat; and not one of them knew
what it was all for. A fortnight after, Reuben’s big dog was found dead
by poison. Whereupon he brought another action against Joe Smith, and
not being able to prove him guilty of the charge of dog-murder, he took
his revenge by poisoning a pet lamb, belonging to Mrs. Smith. Thus the
bad game went on, with mutual worriment and loss. Joe’s temper grew more
and more vindictive, and the love of talking over his troubles at the
grogshop increased upon him. Poor Mrs. Smith cried, and said it was all
owing to Reuben Black; for a better-hearted man never lived than her
Joe, when she first married him.
Such was the state of things when Simeon Green purchased the farm
adjoining Reuben’s. The estate had been much neglected, and had caught
thistles and mullein from the neighbouring fields. But Simeon was a
diligent man, blessed by nature with a healthy organization and a genial
temperament; and a wise and kind education had aided nature in the
perfection of her goodly work. His provident industry soon changed the
aspect of things on the farm. River-mud, autumn leaves, old shoes, and
old bones, were all put in requisition to assist in the production of
use and beauty. The trees, with branches pruned, and bark scraped free
from moss and insects, soon looked clean and vigorous. Fields of grain
waved where weeds had rioted. Persian lilacs bowed gracefully over the
simple gateway. Michigan roses covered half the house with their
abundant clusters. Even the rough rock which formed the door-step, was
edged with golden moss. The sleek horse, feeding in clover, tossed his
mane and neighed when his master came near; as much as to say “The world
is all the pleasanter for having you in it, Simeon Green!” The old cow,
fondling her calf under the great walnut tree, walked up to him with
serious friendly face, asking for the slice of sugar-beet he was wont to
give her. Chanticleer, strutting about, with his troop of plump hens and
downy little chickens, took no trouble to keep out of his way, but
flapped his glossy wings, and crowed a welcome in his very face. When
Simeon turned his steps homeward, the boys threw up their caps and ran
out shouting, “Father’s coming!” and little Mary went toddling up to
him, with a dandelion blossom to place in his button-hole. His wife was
a woman of few words, but she sometimes said to her neighbours, with a
quiet kind of satisfaction, “Everybody loves my husband that knows him.
They can’t help it.”
Simeon Green’s acquaintance knew that he was never engaged in a law-suit
in his life; but they predicted that he would find it impossible to
avoid it now. They told him his next neighbour was determined to quarrel
with people, whether they would or not; that he was like John Liburne,
of whom Judge Jenkins said, “If the world was emptied of every person
but himself, Liburne would still quarrel with John, and John with
Liburne.”
“Is _that_ his character?” said Simeon, in his smiling way. “If he
exercises it upon _me_, I will _soon_ kill him.”
In every neighbourhood there are individuals who like to foment
disputes, not from any definite intention of malice or mischief, but
merely because it makes a little ripple of excitement in the dull stream
of life, like a contest between dogs or game-cocks. Such people were not
slow in repeating Simeon Green’s remark about his wrangling neighbour.
“Kill _me_! will he?” exclaimed Reuben. He said no more; but his tightly
compressed mouth had such a significant expression, that his dog dodged
him, as he would the track of a tiger. That very night, Reuben turned
his horse into the highway, in hopes he would commit some depredations
on neighbour Green’s premises. But Joe Smith, seeing the animal at
large, let down the bars of Reuben’s own corn-field, and the poor beast
walked in, and feasted as he had not done for many a year. It would have
been a great satisfaction to Reuben if he could have brought a lawsuit
against his horse; but as it was, he was obliged to content himself with
beating him. His next exploit was to shoot Mary Green’s handsome
chanticleer, because he stood on the stone wall and crowed, in the
ignorant joy of his heart, two inches beyond the frontier line that
bounded the contiguous farms. Simeon said he was sorry for the poor
bird, and sorry because his wife and children liked the pretty creature;
but otherwise it was no great matter. He had been intending to build a
poultry yard, with a good high fence, that his hens might not annoy his
neighbours; and now he was admonished to make haste and do it. He would
build them a snug warm house to roost in; they should have plenty of
gravel and oats, and room to promenade back and forth, and crow and
cackle to their heart’s content; there they could enjoy themselves, and
be out of harm’s way.
But Reuben Black had a degree of ingenuity and perseverance, which might
have produced great results for mankind, had those qualities been
devoted to some more noble purpose than provoking quarrels. A pear tree
in his garden very improperly stretched over a friendly arm into Simeon
Green’s premises. Whether the sunny state of things there had a
cheering effect on the tree I know not; but it happened that this
over-hanging bough bore more abundant fruit, and glowed with a richer
hue, than the other boughs. One day, little George Green, as he went
whistling along, picked up a pear that had fallen into his father’s
garden. The instant he touched it, he felt something on the back of his
neck, like the sting of a wasp. It was Reuben Black’s whip, followed by
such a storm of angry words, that the poor child rushed into the house
in an agony of terror. But this experiment failed also. The boy was
soothed by his mother, and told not to go near the pear tree again; and
there the matter ended.
This imperturbable good nature vexed Reuben more than all the tricks and
taunts he met from others. Evil efforts he could understand, and repay
with compound interest; but he did not know what to make of this
perpetual forbearance. It seemed to him there must be something
contemptuous in it. He disliked Simeon Green more than all the rest of
the town put together, because he made him feel so uncomfortably in the
wrong, and did not afford him the slightest pretext for complaint. It
was annoying to see every thing in his neighbour’s domains looking so
happy, and presenting such a bright contrast to the forlornness of his
own. When their wagons passed each other on the road, it seemed as if
Simeon’s horse tossed his head higher, and flung out his mane, as if he
knew he was going by Reuben Black’s old nag. He often said he supposed
Green covered his house with roses and honeysuckles on purpose to shame
_his_ bare walls. But he didn’t care--not he! He wasn’t going to be fool
enough to rot _his_ boards with such stuff. But no one resented his
disparaging remarks, or sought to provoke him in any way. The roses
smiled, the horse neighed, and the calf capered; but none of them had
the least idea they were insulting Reuben Black. Even the dog had no
malice in his heart, though he did one night chase home his geese, and
bark at them through the bars. Reuben told his master, the next day; he
swore he would bring an action against him, if he didn’t keep that dog
at home; and Simeon answered very quietly that he would try to take
better care of him. For several days a strict watch was kept, in hopes
Towzer would worry the geese again; but they paced home undisturbed, and
not a solitary bow-wow furnished excuse for a law-suit.
The new neighbours not only declined quarrelling, but they occasionally
made positive advances towards a friendly relation. Simeon’s wife sent
Mrs. Black a large basket full of very fine cherries. Pleased with the
unexpected attention, she cordially replied, “Tell your mother it was
_very_ kind of her, and I am very much obliged to her.” Reuben, who sat
smoking in the chimney-corner, listened to this message once without any
manifestation of impatience, except whiffing the smoke through his pipe
a little faster and fiercer than usual. But when the boy was going out
of the door, and the friendly words were again repeated, he exclaimed,
“Don’t make a fool of yourself, Peg. They want to give us a hint to send
a basket of our pears; that’s the upshot of the business. You may send
’em a basket, when they are ripe; for I scorn to be under obligation,
especially to your smooth-tongued folks.” Poor Peggy, whose arid life
had been for the moment refreshed with a little dew of kindness,
admitted distrust into her bosom, and the halo that radiated round the
ripe glowing cherries departed.
Not long after this advance towards good neighbourhood, some labourers
employed by Simeon Green, passing over a bit of marshy ground, with a
heavy team, stuck fast in a bog occasioned by long continued rain. The
poor oxen were entirely unable to extricate themselves, and Simeon
ventured to ask assistance from his waspish neighbour, who was working
at a short distance. Reuben replied gruffly, “I’ve got enough to do to
attend to my own business.” The civil request that he might be allowed
to use his oxen and chains for a few moments being answered in the same
surly tone, Simeon silently walked off, in search of a more obliging
neighbour.
The men, who were left waiting with the patient, suffering oxen, scolded
about Reuben’s ill-nature, and said they hoped he would get stuck in
the same bog himself. Their employer rejoined, “If he does, we will do
our duty, and help him out.”
“There is such a thing as being _too_ good-natured,” said they. “If
Reuben Black takes the notion that people are afraid of him, it makes
him trample on them worse than ever.”
“Oh, wait a while,” replied Mr. Green, smiling, “I will kill him before
long. Wait and see if I don’t kill him.”