faithful, and zealous; he did not dare say he was any thing else; so he
was compelled to compromise the matter for the moment by saying nothing.
“I was very much surprised to hear from him that he had left your
service. Any thing unpleasant?”
“No.”
“Blot the books?”
“No.”
“Inaccurate?”
“No.”
“Off too much?”
“No; nothing of the kind.”
“But he was always considered one of the most promising young men on
the street.”
“Yes.”
Wyman was perplexed by the taciturnity of the other.
“I don’t ask from idle curiosity; I want a bookkeeper.”
Phogie was dumb.
“Has the young man any fault?” and there were visible evidences of
impatience in the tones and manner of the matter-of-fact merchant.
“Not that I know of.”
“O, you didn’t want him?”
“No--that is--yes--but----”
“Exactly so!” exclaimed Wyman, laughing.
Phogie laughed too; he could not help laughing when he saw what a
figure he was making; besides, a laugh is sometimes a great relief to a
man in a quandary.
“If you must know, Wyman, I’ll tell you. I gave him five hundred for
the last year; he wants six for the next. I won’t give it.”
“No?”
“Yes; that is the whole story.”
“Wait a minute till I have secured him, and then I will talk with you;”
and Wyman moved towards the door.
“Give him six hundred?” asked Phogie, not a little astonished to find
his neighbor so eager to complete the engagement.
“Yes; seven if he demands it.”
“I can send you half a dozen in an hour who will engage for three.”
“Will you give bonds for their integrity and fidelity?” asked Wyman
with a sneer.
“Pooh!”
“Pooh? The fact is, I have suffered enough from cheap clerks. Assure me
that a young man is honest and true to my interest, and I never will
let him leave me on account of any reasonable difference about salary.
All that Solomon said about a virtuous woman I believe in, with regard
to an honest and faithful clerk.”
“I can’t afford to pay these big salaries; and a young man gets above
his business when you pay him too much.”
“Nonsense! He will respect himself, which every man must do in order to
keep himself honest.”
“You are a transcendentalist.”
“I’m common sense. You say you cannot afford to pay high salaries. Can
you afford to have a semi-annual deficit in your cash account of three
hundred dollars, botched up with false entries, lying balances, and
the like?”
Mr. Phogie had never been troubled in this way, and there was no
probability that he ever should be; he looked out for his business
himself, and he should like to see the clerk that could “bamboozle” him.
Mr. Wyman thought otherwise, and took his leave, wondering at the
stupidity of his friend. It occurred to him, as he left the counting
room, that it was not so very strange, after all, that clerks on three
hundred a year can drive 2:40 horses and go to the opera three nights
in a week; not very strange, either, that petty defalcations were
discovered occasionally, and that young men on small salaries got ahead
amazingly fast.
_CHAPTER III._
Wyman engaged Dixon, and Phogie procured the services of an ill-looking
fellow for three hundred dollars. The next time he saw Wyman, he
indulged in a little innocent raillery over the fact that he paid his
new clerk but just half the salary Dixon received; and Phogie thought
he was even a better bookkeeper than Dixon, wrote a plainer hand, and
could run up a column of figures rather quicker. As to the new clerk’s
honesty, he had a bundle of testimonials as big as the invoice book;
and his maternal uncle was president of the Soap and Candle Makers’
Bank. Of course he was honest!
Things went on swimmingly for six months. The new assistant was a
jewel; and when Mr. Quilldriver, the head bookkeeper, was taken down
with rheumatism, which proved to be chronic, Mr. Phogie had so much
confidence in this notable nephew of a notable uncle, that he gave
him the entire charge of the books, and, in the liberality of his big
heart, advanced his salary voluntarily to four hundred dollars a year.
On the first of January, however, when Mr. Phogie called for the
balance sheet, it was not ready. The trial balance didn’t come out
right, and the profit and loss account looked “thundering strange,” as
Mr. Phogie classically expressed it. Three days were hopelessly used up
in “taking stock;” but the thing couldn’t be figured out.
Mr. Phogie began to be alarmed. The general--a noted expert in
unsnarling complicated and difficult accounts--was called in to examine
into affairs; but no sooner did the smart nephew of the president of
the Soap and Candle Makers’ Bank, see the well-known gray locks of the
expert bent over the obstinate folios, than he stepped out to lunch,
and, by some singular oversight, forgot to return.
The upshot of the whole matter was, that the general discovered an
“absquatulation” of some fifteen hundred dollars--just enough to keep
the dapper little bookkeeper in opera tickets and 2:40’s during the
past season.
Of course the thing went up and down the street; and the little ragged
news boys in State Street bellowed it at the top of their lungs into
the ears of the passer by.
“Why, Phogie, how’s this?” said Mr. Wyman, meeting the supporter of the
cheap clerk system.
Mr. Phogie used a very hard word, which only the ministers are
permitted to use in stirring sermons.
“Pay ’em well, Phogie, and they won’t steal; and when you get a
faithful servant, don’t part with him.”
Phogie scowled and edged off.
“By the way, Dixon has brought every thing out as square as a
brick. Trial balance, balance sheet, every thing foots up without
the variation of a penny,” continued Wyman, maliciously, as Phogie
increased his speed.
Poor penny-wise, pound-foolish merchant! He learned better after that.
For the satisfaction of the reader, I may as well add, that Dixon got a
thousand for his next year’s service, and that he is now engaged to his
employer’s pretty daughter, with the prospect of immediately becoming a
partner in the concern.
THE NEW MINISTER;
OR,
“CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME.”
_CHAPTER I._
“It is abominable hypocrisy for you to talk so, Susan; you don’t care
any more about the missionaries than you do about the fifth wheel of
a coach,” exclaimed Louise Percy, the village schoolmistress, to her
friend, Susan Maylie, at whose father’s house she boarded.
“Why, Louise, how rude you are! You wouldn’t like it if I should talk
so about you,” replied Susan, an angry flush gathering upon her cheek.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t; but if it were true, I don’t know that I could
blame you for it.”
“It is not true, Louise.”
“Why, it is only two months since you refused to put any thing
into the contribution box for the missions. You said you thought
the missionaries were a set of lazy vagabonds, who had a good deal
rather preach than work for a living. Now, since the new minister
has come, all of a sudden you are a strenuous friend of missions and
missionaries.”
“Can’t a body change her opinions, when they are found to be wrong?”
replied Susan, petulantly.
“Certainly you can; but is your opinion really changed?”
“How strange you talk, Louise!”
“May be I do; truth is stranger than fiction.”
“You must confess that our new minister’s eloquence has been quite
enough to convince any reasonable person that the propagation of the
gospel among the heathen is a holy and beautiful work.”
“Undoubtedly, it is a good work; and if you really feel called upon to
labor so earnestly in the cause, I am sure I should be the last one to
reprove you for it.”
“You don’t believe I am sincere, then?”
“I think you are very fond of the new minister. If an old man, with a
wife and half a dozen children, had preached those missionary sermons,
I hardly believe you would have felt so much interest in the work.”
“Why, Louise, you astonish me! I really believe you hate the
missionaries.”
“On the contrary, I have the highest respect for them. I have always
contributed my mite to sustain them. I think I was quite as strongly
attached to the cause before this young and handsome Mr. Rogers made
his appearance among us, as I am now;” and Louise laughed merrily.
“He _is_ handsome, isn’t he,” said Susan, catching the playful spirit
of her companion and confidant.
“I grant that with the greatest pleasure: but if you expect to catch
him, you had better moderate your missionary ardor, and act yourself.”
“Nay, Louise, I really feel an interest in the cause;” and Susan looked
as sober as though she had been a missionary herself, just on the point
of starting for the interior of Africa.
Louise laughed merrily again, as she looked doubtfully into the face of
her friend.
A knock at the door started them from the revery into which both had
fallen.
“Mr. Rogers, as I live!” exclaimed Louise, catching a glance at the new
minister as he stood on the door stone.
“Pray, don’t be rude, Louise,” said Susan, as she adjusted her dress
before the glass.
“Be rude! of course not; but I shall say just what I think.”
“Don’t Louise. Be a friend of missions, for my sake.”
Susan opened the door, and Mr. Rogers entered the house.
“I have called, Miss Maylie, to propose a plan for a tea party in aid
of the missions,” said he, after the common place introductories had
been disposed of. “I look to you, who have been first and foremost in
this good cause, for sympathy and coöperation.”
“I shall be very glad, indeed, to do all I can to forward the good
work,” said Susan, demurely, “and so will Miss Percy.”
“You must excuse me; my time is so much occupied that I do not think I
shall be able to render any essential aid,” interposed Louise, scarcely
able to restrain a laugh at the prompt tender Susan had made of her
services.
“Perhaps you are not interested in the missions,” suggested Mr. Rogers.
“To some extent, I am, sir.”
“I trust, then, we shall be able to enlist your sympathies. Certainly
the heathen, perishing in their sins, demand a noble effort on the part
of the Christian world.”
“I do not question the lofty character of the missionary enterprise,
but I do think charity ought to begin at home.”
“Why, Louise, how strange you talk!” exclaimed Susan.
“True, Miss Percy, but it ought not to end there. I see you favor the
home missions.”
“I do. I favor a mission nearer home than any society has been formed
to advance, in our village at least--the mission to the poor and
destitute.”
“The gospel is preached for all,” said the minister.
“_For_ all, but not _to_ all. There is poor Mrs. Weston, who cannot
afford to buy clothes to send her children to meeting.”
“Indeed!” ejaculated the minister.
“Her husband is a poor, miserable drunkard,” added Susan. “You don’t
think her a worthier object of charity than the poor, suffering, dying
heathen, who are perishing in their ignorance and sin?”
“Indeed, I do!” returned Louise.
“Her case ought to be attended to immediately,” said Mr. Rogers.
“She ought to go to the poorhouse; the overseers offered to take her,”
continued Susan.
“The poorhouse! Mrs. Weston has seen better days, and, I doubt not,
would rather die than be subjected to such a bitter humiliation.”
“Her own fault, then; if she won’t let the town help her, what more can
be done?”
“She went to Deacon Hapgood, who owns the hovel in which she lives, to
get him to take off ten dollars a year from her rent. But the Deacon
didn’t see how he could afford it, and the poor woman left him, to
continue alone her struggle with the demon of poverty as best she
might. Yet the Deacon can afford to give a hundred dollars a year to
the missions, and says he never feels the sacrifice.”
“I will see Deacon Hapgood,” said the minister, musingly.
“I hope you will teach him that ‘charity begins at home.’”
“The hungry can be fed, the naked clothed, the houseless sheltered,
and still there will be means left to carry on the missions. We are
commanded to ‘preach the gospel to all nations.’”
“And reminded that the poor are always with us. There is Farmer Jones:
he can’t afford to buy a spelling book for his daughter, but he gives
large sums of money to the missionary society.”
Mr. Rogers, who was an earnest seeker after truth, and who nobly
endeavored to do his duty, began to feel that there was a great deal of
practical wisdom in the remarks of the schoolmistress.
After a little more conversation, in relation to the proposed tea
party, he took his leave.
_CHAPTER II._
Louise Percy, without being very beautiful or very bewitching, was
a very sensible, earnest, straightforward girl. With a warm heart
and generous disposition, she was free, open, and sincere in her
intercourse with the world.
Just the opposite was her friend and confidant, Susan Maylie, though,
as the world goes, she passed for a good-hearted person. She lacked
that transparency of motive which was so eminently the characteristic
of Louise’s temperament. Where no strong prejudice actuated her, she
was generally prompt in her choice of the good from the evil, though
sometimes the most intimate friend was involuntarily led to suspect her
motive.
Six months before we introduce them to the reader, the village in
which they resided was thrown into commotion by the arrival of the new
minister, who had been called to officiate in the parish church.
He was young, handsome, and, more than all, unmarried. Straightway,
one half of the eligible maidens in town became interested in “serious
things.” The prayer meetings and the conference meetings were all
at once found to be seasons of special interest. All the charitable
societies connected with the church suddenly become prosperous. The
missionary society, which was composed of ladies, who met once a month
at the sewing circle, received a new impetus from the arrival of Mr.
Rogers.
The young clergyman made it a point to attend these meetings, for he
was particularly interested in the enterprise of sending the gospel to
the heathen. He had preached several sermons on his favorite topic, and
his exertions were rewarded by the creation of a strong and unusual
feeling on the subject.
Susan, all at once, found her mind intently engaged in the engrossing
subject. It is true she had learned from her father to ridicule
and despise the missions; but then her heart was hard, and the
ministrations of the handsome young clergyman had turned her mind
from the vanities and vexations of life, to the lofty and substantial
realities of “serious things.”
Louise could not help noticing the sudden and remarkable change; but
then Susan so constantly spoke of the minister’s handsome face; so
often sneered at the thought of sundry village belles, whom she was
malicious enough to accuse of attempting to “catch” him, that she
readily fathomed the occasion of the singular transformation.
Louise got out of patience with her friend’s duplicity, but suspecting
that it might be involuntary, or the consequence of a want of
consideration, she had plainly pointed out the inconsistency. Susan
could hardly deny the fact, and feeling that Louise was a true friend,
one who would not proclaim her infirmity to the world, she suffered the
charge to pass unrefuted.
“I am going to set up an opposition to the missionary society,” said
Louise, after Mr. Rogers had gone.
“Pray, what mad scheme have you got in your brain now?” asked Susan.
“I am going to do something for the relief of Mrs. Weston.”
“How foolish you are!”
“Am I?”
“You are, very foolish. It is the town’s business to look out for
paupers.”
“It is my business, too, and yours, Susan.”
“I am sure _I_ shall not meddle with it.”
“We have each of us reserved five dollars for charitable purposes, you
know.”
“Well?”
“I shall give mine to Mrs. Weston.”
“And I shall give mine to the missions. I thought you were going to do
the same.”
“I have altered my mind. I cannot send my money across the ocean, when
there is an abundance of heathen growing up in ignorance around us.
Now, if you will put your five dollars with mine, it will just make up
the amount the poor woman asked the deacon to abate her rent.”
“I shall do no such thing, I assure you. I am too much interested in
the missions to throw my money away upon the town’s paupers.”
“Very well; I will not urge you.”
“What do you suppose Mr. Rogers would say, if I should give nothing to
the missions?”
“Are you beholden to him to render an account of your stewardship? For
my part, I shouldn’t care what he thought. Do your duty, Susan, let
folks think as they may. If I had money enough, I would contribute
handsomely towards having the gospel preached to such heathen as Deacon
Hapgood, Farmer Jones, and some others who support missions, while they
starve their own souls and those of their families.”
Susan, knowing how obstinate Louise was when excited, refrained from
opposing the purpose she had announced, and Louise retired to her room.
“Five dollars,” said she, musingly; “it is more than a week’s pay; but
she shall have it; yes, and more too. Since Susan has refused to join
me in this work of charity, I will give another five dollars; and then
how happy the poor creature will be!”
The face of the gentle-hearted girl lighted up with an involuntary
smile, as she opened her drawer and took therefrom the ten dollars. It
was a large sum for her; but she cheerfully resigned the pleasures it
would purchase, and looked forward to the joy she was about to carry
to the cottage of the drunkard’s wife.
With a light heart she tripped down the road to execute her charitable
mission. As she entered the hovel, she shrank back at the scene of
wretchedness presented to her view. The poor woman, pale and haggard
with care, apparently with one foot in the grave, was surrounded by
half a dozen ragged children, whom her utmost exertions could hardly
feed with the coarsest fare, and clothe even with the miserable
garments that only half covered their nakedness.
Stating the object of her visit, Louise handed to her the ten dollars.
Mrs. Weston started back in amazement. Such unheard of liberality
overwhelmed her with confusion. If Deacon Hapgood could not afford
to take off ten dollars from her rent, how could a poor girl
afford to give her that sum outright? Before she could recover her
self-possession sufficiently to express her gratitude, the young
minister entered the house.
Mr. Rogers was almost as much astonished at the generosity of Louise as
Mrs. Weston had been; and when he took his leave, he gladdened the poor
creature’s heart by adding another ten dollars to the gift.
[Illustration: THE NEW MINISTER. Page 58.]
_CHAPTER III._
After their departure from Mrs. Weston’s, Mr. Rogers walked by the side
of Louise towards her residence. The conversation was earnest, and at
times warm, for Louise had opinions of her own, and was not diffident
in maintaining them, even against the eloquence of the parson.
Mr. Rogers was not less pleased with the spirit and independence of his
companion than he was with her warm heart and charitable disposition.
And when he bade adieu to her at the door of Mr. Maylie’s house, he
could not banish her from his mind.
The following day was Sunday. Oddly enough for him, the minister had
not a word to say about missions or the heathen. His text was, “The
poor ye have always with you.”
It was a noble sermon, showing that the poor, by being continually
before the eye, came to be regarded with indifference and neglect,
while objects of charity far removed by distance, excited the liveliest
sympathy and commiseration. He demonstrated that the first duty of all
was to relieve distress in their midst; in fine, that “charity begins
at home.” It was shown, very much to the edification of Deacon Hapgood,
who sat in the broad aisle, wondering “what the minister was driving
at,” that a rich man could not blind the eye of his Maker by giving
large sums to the missions, while he oppressed the poor, and turned a
deaf ear to their prayer for help.
Louise was deeply interested in the sermon, while a majority of the
congregation arrived at the conclusion that Mr. Rogers had gone crazy.
It was a reflection of her views, and a feeling of proud satisfaction
pervaded her mind, as she reflected that she had been instrumental in
calling the minister’s attention to the subject.
The effect of the sermon was immediate and substantial. Every one of
the “eligible young ladies” straightway emptied the contents of their
purses into Mrs. Weston’s lap. A society was proposed for ameliorating
the condition of the poor, whom they always had with them. But Mr.
Rogers cruelly vetoed the measure, not thinking an organized effort
necessary to complete the work, especially as Mrs. Weston, who was,
perhaps, the only destitute person in town, had money enough to pay a
year’s rent and three months’ provision in her cellar.
In the mean time, Mr. Rogers manifested a laudable interest in the
welfare of the village school, and even preached a sermon on the duty
of parents to their children. He visited the school three times in one
week, besides conferring four distinct and separate times with the
schoolmistress at her boarding place in the evening.
Well, every body--except the eligible young ladies--said it was the
minister’s duty to look after the school, and see that the mistress did
her duty; so every body, with the exception mentioned, agreed that Mr.
Rogers was particularly faithful in the discharge of _his_ duty.
Susan was intensely astonished at the course of events, and more
especially was she pained at the comparative neglect with which the
missions had come to be regarded. Other charities, nearer home, shared
the sympathies of the young and handsome pastor, and she suddenly
realized that her extraordinary exertions in spreading the gospel among
the heathen had failed to accomplish the purpose she had in view. But
hope had not yet deserted her. Her eyes were not as wide open as they
might have been, and she did not yet fully understand the “signs of the
times.”
“What a blessed field of usefulness is open to the teacher of the
district school!” exclaimed she, one day, to her confidant, the
schoolmistress.
Louise looked up from the book she was reading, astonished at the
remark--not at the important truth involved in it, but that it should
proceed from such a source.
“It is, indeed, an interesting field of labor to those who can
appreciate it,” replied she, a smile of intelligence crossing her
good-natured countenance.
“I have been thinking, Louise, that _I_ might be useful in that
capacity.”
“I do not doubt it.”
“And I understand that the school in the south district will be vacant
in a few weeks; don’t you think I could procure the appointment?”
“Why, Susan, you do not really intend to become a teacher, do you?”
“I certainly do. I feel that I have suffered too many years of my life
to pass away in idleness. I intend to redeem the time.”
“You cannot mean it.”
“I am in earnest. Do you think I could get the appointment?”
“I can point you to a place nearer home, if you are really desirous of
becoming a teacher.”
“What place?”
“You may have mine in the course of a month or two.”
“Yours, Louise!”
“I shall send in my resignation next week.”
“Why, Louise, I had no idea that you intended to abandon teaching,”
said Susan, with undisguised astonishment; and, as she had regarded the
attentions her friend received from the handsome young minister with
a jealous eye, perhaps the announcement was received with some small
degree of satisfaction.
“I had no such intention a few days ago. But if you wish for my place,
you can have the opportunity of making the first application.”
“I shall be delighted to get it.”
“I will mention the subject when I send in my resignation.”
“But, Louise, you have never told us anything about this. Pray, what is
going to happen?”
“I suppose I must tell you the secret. Of course you will not betray my
confidence?”
“Certainly not.”
“I am going to be married this fall;” and Louise blushed up to her eyes.
“Going to be married! My goodness! And we never even found out that you
had a beau.”
“It has been rather sudden.”
“I should think it had. Who is the fortunate gentleman?”
“Mr. Rogers.”
“Mr. Rogers!” exclaimed Susan, starting back in blank amazement, while
the color deserted her cheeks, and her heart fluttered with emotion.
“Just so. From the time we met at Mrs. Weston’s, when I gave the poor
woman my money, he has been very attentive--and, in short, the matter
is now settled.”
“Well, I _am_ astonished!”