knew precisely what to expect.
Mrs. Brown continued to rehearse her grievances, believing herself the
most miserable woman in the world. Finally, the tears gathered in her
eyes, and she sobbed bitterly. Brown was a monster; he never tried to
please her, even in the slightest things; and the thought that her
husband’s affections were alienated was perfectly overwhelming.
Brown had picked up the last new novel, which had fallen from Mrs.
B.’s lap, and sat turning over the leaves with the most stoical
indifference. How could Brown sit and see his beloved wife, the partner
of his joys and sorrows, weeping as though her heart would break, and
not offer her a word of consolation? Brown was a philosopher.
_CHAPTER III._
It was after such a scene as we have described that Mrs. Benson called
upon the friend of her early years, and found her in tears. She
believed that poor Mrs. Brown was cruelly treated by her hard-hearted
husband.
Several months elapsed, and the difficulty between Brown and his wife
increased. The lady was an habitual grumbler; she grumbled for the
sake of grumbling, because it seemed to be a “fixed fact” with her
that grumbling was one of the essentials of her existence--one of the
luxuries of life.
Though Brown _was_ a philosopher, there is a point beyond which even
philosophy cannot go to defend its votaries. The lady’s unamiable
peculiarity grew upon her, and Brown’s disgust threatened to produce
a fatal rupture. Several times after the lady had given him a lesson
on the duty of consulting a wife’s taste,--after she had cried her
eyes out with vexation because she could not grumble any more,--her
unfeeling spouse had deserted the house, remaining out till midnight.
Some flying rumors were in circulation, too, that he had been seen
“lingering long at the bowl,” and even that he frequented gambling
houses.
Then people felt sorry for poor Brown, an honest, hardworking,
economical man as he was; it was a great pity that he should go to
destruction.
Mrs. Benson felt keenly for her friend. Brown was a monster; and the
injured lady told her she should certainly die if a drunken husband
were added to her other miseries. She even wished Mrs. Benson to
request her husband to talk to Brown about his vicious propensities.
Mr. Benson had done so. Brown was a little “stuck up” at first, but
quietly informed the obliging remonstrant that since home had become a
hell to him, he had been obliged to seek comfort in a grog shop, and
concluded his cold-blooded remark by suggesting that people had better
mind their own business.
Benson thought so too, and fully resolved not to meddle with the matter
again. But, although Brown had resisted his well-meaning neighbor’s
interference, it was not without its effect, and the injured lady had
the satisfaction of informing her sympathizing friend that he did much
better, that his breath did not smell half so strong of rum, and that
he was at home every evening by nine o’clock.
Mrs. Benson was encouraged, and a few days after accepted an invitation
to tea at the Browns’.
That day, the reckless, obstinate husband had worn home to dinner a new
plaid vest--a pattern in fashion at that time.
The lady did not like plaid--she _never_ liked plaid; and poor Brown
went to the store leaving his wife in tears at his perverse taste. She
had exhausted all her rhetoric in grumbling at the offending garment,
and her hard-hearted husband had maintained his usual indifference to
sighs and tears. Brown was disgusted; and, though we heartily approve
of husbands pleasing their wives in these matters, some how we cannot
find it in our heart to blame him. She always grumbled at him, and,
poor fellow, what could he do?
Mrs. Benson did not arrive in season to hear the lady’s story about
the vest before Brown himself came. He was in high glee, apparently,
notwithstanding the recent tempest. The visitor thought him a “very
nice man,” and she sighed when she thought of his vicious propensities.
Brown was polite, very polite, and the pretty little Mrs. Benson felt
no reserve in his presence.
“What a pretty vest you have got on, Mr. Brown!” said she, smiling
sweetly upon the horrible husband.
“Do you think so?” exclaimed Brown, rubbing his hands with excitement.
“Certainly, I do; it’s a perfect love of a vest. I shall persuade
Charles to have one just like it.”
“How strange you talk, Julia!” said Mrs. Brown.
“Strange! why?”
“To call _that_ vest pretty.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“It’s a perfect fright. My husband has no taste in his dress.”
“Why, now, I think he dresses with admirable taste,” replied Mrs.
Benson, surveying the apparel of Brown, who stood like a show image in
the middle of the room. “I admire his taste.”
“It is not _my_ taste,” sighed Mrs. Brown.
The pretty little sympathizing woman was seized with a doubt whether
Brown was such a monster, after all.
Just then Bridget popped her head in at the door to say that the baker
had not sent the tea cakes.
“The tea cakes, Jonas,” said Mrs. Brown.
“There! by all that is sweet and pleasant to the taste, I forgot all
about them,” exclaimed Brown, seizing his hat.
“Just the way always,” groaned the suffering wife. “You never will do
the little errands I ask you to.”
“Why, my dear, I _intended_ to do the errand, but I forgot it,” pleaded
Brown, with abundant good humor.
“You always forget what _I_ want you to do.”
“But, my love, I did not forget it on purpose.”
“It’s always the way;” and Mrs. Brown threw herself into a chair with
an exhibition of despondency which would have answered very well for
the concentrated miseries of a whole lifetime.
“There’s no harm done; it is only half past five, and I will have the
tea cakes here in ten minutes.”
“You might just as well have brought them before.”
Brown looked cross, threw down his hat in a pet, and settled himself
upon the sofa.
Mrs. Benson was silent with astonishment. Brown rose fifty degrees in
her estimation.
“Are you not going to get the tea cakes, Jonas?” asked Mrs. Brown,
meekly, after the lapse of a few minutes.
Brown was silent.
“You will not get back in season if you don’t go soon.”
Brown picked up the evening paper but said nothing.
“I must go myself then,” said the suffering lady, rising from her chair.
Brown knew this was only a part of his wife’s tactics; but the pretty
little Mrs. Benson, for whose good opinion he entertained some anxiety,
was present, and he concluded to go himself.
When he had gone, Mrs. Brown fixed a melancholy gaze upon her visitor.
“Now you have seen just how he behaves,” said she, with a deep sigh.
“I have,” replied Mrs. Benson, who for the first time perceived that
poor Brown was not the greatest sinner in the world.
“And so he wears my life out.”
“Perhaps your husband is not wholly to blame,” suggested Mrs. Benson.
“Why, Julia!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown, with languid emphasis. “I am sure I
bear and suffer every thing. I had nearly cried my eyes out once before
to-day.”
“Mr. Brown seems disposed to be very good natured.”
“Good natured, Julia! Didn’t you see how angry he got? He went out
without speaking a word.”
“But you do not reflect how cruelly you provoked him by needlessly
finding fault with him. If I should say half as much to my husband as
you said to Mr. Brown, he would turn me out of the house,” answered
Mrs. Benson, who, as she found herself implicated in the quarrel, was
disposed to be very candid.
“I was not conscious of doing any thing to provoke him.”
“You found fault with his vest.”
“But such a horrid looking vest!”
“There you and he differ; you say he never complains of your dress.”
“No.”
“He respects your tastes, then. You know how bad you feel when any
person says any thing disparaging of your clothes; everybody does.”
“But he always dresses so shamefully out of taste.”
“Other people do not think so; but even if he did, you should not find
fault with him.”
“I don’t find fault,” sighed Mrs. Brown; “I only mention what I like
best.”
“And the tea cakes,--you ought not to have said a word.”
“Why, he is so careless----”
“All men are of things about the house; but you must consider that
their minds are full of business. My husband is just so; but then
he has so many things to think of, I wonder that he does not forget
_every_ little commission I give him.”
“But your husband is different from mine. He _tries_ to remember.”
“Ah, Mary, I see now what has caused the rupture between you and Mr.
Brown.”
“Then you think _I_ am altogether to blame?”
“Perhaps not entirely; but I am satisfied, from what I know of your
husband, that, if you cease to find fault with him, he will be all that
a husband should be.”
Mrs. Brown bit her lip, and was silent. The truth had forced itself
home to her understanding. She was, as we have before remarked,
an amiable, good-hearted body; but the fact that she had actually
_grumbled_ away the peace of her once happy fireside had never before
occurred to her. Her eyes were opened, and she saw that even so little
a thing as habitual fault finding can alienate the affections of man
and wife, and transform home--the temple of love and peace--into a
hell. Her resolution was formed, and fortified by all the strength of
her nature.
Brown returned with the tea cakes. He was cold, sullen, and
reserved; but a smile from his wife--albeit a boon seldom vouchsafed
him--restored him to his former equanimity.
“Jonas, did you think to order some more coal to-day? Bridget says
there is not enough to get breakfast with,” observed Mrs. Brown, as she
handed her husband his second cup of tea.
Brown confessed that he had forgotten it, and braced up his nerves to
meet the storm.
“Never mind, Jonas; we will contrive to get along with wood.”
Brown dropped his knife and fork in wonder, and looked aghast at his
wife.
It was no illusion; his wife was as gentle in her thoughts as in her
actions. She found no fault; and, for the first time in many months,
Brown felt sorry that he had forgotten to execute her commission.
After tea, Mr. Benson came to spend the evening, and it was one of the
happiest evenings ever known beneath the roof of the Browns. Nobody
but the two ladies could tell why, but, some how, every thing went
different from the ordinary course of events in the family circle.
Brown was bewildered--didn’t know what to make of it, that his wife
found no fault.
And she never found fault to any immoderate degree again. Peace was
restored. Brown went no more to the drinking saloons, never staid out
late at night, and never let his wife cry without wiping away her tears.
He never knew what had produced the wonderful change in his wife’s
temperament, but he always laid it to the visit of the pretty little
woman who admired his plaid vest.
We never see a married man enter a drinking shop to spend an evening
without thinking that, perhaps he has been driven from his fireside by
a snarling, petulant, discontented, fault-finding wife.
LIFE INSURANCE;
OR,
THE POOR MAN’S LEGACY.
_CHAPTER I._
“Got his life insured! Then he will certainly die!” exclaimed Mrs.
Jones, the mother of a family of three children, to her intimate friend
Mrs. Brown, also rejoicing in the maternity of a promising brood of
little ones. “For my part, I would no more let my husband get his life
insured than I would let him cut his head off. He will certainly die.”
“That is the lot of all mortals, Mrs. Jones, and I presume my husband
does not consider himself exempt from the common lot,” replied Mrs.
Brown.
“You know what I mean; he will die before his time comes.”
“His time will have come when he dies.”
“How captious you are!”
“I do not understand you. The good book says that ‘no man knoweth the
day nor the hour.’”
“But I never knew any man to get his life insured without dying very
soon after.”
“Do you mean to say that getting a life insured is likely to hasten the
end of the assured?” asked Mrs. Brown, with a pleasant smile at the
superstition of her friend.
“Well, no, not exactly that; only it is a bad sign.”
“Pshaw! Do you think your husband’s barn is any more likely to be
burned down because he has taken the precaution to have it insured?”
“But that is not like getting one’s life insured; it really seems to me
just like trifling with serious things.”
“How absurd!”
“But it does. Only think of attempting to thwart the will of God.
Insuring a life!”
“You take the wrong view of it.”
“Our minister takes the same view of it,” returned Mrs. Jones, with
triumphant assurance.
“He does not understand the subject then.”
“Our minister don’t?”
“I am sure he does not.”
Mrs. Jones permitted a sneer to play upon her lips, as she paused in
her sewing, and gazed at her friend.
“You don’t mean to say that you know more than the Rev. Mr. Schism,
a regularly educated minister of the gospel, in good and regular
standing?” continued she, scarcely able to restrain her indignation
within a reasonable limit.
“I presume the Rev. Mr. Schism has confined his attention mostly to the
study of theology, and knows much more about that than he does about
the practical affairs of every-day life,” rejoined Mrs. Brown, somewhat
warmly.
“He says that it is trifling with death to get one’s life insured;
and I am sure, if my husband got his life insured, I should certainly
expect he would die the very next day after he did the sacrilegious
thing.”
“I think you told me the other day that Mr. Jones had put some money in
the Savings Bank.”
“Only twenty dollars--all he could spare.”
“What did he put it there for?”
“What for? Why, to keep, of course.”
“Why does he wish to keep it?”
“What a fool you pretend to be!”
“Pray answer me.”
“Against a rainy day.”
“Has he no definite purpose in laying up money?”
“To be sure he has. He means to have something for his family, in case
he should be taken away.”
“But isn’t this trifling with serious things? What does your minister
say about it?”
“How silly you are!”
“But you are providing against such a calamity as the death of your
husband.”
“It is not like life insurance.”
“Just like it, only less efficient.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Suppose your husband should die this year.”
“Don’t talk so.”
“Nay, Mrs. Jones, it is well to look these things in the face,
especially when you have used your influence to prevent your husband
from making a provision for you in the event of his death.”
“He is opposed to the whole thing himself.”
“Only think, if he should die this year, what would become of you and
your three children?”
“Well, I suppose we should get along just as a thousand others have
done under the same circumstances.”
“Think what a struggle you would have!”
“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” replied Mrs. Jones,
coldly. “But here is my husband; he can speak for himself.”
_CHAPTER II._
The two ladies, with whose conversation we have prefaced our simple
story, had been intimate friends for many years. About the same time
they had married men in humble circumstances, and taken houses near
each other.
Their husbands were journeymen mechanics, honest, industrious, and
frugal men, fair specimens of the bone and sinew of New England.
Their families had increased in about the same ratio, and though they
received good wages, they found it required the most rigid system of
domestic economy to enable them to keep along, and save a trifling sum
against a “rainy day.”
Brown was a thoughtful man, whose domestic and affectional nature was
fully developed. He loved his wife and children with a devotion worthy
a reasonable being. His happiest hours were spent by the cheerful
fireside of home. He was a conscientious parent, and his care for his
dependent loved ones reached beyond the day of their present prosperity.
In the future might be clouds and storms. The whirlwind of adversity
might burst upon him, and then what would become of his wife--of
Charley, and Joey, and Emma?
It was a question with which few would have troubled themselves; but it
was a question of momentous importance. It was not borrowing trouble;
it was prudent forethought. But Brown was strong in his bone and
muscle, and while he had an arm, and there was bread in the land, he
could procure it. All he could do was to save a scanty pittance from
his wages to meet the hour of trial, if it should ever come.
Death is no respecter of persons. It takes not only those who leave
houses, and lands, and money, and stocks behind them, but it snatches
the poor man away from his dependent family. It robs the toiling wife
and the helpless little ones of the protecting arm which had been
bread, raiment, and shelter to them.
Brown hoped to live many years, to bring up his family, and when, by
and by, business prospered with him, to be enabled to make a decent
provision for them when he should go hence.
Every man hopes thus much; many more than hope--they feel sure of it.
Brown was reasonable. A falling timber, a fever, a thousand calamities,
might carry him off before the year expired. And what would become
of his family then? What more could his wife do, with three helpless
children, than take care of them? He could leave them no legacy. He was
a poor man.
The reflection was startling. The fear of death took possession of
him--not the fear of passing through the dark valley, for Brown was
an honest man, and trembled not in view of judgment and retribution,
but the fear of leaving his wife and children to hunger for food, to
tremble with cold, to starve for intellectual sustenance. For several
weeks he was gloomy and sad, and more than once he questioned the
wisdom of his getting married before he had the means to support his
family in case of his decease.
While thus depressed in spirits, his eye was attracted by the
advertisement of a Life Insurance Company. His countenance brightened
up with a smile, as he read the notice. The remedy was before him, and
it seemed worse than folly not to embrace it.
Before another week had passed away, he had thoroughly investigated
the whole subject, and insured his life in the sum of three thousand
dollars.
Like a true apostle of a good cause, he was not content to enjoy
the blessing alone; and more than once he had called the attention
of his fellow-workmen to the subject. Many of them had followed his
example; many of them were obstinate, and among them Jones was the most
obstinate of all.
Brown was always pleased to discuss his favorite topic. Life insurance
had been a boon of happiness to him; it had dispelled the dark clouds
which lowered over the future; it had done more to calm his mind in
relation to that great change which must come to all, than the sermons
of a hundred years could have done; and he was eager to confer these
blessings upon others.
Mrs. Brown was quite as enthusiastic as her husband; and when Jones
entered the room where we left the ladies, a strong hope that she might
yet convert him to her faith pervaded her mind.
But Jones was more than usually obstinate.
“It’s all a humbug, Mrs. Brown, you may depend upon it,” said he.
“These fellows mean to get your money, and keep it. You never will
catch them paying the policies.”
Mrs. Brown pointed him to the recorded experience of the past.
“I put my money in the bank, and feel that it is safe.”
“How much can you save in a year?”
“Well, about a hundred dollars, as wages are now.”
“Which is just my husband’s estimate.”
“But he pays nearly as much as that to keep insured.”
“Very true. He is insured for three thousand dollars. If he should die
to-day--which God forbid!--his family would realize that sum.”
“_Perhaps_ they would.”
“But, by putting one hundred dollars a year into the bank, even if you
got six per cent., compound interest, your money would amount to only
about six hundred dollars in five years.”
“Call it twenty years--how then?”
“If you could be sure of living twenty years, perhaps the money would
amount to more than the policy. But only think of your family if you
should die within one, or even five years!”
“You are a shrewd one!” said Jones, evasively.
“In twenty years your children will be able to take care of themselves.”
“It’s all a humbug, you may depend upon it, Mrs. Brown; got up to
support lazy fellows in idleness--nothing more, I candidly believe,”
replied Jones; and there the conversation ended, much to the regret of
Mrs. Brown, that she had been unable to win a convert to the faith.
_CHAPTER III._
Some six months after, while Jones was engaged in raising a house, he
fell from the plate to the ground, striking upon a rock in his fall. He
was conveyed to his home, and a council of physicians pronounced it a
hopeless case. His spine was injured, and there was no possibility of
recovery.
He lingered along for a month in the most excruciating agony, and then
died. The expenses of his sickness and of the funeral absorbed all
his little savings; and when his disconsolate wife, followed by her
three fatherless children, returned from the grave of her husband, she
realized that she was not only alone in the world, but that she was
penniless--literally penniless.
It was a sad thought for the poor woman. Not even a short season of
mourning, which her widowed heart craved, could be allowed her. Her
children must not starve, and there was no bread in the house.
Her neighbors, suspecting her situation, were kind to her, and sent
in provisions in abundance; but instinctively she shrunk from the
mortifying alternative of accepting charity.
Poor woman! what could she do? How could she support her fatherless
children? She had no wealthy relatives--she was from the house of
poverty herself. But she could not live on charity.
The village in which she resided was a large place, and though she was
too proud to accept a gift, she was not too proud to solicit work. With
her eyes yet red with weeping over her husband’s bier, she called upon
several wealthy families to ask for their washing.
It was given her, and she began to feel a certain sense of independence
again, as she returned with her bundles of clothes to her desolate home.
All she could do was given her; and with a severe struggle, she was
able to support herself and children, and refused any overtures of aid
which were made her by her neighbors. Mrs. Brown attempted to assist
her friend, in a delicate way, but without success. Mrs. Jones toiled
on with all her strength and energy, preferring independence to every
other consideration.
But it soon became evident to her neighbors that her health was
suffering severely from this unremitting toil. Remonstrances were
in vain; and ere another six months had rolled away, Mrs. Brown was
watching over the dying bed of her friend. Little children, not old
enough to understand their lonely condition, were gathered around it to
receive the parting kiss of a dying mother.
Poor orphans! God will take care of you, though all the world be cold
and cruel! Ye shall not find another mother, but the Father of the
fatherless shall watch over and protect you.
She died, and they placed her by the side of her husband, over whose
grave the grass had not yet grown. The hard lot of poverty had hurried
her into that early grave. The want of a few of those dollars which
the gay and heartless thoughtlessly squander by the thousand, had
carried her down to that bourn where there is no sorrow, and the weary
are at rest.
The orphans were carried to the poorhouse. Life was a desert to them.
Home was no more. Love was in the cold grave.
Was Jones right, or was he wrong? Would not that boon of our
progressive age, life insurance, have averted some part of this long
list of calamities? Would it not have saved a mother’s life? Would it
not have redeemed those lonely orphans from the degradation and neglect
of the poorhouse?
It could not have saved Jones’s life, but it could have been a blessing
to his family--a blessing that would have reached down to distant
generations. It might have saved a home, and more, far more than all
beside, a devoted mother, to those fatherless little ones.
Brown, too, has gone to his rest. But his death entailed none of the
miseries upon his family, which were the lot of Jones’s. His widow is
a frugal and industrious woman; but labor is her helpmate--her husband
now: she is not the slave of toil. Brown left her the POOR MAN’S LEGACY.
LAST DAY OF GRACE;
OR,
MR. LAWTON’S MOTHER-IN-LAW.
_CHAPTER I._
“I can’t stand it any longer, Lottie; I won’t have her in the house!”
exclaimed Samuel Lawton to his wife.