THE USES OF ADVERSITY.
The change proposed was speedily made. As they shrunk closer together
in this smaller house, they felt more sensibly the warmth of each
other’s hearts. The mother joined with her daughters in their efforts
to cut off every expense, and when they proposed doing without a
servant, made no objection, but rather approved the measure. So the
servant was dismissed, and the whole care and labor of the household
devolved upon Mrs. Townsend, Eveline, and Eunice.
At their last removal, they found great difficulty in crowding the
furniture, taken from a house almost double that of the one they
were to occupy, into the smaller space allotted for its reception.
Compression was no longer possible. A council on the subject was held,
at which it was decided to sell certain large and costly articles, and
retain only such as corresponded to their reduced style of living.
Quite a large selection was made and sold at vendue, from which the
handsome sum of one thousand dollars was raised, which was paid into
Mr. Townsend’s hands, just in time to enable him to make a heavy
payment, and thus prevent a knowledge of his crippled state from
becoming known.
“How strangely events turn out,” he said to his daughter Eunice, with
whom he could speak on the subject of his business and prospects, more
freely and intimately than with any other member of his family, not
even excepting his wife, whose spirits usually became depressed, when
allusion was made to the subject. “But for you, no one would have
thought of a reduction of expense by moving into a cheaper house. The
cheaper house was smaller, and, therefore, to get into it, we had to
reduce our furniture. For what was surplus, and therefore useless, a
thousand dollars were received, and these thousand dollars came just
in time to enable me to make a payment, otherwise impossible, upon
which almost every thing depended. How strangely events turn out! I am
bewildered at times.”
“He leads us by a way that we know not,” Eunice said, low and
reverently.
“Who?” Mr. Townsend spoke ere he reflected.
“He whose tender mercies are over all his works,” was replied.
For a few moments there was silence.
“You think, then, that the hand of Providence is in every thing?” said
Mr. Townsend.
“Oh, yes, surely it is!” returned Eunice. “The Creator of all must be
the Sustainer of all.”
“That is, doubtless, true. A general providence over a man’s life may
exist, but I can hardly believe that there is a particular providence
regarding all the minuter things.”
“Can there be such a thing as a general, that is not made up
of particulars? A general providence not the sum of particular
providences?”
This question Mr. Townsend did not answer immediately. The proposition
was new to his mind, and came upon it with the force of truth.
“There is such a thing as a general superintendence of affairs,” he
said, thoughtfully.
“True, but is it not to the end that particular things, within its
sphere of supervision, may be kept in order? Break up the harmony and
dependence of particular things one upon another, and what becomes
of general harmony? Does not all sink into confusion? How small a
circumstance often involves the most important consequences; and if
the greater result is regarded by Providence, surely the seemingly
insignificant cause must also be regarded. Depend upon it, father,
there is a particular providence, or no providence at all.”
“Perhaps you are right, Eunice. I never saw the subject in that light.
As you intimate, we must give up all idea of Providence, and feel
that every thing is governed by chance, or admit that it reaches to
the most intimate things of our lives. It may be as Shakespeare says,
‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will.’”
“It is so, father, depend upon it. Human prudence, as Mr. Carlton has
so often said, and said it to you in my hearing some years ago, is
nothing. You did not believe it then, but you cannot entirely doubt it
now.”
“I cannot, certainly,” replied Mr. Townsend, speaking sadly, “for my
prudence has availed nothing.”
“Not for the salvation of your worldly possessions. The good things of
natural life were taken from you and from us, but is it not possible
for this to prove a blessing and not a curse?”
“I do not know. At present it is far from being apparent to my mind.”
“It is not altogether so to mine,” returned the daughter. “As for me,
I know myself better, and have learned to regard the good of others,
and to seek for that good as well as my own; and this is a heavenly
affection, and its exercise prepares us for heaven. The very life of
heaven is a love of being useful to, and making others happy, and
unless we have this love, we cannot go to heaven when our few brief
years are closed up here. Surely any natural circumstance that helps us
to see what is evil in our hearts, and also to put it away, should be
regarded as a blessing.”
“Perhaps so, viewed in that light; one in which, I must own, it has
never been presented to my mind.”
“But is it not the true light, father? Are not our spirits the real and
substantial about us?”
“Substantial, Eunice? Our bodies are substantial.”
“Not substantial like our minds. Material substance is perishing, but
spiritual substance endures for ever. In a little while our natural
bodies will decay, but neither death, decay, nor corruption can touch
our spiritual bodies. Our spiritual well-being is, therefore, of
infinite importance, compared to our mere natural well-being.”
The words of the young preacher sunk into the heart of her father; a
deep sigh struggled up from his bosom, and he sat thoughtful for many
minutes.
“Doubtless you are right, Eunice,” he then said, speaking in a subdued
voice. “Something of this I have heard before, but it never impressed
me as it does now. I never _felt_ that it was true. Fifty or sixty
years is nothing to an eternal existence. The things of time are,
therefore, of small moment, compared to the things of eternity; and the
wealth of this world dross compared to heavenly riches.”
The eyes of Eunice were filled with tears as they turned with looks of
happy affection upon the face of her father, and her voice was half
broken as she said,
“To be able to see and feel this, father, is a great attainment, and
not dearly bought, even at the price you have paid for it.”
“Perhaps not,” he replied. “The price has certainly been large.”
“Now it appears so; but the time will come, I hope, when the price that
has been paid will seem really insignificant, compared to the good it
procured; nay, I am sure it will come.”
“I trust it may, Eunice; but it has not come yet,” said Mr. Townsend,
again sighing deeply. His natural affections still clung to the good
things of natural life, while his perception of spiritual things, seen
clearly only for a few moments in the light of his daughter’s mind,
were but dim and confused. Still, there had been some progress. The
uses of misfortune had been, to some small extent, realized.