NEW YEAR'S DAY.
Harry Maurice was out 'bright and early,' wishing everybody a 'Happy New
Year,' and making them happy at least for the moment, by the expression
of his ruddy, laughing face. We love to see in children cheerfulness and
contentment. Harry's head was full of plans for doing good, and though
more than half of them were visionary, they seemed realities then, and
so being in good humour with himself, he could not fail of being so with
everybody else. Effie refused to go with him to Mrs Frink's, for she had
her own little gifts to dispense, but she consented to take a walk with
him in the afternoon, and even to call at Mr T.'s shop, for she
concluded there could be no danger in looking at the toys after they had
disposed of their money.
Harry's account of his reception at Mrs Frink's was anything but
satisfactory to Effie, for although he evidently endeavoured to make the
best of it, he said not a single word of John's gratitude. 'I am afraid,
Effie,' he rather mischievously whispered, 'if you had gone with me to
Mrs Frink's you would have thought dirt was her god, for I believe she
loves it better than anything else.'
'O Harry, I am sure it is wicked to make fun--'
'I didn't mean to make fun, Effie, but I'm sure I couldn't help thinking
of the old man in Pilgrim's Progress with the muck rake, refusing the
crown, all the time I was there.'
'Father told me that the man with the muck rake, meant the miser.'
'Well, I suppose it does, but I should think it might mean any body that
is not a Christian, for such people, you know, are rejecting a heavenly
crown for worldly things, which are in reality worth about as much as
the trash the old man is raking together in the picture.' Effie stared
at her brother in complete astonishment, for she could not but wonder
how so small a head could contain such a wondrous amount of knowledge.
Harry endured a stare for a moment with considerable dignity, but he was
naturally a modest lad, and finally added, 'That is pretty nearly the
substance of what Frank Ingham told me about it--I can't remember the
words quite.'
After dinner was over, and Harry and Effie had distributed the remnants
of it among several poor families that lived on an adjoining street,
they set out on their walk. The day was extremely cold, but clear and
still, and altogether as beautiful as any day in the whole year. Effie
in cloak, hood, and muff, seemed the very picture of comfort as she
walked along beside her brother in his equally warm attire, towards Mr
T.'s shop.
'Are you cold? What makes you shiver so?' inquired Harry. Effie did not
answer, but she drew her hand from her muff and pointed with her gloved
finger to a little girl who stood a few yards from her, stamping her
feet, and clapping her red bare hands, and then curling them under her
arms as if to gain a little warmth from thence. 'Poor thing!' said
Harry, 'I should think she would freeze, with nothing but that old rag
of a handkerchief about her shoulders, and that torn muslin bonnet. I
don't wonder you shivered, Effie, it makes me cold to look at her.'
'Let us see if she wants anything,' said Effie.
By this time the attention of the little girl was attracted by the
children's conversation and glances, and she came running towards them,
crying at every step, 'Give me a sixpence, please?'
'We have no money, not even a penny,' said Harry, 'are you very hungry?'
The girl began to tell how long it was since she had had anything to
eat, but she talked so hurriedly, and used so many queer words, that the
two children found it very difficult to understand her.
'She is in want, no doubt,' whispered Harry to his sister, 'but father
would say, it was best to give her food and clothing, not money.'
'I wish I had a sixpence, though,' said Effie.
The wealthy and the gay, the poor and the apparently miserable, went
pouring by in crowds, and some did not hear the beggar-child's plea,
others that heard did not heed it, while many paused from idle curiosity
to gaze at her, and a few flung her a penny, and passed on. Harry and
Effie too went on, frequently looking back and forming little plans for
the good of the child, until their attention was attracted by other
objects of compassion or admiration. Sleighs were continually dashing
past them, drawn by beautiful horses, and filled with the forms of the
young, the gay, and the happy. Old men, bowed down by the weight of
years, hobbled along on the pavements, their thin blue lips distorted by
a smile--a smile of welcome to the year that, perhaps, before its
departure, would see them laid in the grave--and busy tradesmen, with
faces strongly marked by care, or avarice, or anxiety, jostled by them;
ladies too, in gay hats and large rich shawls, or the more
comfort-seeking in cloaks and muffs; and poor women, with their tattered
clothing drawn closely around their shrinking forms, were hurrying
forward apparently with the same intent. Every variety of the human
species seemed crowded on those narrow pavements.
Harry and Effie were only a few rods from Mr T.'s door, when Mr Maurice
overtook them, on his way to some other part of the city. He smiled, as
he always did, on his children, then putting a few pence into Effie's
hand, whispered something about '_temptation money_,' and passed on.
'I shan't be tempted, though,' said the child, holding the coin before
her brother's eyes.
'No, Effie,' replied the boy, 'it isn't wrong to spend this money for
yourself, so you can't be tempted to do wrong with it. This is every
body's day for pleasure, and you ought to enjoy it.'
'I have enjoyed it,' said Effie, looking upon her brother smilingly,
'and I guess somebody else has helped me.'
'I guess so, too,' was the reply, 'I think we have been a great deal
happier than if we had come here in the morning.'
Children though they were, they were demonstrating the words of the Lord
Jesus, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'
Mr T.'s shop was crowded to overflowing with children, a few grown
people intermingling: and every one, from the errand boy, that, with his
hard-earned pittance in his hand, was estimating the amount of good
things it would purchase, to the child of the wealthy merchant,
murmuring because the waxen doll she contemplated adding to her store,
was not in every respect formed to suit her difficult taste, seemed
intent on pleasure.
Harry and Effie were as much pleased as any one, and some, who had seen
with what readiness they had parted with their money in the morning,
would have wondered at their taste for toys; but these children had one
talent which a great many grown people as well as children would do well
to imitate. It was not absolutely necessary that they should _possess_ a
thing in order to _enjoy_ it. They had been taught when very young, to
distinguish beautiful things from those that were merely novel, and
although they liked (as I believe is natural) to call things their own,
they could be pleased with what was calculated to produce pleasure,
without envying its possessor, just as you would look upon a beautiful
sunset, or a fine landscape, without thinking of becoming its owner. But
Effie had a little money to spend, and this occasioned a great deal of
deliberation, for to tell the truth, the little girl was so pleased with
her day's work, that she was still determined on self-denial.
'Take care,' whispered Harry, as he watched her examining some trifles
which he was pretty sure were intended for old Phillis, 'take care,
Effie, that you don't get proud of your generosity--there is more than
one way to make self a god.'
Effie blushed, and calling for some nuts, threw her money on the
counter, saying to her brother, 'We can share them together in the
evening.' The nuts were scarce stowed away in reticule and muff, when a
poorly-clad young woman, very pale and thin, bearing in her arms an
infant still paler, pressed her way through the throng, and gained the
counter. She inquired for cough lozenges. It was a long time before she
could be attended, but she stood very patiently, though seemingly scarce
able to support the weight of her own person. Harry involuntarily
glanced around the shop for a chair, and as he did so, his eye rested on
a bright-faced little girl, close beside his sister, who was choosing
and rejecting a great many pretty toys, and now and then casting a
glance at the well-filled purse in her hand, as if to ascertain after
each purchase the state of her finances.
'Beautiful!' she exclaimed, her eye glistening with pleasure at the
sight of the purple cushioned rocking-chair of which Harry had told his
sister.
'Is that all?' inquired a sad, low voice, and again Harry's eye turned
to the poor woman who was purchasing the lozenges.
'Yes, ma'am, to be sure,' replied the pert shopkeeper, 'and a pretty
large all too--what could you expect for a penny?'
The poor woman made no reply, but the hurried glance she gave her infant
with its accompanying sigh, seemed to say, 'God help my poor baby then!'
Harry involuntarily thrust his hand into his pocket, but he quickly
withdrew it, and glanced at the little girl who was purchasing the
rocking-chair.
'This chair has cost so much,' she said, addressing the shopkeeper,
'that I have only a shilling left.'
'Oh, then,' whispered Effie, emboldened by her brother's looks of
anxiety, 'give it to the poor woman with the sick baby.'
The little girl stared at her somewhat rudely, then turning to the
woman, exclaimed, 'What! _that_ one, with the horrid looking bonnet!'
and, shaking her head, laughingly replied, 'Thank you, Miss, I have a
better use for it.'
Effie was really distressed. The poor woman looked so pale and sad, and
yet so meek and uncomplaining withal, that both brother and sister found
themselves strangely interested.
'O how I wish we could do something for her,' whispered Harry. 'Will
you please exchange my nuts for cough lozenges?' inquired Effie in a
faltering voice, of the shopkeeper.
'Rather too busy, Miss.'
'But it will oblige me very much.'
'Happy to oblige you on any other day, Miss, but we really have no time
for exchanges now.' By this time the poor woman had gained the door, and
Effie, looking round, observed that her brother too was missing.
'He followed the woman with the baby,' said the little girl who had
purchased the rocking-chair; then pursing up her mouth with an
expression as near contempt as such a pretty mouth could wear, she
inquired, 'Is she your _aunt_?'
The angry blood rushed in a flood to Effie's face, but she quickly
subdued it, and with ready thought replied, 'No, my _sister_.'
It was now the turn of the stranger girl to blush, and at the same time
she cast upon her new companion a slight glance of surprise. She then
turned over with her fingers her new toys, glanced at the rocking-chair,
and seemingly dissatisfied with all, again turned to Effie.
'Please give her this,' she said, putting the remaining shilling in her
hand. 'I know what you mean, my mother taught me that, but--she is dead
now.'
'If Harry finds where the poor woman lives,' returned Effie, 'we will go
there together.' The little girl seemed to waver for a moment, then said
hastily, 'No, I must go home--give the money to her,' and hurried away
as fast as the crowd would permit. In a few moments Harry returned. He
had found out where the poor woman lived, but it was a great distance,
and he was too considerate to leave his sister alone. Harry was not one
of those philanthropists who, in doing a great amount of good, become
blind to trifles; for his father had taught him, that duties never
interfere with each other, and he knew that he owed Effie every care and
attention. I have often observed that those children, who are the most
kind and considerate to brothers and sisters, always shew more justice
and generosity to others, than those who think such attentions of but
little importance.
Harry found out but little more of the woman, than that she was poor,
and sick, and friendless. Her baby too, her only comfort, was wasting
away before her eyes, whether of disease or for lack of food, she did
not tell, and there was none to help her.
'We will speak to father about her,' said Harry, as they proceeded
homeward, 'perhaps he can do something for them,--it is a sweet little
baby, Effie, with a skin clear and white, and eyes--oh, you never saw
such eyes! they look so soft and loving, that you would think the poor
thing knew every word you said, and how I pitied it. I could hardly help
crying, Effie.'
'I am glad you followed the poor woman.'
'So am I. But Effie, you don't know how vexed I was with that selfish
little miss, that bought the rocking-chair.'
'Harry!'
'Now, don't go to taking her part, Effie, it will do no good, I can tell
you; she is the most selfish and unfeeling little girl that I ever saw.
Because the woman wore an _old bonnet_, she couldn't help her--only
think of that! how mean!'
'She--O Harry! now I know what mother meant when she talked to me so
much about having charity for people, and told me that we could not
always judge the heart by the actions. I thought as badly of her as you
at first, but I'm sure now she is not unfeeling.'
'Well, if she has any feeling, I should like to see her shew it, that's
all. I tell you, Effie, if anybody ever made a god of self, it is that
little girl we saw to-night. She thought her gratification of more
consequence than that poor baby's life.'
'No, Harry, she is one of the thoughtless ones mother tells us so much
about. If you had seen her when she gave me this money,' putting the
silver piece into her brother's hand, 'you would never call her
unfeeling.'
'Did you tease her for it?'
'No, I didn't ask her again, for I did feel a little vexed--yes, a good
deal so, at first, but, Harry, I don't feel vexed now, I am sorry for
her. There was a tear in her eye, I am pretty sure, though she was
ashamed to have me see it, and her lips quivered, and she looked--oh, so
sad, when she told me her mother was dead; I wish you could have seen
her, Harry.'
'I would rather not see her again, for I can't bear proud people--'
Effie was about interrupting her brother in defence of the little
stranger girl, but at that moment a new object attracted their
attention. It was a fine sleigh drawn by a pair of beautiful gray
horses, that, with proudly arched neck and flowing mane, stepped
daintily, as if perfectly aware of the fact that they were gentlemen's
horses, and carried as fashionable a load as New York afforded. A little
girl leaned quite over the side of the sleigh, and smiled and nodded to
Effie, then waving her handkerchief, to attract still more attention,
dropped something upon the ground. It was the child they had seen at the
toy-shop. Harry flew to pick up the offering, and gave it to his sister.
'Now, what do you think of her?' inquired Effie, as her eye lighted on
the self-same purse she had seen but a little while before; 'I knew she
must be kind-hearted--did you ever see anything so generous? Here is
ever so much money, and all for the poor woman and her sick baby--why
don't you speak, Harry?'
'Because--I--'
'You don't think she is selfish now, I hope?'
'I don't think anything about it, Effie, because I don't know. If she
gave her own money she is generous, but if she begged it of somebody
else to give--'
'If she begged it of somebody else, it was generous in her to give it to
this poor woman, instead of putting it to some other use.'
'Well, Effie, the money will certainly do the poor woman a great deal of
good, and I rather think the little girl feels better for giving, so I
am sure we ought to be glad.'
'I wish I could find out her name,' said Effie, 'perhaps it is on the
purse.' Harry drew the silken purse from his pocket, and after examining
it closely, found engraved on one of the rings the name of 'ROSA
LYNMORE.'
In the evening the children related the events of the day to their
mother, and found her approbation a sufficient reward for all their
self-denial. The conduct of Rosa Lynmore was duly canvassed, too; and,
while Mrs Maurice praised her generosity, she endeavoured to shew her
children the difference between this one impulsive act, and the
constant, self-denying effort which is the result of true benevolence.
'This little girl,' she said, 'may make but a small sacrifice in parting
with this money, not half so great as it would be to go and seek out the
poor woman and administer to her necessities, but still we have no right
to find fault with what is so well done, and I am sure, my children,
that you do not desire it.'
'No, mother,' said Effie, 'I see now why you told me not to judge Mrs
Wiston by appearances; if I had come away a little sooner, I should have
thought this pretty Rosa Lynmore one of the most selfish little girls in
the world. But now I know she was only thoughtless.'
'Well, I hope, my child, you will always remember not to judge hastily,
and without sufficient reason; yet to be utterly blind to the apparent
faults of those around you, is neither safe nor wise. It is not safe,
because by being too credulous you may easily make yourself the object
of imposition; and not wise, because, by such indiscriminate charity,
you lose a useful lesson.'
'I think, mother,' said Harry, 'that I can see the lesson we can learn
from Rosa Lynmore's faults.'
'I don't see that she has any faults,' said Effie, earnestly. 'I am
sure, Harry, you ought not to make so much of that one careless little
word about the bonnet; it _was_ an ugly bonnet, with so deep a front
that I dare say Rosa didn't see the poor woman's pale face.'
'You call it a careless word, Effie,' said Mrs Maurice, 'you admit that
this little girl was guilty of thoughtlessness, and surely you cannot
consider _that_ no fault--but under certain circumstances this fault is
more pardonable than under others. Now you know nothing of these
circumstances, and so could not, if you wished, be Rosa Lynmore's judge.
But, taking everything as it appears, you may draw your lesson without
assuming a province which does not belong to you. Now, Harry, we will
hear what you have to say.'
'It was not what Rosa _said_, that I meant, mother,--I was thinking of
what we might learn to-day from all her actions, and I am sure I didn't
want to blame her more than Effie did.'
'I supposed not, my son.'
'But, mother, Harry had reason to blame her more, for he didn't see how
sorry she looked, and how her voice trembled when she said, "She is dead
now."--meaning her mother, I shouldn't think a little girl would ever do
right, without a mother to teach her.'
'Such children deserve pity, my love, and I am glad you have a heart to
pity them, but I suspect that all little girls have wicked thoughts and
feelings that they must strive against, and whether they are blessed
with parents, or have only a Heavenly Father to guide them, they will
have need to watch and pray. But Harry has not given his lesson yet.'
'Father told me a story the other day--an allegory he called it--about
impulse and principle.
'Principle went straight forward, and did whatever was right, and tried
to make her feelings agree with it, but Impulse hurried along in a very
crooked path, stopping here, and then bounding forth at the sight of
some new object--one minute neglecting every duty, and the next, doing
something so great that everybody was surprised, and praised her beyond
all measure. Principle very seldom did wrong, and made so little show,
that she was quite unobserved by the world in general, but Impulse was
as likely to do wrong as right, and according as good or evil
predominated, received her full share of praise or censure. Principle
had an approving conscience, and however she might be looked upon by the
world, she was contented and happy, while poor Impulse was half of the
time tossed about by a light thing called Vanity, or gnawed by a monster
named Remorse. I liked the story very much, and I couldn't help
remembering it to-day, when the little girl dropped the purse over the
side of the sleigh. I thought she was governed by Impulse, and though
this is a good act, unless she has a better heart than most people, it
is no true sign that the next one will be good.'
'Very true, my son, but you have not explained to Effie what you mean by
impulse and principle.'
'You can explain it better than I can, mother. I don't remember half
that father said about it.'
'Well, tell me as much as you can remember then.'
'Why, principle means ground of action, and people who are governed by
principle always have some good reason for what they do, and do not act
without thinking. Father says old people are more apt to be governed by
principle of some kind, either good or bad, than children, for he says
children generally act first, and think afterwards.'
'And impulse?' inquired Effie.
'People that act from impulse are altogether at the mercy of
circumstances, and are driven about by their own feelings. They never
wait to inquire whether a thing is right before they do it, but if it
seems right for the minute it is sufficient.'
Harry's explanation seemed quite satisfactory to his mother, and what
was just then of more importance, to Effie, who, it was but natural,
should find some fault with a definition which seemed to throw anything
like discredit on her new favourite. Any further allusion to the subject
was, however, prevented by the entrance of Mr Maurice, who, as he had
been out all day, making charitable and professional instead of
fashionable calls, had some very interesting stories to relate. But
there was one so strange, and to the children so new, that it threw the
rest quite into the shade, and absorbed their whole stock of sympathy.
It was late before Mr Maurice finished his story, and as it may be late
before our readers get to a better stopping-place, we shall reserve it
fer another chapter.