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Title: Lessons in Life, For All Who Will Read Them

Author: T.S. Arthur

Edition: 10

Language: English

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Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4616]
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LESSONS IN LIFE, FOR ALL WHO WILL READ THEM.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

PHILADELPHIA:

1851.






PREFACE.

"WE are never too old to learn;" is a truism that cannot be repeated
too often, if, in the repetition, we do not lose the force of the
sentiment. In fact, at every stage of existence we are learners;
and, if we (sic) con the lessons well that are written in the great
Book of Human Life, wide open before us, we will be wiser and
happier. To make the study easier for some, the Stories in this
little volume have been written. They present a few marked phases in
life, and the lessons taught are worthy of thoughtful consideration.

"STORIES FOR PARENTS" will speedily follow this volume, and make the
eighth in our "LIBRARY FOR THE HOUSEHOLD."






CONTENTS.





THE RIGHT OF WAY
COALS OF FIRE
A NEW PLEASURE
THE DAUGHTER-IN-LAW
SMITH AND JONES; OR, THE TOWN LOT
HE MUST HAVE MEANT ME
FOR THE FUN OF IT
FORGIVE AND FORGET
PAYING THE MINISTER
HAD I BEEN CONSULTED
THE MISTAKES OF A "RISING FAMILY"
THE MEANS OF ENJOYMENT






LESSONS IN LIFE.

THE RIGHT OF WAY.





MR. EDWARD BOLTON had purchased himself a farm, and taken possession
thereof. Once, while examining the premises, before deciding to buy,
he had observed a light wagon moving along on the extreme south edge
of the tract of land included in the farm, but it had occasioned no
remark. It was late in the afternoon when he arrived with his family
at their new home. On the morning that followed, while Mr. Bolton
stood conversing with a farm-hand who had been on the place under
the former owner, he observed the same vehicle passing across the
portion of his land referred to.

"Whose wagon is that, Ben?" he asked, in the tone of a man who felt
that another had trespassed upon his rights.

"It is Mr. Halpin's," was replied.

"Halpin, who owns the next farm?"

"Yes, sir."

"He takes a liberty with my premises that I would not like to take
with his," said Mr. Bolton, who was annoyed by the circumstance.
"And there he is himself, as I live! riding along over my ground as
coolly as if it belonged to him. Verily, some men have the impudence
of old Nick himself!"

"They always go by that road," replied Ben; "at least, it has been
so ever since I have worked on the farm. I think I once heard Mr.
Jenkins, from whom you bought, tell somebody that Mr. Halpin's farm
had the right of way across this one.

"The right of way across my farm!" exclaimed Mr. Bolton, with
strongly-marked surprise. "We'll see about that! Come! go with me. I
want to take a look at that part of my forty acres."

And Mr. Bolton strode off, accompanied by Ben, to take more
particular note of the extreme south edge of his beautiful tract of
land. The shape of this tract was somewhat in the form of a
triangle, with the apex at the southern boundary, near the verge of
which ran a stream of water. Beyond this stream was a narrow strip
of ground, some thirty feet wide, bounded by the fence enclosing the
land belonging to another owner; (sic) it length was not more than
two hundred feet. It was along this strip of ground that Mr. Bolton
had observed the wagon of Mr. Halpin pass. The gate opening upon his
premises was at one end, and now, for the first time, he discovered
that there was a gate at the other end, opening from his farm to
that of Mr. Halpin, while the ground was cut up with numerous
wheel-tracks.

"Upon my word, this is all very fine!" said Mr. Bolton. "The right
of way across my farm! we'll see about that! Ben, do you get four
good rails and put them firmly into the gate-posts on Mr. Halpin's
side. Throw the gate over into his field."

Ben looked confounded at this order.

"Do you understand me?" said Mr. Bolton.

"Yes, sir; but"--

"But what?"

"There's no other way for Mr. Halpin's folks to get to the public
road."

"That's none of my business; they've no right to make a public
highway of these premises. You heard what I said?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then let it be done."

"Obey orders, if you break owners," muttered Ben, as Mr. Bolton
turned and marched away with long and hasty strides. "But if there
isn't a nice tea-party somewhere about these diggins before
to-morrow morning, my name isn't Ben Johnson."

Before reaching his house, Mr. Bolton's excitement had cooled a
trifle, and it came into his mind that _possibly_ he might have
acted a _little_ hastily; but the order had been given to cut off
the right of way, and he was not the man to "make back-tracks" in
any thing.

"Do you see that, Edward?" said Mrs. Bolton, as her husband entered
the house, pointing to a table on which stood a pitcher of sweet
cream and two pounds of fresh butter. "Mrs. Halpin sent these over,
with her compliments, this morning; isn't it kind in her?"

Mrs. Bolton's countenance was glowing with pleasure.

"I always heard that she was a neighbourly, good woman," added Mrs.
Bolton.

"I don't think much of her husband," returned Mr. Bolton, coldly, as
he passed from the room after pausing there for only a moment. He
could not look at the lumps of golden butter and the pitcher of
cream without feeling rebuked, and so he got away as quickly as
possible.

"Have you done as I directed?" said Mr. Bolton, with knit brows, on
meeting Ben, some time afterwards, returning from the part of the
farm where he had left him.

"Yes, sir," was the answer of Ben.

"What did you do with the gate?"

"I threw it into the field, as you told me."

"You didn't break it?"

"No, sir."

"Very well."

"There'll be trouble, Mr. Bolton," said Ben.

"How do you know?"

"Mr. Halpin's a very determined man."

"So am I," replied Mr. Bolton.

"Mr. Dix says the right of way belongs to Mr. Halpin, and no
mistake."

"When did he say so?"

"Just now. He came down from his house, when he saw me at work, and
asked what I was doing; and when I told him, he said you were wrong,
and would only get yourself into trouble; that Mr. Halpin's farm had
the right of way through yours."

"Tell Mr. Dix, when you see him again, not to meddle in my affairs,"
replied Mr. Bolton. "I am entirely competent to manage them myself;
I want no assistance."

As Mr. Bolton turned from Ben, on uttering this speech, he saw Mr.
Dix, who owned another farm that adjoined his, approaching the place
where he stood.

"I want none of his interference," muttered Bolton to himself. Then
forcing a smile into his face, he met his neighbour with a pleasant
greeting.

"You will excuse me," said Mr. Dix, after a few words had passed
between them, "for a liberty I am about to take. I saw your man, a
little while ago, closing up the gate that opens from your farm into
Mr. Halpin's."

"Well!" Mr. Bolton's brows contracted heavily.

"Are you aware that his farm has the right of way through yours?"

"No, sir."

"Such, however, let me assure you, is the case. Mr. Halpin has no
other avenue to the public road."

"That's his misfortune; but it gives him no license to trespass on
my property."

"It is not a trespass, Mr. Bolton. He only uses a right purchased
when he bought his farm, and one that he can and will sustain in the
courts against you."

"Let him go to court, then. I bought this farm for my own private
use, not as a highway; no such qualification is embraced in the
deed. The land is mine, and no one shall trespass upon it."

"But, Mr. Bolton," calmly replied the other, "in purchasing, you
secured an outlet to the public road."

"Certainly I did; but not through your farm, nor that of any one
else."

"Halpin was not so fortunate," said Mr. Dix. "In buying his farm, he
had to take it with a guarantied right of way across this one. There
was no other outlet."

"It was not a guarantee against my ownership," doggedly replied Mr.
Bolton.

"Pardon me for saying that in this you are in error," returned the
other. "Originally both farms were in one; that was subsequently
sold with a right of way across this."

"There is no such concession in the deed I hold," said Bolton.

"If you will take the trouble to make an examination in the clerk's
office in the county court, you'll find it to be as I state."

"I don't care any thing about how it was originally," returned
Bolton, with the headiness of passionate men when excited. "I look
only to how it is now. This is my farm; I bought it with no such
concessions, and will not yield it unless by compulsion. I wouldn't
be the owner of a piece of land that another man had the right to
enter."

"That little strip of ground," said Mr. Dix, "which is of but
trifling value, might be fenced off as a road. This would take away
all necessity for entering your ground."

"What!" said Bolton, indignantly; "vacate the property I have bought
and paid for? I am not quite so generous as that. If Mr. Halpin must
have a right of way, let him obtain his right by purchase. I'll sell
him a strip from off the south side of my farm, wide enough for a
road, if that will suit him; but he shall not use one inch of my
property as a common thoroughfare."

Mr. Dix still tried to argue the matter with Bolton, but the latter
had permitted himself to get angry, and angry men are generally deaf
as an adder to the voice of reason. So the neighbour, who called in
the hope of turning the new occupant of the farm from his purpose,
and thus saving trouble to both himself and Mr. Halpin, retired
without effecting what he wished to accomplish.

It would be doing injustice to the feelings of Mr. Bolton to say,
that he did not feel some emotions of regret for his precipitate
action. But, having assumed so decided a position in the matter, he
could not think of retracing a step that he had taken. Hasty and
positive men are generally weak-minded, and this weakness usually
shows itself in a pride of consistency. If they say a thing, they
will persevere in doing it, right or wrong, for fear that others may
think them vacillating, or, what they really are, weak-minded. Just
such a man was Mr. Bolton.

"I've said it, and I'll do it!" That was one of his favourite
expressions. And he repeated it to himself, now, to drive off the
repentant feelings that came into his mind.

At dinner-time, when Mr. Bolton sat down to the table, he found,
placed just before him, a print of the golden butter sent to his
wife on that very morning by Mrs. Halpin. The sight annoyed and
reproved him. He felt that he had been hasty, unneighbourly, and, it
might be, unjust; for, as little gleams of reflection came breaking
in one after another upon his mind, he saw that a right of way for
Mr. Halpin was indispensable, and that if his deed gave it to him,
it was a right of which he could not deprive him without acting
unjustly. Passion and false reasonings would, it is true, quickly
darken his mind again. But they had, in turn, to give place to more
correct views and feelings.

"Just try some of that butter. It is delicious!" said Mrs. Bolton,
soon after they were seated at the table.

"I don't care about butter at dinner-time," replied Mr. Bolton,
coldly.

"But just try some of this. I want you to taste it," urged the wife.
"Its flavour is delightful. I must go over and see Mrs. Halpin's
dairy."

To satisfy his wife, Mr. Bolton took some of the butter on his
plate. He would rather have thrown it out of the window.

"Now try it on a piece of bread," said Mrs. Bolton. "I declare! You
act as if you were afraid of the butter. What's the matter with
you?"

There was no reason why Mr. Bolton should not do as his wife
wished--at least no reason that he could give to her. It wouldn't do
to say--

"I won't touch Mrs. Halpin's butter because I've cut off her
husband's right of way across my land. I have nailed up the only
outlet there is from his property to the public road."

No, it wouldn't do to say that. So, nothing was left for Mr. Bolton
but to taste the delicious butter.

"Isn't it very fine?" said his wife, as she saw him place it to his
lips.

"Yes, it's good butter," replied Mr. Bolton, "very good butter."
Though, in fact, it was far from tasting pleasant to him.

"It's more than very good," said Mrs. Bolton, impatiently. "What has
come over you? But wait a little (sic) wwile, and I'll give you
something to quicken your palate. I've made some curds--you are so
fond of them. If you don't praise the sweet cream Mrs. Halpin so
kindly sent over this morning, when you come to eat these curds, I
shall think--I don't know what I shall think."

The dinner proceeded, and, at length, the dessert, composed of curds
and cream, was served.

"Isn't that beautiful?" said Mrs. Bolton, as she poured some of the
cream received from Mrs. Halpin into a saucer of curds, which she
handed to her husband.

Bolton took the curds and ate them. Moreover, he praised the cream;
for, how could he help doing so? Were not his wife's eyes on him,
and her ears open? But never in his life had he found so little
pleasure in eating.

"Do you know," said Mrs. Bolton, after she had served the curds and
said a good deal in favour of the cream, "that I promise myself much
pleasure in having such good neighbours? Mrs. Halpin I've always
heard spoken of in the highest terms. She's a sister of Judge
Caldwell, with whose family we were so intimate at Haddington."

"You must be in error about that."

"No. Mrs. Caldwell often spoke to me about her, and said that she
had written to her sister that we talked of buying this farm."

"I never knew this before," said Mr. Bolton.

"Didn't you! I thought I had mentioned it."

"No."

"Well it's true. And, moreover, Mrs. Caldwell told me, before we
left, that she had received a letter from her sister, in which she
spoke of us, and in which she mentioned that her husband had often
heard you spoken of by the judge, and promised himself great
pleasure in your society."

Mr. Bolton pushed back his chair from the table, and, rising, left
the room. He could not bear to hear another word.

"Is my horse ready, Ben?" said he, as he came into the open air.

"Yes, sir," replied Ben.

"Very well. Bring him round."

"Are you going now?" asked Mrs. Bolton, coming to the door, as Ben
led up the horse.

"Yes. I wish to be home early, and so must start early."

And Bolton sprang into the saddle.

But for the presence of his wife, it is more than probable that he
would have quietly directed Ben to go and rehang the gate, and thus
re-establish Mr. Halpin's right of way through his premises. But,
this would have been an exposure of himself to his better-half that
he had not the courage to make. So he rode away. His purpose was to
visit the city, which was three miles distant, on business. As he
moved along in the direction of the gate through which he was to
pass on his way to the turnpike, he had to go very near the spot
where Ben had been at work in the morning. The unhinged gate lay
upon the ground where, according to his directions, it had been
thrown; and the place it formerly occupied was closed up by four
strong bars, firmly attached to the posts.

Mr. Bolton didn't like the looks of this at all. But it was done;
and he was not the man to look back when he had once undertaken to
do a thing.

As he was riding along, just after passing from his grounds, he met
Mr. Dix, who paused as Bolton came up.

"Well, neighbour," said the former in a tone of mild persuasion, "I
hope you have thought better of the matter about which we were
talking a few hours ago."

"About Halpin's right of way through my farm, you mean?"

"Yes. I hope you have concluded to reopen the gate, and let things
remain as they have been, at least for the present. These offensive
measures only provoke anger, and never do any good." Bolton shook
his head.

"He has no right to trespass on my premises," said he, sternly.

"As to the matter of right," replied Mr. Dix, "I think, the general
opinion will be against you. By attempting to carry out your present
purpose, you will subject yourself to a good deal of odium; which
every man ought to avoid, if possible. And in the end, if the matter
goes to court, you will not only have to yield this right of way,
but be compelled to pay costs of suit and such damages as may be
awarded against you for expense and trouble occasioned Mr. Halpin.
Now let me counsel you to avoid all these consequences, if
possible."

"Oh, you needn't suppose all this array of consequences will
frighten me," said Mr. Bolton. "I don't know what fear is. I
generally try to do right, and then, like Crockett, 'go ahead.'"

"Still, Mr. Bolton," urged the neighbour mildly, "don't you think it
would be wiser and better to see Mr. Halpin first, and explain to
him how much you are disappointed at finding a right of way for
another farm across the one you have purchased? I am sure some
arrangement, satisfactory to both, can be made. Mr. Halpin, if you
take him right, is not an unreasonable man. He'll do almost any
thing to oblige another. But he is very stubborn if you attempt to
drive him. If he comes home and finds things as they now are, he
will feel dreadfully outraged; and you will become enemies instead
of friends."

"It can't be helped now," said Mr. Bolton. "What's done is done."

"It's not yet too late to undo the work," suggested Mr. Dix.

"Yes, it is. I'm not the man to make back-tracks. Good-day, Mr.
Dix?"

And speaking to his horse, Mr. Bolton started off at a brisk trot.
He did not feel very comfortable. How could he? He felt that he had
done wrong, and that trouble and mortification were before him. But
a stubborn pride would not let him retrace a few wrong steps taken
from a wrong impulse. To the city he went, transacted his business,
and then turned his face homeward, with a heavy pressure upon his
feelings.

"Ah me!" he sighed to himself, as he rode along. "I wish I had
thought twice this morning before I acted once. I needn't have been
so precipitate. But I was provoked to think that any one claimed the
right to make a public road through my farm. If I'd only known that
Halpin was a brother-in-law to Judge Caldwell! That makes the matter
so much worse."

And on rode Mr. Bolton, thinking only of the trouble he had so
needlessly pulled down about his ears.

For the last mile of the way, there had been a gentleman riding
along in advance of Mr. Bolton, and as the horse of the latter made
a little the best speed, he gained on him slowly, until, just as he
reached the point where the road leading to his farm left the
turnpike, he came up with him.

"Mr. Bolton, I believe," said the gentleman, smiling, as both, in
turning into the narrow lane, came up side by side.

"That is my name," was replied.

"And mine is Halpin," returned the other, offering his hand, which
Mr. Bolton could but take, though not so cordially as would have
been the case had the gate opening from his farm into Mr. Halpin's
been on its hinges. "I have often heard my brother-in-law, Judge
Caldwell, speak of you and your lady. We promise ourselves much
pleasure in having you for neighbours. Mrs. Halpin and I will take a
very early opportunity to call upon you. How is all your family?"

"Quite well, I thank you," replied Mr. Bolton, trying to appear
polite and pleased, yet half averting his face from the earnest eyes
of Mr. Halpin.

"We have had a beautiful day," said the latter, who perceived that,
from some cause, Mr. Bolton was not at ease.

"Very beautiful," was the brief answer.

"You have been into the city," said Mr. Halpin, after a brief pause.

"Yes, I had some business that made it necessary for me to go into
town."--Another silence.

"You have a beautiful farm. One of the finest in the neighbourhood,"
said Mr. Halpin.

"Yes, it is choice land," returned the unhappy Mr. Bolton.

"The place has been a little neglected since the last occupant
left," continued Mr. Halpin. "And since your purchase of it, some
ill-disposed persons have trespassed on the premises. Day before
yesterday, as I was passing along the lower edge of your farm,--you
know that, through some ill-contrivance, my right of way to the
public road is across the south edge of your premises. But we will
talk of that some other time. It's not a good arrangement at all,
and cannot but be annoying to you. I shall make some proposition,
before long, about purchasing a narrow strip of ground and fencing
it in as a road. But of that another time. We shall not quarrel
about it. Well, as I was saying, day before yesterday, as I was
passing along the lower edge of your farm, I saw a man deliberately
break a large branch from a choice young plum-tree, in full blossom,
near your house, that only came into bearing last year. I was
terribly vexed about it, and rode up to remonstrate with him. At
first, he seemed disposed to resent my interference with his right
to destroy my neighbour's property. But, seeing that I was not in a
temper to be trifled with, he took himself off. I then went back
home, and sent one of my lads over, in company with a couple of good
dogs, and put the property in their charge. I found all safe when I
returned in the evening."

"It was kind in you--very kind!" returned Mr. Bolton. He could say
no less. But, oh! how rebuked and dissatisfied he felt.

"About that right of way," he stammered out, after a brief silence,
partly averting his eyes as he spoke. "I--I"--

"Oh, we'll not speak of that now," returned Mr. Halpin cheerfully.
"Let's get better acquainted first."

"But, Mr. Halpin--I--I"--

They were now at the gate entering upon Mr. Bolton's farm, and the
neighbour pushed it open, and held it for Bolton to pass through.
Then, as it swung back on its hinges, he said, touching his hat
politely--

"Good-day! Mrs. Halpin and I will call over very soon;--perhaps this
evening, if nothing interfere to prevent. If we come, we shall do so
without any ceremony. Make my compliments, if you please, to Mrs.
Bolton."

"Thank you! Yes--yes! Mr. Halpin--I--I--Let me speak a--a"--

But Mr. Halpin had turned his horse's head, and was moving off
towards the place of entrance to his own farm.

Poor Bolton What was he to do? Never had he felt so oppressive a
sense of shame--such deep humiliation. He had reined up his horse
after passing through the gate, and there he still stood,
undetermined, in the confusion of the moment, what to do. Briskly
rode Mr. Halpin away; and only a few moments would pass before he
discovered the outrage perpetrated against him, and that by a man
for whom he had entertained the kindest feelings in advance, and
even gone out of his way to serve.

"Oh, why did I act with such mad haste!" exclaimed Mr. Bolton, as he
thought this, and saw but a moment or two intervening between him
and the bitterest humiliation. He might repair the wrong, and, in
his heart, he resolved to do it. But what could restore to him the
good opinion of his neighbour? Nothing! That was gone for ever.

So troubled, oppressed, and shame-stricken was Mr. Bolton, that he
remained on the spot where Mr. Halpin had left him, looking after
the latter until he arrived at the place where an obstruction had
been thrown in his way. By this time, the very breath of Bolton was
suspended. Unbounded was his surprise, as he observed Mr. Halpin
leap from his horse, swing open the gate, and pass through. Had he
seen aright? He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Mr. Halpin had
closed the gate, and was on the other side, in the act of mounting
his horse.

"Have I done right?" said a voice at this moment.

Bolton started, and, on looking around, saw Mr. Dix.

"Yes, you have done right!" he returned, with an emotion that he
could not conceal: "and from my heart I thank you for this kind
office. You have saved me from the consequences of a hasty,
ill-judged, ill-natured act--consequences that would have been most
painful. Oblige me still further Mr. Dix, by letting this matter
remain with yourself, at least for the present. Before it comes to
the ears of Mr. Halpin, I wish to let him see some better points in
my character."

To this, Mr. Dix pledged himself. After repeating his thanks, Mr.
Bolton rode away a wiser and a better man.

When Mr. Halpin, some weeks afterwards, made reference to the right
of way across Mr. Bolton's land, and asked if he would not sell him
a narrow strip on the south edge of his farm, to be fenced off for a
road, the latter said--

"No, Mr. Halpin, I will not _sell_ you the land; but as it is of
little or no value to me, I will cheerfully vacate it for a road, if
you are willing to run the fence."

And thus was settled, most amicably, a matter that bid fair, in the
beginning, to result in a long and angry disputation, involving loss
of money, time, and friendly relationships. Ever after, when
disposed to act from a first angry impulse, Mr. Bolton's thoughts
would turn to this right-of-way question, and he would become cool
and rational in a moment.






COALS OF FIRE.





"I AM sorry, Mr. Grasper, that you should have felt it necessary to
proceed to extremities against me," said a care-worn,
anxious-looking man, as he entered the store of a thrifty dealer in
tapes, needles, and sundry small wares, drawing aside, as he spoke,
the personage he addressed. "There was no need of this."

"There's where you and I differ, Mr. Layton," replied Grasper,
rudely. "The account has been standing nearly a year, and I have
dunned you for it until I am sick and tired."

"I know you have waited a long time for your money," returned the
debtor, humbly, "but not, I assure you, because I felt indifferent
about paying i the bill. I am most anxious to settle it, and would
do so this hour, if I had the ability."

"I can't lie out of my money in this way, Mr. Layton. If everybody
kept me out of my just dues as long as you have, where do you think
I would be? Not in this store, doing as good a business as any one
in the street, (Grasper drew himself up with an air of consequence,)
but coming out at the little end of the horn, as some of my
neighbours are. _I_ pay every man his just dues, and it is but right
that every man should pay me."

"Where there is a willingness, without present ability, some
allowances should be made."

"Humph! I consider a willingness to pay me my own, a very poor
substitute for the money."

There was an insulting rudeness in the way Grasper uttered this last
sentence, that made the honest blood boil in the veins of his
unfortunate debtor. He was tempted to utter a keen rebuke in reply,
but restrained himself, and simply made answer:

"Good intentions, I know, are not money. Still, they should be
considered as some extenuation in a debtor, and at least exempt him
from unnecessarily harsh treatment. No man can tell how it may be
with him in the course of a few years, and that, if nothing else,
should make every one as lenient towards the unfortunate as
possible."

"If you mean to insinuate by that," replied Grasper, in a quick
voice, "that I am likely to be in your situation in a few years, I
must beg leave to say that I consider your remarks as little better
than an insult. It's enough, let me tell you, for you to owe me and
not pay me, without coming into my store to insult me. If you have
nothing better to say, I see no use in our talking any longer." And
Grasper made a motion to turn from his debtor. But the case of
Layton was too urgent to let him act as his indignant feelings
prompted.

"I meant no offence, I assure you, Mr. Grasper," he said,
earnestly,--"I only urged one among many reasons that I could urge,
why you should spare a man in my situation."

"While I have as many to urge why I shall not spare you," was
angrily retorted. "Your account is sued out, and must take its
course, unless you can pay it, or give the required security under
the law."

"Won't you take my notes at three, six, nine, and twelve months, for
the whole amount I owe you? I am very confident that I can pay you
in that time; if not, you may take any steps you please, and I will
not say a single word."

"Yes, if you will give me a good endorser."

Layton sighed, and stood silent for some time.

"Will that suit you?" said Grasper.

"I am afraid not. I have never asked for an endorser in my life, and
do not know any one who would be willing to go on my paper."

"Well, just as you like. I shall not give up the certainty of a
present legal process, for bits of paper with your name on them, you
may depend upon it."

The poor debtor sighed again, and more heavily than before.

"If you go on with your suit against me, Mr. Grasper, you will
entirely break me up," said he, anxiously.

"That's your look-out, not mine. I want nothing but justice--what
the law gives to every man. You have property enough to pay my
claim; the law will adjudge it to me, and I will take it. Have you
any right to complain?"

"Others will have, if I have not. If you seize upon my goods, and
force a sale of them for one-fourth of what they are worth, you
injure the interests of my other creditors. They have rights, as
well as yourself."

"Let them look after them, then, as I am looking after mine. It is
as much as I can do to see to my own interests. But it's no use for
you to talk. If you can pay the money or give security, well--if I
not, things will have to take their course."

"On this you are resolved?"

"I am."

"Even with the certainty of entirely breaking me up?"

"That, I have before told you, is your own look-out, not mine."

"All I have to say, then, is," remarked Layton, as he turned away,
"that I sincerely hope you may, never be placed in my situation; or,
if so unfortunate, that you may have a more humane man to deal with
than I have."

"Thank you!" was cuttingly replied, "but you needn't waste sympathy
on me in advance. I never expect to be in your position. I would
sell the shirt off of my back before I would allow a man to ask me
for a dollar justly his due, without promptly paying him."

Finding that all his appeals were in vain, Layton retired from the
store of his unfeeling creditor. It was too late, now, to make a
confession of judgment to some other creditor, who would save, by an
amicable sale, the property from sacrifice, and thus secure it for
the benefit of all. Grasper had already obtained a judgment and
taken out an execution, under which a levy had been made by the
sheriff, and a sale was ordered to take place in a week. Nothing
could now hinder the onward progress of affairs to a disastrous
crisis, but the payment of the debt, or its security. As neither the
one nor the other was possible, the sale was advertised, the store
of Layton closed, and the sacrifice made. Goods that cost four times
the amount of Grasper's claim were sold for just enough to cover it,
and the residue of the stock left for the other creditors. These
were immediately called together, and all that the ruined debtor
possessed in the world given up to them.

"Take my furniture and all," said he. "Even after that is added to
this poor remnant, your claims will be very far from satisfied. Had
I dreamed that Grasper was so selfish a man as to disregard every
one's interests in the eager pursuit of his own, I would, long
before he had me in his power, have made a general assignment for
the benefit of the whole. But it is too late now for regrets; they
avail nothing. I still have health, and an unbroken spirit. I am
ready to try again, and, it may be, that success will crown my
efforts. If so, you have the pledge of an honest man, that every
dollar of present deficit shall be made up. Can I say more?"

Fortunately for Layton, there was no Grasper among the unsatisfied
portion of his creditors. He was pitied more than censured. Every
man said "no" to the proposition to surrender up his household
furniture.

"Let that remain untouched. We will not visit your misfortunes upon
your family."

After all his goods had been sold off to the best advantage, a
little over sixty cents on the dollar was paid. The loss to all
parties would have been light, had Grasper not sacrificed so much to
secure his own debt.

Regarding Layton as an honest man, and pitying his condition, with a
large family on his hands to provide for, a few of his creditors had
a conference on the subject of his affairs, which resulted in a
determination to make an effort to put him on his feet again. The
first thing done was to get all parties to sign a permanent release
of obligations still held against him, thus making him free from all
legal responsibilities for past transactions. The next thing was to
furnish him with a small, saleable stock of goods, on a liberal
credit.

On this basis, Layton started again in the world, with a confident
spirit. The old store was given up, and a new one taken at about
half the rent. It so happened, that this store was next to the one
occupied by Grasper, who, now that he had got his own, and had been
made sensible of the indignation of the other creditors for what he
had done, felt rather ashamed to look his neighbour in the face.

"Who has taken your store?" he asked of the owner of the property
next to his own, seeing him taking down the bill that had been up
for a few days.

"Your old friend Layton," replied the man, who was familiar with the
story of Layton's recent failure.

"You are not in earnest?" said Grasper, looking serious.

Yes--I have rented it to Layton."

"He has just been broken up root and branch, and can't get credit
for a dollar. How can he go into business?"

"Some friends have assisted him."

"Indeed! I didn't suppose a man in his condition had many friends."

"Oh, yes. An honest man always has friends. Layton is an honest man,
and I would trust him now as freely as before. He has learned wisdom
by experience, and, if ever he gets into difficulties again, will
take good care that no one man gets an undue preference over
another. His recent failure, I am told, was caused by one of his
creditors, who, in the eager desire to get his own, sacrificed a
large amount of property, to the injury of the other creditors."

Grasper did not venture to make any reply to this, lest he should
betray, by his manner, the fact that he was the individual to whom
allusion was made. He need not have been careful on this point, as
the person with whom he was conversing knew very well who was the
grasping creditor.

A day or two afterwards, Layton took possession of his new store,
and commenced arranging his goods. Grasper felt uneasy when he saw
the doors and windows open, and the goods arriving. He did not wish
to meet Layton. But this could not now be avoided. Much as he loved
money, and much as he had congratulated himself for the promptness
by which he had secured his debt, he now more than half wished that
he had been less stringent in his proceedings.

It was the custom of Grasper to come frequently to his door, and
stand with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and look
forth with a self-satisfied air. But not once did he venture thus to
stand upon his own threshold on the day Layton commenced receiving
his goods. When business called him out, he was careful to step into
the street, so much turned away from the adjoining store, that he
could not see the face of any one who might be standing in the
entrance. On returning, he would glide along close to the houses,
and enter quickly his own door. By this carefulness to avoid meeting
his old debtor, Grasper managed not to come into direct contact with
him for some time. But this was not always to be the case. One day,
just as he was about entering his store, Layton came out of his own
door, and they met face to face.

"Ah! How are you, friend Layton?" he said, with an air of forced
cordiality, extending his hand as he spoke. "So you have become my
next-door neighbour?"

"Yes," was the quiet reply, made in a pleasant manner, and without
the least appearance of resentment for the past.

"I am really glad to find you are on your feet again," said Grasper,
affecting an interest which he did not feel. "For the misfortunes
you have suffered, I always felt grieved, although, perhaps, I was a
little to blame for hastening the crisis in your affairs. But I had
waited a long time for my money, you know."

"Yes, and others will now have to wait a great deal longer, in
consequence of your hasty action," replied Layton, speaking
seriously, but not in a way to offend.

"I am very sorry, but it can't be helped now," said Grasper, looking
a little confused. "I only took the ordinary method of securing my
own. If I had not taken care of myself, somebody would have come in
and swept the whole. You know you couldn't possibly have stood it
much longer."

"If you think it right, Mr. Grasper, I have nothing now to say,"
returned Layton.

"You certainly could not call it wrong for a man to sue another who
has the means, and yet refuses to pay what he owes him?"

"I think it wrong, Mr. Grasper," replied Layton, "for any man to
injure others in his over-eagerness to get his own, and this you
did. You seized four, times as many goods as would have paid your
claim if they had been fairly sold, and had them sacrificed for
one-fourth of their value, thus wronging my other creditors out of
some three thousand dollars in the present, and taxing my future
efforts to make good what was no better than thrown into the sea.
You had no moral right to do this, although you had the power. This
is my opinion of the matter, Mr. Grasper; and I freely express it,
in the hope that, if ever another man is so unfortunate as to get in
your debt without the means of present payment, that you will be
less exacting with him than you were with me."

Grasper writhed in spirit under this cutting rebuke of Layton, which
was given seriously, but not in anger. He tried to make a great many
excuses, to none of which Layton made any reply. He had said all he
wished to say on the subject. After this, the two met
frequently--more frequently than Grasper cared about meeting the man
he had injured. Several times he alluded, indirectly, to the past,
in an apologetic way, but Layton never appeared to understand the
allusion. This was worse to Grasper than if he had come out and said
over and over again just what he thought of the other's conduct.

Five years from the day Layton commenced business anew, he made his
last dividend upon the deficit that stood against him at the time
his creditors generously released him and set him once more upon his
feet. He was doing a very good business, and had a credit much more
extensive than he cared about using. No one was more ready to sell
him than Grasper, who frequently importuned him to make bills at his
store. This he sometimes did, but made it a point never to give his
note for the purchase, always paying the cash and receiving a
discount.

"I'd as lief have your note as your money," Grasper would sometimes
say.

"I always prefer paying the cash while I have it," was generally the
answer. "In this way, I make a double profit on my sales."

The true reason why he would not give his note to Grasper, was his
determination never to be in debt to any man who, in an extremity,
would oppress him. This reason was more than suspected by Grasper
and it worried him exceedingly. If Layton had refused to buy from
him at all, he would have felt less annoyance.

Year after year passed on, and Layton's business gradually enlarged,
until he was doing at least four times as much as Grasper, who now
found himself much oftener the buyer from, than the seller to,
Layton. At first, in making bills with Layton, he always made it a
point to cash them. But this soon became inconvenient, and he was
forced to say, in making a pretty heavy purchase--

"I shall have to give my note for this."

"Just as you please, Mr. Grasper, it is all the same to me," replied
Layton, indifferently. "I had as lief have your note as your money."

Grasper felt his cheek burn. For the hundredth time, he repented of
one act in his life.

A few months after this, Grasper found himself very hard pressed to
meet his payments. He had been on the borrowing list for a good
while, and had drawn so often and so largely upon business friends,
that he had almost worn out his welcome. For one of his heavy days
he had been endeavouring to make provision in advance, but had not
succeeded in obtaining all the money needed, when the day arrived.
In his extremity, and as a last resort, yet with a most
heart-sinking reluctance, he called in to see Layton.

"Have you seven hundred dollars more than you want to-day?" he
asked, in a tone that betrayed his unwillingness to ask the favour,
although he strove to appear indifferent.

"I have, and it's at your service," was promptly and cheerfully
replied. "Shall I fill you a check?"

"If you please," said Grasper; "I have a very heavy payment to make
to-day, and find money tighter than usual. When do you with me to
return it to you?" he asked, as he took the check.

"Oh! in three or four days. Will that do?"

"It will suit me exactly. I am very much obliged to you, indeed."

"You are very welcome. I shall always be happy to accommodate you in
a similar way. I generally have something over."

When Grasper returned to his own store, his cheek burned, his heart
beat quicker, and his breathing was oppressed. He felt humbled in
his own eyes. To the man whom he once so cruelly wronged he had been
compelled to go for a favour, and that man had generously returned
him good for evil. He was unhappy until he could replace the money
he had borrowed, which was in a day or two, and even then he still
felt very uncomfortable.

After this, Grasper of course was frequently driven to the necessity
of getting temporary loans from Layton, which were always made in a
way which showed that it gave his neighbour real pleasure to
accommodate him.

Gradually, difficulties gathered around Grasper so thickly, that he
found it almost impossible to keep his head above water. Two thirds
of his time were spent in efforts to raise money to meet his
payments, and the other third in brooding sadly and inactively over
the embarrassed condition of his affairs. This being the case, his
business suffered inevitably. Instead of going on and making
handsome profits, as he had once done, he was actually losing money,
and that, too, rapidly; for, when he bought, he often made imprudent
purchases, and when he sold, he made three bad debts where he
formerly made one.

At last, a crisis came in his affairs, as come it must, sooner or
later, under such a system. A stoppage and ruin he saw to be
inevitable. He owed more borrowed money than he could possibly
return within the time for which he had obtained it, and had,
besides, large payments to make in bank within the period. Any
effort to get through, he saw would be hopeless, and he determined
to give up; not, however, without securing something for himself.

"Twenty cents less in the dollar for my creditors," he argued, "will
not kill them, and that difference will be quite important to me.
When the storm blows over, it will give me the means of hoisting
sail again."

At this time, Grasper owed Layton two thousand dollars borrowed
money, and two thousand dollars in notes of hand, given for goods
purchased of him.

"It won't do," he said to himself, "to let _him_ lose any thing. I
should never be able to look him in the face again, after what has
happened between us. No--no--I must see _him_ safe."

On the next day, Grasper called in to see Layton. His face was
serious.

"Can I say a word to you alone?" he asked.

"Certainly," and the two men retired to a private part of the store.
Grasper had never felt so wretched in all his life. After two or
three efforts to speak, he at last found voice enough to say--

"Mr. Layton, I have very bad news to tell you. It is impossible for
me to go on any longer. I shall stop to-morrow, inevitably. I owe
you two thousand dollars in borrowed money and two thousand in
notes, making, in all, four thousand dollars. I don't wish _you_ to
lose any thing by me, and, to secure your borrowed money, I have
brought you good notes for two thousand dollars, which is the best I
can possibly do. For the other two thousand dollars, I want you to
come into my store, and take your choice of any thing there, which I
will sell you, and take my own notes back in payment. That is the
best I can possibly do for you, Mr. Layton, and it will be far
better, I fear, than I shall be able to do for any one else."

Layton was taken entirely by surprise.

"What you say astonishes me, Mr. Grasper; I thought you were doing a
very flourishing business?"

"And so I would have been, had I not ventured a little beyond my
depth, and got cramped for money to meet my payments. A neglect of
my business was the inevitable consequence; for, when all my time
was taken up in raising money, I had none left to see after my
business in a proper manner. Bad debts have been one of the
consequences, and profitless operations another, until I am involved
beyond the power of extrication, and must see every thing fall in
ruins about my head."

"It really grieves me to hear you say this," replied Layton, not
offering to take the notes which Grasper was still holding out for
his acceptance. "But, perhaps, you magnify your difficulties. Don't
you think some temporary relief would help you over your present
embarrassments?"

"No: nothing temporary would be of any avail."

"Have you any objection to letting me see a full statement of your
affairs? Perhaps I can suggest something better than a failure,
which is almost always the very worst thing that can be done."

"Most gladly will I do so, Mr. Layton," returned Grasper; "and if
you can point out any way by which I can get over my present
difficulties, I shall be for ever under obligation to you."

An examination into Grasper's business satisfied Layton that a few
thousand dollars would save it.

"You need not fail," he said, cheerfully, to the unhappy man, as
soon as he fully comprehended the state of his affairs.

"What is to prevent it?" eagerly asked the embarrassed merchant.

"You want more money," said Layton.

"I know that. Seven or eight thousand dollars would relieve me, if I
had the use of it for one or two years, so that I could devote all
my time to business. I have enough to do. All that is wanted is to
do it well."

"Yes, I see that clearly enough."

"But the money, where is that to come from?"

"It can be raised, I think. In fact, if you will secure me against
loss, I will take your notes and raise it for you."

"I will secure you upon every thing that I possess," was instantly
replied.

"Very well. That will do. How much money must you have to-morrow?"

"Two thousand dollars."

"That can be managed easily enough. I will see that it is raised. In
the mean time, get all arrangements for the security in progress, so
that I can take your notes and pass them through bank as fast as you
need to have money."

Grasper was overpowered. He could hardly believe that he heard
aright. This was the man who had been driven by his grasping spirit
into bankruptcy, and utterly ruined. The thought again flashed
through his mind, and sent the blood burning to his face. Pride for
a moment tempted him to refuse the offered kindness; but there was
too much at stake--he could not do it. While the act of Layton
heaped coals of fire upon his head, he had no alternative but to
submit to a thing only less painful than utter ruin. From ruin he
was saved; but he was an altered and an humbled man. Many times
since have unfortunate debtors been in his power, and, although he
has not acted towards them with much liberality, (for it was not in
him to do so,) he has not oppressed them.






A NEW PLEASURE.





THE whole purpose of Mr. Bolton's life had been the accumulation of
property, with an end to his own gratification. To part with a
dollar was therefore ever felt as the giving up of a prospective
good; and it acted as the abridgment of present happiness. Appeals
to Mr. Bolton's benevolence had never been very successful; and, in
giving, he had not experienced the blessing which belongs of right
to good deeds. The absolute selfishness of his feelings wronged him
of what was justly his due.

Thus passed the life of Mr. Bolton. Dollar was added to dollar,
house to house, and field to field. Yet he was never satisfied with
gaining; for the little he had, looked so small compared with the
wealth of the world, after the whole of which his heart really
panted, as to appear at times actually insignificant. Thus, as he
grew older, he set a value upon what he had, as the means of gaining
more, and in his parting with money, did so at the expense of a
daily increasing reluctance.

In the beginning of life, Mr. Bolton possessed a few generous
feelings, the remains of early and innocent states stored up in
childhood. His mother, a true woman, perceiving the strong selfish
and accumulative bent of his character, had sought in every possible
way to implant in his mind feelings of benevolence and regard for
others. One mode of doing this had been to introduce him into scenes
that appealed to his sympathies. She often took him with her to see
poor or sick persons, and so interested him in them as to create a
desire in his mind to afford relief. So soon as she perceived this
desire awakened, she devised some mode of bringing it into activity,
so that he might feel the delights which spring from a consciousness
of having done good to another.

But so strong was the lad's hereditary love of self, that she ever
found difficulty in inducing him to sacrifice what he already
considered his own, in the effort to procure blessings for others,
no matter how greatly they stood in need. If urged to spend a
sixpence of his own for such a purpose, he would generally reply:

"But you've got a great many more sixpences than I have, mother: why
don't you spend them?"

To this, Mrs. Bolton would answer as appropriately as possible; but
she found but poor success in her efforts, which were never relaxed.

In early manhood, as Mr. Bolton began to come in actual contact with
the world, the remains of early states of innocence and sympathy
with others came back, as we have intimated, upon him, and he acted,
in many instances, with a generous disregard of self. But as he bent
his mind more and more earnestly to the accumulation of money, these
feelings had less and less influence over him. And as dollar after
dollar was added to his store, his interest in the welfare of others
grew less and less active. Early friendships were gradually
forgotten, and the first natural desire to see early friends
prosperous like himself, gradually died out. "Every man for
himself," became the leading principle of his life; and he acted
upon it on all occasions. In taking a pew in church and regularly
attending worship every Sabbath, he was governed by the idea that it
was respectable to do so, and gave a man a standing in society, that
reacted favourably upon his worldly interests. In putting his name
to a subscription paper, a thing not always to be avoided, even by
him, a business view of the matter was invariably taken, and the
satisfaction of mind experienced on the occasion arose from the
reflection that the act would benefit him in the long run. As to the
minor charities, in the doing of which the left hand has no
acquaintance with the deeds of the right hand, Mr. Bolton never
indulged in them. If his left hand had known the doings of his right
hand in matters of this kind, said hand would not have been much
wiser for the knowledge.

Thus life went on; and Mr. Bolton was ever busy in gathering in his
golden harvest; so busy, that he had no time for any thing else, not
even to enjoy what he possessed. At last, he was sixty years old,
and his wealth extended to many hundreds of thousands of dollars.
But he was farther from being satisfied than ever, and less happy
than at any former period in his life.

One cause of unhappiness arose from the fact that, as a rich man, he
was constantly annoyed with applications to do a rich man's part in
the charities of the day. And to these applications it was
impossible always to turn a deaf ear. Give he must sometimes, and
giving always left a pain behind, because the gift came not from a
spirit of benevolence. There were other and various causes of
unhappiness, all of which combining, made Mr. Bolton, as old age
came stealing upon him, about as miserable as a man could well be.
Money, in his eyes the greatest good, had not brought the peace of
mind to which he had looked forward, and the days came and went
without a smile. His children had grown up and passed into the
world, and were, as he had been at their ages, so all-absorbed by
the love of gain, as to have little love to spare for any thing
else.

About this time, Mr. Bolton, having made one or two losing
operations, determined to retire from business, invest all his money
in real estate and other securities, and let the management of these
investments constitute his future employment. In this new occupation
he found so little to do in comparison with his former busy life,
that the change proved adverse, so far as his repose of mind was
concerned.

It happened, about this time, that Mr. Bolton had occasion to go
some twenty miles into the country. On returning home, and when
within a few miles of the city, his carriage was overset, and he had
the misfortune to fracture a limb. This occurred near a pleasant
little farm-house that stood a few hundred yards from the road; the
owner of which, seeing the accident, ran to the overturned carriage
and assisted to extricate the injured man. Seeing how badly he was
hurt, he had him removed to his house, and then, taking a horse,
rode off two miles for a physician. In the mean time, the driver of
Mr. Bolton's carriage was despatched to the city for some of his
family and his own physician. The country doctor and the one from
the city arrived about the same time. On making a careful
examination as to the nature of Mr. Bolton's injuries, it was found
that his right leg, above the knee, was broken, and that one of his
ankles was dislocated. He was suffering great pain, and was much
exhausted. As quickly as it could be done, the bone was set, and the
dislocation reduced. By this time it was nightfall, and too late to
think seriously of returning home before morning. The moment Mr.
Gray, the farmer, saw the thoughts of the injured man and his
friends directed towards the city, he promptly invited them to
remain in his house all night, and as much longer as the nature of
Mr. Bolton's injuries might require. This invitation was thankfully
accepted.

During the night, Mr. Bolton suffered a great deal of pain, and in
the morning, when the physicians arrived, it was found that his
injured limb was much inflamed. Of course, a removal to the city was
out of the question. The doctors declared that the attempt would be
made at the risk of his life. Farmer Gray said that such a thing
must not be thought of until the patient was fully able to bear the
journey; and the farmer's wife as earnestly remonstrated against any
attempt at having the injured man disturbed until it could be
perfectly safe to do so. Both tendered the hospitalities of their
humble home with so much sincerity, that Mr. Bolton felt that he
could accept of them with perfect freedom.

It was a whole month ere the old gentleman was in a condition to
bear the journey to town; and not once in the whole of that time had
Mr. and Mrs. Gray seemed weary of his presence, nor once relaxed in
their efforts to make him comfortable. As Mr. Bolton was about
leaving, he tendered the farmer, with many expressions of gratitude
for the kindness he had received, a hundred-dollar bill, as some
small compensation for the trouble and expense he had occasioned him
and his family. But Mr. Gray declined the offer, saying, as he did
so:

"I have only done what common humanity required, Mr. Bolton; and
were I to receive money, all the pleasure I now experience would be
gone."

It was in vain that Mr. Bolton urged the farmer's acceptance of some
remuneration. Mr. Gray was firm in declining to the last. All that
could be done was to send Mrs. Gray a handsome present from the
city; but this did not entirely relieve the mind of Mr. Bolton from
the sense of obligation under which the disinterested kindness of
the farmer had laid him; and thoughts of this tended to soften his
feelings, and to awaken, in a small measure, the human sympathies
which had so long slumbered in his bosom.

Several months passed before Mr. Bolton was able to go out, and then
he resumed his old employment of looking after his rents, and
seeking for new and safe investments that promised some better
returns than he was yet receiving.

One day, a broker, who was in the habit of doing business for Mr.
Bolton, said to him:

"If you want to buy a small, well-cultivated farm, at about half
what it is worth, I think I know where you can get one."

"Do you?"

"Yes. Three years ago it was bought for three thousand dollars, and
seven hundred paid down in cash. Only eight hundred dollars have
since been paid on it; and as the time for which the mortgage was to
remain has now expired, a foreclosure is about to take place. By a
little management, I am satisfied that I can get you the farm for
the balance due on the mortgage."

"That is, for fifteen hundred dollars?"

"Yes."

"Is the farm worth that? Will it be a good investment?"

"It is in the highest state of cultivation. The owner has spent too
much money upon it. This, with the loss of his entire crop of wheat,
rye, corn, oats, and hay, last year, has crippled him, and made it
impossible to pay off the mortgage."

"How came he to meet with this loss?"

"His barn was struck by lightning."

"That was unfortunate."

"The farm will command, at the lowest, two hundred and fifty dollars
rent; and by forcing a sale just at this time, it can be had for
fifteen hundred or two thousand dollars--half its real value."

"It would be a good investment at that."

"Capital. I would advise you to secure it."

After making some brief inquiries as to its location, the quality of
the land, the improvements, etc., Mr. Bolton told the broker, in
whom he had great confidence, that he might buy the property for
him, if he could obtain it for any thing below two thousand dollars.
This the broker said he could easily do, as the business of
foreclosure was in his own hands.

In due time, Mr. Bolton was informed by his agent in the matter,
that a sale under the mortgage had taken place, and that, by means
of the little management proposed, he had succeeded in keeping away
all competition in bidding. The land, stock, farming implements, and
all, had been knocked down at a price that just covered the
encumbrance on the estate, and were the property of Mr. Bolton, at
half their real value.

"That was a good speculation," said the gray-headed money-lover,
when his agent informed him of what he had been doing.

"First-rate," replied the broker. "The farm is worth every cent of
three thousand dollars. Poor Gray! I can't help feeling sorry for
him. But it's his luck. He valued his farm at three thousand five
hundred dollars. A week ago he counted himself worth two thousand
dollars, clean. Now he isn't worth a copper. Fifteen hundred dollars
and three or four years' labour thrown away into the bargain. But
it's his luck! So the world goes. He must try again. It will all go
in his lifetime."

"Gray? Is that the man's name?" inquired Mr. Bolton. His voice was
changed.

"Yes. I thought I had mentioned his name."

"I didn't remark it, if you did. It's the farm adjoining Harvey's,
on the north?"

"Yes."

"I have had it in my mind, all along, that it was the one on the
south."

"No."

"When did you see Mr. Gray?"

"He was here about half an hour ago."

"How does he feel about the matter?"

"He takes it hard, of course. Any man would. But it's his luck, and
he must submit. It's no use crying over disappointments and losses,
in this world."

Mr. Bolton mused for a long time.

"I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, at length. "Let every thing
remain as it is until then."

The man who had been for so many years sold, as it were, to
selfishness, found himself checked at last by the thought of
another. While just in the act of grasping a money advantage, the
interest of another arose up, and made him pause.

"If it had been any one else," said he to himself, as he walked
slowly homeward, "all would have been plain sailing. But--but"--

The sentence was not finished.

"It won't do to turn HIM away," was at length uttered. "He shall
have the farm at a very moderate rent."

Still, these concessions of selfishness did not relieve the mind of
Mr. Bolton, nor make him feel more willing to meet the man who had
done him so groat a kindness, and in such a disinterested spirit.

All that day, and for a portion of the night that followed, Mr.
Bolton continued to think over the difficulty in which he found
himself placed; and the more he thought, the less willing did he
feel to take the great advantage of the poor farmer at first
contemplated. After falling asleep, his mind continued occupied with
the same subject, and in the dreams that came to him, he lived over
a portion of the past.

He was again a helpless invalid, and the kind farmer and his
excellent wife were ministering, as before, to his comfort. His
heart was full of grateful feelings. Then a change came suddenly. He
stood the spectator of a widely-spread ruin which had fallen upon
the excellent Mr. Gray and his family. A fierce tempest was sweeping
over his fields, and levelling all-houses, trees, and grain--in ruin
to the earth. A word spoken by him would have saved all; he felt
this: but he did not speak the word. The look of reproach suddenly
cast upon him by the farmer so stung him that he awoke; and from
that time until the day dawned, he lay pondering on the course of
conduct he had best pursue.

The advantage of the purchase he had made was so great, that Mr.
Bolton thought of relinquishing it with great reluctance. On the
other hand, his obligation to the farmer was of such a nature, that
he must, in clinging to his bargain, forfeit his self-respect, and
must suffer a keen sense of mortification, if not dishonour, at any
time that he happened to meet Mr. Gray face to face. Finally, after
a long struggle, continued through several days, he resolved to
forego the good he had attempted to grasp.

How many years since this man had done a generous action! since he
had relinquished a selfish and sordid purpose out of regard to
another's well-being! And now it had cost him a desperate struggle;
but after the trial was past, his mind became tranquil, and he could
think of what he was about to do with an emotion of pleasure that
was new in his experience. Immediately on this resolution being
formed, Mr. Bolton called upon his agent. His first inquiry was:

"When did you see Gray?"

"The previous owner of your farm?"

"Yes."

"Not since the sale. You told me to let every thing remain as it
was."

"Hasn't he called?"

"No."

"The loss of his farm must be felt as a great misfortune."

"No doubt of that. Every man feels his losses as misfortunes. But we
all have to take the good and the bad in life together. It's his
luck, and he must put up with it."

"I wonder if he hasn't other property?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"Oh, yes. I know exactly what he was worth. He had been overseer for
Elbertson for several years, and while there, managed to save seven
hundred dollars, with which he paid down the cash required in
purchasing his farm. Since then, he has been paying off the mortgage
that remained on the property, and but for the burning of his barn,
might have prevented a result that has been so disastrous to
himself. But it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. In every
loss, somebody gains; and the turn of the die has been in your
favour this time."

Mr. Bolton did not appear to feel as much satisfaction at this view
of the case as the broker anticipated; and seeing this, he changed
the subject, by asking some question about the consummation of the
sale under the mortgage.

"I'll see you about that to-morrow," said Mr. Bolton.

"Very well," was replied.

After some more conversation, Mr. Bolton left the office of his
agent.

For years, farmer Gray had been toiling late and early, to become
the full owner of his beautiful farm. Its value had much increased
since it had come into his possession, and he looked forward with
pleasure to the time when it would be his own beyond all doubt. But
the loss of an entire year's crop, through the burning of his barn,
deeply tried and dispirited him. From this grievous disappointment,
his spirits were beginning to rise, when the sudden foreclosure of
the mortgage and hurried sale of his farm crushed all his hopes to
the earth.

Who the real purchaser of his farm was, Mr. Gray did not know, for
the broker had bought in his own name. So bewildered was the farmer
by the suddenly-occurring disaster, that, for several days
subsequent to the sale, he remained almost totally paralyzed in
mind. No plans were laid for the future, nor even those ordinary
steps for the present taken, that common prudence would suggest; he
wandered about the farm, or sat at home, dreamily musing upon what
seemed the utter ruin of all his best hopes in life. While in this
state, he was surprised by a visit from Mr. Bolton. The old
gentleman, in taking him by the hand, said--"What's the matter, my
friend? You appear in trouble."

"And I am in trouble," was unhesitatingly answered.

"Not so deep but that you may get out of it again, I hope?"

Mr. Gray shook his head in a desponding way.

"What _is_ the trouble?" Mr. Bolton inquired.

"I have lost my farm."

"Oh, no!"

"It is too true; it has been sold for a mortgage of fifteen hundred
dollars. Though I have already paid more than that sum on account of
the purchase, it only brought enough to pay the encumbrance, and I
am ruined."

The farmer was deeply disturbed, and Mr. Bolton's feelings were much
interested.

"Don't be so troubled, my good friend," said the old gentleman. "You
rendered me a service in the time of need, and it is now in my power
to return it. The farm is still yours. I hold the mortgage, and you
need not fear another foreclosure."

Some moments passed after this announcement before Mr. Gray's mind
became clear, and his entire self-possession returned; then grasping
the hand of Mr. Bolton, he thanked him with all the eloquence a
grateful heart inspires. It was the happiest moment the old merchant
had seen for years. The mere possession of a thousand or two of
dollars seemed as nothing to the pleasure he felt at having
performed a good action; or, rather, at having refrained from doing
an evil one.

As he rode back to the city, reflecting upon what he had done, and
recalling the delight shown by Mr. Gray and his kind partner, who
had attended him so carefully while he lay a sufferer beneath their
roof, his heart swelled in his bosom with a new and happy emotion.

Having once permitted himself to regard another with an unselfish
interest, that interest continued; it seemed as if he could not do
enough for the farmer in the way of aiding him to develop the
resources of his little property. In this he did not merely stop at
suggestions, but tendered something more substantial and available.
Nor did the feelings awakened in his mind run all in this direction;
occasions enough offered for him to be generous to others, and to
refrain from oppression for the sake of gain. Many of these were
embraced, and Mr. Bolton, in realizing the fact that it is sometimes
more blessed to give than to receive, found in the latter years of
his life a NEW PLEASURE--the pleasure of benevolence.






THE DAUGHTER-IN-LAW.





"I SHALL love your mother very much, Charles, but do you think she
will love me?" said a graceful young creature, leaning with an air
of tender confidence upon the arm of her companion, and looking
earnestly in his face. She was a little above the ordinary stature,
with a form so delicate as to appear almost fragile, a pure
semi-transparent skin, and a cheek--

  "Like the apple-tree blossom,
  By the dew-fountain fed,
  Was the bloom of her cheek,
  With its white and its red."

Eyes of heaven's own blue beamed with love and delight, as they
wandered over the frank, honest face of the young man, who stood
looking down into them, as they reflected back his own image. He
could not love himself without harm to himself, but he could gaze
on, and love to gaze for ever upon the image of himself pictured in
those dear eyes, and yet be innocent.

"Love you, Ellen? How can she help loving you?"

"I do not know why any one should love me," was the artless reply.

"I do not know how any one can help loving you."

"Ah, you may think so, but every one does not see with your eyes;
and maybe, you are only blinded. I am not perfect, Charles; don't
forget that."

"You are perfect to me, and that is all I ask. But say, Ellen, dear,
sha'n't we be married in a month?"

"I am so young, Charles; and then I ought to be certain that your
mother is willing. Does she know all about it? You have written to
her, have you not?"

The young man did not reply for some moments. Then he said--"Never
fear, Ellen; my mother will love you as her own child, when she sees
and knows you. I have not written about you to her, because, as I
must tell you, my mother, though one of the best of women, is a
little proud of her standing in society. The moment I write to her
on the subject, she will have a dozen grave questions to ask about
your family, and whether they are connected with this great
personage or that--questions that I despair of answering, in a
letter, to her satisfaction. But your dear face will explain all,
and stop all inquiries, when I present you to her as my wife."

"Don't be so certain of that, Charles. If your mother is proud of
her family, she will be mortified and displeased should her son
marry an unknown girl."

"The proudest mother on earth would receive you into her bosom, and
call you daughter, without an emotion of wounded pride," was the
lover's confident reply. "I know it. I know my mother too well, not
to be confident on this subject."

"You ought to know, Charles; but I would much rather be certain. I
love you better than my life; but if I thought that your marrying me
would separate you from your mother's love, I would never consent to
a union. Ah, there can be no love so pure, so deep, so unselfish as
a mother's love. A mother! Oh, how sweet the name! how holy the
office! I can remember, though but faintly, my own mother. I was but
a little girl when I lost her, but I still see her face as it often
bent over me while I lay in my bed, and still, at times, can hear
her voice. Oh, what would I not have given had she lived! Ah,
Charles, be sure that in no act of your life you wrong your mother,
or give her pain."

Charles Linden belonged to a family that claimed descent from some
distinguished ancestor on the mother's side--some one who had come
from England a long time ago, and who, when there, was ranked one of
gentle blood. Of the worth of his principles, little was known. He
may have been a high-minded and honourable man, or he may have
possessed qualities worthy of the detestation of all. Be that as it
may, Mrs. Linden valued herself highly on having come down in a
right line, through three generations, from this distinguished
individual; and there were plenty to estimate her by her own
standard. As a woman, taking her for what she was worth, she would
have done very well, and received from all sensible people due
consideration; but her true character as a woman was glossed over
and somewhat defaced by her pride. She did not regard her own
qualities of mind as any thing--her standing as one of the true
aristocrats of society was every thing. As for her husband, little
was ever said about his ancestors; he had no scruples, while living,
of an investigation, for he feared none. His father was a wealthy
merchant, and his grandfather an honest farmer, who fought for his
country during the whole revolutionary campaign. The old soldier
left to his son the inheritance of sound moral principles, a good
education, and an enthusiastic love of his country. With these as
his only patrimony, he started in the world. At the age of fifty, he
died, leaving to his children an untarnished name and forty thousand
dollars a piece.

The father of Charles Linden had been in business several years when
this event took place, and had already acquired by his own
exertions, as well as by marriage, a handsome property. He died when
Charles, his eldest son, was but sixteen, leaving three children,
two sons and one daughter; and a widow estimated to be worth a
hundred thousand dollars. To each of the children he left fifty
thousand dollars. This did not please the aristocratic notions of
the mother. It would have been more in consonance with her views, if
but one-third of the whole property had been left to her, and the
balance to their eldest son, with the reservation of small annuities
for the other children. In her own mind she determined to will all
she had to Charles, with the distinct proviso that he took
possession of it only on the condition of dropping his father's
name, and assuming that of her family, which was Beauchamp.

Long before he was twenty-one years of age, she commenced her
insidious attacks upon his native manliness of character, which
showed itself in a disposition to value every thing with which he
came in contact, according to intrinsic worth. He never bought of
the family of any one with whom he was brown into association, but
of qualities of head and heart. At school he had learned how to
estimate individual worth; books, truly American books, conceived by
American minds, strengthened the right impression so made. When,
therefore, Mrs. Linden attempted to show him that family was the
primary thing to be considered in his associations with people, her
efforts were altogether fruitless.

All persons of Mrs. Linden's way of thinking make it a point to take
the marriage of their children pretty much into their own hands,
believing that their external views on the subject are far better
than the internal attraction toward an object that can be truly
loved, which their children imagine they feel--or, as they say,
"imagine." The mother of Charles understood well her duty in this
matter. Long before her son had passed his fourteenth year, she had
made a selection for him in a little Miss, younger than he was by
two years, named Antoinette Billings. Antoinette's mother was a
woman after Mrs. Linden's own heart. She understood the first
distant hint made on the subject, and readily came to a fair and
open understanding with Mrs. Linden. Then it was managed so that the
children were much together, and they were taught to look upon each
other as engaged for marriage at some future day.

Charles was a fine, noble-hearted boy; but Antoinette was a spoiled,
pert, selfish creature, and had but little control over her tempers,
that were by no means amiable. It was not long before the future
husband, so called, wisely determined that Miss Antoinette should
never be his wife, and he told his mother so in very plain language.
Mrs. Linden tried every art in her power to influence Charles, but
it was no use. He inherited too much truly noble blood from this
independent, right-thinking father.

At the age of twenty-one, he left his native place and entered into
business in a neighbouring city. His mother parted with him
reluctantly; but there were strong reasons why he should go, and she
did not feel that it would be right to oppose him.

About a year after his removal from P--to his new place of
residence, Charles Linden met Ellen Fleetwood. She had come recently
from one of the Eastern States, and resided in the family of a
distant relative. His first impressions were favourable--each
subsequent meeting confirmed them--and, length, he found himself
really attached to her. So little of his mother's peculiar spirit
had he imbibed, that it did not once occur to him to ask about her
family until he had made up his mind to offer himself in marriage.
Inquiry on this subject resulted in the discovery that Ellen's
parents were distinguished from the mass in no particular way. They
had married early, and her mother died early. Her father, whose very
existence seemed to have been wrapped up in that of his wife, went
away soon after her death, and never returned. It was believed by
his friends that he did not survive her long. Ellen was then five
years old. An aunt adopted her and raised her as her own child. A
year before Linden met her, this aunt had died, leaving her a small
income. She removed shortly after this event, at the request of a
relative--the only surviving one, as far as she knew--and now lived
with her. Of the precise character of the father and mother, he
could learn nothing. Ellen, therefore, neither lost nor gained any
thing in his eyes by birth. For what she was to him, and for that
alone, he loved her--and loved purely and tenderly.

An engagement took place in a few months after their acquaintance
commenced. It was shortly afterwards that the conversation detailed
in the opening of our story commenced, from which it will appear
that Charles had not yet ventured to inform his mother of the choice
he had made. Knowing the strength of her peculiar prejudices, he had
every thing to fear, as far as opposition was concerned. The fact
that Ellen appeared so anxious to obtain her favour made him less
willing to risk the consequences of informing his mother that he had
made his choice of a wife. He knew she would oppose a marriage most
strenuously. What the effect of such opposition upon Ellen would be,
it would be impossible to tell;--it might, he feared, lead her to
decline his offer. For this reason, he urged an immediate union; and
wished it to take place without his parent's knowledge. Ellen
opposed this earnestly, but was finally induced to yield. They were
married, and started the next morning to visit Mrs. Linden. Two days
before, Charles had written to inform his mother of what had taken
place, and of his intended return home, on a short visit, with his
bride.

"My dear mother," a portion of his letter read, "I know you will be
grieved, and, I fear, offended at what I have done; but wait only
for a day or two, until you see my Ellen--your Ellen, let me
say--and you will be grieved and angry no longer. She will love you
as only an unselfish child can love a mother; and you will love her
the moment you see her. I have talked to her from the first about
you, and she has already so pure an affection for you, that she is
longing to see you and throw herself upon your bosom. Oh! let me beg
of you to receive her in the spirit with which she is coming to you.
Be to her a mother, as she wishes to be to you a child."

It was not without many misgivings at heart that Charles Linden set
out to visit his mother. These could not be felt without their
effects being perceived by Ellen, who was tremblingly anxious about
her reception. Her spirits became in consequence depressed, and more
than once Charles found tears stealing from beneath her half-closed
eyelids. He understood well the cause, and strove, but vainly, to
assure her that all would be as her heart could wish.

It was nearly nightfall when the carriage that conveyed them from
the steamboat landing drew up before the elegant residence of Mrs.
Linden. Charles hurried in with his bride in a tumult of anxiety. A
servant was sent up to announce his arrival. Five minutes passed,
and they still sat alone in the parlour--Charles deeply agitated,
and Ellen looking pale and frightened.

"What can keep her so long?" the young man had just said, in a husky
whisper, when the door opened and his mother entered with a slow,
dignified step, her face calm, but severe, and her tall person drawn
up to its full height. Charles started forward, but the instantly
raised hand and forbidding aspect of his mother restrained him.

"Don't come near me," said she, coldly--"you have done that for
which I never shall forgive you. Go at once from my presence, with
the mean-spirited creature who has dared to suppose that I would
acknowledge as my daughter one who has corrupted and robbed me of my
son. Go! We are mother and son no longer. I dissolve the tie. Go!"

And the mother, whose assumed calmness had given way to a highly
excited manner, waved her hand imperatively towards the door.

Ellen, who had started up at the moment Mrs. Linden appeared, now
came forward, and, throwing herself at her feet, clasped her hands
together, and lifted her sweet pale face and tearful eyes. For an
instant the mother's face grew dark with passion; then she made a
movement as if she were about to spurn the supplicant indignantly,
when Charles sprang before her, and lifting Ellen in his arms, bore
her from the house, and placed her half fainting in the carriage
that still stood at the door. A hurried direction was given to the
driver, who mounted his box and drove off to a hotel, where they
passed the night, and, on the next morning, returned home to the
city they had left on the previous day.

It was long before a smile lighted the countenance of the young
bride. In silence she upbraided herself for having been the cause of
estranging from each other mother and son.

"It was wrong," she said, in a sad tone, when, after the passage of
a month, the subject was conversed about between them with more than
usual calmness. "You should, first of all, have written to your
mother, and asked her consent."

"But I knew she would not give it. I knew her peculiar prejudices
too well. My only hope was the impression your dear face would make
upon her. I was sure that for her to see you would be to love you.
But I was mistaken."

"Alas! too sadly mistaken. We have made her unhappy through life.
Oh! how that thought distresses me."

"She deserves all the unhappiness she may feel. For me, I do not
pity her." Charles Linden said this with a good deal of bitterness.

"Oh! Charles--do not speak so--do not feel so. She is your mother,
and you acted against what you knew to be one of her strongest
prejudices," Ellen said earnestly. "I do not feel angry with her.
When I think of her, it is with grief, that she is unhappy. The time
may yet come--pray heaven it come quickly!--when she will feel
differently toward one whose heart she does not know--when she will
love me as a mother."

"She does not deserve the love of one like you," was the bitterly
spoken reply.

"Ah, Charles! why will you speak so? It is not right."

"I can no more help it than I can help feeling and thinking, Ellen.
I am indignant, and I must express my feelings. What a poor
substitute is birth, or family connexion, or standing in society for
a mother to offer to her son, in the place of a pure heart that can
love fervently. If I had yielded to dictation on this subject, I
would long ago have been the unhappy husband of a vain, selfish,
proud creature, whom I never could have loved. No--no--Ellen. I
cannot help being angry, if I may so speak, at the thought of such
unjust, such unwise assumption of the prerogative in a parent. It is
God who joins together in orderly marriage--not man; and when man
attempts to assume the place of God in this matter, his work is
evil. I would give my child, were I a parent, all the light, all the
intelligence in my power to give him, and then let him choose for
himself. To do more, would be, in my opinion, a sin against God,
and, as such, I would shun it with horror."

In time, the deep affliction of mind which Ellen had experienced
subsided. She felt the injustice of Mrs. Linden's conduct, and,
though she had no indignant nor unkind feeling toward her, she
thought of her without an emotion of filial regard. Year after year
went by, and, as no notice whatever was taken of Charles and his
wife by Mrs. Linden, they did not again venture near her, nor take
any pains to conciliate her favour. Her treatment of Ellen had so
outraged her son, that he tried to forget that he had a mother; for
he could not think of her without a bitterness which he did not wish
to feel. The only means of knowing what took place at home was
through his sister, between whom and himself had always existed a
warm affection. She wrote to him frequently, and he as well as his
wife wrote to her often. Their letters to her were, at her request,
sent under cover to a friend, to prevent the unpleasant consequences
that would ensue, should the proud, overbearing mother become aware
of the correspondence.

From his sister, who had something of his own independence of

feeling, Charles learned, that his brother William, at his mother's
instance, was about to marry Antoinette Billings. And, also, that an
application had been made to the legislature to have his name
changed to Beauchamp, his mother's family name. As an inducement for
him to gratify her pride in this thing, Mrs. Linden had promised
William, that, on the very day that the legislature granted the
petition, she should transfer to him the whole amount of her
property, with the exception of about twenty thousand dollars.
Subsequently, Charles learned that the name of his brother had been
changed; that the marriage had taken place; and that his mother had
relinquished all her property, with a small reservation, into the
hands of her son. All this took place within three years after his
marriage.

The next intelligence was of an attempt being made to force
Florence, his sister, into a marriage most repugnant to her
feelings. This aroused his indignation afresh. He wrote to her
strongly, and conjured her by every high and holy consideration not
to permit the sacrifice to take place. Florence possessed too much
of the same spirit that he did to yield tamely in a matter like
this. His frequent letters strengthened her to resist all the
attempts of her mother and brother to induce her to yield to their
mercenary wishes. Finding that she was firm, a system of
persecution, in the hope of forcing her to an assent, was commenced
against her. As soon as Charles learned this, he went immediately to
P--, and saw Florence at the home of a mutual friend. He had
little difficulty in persuading her to return home with him. Neither
her mother nor William showed her any real affection, and they were
both plotting against her happiness for life. On the other hand,
there had always been between her and Charles a deep attachment. She
not only loved him, but confided in him. She had never seen his
wife; but Charles had written so much about her, and Ellen's letters
had pictured a mind so gentle, so good, that Florence loved her only
less than she loved her brother. And there was another there to
love, of whom she had heard much--a fair-haired girl named Florence.
Is it a subject of wonder that she fled from her mother, to find a
paradise in comparison to what she had left, in the home of Charles
and his pure-hearted companion? We think not.

The meeting between her and Ellen was one in which both their hearts
overflowed--in which affections mingled--in which two loving spirits
became united in bonds that nothing could break.

We turn, now, to the disappointed Mrs. Linden. Knowing that to
inform her mother of the step she had resolved to take would do no
good, but only cause her to endure a storm of passion, Florence left
home without the slightest intimation of her purpose.

Mrs. Linden, in settling upon her son William her whole estate, with
the small reservation before mentioned, gave up to him the splendid
mansion in which she lived, with its costly furniture--and the
entire control of it, as a matter that followed of course, to his
young wife. Many months had not passed, before doubts of the
propriety of what she had done began to creep into the mind of Mrs.
Linden. Her pride of family had been gratified--but already had her
pride of independence been assailed. It was plain that she was not
now of as much importance in the eyes of her son as before. As to
Antoinette, the more she came intimately in contact with her, the
less she liked her. She found little in her that she could love. The
scheme of marrying Florence to a young man of "one of the first
families" (the only recommendation he had) was heartily entered into
by this worthy trio, and while there was a prospect of its
accomplishment, they drew together with much appearance of harmony.

The end united them. But after Florence had broken away from the
toils they had been throwing around her, and they became satisfied
from the strong independent letters which she sent home, that all
hope of bending her to their wishes was at an end, the true
character of each began to show itself more fully.

Mrs. Linden had an imperious will. She had always exercised over her
children a rigid control, at the same time that in their earlier
years she had won their affections. The freedom of mature years, and
the sense of individual responsibility which it brings, caused all
of them to rebel against the continued exercise of parental
domination. In the case of Charles and Florence, the effect was a
broad separation. William had sinister ends to gain in yielding a
passive obedience to his mother's will. When the bulk of her
property was transferred to him, those ends were gained, and he felt
no longer disposed to suffer any encroachment upon his freedom. In
one act of obedience he had fulfilled all obligations of filial
duty, and was not disposed to trouble himself further. He had
consented to give up his father's name, and to marry a woman for
whom he had no affection, to please his mother and get an estate.
The estate set off against these balanced the account; and now,
there being nothing more to gain, he had nothing more to yield.
When, therefore, after the design of marrying Florence to a man of
"good family" had failed, the first effort on the part of his mother
to exercise control over him was met in a very decided way. His
wife, likewise, showed a disposition to make her keep in her own
place. She was mistress in the house now, and she let it be clearly
seen. It was not long before the mother's eyes were fully open to
the folly she had committed. But true sight had come too late.
Reflection on the ungratefulness of her children aroused her
indignation, instead of subduing her feelings. An open rupture
ensued, and then came a separation. Mrs. Linden left the house of
her son--but a short time before it was her own house--and took
lodgings in the family of an old friend, with a heart full of
bitterness toward her children. In Antoinette she had been miserably
disappointed. A weak, vain, passionate, selfish creature, she had
shown not the slightest regard for Mrs. Linden, but had exhibited
toward her a most unamiable temper.

When it was communicated to Antoinette by her husband that his
mother had left them, she tossed her head and said--"I'm glad to
hear it."

"No, you must not say that," was William's reply, with an effort to
look serious and offended.

"And why not? It's the truth. She has made herself as disagreeable
as she could, ever since we were married, and I would be a hypocrite
to say that I was not glad to be rid of her."

"She is my mother, and you must not speak so about her," returned
William, now feeling really offended.

"How will you help it, pray?" was the stinging reply. And the
ill-tempered creature looked at her husband with a curl of the lip.

Muttering a curse, he turned from her and left the house. The rage
of a husband who is only restrained by the fear of disgrace from
striking his wife, is impotent. His only resource is to fly from the
object of indignation. So felt and acted William Beauchamp. A mere
wordy contention with his wife, experience had already proved to
him, would be an inglorious one.

Fearing, from his knowledge of his brother's character and
disposition, a result, sooner or later, like that which had taken
place, Charles Linden, although he had no correspondence with any of
his family, had the most accurate information from a friend of all
that transpired at P--.

One evening, on coming home from business and joining his wife and
sister, between whom love had grown into a strong uniting bond, he
said--"I have rather painful news from P--."

"What is it?" was asked by both Ellen and Florence, with anxious
concern on both their faces.

"Mother has separated herself from William and his wife."

"What I have been expecting to hear almost every day," Florence
replied. "Antoinette has never treated mother as if she had the
slightest regard for her. As to love, she has but one object upon
which to lavish it--that is herself. She cares no more for William
than she does for mother, and is only bound to him by external
consideration. But where has mother gone?"

"To the house of Mrs. R---."

"An old friend?"

"Yes. But she must be very unhappy."

"Miserable." And tears came to the eyes of Ellen.

"In the end, it will no doubt be best for her, Florence," said the
brother. "She will suffer acutely, but her false views of life, let
us hope, will be corrected, and then we shall have it in our power
to make her last days the best and happiest of her life."

"Oh, how gladly will I join in that work!" Mrs. Linden said, with a
glow of pure enthusiasm on her face. "Write to her, dear husband, at
once, and tell her that our home shall be her home, and that we will
love her with an unwavering love."

"Not yet, dear," returned Charles Linden, in a voice scarcely
audible from emotion, turning to Ellen and regarding her a moment
with a look of loving approval. "Not yet; the time for that will
come, but it is not now. My mother's heart is full of haughty pride,
and she would spurn, indignantly, any overtures we might make."

Much conversation passed as to what should be their future conduct
in regard to the mother. Ellen was anxious to make advances at once,
but the husband and his sister, who knew Mrs. Linden much better
than she did, objected.

"Time will indicate what is right for us to do," her husband said.
"Let us keep our hearts willing, and we shall have the opportunity
to act before many years pass by."

"Years?" said Ellen, in an earnest, doubting voice.

"It may be only months, dear, and yet it may be years. It takes time
to break a haughty will, to humble a proud heart; but you shall yet
see the day when my mother will love you for yourself alone."

"Heaven grant that it may come soon!" was the fervent response.

Many months passed away, and yet the mother and son remained as
before--unreconciled. He had kept himself accurately informed in
regard to her--that is, accurately informed as it was possible for
him to be. During that time, she had never been seen abroad. Those
who had met her, represented her as being greatly changed; all the
softness of character that had been assumed in her intercourse with
the world had been laid aside; she was silent, cold, and stern to
all who met her.

Deeply did this intelligence afflict Charles, and he yearned to draw
near to his mother; but he feared to do so, lest, in her haughty
pride, she should throw him off again, and thus render a
reconciliation still more difficult, if not impossible.

While in this state of doubt, affairs assumed a new feature. Charles
received a letter from a friend, stating that the banking
institution, in the stocks of which his mother's entire property was
invested, had failed, and that she was penniless.

"O Charles, go to her at once!" was the exclamation of Ellen, the
moment her husband read to her the intelligence. "It is time now;
all else has failed her."

"I do not know," he said, doubtingly. "This circumstance will make
William sensible of his duty; he will, no doubt, restore her a part
of the property received from her hands. This is the least he can
do."

Florence differed with her brother. She did not believe that either
William or his wife would regard their mother in any way; both were
too selfish and too unforgiving. Much was said all around, but no
clear course of action was perceived.

"I'll tell you what you can do," spoke up Mrs. Linden, her eyes
sparkling. A thought had flashed over her mind.

"What is it, Ellen?" asked her husband.

"You can send her, under a blank envelope, a thousand dollars or
more, and thus keep her above the bitter feeling of dependence. More
can be sent when more is required."

"True! true!" was the husband's quick reply. "And I will do it."

When the news of the failure of the bank in which the little remnant
of her property was contained reached the ears of Mrs. Linden, her
spirits sank. Pride had kept her up before; but now her haughty
self-dependence, her indignation, her bitterness of feeling toward
her children, gave way, and, in conscious weakness, she bowed her
head and prayed for oblivion. She felt deserted by all; but
indignation at this desertion was not the feeling that ruled in her
heart; she felt weak, lonely, and powerless. From a high position,
which she had held with imperious pride, she had fallen almost
suddenly into obscurity, desertion, and dependence. A week passed,
and she began to think of her children; none of them had yet come
near her, or inquired for her. The thoughts of William and his
heartless wife caused old feelings of indignation to awaken and
burn; but when the image of Charles and Florence came up before her
mind, her eyes were ready to overflow. It was now that she
remembered, with changed emotions, the cruel manner in which she had
spurned Charles and the wife of his bosom. A sigh struggled up from
her heart, and she leaned down her face upon the table before which
she was sitting. Just at this time, a small sealed package was
handed to her. She broke it open carelessly; but its contents made
her heart bound, coming as they did just at that crisis. Under cover
was a bank-bill amounting to one thousand dollars, and this
memorandum--"It is yours."

Quickly turning to the direction, she read it over two or three
times before satisfying herself that there was no mistake. Then she
examined the writing within and without closely, in order to
ascertain, if possible, from whom the timely aid had come, but
without arriving at any certain conclusion.

This incident caused a new train of thoughts to pass through the
mind of Mrs. Linden. It brought before her, she could not tell why,
the image of her son Charles with greater distinctness than ever;
and with that came thoughts of his wife, and regret that she had
thrown her off with such cruel anger. Acute pain of mind succeeded
to this. She saw more clearly her own position in that act, and felt
deeply the wrong she had committed.

"I will write to my son at once and ask his forgiveness, and that of
his wife, whom I have wronged," she said, with a suddenly formed
resolution. But pride rushed up instantly.

"No, no," it objected; "not now. You should have done this before:
it is too late; they will not believe you sincere."

A painful conflict ensued, which continued with increasing violence
until, in consequence of prolonged mental excitement, a slow nervous
fever took hold of Mrs. Linden's physical system, and in a short
time reduced her to a very critical state. Intelligence of this was
conveyed to her son William, but, for some cause or other, neither
himself nor wife visited her. At the end of a week she was so low as
to be considered in great danger; she, no longer recognised the
person of her attendant, or appeared to be conscious of what was
passing around her.

A letter from a friend, through whom he was kept informed of all
that occurred to her, apprized Charles Linden of his mother's
critical situation.

"Florence," said he to his sister, in reading the letter to her and
his wife, "I think you and I should go to P--immediately. You can
be mother's nurse until she recovers, and then it may not be hard to
reconcile all that is past."

Ellen looked earnestly in the face of her husband; something was on
her tongue, but she appeared to hesitate about giving it utterance.

"Does not that meet your approval?" asked Charles.

"Why may not I be the nurse?" was asked in hesitating tones.

"You!" said Charles, in a voice of surprise. "That should be the
duty of Florence."

"And my privilege," returned Ellen, speaking more firmly.

"What good would be the result?"

"Great good, I trust. Let me go and be the angel to her
sick-chamber. She is too ill to notice any one; she will not,
therefore, perceive that a stranger is ministering to her. As she
begins to recover, and I have an inward assurance that she will, I
will bestow upon her the most assiduous attentions. I will inspire
her heart with grateful affection for one whom she knows not; and
when she asks for my name, I will conceal it until the right moment,
and then throw myself at her feet and call her mother. Oh! let it be
my task to watch in her sick-chamber."

Neither Charles nor his sister said one word in opposition. On the
next day, they all started for P--. Charles Linden went with his
excellent wife to the house where his mother was residing with an
old friend, and opened to this friend their wishes. She readily
entered into their plans, and Ellen was at once constituted nurse.

For the first two days, there were but few encouraging symptoms.
Mrs. Linden was in a very critical situation. At the end of a week,
the fever abated, leaving the patient as helpless as an infant, and
with scarcely more consciousness of external things. During this
time, Ellen attended her with some of the feeling with which a
mother watches over her babe. Gradually the life-current in the
veins of the sick woman became fuller and stronger. Gradually her
mind acquired the power of acting through the external senses. Ellen
perceived this. Now had come the ardently hoped-for time. With a
noiseless step, with a voice low and tender, with hands that did
their office almost caressingly, she anticipated and met every want
of the invalid.

As light began again to dawn upon the mind of Mrs. Linden, she could
not but notice the sweet-faced, gentle, assiduous stranger who had
become her nurse. Her first feeling was one of gratitude, blended
with affection. Never before had any one been so devoted to her;
never before had any one appeared to regard her with such a real
wish to do her good.

"What is your name, my dear?" she asked one day, in a feeble voice,
looking up into her face.

A warm flush came over the cheeks of Ellen; her eyes dropped to the
floor. She hesitated for several moments; then she replied in a low
voice--"Ellen."

Mrs. Linden looked at her earnestly, but said nothing in reply.

"Who is this nurse you have been so kind to procure for me?" Mrs.
Linden said to her friend, a few days subsequently. She had gained
much in a short time.

"She is a stranger to me. I never saw her before she came and said
that she had heard that there was a sick lady here who wished a
nurse."

"She did?"

"Yes."

"She must be an angel in disguise, then."

"So I should think," returned her friend. "I have never met a
lovelier person. Her face is sweetness itself; her manners are full
of ease and grace, and her heart seems a deep well of love to all."

"Who can she be? Where did she come from? I feel toward her as if
she were my own child."

"But she is only a nurse," said her friend. "Do not forget that, nor
your station in society."

Mrs. Linden shook her head and murmured--"I have never found one
like her in the highest places; no, not even in my own children.
Station in society! Ah! my friend, that delusion has passed."

As Mrs. Linden recovered more and more, Ellen remained with her,
waiting only for a good opportunity to make herself known. She did
not wish to do this until she was sure that she had awakened a
feeling of affection in her mother's bosom.

Mrs. Linden had been sitting up for two or three days, so far had
she recovered, and yet Ellen did not feel that it was safe to
venture a full declaration of the truth.

Up to this time, neither William nor his wife had visited her, nor
sent to inquire about her. This fact Mrs. Linden knew, for she had
asked about it particularly. The name of Charles was never
mentioned.

In order to try its effect, Ellen said to her--"You are better now,
Mrs. Linden, and will be well in a little while. You do not need me
any longer. I will leave you to-morrow."

"Leave me!" ejaculated Mrs. Linden. "Oh, no, Ellen, you must not
leave me; I cannot do without you. You must stay with me always."

"You would soon tire of such a one as I am."

"Never, my good girl, never! You shall always remain with me. You
shall be--not my nurse, but my child."

Mrs. Linden's voice trembled.

Ellen could hardly help throwing herself at her feet, and declaring
that she was really her child; but she controlled herself, and
replied--"That cannot be, madam; I have other duties to perform."

"You have? What? To whom?"

"To my husband and children."

"Gracious heaven! what do you mean? Who are you?"

"One who loved you before she ever saw you. One who loves you now."

"Speak, child! oh, speak!" exclaimed Mrs. Linden, turning suddenly
pale, and grasping hold of Ellen with both her hands. "Who are you?
What interest have you in me? Speak!"

"Do you love me?" asked Ellen, in a husky whisper.

"Love you! You have forced me to love you; but speak out. Who are
you?"

"Your daughter," was faintly replied.

"Who?"

"The wife of one who has never ceased to love you; the wife of
Charles Linden."

Mrs. Linden seemed paralyzed for some moments at this declaration.
Her face became pale--her eye fell to the floor--she sat like one in
a dream.

"Dear mother!" plead the anxious wife, sinking on her knees, "will
you not forgive your son? Will you not forgive me that I loved him
so well? If you knew how much we love you--how anxious we are to
make you happy, you would instantly relent."

"My child! Oh, can it be true?" This was said in a choking voice by
Mrs. Linden, as she threw her arms around Ellen and held her to her
bosom. In a few moments she withdrew herself, and fixed her eyes
long and earnestly upon Ellen's face.

"Ah! what a loving heart have I wronged!" she murmured, putting her
hand upon the brow of her new-found child, tenderly. Then she drew
her again almost convulsively to her bosom.

All that was passing within was heard without, for Charles and his
sister were at the door: they entered at this moment.

"My mother!" exclaimed Charles, springing towards her.

"My son--my dear son! God bless you, and this dear child, who has
watched for days and nights like an angel about my pillow."

The mother and son were in each other's arms in a moment. All was
forgiven.

From that hour, the proud woman of the world saw with a purified
vision. From that hour, she knew the worth of a pure heart.






SMITH AND JONES; OR, THE TOWN LOT.





ONCE upon a time, it happened that the men who governed in the
municipal affairs of a certain growing town in the West, resolved,
in grave deliberation assembled, to purchase a five-acre lot at the
north end of the city--recently incorporated--and have it improved
for a park or public square. Now, it also happened, that all the
saleable ground lying north of the city was owned by a man named
Smith--a shrewd, wide-awake individual, whose motto was,

"Every man for himself," with an occasional addition about a certain
gentleman in black taking "the hindmost."

Smith, it may be mentioned, was secretly at the bottom of this
scheme for a public square, and had himself suggested the matter to
an influential member of the council; not that he was moved by what
is denominated public spirit--no; the spring of action in the case
was merely "private spirit," or a regard for his own good. If the
council decided upon a public square, he was the man from whom the
ground would have to be bought; and he was the man who could get his
own price therefor.

As we have said, the park was decided upon, and a committee of two
appointed, whose business it was to see Smith and arrange with him
for the purchase of a suitable lot of ground. In due form the
committee called upon the landholder, who was fully prepared for the
interview.

"You are the owner of those lots at the north end?" said the
spokesman of the committee.

"I am," replied Smith, with becoming gravity.

"Will you sell a portion of ground, say five acres, to the city?"

"For what purpose?" Smith knew very well for what purpose the land
was wanted.

"We have decided to set apart about five acres of ground, and
improve it as a kind of park, or public promenade."

"Have you, indeed? Well, I like that," said Smith, with animation.
"It shows the right kind of public spirit."

"We have, moreover, decided that the best location will be at the
north end of the town."

"Decidedly my own opinion," returned Smith.

"Will you sell us the required acres?" asked one of the councilmen.

"That will depend somewhat upon where you wish to locate the park."

The particular location was named.

"The very spot," replied Smith, promptly, "upon which I have decided
to erect four rows of dwellings."

"But it is too far out for that," was naturally objected.

"Oh, no. Not a rod. The city is rapidly growing in that direction. I
have only to put up the dwellings referred to, and dozens will be
anxious to purchase lots, and build all around them. Won't the
ground to the left of that you speak of answer as well?"

But the committee replied in the negative. The lot they had
mentioned was the one decided upon as most suited for the purpose,
and they were not prepared to think of any other location.

All this Smith understood very well. He was not only willing, but
anxious for the city to purchase the lot they were negotiating for.
All he wanted was to get a good round price for the same--say four
or five times the real value. So he feigned indifference, and threw
difficulties in the way.

A few years previous to this time, Smith had purchased a
considerable tract of land at the north of the then flourishing
village, at fifty dollars an acre. Its present value was about three
hundred dollars an acre.

After a good deal of talk on both sides, Smith finally agreed to
sell the particular lot pitched upon. The next thing was to arrange
as to price.

"At what do you hold this ground per acre?"

It was some time before Smith answered this question. His eyes were
cast upon the floor, and earnestly did he enter into debate with
himself as to the value he should place upon the lot. At first, he
thought of five hundred dollars per acre. But his cupidity soon
tempted him to advance on that sum, although, a month before, he
would have caught at such an offer. Then he advanced to six, to
seven, and to eight hundred. And still he felt undecided.

"I can get my own price," said he to himself. "The city has to pay,
and I might just as well get a large sum as a small one."

"For what price will you sell?" The question was repeated.

"I must have a good price."

"We are willing to pay what is fair and right."

"Of course. No doubt you have fixed a limit to which you will go."

"Not exactly that," said one of the gentlemen.

"Are you prepared to make an offer?"

"We are prepared to hear your price, and to make a report thereon,"
was replied.

"That's a very valuable lot of ground," said Smith.

"Name your price," returned one of the committee men, a little
impatiently.

Thus brought up to the point, Smith, after thinking hurriedly for a
few moments, said--

"One thousand dollars an acre."

Both the men shook their heads in a very positive way. Smith said
that it was the lowest he would take; and so the conference ended.

At the next meeting of the city councils, a report on the town lot
was made, and the extraordinary demand of Smith canvassed. It was
unanimously decided not to make the proposed purchase.

When this decision reached the landholder, he was considerably
disappointed. He wanted money badly, and would have "jumped at" two
thousand dollars for the five-acre lot, if satisfied that it would
bring no more. But, when the city came forward as a purchaser, his
cupidity was subjected to a very strong temptation. He believed that
he could get five thousand dollars as easily as two; and quieted his
conscience by the salvo--"An article is always worth what it will
bring."

A week or two went by, and Smith was about calling upon one of the
members of the council, to say that, if the city really wanted the
lot, he would sell at their price, leaving it with the council to
act justly and generously, when a friend said to him--

"I hear that the council had the subject of a public square under
consideration again this morning."

"Indeed!" Smith was visibly excited, though he tried to appear calm.

"Yes; and I also hear that they have decided to pay the extravagant
price you asked for a lot of ground at the north end of the city."

"A thousand dollars an acre?"

"Yes."

"Its real value, and not a cent more," said Smith.

"People differ about that. However, you are lucky," the friend
replied. "The city is able to pay."

"So I think. And I mean they shall pay."

Before the committee to whom the matter was given in charge had time
to call upon Smith and close with him for the lot, that gentleman
had concluded in his own mind that it would be just as easy to get
twelve hundred dollars an acre as a thousand. It was plain that the
council were bent upon having the ground, and would pay a round sum
for it. It was just the spot for a public square; and the city must
become the owner. So, when he was called upon by the gentlemen, and
they said to him--

"We are authorized to pay you your price," he promptly answered--

"The offer is no longer open. You declined it when it was made. My
price for that property is now twelve hundred dollars an acre."

The men offered remonstrance; but it was of no avail. Smith believed
that he could get six thousand dollars for the ground as easily as
five thousand. The city must have the lot, and would pay almost any
price.

"I hardly think it right, Mr. Smith," said one of his visitors, "for
you to take such an advantage. This square is for the public good."

"Let the public pay, then," was the unhesitating answer. "The public
is able enough."

"The location of this park at the north end of the city will greatly
improve the value of your other property."

This Smith understood very well. But he replied--

"I'm not so sure of that. I have some very strong doubts on the
subject. It's my opinion that the buildings I contemplated erecting
will be far more to my advantage. Be that as it may, however, I am
decided in selling for nothing less than six thousand dollars."

"We are only authorized to pay five thousand," replied the
committee. "If you agree to take that sum, we will close the bargain
on the spot."

Five thousand dollars was a large sum of money, and Smith felt
strongly tempted to close in with the liberal offer. But six
thousand loomed up before his imagination still more temptingly.

"I can get it," said he to himself; "and the property is worth what
it will bring."

So he positively refused to sell it at a thousand dollars per acre.

"At twelve hundred, you will sell?" remarked one of the committee,
as they were about retiring.

"Yes. I will take twelve hundred the acre. That is the lowest rate;
and I am not anxious, even at that price. I can do quite as well by
keeping it in my own possession. But, as you seem so bent on having
it, I will not stand in your way. When will the council meet again?"

"Not until next week."

"Very well. If they then accept my offer, all will be right. But,
understand me; if they do not accept, the offer no longer remains
open. It is a matter of no moment to me which way the thing goes."

It was a matter of moment to Smith, for all this assertion--a matter
of very great moment. He had several thousand dollars to pay in the
course of the next few months on land purchases, and no way to meet
the payments, except by mortgages or sales of property; and it may
naturally be concluded that he suffered considerable uneasiness
during the time which passed until the next meeting of the council.

Of course, the grasping disposition shown by Smith became the town
talk; and people said a good many hard things of him. Little,
however, did he care, so that he secured six thousand dollars for a
lot not worth more than two thousand.

Among other residents and property-holders in the town, was a
simple-minded, true-hearted, honest man, named Jones. His father had
left him a large farm, a goodly portion of which, in process of
time, came to be included in the limits of the new city; and he
found a much more profitable employment in selling building lots
than in tilling the soil. The property of Mr. Jones lay at the west
side of the town.

Now, when Mr. Jones heard of the exorbitant demand made by Smith for
a five-acre lot, his honest heart throbbed with a feeling of
indignation.

"I couldn't have believed it of him," said he. "Six thousand
dollars! Preposterous! Why, I would give the city a lot of twice the
size, and do it with pleasure."

"You would?" said a member of the council, who happened to hear this
remark.

"Certainly, I would."

"You are really in earnest?"

"Undoubtedly. Go and select a public square from any of my
unappropriated land on the west side of the city, and I will pass
you the title, as a free gift, to-morrow, and feel pleasure in doing
so."

"That is public spirit," said the councilman.

"Call it what you will. I am pleased in making the offer."

Now, let it not be supposed that Mr. Jones was shrewdly calculating
the advantage which would result to him from having a park at the
west side of the city. No such thought had yet entered his mind. He
spoke from the impulse of a generous feeling.

Time passed on, and the session-day of the council came round--a day
to which Smith had looked forward with no ordinary feelings of
interest, that were touched, at times, by the coldness of doubt and
the agitation of uncertainty. Several times he had more than half
repented of his refusal to accept the liberal offer of five thousand
dollars, and of having fixed so positively upon six thousand as the
"lowest figure."

The morning of the day passed, and Smith began to grow uneasy. He
did not venture to seek for information as to the doings of the
council, for that would be to expose the anxiety he felt in the
result of their deliberations. Slowly the afternoon wore away, and
it so happened that Smith did not meet any one of the councilmen;
nor did he even know whether the council was still in session or
not. As to making allusion to the subject of his anxious interest to
any one, that was carefully avoided; for he knew that his exorbitant
demand was the town talk--and he wished to affect the most perfect
indifference on the subject.

The day closed, and not a whisper about the town-lot had come to the
ears of Mr. Smith. What could it mean? Had his offer to sell at six
thousand been rejected? The very thought caused his heart to grow
heavy in his bosom. Six, seven, eight o'clock came, and still it was
all dark with Mr. Smith. He could bear the suspense no longer, and
so determined to call upon his neighbour Wilson, who was a member of
the council, and learn from him what had been done.

So he called on Mr. Wilson.

"Ah, friend Smith," said the latter, "how are you, this evening?"

"Well, I thank you," returned Smith, feeling a certain oppression of
the chest. "How are you?"

"Oh, very well."

Here, then, was a pause. After which, Smith said--

"About that ground of mine? What did you do?"

"Nothing," replied Wilson, coldly.

"Nothing, did you say?" Smith's voice was a little husky.

"No. You declined our offer;--or, rather, the high price fixed by
yourself upon the land."

"You refused to buy it at five thousand when it was offered," said
Smith.

"I know we did, because your demand was exorbitant."

"Oh, no, not at all," returned Smith, quickly.

"In that we only differ," said Wilson. "However, the council has
decided not to pay you the price you ask."

"Unanimously?"

"There was not a dissenting voice."

Smith began to feel more and more uncomfortable.

"I might take something less," he ventured to say, in a low,
hesitating voice.

"It is too late now," was Mr. Wilson's prompt reply.

"Too late! How so?"

"We have procured a lot."

"Mr. Wilson!" Poor Smith started to his feet in chagrin and
astonishment.

"Ye
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