CHAP. XIX.
Charity.—The Hiſtory of Peggy and her Family.—The Sailor's Widow.
I HAVE often remarked to you, ſaid Mrs. Maſon, one morning, to her pupils, that we are all dependent on each other; and this dependence is wiſely ordered by our Heavenly Father, to call forth many virtues, to exerciſe the beſt affections of the human heart, and fix them into habits. While we impart pleaſure we receive it, and feel the grandeur of our immortal ſoul, as it is conſtantly ſtruggling to ſpread itſelf into futurity.
Perhaps the greateſt pleaſure I have ever received has ariſen from the habitual exerciſe of charity, in its various branches: the view of a diſtreſſed object has made me now think of converſing about one branch of it, that of giving alms.
You know Peggy, the young girl whom I wiſh to have moſt about my perſon; I mean, I wiſh it for her own ſake, that I may have an opportunity of improving her mind, and cultivating a good capacity. As to attendance, I never give much trouble to any fellow-creature; for I chooſe to be independent of caprice and artificial wants, unleſs indeed when I am ſick; then, I thankfully receive the aſſiſtance I would willingly give to others in the ſame ſituation. I believe I have not in the world a more faithful friend than Peggy; and her earneſt deſire to pleaſe me gratifies my benevolence, for I always obſerve with delight the workings of a grateful heart.
I lost a darling child, ſaid Mrs. Maſon, ſmothering a ſigh, in the depth of winter; death had before deprived me of her father, and when I loſt my child, he died again.
The wintery proſpects ſuiting the temper of my ſoul, I have ſat looking at a wide waſte of trackleſs ſnow for hours; and the heavy, ſullen fog, that the feeble rays of the ſun could not pierce, gave me back an image of my mind. I was unhappy, and the ſight of dead nature accorded with my feelings—for all was dead to me.
As the ſnow began to melt, I took a walk, and obſerved the birds hopping about with drooping wings, or mute on the leafleſs boughs. The mountain, whoſe ſides had loſt the ſnow, looked black; yet ſtill ſome remained on the ſummit, and formed a contraſt to diverſify the dreary proſpect.
I walked thoughtfully along, when the appearance of a poor man, who did not beg, ſtruck me very forcibly. His ſhivering limbs were ſcarcely ſheltered from the cold by the tattered garments that covered him; and he had a ſharp, famiſhed look. I ſtretched out my hand with ſome relief in it—I would not enquire into the particulars of ſuch obvious diſtreſs. The poor wretch caught my hand, and haſtily dropping on his knees, thanked me in an extacy, as if he had almoſt loſt ſight of hope, and was overcome by the ſudden relief. His attitude, for I cannot bear to ſee a fellow-creature kneel, and eager thanks, oppreſſed my weak ſpirits, so that I could not for a moment aſk him any more queſtions; but as ſoon as I recollected myself, I learned from him the misfortunes that had reduced him to ſuch extreme diſtreſs, and he hinted, that I could not eaſily gueſs the good I had done. I imagined from this hint that he was meditating his own deſtruction when I ſaw him, to ſpare himſelf the miſery of ſeeing his infant periſh—ſtarved to death, in every ſenſe of the word.
I will now haſten to the ſequel of the account. His wife had lately had a child, ſhe was very ill at the time, and want of proper food, and a defence againſt the inclemency of the weather, hurried her out of the world. The poor child, Peggy, had ſucked in diſeaſe and nouriſhment together, and now even that wretched ſource had failed—the breaſt was cold that had afforded the ſcanty support; and the little innocent ſmiled unconſcious of its miſery. I ſent for her, added Mrs. Maſon, and her father dying a few years after, ſhe has ever been a favourite charge of mine, and nurſing of her, in ſome meaſure, diſpelled the gloom in which I had been almoſt loſt.
Ah! my children, you know not how many "houſeleſs heads bide the pitileſs ſtorm!"
I received ſoon after a leſſon of reſignation from a poor woman, who was a practical philoſopher.
She had loſt her huſband, a ſailor, and loſt his wages alſo, as ſhe could not prove his death. She came to me to beg ſome pieces of ſilk, to make some pin-cuſhions for the boarders of a neighbouring ſchool. Her lower weeds were patched with different coloured rags; but they ſpoke not variety of wretchedneſs; on the contrary, they ſhewed a mind ſo content, that want, and bodily pain, did not prevent her thinking of the opinion of caſual obſervers. This woman loſt a huſband and a child ſuddenly, and her daily bread was precarious.—I cheered the widow's heart, and my own was not quite ſolitary.
But I am growing melancholy, whilſt I am only deſirous of pointing out to you how very beneficial charity is; becauſe it enables us to find comfort when all our worldly comforts are blighted: beſides, when our bowels yearn to our fellow-creatures, we feel that the love of God dwelleth in us—and then we cannot always go on our way ſorrowing.