The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man/Chapter II
CHAPTER II.
"UNCLE PHIL."
We have rather unceremoniously presented some of the humble inhabitants of Essex to our readers. A few more preparatory words to ensure a better acquaintance. Philip May was bred a hatter. His trade and patrimony (amounting to a few hundred dollars) would have ensured independence to most of his countrymen; but Philip lacked their characteristics—energy and sound judgment, and all the prospering go-ahead qualities that abound with them. But, lacking these, a most kind Providence had given him a disposition that made him content without them, and quite independent of their results. His horizon was bounded by the present hour—he literally took no thought for the morrow. He married early, and in this turning point of life Heaven seemed to have taken special care of him. Never was a wife better calculated by vigour, firmness, and industry, to counteract the destructive tendencies of a shiftless husband. Nor was she, like some driving wives, thorn in her quiet, loving husband's side. While she cured all the evils that could be cured in her condition, she endured the incurable with cheerfulness—a marvellous lightener of the burdens of life!
Before his marriage Philip built a house, the cost of which far exceeding his means, he finished but one end of it, and the rest was left for the rains to enter, and the winds to whistle through, till he took his wife's counsel, sold his house, paid his debts, and bought a snug little dwelling far more comfortable than their "shingle palace" in its best state.
But, before they arrived at this stage in the journey of life, both good and evil had chanced to them. Their firstborn, Ellen, ran into an open cistern, the surface of which was just on a level with the platform before the house: so it had remained a year after the active child began to run about; and, to its mother's reiterated requests and warnings, Philip always answered—"Now that's just what I am going about next week." When his only child was drowned in this seeming water-trap was certainly no time to reproach Philip, and he who never reproached any one could not be expected to make himself an exception. He merely said, "It was a wonderful providence Ellen was drowned that day, for the very next he calculated to put a kerb to the cistern—but it was meant so to be—he always felt Ellen was not long for this world!" Their next child was our friend Charlotte; and she, like her drowned sister, was born with one of the best mortal gifts—a sound constitution, which, watched over by her wise and vigilant mother, promised a long life of physical comfort. But these prospects were sadly reversed when her father, having one day taken her out in his wagon, left her holding the reins "while he just stepped to speak to a neighbour." While he was speaking, the horse took fright, Charlotte was thrown out, and received an injury that imbittered her whole life. Philip was really grieved by this accident. He said "It seemed somehow as if it was so to be, for he had no thought of taking Charlotte out that day till he met her in his way."
His next mishap was the burning of his workshop, in which, on one gusty day, he left a blazing fire. A consequence so natural seemed very strange to Uncle Phil, who said "It was most onaccountable, for he had often left it just so, and it had never burnt up before!" This incident gave a new turn to Philip's life. He abandoned his trade, and really loving, or, as he said, "aiming" to suit everybody, he was glad to be rid of incessant complaints of want of punctuality, bad materials, and bad work, and became what most imbeciles become sooner or later, a Jack at all trades. In a community like that at Essex, where labourers in every department are few, and work plenty, even the universal Jack need not starve; and Uncle Phil, if unskilful and slack, was always good-natured, and seldom so much engrossed by one employment that he could not leave it for another. But, though rather an unprofitable labourer. Uncle Phil had no vices. He was temperate and frugal in his habits, and a striking illustration of how far these virtues alone will sustain a man even in worldly matters. His small supplies were so well managed by his wife, that no want was felt by his family during her life. That valuable life was prematurely ended. Soon after the birth of her last baby, Uncle Phil was called up in the night by some cattle having entered his garden through his rickety fence. His bedroom door opened upon the yard; he left it open; it was a damp, chilling night. Mrs. May, being her own nurse, had fallen asleep exhausted. She awoke in an ague that proved the prelude to a fatal illness; and Uncle Phil, being no curious tracer of effects to causes, took no note of the open door, and the damp night, and replied to the condolence of his friends that "Miss May was too good a wife for him—the only wonder was Providence had spared her so long."More gifted people than honest Uncle Phil deposite quietly at the door of Providence the natural consequences of their own carelessness.
The baby soon followed its mother, and Philip May was left with but two children—Charlotte, at the time of her mother's death, thirteen, and Susan, nine. They had been so far admirably trained by their mother, and were imbued with her character, seeming only to resemble their father in hearts running over with the milk of human kindness, unless Susan's all-conquering cheerfulness was derived from her father's ever-acquiescing patience. His was a passive virtue—hers an active principle. If any one unacquainted with the condition of life in New-England should imagine that the Mays had suffered the evils of real poverty, they must allow us to set them right. In all our widespread country there is very little necessary poverty. In New-England none that is not the result of vice or disease. If the moral and physical laws of the Creator were obeyed, the first of these causes would be at an end, and the second would scarcely exist.[1] Industry and frugality are wonderful multipliers of small means. Philip May brought in but little, but that little was well administered. His house was clean—his garden productive (the girls kept it wed)—his furniture carefully preserved—his family comfortably clad, and his girls schooled. No wonder Uncle Phil never dreamed he was a poor man!
Henry Aikin was the youngest of twelve children. His father was a farmer—all his property, real and personal, might have amounted to some five or six thousand dollars, and on this he had his dozen children to feed and clothe, and fit to fill honourable places in society—to be farmers, mechanics, doctors, ministers, and so on. In such a family, well regulated, there are excellent lessons in the economy of human life, and well learned were they by the Aikins, and afterward well applied.
Morris Finley was the son of the only man in Essex who had not any regular business. He was what our rustics call a schemer and a jockey;in a larger sphere he would have been a speculator. Money, not as a means, but as an end, seemed to him the chief good; and he had always a plan for getting a little more of it than his neighbours. He was keen-sighted and quick-witted; of course he often succeeded, but sometimes failed; and, distrusted and disliked through life, at the end of it he was not richer in worldly goods than his neighbours, and poor indeed was he in all other respects. He had, however, infused his ruling passion into his son Morris, and he, being better educated than his father, and regularly trained to business, had a far better chance of ultimate success.
- ↑ We have heard a gentleman who, in virtue of the office he holds as minister at large, is devoted to succouring the poor, state, that even in this city (New-York), he had known very few cases of suffering from poverty that might not be traced directly or indirectly to vice.