The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man/Chapter X
CHAPTER X.
THE RICH POOR MAN'S CHARITIES.
Years to the thirteenth of their marriage glided on without any marked change in the condition of the Aikins. Industry, frugality, skill, and sound judgment, saved them from dependance and wants. But they had a large family to supply; two unproductive members, as we were about to designate Uncle Phil and Charlotte, but this would be injustice to them. Charlotte's thoughtfulness, and her doing the light chores, saved Susan many an hour, which she turned to account at her trade; and Uncle Phil's skill in baby-tending proved also a great economy of the mother's time. There are certain persons in this world that are most happily adapted to the miscellaneous office of baby-tending. They are your people that don't care about bringing any thing to pass—indisposed to great exertions certainly, but not positively lazy; easy-tempered and kind-hearted, such as prefer the one-horse chaise travelling to the locomotion of a railroad—such was our good Uncle Phil. But with all Aikin's diligence, and all his wife's efficiency, their inevitable expenses exhausted their income, save that a small sum was husbanded each year as a provision in case of sudden calamity. We confess that our friends remained poor, in the common acceptation of the word; but whether those were really so who had few desires ungratified—who were enjoying the essential blessings of life—who were giving their children, in the home school, the very best education, and whose humble habitation was the abode of health and contentment, we leave for those to decide who have felt chat these goods riches cannot buy.
William, the eldest boy, was one morning standing by his father's cart in Pearl-street, when his attention was attracted by a poor man, who, in coming out of the door of a warehouse, staggered, and, catching by the iron railing, sunk down on the step. Half a dozen boys gathered about him, one crying, "He's top-heavy!" Another, "Try it again, old fellow!"—"Drunken rascal!" muttered a gentleman, passing along.
"I am not drunk," faintly replied the old man.
"What is the matter, sir?" asked William, drawing near, as the other boys, perceiving their mistake, slunk away.
"I am starved, child!"
William looked round for his father—he was in the warehouse—and the boy ran into an oyster-cellar, and expending his only shilling, returned with a bit of bread and a saucer of hot oysters, which the poor man devoured as if he were indeed starving. Then lifting his grateful eye to William, and meeting his earnest and pitiful glance, he burst into tears. At this moment Aikin appeared, and William whispered to him what had occurred. Aikin recognised the man as a person he had frequently met during the preceding week inquiring for work; he put a few questions in a friendly tone, that inspired the stranger with confidence; and, in return, he told him that he had been a poor English curate—that many years ago his youngest daughter had married imprudently and come to America—that the last he had heard of her was four years before, when he received a hasty, illegible scrawl, in which she informed him that she was a widow, and had embarked on board the ship from which she then wrote to return to him—that her child exhibiting symptoms of varioloid, she was ordered off the ship, and knew not what was to become of her. The father, after waiting till, as he said, he could live and wait no longer, had converted his little property into money, and come with an elder daughter in search of the lost one. He had arrived here at the beginning of the inclement season—he had obtained no intelligence of his child—his eldest daughter, whose efficiency and fortitude he mainly relied on, took a cold, with which she languished through the winter, and had died two weeks before. His health was broken, his heart gone, and his little stock of money expended to the last farthing. Hunger had driven him forth to seek employment to support a life that had become a burden to him, but employment he could not find; and, "when I sunk down here," he concluded, "I was glad the time of release had come; but when that little fellow spoke kindly to me, I felt as if Providence had not forsaken me."
Aikin listened to the story, and was silent. "What do you mean to do about him?" whispered William, rightly interpreting his father's perplexity.
"I hardly know, Willie."—"Oh," thought he, if Mr. Beckwith were only in town—he has money, and time, and a heart for every one's need!"
After a moment's consideration, he determined to go into the warehouse, not so much to apply to its proprietor, Morris Finley, for aid, as to consult with some gentlemen as to what aid had best be extended to the stranger. One suggested the hospital. There was no reason for taking him there, as he had no disease. The almshouse was proposed by another. Aikin replied, that a trifling present succour might save him from the degradation of public charity, and in a short time he might earn his own support. Finley, after rummaging his pockets, said he had no change; and then added, probably in reply to the contemptuous expression of Aikin's face, that there was no knowing but the man was an impostor, and, besides, he made it a rule never to give to strangers.
"It is a good time to make acquaintance with a stranger," said Aikin, "when he is dying of starvation." Finley turned on his heel, and busied himself in giving directions to his clerks, who but half concealed the smile of satisfaction which hovered on their lips at the "good rub," as they called it, their master had got from Aikin. A gentleman standing by gave Aikin five dollars, saying, "You have good judgment—employ this as you think best for the poor man: I have money, but no time, to give."
And what time, has a New-York merchant, who is making his thousands and tens of thousands, engrossed as he is with projects and calculations, and beset by the hopes and fears that accompany the accumulation of riches, and their possible loss—what time has he for the claims of human brotherhood?—what time to obey the injunction, "Bear ye one another's burdens?"—what time to imitate his Divine Master in going about doing good?—what time to seek the lost, raise the fallen, strengthen the weak, among his brethren—the children of one Father—travellers to one home? He may find time for a passing alms, but for protection, for advice, for patient sympathy, for those effective charities that his knowledge, station, and influence put within his power, he has no time. For what consideration does he cede this irredeemable treasure, time? And when conscience shall ask, "When thou wert conceiving schemes of unlimited wealth, examining invoices, and counting gains, where was thy brother?" will he not wish to have been the rich poor man who, in the name of Jesus, stretched forth his hand to that neglected brother?
When Aikin returned to the steps, he communicated the merchant's bounty to the stranger, and added, "If you will get on to my cart, and go to my house, my wife and I will try to make you comfortable for the present, and look out for employment for you against you get your strength."
The stranger could not speak. His face, as he feebly moved towards the cart, expressed, more than words could.
"Where can he sleep, father?! whispered William, anticipating some little home perplexities.
"I don't know, my son; but mother will contrive."
"Oh, so she will—mother always does contrive every thing for everybody."
Most, most happy are those children who have William's confidence in the willing, active benevolence of their parents. The Aikins had hit on the right and only sure mode of teaching goodness.
"Who upon 'arth has Harry Aikin brought home with him?" exclaimed Uncle Phil, who, as Aikin's cart halted before the door, sat at the window, as usual, trotting the baby on his knee. Susan Aikin was busy at her needle, and did not look up till Anne exclaimed—
"It's some poor gentleman, mother!"
She then rose, and seeing her husband aiding the stranger, and William standing with the door wide open, his kind heart shining through his bright face, she opened the inner door, drew Charlotte's rocking-chair to the fire, threw a dry stick into the stove, and received the stranger with that expression of cheerful, sincere hospitality, which what is called high breeding only imitates.
"Sarvent, sir," said Uncle Phil, who would have been nowise disconcerted if Aikin had brought home a regiment. "Make your manners, Phil."
Little Phil crowed out his welcome, while Aunt Lottie warmed a cup of her particularly nice gruel, acordial she saw the poor man wanted.
Aikin took his wife aside to explain the stranger's condition and wants; this done, "I knew, Susan," he said, "it would be a comfort to you to do what you could for the poor man."
"Indeed is it, Harry, and no great trouble either; for you know we have plenty of beds and bedding, and, now poor old Mr. Smith is gone, they can spare us our cot, and I can make him up a nice comfortable bed in father's room; nothing ever puts father out."
"Nor father's daughter, I think; and that is why I am sometimes afraid I shall impose on you."
"Impose on me, Harry! in giving me an opportunity to do a kindness! That is our chief comfort."
There are certain persons who do services for their fellow-creatures as some children learn lessons—as a task prescribed by authority. This was not Susan's way. She never separated the idea of duty from the deep abiding happiness that resulted from its performance.