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

T >> T.S. Arthur >> Lessons in Life, For All Who Will Read Them

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A sudden change in the manner of Mrs. Allender was conclusive
evidence that she, too, was laying side by side the two conflicting
statements.

"But even," added Mrs. Minturn, in a voice that betrayed some
disturbance of mind, "if we had not been indisposed, a previously
made engagement would have been in the way of a pleasure that we
shall always regret having lost. You had a highly select party, I
understood."

"Only a few old and much esteemed friends, that we invited to meet a
gentleman who was passing through the city, whose father and Mr.
Allender are old acquaintances."

"The Hon. Mr. Erskine, you mean," said Mrs. Minturn, whose vanity
led her to betray herself still more.

Yes. Have you met him?"

"Oh, yes," was replied with animation. "We were very intimate at
Washington. He showed Emeline very particular attentions."

"Ah! I was not aware that you knew him."

"Intimately. He called to see us yesterday, on the eve of his
departure for New York."

"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Emeline, as soon as they had stepped beyond
the street-door, on leaving the house of Mrs. Allender, "why did you
say any thing at all about Mr. Erskine, and especially after
blundering so in the matter of apology? She'll see through it all,
as clear as daylight. And won't we look beautiful in her eyes? I'm
mortified to death!"

"I don't know what came over me," returned the mother, with evident
chagrin. "To think that I should have been so beside myself!"

So much mortified were both the mother and daughter, on reflection,
that they could not venture to call again upon Mrs. Allender and
Clara, who did not return the last visit. And the intimacy from that
time was broken off.

The next winter came round, and the Minturns repaired again to
Washington. Emeline had hoped to receive a letter from Mr. Erskine,
whom she half believed to be in love with her; but no such desired
communication came. But she would meet him at the Capitol; and to
that time of meeting she looked forward with feelings of the
liveliest interest. On arriving in Washington, at the opening of the
session, she repaired, on the first day, to the Capitol. But much to
her disappointment, a certain member from New York was not in his
place.

"Where is Mr. Erskine," she asked of his colleague, whom she met in
the evening.

"Has not arrived yet," was replied. "Will probably be along
to-morrow. or next day. He stopped in your city as he came along;
and I shrewdly suspect that he had in contemplation a very desperate
act."

"Indeed! What was that?" returned Emeline, endeavouring to appear
unconcerned.

"Taking to himself a wife."

"You surprise me," said the young lady. "Who is the bride?"

"I don't know. He said nothing to me on that subject. Others, who
appear to be in the secret, aver that his detention is occasioned by
the cause I have alleged."

It required a strong effort on the part of Miss Minturn to keep from
betraying the painful shock her feelings had sustained. She changed
the subject as quickly as possible.

On the next day, it was whispered about that Mr. Erskine had arrived
in company with his newly-made bride.

"Who is she?" asked both Mrs. Minturn and her daughter; but no one
to whom they applied happened to know. Those who had seen her
pronounced her very beautiful. Two days passed, and then a bridal
party was given, to which Mrs. Minturn and Emeline were invited.
They had been sitting in the midst of a large company for about ten
minutes, their hearts in a flutter of anticipation, when there was a
slight movement at the door, and then Mr. Erskine entered with his
bride upon his arm. One glance sufficed for Mrs. Minturn and her
daughter--it was Clara! While others were pressing forward to greet
the lovely bride, they, overcome with disappointment, and oppressed
by mortification, retired from the room, and, ordering their
carriage, left the house unobserved.

Up to this day, they have never sought to renew the acquaintance.

THE MEANS OF ENJOYMENT.

ONE of the most successful merchants of his day was Mr. Alexander.
In trade he had amassed a large fortune, and now, in the sixtieth
year of his age, he concluded that it was time to cease getting and
begin the work of enjoying. Wealth had always been regarded by him
as a means of happiness; but, so fully had his mind been occupied in
business, that, until the present time, he had never felt himself at
leisure to make a right use of the means in his hands.

So Mr. Alexander retired from business in favour of his son and
son-in-law. And now was to come the reward of his long years of
labour. Now were to come repose, enjoyment, and the calm delights of
which he had so often dreamed. But, it so happened, that the current
of thought and affection which had flowed on so long and steadily
was little disposed to widen into a placid lake. The retired
merchant must yet have some occupation. His had been a life of
purposes, and plans for their accomplishment; and he could not
change the nature of this life. His heart was still the seat of
desire, and his thought obeyed, instinctively, the heart's
affection.

So Mr. Alexander used a portion of his wealth in various ways, in
order to satisfy the ever active desire of his heart for something
beyond what was in actual possession. But, it so happened, that the
moment an end was gained, the moment the bright ideal became a fixed
and present fact, its power to delight the mind was gone.

Mr. Alexander had some taste for the arts. Many fine pictures
already hung upon his walls. Knowing this, a certain picture-broker
threw himself in his way, and, by adroit management and skilful
flattery, succeeded in turning the pent-up and struggling current of
the old gentleman's feelings and thoughts in this direction. The
broker soon found that he had opened a new and profitable mine. Mr.
Alexander had only to see a fine picture, to desire its possession;
and to desire was to have. It was not long before his house was a
gallery of pictures.

Was he any happier? Did these pictures afford him a pure and
perennial source of enjoyment? No; for, in reality, Mr. Alexander's
taste for the arts was not a passion of his mind. He did not love
the beautiful in the abstract. The delight he experienced when he
looked upon a fine painting, was mainly the desire of possession;
and satiety soon followed possession.

One morning, Mr. Alexander repaired alone to his library, where, on
the day before, had been placed a new painting, recently imported by
his friend the picture-dealer. It was exquisite as a work of art,
and the biddings for it had been high. But he succeeded in securing
it for the sum of two thousand dollars. Before he was certain of
getting this picture, Mr. Alexander would linger before it, and
study out its beauties with a delighted appreciation. Nothing in his
collection was deemed comparable therewith. Strangely enough, after
it was hung upon the walls of his library, he did not stand before
it for as long a space as five minutes; and then his thoughts were
not upon its beauties. During the evening that followed, the mind of
Mr. Alexander was less in repose than usual. After having completed
his purchase of the picture, he had overheard two persons, who were
considered autocrats in taste, speaking of its defects, which were
minutely indicated. They likewise gave it as their opinion that the
painting was not worth a thousand dollars. This was throwing cold
water on his enthusiasm. It seemed as if a veil had suddenly been
drawn from before his eyes. Now, with a clearer vision, he could see
faults where, before, every defect was thrown into shadow by an
all-obscuring beauty.

On the next morning, as we have said, Mr. Alexander entered his
library, to take another look at his purchase. He did not feel very
happy. Many thousands of dollars had he spent in order to secure the
means of self-gratification; but the end was not yet gained.

A glance at the new picture sufficed, and then Mr. Alexander turned
from it with an involuntary sigh. Was it to look at other pictures?
No. He crossed his hands behind him, bent his eyes upon the floor,
and for the period of half an hour, walked slowly backwards and
forwards in his library. There was a pressure on his feelings, he
knew not why; a sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction.

No purpose was in the mind of Mr. Alexander when he turned from his
library, and, drawing on his overcoat, passed forth to the street.
It was a bleak winter morning, and the muffled pedestrians hurried
shivering on their way.

"Oh! I wish I had a dollar."

These words, in the voice of a child, and spoken with impressive
earnestness, fell suddenly upon the ears of Mr. Alexander, as he
moved along the pavement. Something in the tone reached the old
man's feelings, and he partly turned himself to look at the speaker.
She was a little girl, not over eleven years of age, and in company
with a lad some year or two older. Both were coarsely clad.

"What would you do with a dollar, sis?" replied the boy.

"I'd buy brother William a pair of nice woollen gloves, and a
comforter, and a pair of rubber shoes. That's what I'd do with it.
He has to go away, so early, in the cold, every morning; and he's
'most perished, I know, sometimes. Last night his feet were soaking
with wet. His shoes are not good; and mother says she hasn't money
to buy him a new pair just now. Oh, I wish I had a dollar!"

Instinctively Mr. Alexander's hand was in his pocket, and, a moment
after, a round, bright silver dollar glittered in that of the girl.

But little farther did Mr. Alexander extend his walk. As if by
magic, the hue of his feelings had changed. The pressure on his
heart was gone, and its fuller pulses sent the blood bounding and
frolicking along every expanding artery. He thought not of pictures
nor possessions. All else was obscured by the bright face of the
child, as she lifted to his her innocent eyes, brimming with
grateful tears.

One dollar spent unselfishly, brought more real pleasure than
thousands parted with in the pursuit of merely selfish
gratification. And the pleasure did not fade with the hour, nor the
day. That one truly benevolent act, impulsive as it had been,
touched a sealed spring of enjoyment, and the waters that gushed
instantly forth continued to flow unceasingly.

Homeward the old man returned, and again he entered his library.
Choice works of art were all around him, purchased as a means of
enjoyment.

They had cost thousands,--yet did they not afford him a tithe of the
pleasure he had secured by the expenditure of a single dollar. He
could turn from them with a feeling of satiety; not so from the
image of the happy child whose earnestly expressed wish he had
gratified.

And not alone on the pleasure of the child did the thoughts of Mr.
Alexander linger. There came before his imagination another picture.
He saw a poorly furnished room, in which were a humble, toiling
widow and her children. It is keen and frosty without; and her
eldest boy has just come home from his work, shivering with cold.
While he is warming himself by the fire, his little sister presents
him with the comforter, the thick gloves, and the overshoes, which
his benevolence has enabled her to buy. What surprise and pleasure
beam in the lad's face! How happy looks the sister! How full of a
subdued and thankful pleasure is the mother's countenance.

And for weeks and months, did Mr. Alexander gaze, at times, upon
this picture, and always with a warmth and lightness of heart unfelt
when other images arose in his mind and obscured it.

And for a single dollar was all this obtained, while thousands and
thousands were spent in the fruitless effort to buy happiness.

Strange as it may seem, Mr. Alexander did not profit by this
lesson--grew no wiser by this experience. The love of self was too
strong for him to seek the good of others, to bless both himself and
his fellows by a wise and generous use of the ample means which
Providence had given into his hands. He still buys pictures and
works of art, but the picture in his imagination, which cost but a
single dollar, is gazed at with a far purer and higher pleasure than
he receives from his entire gallery of paintings and statues.

If Mr. Alexander will not drink from the sweet spring of true
delight that has gushed forth at his feet, and in whose clear waters
the sun of heavenly love is mirrored, we hope that others, wiser
than he, will bend to its overflowing brim, and take of its
treasures freely.

THE END.

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