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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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.

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