Books: Home Lights and Shadows

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"Then you understand him wrong, Mary," uncle Absalom spoke up. "If
he had meant that, he would have said it in plain terms."

"And so he has, it seems to me. But I am not disposed to excuse my
adherence to fashion upon any passage that allows of two
interpretations. I argue for it upon rational grounds."

"Fashion and rationality! The idea is absurd, Mary!" said uncle
Absalom, with warmth. "They are antipodes."

"Not by any means, uncle, and I think I can make it plain to you."

Uncle Absalom shook his head, and aunt Abigail fidgeted in her
chair.

"You remember the celebrated John Wesley--the founder of that once
unfashionable people, the Methodists?" Mary asked.

"O, yes."

"What would you think if I proved to you that he was an advocate for
fashion upon rational principles?"

"You can't do it."

"I can. On one occasion, it is related of him, that he called upon a
tailor to make him a coat. 'How will you have it made?' asked the
tailor. 'O, make it like other people's,' was the reply. 'Will you
have the sleeves in the new fashion?' 'I don't know, what is it?'
'They have been made very tight, you know, for some time,' the
tailor said, 'but the newest fashion is loose sleeves.' 'Loose
sleeves, ah? Well, they will be a great deal more comfortable than
these. Make mine loose.' What do you think of that, uncle? Do you
see no rationality there?"

"Yes, but Mary," replied aunt Abigail, "fashion and comfort hardly
ever go together."

"There you are mistaken, aunt. Most fashionable dress-makers aim at
producing garments comfortable to the wearers; and those fashions
which are most comfortable, are most readily adopted by the largest
numbers."

"You certainly do not pretend to say, Mary," Henry interposed, "that
all changes in fashions are improvements in comfort?"

"O no, certainly not. Many, nay, most of the changes are unimportant
in that respect."

"And are the inventions and whims of fashion makers," added aunt
Abigail with warmth.

"No doubt of it," Mary readily admitted.

"And you are such a weak, foolish girl, as to adopt, eagerly, every
trifling variation in fashion?" continued aunt Abigail.

"No, not eagerly, aunt."

"But at all?"

"I adopt a great many, certainly, for no other reason than because
they are fashionable."

"For shame, Mary, to make such an admission! I really thought better
of you."

"But don't you follow the fashions, aunt?"

"Why Mary," exclaimed both uncle Absalom and her brother, at once.

"Me follow the fashions, Mary?" broke in aunt Abigail, as soon as
she could recover her breath, for the question struck her almost
speechless. "Me follow the fashions? Why, what can the girl mean?"

"I asked the question," said Mary. "And if you can't answer it, I
can."

"And how will you answer it, pray?"

"In the affirmative, of course."

"You are trifling, now, Mary," said uncle Absalom, gravely.

"Indeed I am not, uncle. I can prove to her satisfaction and yours,
too, that aunt Abigail is almost as much a follower of the fashions
as I am."

"For shame, child!"

"I can though, uncle; so prepare yourself to be convinced. Did you
never see aunt wear a different shaped cap from the one she now has
on?"

"O yes, I suppose so. I don't take much notice of such things. But I
believe she has changed the pattern of her cap a good many times."

"And what if I have, pray?" asked aunt Abigail, fidgeting uneasily.

"O, nothing, only that in doing so, you were following some new
fashion," replied Mary.

"It is no such thing!" said aunt Abigail.

"I can prove it."

"You can't."

"Yes I can, and I will. Don't you remember when the high crowns were
worn?"

"Of course I do."

"And you wore them, of course."

"Well, suppose I did?"

"And then came the close, low-crowned cap. I remember the very time
you adopted that fashion, and thought it so much more becoming than
the great tower of lace on the back part of the head."

"And so it was."

"But why didn't you think so before," asked Mary, looking archly
into the face of her aunt.

"Why--because-because--"

"O, I can tell you, so you needn't search all over the world for a
reason. It was because the high crowns were fashionable. Come out
plain and aboveboard and say so."

"Indeed, I won't say any such thing."

"Then what was the reason?"

"Every body wore them, and their unsightly appearance had not been
made apparent by contrast."

"Exactly! They were fashionable. But when a new fashion laughed them
out of countenance, you cast them aside, as I do an old fashion for
a new one. Then came the quilled border all around. Do you remember
that change? and how, in a little while after, the plain piece of
lace over your forehead disappeared? Why was that, aunt Abigail? Was
there no regard for fashion there? And now, at this very time your
cap is one that exhibits the latest and neatest style for old
ladies' caps. I could go on and prove to your satisfaction, or at
least to my own, that you have followed the fashion almost as
steadily as I have. But I have sufficiently made out my case. Don't
you think so, Henry?"

Thus appealed to, her brother, who had been surprised at the turn
the conversation had taken, not expecting to see Mary carry the war
home so directly as she had done, hardly knew how to reply. He,
however, gave a reluctant

"Yes."

"But there is some sense in your aunt's adoption of fashion," said
uncle Absalom.

"Though not much, it would seem in yours, if you estimate fashion by
use," retorted Mary.

"What does the girl mean?" asked aunt Abigail in surprise.

"Of what use, uncle, are those two buttons on the back of your
coat?"

"I am sure I don't know."

"Then why do you wear them if you don't know their use, unless it be
that you wish to be in the fashion? Then there are two more at the
bottom of the skirt, half hid, half seen, as if they were ashamed to
be found so much out of their place. Then, can you enlighten me as
to the use of these two pieces of cloth here, called, I believe,
flaps?"

"To give strength to that part of the coat, I presume."

"And yet it is only a year or two since it was the fashion to have
no flaps at all. I do not remember ever to have seen a coat torn
there, do you? It is no use, uncle--you might as well be out of the
world as out of the fashion. And old people feel this as well as
young. They have their fashions, and we have ours, and they are as
much the votaries of their peculiar modes as we are of our. The only
difference is, that, as our states of mind change more rapidly,
there is a corresponding and more rapid change in our fashions. You
change as well as we do--but slower."

"How could you talk to uncle Absalom and aunt Abigail as you did?"
said Henry Grove to his sister, as they walked slowly home together.

"Didn't I make out my point? Didn't I prove that they too were
votaries of the fickle goddess?"

"I think you did, in a measure."

"And in a good measure too. So give up your point, as you promised,
and confess yourself an advocate of fashion."

"I don't see clearly how I can do that, notwithstanding all that has
passed to-night; for I do not rationally perceive the use of all
these changes in dress."

"I am not certain that I can enlighten you fully on the subject; but
think that I may, perhaps in a degree, if you will allow my views
their proper weight in your mind."

"I will try to do so; but shall not promise to be convinced."

"No matter. Convinced or not convinced you will still be carried
along by the current. As to the primary cause of the change in
fashion it strikes me that it is one of the visible effects of that
process of change ever going on in the human mind. The fashion of
dress that prevails may not be the true exponent of the internal and
invisible states, because they must necessarily be modified in
various ways by the interests and false tastes of such individuals
as promulgate them. Still, this does not affect the primary cause."

"Granting your position to be true, Mary, which I am not fully
prepared to admit or deny--why should we blindly follow these
fashions?"

"We need not _blindly_. For my part, I am sure that I do not blindly
follow them."

"You do when you adopt a fashion without thinking it becoming."

"That I never do."

"But, surely, you do not pretend to say that all fashions are
becoming?"

"All that prevail to any extent, appear so, during the time of their
prevalence, unless they involve an improper exposure of the person,
or are injurious to health."

"That is singular."

"But is it not true."

"Perhaps it is. But how do you account for it?"

"On the principle that there are both external and internal causes
at work, modifying the mind's perceptions of the appropriate and
beautiful."

"Mostly external, I should think, such as a desire to be in the
fashion, etc."

"That feeling has its influence no doubt, and operates very
strongly."

"But is it a right feeling?"

"It is right or wrong, according to the end in view. If fashion be
followed from no higher view than a selfish love of being admired,
then the feeling is wrong."

"Can we follow fashion with any other end?"

"Answer the question yourself. You follow the fashions."

"I think but little about them, Mary."

"And yet you dress very much like people who do."

"That may be so. The reason is, I do not wish to be singular."

"Why?"

"For this reason. A man who affects any singularity of dress or
manners, loses his true influence in society. People begin to think
that there must be within, a mind not truly balanced and therefore
do not suffer his opinions, no matter how sound, to have their true
weight."

"A very strong and just argument why we should adopt prevailing
usages and fashions, if not immoral or injurious to health. They are
the badges by which we are known--diplomas which give to our
opinions their legitimate value. I could present this subject in
many other points of view. But it would be of little avail, if you
are determined not to be convinced."

"I am not so determined, Mary. What you have already said, greatly
modifies my view of the subject. I shall, at least, not ridicule
your adherence to fashion, if I do not give much thought to it
myself."

"I will present one more view. A right attention to dress looks to
the development of that which is appropriate and beautiful to the
eye. This is a universal benefit. For no one can look upon a truly
beautiful object in nature or art without having his mind
correspondingly elevated and impressed with beautiful images, and
these do not pass away like spectrums, but remain ever after more or
less distinct, bearing with them an elevating influence upon the
whole character. Changes in fashion, so far as they present new
and beautiful forms, new arrangements, and new and appropriate
combination of colors, are the dictates of a true taste, and so
far do they tend to benefit society."

"But fashion is not always so directed by true taste."

"A just remark. And likewise a reason why all who have a right
appreciation of the truly beautiful should give some attention to
the prevailing fashion in dress, and endeavor to correct errors, and
develop the true and the beautiful here as in other branches of
art."

A DOLLAR ON THE CONSCIENCE.

"FIFTY-FIVE cents a yard, I believe you said?" The customer was
opening her purse.

Now fifty cents a yard was the price of the goods, and so Mr.
Levering had informed the lady. She misunderstood him, however.

In the community, Mr. Levering had the reputation of being a
conscientious, high-minded man. He knew that he was thus estimated,
and self-complacently appropriated the good opinion as clearly his
due.

It came instantly to the lip of Mr. Levering to say, "Yes,
fifty-five." The love of gain was strong in his mind, and ever ready
to accede to new plans for adding dollar to dollar. But, ere the
words were uttered, a disturbing perception of something wrong
restrained him.

"I wish twenty yards," said the customer taking it for granted that
fifty-five cents was the price of the goods.

Mr. Levering was still silent; though he commenced promptly to
measure off the goods.

"Not dear at that price," remarked the lady.

"I think not," said the storekeeper. "I bought the case of goods
from which this piece was taken very low."

"Twenty yards at fifty-five cents! Just eleven dollars." The
customer opened her purse as she thus spoke, and counted out the sum
in glittering gold dollars. "That is right, I believe," and she
pushed the money towards Mr. Levering, who, with a kind of automatic
movement of his hand, drew forward the coin and swept it into his
till.

"Send the bundle to No. 300 Argyle Street," said the lady, with a
bland smile, as she turned from the counter, and the half-bewildered
store-keeper.

"Stay, madam! there is a slight mistake!" The words were in Mr.
Levering's thoughts, and on the point of gaining utterance, but he
had not the courage to speak. He had gained a dollar in the
transaction beyond his due, and already it was lying heavily on his
conscience. Willingly would he have thrown it off; but when about to
do so, the quick suggestion came, that, in acknowledging to the lady
the fact of her having paid five cents a yard too much, he might
falter in his explanation, and thus betray his attempt to do her
wrong. And so he kept silence, and let her depart beyond recall.

Any thing gained at the price of virtuous self-respect is acquired
at too large a cost. A single dollar on the conscience may press so
heavily as to bear down a man's spirits, and rob him of all the
delights of life. It was so in the present case. Vain was it that
Mr. Levering sought self-justification. Argue the matter as he
would, he found it impossible to escape the smarting conviction that
he had unjustly exacted a dollar from one of his customers. Many
times through the day he found himself in a musing, abstracted
state, and on rousing himself therefrom, became conscious, in his
external thought, that it was the dollar by which he was troubled.

"I'm very foolish," said he, mentally, as he walked homeward, after
closing his store for the evening. "Very foolish to worry myself
about a trifle like this. The goods were cheap enough at fifty-five,
and she is quite as well contented with her bargain as if she had
paid only fifty."

But it would not do. The dollar was on his conscience, and he sought
in vain to remove it by efforts of this kind.

Mr. Levering had a wife and three pleasant children. They were the
sunlight of his home. When the business of the day was over, he
usually returned to his own fireside with buoyant feeling. It was
not so on this occasion. There was a pressure on his bosom--a sense
of discomfort--a want of self-satisfaction. The kiss of his wife,
and the clinging arms of his children, as they were twined around
his neck, did not bring the old delight.

"What is the matter with you this evening, dear? Are you not well?"
inquired Mrs. Levering, breaking in upon the thoughtful mood of her
husband, as he sat in unwonted silence.

I'm perfectly well," he replied, rousing himself, and forcing a
smile.

"You look sober."

"Do I?" Another forced smile.

"Something troubles you, I'm afraid."

"O no; it's all in your imagination."

"Are you sick, papa?" now asks a bright little fellow, clambering
upon his knee.

"Why no, love, I'm not sick. Why do you think so?"

"Because you don't play horses with me."

"Oh dear! Is that the ground of your suspicion?" replied the father,
laughing. "Come! we'll soon scatter them to the winds."

And Mr. Levering commenced a game of romps with the children. But he
tired long before they grew weary, nor did he, from the beginning,
enter into this sport with his usual zest.

"Does your head ache, pa?" inquired the child who had previously
suggested sickness, as he saw his father leave the floor, and seat
himself, with some gravity of manner, on a chair.

"Not this evening, dear," answered Mr. Levering.

"Why don't you play longer, then?"

"Oh pa!" exclaimed another child, speaking from a sudden thought,
"you don't know what a time we had at school to-day."

"Ah! what was the cause?"

"Oh! you'll hardly believe it. But Eddy Jones stole a dollar from
Maggy Enfield!"

"Stole a dollar!" ejaculated Mr. Levering. His voice was husky, and
he felt a cold thrill passing along every nerve.

"Yes, pa! he stole a dollar! Oh, wasn't it dreadful?"

"Perhaps he was wrongly accused," suggested Mrs. Levering.

"Emma Wilson saw him do it, and they found the dollar in his pocket.
Oh! he looked so pale, and it made me almost sick to hear him cry as
if his heart would break."

"What did they do with him?" asked Mrs. Levering.

"They sent for his mother, and she took him home. Wasn't it
dreadful?"

"It must have been dreadful for his poor mother," Mr. Levering
ventured to remark.

"But more dreadful for him," said Mrs. Levering. "Will he ever
forget his crime and disgrace? Will the pressure of that dollar on
his conscience ever be removed? He may never do so wicked an act
again; but the memory of this wrong deed cannot be wholly effaced
from his mind."

How rebukingly fell all these words on the ears of Mr. Levering. Ah!
what would he not then have given to have the weight of that dollar
removed? Its pressure was so great as almost to suffocate him. It
was all in vain that he tried to be cheerful, or to take an interest
in what was passing immediately around him. The innocent prattle of
his children had lost its wonted charm, and there seemed an accusing
expression in the eye of his wife, as, in the concern his changed
aspect had occasioned, she looked soberly upon him. Unable to bear
all this, Mr. Levering went out, something unusual for him, and
walked the streets for an hour. On his return, the children were in
bed, and he had regained sufficient self-control to meet his wife
with a less disturbed appearance.

On the next morning, Mr. Levering felt something better. Sleep had
left his mind more tranquil. Still there was a pressure on his
feelings, which thought could trace to that unlucky dollar. About an
hour after going to his store, Mr. Levering saw his customer of the
day previous enter, and move along towards the place where he stood
behind his counter. His heart gave a sudden bound, and the color
rose to his face. An accusing conscience was quick to conclude as to
the object of her visit. But he soon saw that no suspicion of wrong
dealing was in the lady's mind. With a pleasant half recognition,
she asked to look at certain articles, from which she made
purchases, and in paying for them, placed a ten dollar bill in the
hand of the storekeeper.

"That weight shall be off my conscience," said Mr. Levering to
himself, as he began counting out the change due his customer; and,
purposely, he gave her one dollar more than was justly hers in that
transaction. The lady glanced her eyes over the money, and seemed
slightly bewildered. Then, much to the storekeeper's relief, opened
her purse and dropped it therein.

"All right again!" was the mental ejaculation of Mr. Levering, as he
saw the purse disappear in the lady's pocket, while his breast
expanded with a sense of relief.

The customer turned from the counter, and had nearly gained the
door, when she paused, drew out her purse, and emptying the contents
of one end into her hand, carefully noted the amount. Then walking
back, she said, with a thoughtful air--

"I think you 've made a mistake in the change, Mr. Levering."

"I presume not, ma'am. I gave you four and thirty-five," was the
quick reply.

"Four, thirty-five," said the lady, musingly.

"Yes, here is just four, thirty-five."

"That's right; yes, that's right," Mr. Levering spoke, somewhat
nervously.

"The article came to six dollars and sixty-five cents, I believe?"

"Yes, yes; that was it!"

"Then three dollars and thirty-five cents will be my right change,"
said the lady, placing a small gold coin on the counter. "You gave
me too much."

The customer turned away and retired from the store, leaving that
dollar still on the conscience of Mr. Levering.

"I'll throw it into the street," said he to himself, impatiently.
"Or give it to the first beggar that comes along."

But conscience whispered that the dollar wasn't his, either to give
away or to throw away. Such prodigality, or impulsive benevolence,
would be at the expense of another, and this could not mend the
matter.

"This is all squeamishness," said Mr. Levering trying to argue
against his convictions. But it was of no avail. His convictions
remained as clear and rebuking as ever.

The next day was the Sabbath, and Mr. Levering went to church, as
usual, with his family. Scarcely had he taken a seat in his pew,
when, on raising his eyes, they rested on the countenance of the
lady from whom he had abstracted the dollar. How quickly his cheek
flushed! How troubled became, instantly, the beatings of his heart!
Unhappy Mr. Levering! He could not make the usual responses that
day, in the services; and when the congregation joined in the
swelling hymn of praise, his voice was heard not in the general
thanksgiving. Scarcely a word of the eloquent sermon reached his
ears, except something about "dishonest dealing;" he was too deeply
engaged in discussing the question, whether or no he should get rid
of the troublesome dollar by dropping it into the contribution box,
at the close of the morning service, to listen to the words of the
preacher. This question was not settled when the box came round,
but, as a kind of desperate alternative, he cast the money into the
treasury.

For a short time, Mr. Levering felt considerable relief of mind. But
this disposition of the money proved only a temporary palliative.
There was a pressure on his feelings; still a weight on his
conscience that gradually became heavier. Poor man! What was he to
do? How was he to get this dollar removed from his conscience? He
could not send it back to the lady and tell her the whole truth.
Such an exposure of himself would not only be humiliating, but
hurtful to his character. It would be seeking to do right, in the
infliction of a wrong to himself.

At last, Mr. Levering, who had ascertained the lady's name and
residence, inclosed her a dollar, anonymously, stating that it was
her due; that the writer had obtained it from her, unjustly, in a
transaction which he did not care to name, and could not rest until
he had made restitution.

Ah! the humiliation of spirit suffered by Mr. Levering in thus
seeking to get ease for his conscience! It was one of his bitterest
life experiences. The longer the dollar remained in his possession,
the heavier became its pressure, until he could endure it no longer.
He felt not only disgraced in his own eyes, but humbled in the
presence of his wife and children. Not for worlds would he have
suffered them to look into his heart.

If a simple act of restitution could have covered all the past,
happy would it have been for Mr. Levering. But this was not
possible. The deed was entered in the book of his life, and nothing
could efface the record. Though obscured by the accumulating dust of
time, now and then a hand sweeps unexpectedly over the page, and the
writing is revealed. Though that dollar has been removed from his
conscience, and he is now guiltless of wrong, yet there are times
when the old pressure is felt with painful distinctness.

Earnest seeker after this world's goods, take warning by Mr.
Levering, and beware how, in a moment of weak yielding, you get a
dollar on your conscience. One of two evils must follow. It will
give you pain and trouble, or make callous the spot where it rests.
And the latter of these evils is that which is most to be deplored.

AUNT MARY'S SUGGESTION.

"JOHN THOMAS!" Mr. Belknap spoke in a firm, rather authoritative
voice. It was evident that he anticipated some reluctance on the
boy's part, and therefore, assumed, in the outset, a very decided
manner.

John Thomas, a lad between twelve and thirteen years of age, was
seated on the doorstep, reading. A slight movement of the body
indicated that he heard; but he did not lift his eyes from the book,
nor make any verbal response.

"John Thomas!" This time the voice of Mr. Belknap was loud, sharp,
and imperative.

"Sir," responded the boy, dropping the volume in his lap, and
looking up with a slightly flushed, but sullen face.

"Did n't you hear me when I first spoke?" said Mr. Belknap, angrily.

"Yes, sir."

"Then, why did n't you answer me? Always respond when you are spoken
to. I'm tired of this ill-mannerd, disrespectful way of yours."

The boy stood up, looking, now, dogged, as well as sullen.

"Go get your hat and jacket." This was said in a tone of command,
accompanied by a side toss of the head, by the way of enforcing the
order.

"What for?" asked John Thomas, not moving a pace from where he
stood.

"Go and do what I tell you. Get your hat and jacket."

The boy moved slowly and with a very reluctant air from the room.

"Now, don't be all day," Mr. Belknap called after him, "I'm in a
hurry. Move briskly."

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