Books: Home Lights and Shadows
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T. S. Arthur >> Home Lights and Shadows
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Bright and early came Mrs. Gardiner on the next morning, far tidier
in appearance than when Mr. Prescott saw her before. She was a
stout, strong woman, and knew how to scrub and clean paint as well
as the best. When fairly in the spirit of work, she worked on with a
sense of pleasure. Mrs. Prescott was well satisfied with her
performance, and paid her the half dollar earned when her day's toil
was done. On the next day, and the next, she came, doing her work
and receiving her wages.
On the evening of the third day, Mr. Prescott thought it time to
call upon the Gardiners.
"Well this is encouraging!" said he, with an expression of real
pleasure, as he gazed around the room, which scarcely seemed like
the one he had visited before. All was clean, and everything in
order; and, what was better still, the persons of all, though poorly
clad, were clean and tidy. Mrs. Gardiner sat by the table mending a
garment; her daughter was putting away the supper dishes; while the
man sat teaching a lesson in spelling to their youngest child.
The glow of satisfaction that pervaded the bosom of each member of
the family, as Mr. Prescott uttered these approving words, was a new
and higher pleasure than had for a long time been experienced, and
caused the flame of self-respect and self-dependence, rekindled once
more, to rise upwards in a steady flame.
"I like to see this," continued Mr. Prescott. "It does me good. You
have fairly entered the right road. Walk on steadily, courageously,
unweariedly. There is worldly comfort and happiness for you at the
end. I think I have found a very good place for your son, where he
will receive a dollar and a half a week to begin with. In a few
months, if all things suit, he will get two dollars. The work is
easy, and the opportunities for improvement good. I think there is a
chance for you, also, Mr. Gardiner. I have something in my mind that
will just meet your case. Light work, and not over five or six hours
application each day--the wages four dollars a week to begin with,
and a prospect of soon having them raised to six or seven dollars.
What do you think of that?"
"Sir!" exclaimed the poor man, in whom personal pride and a native
love of independence were again awakening, "if you can do this for
me, you will be indeed a benefactor."
"It shall be done," said Mr. Prescott, positively. "Did I not say to
you, that God helps those who help themselves? It is even thus. No
one, in our happy country who is willing to work, need be in want;
and money earned by honest industry buys the sweetest bread."
It required a little watching, and urging, and admonition, on the
part of Mr. and Mrs. Prescott, to keep the Gardiners moving on
steadily, in the right way. Old habits and inclinations had gained
too much power easily to be broken; and but for this watchfulness on
their part, idleness and want would again have entered the poor
man's dwelling.
The reader will hardly feel surprise, when told, that in three or
four years from the time Mr. Prescott so wisely met the case of the
indigent Gardiners, they were living in a snug little house of their
own, nearly paid for out of the united industry of the family, every
one of which was now well clad, cheerful, and in active employment.
As for Mr. Gardiner, his health has improved, instead of being
injured by light employment. Cheerful, self-approving thoughts, and
useful labor, have temporarily renovated a fast sinking
constitution.
Mr. Prescott's way of helping the poor is the right way. They must
be taught to help themselves. Mere alms-giving is but a temporary
aid, and takes away, instead of giving, that basis of
self-dependence, on which all should rest. Help a man up, and teach
him to use his feet, so that he can walk alone. This is true
benevolence.
COMMON PEOPLE.
"ARE you going to call upon Mrs. Clayton and her daughters, Mrs.
Marygold?" asked a neighbor, alluding to a family that had just
moved into Sycamore Row.
"No, indeed, Mrs. Lemmington, that I am not. I don't visit
everybody."
"I thought the Claytons were a very respectable family," remarked
Mrs. Lemmington.
"Respectable! Everybody is getting respectable now-a-days. If they
are respectable, it is very lately that they have become so. What is
Mr. Clayton, I wonder, but a school-master! It's too bad that such
people will come crowding themselves into genteel neighborhoods. The
time was when to live in Sycamore Row was guarantee enough for any
one--but, now, all kinds of people have come into it."
"I have never met Mrs. Clayton," remarked Mrs. Lemmington, "but I
have been told that she is a most estimable woman, and that her
daughters have been educated with great care. Indeed, they are
represented as being highly accomplished girls."
"Well, I don't care what they are represented to be. I'm not going
to keep company with a schoolmaster's wife and daughters, that's
certain."
"Is there anything disgraceful in keeping a school?"
"No, nor in making shoes, either. But, then, that's no reason why I
should keep company with my shoemaker's wife, is it? Let common
people associate together--that's my doctrine."
"But what do you mean by common people, Mrs. Marygold?"
"Why, I mean common people. Poor people. People who have not come of
a respectable family. That's what I mean."
"I am not sure that I comprehend your explanation much better than I
do your classification. If you mean, as you say, poor people, your
objection will not apply with full force to the Claytons, for they
are now in tolerably easy circumstances. As to the family of Mr.
Clayton, I believe his father was a man of integrity, though not
rich. And Mrs. Clayton's family I know to be without reproach of any
kind."
"And yet they are common people for all that," persevered Mrs.
Marygold. "Wasn't old Clayton a mere petty dealer in small wares.
And wasn't Mrs. Clayton's father a mechanic?"
"Perhaps, if some of us were to go back for a generation or two, we
might trace out an ancestor who held no higher place in society,"
Mrs. Lemmington remarked, quietly. "I have no doubt but that I
should."
"I have no fears of that kind," replied Mrs. Marygold, in an
exulting tone. "I shall never blush when my pedigree is traced."
"Nor I neither, I hope. Still, I should not wonder if some one of my
ancestors had disgraced himself, for there are but few families that
are not cursed with a spotted sheep. But I have nothing to do with
that, and ask only to be judged by what I am--not by what my
progenitors have been."
"A standard that few will respect, let me tell you."
"A standard that far the largest portion of society will regard as
the true one, I hope," replied Mrs. Lemmington. "But, surely, you do
not intend refusing to call upon the Claytons for the reason you
have assigned, Mrs. Marygold."
"Certainly I do. They are nothing but common people, and therefore
beneath me. I shall not stoop to associate with them."
"I think that I will call upon them. In fact, my object in dropping
in this morning was to see if you would not accompany me," said Mrs.
Lemmington.
"Indeed, I will not, and for the reasons I have given. They are only
common people. You will be stooping."
"No one stoops in doing a kind act. Mrs. Clayton is a stranger in
the neighborhood, and is entitled to the courtesy of a call, if no
more; and that I shall extend to her. If I find her to be
uncongenial in her tastes, no intimate acquaintanceship need be
formed. If she is congenial, I will add another to my list of valued
friends. You and I, I find, estimate differently. I judge every
individual by merit, you by family, or descent."
"You can do as you please," rejoined Mrs. Marygold, somewhat coldly.
"For my part, I am particular about my associates. I will visit Mrs.
Florence, and Mrs. Harwood, and such an move in good society, but as
to your schoolteachers' wives and daughters, I must beg to be
excused."
"Every one to her taste," rejoined Mrs. Lemmington, with a smile, as
she moved towards the door, where she stood for a few moments to
utter some parting compliments, and then withdrew.
Five minutes afterwards she was shown into Mrs. Clayton's parlors,
where, in a moment or two, she was met by the lady upon whom she had
called, and received with an air of easy gracefulness, that at once
charmed her. A brief conversation convinced her that Mrs. Clayton
was, in intelligence and moral worth, as far above Mrs. Marygold, as
that personage imagined herself to be above her. Her daughters, who
came in while she sat conversing with their mother, showed
themselves to possess all those graces of mind and manner that win
upon our admiration so irresistably. An hour passed quickly and
pleasantly, and then Mrs. Lemmington withdrew.
The difference between Mrs. Lemmington and Mrs. Marygold was simply
this. The former had been familiar with what is called the best
society from her earliest recollection, and being therefore,
constantly in association with those looked upon as the upper class,
knew nothing of the upstart self-estimation which is felt by certain
weak ignorant persons, who by some accidental circumstance are
elevated far above the condition into which they moved originally.
She could estimate true worth in humble garb as well as in velvet
and rich satins. She was one of those individuals who never pass an
old and worthy domestic in the street without recognition, or
stopping to make some kind inquiry--one who never forgot a familiar
face, or neglected to pass a kind word to even the humblest who
possessed the merit of good principles. As to Mrs. Marygold,
notwithstanding her boast in regard to pedigree, there were not a
few who could remember when her grandfather carried a pedlar's pack
on his back--and an honest and worthy pedlar he was, saving his
pence until they became pounds, and then relinquishing his
peregrinating propensities, for the quieter life of a small
shop-keeper. His son, the father of Mrs. Marygold, while a boy had a
pretty familiar acquaintance with low life. But, as soon as his
father gained the means to do so, he was put to school and furnished
with a good education. Long before he was of age, the old man had
become a pretty large shipper; and when his son arrived at mature
years, he took him into business as a partner. In marrying, Mrs.
Marygold's father chose a young lady whose father, like his own, had
grown rich by individual exertions. This young lady had not a few
false notions in regard to the true genteel, and these fell
legitimately to the share of her eldest daughter, who, when she in
turn came upon the stage of action, married into an old and what was
called a highly respectable family, a circumstance that puffed her
up to the full extent of her capacity to bear inflation. There were
few in the circle of her acquaintances who did not fully appreciate
her, and smile at her weakness and false pride. Mrs. Florence, to
whom she had alluded in her conversation with Mrs. Lemmington, and
who lived in Sycamore Row, was not only faultless in regard to
family connections, but was esteemed in the most intelligent circles
for her rich mental endowments and high moral principles. Mrs.
Harwood, also alluded to, was the daughter of an English barrister
and wife of a highly distinguished professional man, and was besides
richly endowed herself, morally and intellectually. Although Mrs.
Marygold was very fond of visiting them for the mere _eclat_ of the
thing, yet their company was scarcely more agreeable to her, than
hers was to them, for there was little in common between them.
Still, they had to tolerate her, and did so with a good grace.
It was, perhaps, three months after Mrs. Clayton moved into the
neighborhood, that cards of invitation were sent to Mr. and Mrs.
Marygold and daughter to pass a social evening at Mrs. Harwood's.
Mrs. M. was of course delighted and felt doubly proud of her own
importance. Her daughter Melinda, of whom she was excessively vain,
was an indolent, uninteresting girl, too dull to imbibe even a small
portion of her mother's self-estimation. In company, she attracted
but little attention, except what her father's money and standing in
society claimed for her.
On the evening appointed, the Marygolds repaired to the elegant
residence of Mrs. Harwood and were ushered into a large and
brilliant company, more than half of whom were strangers even to
them. Mrs. Lemmington was there, and Mrs. Florence, and many others
with whom Mrs. Marygold was on terms of intimacy, besides several
"distinguished strangers." Among those with whom Mrs. Marygold was
unacquainted, were two young ladies who seemed to attract general
attention. They were not showy, chattering girls, such as in all
companies attract a swarm of shallow-minded youug fellows about them. On the contrary, there was
something retiring, almost shrinking in their manner, that shunned
rather than courted observation. And yet, no one, who, attracted by
their sweet, modest faces, found himself by their side that did not
feel inclined to linger there.
"Who are those girls, Mrs. Lemmington?" asked Mrs. Marygold, meeting
the lady she addressed in crossing the room.
"The two girls in the corner who are attracting so much attention?"
"Yes."
"Don't you know them?"
"I certainly do not."
"They are no common persons, I can assure you, Mrs. Marygold."
"Of course, or they would not be found here. But who are they?"
"Ah, Mrs. Lemmington! how are you?" said a lady, coming up at this
moment, and interrupting the conversation. "I have been looking for
you this half hour." Then, passing her arm within that of the
individual she had addressed, she drew her aside before she had a
chance to answer Mrs. Marygold's question.
In a few minutes after, a gentleman handed Melinda to the piano, and
there was a brief pause as she struck the instrument, and commenced
going through the unintelligible intricacies of a fashionable piece
of music. She could strike all the notes with scientific correctness
and mechanical precision. But there was no more expression in her
performance than there is in that of a musical box. After she had
finished her task, she left the instrument with a few words of
commendation extorted by a feeling of politeness.
"Will you not favor us with a song?" asked Mr. Harwood, going up to
one of the young ladies to whom allusion has just been made.
"My sister sings, I do not," was the modest reply, "but I will take
pleasure in accompanying her."
All eyes were fixed upon them as they moved towards the piano,
accompanied by Mr. Harwood, for something about their manners,
appearance and conversation, had interested nearly all in the room
who had been led to notice them particularly. The sister who could
not sing, seated herself with an air of easy confidence at the
instrument, while the other stood near her. The first few touches
that passed over the keys showed that the performer knew well how to
give to music a soul. The tones that came forth were not the simple
vibrations of a musical chord, but expressions of affection given by
her whose fingers woke the strings into harmony. But if the
preluding touches fell witchingly upon every ear, how exquisitely
sweet and thrilling was the voice that stole out low and tremulous
at first, and deepened in volume and expression every moment, until
the whole room seemed filled with melody! Every whisper was hushed,
and every one bent forward almost breathlessly to listen. And when,
at length, both voice and instrument were hushed into silence, no
enthusiastic expressions of admiration were heard, but only half-
whispered ejaculations of "exquisite!" "sweet!" "beautiful!" Then
came earnestly expressed wishes for another and another song, until
the sisters, feeling at length that many must be wearied with their
long continued occupation of the piano, felt themselves compelled to
decline further invitations to sing. No one else ventured to touch a
key of the instrument during the evening.
"Do pray, Mrs. Lemmington, tell me who those girls are--I am dying
to know," said Mrs. Marygold, crossing the room to where the person
she addressed was seated with Mrs. Florence and several other ladies
of "distinction," and taking a chair by her side.
"They are only common people," replied Mrs. Lemmington, with
affected indifference.
"Common people, my dear madam! What do you mean by such an
expression?" said Mrs. Florence in surprise, and with something of
indignation latent in her tone.
"I'm sure their father, Mr. Clayton, is nothing but a teacher."
"Mr. Clayton! Surely those are not Clayton's daughters!" ejaculated
Mrs. Marygold, in surprise.
"They certainly are ma'am," replied Mrs. Florence in a quiet but
firm voice, for she instantly perceived, from something in Mrs.
Marygold's voice and manner, the reason why her friend had alluded
to them as common people.
"Well, really, I am surprised that Mrs. Harwood should have invited
them to her house, and introduced them into genteel company."
"Why so, Mrs. Marygold?"
"Because, as Mrs. Lemmington has just said, they are common people.
Their father is nothing but a schoolmaster."
"If I have observed them rightly," Mrs. Florence said to this, "I
have discovered them to be a rather uncommon kind of people. Almost
any one can thrum on the piano; but you will not find one in a
hundred who can perform with such exquisite grace and feeling as
they can. For half an hour this evening I sat charmed with their
conversation, and really instructed and elevated by the sentiments
they uttered. I cannot say as much for any other young ladies in the
room, for there are none others here above the common run of
ordinarily intelligent girls--none who may not really be classed
with common people in the true acceptation of the term."
"And take them all in all," added Mrs. Lemmington with warmth, "you
will find nothing common about them. Look at their dress; see how
perfect in neatness, in adaptation of colors and arrangement to
complexion and shape, is every thing about them. Perhaps there will
not be found a single young lady in the room, besides them, whose
dress does not show something not in keeping with good taste. Take
their manners. Are they not graceful, gentle, and yet full of
nature's own expression. In a word, is there any thing about them
that is 'common?'"
"Nothing that my eye has detected," replied Mrs. Florence.
"Except their origin," half-sneeringly rejoined Mrs. Marygold.
"They were born of woman," was the grave remark. "Can any of us
boast a higher origin?"
"There are various ranks among women," Mrs. Marygold said, firmly.
"True. But, 'The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gold for a' that.'
"Mere position in society does not make any of us more or less a true
woman. I could name you over a dozen or more in my circle of
acquaintance, who move in what is called the highest rank; who, in
all that truly constitutes a woman, are incomparably below Mrs.
Clayton; who, if thrown with her among perfect strangers, would be
instantly eclipsed. Come then, Mrs. Marygold, lay aside all these
false standards, and estimate woman more justly. Let me, to begin,
introduce both yourself and Melinda to the young ladies this
evening. You will be charmed with them, I know, and equally charmed
with their mother when you know her."
"No, ma'am," replied Mrs. Marygold, drawing herself up with a
dignified air. "I have no wish to cultivate their acquaintance, or
the acquaintance of any persons in their station. I am surprised
that Mrs. Harwood has not had more consideration for her friends
than to compel them to come in contact with such people."
No reply was made to this; and the next remark of Mrs. Florence was
about some matter of general interest.
"Henry Florence has not been here for a week," said Mrs. Marygold to
her daughter Melinda, some two months after the period at which the
conversation just noted occurred.
"No; and he used to come almost every evening," was Melinda's reply,
made in a tone that expressed disappointment.
"I wonder what can be the reason?" Mrs. Marygold said, half aloud,
half to herself, but with evident feelings of concern. The reason of
her concern and Melinda's disappointment arose from the fact that
both had felt pretty sure of securing Henry Florence as a member of
the Marygold family--such connection, from his standing in society,
being especially desirable.
At the very time the young man was thus alluded to by Mrs. Marygold
and her daughter, he sat conversing with his mother upon a subject
that seemed, from the expression of his countenance, to be of much
interest to him.
"So you do not feel inclined to favor any preference on my part
towards Miss Marygold?" he said, looking steadily into his mother's
face.
"I do not, Henry," was the frank reply.
"Why not?"
"There is something too common about her, if I may so express
myself."
"Too common! What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that there is no distinctive character about her. She is,
like the large mass around us, a mere made-up girl."
"Speaking in riddles."
"I mean then, Henry, that her character has been formed, or made up,
by mere external accretions from the common-place, vague, and often
too false notions of things that prevail in society, instead of by
the force of sound internal principles, seen to be true from a
rational intuition, and acted upon because they are true. Cannot you
perceive the difference?"
"O yes, plainly. And this is why you use the word 'common,' in
speaking of her?"
"The reason. And now my son, can you not see that there is force in
my objection to her--that she really possess any character
distinctively her own, that is founded upon a clear and rational
appreciation of abstractly correct principles of action?"
"I cannot say that I differ from you very widely," the young man
said, thoughtfully. "But, if you call Melinda 'common,' where shall
I go to find one who may be called 'uncommon?'"
"I can point you to one."
"Say on."
"You have met Fanny Clayton?"
"Fanny Clayton!" ejaculated the young man, taken by surprise, the
blood rising to his face. "O yes, I have met her."
"She is no common girl, Henry," Mrs. Florence said, in a serious
voice. "She has not her equal in my circle of acquaintances."
"Nor in mine either," replied the young man, recovering himself.
"But you would not feel satisfied to have your son address Miss
Clayton?"
"And why not, pray? Henry, I have never met with a young lady whom I
would rather see your wife than Fanny Clayton."
"And I," rejoined the young man with equal warmth, "never met with
any one whom I could truly love until I saw her sweet young face."
"Then never think again of one like Melinda Marygold. You could not
be rationally happy with her."
Five or six months rolled away, during a large portion of which time
the fact that Henry Florence was addressing Fanny Clayton formed a
theme for pretty free comment in various quarters. Most of Henry's
acquaintance heartily approved his choice; but Mrs. Marygold, and a
few like her, all with daughters of the "common" class, were deeply
incensed at the idea of a "common kind of a girl" like Miss Clayton
being forced into genteel society, a consequence that would of
course follow her marriage. Mrs. Marygold hesitated not to declare
that for her part, let others do as they liked, she was not going to
associate with her--that was settled. She had too much regard to
what was due to her station in life. As for Melinda, she had no very
kind feelings for her successful rival--and such a rival too! A mere
schoolmaster's daughter! And she hesitated not to speak of her often
and in no very courteous terms.
When the notes of invitation to the wedding at length came, which
ceremony was to be performed in the house of Mr. Clayton, in
Sycamore Row, Mrs. Marygold declared that to send her an invitation
to go to such a place was a downright insult. As the time, however,
drew near, and she found that Mrs. Harwood and a dozen others
equally respectable in her eyes were going to the wedding, she
managed to smother her indignation so far as, at length, to make up
her mind to be present at the nuptial ceremonies. But it was not
until her ears were almost stunned by the repeated and earnestly
expressed congratulations to Mrs. Florence at the admirable choice
made by her son, and that too by those whose tastes and opinions she
dared not dispute, that she could perceive any thing even passable
in the beautiful young bride.
Gradually, however, as the younger Mrs. Florence, in the process of
time, took her true position in the social circle, even Mrs.
Marygold could begin to perceive the intrinsic excellence of her
character, although even this was more a tacit assent to a universal
opinion than a discovery of her own.
As for Melinda, she was married about a year after Fanny Clayton's
wedding, to a sprig of gentility with about as much force of
character as herself. This took place on the same night that Lieut.
Harwood, son of Mrs. Harwood before alluded to, led to the altar
Mary Clayton, the sister of Fanny, who was conceded by all, to be
the loveliest girl they had ever seen--lovely, not only in face and
form, but loveliness itself in the sweet perfections of moral
beauty. As for Lieut. Harwood, he was worthy of the heart he had
won.
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