Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad Part 41

"I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," replied George; "but what led you to ask such a question?"

"Because, you know, he often speaks ironically; and, as he left the dinner-room with mother, he smiled, and said something about the poor, and a trick he was about to play."

"True, Amelia," replied George, "he is to play a trick; but it concerns not us. You know poor old Smith is one of father's tenants.

Smith has been sick, and has not been able to procure funds with which to pay his rent, and father intends to engage a person to take out all the doors and windows of the house. He hopes Smith will thus be forced to leave. I have been thinking whether we cannot devise some plan to prevent the poor man from being turned thus abruptly from the house."

"I am sure we can," replied Amelia; "yet I had much rather have a trick played upon us than upon poor Smith. Can you not propose some way by which we can prevent father from carrying out his intentions?"

"I will give you the money," replied George, "if you will convey it to Mr. Smith, so that he will be enabled to pay his rent. Recollect it must be carried in the night, and this night, as father expects to commence his operations to-morrow or next day. You know that I cannot go, as my time will be fully occupied in attending upon some important business at home." It was not necessary to make this offer more than once. The heart of Amelia bounded with joy, as she antic.i.p.ated being the bearer of the money to Smith; and, shortly after dark, being provided with it, she proceeded to his house.

It was a dark night. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, and no twinkling star shone to guide her on her errand of mercy. As she drew near the lonely dwelling of Paul Smith, she perceived no light.

She feared that he might be absent. Stealthily along she crept, and, listening at the door, heard the voice of prayer, imploring aid and support during the trials of life, that relief might soon be sent.

Amelia silently opened the door, and placed the money on a table, accompanied with a note to Smith, requesting him not to disclose the manner in which he received it, and, as silently withdrawing, wended her way home. As she entered the parlor, she found her father and brother engaged in earnest conversation,--so earnest that she was not at first noticed.

"Confound my tenants!" said Mr. Greenville. "There's old Paul Smith; if to-morrow's sun does not witness him bringing my just dues, he shall leave,--yes, George, he shall leave! I am no more to be trifled with and perplexed by his trivial excuses. All my tenants who do not pay shall toe the same mark. I'll make them walk up, fodder or no fodder! Ha, ha, ha! old Smith shall know that I have some principle left, if I have pa.s.sed my sixtieth year-that he shall! Slipnoose, the lawyer, shall have one job."

"You are always visiting your friends, George. It seems as though all are your friends. Yet I don't blame you, for friends are very happy appendages to one's character. I pity the man who lives a friendless life. That's the reason I have been such a friend to Smith,--but no longer!" As he said this the wealthy landlord left the room.

Amelia related to her brother an account of her adventure, and both were thankful that they been instrumental in relieving the wants of their poor neighbors. The next morning, seated at the table, Mr.

Greenville began again to express his opinion respecting poor people in general, and Paul Smith in particular, when a loud rap at the door somewhat startled him. In a few moments a servant entered, and gave information that a person was at the door who wished to see Mr.

Greenville. Arriving there, the landlord encountered his tenant, Smith, who immediately told him that by some kind providence he was enabled to pay him his due, and hoped that in future he should be prompt in his payments.

The landlord took the money, and, looking it over, handed him a receipt for the same, and returned to the breakfast-table. Nothing was said about Smith until Mr. Greenville, as he left the room, remarked "that he did not know but that Smith meant well enough."

Nearly a month had elapsed and nothing had been heard of Ray Bland, when, on a certain morning, Mr. Greenville came in and handed George a letter. Upon opening it, George found it to be written by his friend Ray, informing him of his safe arrival home, thanking him for the kind attention he received during his visit, and expressing great pleasure in soon having another opportunity to visit him.

George communicated this intelligence to Amelia, and they determined upon using their united efforts in endeavoring to bring over the kind feelings of their father to their young, but poor, friend.

"It's no use for you to talk," said old Mr. Greenville, after a long conversation with the two; "the die is cast. I have resolved, and all the arguments you can bring forward will not cause me to break my resolution."

"Well," remarked George, "perhaps the day will come when you will deeply regret forming such a resolution. Perhaps the suns.h.i.+ne of prosperity will not always illumine our path."

"Be that as it may," interrupted Mr. Greenville, "we will not allow our imagination to wander forth into the mystical regions of the future, or picture to ourselves scenes of wretchedness, if such await us. Flatter me not with the good intentions of Ray Bland."

Months pa.s.sed away, and the children of the proud Mr. Greenville forbore to mention in the presence of their father aught concerning their friend Ray Bland, or to excite the anger of the old gentleman by combating his prejudices against the poor.

Months pa.s.sed away, and again Ray Bland found himself beneath the roof of his former friend. He was received by George and Amelia with the cordiality that had ever marked his intercourse with them; but the father was, if possible, more morose and sullen than usual.

Ray had several times made the attempt to know the cause of this coldness, but as often as he alluded to it George would invariably turn the subject; and he forbore to question further, content with the happiness which he enjoyed in the society of those he held so dear.

It was the evening of a fine day in the early spring, that the three friends sat together. It was the last evening of his visit, and Ray expected not to return for a long time. Alone in his study, the father vented his indignation against paupers, which respect for his daughter's feelings only prevented in the presence of their visitor.

He opened the cas.e.m.e.nt. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and now and then a faint flash of lightning illumined the increasing darkness; and the far-off voice of the storm was audible from the distance, each moment increasing in strength and violence. Soon the storm was upon them.

The old gentleman retired to his apartment. Each moment the storm increased in violence, and in vain did he strive to close his eyes in sleep.

At length a flash more vivid, accompanied by a peal of thunder more terrific than any that had preceded it, startled the inmates of the mansion. The wind howled terribly, and the old trees groaned and creaked about the dwelling with a fearful and terrific sound.

Within all was still and quiet. No word was spoken, for it was a fearful night, and in fear and dread they suspended their conversation.

Amelia first broke the silence. "Something must be burning,"

exclaimed she. In an instant the cry of fire was heard. All started up and rushed to the door; and there, indeed, they were witnesses of a sight which might well appall. The whole upper part of the house was in flames. Instantly the cause flashed upon them. The house had been struck and set on fire by lightning. "My father! O, my father!"

shrieked Amelia, and fell fainting to the floor. Quick as the word came the thought of Ray Bland that the aged Mr. Greenville might be in danger; and ere George Greenville had borne his sister to a place of safety, through flame and smoke had Ray Bland reached the chamber which he knew the old gentleman occupied. It was locked. One blow of his foot, with all the force he could muster, and locks and bolts gave way. The room was nearly enveloped in flames, the curtains of the window and bed had been consumed, and now the flames had seized the wood-work and burned with great fury. Upon the floor, prostrate as if dead, lay the proud man, who scorned and detested the poor, and who had boasted of being beyond the reach of adversity. To lift him in his arms and bear him to the street was the work of an instant. He had only been stunned, and the drenching rain through which he was carried soon revived him. Ray bore him to the house of poor Smith, the nearest to his own; and there, with feelings of anguish which cannot be described, surrounded by his children and neighbors, the old man learned a lesson which his whole previous life had not taught, of the dependence which every member of society has upon the whole. While his riches were taking wings to fly away even before his own eyes, he felt how foolish and wicked was his past conduct; and ever after the poor found no warmer friend or more liberal hand than that of old George Greenville.

In the course of a few months a new and s.p.a.cious building was erected upon the site of the one destroyed; and the neighbors say that the pretty cottage which is being built just over the way is to be the future residence of Ray Bland and the fair Amelia, whose aristocratic father now knows no distinction, save in merit, between the rich and poor.

THE HOMEWARD BOUND.

SLOWLY he paced the vessel's whitened deck, While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long past, Brought forth from fountains well-nigh dry a tear: For in imagination he could see Himself a tiny boy, in childish sport Upon a river's bank, quite near his home, Chasing the b.u.t.terfly, whose gaudy dress Lured him away, till, wearied with the chase, Upon some mossy stone he sat him down; Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shade Of some tall oak, he bathed his parched brow; Then up he sprang, retraced his wandering steps, Yet heedless ran, and could not leave his play.

And since that day what scenes had he pa.s.sed through, What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld!

Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones, On frozen banks of Nova Zembla's coast, Or the more fertile climes of Italy; There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs, And fields of roses yield a rich perfume; 'Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise, 'Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit, Forth he had wandered.

Mark the semblance now!

For much there is between his childish course Upon the river's bank and his later Wanderings. Then, he chased the b.u.t.terfly. Now, His inclination led to a pursuit More bold, adventurous, and far more grand.

Ambition filled his soul. Sometimes he ran In vain; and so it was in boyhood's days; And thus 't is plainly seen that childhood hours Are but an index of our future life, And life an index of that yet to come.

As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scape Forth from its hidden cell, and trickle down The sailor's deeply-furrowed cheek, to bathe Those recollections with the dew of Thought!

Some deem it weak to weep. Away the thought!

It is not weakness when Affection's fount O'erflows its borders, and to man displays The feelings that its powers cannot conceal.

It is not weakness when our feeble words Find utterance only in our flowing tears.

Call not such language "weakness"! Worlds may laugh, Yet know no joy like that which often flows In silent tears.

As nearer drew the seaman to his home, As in the distance first he saw the spot Where childhood's hours in happiness were spent, His slow pace quickened to a faster walk, And, had he had the power, he'd walked the waves, And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside, To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly Than wind and tide urged on his n.o.ble bark.

THE POOR OF EARTH.

I'VE often wondered, as I've sat Within mine own loved home, And thought of those, my fellow-men, Who houseless, homeless, roam; That one upon this earth is found Whose heart good promptings smother; And will not share his wealth with him Who is his poorer brother!

I've often wondered, as I've walked Amid life's busy throng, And seen my fellows who have been By Fortune helped along, That they who bask in its bright rays No tear of pity shed On him who doth no "fortune" seek, But asks a crust of bread!

I've seen the gilded temple raised, The aspirant of fame Ascend the altar's sacred steps, To preach a Saviour's name, And wondered, as I stood and gazed At those rich-cus.h.i.+oned pews, Where he who bears the poor man's fate Might hear Salvation's news.

I've walked within the church-yard's walls, With holy dread and fear, And on its marble tablets read "None but the rich lie here."

I've wandered till I came upon A heap of moss-grown stones, And some one whispered in mine ear, "Here rest the poor man's bones."

My spirit wandered on, until It left the scenes of earth; Until I stood with those who'd pa.s.sed Through death, the second birth.

And I inquired, with holy awe, "Who are they within this fold, Who seem to be Heaven's favorite, And wear those crowns of gold?"

Then a being came unto me, One of angelic birth, And in most heavenly accents said, "Those were the poor of earth."

Then from my dream I woke, but Will ne'er forget its worth; For ever since that vision I have loved "the poor of earth."