Chapter 18

And so saying, Farmer Gray hurried off, towards his cornfield. When he arrived there, he found four large hogs tearing down the stalks, and pulling off and eating the ripe ears of corn. They had already destroyed a good deal. But he drove them out very calmly, and put up the bars through which they had entered, and then commenced gathering up the half-eaten ears of corn, and throwing them out into the lane for the hogs, that had been so suddenly disturbed in the process of obtaining a liberal meal. As he was thus engaged, Mr. Barton, who had from his own house seen the farmer turn the hogs out of his cornfield, came hurriedly up, and said,

“I am very sorry, Mr. Gray, indeed I am, that my hogs have done this! I will most cheerfully pay you for what they have destroyed.”

“Oh, never mind, Friend Barton--never mind. Such things will happen, occasionally. My geese, you know, annoy you very much, sometimes.”

“Don't speak of it, Mr. Gray. They didn't annoy me half as much as I imagined they did. But how much corn do you think my hogs have destroyed? One bushel, or two bushels? or how much? Let it be estimated, and I will pay for it most cheerfully.”

“Oh, no. Not for the world, Friend Barton. Such things will happen sometimes. And, besides, some of my men must have left the bars down, or your hogs could never have got in. So don't think any more about it. It would be dreadful if one neighbour could not bear a little with another.”

All this cut poor Mr. Barton to the heart. His own ill-natured language and conduct, at a much smaller trespass on his rights, presented itself to his mind, and deeply mortified him. After a few moments' silence, he said,

“The fact is, Mr. Gray, I shall feel better if you will let me pay for this corn. My hogs should not be fattened at your expense, and I will not consent to its being done. So I shall insist on paying you for at least one bushel of corn, for I am sure they have destroyed that much, if not more.”

But Mr. Gray shook his head and smiled pleasantly, as he replied,

“Don't think anything more about it, Neighbour Barton. It is a matter deserving no consideration. No doubt my cattle have often trespassed on you and will trespass on you again. Let us then bear and forbear.”

All this cut the shoemaker still deeper, and he felt still less at ease in mind after he parted from the farmer than he did before. But on one thing he resolved, and that was, to pay Mr. Gray for the corn which his hogs had eaten.

“You told him your mind pretty plainly, I hope,” said Mrs. Gray, as her husband came in.

“I certainly did,” was the quiet reply.

“And I am glad you had spirit enough to do it! I reckon he will think twice before he kills any more of my geese!”

“I expect you are right, Sally. I don't think we shall be troubled again.”

“And what did you say to him? And what did he say for himself?”

“Why he wanted very much to pay me for the corn his pigs had eaten, but I wouldn't hear to it. I told him that it made no difference in the world; that such accidents would happen sometimes.”

“You did?”

“Certainly, I did.”

“And that's the way you spoke your mind to him?”

“Precisely. And it had the desired effect. It made him feel ten times worse than if I had spoken angrily to him. He is exceedingly pained at what he has done, and says he will never rest until he has paid for that corn. But I am resolved never to take a cent for it. It will be the best possible guarantee I can have for his kind and neighbourly conduct hereafter.”

“Well, perhaps you are right,” said Mrs. Gray, after a few moments of thoughtful silence. “I like Mrs. Barton very much--and now I come to think of it, I should not wish to have any difference between our families.”

“And so do I like Mr. Barton. He has read a good deal, and I find it very pleasant to sit with him, occasionally, during the long winter evenings. His only fault is his quick temper--but I am sure it is much better for us to bear with and soothe that, than to oppose rand excite it and thus keep both his family and our own in hot water.”

“You are certainly right,” replied Mrs. Gray; “and I only wish that I could always think and feel as you do. But I am little quick, as they say.”

“And so is Mr. Barton. Now just the same consideration that you would desire others to have for you, should you exercise towards Mr. Barton, or any one else whose hasty temper leads him into words or actions that, in calmer and more thoughtful moments, are subjects of regret.”

On the next day, while Mr. Gray stood in his own door, from which he could see over the two or three acres of ground that the shoemaker cultivated, he observed two of his cows in his neighbour's cornfield, browsing away in quite a contented manner. As he was going to call one of the farm hands to go over and drive them out, he perceived that Mr. Barton had become aware of the mischief that was going on, and had already started for the field of corn.

“Now we will see the effect of yesterday's lesson,” said the farmer to himself; and then paused to observe the manner of the shoemaker towards his cattle in driving them out of the field. In a few minutes Mr. Barton came up to the cows, but, instead of throwing stones at them, or striking them with a stick, he merely drove them out in a quiet way, and put up the bars through which they had entered.

“Admirable!” ejaculated Farmer Gray.

“What is admirable?” asked his wife, who came within hearing distance at the moment.

“Why the lesson I gave our friend Barton yesterday. It works admirably.”

“How so?”

“Two of our cows were in his cornfield a few minutes ago, destroying the corn at a rapid rate.”

“Well! what did he do to them?” in a quick, anxious tone.

“He drove them out.”

“Did he stone them, or beat them?”

“Oh no. He was gentle as a child towards them.”

“You are certainly jesting.”

“Not I. Friend Barton has not forgotten that his pigs were in my cornfield yesterday, and that I turned them out without hurting a hair of one of them. Now, suppose I had got angry and beaten his pigs, what do you think the result would have been? Why, it is much more than probable that one or both of our fine cows would have been at this moment in the condition of Mr. Mellon's old Brindle.”

“I wish you wouldn't say anything more about old Brindle,” said Mrs. Gray, trying to laugh, while her face grew red in spite of her efforts to keep down her feelings.

“Well, I won't, Sally, if it worries you. But it is such a good illustration that I can't help using it sometimes.”

“I am glad he didn't hurt the cows,” said Mrs. Gray, after a pause.

“And so am I, Sally. Glad on more than one account. It shows that he has made an effort to keep down his hasty, irritable temper--and if he can do that, it will be a favour conferred on the whole neighbourhood, for almost every one complains, at times, of this fault in his character.”

“It is certainly the best policy, to keep fair weather with him,” Mrs. Gray remarked, “for a man of his temper could annoy us a good deal.”

“That word policy, Sally, is not a good word,” replied her husband. “It conveys a thoroughly selfish idea. Now, we ought to look for some higher motives of action than mere policy--motives grounded in correct and unselfish principles.”

“But what other motive but policy could we possibly have for putting up with Mr. Barton's outrageous conduct?”

“Other, and far higher motives, it seems to me. We should reflect that Mr. Barton has naturally a hasty temper, and that when excited he does things for which he is sorry afterwards--and that, in nine cases out of ten, he is a greater sufferer from those outbreaks than any one else. In our actions towards him, then, it is a much higher and better motive for us to be governed by a desire to aid him in the correction of this evil, than to look merely to the protection of ourselves from its effects. Do you not think so?”

“Yes. It does seem so.”

“When thus moved to action, we are, in a degree, regarding the whole neighbourhood, for the evil of which we speak affects all. And in thus suffering ourselves to be governed by such elevated and unselfish motives, we gain all that we possibly could have gained under the mere instigation of policy--and a great deal more. But to bring the matter into a still narrower compass. In all our actions towards him and every one else, we should be governed by the simple consideration--is it right? If a spirit of retaliation be not right, then it cannot be indulged without a mutual injury. Of course, then, it should never prompt us to action. If cows or hogs get into my field or garden, and destroy my property, who is to blame most? Of course, myself. I should have kept my fences in better repair, or my gate closed. The animals, certainly, are not to blame, for they follow only the promptings of nature; and their owners should not be censured, for they know nothing about it. It would then be very wrong for me to injure both the animals and their owners for my own neglect, would it not?”

“Yes,--I suppose it would.”

“So, at least, it seems to me. Then, of course, I ought not to injure Neighbour Barton's cows or hogs, even if they do break into my cornfield or garden, simply because it would be wrong to do so. This is the principle upon which we should act, and not from any selfish policy.”

After this there was no trouble about Farmer Gray's geese or cattle. Sometimes the geese would get among Mr. Barton's hogs, and annoy them while eating, but it did not worry him as it did formerly. If they became too troublesome he would drive them away, but not by throwing sticks and stones at them as he once did.

Late in the fall the shoemaker brought in his bill for work. It was a pretty large bill, with sundry credits.

“Pay-day has come at last,” said Farmer Gray, good-humouredly, as the shoemaker presented his account.

“Well, let us see!” and he took the bill to examine it item after item.

“What is this?” he asked, reading aloud.

“'Cr. By one bushel of corn, fifty cents.'”

“It's some corn I had from you.”

“I reckon you must be mistaken. You never got any corn from me.”

“Oh, yes I did. I remember it perfectly. It is all right.”

“But when did you get it, Friend Barton? I am sure that I haven't the most distant recollection of it.”

“My hogs got it,” the shoemaker said, in rather a low and hesitating tone.

“Your hogs!”

“Yes. Don't you remember when my hogs broke into your field, and destroyed your corn?”

“Oh, dear! is that it? Oh, no, no, Friend Barton! Ii cannot allow that item in the bill.”

“Yes, but you must. It is perfectly just, and I shall never rest until it is paid.”

“I can't, indeed. You couldn't help the hogs getting into my field; and then you know, Friend Barton (lowering his tone), my geese were very troublesome!”

The shoemaker blushed and looked confused; but Farmer Gray slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and said, in a lively, cheerful way,

“Don't think any more about it, Friend Barton! And hereafter let us endeavour to 'do as we would be done by,' and then everything will go on as smooth as clock-work.”

“But you will allow that item in the bill?” the shoemaker urged perseveringly.

“Oh, no, I couldn't do that. I should think it wrong to make you pay for my own or some of my men's negligence in leaving the bars down.”

“But then (hesitatingly), those geese--I killed three. Let it go for them.”

“If you did kill them, we ate them. So that is even. No, no, let the past be forgotten, and if it makes better neighbours and friends of us, we never need regret what has happened.”

Farmer Gray remained firm, and the bill was settled, omitting the item of “corn.” From that time forth he never had a better neighbour than the shoemaker. The cows, hogs, and geese of both would occasionally trespass, but the trespassers were always kindly removed. The lesson was not lost on either of them--for even Farmer Gray used to feel, sometimes, a little annoyed when his neighbour's cattle broke into his field. But in teaching the shoemaker a lesson, he had taken a little of it himself.

THE ACCOUNT.

THE clock from the city hall struck one; The merchant's task was not yet done; He knew the old year was passing away, And his accounts must all be settled that day; He must know for a truth how much he should win, So fast the money was rolling in.

He took the last cash-book, from the pile, And he summed it up with a happy smile; For a just and upright man was he, Dealing with all most righteously, And now he was sure how much he should win, How fast the money was rolling in.

He heard not the soft touch on the door-- He heard not the tread on the carpeted floor-- So still was her coming, he thought him alone, Till she spake in a sweet and silvery tone: “Thou knowest not yet how much thou shalt win-- How fast the money is rolling in.”

Then from 'neath her white, fair arm, she took A golden-clasped, and, beautiful book-- “'Tis my account thou hast to pay, In the coming of the New Year's day-- Read--ere thou knowest how much thou shalt win, How fast the money is rolling in.”

He open'd the clasps with a trembling hand-- Therein was Charity's firm demand: “To the widow, the orphan, the needy, the poor, Much owest thou of thy yearly store; Give, ere thou knowest how much thou shalt win-- While fast the money is rolling in.”

The merchant took from his box of gold A goodly sum for the lady bold; His heart was richer than e'er before, As she bore the prize from the chamber door. Ye who would know how much ye can win, Give, when the money is rolling in.

CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTH.

“IT is vain, to urge, Brother Robert. Out into the world I must go. The impulse is on me. I should die of inaction here.”

“You need not be inactive. There is work to do. I shall never be idle.”

“And such work! Delving in, and grovelling close to the ground. And for what? Oh no Robert. My ambition soars beyond your 'quiet cottage in a sheltered vale.' My appetite craves something more than simple herbs, and water from the brook. I have set my heart on attaining wealth; and where there is a will there is always a way.”

“Contentment is better than wealth.”

“A proverb for drones.”

“No, William, it is a proverb for the wise.”

“Be it for the wise or simple, as commonly, understood, it is no proverb for me. As poor plodder along the way of life, it were impossible for me to know content. So urge no farther, Robert. I am going out into the world a wealth-seeker, and not until wealth is gained do I purpose to return.”

“What of Ellen, Robert?”

The young man turned quickly towards his brother, visibly disturbed, and fixed his eyes upon him with an earnest expression.

“I love her as my life,” he said, with a strong emphasis on his words.

“Do you love wealth more than life, William?”

“Robert!”

“If you love Ellen as your life, and leave her for the sake of getting riches, then you must love money more than life.”

“Don't talk to me after this fashion. I love her tenderly and truly. I am going forth as well for her sake as my own. In all the good fortune that comes as a meed of effort, she will be the sharer.”

“You will see her before you leave us?”

“No; I will neither pain her nor myself by a parting interview. Send her this letter and this ring.”

A few hours later, and there brothers stood with tightly-grasped hands, gazing into each other's faces.

“Farewell, Robert.”

“Farewell, William. Think of the old homestead as still your home. Though it is mine, in the division of our patrimony, let your heart come back to it as yours. Think of it as home; and, should Fortune cheat you with the apples of Sodom, return to it again. Its doors will ever be open, and its hearth-fire bright for you as of old. Farewell!”

And they turned from each other, one going out into the restless world, an eager seeker for its wealth and honours; the other to linger among the pleasant places dear to him by every association of childhood, there to fill up the measure of his days--not idly, for he was no drone in the social hive.

On the evening of that day two maidens sat alone, each in the sanctuary of her own chamber. There was a warm glow on the cheeks of one, and a glad light in her eyes. Pale was the other's face, and wet her drooping lashes. And she that sorrowed held an open letter in her hand. It was full of tender words; but the writer loved wealth more than the maiden, and had gone forth to seek the mistress of his soul. He would “come back,” but when? Ah, what a veil of uncertainty was upon the future! Poor, stricken heart! The other maiden--she of the glowing cheeks and dancing eyes--held also a letter in her hand. It was from the brother of the wealth-seeker; and it was also full of loving words; and it said that, on the morrow, he would come to bear her as his bride to his pleasant home. Happy maiden!

Ten years have passed. And what of the wealth-seeker? Has he won the glittering prize? What of the pale-faced maiden he left in tears? Has he returned to her? Does she share now his wealth and honour? Not since the day he went forth from the home of his childhood has a word of intelligence from the wanderer been received; and to those he left behind him he is as one who has passed the final bourne. Yet he still dwells among the living.

In a far-away, sunny clime stands a stately mansion. We will not linger to describe the elegant interior, to hold up before the reader's imagination a picture of rural beauty, exquisitely heightened by art, but enter its spacious hall, and pass up to one of its most luxurious chambers. How hushed and solemn the pervading atmosphere! The inmates, few in number, are grouped around one on whose white forehead Time's trembling finger has written the word “Death!” Over her bends a manly form. There--his face is towards you. Ah! you recognise the wanderer--the wealth-seeker. What does he here? What to him is the dying one? His wife! And has he, then, forgotten the maiden whose dark lashes lay wet on her pale cheeks for many hours after she read his parting words? He has not forgotten, but been false to her. Eagerly sought he the prize, to contend for which he went forth. Years came and departed; yet still hope mocked him with ever-attractive and ever-fading illusions. To-day he stood with his hand just ready to seize the object of his wishes, to-morrow a shadow mocked him. At last, in an evil hour, he bowed down his manhood prostrate even to the dust in woman worship, and took to himself a bride, rich in golden, attractions, but poorer as a woman than ever the beggar at her father's gate. What a thorn in his side she proved! A thorn ever sharp and ever piercing. The closer he attempted to draw her to his bosom, the deeper went the points into his own, until, in the anguish of his soul, again and again he flung her passionately from him.

Five years of such a life! Oh, what is there of earthly good to compensate therefor? But in this last desperate throw did the worldling gain the wealth, station, and honour he coveted? He had wedded the only child of a man whose treasure might be counted by hundreds of thousands; but, in doing so, he had failed to secure the father's approval or confidence. The stern old man regarded him as a mercenary interloper, and ever treated him as such. For five years, therefore, he fretted and chafed in the narrow prison whose gilded bars his own hands had forged. How often, during that time, had his heart wandered back to the dear old home, and the beloved ones with whom he had passed his early years! And, ah! how many, many times came between him and the almost hated countenance of his wife the gentle, the loving face of that one to whom he had been false! How often her soft blue eyes rested on his own How often he started and looked up suddenly, as if her sweet voice came floating on the air!

And so the years moved on, the chain galling more deeply, and a bitter sense of humiliation as well as bondage robbing him of all pleasure in his life.

Thus it is with him when, after ten years, we find him waiting, in the chamber of death, for the stroke that is to break the fetters that so long have bound him. It has fallen. He is free again. In dying, the sufferer made no sign. Suddenly she plunged into the dark profound, so impenetrable to mortal eyes, and as the turbid waves closed, sighing over her, he who had called her wife turned from the couch on which her frail body remained, with an inward “Thank God! I am a man again!”

One more bitter dreg yet remained for his cup. Not a week had gone by ere the father of his dead wife spoke to him these cutting words:--

“You were nothing to me while my daughter lived--you are less than nothing to me now. It was my wealth, not my child you loved. She has passed away. What affection would have given to her, dislike will never bestow on you. Henceforth we are strangers.”

When the next sun went down on that stately mansion, which the wealth-seeker had coveted, he was a wanderer again--poor, humiliated, broken in spirit.

How bitter had been the mockery of all his early hopes! How terrible the punishment he had suffered!

One more eager, almost fierce struggle with alluring fortune, with which the worldling came near steeping his soul in crime, and then fruitless ambition died in his bosom.

“My brother said well,” he murmured, as a ray of light fell suddenly on the darkness of his spirit; “'contentment is better than wealth.' Dear brother! Dear old home! Sweet Ellen! Ah, why did I leave you? Too late! too late! A cup, full of the wine of life, was at my lips; but, I turned my head away, asking for a more fiery and exciting draught. How vividly comes before me now that parting scene! I am looking into my brother's face. I feel the tight grasp of his hand. His voice is in my ears. Dear brother! And his parting words, I hear them now, even more earnestly than when they were first spoken. 'Should fortune cheat you with the apples of Sodom, return to your home again. Its doors will ever be open, and its hearth-fires bright for you as of old.' Ah, do the fires still burn? How many years have passed since I went forth! And Ellen? Even if she be living and unchanged in her affections, I can never lay this false heart at her feet. Her look of love would smite me as with a whip of scorpions.”

The step of time has fallen so lightly on the flowery path of those to whom contentment was a higher boon than wealth, but few footmarks were visible. Yet there had been changes in the old homestead. As the smiling years went by, each, as it looked in at the cottage window, saw the home circle widening, or new beauty crowning the angel brows of happy children. No thorn to his side had Robert's gentle wife proved. As time passed on, closer and closer was she drawn to his bosom; yet never a point had pierced him. Their home was a type of Paradise.

It is near the close of a summer day. The evening meal is spread, and they are about gathering round the table, when a stranger enters. His words are vague and brief, his manner singular, his air slightly mysterious. Furtive, yet eager glances go from face to face.

“Are these all your children?” he asks, surprise and admiration mingling in his tones.

“All ours, and, thank God, the little flock is yet unbroken.”

The stranger averts his face. He is disturbed by emotions that it is impossible to conceal.

“Contentment is better than wealth,” he murmurs. “Oh that I had comprehended the truth.”

The words were not meant for others; but the utterance had been too distinct. They have reached the ears of Robert, who instantly recognises in the stranger his long-wandering, long-mourned brother.

“William!”

The stranger is on his feet. A moment or two the brothers stand gazing at each other, then tenderly embrace.

“William!”