Chapter 6

Accordingly Dr. Harvey hastened to Mr. Query's house, and demanded of that gentleman what he meant by circulating such scandal.

“My dear doctor,” cried Mr. Query, his face beaming with conscious innocence, “_I_ haven't been guilty of any mis-statement about you, I can take my oath. I heard that there was a report of your drinking, and all I did was to tell people I didn't believe it, nor know anything about it, and to inquire were it originated. Oh, I assure you, doctor, I haven't slandered you in any manner.”

“You are a poor fool!” exclaimed Dr. Harvey, perplexed and angry. “If you had gone about town telling everybody that you saw me drunk, daily, you couldn't have slandered me more effectually than you have.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” cried Mr. Query, very sad; “but I thought I was doing you a service!”

“Save me from my friends!” exclaimed the doctor, bitterly. “An _enemy_ could not have done me as much injury as you have done. But I now insist on knowing who first mentioned the report to you.”

“Oh, I am not at liberty to say that.”

“Then I shall hold you responsible for the scandal--for the base lies you have circulated. But if you are really an honest man, and my friend, you will not hesitate to tell me where this report originated.”

After some reflection, Mr. Query, who stood in mortal fear of the indignant doctor, resolved to reveal the secret, and mentioned the name of his informant, Mrs. Simmons. As Dr. Harvey had not heard her spoken of before, as connected with the report of his intemperance, he knew very well that Mr. Query's “friendly investigations” had been the sole cause of his loss of practice. However, to go to the roots of this Upas tree of scandal, he resolved to pay an immediate visit to Mrs. Simmons.

This lady could deny nothing; but she declared that she had not given the rumour as a fact, and that she had never spoken of it except to Mr. Query. Anxious to throw the responsibility of the slander upon others, she eagerly confessed that, on a certain occasion upon entering a room in which were Mrs. Guild and Mrs. Harmless, she overheard one of these ladies remark that “Dr. Harvey drank more than ever,” and the other reply, that “she had heard him say he could not break himself, although he knew his health suffered in consequence.”

Thus set upon the right track, Dr. Harvey visited Mrs. Guild and Mrs. Harmless without delay.

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed those ladies, when questioned respecting the matter, “we perfectly remember talking about your _drinking coffee_, and making such remarks as you have heard through Mrs. Simmons. But with regard to your _drinking liquor_, we never heard the report until a week ago, and never believed it at all.”

As what these ladies had said of his _coffee-drinking_ propensities was perfectly true, Dr. Harvey readily acquitted them of any designs against his character for sobriety, and well satisfied with having at last discovered the origin of the rumour, returned to the friendly Mr. Query.

The humiliation of this gentleman was so deep, that Dr. Harvey avoided reproaches, and confined himself to a simple narrative of his discoveries.

“I see, it is all my fault,” said Mr. Query. “And I will do anything to remedy it. I never could believe you drank--and now I'll go and tell everybody that the report _was_ false.”

“Oh! bless you,” cried the doctor, “I wouldn't have you do so for the world. All I ask of you, is to say nothing whatever on the subject, and if you ever again hear a report of the kind, don't make it a subject of friendly investigation.”

Mr. Query promised; and, after the truth was known, and, Dr. Harvey had regained the good-will of the community, together with his share of medical practice, he never had reason again to exclaim--“Save me from my friends!” And Mr. Query was in future exceedingly careful how he attempted to make friendly investigations.

ROOM IN THE WORLD.

THERE is room in the world for the wealthy and great, For princes to reign in magnificent state; For the courtier to bend, for the noble to sue, If the hearts of all these are but honest and true.

And there's room in the world for the lowly and meek, For the hard horny hand, and the toil-furrow'd cheek; For the scholar to think, for the merchant to trade, So these are found upright and just in their grade.

But room there is none for the wicked; and nought For the souls that with teeming corruption are fraught. The world would be small, were its oceans all land, To harbour and feed such a pestilent band.

Root out from among ye, by teaching the mind, By training the heart, this chief curse of mankind! 'Tis a duty you owe to the forthcoming race-- Confess it in time, and discharge it with grace!

WORDS.

“THE foolish thing!” said my Aunt Rachel, speaking warmly, “to get hurt at a mere word. It's a little hard that people can't open their lips but somebody is offended.”

“Words are things!” said I, smiling.

“Very light things! A person must be tender indeed, that is hurt by a word.”

“The very lightest thing may hurt, if it falls on a tender place.”

“I don't like people who have these tender places,” said Aunt Rachel. “I never get hurt at what is said to me. No--never! To be ever picking and mincing, and chopping off your words--to be afraid to say this or that--for fear somebody will be offended! I can't abide it.”

“People who have these tender places can't help it, I suppose. This being so, ought we not to regard their weakness?” said I. “Pain, either of body or mind, is hard to bear, and we should not inflict it causelessly.”

“People who are so wonderfully sensitive,” replied Aunt Rachel, growing warmer, “ought to shut themselves up at home, and not come among sensible, good-tempered persons. As far as I am concerned, I can tell them, one and all, that I am not going to pick out every hard word from a sentence as carefully as I would seeds from a raisin. Let them crack them with their teeth, if they are afraid to swallow them whole.”

Now, for all that Aunt Rachel went on after this strain, she was a kind, good soul, in the main, and, I could see, was sorry for having hurt the feelings of Mary Lane. But she didn't like to acknowledge that she was in the wrong; that would detract too much from the self-complacency with which she regarded herself. Knowing her character very well, I thought it best not to continue the little argument about the importance of words, and so changed the subject. But, every now and then, Aunt Rachel would return to it, each time softening a little towards Mary. At last she said,

“I'm sure it was a little thing. A very little thing. She might have known that nothing unkind was intended on my part.”

“There are some subjects, aunt,” I replied, “to which we cannot bear the slightest allusion. And a sudden reference to them is very apt to throw us off of our guard. What you said to Mary has, in all probability touched some weakness of character, or probed some wound that time has not been able to heal. I have always thought her a sensible, good-natured girl.”

“And so have I. But I really cannot think that she has showed her good sense or good nature in the present case. It is a very bad failing this, of being over sensitive; and exceedingly annoying to one's friends.”

“It is, I know; but still, all of, us have a weak point, and to her that is assailed, we are very apt to betray our feelings.”

“Well, I say now, as I have always said--I don't like to have anything to do with people who have these weak points. This being hurt by a word, as if words were blows, is something that does not come within the range of my sympathies.”

“And yet, aunt,” said I, “all have weak points. Even you are not entirely free from them.”

“Me!” Aunt Rachel bridled.

“Yes; and if even as light a thing as a word were to fall upon them, you would suffer pain.”

“Pray, sir,” said Aunt Rachel, with much dignity of manner; she was chafed by my words, light as they were, “inform me where these weaknesses, of which you are pleased to speak, lie.”

“Oh, no; you must excuse me. That would be very much out of place. But I only stated a general fact that appertains to all of us.”

Aunt Rachel looked very grave. I had laid the weight of words upon a weakness of her character, and it had given her pain. That weakness was a peculiarly good opinion of herself. I had made no allegation against her; and there was none in my mind. My words simply expressed the general truth that we all have weaknesses, and included her in their application. But she imagined that I referred to some particular defect or fault, and mail-proof as she was against words, they had wounded her.

For a day or two Aunt Rachel remained more sober than was her wont. I knew the cause, but did not attempt to remove from her mind any impression my words had made. One day, about a week after, I said to her,

“Aunt Rachel, I saw Mary Lane's mother this morning.”

“Ah?” The old lady looked up at me inquiringly.

“I don't wonder your words hurt the poor girl,” I added.

“Why? What did I say?” quickly asked Aunt Rachel.

“You said that she was a jilt.”

“But I was only jest, and she knew it. I did not really mean anything. I'm surprised that Mary should be so foolish.”

“You will not be surprised when you know all,” was my answer.

“All? What all? I'm sure I wasn't in earnest. I didn't mean to hurt the poor girl's feelings.” My aunt looked very much troubled.

“No one blames you, Aunt Rachel,” said I. “Mary knows you didn't intend wounding her.”

“But why should she take a little word go much to heart? It must have had more truth in it than I supposed.”

“Did you know that Mary refused an offer of marriage from Walter Green last week?”

“Why no! It can't be possible! Refused Walter Green?”

“They've been intimate for a long time.”

“I know.”

“She certainly encouraged him.”

“I think it more than probable.”

“Is it possible, then, that she did really jilt the young man?” exclaimed Aunt Rachel.

“This has been said of her,” I replied. “But so far as I can learn, she was really attached to him, and suffered great pain in rejecting his offer. Wisely she regarded marriage as the most important event of her life, and refused to make so solemn a contract with one in whose principles she had not the fullest confidence.”

“But she ought not to have encouraged Walter, if she did not intend marrying him,” said Aunt Rachel, with some warmth.

“She encouraged him so long as she thought well of him. A closer view revealed points of character hidden by distance. When she saw these her feelings were already deeply involved. But, like a true woman, she turned from the proffered hand, even though while in doing so her heart palpitated with pain. There is nothing false about Mary Lane. She could no more trifle with a lover than she could commit a crime. Think, then, how almost impossible it would be for her to hear herself called, under existing circumstances, even in sport, a jilt, without being hurt. Words sometimes have power to hurt more than blows. Do you not see this, now, Aunt Rachel?”

“Oh, yes, yes. I see it; and I saw it before,” said the old lady. “And in future I will be more careful of my words. It is pretty late in life to learn this lesson--but we are never too late to learn. Poor Mary! It grieves me to think that I should have hurt her so much.”

Yes, words often have in them a smarting force, and we cannot be too guarded how we use them. “Think twice before you speak once,” is a trite but wise saying. We teach it to our children very carefully, but are too apt to forget that it has not lost its application to ourselves.

THE THANKLESS OFFICE.

“AN object of real charity,” said Andrew Lyon to his wife, as a poor woman withdrew from the room in which they were seated.

“If ever there was a worthy object she is one,” returned Mrs. Lyon. “A widow, with health so feeble that even ordinary exertion is too much for her; yet obliged to support, with the labour of her own hands, not only herself, but three young children. I do not wonder that she is behind with her rent.”

“Nor I,” said Mr. Lyon, in a voice of sympathy. “How much, did she say, was due to her landlord?”

“Ten dollars.”

“She will not be able to pay it.”

“I fear not. How can she? I give her all my extra sewing, and have obtained work for her from several ladies; but with her best efforts she can barely obtain food and decent clothing for herself and babes.”

“Does it not seem hard,” remarked Mr. Lyon, “that one like Mrs. Arnold, who is so earnest in her efforts to take care of herself and family, should not receive a helping hand from some one of the many who could help her without feeling the effort? If I didn't find it so hard to make both ends meet, I would pay off her arrears of rent for her, and feel happy in so doing.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the kind-hearted wife, “how much I wish that we were able to do this! But we are not.”

“I'll tell you what we can do,” said Mr. Lyon, in a cheerful voice; “or rather what _I_ can do. It will be a very light matter for say ten persons to give a dollar apiece, in order to relieve Mrs. Arnold from her present trouble. There are plenty who would cheerfully contribute, for this good purpose; all that is wanted is some one to take upon himself the business of making the collections. That task shall be mine.”

“How glad I am, James, to hear you say so!” smilingly replied Mrs. Lyon. “Oh, what a relief it will be to poor Mrs. Arnold. It will make her heart as light as a feather. That rent has troubled her sadly. Old Links, her landlord, has been worrying her about it a good deal, and, only a week ago, threatened to put her things in the street, if she didn't pay up.”

“I should have thought of this before,” remarked Andrew Lyon. “There are hundreds of people who are willing enough to give if they were only certain in regard to the object. Here is one worthy enough in every way. Be it my business to present her claims to benevolent consideration. Let me see. To whom shall I go? There are Jones, and Green, and Tompkins. I can get a dollar from each of them. That will be three dollars,--and one from myself, will make four. Who else is there? Oh, Malcolm! I'm sure of a dollar from him; and also from Smith, Todd, and Perry.”

Confident in the success of his benevolent scheme, Mr. Lyon started forth, early on the very next day, for the purpose of obtaining, by subscription, the poor widow's rent. The first person he called on was Malcolm.

“Ah, friend Lyon!” said Malcolm, smiling blandly, “Good morning! What can I do for you, to-day?”

“Nothing for me, but something for a poor widow, who is behind with her rent,” replied Andrew Lyon. “I want just one dollar from you, and as much more from some eight or nine as benevolent as yourself.”

At the word poor widow the countenance of Malcolm fell, and when his visiter ceased, he replied, in a changed and husky voice, clearing his throat two or three times as he spoke.

“Are you sure she is deserving, Mr. Lyon?” The man's manner had become exceedingly grave.

“None more so,” was the prompt answer. “She is in poor health, and has three children to support with the product of her needle. If any one needs assistance, it is Mrs. Arnold.”

“Oh! Ah! The widow of Jacob Arnold?”

“The same,” replied Andrew Lyon.

Malcolm's face did not brighten with a feeling of heart-warm benevolence. But he turned slowly away, and opening his money-drawer, _very slowly_ toyed with his fingers amid its contents. At length he took therefrom a dollar bill, and said, as he presented it to Lyon,--signing involuntarily as he did so,--

“I suppose I must do my part. But we are called upon so often.”

The ardour of Andrew Lyon's benevolent feelings suddenly cooled at this unexpected reception. He had entered upon his work under the glow of a pure enthusiasm; anticipating a hearty response the moment his errand was made known.

“I thank you in the widow's name,” said he, as he took the dollar. When he turned from Mr. Malcolm's store, it was with a pressure on his feelings, as if he had asked the coldly-given favour for himself.

It was not without an effort that Lyon compelled himself to call upon Mr. Green, considered the “next best man” on his list. But he entered his place of business with far less confidence than he had felt when calling upon Malcolm. His story told, Green, without a word or smile, drew two half dollars from his pocket and presented them.

“Thank you,” said Lyon.

“Welcome,” returned Green.

Oppressed with a feeling of embarrassment, Lyon stood for a few moments. Then bowing, he said,

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” was coldly and formally responded.

And thus the alms-seeker and alms-giver parted.

“Better be at his shop, attending to his work,” muttered Green to himself, as his visiter retired. “Men ain't very apt to get along too well in the world who spend their time in begging for every object of charity that happens to turn up. And there are plenty of such, dear knows. He's got a dollar out of me; may it do him, or the poor widow he talked so glibly about, much good.”

Cold water had been poured upon the feelings of Andrew Lyon. He had raised two dollars for the poor widow, but, at what a sacrifice for one so sensitive as himself! Instead of keeping on in his work of benevolence, he went to his shop, and entered upon the day's employment. How disappointed he felt;--and this disappointment was mingled with a certain sense of humiliation, as if he had been asking alms for himself.

“Catch me at this work again!” he said half aloud, as his thoughts dwelt upon what had so recently occurred. “But this is not right,” he added, quickly. “It is a weakness in me to feel so. Poor Mrs. Arnold must be relieved; and it is my duty to see that she gets relief. I had no thought of a reception like this. People can talk of benevolence; but putting the hand in the pocket is another affair altogether. I never dreamed that such men as Malcolm and Green could be insensible to an appeal like the one I made.”

“I've got two dollars towards paying Mrs. Arnold's rent,” he said to himself, in a more cheerful tone, some time afterwards; “and it will go hard if I don't raise the whole amount for her. All are not like Green and Malcolm. Jones is a kind-hearted man, and will instantly respond to the call of humanity. I'll go and see him.”

So, off Andrew Lyon started to see this individual.

“I've come begging, Mr. Jones,” said he, on meeting him. And he spoke in a frank, pleasant manner,

“Then you've come to the wrong shop; that's all I have to say,” was the blunt answer.

“Don't say that, Mr. Jones. Hear my story first.”

“I do say it, and I'm in earnest,” returned Jones. “I feel as poor as Job's turkey to-day.”

“I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her rent,” said Lyon.

“Oh, hang all the poor widows! If that's your game, you'll get nothing here. I've got my hands full to pay my own rent. A nice time I'd have in handing out a dollar to every poor widow in town to help pay her rent! No, no, my friend, you can't get anything here.”

“Just as you feel about it,” said Andrew Lyon. “There's no compulsion in the matter.”

“No, I presume not,” was rather coldly replied.

Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened than before. He had undertaken a thankless office.

Nearly two hours elapsed before his resolution to persevere in the good work he had begun came back with sufficient force to prompt to another effort. Then he dropped in upon his neighbour Tompkins, to whom he made known his errand.

“Why, yes, I suppose I must do something in a case like this,” said Tompkins, with the tone and air of a man who was cornered. “But there are so many calls for charity, that we are naturally enough led to hold on pretty tightly to our purse strings. Poor woman! I feel sorry for her. How much do you want?”

“I am trying to get ten persons, including myself, to give a dollar each.”

“Well, here's my dollar.” And Tompkins forced a smile to his face as he handed over his contribution,--but the smile did not conceal an expression which said very plainly--

“I hope you will not trouble me again in this way.”

“You may be sure I will not,” muttered Lyon, as he went away. He fully understood the meaning of the expression.

Only one more application did the kind-hearted man make. It was successful; but there was something in the manner of the individual who gave his dollar, that Lyon felt as a rebuke.

“And so poor Mrs. Arnold did not get the whole of her arrears of rent paid off,” says some one who has felt an interest in her favour.

Oh, yes she did. Mr. Lyon begged five dollars, and added five more from his own slender purse. But, he cannot be induced again to undertake the thankless office of seeking relief from the benevolent for a fellow creature in need. He has learned that a great many who refuse alms on the plea that the object presented is not worthy, are but little more inclined to charitable deeds, when on this point there is no question.

How many who read this can sympathize with Andrew Lyon! Few men who have hearts to feel for others but have been impelled, at some time in their lives, to seek aid for a fellow creature in need. That their office was a thankless one, they have too soon become aware. Even those who responded to their call most liberally, in too many instances gave in a way that left an unpleasant impression behind. How quickly has the first glow of generous feeling, that sought to extend itself to others, that they might share the pleasure of humanity, been chilled; and, instead of finding the task an easy one, it has proved to be hard, and, too often, humiliating! Alas that this should be! That men should shut their hearts so instinctively at the voice of charity!

We have not written this to discourage active efforts in the benevolent; but to hold up a mirror in which another class may see themselves. At best, the office of him who seeks of his fellow men aid for the suffering and indigent, is an unpleasant one. It is all sacrifice on his part, and the least that can be done is to honour his disinterested regard for others in distress, and treat him with delicacy and consideration.

LOVE.

OH! if there is one law above the rest, Written in Wisdom--if there is a word That I would trace as with a pen of fire Upon the unsullied temper of a child-- If there is anything that keeps the mind Open to angel visits, and repels The ministry of ill--_'tis Human Love!_ God has made nothing worthy of contempt; The smallest pebble in the well of Truth Has its peculiar meanings, and will stand When man's best monuments wear fast away. The law of Heaven is _Love_--and though its name Has been usurped by passion, and profaned To its unholy uses through all time, Still, the external principle is pure; And in these deep affections that we feel Omnipotent within us, can we see The lavish measure in which love is given. And in the yearning tenderness of a child For every bird that sings above its head, And every creature feeding on the hills, And every tree and flower, and running brook, We see how everything was made to love, And how they err, who, in a world like this, Find anything to hate but human pride.

“EVERY LITTLE HELPS.”

WHAT if a drop of rain should plead-- “So small a drop as I Can ne'er refresh the thirsty mead; I'll tarry in the sky?”

What, if the shining beam of noon Should in its fountain stay; Because its feeble light alone Cannot create a day?

Does not each rain-drop help to form The cool refreshing shower? And every ray of light, to warm And beautify the flower?

LITTLE THINGS.