NEW YEAR'S DAY.
Harry Maurice was out 'bright and early,' wishing everybody a 'Happy New Year,' and making them happy at least for the moment, by the expression of his ruddy, laughing face. We love to see in children cheerfulness and contentment. Harry's head was full of plans for doing good, and though more than half of them were visionary, they seemed realities then, and so being in good humour with himself, he could not fail of being so with everybody else. Effie refused to go with him to Mrs Frink's, for she had her own little gifts to dispense, but she consented to take a walk with him in the afternoon, and even to call at Mr T.'s shop, for she concluded there could be no danger in looking at the toys after they had disposed of their money.
Harry's account of his reception at Mrs Frink's was anything but satisfactory to Effie, for although he evidently endeavoured to make the best of it, he said not a single word of John's gratitude. 'I am afraid, Effie,' he rather mischievously whispered, 'if you had gone with me to Mrs Frink's you would have thought dirt was her god, for I believe she loves it better than anything else.'
'O Harry, I am sure it is wicked to make fun—'
'I didn't mean to make fun, Effie, but I'm sure I couldn't help thinking of the old man in Pilgrim's Progress with the muck rake, refusing the crown, all the time I was there.'
'Father told me that the man with the muck rake, meant the miser.'
'Well, I suppose it does, but I should think it might mean any body that is not a Christian, for such people, you know, are rejecting a heavenly crown for worldly things, which are in reality worth about as much as the trash the old man is raking together in the picture.' Effie stared at her brother in complete astonishment, for she could not but wonder how so small a head could contain such a wondrous amount of knowledge. Harry endured a stare for a moment with considerable dignity, but he was naturally a modest lad, and finally added, 'That is pretty nearly the substance of what Frank Ingham told me about it—I can't remember the words quite.'
After dinner was over, and Harry and Effie had distributed the remnants of it among several poor families that lived on an adjoining street, they set out on their walk. The day was extremely cold, but clear and still, and altogether as beautiful as any day in the whole year. Effie in cloak, hood, and muff, seemed the very picture of comfort as she walked along beside her brother in his equally warm attire, towards Mr T.'s shop.
'Are you cold? What makes you shiver so?' inquired Harry. Effie did not answer, but she drew her hand from her muff and pointed with her gloved finger to a little girl who stood a few yards from her, stamping her feet, and clapping her red bare hands, and then curling them under her arms as if to gain a little warmth from thence. 'Poor thing!' said Harry, 'I should think she would freeze, with nothing but that old rag of a handkerchief about her shoulders, and that torn muslin bonnet. I don't wonder you shivered, Effie, it makes me cold to look at her.'
'Let us see if she wants anything,' said Effie.
By this time the attention of the little girl was attracted by the children's conversation and glances, and she came running towards them, crying at every step, 'Give me a sixpence, please?'
'We have no money, not even a penny,' said Harry, 'are you very hungry?' The girl began to tell how long it was since she had had anything to eat, but she talked so hurriedly, and used so many queer words, that the two children found it very difficult to understand her.
'She is in want, no doubt,' whispered Harry to his sister, 'but father would say, it was best to give her food and clothing, not money.'
'I wish I had a sixpence, though,' said Effie.
The wealthy and the gay, the poor and the apparently miserable, went pouring by in crowds, and some did not hear the beggar-child's plea, others that heard did not heed it, while many paused from idle curiosity to gaze at her, and a few flung her a penny, and passed on. Harry and Effie too went on, frequently looking back and forming little plans for the good of the child, until their attention was attracted by other objects of compassion or admiration. Sleighs were continually dashing past them, drawn by beautiful horses, and filled with the forms of the young, the gay, and the happy. Old men, bowed down by the weight of years, hobbled along on the pavements, their thin blue lips distorted by a smile—a smile of welcome to the year that, perhaps, before its departure, would see them laid in the grave—and busy tradesmen, with faces strongly marked by care, or avarice, or anxiety, jostled by them; ladies too, in gay hats and large rich shawls, or the more comfort-seeking in cloaks and muffs; and poor women, with their tattered clothing drawn closely around their shrinking forms, were hurrying forward apparently with the same intent. Every variety of the human species seemed crowded on those narrow pavements.
Harry and Effie were only a few rods from Mr T.'s door, when Mr Maurice overtook them, on his way to some other part of the city. He smiled, as he always did, on his children, then putting a few pence into Effie's hand, whispered something about 'temptation money,' and passed on.
'I shan't be tempted, though,' said the child, holding the coin before her brother's eyes.
'No, Effie,' replied the boy, 'it isn't wrong to spend this money for yourself, so you can't be tempted to do wrong with it. This is every body's day for pleasure, and you ought to enjoy it.'
'I have enjoyed it,' said Effie, looking upon her brother smilingly, 'and I guess somebody else has helped me.'
'I guess so, too,' was the reply, 'I think we have been a great deal happier than if we had come here in the morning.'
Children though they were, they were demonstrating the words of the Lord Jesus, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'
Mr T.'s shop was crowded to overflowing with children, a few grown people intermingling: and every one, from the errand boy, that, with his hard-earned pittance in his hand, was estimating the amount of good things it would purchase, to the child of the wealthy merchant, murmuring because the waxen doll she contemplated adding to her store, was not in every respect formed to suit her difficult taste, seemed intent on pleasure.
Harry and Effie were as much pleased as any one, and some, who had seen with what readiness they had parted with their money in the morning, would have wondered at their taste for toys; but these children had one talent which a great many grown people as well as children would do well to imitate. It was not absolutely necessary that they should possess a thing in order to enjoy it. They had been taught when very young, to distinguish beautiful things from those that were merely novel, and although they liked (as I believe is natural) to call things their own, they could be pleased with what was calculated to produce pleasure, without envying its possessor, just as you would look upon a beautiful sunset, or a fine landscape, without thinking of becoming its owner. But Effie had a little money to spend, and this occasioned a great deal of deliberation, for to tell the truth, the little girl was so pleased with her day's work, that she was still determined on self-denial.
'Take care,' whispered Harry, as he watched her examining some trifles which he was pretty sure were intended for old Phillis, 'take care, Effie, that you don't get proud of your generosity—there is more than one way to make self a god.'
Effie blushed, and calling for some nuts, threw her money on the counter, saying to her brother, 'We can share them together in the evening.' The nuts were scarce stowed away in reticule and muff, when a poorly-clad young woman, very pale and thin, bearing in her arms an infant still paler, pressed her way through the throng, and gained the counter. She inquired for cough lozenges. It was a long time before she could be attended, but she stood very patiently, though seemingly scarce able to support the weight of her own person. Harry involuntarily glanced around the shop for a chair, and as he did so, his eye rested on a bright-faced little girl, close beside his sister, who was choosing and rejecting a great many pretty toys, and now and then casting a glance at the well-filled purse in her hand, as if to ascertain after each purchase the state of her finances.
'Beautiful!' she exclaimed, her eye glistening with pleasure at the sight of the purple cushioned rocking-chair of which Harry had told his sister.
'Is that all?' inquired a sad, low voice, and again Harry's eye turned to the poor woman who was purchasing the lozenges.
'Yes, ma'am, to be sure,' replied the pert shopkeeper, 'and a pretty large all too—what could you expect for a penny?'
The poor woman made no reply, but the hurried glance she gave her infant with its accompanying sigh, seemed to say, 'God help my poor baby then!'
Harry involuntarily thrust his hand into his pocket, but he quickly withdrew it, and glanced at the little girl who was purchasing the rocking-chair.
'This chair has cost so much,' she said, addressing the shopkeeper, 'that I have only a shilling left.'
'Oh, then,' whispered Effie, emboldened by her brother's looks of anxiety, 'give it to the poor woman with the sick baby.'
The little girl stared at her somewhat rudely, then turning to the woman, exclaimed, 'What! that one, with the horrid looking bonnet!' and, shaking her head, laughingly replied, 'Thank you, Miss, I have a better use for it.'
Effie was really distressed. The poor woman looked so pale and sad, and yet so meek and uncomplaining withal, that both brother and sister found themselves strangely interested.
'O how I wish we could do something for her,' whispered Harry. 'Will you please exchange my nuts for cough lozenges?' inquired Effie in a faltering voice, of the shopkeeper.
'Rather too busy, Miss.'
'But it will oblige me very much.'
'Happy to oblige you on any other day, Miss, but we really have no time for exchanges now.' By this time the poor woman had gained the door, and Effie, looking round, observed that her brother too was missing.
'He followed the woman with the baby,' said the little girl who had purchased the rocking-chair; then pursing up her mouth with an expression as near contempt as such a pretty mouth could wear, she inquired, 'Is she your aunt?'
The angry blood rushed in a flood to Effie's face, but she quickly subdued it, and with ready thought replied, 'No, my sister.'
It was now the turn of the stranger girl to blush, and at the same time she cast upon her new companion a slight glance of surprise. She then turned over with her fingers her new toys, glanced at the rocking-chair, and seemingly dissatisfied with all, again turned to Effie.
'Please give her this,' she said, putting the remaining shilling in her hand. 'I know what you mean, my mother taught me that, but—she is dead now.'
'If Harry finds where the poor woman lives,' returned Effie, 'we will go there together.' The little girl seemed to waver for a moment, then said hastily, 'No, I must go home—give the money to her,' and hurried away as fast as the crowd would permit. In a few moments Harry returned. He had found out where the poor woman lived, but it was a great distance, and he was too considerate to leave his sister alone. Harry was not one of those philanthropists who, in doing a great amount of good, become blind to trifles; for his father had taught him, that duties never interfere with each other, and he knew that he owed Effie every care and attention. I have often observed that those children, who are the most kind and considerate to brothers and sisters, always shew more justice and generosity to others, than those who think such attentions of but little importance.
Harry found out but little more of the woman, than that she was poor, and sick, and friendless. Her baby too, her only comfort, was wasting away before her eyes, whether of disease or for lack of food, she did not tell, and there was none to help her.
'We will speak to father about her,' said Harry, as they proceeded homeward, 'perhaps he can do something for them,—it is a sweet little baby, Effie, with a skin clear and white, and eyes—oh, you never saw such eyes! they look so soft and loving, that you would think the poor thing knew every word you said, and how I pitied it. I could hardly help crying, Effie.'
'I am glad you followed the poor woman.'
'So am I. But Effie, you don't know how vexed I was with that selfish little miss, that bought the rocking-chair.'
'Harry!'
'Now, don't go to taking her part, Effie, it will do no good, I can tell you; she is the most selfish and unfeeling little girl that I ever saw. Because the woman wore an old bonnet, she couldn't help her—only think of that! how mean!'
'She—O Harry! now I know what mother meant when she talked to me so much about having charity for people, and told me that we could not always judge the heart by the actions. I thought as badly of her as you at first, but I'm sure now she is not unfeeling.'
'Well, if she has any feeling, I should like to see her shew it, that's all. I tell you, Effie, if anybody ever made a god of self, it is that little girl we saw to-night. She thought her gratification of more consequence than that poor baby's life.'
'No, Harry, she is one of the thoughtless ones mother tells us so much about. If you had seen her when she gave me this money,' putting the silver piece into her brother's hand, 'you would never call her unfeeling.'
'Did you tease her for it?'
'No, I didn't ask her again, for I did feel a little vexed—yes, a good deal so, at first, but, Harry, I don't feel vexed now, I am sorry for her. There was a tear in her eye, I am pretty sure, though she was ashamed to have me see it, and her lips quivered, and she looked—oh, so sad, when she told me her mother was dead; I wish you could have seen her, Harry.'
'I would rather not see her again, for I can't bear proud people—' Effie was about interrupting her brother in defence of the little stranger girl, but at that moment a new object attracted their attention. It was a fine sleigh drawn by a pair of beautiful gray horses, that, with proudly arched neck and flowing mane, stepped daintily, as if perfectly aware of the fact that they were gentlemen's horses, and carried as fashionable a load as New York afforded. A little girl leaned quite over the side of the sleigh, and smiled and nodded to Effie, then waving her handkerchief, to attract still more attention, dropped something upon the ground. It was the child they had seen at the toy-shop. Harry flew to pick up the offering, and gave it to his sister.
'Now, what do you think of her?' inquired Effie, as her eye lighted on the self-same purse she had seen but a little while before; 'I knew she must be kind-hearted—did you ever see anything so generous? Here is ever so much money, and all for the poor woman and her sick baby—why don't you speak, Harry?'
'Because—I—'
'You don't think she is selfish now, I hope?'
'I don't think anything about it, Effie, because I don't know. If she gave her own money she is generous, but if she begged it of somebody else to give—'
'If she begged it of somebody else, it was generous in her to give it to this poor woman, instead of putting it to some other use.'
'Well, Effie, the money will certainly do the poor woman a great deal of good, and I rather think the little girl feels better for giving, so I am sure we ought to be glad.'
'I wish I could find out her name,' said Effie, 'perhaps it is on the purse.' Harry drew the silken purse from his pocket, and after examining it closely, found engraved on one of the rings the name of 'Rosa Lynmore.'
In the evening the children related the events of the day to their mother, and found her approbation a sufficient reward for all their self-denial. The conduct of Rosa Lynmore was duly canvassed, too; and, while Mrs Maurice praised her generosity, she endeavoured to shew her children the difference between this one impulsive act, and the constant, self-denying effort which is the result of true benevolence. 'This little girl,' she said, 'may make but a small sacrifice in parting with this money, not half so great as it would be to go and seek out the poor woman and administer to her necessities, but still we have no right to find fault with what is so well done, and I am sure, my children, that you do not desire it.'
'No, mother,' said Effie, 'I see now why you told me not to judge Mrs Wiston by appearances; if I had come away a little sooner, I should have thought this pretty Rosa Lynmore one of the most selfish little girls in the world. But now I know she was only thoughtless.'
'Well, I hope, my child, you will always remember not to judge hastily, and without sufficient reason; yet to be utterly blind to the apparent faults of those around you, is neither safe nor wise. It is not safe, because by being too credulous you may easily make yourself the object of imposition; and not wise, because, by such indiscriminate charity, you lose a useful lesson.'
'I think, mother,' said Harry, 'that I can see the lesson we can learn from Rosa Lynmore's faults.'
'I don't see that she has any faults,' said Effie, earnestly. 'I am sure, Harry, you ought not to make so much of that one careless little word about the bonnet; it was an ugly bonnet, with so deep a front that I dare say Rosa didn't see the poor woman's pale face.'
'You call it a careless word, Effie,' said Mrs Maurice, 'you admit that this little girl was guilty of thoughtlessness, and surely you cannot consider that no fault—but under certain circumstances this fault is more pardonable than under others. Now you know nothing of these circumstances, and so could not, if you wished, be Rosa Lynmore's judge. But, taking everything as it appears, you may draw your lesson without assuming a province which does not belong to you. Now, Harry, we will hear what you have to say.'
'It was not what Rosa said, that I meant, mother,—I was thinking of what we might learn to-day from all her actions, and I am sure I didn't want to blame her more than Effie did.'
'I supposed not, my son.'
'But, mother, Harry had reason to blame her more, for he didn't see how sorry she looked, and how her voice trembled when she said, "She is dead now."—meaning her mother, I shouldn't think a little girl would ever do right, without a mother to teach her.'
'Such children deserve pity, my love, and I am glad you have a heart to pity them, but I suspect that all little girls have wicked thoughts and feelings that they must strive against, and whether they are blessed with parents, or have only a Heavenly Father to guide them, they will have need to watch and pray. But Harry has not given his lesson yet.'
'Father told me a story the other day—an allegory he called it—about impulse and principle.
'Principle went straight forward, and did whatever was right, and tried to make her feelings agree with it, but Impulse hurried along in a very crooked path, stopping here, and then bounding forth at the sight of some new object—one minute neglecting every duty, and the next, doing something so great that everybody was surprised, and praised her beyond all measure. Principle very seldom did wrong, and made so little show, that she was quite unobserved by the world in general, but Impulse was as likely to do wrong as right, and according as good or evil predominated, received her full share of praise or censure. Principle had an approving conscience, and however she might be looked upon by the world, she was contented and happy, while poor Impulse was half of the time tossed about by a light thing called Vanity, or gnawed by a monster named Remorse. I liked the story very much, and I couldn't help remembering it to-day, when the little girl dropped the purse over the side of the sleigh. I thought she was governed by Impulse, and though this is a good act, unless she has a better heart than most people, it is no true sign that the next one will be good.'
'Very true, my son, but you have not explained to Effie what you mean by impulse and principle.'
'You can explain it better than I can, mother. I don't remember half that father said about it.'
'Well, tell me as much as you can remember then.'
'Why, principle means ground of action, and people who are governed by principle always have some good reason for what they do, and do not act without thinking. Father says old people are more apt to be governed by principle of some kind, either good or bad, than children, for he says children generally act first, and think afterwards.'
'And impulse?' inquired Effie.
'People that act from impulse are altogether at the mercy of circumstances, and are driven about by their own feelings. They never wait to inquire whether a thing is right before they do it, but if it seems right for the minute it is sufficient.'
Harry's explanation seemed quite satisfactory to his mother, and what was just then of more importance, to Effie, who, it was but natural, should find some fault with a definition which seemed to throw anything like discredit on her new favourite. Any further allusion to the subject was, however, prevented by the entrance of Mr Maurice, who, as he had been out all day, making charitable and professional instead of fashionable calls, had some very interesting stories to relate. But there was one so strange, and to the children so new, that it threw the rest quite into the shade, and absorbed their whole stock of sympathy. It was late before Mr Maurice finished his story, and as it may be late before our readers get to a better stopping-place, we shall reserve it fer another chapter.