OR, HOW I TRIED TO WIN RESPECT.
Reader—young reader, for I take it for granted you are young, though if you should not happen to be, it does not matter—I have about three quarters of a mind to let you know what I think of the practice of putting on airs. The best way to do the thing perhaps, will be in the form of a story, and a story it shall be—a story about a friend of mine who is sometimes called Aunt Kate, and who has been known to call herself by that name.
It is true that some of the incidents in this story are not much to my friend's credit. But I am sure she cannot blame me for mentioning them to you; for she gave me the whole story, and I shall tell it almost exactly in her own words. Are you ready for it? Well, then, here it is:
Reader, have you ever been from home? Of course you have. Everybody goes from home in these days; but in the days of my childhood such an event was not a matter of course affair, as it now is. Most people stayed at home then, more then they do now—the very aged, and the very young, especially.
When I was a child, my parents sometimes took me with them, when they went to visit their city friends. These journeys used to excite the envy of all my young companions, none of whom, if I recollect right, had ever been to a city. But times have changed even in my native village; and the juvenile portion of its inhabitants begin their travels much earlier in life now, than they did then.
But the first time I went from home alone—that was an event! Went alone, did I say? I am too fast. My father saw me safely to the place where I was to go, and left me to spend a few days and come home in the stage.
When he left me, he gave me a bright half dollar, for spending money. Now would you give anything, my little friend, to know how I spent it? If you had known me in those days, you could have easily guessed, even if not much of a Yankee. I bought a book with it, of course. I thought I could not purchase anything to be compared with that in value. Since then I have learned there are other things in the world besides books, although I must own that I still cling to not a little of my old friendship for them. How long seemed the few days I was absent from my father's house. I had seen a great deal of the world, I thought, during that time. There seemed to be an illusion about it—a feeling as if I had been from home for weeks; and when I returned, and found some of the good things upon the table which were baked before I left home, I thought they must be very old—very old indeed.
"I should like to know how long you think you have been gone," said some member of the family.
Sure enough! How long had I been away? Not quite a week. But you need not smile, for that week was a long one. We do not always measure time by minutes and hours. That is not the only week of my life that has appeared long. I have seen other weeks that seemed as long as some months. We sometimes live very fast, and at other times, more slowly.
But this is not the journey I am going to tell you about. I was young then, and a little green, no doubt; but before I left home again, I had got rid of my ignorance on some points. Miss Tompkins, a maiden lady, who sometimes came to our house to sew, and who laid claim to more personal experience in such matters than myself, had received from some one a chapter of instructions about traveling—a kind of traveler's guide—and as she did not wish to be so selfish as to keep all her knowledge for her own use, she very freely gave away some of it for my benefit.
Aunt Kate and Her Tutor
"When you travel," said my instructor, "you must not be too modest and retiring. You must always help yourself to the best things that come within your reach, as if you considered them yours, as a matter of course. If you only act as if you think yourself a person of consequence, you will be treated as such. But if you stand one side, and seem to think that anything is good enough for you, every one will be sure to think so too. It is as much as saying that you don't think yourself of much importance. Others, of course, will conclude that you ought to be the best judge, and that you are a sort of nobody, who may be disposed of to suit anybody's convenience."
Now as these items of advice were given as the result of the experience of those who had seen a great deal of the world, and as I was very ready to admit my own ignorance, I resolved to lay up these hints for future service, when I should travel again.
The time came, at length, for another journey. The stage, which passed regularly through our village once a day, accommodating those who wished to go north one day, and those who wished to go south the next, picked me and my baggage up, at my father's door. A very young lady, an acquaintance of mine, and two stranger gentlemen, were the only passengers besides myself, until we reached the next town, five miles distant, where we stopped to change horses. When we got into the coach again, at this place, we found a new passenger safely stowed away in one corner of the back seat.
This passenger was an old lady, of a class sometimes found in our country villages, who are aunts to everybody, and claim the greater part of the younger portion of the community as sheer boys and girls. It seems the driver was one of her boys, and, on account of his being so nearly related, she claimed a free passage. She was already there, and the driver had to choose between these two things—either to admit her claim, or to turn her out. He wisely concluded to make a virtue of necessity. It would not answer to be rude to Aunt Polly, he thought. Some of the other nephews and nieces might think him cruel.
But there was another question to be settled. She had possession of the back seat. This would hardly do on the strength of a free ticket, when it was claimed by those who had paid their passage.
"You must get up, Aunt Polly," said the driver, "and let these ladies have the back seat."
But Aunt Polly, alas! declared, in the most positive manner, that she could not ride on the middle seat.
"Yes you can," said the driver, "and you must; so get up."
But Aunt Polly was by no means easily moved. She still, to the no small vexation of the driver, kept on saying that she could not ride on the middle seat. In this state of things one of the gentlemen undertook the task of settling matters, and, addressing me, inquired which seat I preferred. All the instructions which I had received at once rushed to my mind. Now was the time to put them in practice—to let it be known that I was not going to give up my seat to any one, certainly not to one who had no claim to it. So drawing myself up to my full height—which was nothing to boast of, by the way—I answered with becoming dignity, "I prefer the back seat, sir."
He then turned to my companion, and said, "Which seat do you prefer?"
"It makes no difference with me, sir," was the modest reply.
A smile passed over the face of the gentleman—a smile which evidently indicated one of two things; either that he thought my companion showed her ignorance of the world, in making herself of so little consequence, and seeming to say, "You may do what you please with me;" or he thought my reply very old for one of my years. Which was it? Ah, that was the question. I could not forget that peculiar smile. In fact, you see I have not forgotten it yet. It seemed to mean something; but what did it mean? Oh, how I wanted to know exactly what it meant, and how carefully I watched, to see if I could not find out.
The matter of seats was soon arranged to the satisfaction of all parties. The old lady and myself had the back seat, while my companion took the middle seat. I observed that the above-named gentleman passenger offered several polite attentions to my companion, while he did not seem to notice me at all, although I had let him know that I was a person of so much consequence. This might be accounted for by the fact that she was seated very near him, while my seat was more distant, or there might be some other cause for it.
The opinion of a stranger whom I never expected again to meet, was not in itself of any great importance; yet it certainly had a bearing on the question whether or not my traveling instructions were of the right kind. If they were, my answer was certainly the right one, and calculated to make a favorable impression upon the minds of my fellow passengers. But when I tried to look at the affair in this light, I was disturbed by a secret thought that I should have had a more comfortable feeling of self-respect, if I had given up the back seat—for which, after all, I did not care a straw—to an aged female, who really thought she could not ride on the middle seat.
When I returned home, I related the incident to Miss Tompkins, the seamstress whose directions I had undertaken to follow, and also frankly owned that I was not quite sure which reply had caused that peculiar smile. She assured me there could be no doubt on that point. "The gentleman was amused at the ignorance of the world which that other girl showed. He thought she was not much, or she would not so readily step aside, and give up her rights to any one who might choose to claim them."
But I was by no means convinced of the truth of this statement of the case; and when I was a little older, I came to such conclusions on the subject that I believe I have never tried, since that time, to establish my claim to be a person of consequence by similar means.
Indeed, to tell the truth, I have not thought much of the wisdom of these instructions, from that day to this; and I certainly would not recommend to you, my young friend, that which I have turned out of my own service, as useless lumber. Seriously, I do not think you will ever suffer in the opinion of your fellow travelers, by being kind and obliging, and showing that you do not think yourself of so much consequence as to forget there is any one else in the world. When a person takes pains to impress others with a sense of his importance, it almost always excites a suspicion that he is trying to pass for something more than he really is. It does not require all this show and pretension to keep the place which really belongs to him, and to attempt more than this, will only draw upon him neglect and contempt.
To this chapter in the experience of Aunt Kate, I feel very much like adding a word or two, "by way of improvement," as the ministers say. But on second thought, I guess it will be as well to let you use the diving bell, and see if you cannot bring out the improvement yourselves.
VI.
"TRY THE OTHER END."
The other day I came across a man who was tugging with all his might at the wrong end of a lever. That is, he had a great crowbar, almost as large as he could lift, and was bearing down on one end of it, while the block of wood which he had put under it for a purchase, was at the same end. He was trying to pry up a large stone in that way. But the stone would not be pryed up. It was a very obstinate stone, the good old farmer thought. He had no notion of giving up the project, however. So he pulled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work in right good earnest. Still the stone did not stir; or if it did it was only just enough to aggravate the man.
What could be the matter? The stone was not a very large one. It did not look as if it could stand a great deal of prying. What was the matter?
There happened to be a school-boy passing that way at the time. He was not much of a farmer, and still less of a mechanic, I should think; but he thought he saw what the trouble was. It did not seem to be so much the lever itself, or the farmer, or the stone to be moved, as in the way the man went to work. The boy ventured to hint this idea to the farmer:
"Why, my dear sir," he said, "there is no use in your breaking your neck in that style. You are at the wrong end of the lever. You haven't purchase enough."
The good-natured farmer (for he was good-natured, and did not get into a passion because a mere boy, young enough to be his grand-child, attempted to help him out of his difficulty) the good-natured farmer stopped a moment, looked at the matter carefully, and frankly acknowledged that he had gone the wrong way to work.
"I wonder what on earth I was thinking of," said he, in his usual blunt language. Of course he shifted his crow-bar immediately, so as to get a good purchase. The trouble was all over then. The stone came up easily enough, of course.
It came into my mind while I was thinking about this farmer's mistake in the use of his lever, that certain people—myself included, perhaps—might profit by this blunder.
A great many, for instance, use the lever of truth—a very good crow-bar, the best to be had—in overturning moral evils. But they do not accomplish anything, because they take hold of the wrong end of the lever. They have no purchase.
Here is a man, who, as I think, is in the habit of wrong doing every day. Well, I settle it in my mind that I will talk to him, and see if I cannot make a better man of him. I look him up, and go to prying at his sin, like a man digging up pine stumps by the job. I call him hard names. Why not? He deserves them. Everybody knows that. I do not mince the matter with him at all. But what I say seems to have no good effect upon him. It makes him angry, and he advises me to mind my own business, assuring me, at the same time, that he shall take good care to mind his.
I see plainly enough that I have been working half an hour or more to no purpose, and that very likely I have made matters worse. Yet what was my error?
Simply this: that I spent all my strength at the short arm of the lever. If I had gone to work with a kind and tender spirit, something as Nathan went to work at David, once on a time, and used the other end of the lever, I should have got a good purchase, at least, and I am not sure but the stone would have yielded. As it is, however, the troublesome thing is there yet, and it seems to be settling into the ground deeper than ever.
I know some good people, among whom I can count half a score of ministers, who try very hard to keep bad books and periodicals out of the family circle.
There is no end to their talk against these things. They tell their children that they must never read such and such books, and that if they ever catch one of them reading these books, they shall take good care to punish them for it.
But in spite of all the efforts of these people, they don't succeed in keeping these bad books out of the family. In some way or other, they are smuggled into the hands of a boy or girl, and they are read, while the parent, perhaps, knows nothing of it. That is all wrong, of course. I don't mean to say anything to excuse the boy or girl—nothing of the kind. But why didn't these parents go another way to work? Why, instead of preaching all those long sermons on bad books, and threatening their children with punishment in case they read these books, why did they not provide other books, equally interesting, though innocent and useful? That would have been a wiser course, methinks. That would have been the right end of the crow-bar to work at. The way to get rid of an evil is to find something else to put in its place. So I think.
But some of these very fathers and mothers, though they cry out so loudly against immoral books and periodicals, say they cannot afford to buy books for their children. It was only last week that I heard one of them tell a friend, who asked him to subscribe for a magazine for his daughter, that he was poor, and could not afford it. Poor! he gave one party last winter, on this same daughter's account, which cost him more than a hundred dollars. He cannot afford it! Well, if he does not afford to furnish reading for those children, I am afraid they will afford it themselves.
I have seen a little girl, when her sister had been doing something wrong, run straight to her mother, and tell her of it. But it only made the little mischief-maker worse. She went the wrong way to work. She labored hard enough to come at her sister's fault; but her labor was all thrown away. She was at the wrong end of the crow-bar. If, instead of posting off, as fast as she could run, to her mother, every time that sister did wrong, as if she really liked to be a tell-tale, she had said, as kindly as she could, "Susy, don't do so; that's naughty," or something of the kind, I presume it would all have been well enough.