As Paul Raymond was one of the best friends I ever had, it is my desire to make my reader well acquainted with him. He was tall, thin, and bent over, his figure seeming to indicate great humility; his face was meagre and exceedingly pale; his hair black as jet, and hanging in long, thin curls down his neck. His eye was very large, and of a deep blue.
The whole aspect of my friend was marked with a childlike gentleness and timidity, though his high forehead and prominent Roman nose bespoke a manly intellect. A worldly person, judging only by outward form and a first sight, had passed him by with indifference; but one who looks upon mankind as beings of soul and mind, would have been attracted by his appearance. It was so in some degree with myself, for when I first saw poor Paul, as he was called in the village, I scarcely noticed him. And for years after, I saw nothing of particular interest in his person: but now that I was on a sick bed, and had opportunity, as well as occasion, to observe him closer, he seemed to me very interesting, both in looks and manner.
It was one morning after he had been putting my room in order, and, taking his book, had sat down by my bedside, that I mentioned to Paul the change of feeling I had undergone in respect to himself. “I cannot but wonder,” said I, “how different you seem to me now, from what you used to do, Mr. Raymond.”
Raymond. Call me Paul, boy, call me Paul! said he. We are friends now, and mister is always a mischief-maker between friends. You say I seem different now from what I once did. The change is in you, not in me. I am the same poor Paul Raymond, as before. You are something better than before this accident happened.
Merry. How am I better? I think I am worse: I have been guilty of folly, and, though thoughtlessly, of crime; I have been disgraced before the whole village; my poor arm broken; I am sick and emaciated; and after all this, you tell me that I am better than before.
R. And I tell you the truth, boy. You have suffered, it is certain; but that suffering has been like medicine to your mind and heart. You were well in body, you were full of health and spirits, but there was disease within. Your heart was full of selfishness and pride; you felt that you could take care of yourself, and you cared not for the sympathy of others. You have now learnt a good lesson; that pride has been humbled, and you see your dependence upon others. You see how poor and paltry pride is; and how vain is that independence, which leads us to think only of self, and to be regardless of the feelings of our fellow-men. You are more humble than before, and therefore I say you are better than before.
M. Then you think humility is a good thing?
R. Certainly, and pride a bad thing. God looks down upon the humble man with approbation and favor, and he sends to the humble man peace and consolation which the world cannot give or take away. God looks down upon the proud man as a fool, a creature as silly as the moth that buzzes in the flame of the lamp, only to perish in his folly.
M. But this is very different from the view generally taken by mankind. The rich, the haughty, those who are successful in life, who know no sickness or misfortune, and who are seldom or never visited by sorrow—these are those who are esteemed happy by the world at large. The proud are envied and the humble are despised. You would reverse this, and regard the humble as the happy, and the high and haughty as the miserable.
R. Yes, and this is nearly the truth. Health is given us for good; but, strange to say, men seem to turn it to bad account. A person who has always good health, is usually unfeeling: he sneers at those who are feeble, and laughs those to scorn who cannot eat and drink and work as well as he does. He is therefore deficient in one of the greatest of blessings, a kind and tender heart, a heart that feels for the misfortunes and sorrows of others, and that always is seeking to soften them.