I could say no more, for tears and sobs choked my utterance, and old Sarah then went on. “Well, well; let it be so, let it be so. But I must tell you, Master Merry, that I knew your mother well. We were both of the same country, both natives of England, and we came to America in the same ship. She was a good woman, and in the dark days of my life, she was kind to me. I will repay it to her child.” Saying this, she went to the end of the cave, and took a small wooden box from a crevice in the rock. This she opened, and handed a parcel to me, adding; “this will repair your loss.” I looked at her in some doubt. “Examine what I give you,” said she, “and you will understand me.”
I opened the parcel, which consisted of a roll, with a covering of silk. I found in it several thin pieces of paper, resembling bank notes, and reading them as well as I could by the dim light which came in at the entrance of the cave, I perceived that they were government bills, of a thousand dollars each. “I am glad for your sake,” said I, handing back the parcel to Sarah—“that you have so much money, but I cannot consent to take it from you.”
“And what do I want of it?” said she, quickly. “It has been in my possession for forty years, yet I have never seen the need of it. This rock has been my shelter—this rock is my bed. The forest yields me food, and charity gives me raiment. Oh no; that money can never be used by me. It would feed my pride and tempt me back into the paths of folly. I have sworn never more to use it, and if you do not take it, it will perish with me.”
I endeavored to persuade the hermitess to change her views and her mode of life. I urged her, as she had so much money, to leave her cave, and procure the comforts and luxuries which her age and infirmities required. But she was fixed in her purpose, and my reasoning was without effect. We talked till the night was nearly gone. At last I consented to take a part of the cash, but she insisted that I should take the whole; and believing that she would never use it, I received it, intending to reserve, at least, a portion of it for her use, in case of need. The kind-hearted old creature seemed much delighted, and my own heart was lightened of a heavy burthen. I felt, not only that I had again the means of independence, but that I had also a sure and steadfast friend.
It did not diminish my pleasure that this friend was a gray old dame, clothed in rags and regarded with contempt by the world; poor as she seemed, she had done for me what no rich person would ever have done. The rich will seldom give away their money, or if they do, it is sparingly and with reluctance. The song says—
“’Tis the poor man alone,
When he hears the poor’s moan,
Of his morsel a morsel will give.”
My own experience has verified the truth of these touching words. The rich consist usually of those who have a supreme love of wealth, and who sacrifice everything else to obtain it, or keep it. A person who eagerly pursues riches all his life time; who gives nothing away; who turns a deaf ear to the calls of charity; who never opens his purse to a friend; who never feels the appeals of society to his liberality—or if he does these things, does them narrowly and selfishly—and in his charities regards himself alone; such a one is almost sure to be rich in purse, though he is more certain to be poor in soul. Such a person may live and die rich in this world, but he goes a pauper into the other—
“Not one heaven current penny in his purse.”