| | 1 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man  | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Just out of the little village of Essex, in New
England, and just at the entrance of a rustic bridge,
there is a favourite resting-place for loiterers of all
ages. One of a line of logs that have been laid
down to enable passengers at high water to reach
the bridge dry-shod, affords an inviting seat under
the drooping limbs of some tall sycamores. There
the old sit down to rest their weary limbs, and
read with pensive eye the fond histories that memory
has written over the haunts of their secluded
lives. There, too, the young pause in their sports,
and hardly know why their eyes follow with such
delight the silvery little stream that steals away
from them, kissing the jutting points of the green
meadows, and winding and doubling its course as
if, like a pleased child, it would, by any pretext,
lengthen its stay;—nor, certainly, why no island
that water bounds will ever look so beautiful to
them as that little speck of one above the bridge,
with its burden of willows, elders, and clematis; of
a summer evening, their every leaf lit with the
firefly's lamp;—nor why their eye glances from
the white houses of the village street, glimmering
through the trees, and far away over the orchards
and waving grain of the uplands, and past the wavy
line of hills that bound the horizon on one side,
to fix on the bald gray peaks of that mountain wall
whose Indian story the poet has consecrated.
Time will solve to them this why. “Honoured Sir—As father and I have concluded
to leave to-morrow, will be much obliged if
you will send in your bill this afternoon, if convenient.
As, from all that's passed, sir, you may conclude
that I ain't in circumstances to pay down, I
would make bold to say that you need not scruple,
as I have a large sum of money by me, given to
me by my best friend, father and Susan excepted.
Father sends his respectful duty to you, sir, and I
mine, with many thanks; but neither money nor
thanks can pay your kindness; and daily, respected
sir, shall I ease my heart by remembering you in
my prayers at the throne of grace, where we must
all appear alike poor and needy, but where may
you ever come with a sure foundation of hope,
through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. “My good friend Charlotte—I shall preface
my answer to your note with letting you a little
into my professional affairs. I do not make it a rule
to attend the poor gratuitously, for many reasons;
but principally because I have observed that what
is got for nothing is seldom valued. I only take
care to charge them according to their ability to
pay. You, my child, are an exception to most of
my patients—you have given me a lesson of meek
and cheerful submission that is inestimable—I am
your debtor, not you mine. Besides, strictly, I
have no doctor's account against you. I have prescribed
no medicine, and given you no advice that
any man of sense and experience might not have
given; therefore, my good girl, I have no claim on
that `large sum of money,' which, God bless your
`best friend' for having given you. But forget
not, my friend, your promise to remember me in
your prayers; I have much faith in the `prayers
of saints.' My parting regards to your good father,
and please deliver the accompanying parcels
as directed. They are from my son and daughter,
who hastily join me in esteem for you and yours.
God bless you, my dear child. “My dear Susan—It is a long time since I
have written to you; but I have been in much perplexity
and anxiety, and have been waiting to see
daylight. We have failed, Finley and I, as might
have been expected; neither of us having any experience
in the business we undertook. As soon
as I found we could not meet our notes, I made a
thorough examination into our affairs, and found we
could just pay our debts and no more. So to-morrow
we close the concern. I have many times regretted
I did not take Charlotte's advice, and not enter
into a business for which I was not qualified. I
would now gladly return to my trade, but confinement
to business, and anxiety, have had an unfavourable
effect on my health, and I am more
than ever troubled with that old pain in my breast.
I sometimes think, Susan, a sight of your sunny
face would cure me; that and all good things I
trust will come; in the meantime, patience. In
prosperity and adversity, my heart ever turns towards
my dear Essex friends, who must believe me
their friend and brother, “Dear Susan—My prospects, since the breakup
last spring, are much improved; but particulars
in my next. All I want to know is, whether you
will share my lot with me? Pray write by return
of post, and believe me now, as you well know I
have ever been, though I never put it into words
before, your friend and true lover, “P. S.—Dear Harry—I wrote this letter last
evening, and shall send it; for why should I, if I
could, conceal my real feelings from you? Since
we were playfellows at school, I have loved you
best, and you only, Harry; for the time to come, I
must love you only as a brother. Oh, how strange
it is, that the black and the white threads are always
twisted together in human life. Last evening
I was so happy writing this letter; but, when I
went into the bedroom, Lottie's face was covered
with tears; and she spoke of our separation, and
all flashed upon me at once. What could she and
father do without me? They do now their full
part towards keeping the family together, but they
can neither of them bring in any thing, and they
would be obliged to look to the town for support.
Is not that awful to think of? So you see, dear
Harry, I cannot leave them—our path is plain, and,
as dear Lottie would say, may we have grace to
walk therein. It is very dark now, Harry; but, if
we only try to do right, the day will soon break,
and grow brighter and brighter. Please don't say
one word to persuade me off my resolution, for we
are weak creatures at best, and we should stand
together, and strengthen and uphold one another.
Above all, don't say a word about my reasons to
father and Lottie; and believe me, dear Harry, not
a bit less your affectionate friend because I can't
forsake them. “Dearest Susan—Forsake `father and Lottie!'
that you never shall. When I wrote my last,
it was only to get that blessed little word yes from
you, for I must make sure of my title before I laid
out the future. One thing only I am a little hurt
at. Could you think I could leave out Charlotte in
my plans?—a dear sister, counsellor, and friend
she has ever been to me—and your good father,
who so much needs some one to care for him? Ah,
Susan, I have had my reflections too; and I think
our path is plain before us, and, with good resolution
on our part, and Charlotte's prayers to help us,
we shall have grace to walk therein. But I must
tell you all, and then look for your final answer. “My Dear Father: — On the bed of death,
and with my little girl, who will soon be an orphan,
beside me, I write this. My hand is stiff,
and a racking cough interrupts me. I can write
but a few lines at a time. Till last week I hoped
to get well, consumption is so flattering. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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