University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE RICH POOR MAN'S CHARITIES.

Years to the thirteenth of their marriage glided
on without any marked change in the condition of
the Aikins. Industry, frugality, skill, and sound
judgment, saved them from dependance and wants.
But they had a large family to supply; two unproductive
members, as we were about to designate
Uncle Phil and Charlotte, but this would be injustice
to them. Charlotte's thoughtfulness, and her doing
the light chores, saved Susan many an hour, which
she turned to account at her trade; and Uncle Phil's
skill in baby-tending proved also a great economy of
the mother's time. There are certain persons in
this world that are most happily adapted to the
miscellaneous office of baby-tending. They are
your people that don't care about bringing any thing
to pass—indisposed to great exertions certainly,
but not positively lazy; easy-tempered and kind-hearted,
such as prefer the one-horse chaise travelling
to the locomotion of a railroad—such was our

good Uncle Phil. But with all Aikin's diligence,
and all his wife's efficiency, their inevitable expenses
exhausted their income, save that a small sum was
husbanded each year as a provision in case of sudden
calamity. We confess that our friends remained
poor, in the common acceptation of the
word; but whether those were really so who had
few desires ungratified—who were enjoying the
essential blessings of life—who were giving their
children, in the home school, the very best education,
and whose humble habitation was the abode
of health and contentment, we leave for those to
decide who have felt that these goods riches cannot
buy.

William, the eldest boy, was one morning standing
by his father's cart in Pearl-street, when his
attention was attracted by a poor man, who, in
coming out of the door of a warehouse, staggered,
and, catching by the iron railing, sunk down on the
step. Half a dozen boys gathered about him, one
crying, “He's top-heavy!” Another, “Try it again,
old fellow!”—“Drunken rascal!” muttered a gentleman,
passing along.

“I am not drunk,” faintly replied the old man.

“What is the matter, sir?” asked William, drawing
near, as the other boys, perceiving their mistake
slunk away.

“I am starved, child!”

William looked round for his father—he was in
the warehouse—and the boy ran into an oystercellar,
and expending his only shilling, returned
with a bit of bread and a saucer of hot oysters,
which the poor man devoured as if he were indeed
starving. Then lifting his grateful eye to William,

and meeting his earnest and pitiful glance, he
burst into tears. At this moment Aikin appeared,
and William whispered to him what had occurred.
Aikin recognised the man as a person he had frequently
met during the preceding week inquiring
for work; he put a few questions in a friendly
tone, that inspired the stranger with confidence;
and, in return, he told him that he had been a poor
English curate—that many years ago his youngest
daughter had married imprudently and come to
America—that the last he had heard of her was
four years before, when he received a hasty, illegible
scrawl, in which she informed him that she
was a widow, and had embarked on board the ship
from which she then wrote to return to him—that
her child exhibiting symptoms of varioloid, she was
ordered off the ship, and knew not what was to become
of her. The father, after waiting till, as he
said, he could live and wait no longer, had converted
his little property into money, and come
with an elder daughter in search of the lost one.
He had arrived here at the beginning of the inclement
season—he had obtained no intelligence
of his child—his eldest daughter, whose efficiency
and fortitude he mainly relied on, took a cold,
with which she languished through the winter, and
had died two weeks before. His health was broken,
his heart gone, and his little stock of money expended
to the last farthing. Hunger had driven him
forth to seek employment to support a life that had
become a burden to him, but employment he could
not find; and, “when I sunk down here,” he concluded,
“I was glad the time of release had come;
but when that little fellow spoke kindly to me, I
felt as if Providence had not forsaken me.”

Aikin listened to the story, and was silent.
“What do you mean to do about him?” whispered
William, rightly interpreting his father's perplexity.

“I hardly know, Willie.”—“Oh,” thought he,
“if Mr. Beckwith were only in town—he has
money, and time, and a heart for every one's
need!”

After a moment's consideration, he determined
to go into the warehouse, not so much to apply to
its proprietor, Morris Finley, for aid, as to consult
with some gentlemen as to what aid had best be
extended to the stranger. One suggested the hospital.
There was no reason for taking him there,
as he had no disease. The almshouse was proposed
by another. Aikin replied, that a trifling
present succour might save him from the degradation
of public charity, and in a short time he might
earn his own support. Finley, after rummaging
his pockets, said he had no change; and then added,
probably in reply to the contemptuous expression
of Aikin's face, that there was no knowing
but the man was an impostor, and, besides, he made
it a rule never to give to strangers.

“It is a good time to make acquaintance with
a stranger,” said Aikin, “when he is dying of starvation.”
Finley turned on his heel, and busied
himself in giving directions to his clerks, who but
half concealed the smile of satisfaction which hovered
on their lips at the “good rub,” as they called
it, their master had got from Aikin. A gentleman
standing by gave Aikin five dollars, saying, “You

have good judgment—employ this as you think
best for the poor man: I have money, but no time,
to give.”

And what time has a New-York merchant, who
is making his thousands and tens of thousands,
engrossed as he is with projects and calculations,
and beset by the hopes and fears that accompany
the accumulation of riches, and their possible
loss—what time has he for the claims of human
brotherhood?—what time to obey the injunction,
“Bear ye one another's burdens?”—what time to
imitate his Divine Master in going about doing
good?—what time to seek the lost, raise the fallen,
strengthen the weak, among his brethren—the
children of one Father—travellers to one home?
He may find time for a passing alms, but for protection,
for advice, for patient sympathy, for those
effective charities that his knowledge, station, and
influence put within his power, he has no time.
For what consideration does he cede this irredeemable
treasure, time? And when conscience
shall ask, “When thou wert conceiving schemes
of unlimited wealth, examining invoices, and
counting gains, where was thy brother?” will he not
wish to have been the rich poor man who, in the
name of Jesus, stretched forth his hand to that
neglected brother?

When Aikin returned to the steps, he communicated
the merchant's bounty to the stranger, and
added, “If you will get on to my cart, and go to
my house, my wife and I will try to make you
comfortable for the present, and look out for employment
for you against you get your strength.”

The stranger could not speak. His face, as he

feebly moved towards the cart, expressed more
than words could.

“Where can he sleep, father?” whispered William,
anticipating some little home perplexities.

“I don't know, my son; but mother will contrive.”

“Oh, so she will—mother always does contrive
every thing for everybody.”

Most, most happy are those children who have
William's confidence in the willing, active benevolence
of their parents. The Aikins had hit on the
right and only sure mode of teaching goodness.

“Who upon 'arth has Harry Aikin brought home
with him?” exclaimed Uncle Phil, who, as Aikin's
cart halted before the door, sat at the window, as
usual, trotting the baby on his knee. Susan Aikin
was busy at her needle, and did not look up till
Anne exclaimed—

“It's some poor gentleman, mother!”

She then rose, and seeing her husband aiding
the stranger, and William standing with the door
wide open, his kind heart shining through his
bright face, she opened the inner door, drew Charlotte's
rocking-chair to the fire, threw a dry stick
into the stove, and received the stranger with that
expression of cheerful, sincere hospitality, which
what is called high breeding only imitates.

“Sarvent, sir,” said Uncle Phil, who would have
been nowise disconcerted if Aikin had brought
home a regiment. “Make your manners, Phil.”

Little Phil crowed out his welcome, while Aunt
Lottie warmed a cup of her particularly nice gruel,
a cordial she saw the poor man wanted.

Aikin took his wife aside to explain the stranger's

condition and wants; this done, “I knew,
Susan,” he said, “it would be a comfort to you to
do what you could for the poor man.”

“Indeed is it, Harry, and no great trouble either;
for you know we have plenty of beds and
bedding, and, now poor old Mr. Smith is gone, they
can spare us our cot, and I can make him up a nice
comfortable bed in father's room; nothing ever
puts father out.”

“Nor father's daughter, I think; and that is why
I am sometimes afraid I shall impose on you.”

“Impose on me, Harry! in giving me an opportunity
to do a kindness! That is our chief comfort.”

There are certain persons who do services for
their fellow-creatures as some children learn lessons—as
a task prescribed by authority. This
was not Susan's way. She never separated the
idea of duty from the deep abiding happiness that
resulted from its performance.