University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
“SOCIETY” AT THE POOR MAN'S HOUSE.

All the preliminaries were arranged, and the
time arrived for the first sociable, as the parties had
agreed to call their meeting. They all belonged,
according to the common classification, to the
lower orders—shame to us that we do not abjure
terms inappropriate to our country. Our humble
friends, having no help, were obliged to make considerable
efforts to effect their meetings; but when
persons set about in earnest to obtain a moderate
good, they will find, or make a way, to compass
the means. Aunt Lottie was always at home
to see to the youngest children—there was a caretaking
old grandmother in one family—another
had a kind “Cousin Sally” ready to lend a hand—
and one good mother “would manage any way
rather than lose such a privilege for her children.”
So, at six o'clock, the prescribed time, the members
of the sociable, numbering thirty, parents and children
included, assembled at the Aikins'. Their
room had the air of comfort that tidiness and judicious
arrangement can give to the commonest
apartment. The bed (it must be remembered the
Aikins were yet obliged to make one room serve
for kitchen, bedroom, and parlour), the bed was
made up as nicely as a shaking Quaker's, and covered

by a patchwork quilt—the work and pride of
the little Aikins, and the admiration of the matrons.
A substantial rag carpet was spread over the middle
of the floor. The stove, a mournful substitute
for the cheerful, open fireplace of the olden time,
was black and shining as stove could be. Uncle
Phil's cushioned chair, and Aunt Lottie's stuffed
one, stood on either side of the stove. The window-ledges
were filled with the prettiest screens—
plants, Aunt Lottie's charge—the stoutest in pots,
and the nurslings in well-patched teapots and mugs.
A Connecticut clock (bless the economical artists
that have placed within the reach of every poor man
this domestic friend and faithful monitor) stood on
the mantel-piece. A curtain was drawn aside from
two book-shelves, filled with excellent books; the
most conspicuous were a Bible, a Hymn-book, the
Pilgrim's Progress, a Compend of Universal History,
History of America, the American Revolution, a
Life of Washington, and a Constitution of the United
States, bound up with Washington's Farewell
Address. Underneath these shelves was a pine
table, with a pile of books, slates, and writing-books,
two clearly-burning lamps on it, and a
chair for Mr. Barlow and benches for the children
beside it. A smaller table was placed in the middle
of the room; and on it, bright as burnished
gold, two brass candlesticks, which Susan had inherited
from her grandmother, and which proudly
bore two good mould candles of her thrifty grandchild's
running. On another table, under the glass,
was a waiter, with a nice napkin, which covered a
simple treat of biscuits and butter, cakes, nuts, and
apples; and on the stove a pot of cocoa.

“We none of us,” Harry Aikin had said, when
arranging the sociables with his friends, “spend a
penny at the dram-shop, so we may well afford
a little family cheer at home, where wives and children
can partake with us; and thus the good things
God gives us may be used to nourish our affections.”
May not this be esteemed a mode of obedience to
the Christian law—eating and drinking to the glory
of God?

Our details may be tiresome; but do they not
show that, in this country, real comforts, and even
the best pleasures of life—hospitality, liberality,
and charity—can be attained by the poor, if intelligent
and managing? that they are not compelled,
even the less-favoured portions of them, to exhaust
life in painful efforts to keep soul and body together?
but that, by exertion and contrivance, they
may cultivate their own and their children's minds
and hearts, and advance them in that upward
course open to all. Let others glory in the
countries of luxuries and the arts; let us thank
God that ours is filled with blessings for the poor
man.

Mr. Barlow selected the horse and the cow, as
the most useful animals to man, for the subjects of
his first lecture. He was a sincerely and earnestly
religious man; and he believed ignorance to be
the most fruitful source of irreligion, and that, the
more the mind was awakened to the wonders of
creation, the more it understood of the wisdom and
benevolence of the contrivances of the Creator,
the more certainly would it reject the bad seed of
infidelity that is sowed at broadcast with such
cruel industry.

The children, at first, thought they knew every
thing to be known about horses and cows; some
of their parents thought so too, and looked up to
the clock, secretly hoping the lecture would not
last long; but while Mr. Barlow described, in the
simplest possible terms, the structure of these animals—the
provisions for their own enjoyment, and
their adaptation to the wants of man,—while he
told particulars of their history and habits in different
countries, and related some authentic anecdotes
of them—the clock struck seven, and the
pointer was approaching to eight when he finished.
He was saluted with the most unequivocal of all
compliments to speakers, of, “Oh, how short!”
and, “Please, Mr. Barlow, go on.” He thanked
the audience for their attention; said he would
put off going on till the next meeting, when he expected
the children would show him their books,
with the best drawings they could make of a horse
and a cow, and as much of his lecture as they
could remember, neatly written down. The children
then formed into little knots, some playing at
jack-straws and some at checkers. The treat was
served, and Sam M'Elroy (now a sturdy boy, apprenticed
to a farmer on Long Island) proposed to
his companions that they should pick out nuts for
the girls. While this boyish gallantry was being
executed, “Do you really believe, William Aikin,”
said John Miner, “all Mr. Barlow said about
horses? I know very well they are so made as
to be strong, and fleet, and spry; but do you really
believe a horse has thoughts and feelings? I think
it's just of a piece with a fairy story.”

“That's because, John, you are not acquainted

with horses. I am sure father's horse knows more
than some men, and feels more, too. When I go
into the stable, he turns his head and gives me a
look that all but says, `How d'ye do, Will?' and
he will lay his head against me just as our baby
does; that must be feeling, John: he don't do so
to a stranger. He knows, as well as I do, the
places he is in the habit of stopping at; and if you
could see how impatient he is to get home to his
stable at night, you would own he had hope or
expectation, and there must be thought for that—
thought of the rest and food that's coming. I don't
know the truth of what Mr. Barlow says about the
superior intelligence of horses in Asia, where they
are treated like companions and friends; but I believe
it, for, as far as I have seen, whatever thinks
and feels is the better for being well treated.”

“That's true, I believe, William,” said Sam
M'Elroy; “Mr. Birt has a little heifer among his
cows that is the crossest, snarlingest thing you
ever saw: not one of the boys or men either can
milk her, but she'll stand as patient as a lamb to
Nannie Smith. I told you about Nannie: she is
the girl that is so kind to everybody; and she always
speaks softly to the heifer, and pats her, and
strokes her, and the men kick her and beat her.”

“Well, then, Sam,” resumed John Miner, “I
suppose you think cows have feelings?”

“Cows have feelings!—to be sure I do. You
should see a cow meet her calf after they have
been apart a day; and you should hear her moanings
when the calf is taken away from her.
Ah,” added the poor boy, sighing, as some painful
recollections pressed on him, “cows have a
great deal more feeling than some mothers.”

“Well,” said John Miner, after a little reflection,
“I don't know but Mr. Barlow and you are
right, boys. Any how, I hope I never shall abuse
an animal as I have seen some people. I think—
don't you, William?—people would be a great deal
better if they knew about things.”

“Yes, I do, John; and I was thinking almost
the very same thing when Mr. Barlow was explaining
to us some parts of the anatomy of the
horse and cow. I thought, when God had seemed
to take such pains to contrive them, so that they
might enjoy their lives, it was a horrid shame for
men to beat, and kick, and maim God's wonderful
work.”

“And did not you think,” asked Sam, “that
part of it was good where he spoke of men beating
horses and swearing at the same time—calling
on God, as it were, to witness their abuse of
his creatures? I guess, if they only stopped to
think a minute, they would not do so.”

“There is great use,” replied William, “as Aunt
Lottie always says, in thinking beforehand, and
beginning right. Now, would it not be a good
plan for us to draw up a paper, and sign it, resolving
always to be kind and thoughtful for animals?”
The boys readily agreed to the proposition.
They retired to the writing-table. William
wrote the resolution. They all signed it, and left
it in his safe keeping; and many a dumb creature
has since profited by it.

Little Ruth Aikin had drawn her stool close to
Mr. Barlow, and was picking out nuts for him,
while Juliet was paring his apple.

“That was a funny story you told, sir,” said

Ruth, “about a cow being mother to a baby, out
in the new country; did she really lie down for
the poor little thing to suckle her, and low when
she was creeping towards her?”

“Why, yes, Anne,” answered Juliet, anticipating
Mr. Barlow's reply; “and don't you remember how
she licked over the baby's head and face, just as
she would have done her calf's? I think such a
mother is the best if you lose your real one.”

“Why, Juliet, how funny!”

“You would not think I felt funny,” whispered
Juliet to Ruth, with the confidence natural to childhood,
“if you knew I had not eaten any thing to-day
but a bunch of raisins, and they tasted horribly.”

“Raisins taste horribly—that can't be,” replied
Ruth, who had not tasted them above twice in her
life.

“They did—and so does cake very often to me,
when we have not any thing else. Mother, as I
call her, sometimes sleeps all day, and she forgets
we have not any thing to eat.”

“Do eat some biscuits, Juliet.”

“I can't—I am not hungry; I hardly ever am
hungry now-a-days.”

“How strange, when you have raisins and cake,
and I don't get any thing but a bit of dry bread for
supper; but I'm so hungry it always tastes good.”

Poor Juliet, while little Ruth was plump and
rosy on her dry bread, was suffering the cruel-effects
of irregular and improper food.

Not one of the company enjoyed the sociable
more than Uncle Phil; to be sure, he took a long
sound nap during Mr. Barlow's lecture; but, when

that was over, he endorsed every word of it, averring
that horses and cows were knowing critters—
and remarking with delightful complacency—“It's
a great privilege for the young folks to meet together
with them that's seen life, and knows as much
as we do.”

“Why, yes,” said Caleb Miner, whose rugged features
expressed a general discontent, “it's a kind
of a privilege, to be sure, and thanks to you, Aikin,
for thinking of it; a poor man, and a poor man's
children, have but few privileges in this life; work,
work, and no play; while the rich have nothing
to do but enjoy themselves.”

“Enjoy themselves if they can, and work too,”
replied Henry Aikin, with a smile. “I often drive
home at nightfall with a light heart, for my work
is done, my wages earned and paid; and I leave
the merchants who employ me standing over their
desks, their brows drawn up to a knot with care
and anxiety; and there they stay till seven, eight,
or nine o'clock, looking over puzzling accounts,
calculating gains or losses, as the case may be. If
there are such rich men as you speak of, Miner, they
are beyond my knowledge. I don't know that you
join in it; but, I must say, I think there is a useless
and senseless outcry against rich men. It comes
from the unobserving, ignorant, and unreflecting.
We must remember that, in our country, there are
no fixed classes; the poor family of this generation
is the rich family of the next; and, more than that,
the poor of to-day are the rich of to-morrow, and
the rich of to-day the poor of to-morrow. The
prizes are open to all, and they fall without favour.
Our rich people, too, are, many of them, among the

very best persons in society. I know some such
—there is Mr. Beckwith, he has ten talents, and a
faithful steward is he; he and his whole family are
an honour and blessing to their country—doing in
every way all the good they can. Such a rich man
as Morris Finley I despise, or rather pity, as much
as you or any man can; but, pray, do not let us
envy him his riches—they are something quite independent
of himself; and, can a man be really
poorer than he is—a poor mind, a poor heart—that
is the poverty to shun. As to rich men being at
their ease, Miner, every new acquisition brings a
new want—a new responsibility.”

“But, Aikin, Aikin—now, candidly, would you
not be willing to take their wants and responsibilities
with their purses?”

“I cannot say, Miner; money is the representative
of power—the means-of extended usefulness;
and we all have dreams of the wonderful good we
should do if we had these means in our hands.
But this I do know, that, till we are conscious of
employing, and employing well, the means we have,
we ought not to crave more. But let us look at
the matter in the right point of view. We are all
children of one family—all are to live here a few
years—some in one station, and some in another.
We are all of us, from the highest to the lowest,
labourers in our Father's field; and as we sow, so
shall we reap. If we labour rightly, those words
of truth and immense import will sound in our ears
like a promise, and not like a threat. We shall
work at our posts like faithful children, not like
tasked slaves; and shall be sure of the riches that
perish not in the using. As to all other riches, it

is not worth our while to covet or envy them; except
in some rare cases, we have all, in this country,
gifts and means enough. As to property, I am
the poorest man of you all.”

“Yes, yes, Aikin; but you've every thing else
—what is the little advantage we have in property,
compared to your education, and so forth?”

This argument Aikin could not sincerely gainsay;
but, anxious to impart some of his sentiments
to his friends, he proceeded—

“Among us working-men, property is a sign of
industry, ingenuity, temperance, and frugality;
therefore, I am anxious to make what excuse I can
for being so much poorer than the rest of you.
You know I began with a broken-down constitution,
and have never been able to perform half the
labour of a sound man; but I have taken care of
what strength I had—I selected a healthy business
—I have been strictly temperate, not only in drinking,
but in eating—and this, with always a clean,
cheerful home to come to, has made me a stouter
man at forty than I was at three-and-twenty. In
the meantime, I have seen many a lawyer growing
rich, and, just when he has laid up much goods,
falling a prey to disease contracted sitting at an
office table, performing labour that some of us might
fancy no labour at all; but which is proved, by its
effects, to be much harder than our work. Merchants,
too, whom I remember, bright and blooming,
have gone on laying up their thousands and tens of
thousands—going from fagging in their counting-houses
to feasting like kings; and, at forty-five or
fifty, look at them—they have houses, and lands,
and coaches, to be sure, but do they enjoy them?

There is John Marlow, of the house of Marlow,
Minter, & Co.—why, he would give half his fortune
to be able to eat those nuts you are eating,
Miner, and go to bed and sleep as you will after
them. Look at Morris Finley—his face looks to
me like an account-book, written over with dollars
and cents, as if he had coined his soul into them.
And there is Robson, of the house of Robson & Co.
—I remember his hair as black, glossy, and thick
as your John's, and his colour as pure red and
white; now, he has a scratch on the top of his
head—his eyes buried in unwholesome fat—his
skin mottled, and he lives between his counting-house
and Broadway, in continual dread of an apoplexy.
How many Pearl-street merchants over
five-and-thirty are dyspeptics?”

“But, mercy on us, Aikin! you don't suppose
money is infected with dyspepsy?”

“No; but I do suppose that those who make it
an end, and not a means, pay the penalty of their
folly. I do suppose that the labour and anxiety of
mind attending the accumulation and care of it,
and the animal indulgences it procures, are a very
common means of destroying the health. Now,
Miner, have we not a greater chance for health,
which we all allow to be the first of earthly blessings,
than the rich? Then, we have some advantages
for the education of our children which
they cannot get. You may say, necessity is a
rough schoolmaster, but his lessons are best taught.
The rich cannot buy books, or hire masters, that
will teach their children as thoroughly as ours are
taught by circumstances, industry, ingenuity, frugality,
and self-denial. Besides, are not our little

flocks mutual assistance and mutual kindness societies?”

“They are, that's true—they are; and though
I must own mine ain't brought up like yours, and
they do have their little sprees and flashes, yet
they are open-handed to one another, and take
part with one another in their pleasures, and troubles,
and battles, and so on. But go on, Aikin; I
feel as if I were growing richer every sentence
you utter.”

Before Aikin could proceed, a hand-bell rung
loudly and impatiently, the well-known signal for
poor little Juliet. The children gathered around
her to express their unwillingness to part with her,
and William Aikin, in his eagerness, stumbled
over Miner's foot, which was in rather an obtrusive
position. “Oh, Mr. Miner, I beg your pardon,”
said the little fellow.

“There, now,” said Miner, “that puts me in mind
of what I am often grumbling at; your children
are an exception; but how, in the name of nature,
are our children to learn manners in our rough and
tumble way of living? Can you figure that out?”

“Why, Miner, manners, for the most part, are
only the signs of qualities. If a child has a kind
and gentle disposition, he will have the outward
sign; if he have the principle that teaches
him to maintain his own rights, and not encroach
on those of others, he will have dignity
and deference, which I take to be qualities of the
best manners. As to forms of expression, such as
my boy used when he stumbled over your foot,
they are easily taught: this I call women's work.
They are naturally more mannerly than we.

There are, to be sure, certain forms that are in use
by what are called the `polite world' that we can
know nothing of; but they are not essential to the
spirit of good manners. Ours, I believe, is the only
country where those who compose the lower
classes have the power and the means of good
manners; for here there is no sense of degradation
from the necessity of labour. Here, if we
will, the poorest of us can get education enough
for our children to make them feel the dignity of
their nature and destiny, and to make them realize
the real equality of rights on which the institutions
of the country are based. Self-respect is the real
basis of good manners. It makes my blood boil to
see the manners of the low-born who come here
from the old countries—their servility, their meanness,
their crouching to their superiors when they
expect a favour, and their impertinence, and disobligingness,
and downright insolence, when the
power is in their own hands. They are like horses
used to being guided and driven, and know no
more than they would how, without harness, reins,
and blinders, to do their duty.”[1]

“You say, Harry,” interposed Mrs. Aikin, “that
it is women's work to teach manners to the children;
but, don't you think they learn them mostly
from example?”

“Certainly I do; manners, as well as every
thing else. Man is called an imitative animal.
You can tell by the actions of a child a year old
what sort of people it has lived with. If parents
are civil and kind to one another,—if children
never hear from them profane or coarse language,
they will as naturally grow up well-behaved as that
candle took the form of the mould it was run in.”

“But,” said Miner, who was willing to shift off
the consequences of some of his short-comings upon
inevitable chances, “suppose you do set a bright
example at home, you can't shut your children up
there—they've got to go out, and go to school, and
hear and see every thing under the sun.”

“Yes, Mr. Miner,” replied Susan Aikin, “but
it's surprising, if they are taken care of at home,
how little any thing out of doors seems to harm
them.”

“I tell you what, Miner,” said Uncle Phil, glad
of an opportunity to cut in, “what our folks call
taking care is a pretty considerable chore,—it's
doing a little here, and doing a little there, and always
doing.”

“Wife!” called out Miner to his helpmate, who
had just given her child a cuff for treading on her
toe,—“wife, I depend on your remembering all

this: you know I've a dreadful poor memory; and
I want you to tell it over to the children.”

Poor Miner, in spite of all Henry-Aikin's hints,
continued in the common error of expecting to
effect that by precept which is the work of example,
patiently repeated, day after day, and year
after year.

The conversation then took a more miscellaneous
turn. The women talked over their domestic
affairs, and the men ran upon politics, showing
themselves sufficiently enlightened, and as disinterested
as we wish all politicians were. At half
past nine they separated, cheerful, and, we trust,
profited; and, as they heard the carriages rumbling
along the streets that were then conveying
the earliest of our fashionables to their crowded
parties, we think our humble friends had no reason
to contrast their social pleasures unfavourably with
those of the rich, but that they might feel that
their meeting together, as Uncle Phil said “in this
neighbourly way, was a privilege.'