University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
A CURE FOR THE HEARTACHE.

The next day, after Aikin had finished his
morning devotions—this good man never ventured
upon the business, temptations, and trials of the
day, without first committing himself and his
household to Him who “heareth those that call
on him”—Juliet was observed to rise from her
knees and rest her head on the back of the chair,
so as to screen her face, while her bosom heaved
and her tears fell on the floor. The children,
quick to see and to sympathize, gathered round
her; one said, “Do you feel sick, Juliet?”—another,
“What is the matter, Juliet?”—and little
Ruth, who was fresh from a moral lesson she had
received from her Aunt Lottie, the amount of which
was, that sin, in all its modifications, was the thing
to be cried for in this world, Ruth asked, “Have
you been naughty, Juliet?” Still Juliet did not reply,
till Mrs. Aikin drew her towards her, and, setting
her on her lap, said—“Tell me, Juliet, what
troubles you?”

“Oh, ma'am,” she answered, “I know, by Mr.
Aikin's prayer, that my mother, as I call her, is
going to die, and then I shall have to go away from
you all—and I shall be all alone in the world.”
The children cast an imploring glance at their
mother, which said, as plain as words could express

it—“Pray tell her that our home shall be her
home—our friends her friends.” The elder children
knew it belonged to their parents, and not to
them, to give such an assurance; but the younger
ones thought only of the quickest way to solace
the poor child; and Ruth, putting her cheek to Juliet's,
whispered—“Mother will be your mother,
and, if you want an aunt, you shall have a part of
my Aunt Lottie.”

Little Phil, the youngling of the flock and grandfather's
pet, echoed Ruth's meaning, shouting—
“And if you want a danfather, you shall have a
piece of my danfather!” How certain it is that
children will imbibe the qualities of the moral atmosphere
in which they live. Parents, remembering
this, should trust more to their examples, and
expect less from their precepts. Tears fell from
Mrs. Aikin's eyes—tears from the fountain of those
feelings “that have less of earth in them than
heaven;”—“My good little children,” she said,
“we will try not to disappoint you—wipe away
your tears, Juliet—think of another thing Mr. Aikin
said in his prayer—`God is the father of the
fatherless;' be sure, therefore, you cannot be alone
in the world.”

“Come here, Juliet,” said Mr. Barlow; and Juliet
turned to him with a brightened face, verifying
the wise man's saying, that, “as the dew assuageth
the heat, so is a kind word.”—“You and I, Juliet,”
continued the good man, “have been led into
the same fold, and, please God, we will not separate
again. Will you live with me and be my little
housekeeper—or room-keeper? I have now,”
he added, turning, as if in explanation, to Susan

Aikin, “enough for us both; say, Juliet, will you
go and live with me?”

Juliet hung her head; the children looked as if
they were afraid she would say yes.

“Ah,” added Mr. Barlow, in a tone of disappointment,
“I thought you loved me, Juliet.”

“So I do, sir; but—but it's so pleasant living
here.”

William Aikin, whose expressions were as impulsive
as his feelings, clapped his hands, and the
children all manifested, some in one way, some in
another, their delight.

“Juliet is right,” said Mr. Barlow, in a low tone,
to Harry Aikin; “it is so pleasant living here, that,
when I go away, I shall have that dismal feeling
Juliet so dreads, that feeling of being alone. Oh,
how many times have I wished the goodness and
happiness in your family could be known. It
would be a lesson to many a proud rich man—to
many a discontented poor one.”

“That's just what I say, Mr. Barlow,” said Uncle
Phil, rubbing his hands; “I tell you our folks
are samples, and the whole secret of it is, that every
one does their best—that is to say, lives up to
their light, and if anybody can do any better than
that, I should like to know how; but come, the
breakfast is cooling while we are sarmonizing, as
it were.”

The breakfast was despatched; Aikin went to
his daily business; Aunt Lottie and Juliet to nursing
Paulina; Uncle Phil to a stroll in the sunshine
with little Phil; Mr. Barlow, it being Saturday
and a holyday, sat down in a corner with a
book; and Mrs. Aikin was setting all “to rights”

in that quiet, efficient way where every stroke
tells, and marks the expert housewife.

“Did you learn any thing of poor little Juliet's
parentage from the woman above?” asked Mr.
Barlow at the first convenient opportunity. Mrs.
Aikin related all she had learned; nothing could
well be more unsatisfactory. Even Susan Aikin,
whose bright, healthy moral vision always perceived
the first streak of daylight, could see nothing
“comforting” in it. As she finished, Mr. Barlow
heaved a sigh, and then said, “You might have
thought my proposal to take Juliet very strange.”

“Oh, no, sir; I am sure it is quite natural to feel
as if you wanted to stretch a wing over the poor
child; but—but the thing is, a girl wants women
to look after her; and I have concluded, when Paulina
is gone, to take Juliet into our family.”

“What, Mrs. Aikin, with all your children?”

“Yes, sir; when one is used to have the care
of a good many, an addition does not seem to make
any difference.[1] We always have a little something
to spare—and Juliet, poor child, might be
fed from the crumbs that fall from the table.”

“But then there are other expenses besides
her food.”

“Yes, sir; I have considered that, and determined,
as long as my health is spared, to work one
hour extra every night; what I can thus earn will
certainly cover all Juliet's expenses to us—so, I see
my way quite clear; it is a comfort, sir, not to lose
the opportunity.”

“And blessed are those who seek such comforts
dear Mrs. Aikin. But this poor woman—will she
be willing to leave Juliet with you?”

“She will be glad to. Her only desire now
seems to be, for the little time that remains, to do
right. Oh, Mr. Barlow, I believe there are many
people in wicked courses who would turn from
them if they only had some true friend. I wish
Paulina to stay here the little time she has to live,
so does my husband; but he will not run in debt,
not even to help the distressed, which is a great
temptation. It takes more than one would think
to keep such a family as ours in necessaries; and,
through the blessing of kind Providence upon our
exertions, we have always had those, and some
luxuries too.”

“What luxuries?” asked Mr. Barlow, with a
smile.

“A good warm fire all day[2] —and a fire for Lottie's
room whenever she wants it; plenty of books
for the children, and a share in a library for ourselves—and
the pleasure of going to bed every Saturday
night without owing a shilling, and a little
something in the Saving's Bank against a wet day,
and—and—” Susan hesitated, for really she could
not remember any thing else that did not come
within the large class of necessaries. Mr. Barlow
finished her list—

“And a shelter and food at your table for a friendless
stranger. Mrs. Aikin, if I could help you to
put your kind wishes into operation for this poor
woman, it would be a real pleasure to me. I can

let the room I have taken in Crosby-street, and pay
the rent of hers, if you will permit me to be a
boarder in your family, and retain my place in your
father's room till this woman has no longer occasion
for hers.”

“You are very kind, sir; but there is back rent
to be paid. However, we will talk it over when
my husband comes, and contrive the best we can.”

The dialogue of our friends was interrupted by
the appearance of a gentleman who announced
himself as Mr. Beckwith, and Susan being summoned
to Paulina's room, he was left with Mr.
Barlow. After a little playful talk with the sweet-tempered
chubby children, Mr. Beckwith, feeling
his way with that delicacy that marks the man
who does not exclude the poor from the courtesies
used among equals in fortune, made some remarks
about Aikin, and the aspect of the family, that led
Mr. Barlow to tell a portion of his own story, and to
relate the Aikins' succouring charities to Juliet,
and their kindness to the poor outcast Paulina.
He spoke of their exemplary performance of their
domestic duties, and of the advancement of their
children in knowledge and virtue. “A country
may well boast its equality,” he said, in conclusion,
“that has such families as this in it. I never
should have credited what goes on beneath this
humble roof if I had not witnessed it. Here are
the genuine fruits of Christianity, and such fruit
as could only come to perfection in a land where
the government and institutions are based on the
gospel principle of equal rights and equal privileges
to all.”

“You are an Englishman, Mr. Barlow. Do

you think, setting aside the greater compensation
our working-men get than yours, they are happier?”

“That is setting aside a vast deal, sir. This
superior compensation represents the comforts of
life, the means of education. What could Aikin
have been in my country with his shattered health,
his children, and helpless father-in-law, and invalid
sister? These independent dependants would
have been tenants of the almshouse—Aikin himself,
most probably, there, and his children supported
by the parish. When I see, sir, that a man
so conditioned can bring up a family as he does, in
such a city as this—his boys to be intelligent and
independent citizens, and his daughters to be respectable,
well-informed wives and mothers,—I
must think this, sir, the happiest country in the
world for the labouring man.”

“I believe you are right; but we do not make
the most of our privileges. There is no telling
what a nation, with our institutions, might become,
if the domestic virtues were better understood and
practised by the labouring classes,—if their foundation
were laid in religion, and children were
brought up from their cradles to be temperate and
true, and industrious and frugal,—if every opportunity
were seized for improving them in knowledge,
and in the practice of the soul-preserving
virtues. The rich here can make no separating
lines which the poor cannot pass. It is the
poor who fence themselves in with ignorance, and
press themselves down with shiftlessness and
vice. If there were more such families as this,
the rich would feel less exultation in their wealth,
the poor that there was no degradation in their

poverty. The rich would get rid of their pride,
the poor of their jealousy; and we should admit,
not theoretically and in our prayers, but practically,
that we are children of one family, and
that the happiness and advancement of one is the
happiness and advancement of all. I am fortunate,”
added Mr. Beckwith, in conclusion, “to
have found you here, sir. Here is a trifling sum
for the poor woman up stairs; it will, I hope,
enable your friends to do what they wish for her—
a far greater benefaction than any money I can
give.” Mrs. Aikin entered just in time to make
her acknowledgments, and she made them as if
the kindness were done to herself. Mr. Beckwith
changed the subject. “This house must be small
for your family, Mrs. Aikin?”

“Yes, sir, but we contrive to make it do.”

“What is your rent?”

“For the whole, sir, one hundred and fifty-dollars.”

“For the whole house, excepting that poor
woman's room?”

“I wish it were, sir, but there are two rooms in
the garret rented to different persons—the best at
six, the other four shillings a week: then there
is a good room on this floor that rents at seventy-five
dollars a year; and the family in the cellar
pay a dollar a week. Paulina's room is twenty
shillings a week.”

“And pray, Mrs. Aikin, what accommodations
do you get for your hundred and fifty dollars?”

“There is this room—you see what it is, sir—
a pot of paint and a pail of whitewash, always
ready, keep it decent. My husband made this.”

she said, opening a closet, where every thing was
stowed as neatly and compactly as honey in a
hive; “we could not do with an open dresser in
a room where we ate and slept; and here,” opening
a door into a little dark room,—“here is a
comfortable place for the children.” Comfortable
it was, though dark and small, by virtue of the
most exact order and cleanliness. “Then, sir,
we have the whole of the second floor, which gives
us a large comfortable room for my sister, another
for father, and a little room for the children. We
make out very well, sir.”

“I know, Mrs. Aikin, there is a great virtue in
this making out, but you must suffer inconvenience
when you have sickness in the family?”

“Why, sir,” she replied, with a smile, “we
take care not to get sick often; but, when we have
needed a room for sickness, father has turned in
with the boys;—father has such a contented disposition,
nothing puts him out. Harry—I mean
my husband, sir—says such a disposition as father's
is meat, drink, and lodging.”

“Pardon my making so many inquiries, Mrs.
Aikin; believe me, it is not from idle curiosity.
By what contrivance do you” (turning his eye to
Mr. Barlow) “get a spare room?”

“A spare room, sir, is a blessing I never expect
to have; but father has a sociable disposition, so
we call his the spare room, and put a friend there
when we have occasion.”

Mr. Beckwith was reminded of a certain system
of philosophy which teaches that there is no material
world—no actual houses, furniture, &c.,—that
these things are only shadows of ideas. “Ah,”

thought he, “my friends here are really richer
than many that live in four-story houses.” Having
an important purpose in his inquiries, he went on.
“Do you not, Mrs. Aikin, experience serious inconvenience
from having so many families under
one roof?”

“We do, sir. I have often thought the time
must come when landlords would feel more for
poor people, and be more considerate who they
put together. It is so difficult to keep children
from bad company, poor things—they are not particular,
you know, sir. This is the only thing that
has ever really worried me about our situation: I
can contrive to get along with little troubles.”

“And what are the little troubles?”

“Why, sir, it is something of a trial not to have
a decent steps, entry, and stairs. We have no
place to store wood, so we cannot buy it in summer,
which would be a great saving to us. Then,
the cistern is leaky, and not half large enough to
furnish water to half the tenants; and, if we set
tubs under the front spout, there is always some
one to dispute our right; so we have given up
rain-water, and make pump-water do: since then,
every one in the house offers us a portion of their
rain-water; so, as my husband says, `The peace
principle is the best policy.”'

Mr. Beckwith, after making a calculation, exclaimed,
“Four hundred and sixty-nine dollars is
paid for the rent of this house. The whole property
is not worth four thousand five hundred. But so it
is all over the city; the poor pay rents out of all proportion
to the rich. With the very poor and vicious
this is inevitable—they are transient tenants, and

their pay uncertain. But the industrious and honest
should not be obliged to endure such evils as
you suffer, Mrs. Aikin. I trust the attention of
capitalists will be attracted to this subject. Ask
your husband to come to my house this evening.
I am glad to have begun an acquaintance with you,
Mrs. Aikin. It shall not be my fault if it end here.”

Mr. Beckwith went his way, and, meditating on
the power of the domestic virtues to enrich a home,
and multiply the good things of this life, he repeated,
mentally, those words of which he thought
he had witnessed the illustration:—

“And seek not what ye shall eat and what ye
shall drink, neither be ye of doubtful mind. For
all these things do the nations of the world seek
after, and your father knoweth that ye have need
of these things. But rather seek ye the kingdom
of God, and all these things shall be added unto
you.”