University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
THE CONCLUSION.

It was early in the October following the winter
of Paulina's death that Mr. Aikin said, one fine
day, to his children, “Come, if mother says yes,
we'll all go down and see the new house.”

As mother always said “yes” when any reasonable
pleasure was offered to the children, hats and
shawls were half on before the little monosyllable
was fairly uttered. “Come, danfather, I tant half
see it if you don't see it,” said little Phil; and,
“Come, Aunt Lottie, we sha'n't call it seeing it if
you don't see it,” said the rest of the children;
and, “You and Juliet must go, Mr. Barlow,” said
Aikin, “and tell us how you like your new quarters;”
and so, illustrating the truth that governed
this family, that the good and happiness of one
was the good and happiness of all, they set forth.

“Don't you and Juliet walk so fast,” called out
little Phil to his eager brother William, “I tant
hardly hold danfather up, he stumbles so!”

“Phil is the most thoughtful and careful child
you ever had, Susan; I tell you, he takes after
me.”

Susan, dutiful daughter as she was, could not
but smile at the particular virtues her father had
selected to fix the resemblance on, as she replied,
“I wish he may grow up half as good, father.”

“Aunt Lottie,” said little Ruth, “don't Mr.
Beckwith getting this house done so soon for
father put you in mind of Mr. Barlow's story about
Aladdin's lamp?”

“I never take much notice of such stories,
Ruth, but it puts me in mind of those words in the
Bible, `The liberal man deviseth liberal things;
and the good that he purposeth, that he doeth
quickly.' ”

“I never knew anybody like you, Aunt Lottie;
you always remember something in the Bible that
seems to suit.”

“Because, dear, I read the Bible more than all
other books, and there is something in it fitting all
occasions.”

“I love to read the Bible with you, Aunt Lottie,
for it seems as if—”

“As if what?” said Ruth.

“I know what is in my mind, but I don't know as
I can express it. When our schoolmistress reads
it to us, it seems as if she read it because she
thought she ought to; but you seem to read it because
you love it.”

None should attempt to impart religious sentiments
to children who do not feel them. “The
letter killeth, the spirit giveth life.”

“Where shall we begin first,” said Harry Aikin,
“at the kitchen or parlour?”

“Parlour!—are we going to have a parlour?
Oh, that's what mother has been making the new
carpet for!”

“Well, here it is, you see, with nice blinds, and
a good grate, and all finished off neatly, so that
you will have good reason for keeping every thing

in order; and here is a place for books” (he
opened the doors)—“bless me, it is half full
already!” The children crowded round, and eagerly
took down the books, and found them to be presents
from each member of the Beckwith family
to each member of the Aikins, down to “Cobwebs
to catch Flies,” and “Mother Goose's Melodies,”
for little Phil. The last grandfather averred to be
nothing new-fangled, and about the divertingest
book that was ever writ for children. To confess
the truth, Uncle Phil's chief lore was derived from
these immortal lyrics.

We wish that some of our friends whom, in
splendid mansions, we have heard fretting and repining
because they had not this elegance here,
and that improvement there, could have heard the
exclamations and seen the sparkling eyes of our
humble friends as they surveyed their new tenement.
“How nice,” exclaimed Anne, “this parlour
will be for our `sociables!'—it will seem
like a sociable every evening, with only our own
family.”

“So it will, Anne,” cried Uncle Phil, rubbing
his hands, “I declare it's as pleasant—ena'most—
as the old house in Essex.” Uncle Phil's eye
caught the smile on his daughter's lips: “I know,
gals,” he added, “that was kind o' shattered when
we left, and this is snugger and more fixed up; but,
after all, it has not that look.”

“You are quite right, father,” replied Susan;
and, as she spoke, the loving matron's eye turned
to her husband: “there is nothing can have that
look that our first love has.”

“This little bedroom is next to Mr. Barlow's

room, and just big enough for a single bed—this
must be for Juliet,” decided one voice, and echoed
many others, as they passed out of the back room
into a small apartment fitted up with presses and
drawers, and ventilated and lighted by glazed
panels above the doors. On the second floor were
three rooms, in the largest a Franklin; and Mrs.
Aikin, remembering Mr. Beckwith had made inquiries
as to what mode of warming her room
Charlotte preferred, at once assigned this to her.
“To be sure this is Aunt Lottie's,” said little Ruth;
“there is the very picture, Aunt Lottie, you was
explaining to me at the print-shop window when
Mrs. Beckwith stopped to speak to us.”

“ `Christ healing the sick' is the right picture
for your room, Lottie,” said her sister.

“Oh, Mrs. Beckwith is too good,” said the grateful
Lottie.

“Mrs. Beckwith is very good, but nothing in the
world is too good for you, Aunt Lottie;” and, “No,
indeed!” and, “No, indeed!” was echoed by the
children.

We must not detain our readers with further
particulars; suffice it to say, the rooms were well
ventilated; presses and drawers abounded; the
kitchen had every convenience to facilitate order
and lighten labour; there was a pump, that supplied
water from a copious cistern—a drain—a
large pantry, and close cupboards, &c. &c.; and
all the conveniences, from garret to cellar, producing
such an amount of comfort to a worthy family,
did not, as Mr. Beckwith demonstrated by his accounts,
cost so much as many a single article of
ornamental furniture, nor twice as much as a

single pocket-handkerchief, or embroidered cape,
sold daily by Mr. Stewart to the ladies of our city!

In the evening, at their own dwelling, the house
naturally was the subject of conversation. “How
very lucky,” said Uncle Phil, “that Mr. Beckwith
happened to build a house that suits us to a T!”

“It is not luck, father,” said Harry Aikin, “when
things suit precisely. Mr. Beckwith has studied
the condition and wants of the labouring classes.
He tells me, the attention of many rich men has
been turned to the miserable tenements of the
poorer classes; and he says, they believe the want
of comfort and convenience about them to be a
great evil to society—they think the intemperance
of many men may be traced to this cause. To say
nothing of the crowds huddled together in filthy
unwholesome alleys, even the better houses of the
poor are discouraging to the women: they get
wearied out with their necessary work, and no
strength and time left to clean a house that always
wants cleaning. The poor husband has been
working hard all day; comes home at night to a
filthy, dark, cold room—his wife cross, or half sick
and dumpish, and crying children—no wonder he
goes out to the corner grocery, that looks so light
and cheerful!”

“Then, after all, father, it's the woman, and not
the house, that drives him off?”

“Ah, Will, the poor wife is disheartened; we
are weak creatures, my son, and need help on every
side.”

“I am sure you and mother have not had so
many helps.”

“Have not we? I'll tell you some of my helps,

Will: I had a good education, I do not mean as
to learning, that is only one part of it; I was taught
to use my faculties. But, first, and best of all,
I early learned to seek the favour of God, and
the approval of conscience. I have always had a
cheerful home, a clean room to come to, clean children,
and a nice wife. Your mother has performed
her duties, great and small; as to the small, she
never has failed a day since we were married to
put on her t'other gown at evening, and a clean
cap with a riband bow, most always of blue, the
colour she knows I like best. Her trade has helped
us through many a hard-rubbing day; and it
has given me peace of mind, for I know, if I were
taken from you, she could and would support you
without running to any widows' societies or assistance
societies. As to other helps, here has been
your good grandfather setting us examples of kindness,
and tending each of you as you came along;
and your dear Aunt Lottie always a blessed help.”

“Ah, yes! such a comfort!” interposed Susan.

“And then, Heaven-directed, came Mr. Barlow
to give you better instruction; and, finally, Mr.
Beckwith to help us to a house, and take nothing
from our independence; for he says the rent,
which does not exceed more than that we now
pay, will yield him eight per cent. for the money
he has invested. He says he can afford the house
lower to me than to some others, for he is sure
of being punctually paid; and sure you will not
mutilate and deface, as most children do, shaving
the doors with penknives, breaking windows, and
destroying every way. So, you see, that virtue,
and good habits, and manners (which are the lesser

virtues), are not only in the highest sense treasures,
they are money to you. In the labouring
class, property is a sign of good morals. In this
country nobody sinks into deep poverty—slumps
through, as your grandfather says, except by some
vice, directly or indirectly. There are, perhaps,
a few exceptions; I have known one, and but
one. Come here, Ruth; is my sermon tiring
you?”

“No, indeed, father, I always like your preaching;
but I was thinking.”

“Of what, Ruth?”

“That the scholars at our school don't know Mr.
Beckwith; if they did, they would not call rich
people so hateful.”

“Children are excellent judges.”

“But, father, their folks tell them.”

“Observe for yourselves, my children, and don't
trust to what others tell you. If you make good
use of your bodily eyes, and the eyes of your mind,
you will see that Providence has bound the rich
and the poor by one chain. Their interests are
the same; the prosperity of one is the prosperity
of all. The fountains are with the rich, but they
are no better than a stagnant pool till they flow in
streams to the labouring people. The enterprise
and success of the merchant give us employment
and rich rewards for our labour. We are
dependant on them, but they are quite as dependant
on us. If there were none of these hateful
rich people, Ruth, who, think you, would build hospitals,
and provide asylums for orphans, and for
the deaf and dumb, and the blind?”

“I never thought of that, father!”

“There are many older than you, my child, who
come to wrong conclusions for want of thinking.”

“Now, Harry Aikin,” said Uncle Phil, who (as
our readers may be) was getting tired and sleepy,
“I don't see the use of so much thinking; thinking
is dreadful puzzling work, I tell you! The
whole of it is, you must just do your duty thoroughly,
and then you'll be contented in this world, and
happy in the next; and poverty or riches won't
make a straw's difference either way.”

“But 'tis a comfort, father,” said Susan, “to the
poor, to feel that there is nothing low in poverty—
to remember that the greatest, wisest, and best Being
that ever appeared on earth had no part nor
lot in the riches of this world; and that, for our
sakes, he became poor.”

“To be sure it is, Susy—to be sure it is.”