University of Virginia Library

THE BROTHERS.

Few know how to estimate the precious gem of
friendship at its real worth; few guard it with the tender
care which its rarity and excellence deserves.
Love, like the beautiful opal, is a clouded gem, which
carries a spark of fire in its bosom; but true friendship,
like a diamond, radiates steadily from its transparent
heart.

This sentiment was never experienced in greater
depth and purity than by David and Jonathan Trueman,
brothers, of nearly the same age. Their friendship
was not indeed of that exciting and refreshing
character, which is the result of a perfect accord of
very different endowments. It was unison, not harmony.
In person, habits, and manners, they were as
much alike as two leaves of the same tree. They
were both hereditary members of the Society of
Friends, and remained so from choice. They were
acquainted in the same circle, and engaged in similar
pursuits. “Their souls wore exactly the same frock-coat
and morning-dress of life; I mean two bodies
with the same cuffs and collars, of the same colour,
button-holes, trimmings and cut.”

Jonathan was a little less sedate than his older
brother; he indulged a little more in the quiet, elderly
sort of humour of the “Cheeryble Brothers.” But it
was merely the difference between the same lake perfectly
calm, or faintly rippled by the slightest breeze.
They were so constantly seen together, that they
were called the Siamese Twins. Unfortunately, this
similarity extended to a sentiment which does not
admit of partnership. They both loved the same
maiden.

Deborah Winslow was the only daughter of one of
those substantial Quakers, whom a discriminating
observer would know, at first sight, was “well to do in
the world;” for the fine broadcloth coat and glossy
hat spoke that fact with even less certainty than the
perfectly comfortable expression of countenance. His
petted child was like a blossom planted in sunny places,
and shielded from every rude wind. All her
little lady-like whims were indulged. If the drab-coloured
silk was not exactly the right shade, or the
Braithwaite muslin was not sufficiently fine and transparent,
orders must be sent to London, that her daintiness
might be satisfied. Her countenance was a
true index of life passed without strong emotions.
The mouth was like a babe's, the blue eyes were mild
and innocent, and the oval face was unvarying in the
delicate tint of the Sweet Pea blossom. Her hair
never straggled into ringlets, or played with the breeze;
its silky bands were always like molasses-candy,
moulded to yellowish whiteness, and laid in glossy
braids.

There is much to be said in favour of this unvarying

serenity; for it saves a vast amount of suffering. But
all natures cannot thus glide through an unruffled
existence. Deborah's quiet temperament made no
resistance to its uniform environment; but had I been
trained in her exact sect, I should inevitably have
boiled over and melted the moulds.

She had always been acquainted with the Trueman
brothers. They all attended the same school, and
they sat in sight of each other at the same meeting;
though Quaker custom, ever careful to dam up
human nature within safe limits, ordained that they
should be seated on different sides of the house, and
pass out by different doors. They visited the same
neighbours, and walked home in company. She
probably never knew, with positive certainty, which
of the brothers she preferred; she had always been
in the habit of loving them both; but Jonathan happened
to ask first, whether she loved him.

It was during an evening walk, that he first mentioned
the subject to David; and he could not see
how his limbs trembled, and his face flushed. The
emotion, though strong and painful, was soon suppressed;
and in a voice but slightly constrained, he
inquired, “Does Deborah love thee, brother?”

The young man replied that he thought so, and
he intended to ask her, as soon as the way opened.

David likewise thought, that Deborah was attached
to him; and he had invited her to ride the next day,
for the express purpose of ascertaining the point.
Never had his peaceful soul been in such a tumult.
Sometimes he though it would be right and honourable,
to tell Deborah that they both loved her, and

ask her to name her choice. “But then if she
should prefer me,” he said to himself,” it will make
dear Jonathan very unhappy; and if she should
choose him, it will be a damper on their happiness, to
known that I am disappointed. If she accepts him, I
will keep my secret to myself. It is a heavy cross to
take up; but William Penn says, `no cross, no
crown.' In this case, I would be willing to give up
the crown, if could get rid of the cross. But then
if I lay it down, poor Jonathan must bear it. I have
always found that it brought great peace of mind to
conquer selfishness, and I will strive to do so now.
As my brother's wife, she will still be a near and
dear friend; and their children will seem almost like
my own.”

A current of counter thoughts rushed through his
mind. He rose quickly and walked the room, with a
feverish agitation he had never before experienced.
But through all the conflict, the idea of saving his
brother from suffering remained paramount to his own
pain.

The promised ride could not be avoided, but it
proved a temptation almost too strong for the good
unselfish man. Deborah's sweet face looked so
pretty under the shadow of her plain bonnet; her
soft hand remained in his so confidingly, when she
was about to enter the chaise, and turned to speak to
her mother; she smiled on him so affectionately, and
called him Friend David, in such winning tones, that
it required all his strength to avoid uttering the question,
which for ever trembled on his lips: “Dost thou
love me, Deborah?” But always there rose between

them the image of that dear brother, who slept in his
arms in childhood, and shared the same apartment
now. “Let him have the first chance,” he said to
himself. If he is accepted, I will be resigned, and
will be to them both a true friend through life. A
very slight pressure of the hand alone betrayed his
agitation, when he opened the door of her house, and
said, “Farewell, Deborah.”

In a few days, Jonathan informed him that he was
betrothed; and the magnanimous brother wished him
joy with a sincere heart, concealing that it was a sad
one. His first impulse was to go away, that he might
not be daily reminded of what he had lost; but the
fear of marring their happiness enabled him to choose
the wiser part of making at once the effort that must
be made. No one suspected the sacrifice he laid on
the altar of friendship. When the young couple
were married, he taxed his ingenuity to furnish
whatever he thought would please the bride, by its
peculiar neatness and elegance. At first, he found it
very hard to leave them by their cozy pleasant fireside,
and go to his own solitary apartment, where he
never before had dwelt alone; and when the bride
and bridegroom looked at each other tenderly, the
glance went through his heart like an arrow of fire.
But when Deborah, with gentle playfulness, apologized
for having taken his brother away from him,
he replied, with a quiet smile, “Nay, my friend, I
have not lost a brother, I have only gained a sister.”
His self-denial seemed so easy, that the worldly
might have thought it cost him little effort, and deserved
no praise; but the angels loved him for it.

By degrees he resumed his wonted serenity, and
became the almost constant inmate of their house. A
stranger might almost have doubted which was the
husband; so completely were the three united in all
their affections, habits, and pursuits. A little son and
daughter came to strengthen the bond; and the affectionate
uncle found his heart almost as much cheered
by them, as if they had been his own. Many an
agreeable young Friend would have willingly super-intended
a household for David; but there was a natural
refinement in his character, which rendered it
impossible to make a marriage of convenience. He
felt, more deeply than was apparent, that there was
something wanting in his earthly lot; but he could
not marry, unless he found a woman whom he loved
as dearly as he had loved Deborah; and such a one
never again came to him.

Their years flowed on with quiet regularity, disturbed
with few of the ills humanity is heir to. In all
the small daily affairs of life, each preferred the
other's good, and thus secured the happiness of the
whole. Abroad, their benevolence fell with the noiseless
liberality of dew. The brothers both prospered
in business, and Jonathan inherited a large portion of
his father-in-law's handsome property. Never were
a family so pillowed and cushioned on the carriageroad
to heaven. But they were so simply and naturally
virtuous, that the smooth path was less dangerous
to them than to others.

Reverses came at last in Jonathan's affairs. The
failure of others, less careful than himself, involved
him in their disasters. But David was rich, and the

idea of a separate purse was unknown between them;
therefore the gentle Deborah knew no change in her
household comforts and elegancies, and felt no necessity
of diminishing their large liberality to the poor.

At sixty-three years old, the younger brother departed
this life, in the arms of his constant friend.
The window, who had herself counted sixty winters,
had been for some time gradually declining in health.
When the estate was settled, the property was found
insufficient to pay debts. But the kind friend, with
the same delicate disinterestedness which had always
characterized him, carefully concealed this fact. He
settled a handsome fortune upon the widow, which
she always supposed to be a portion of her husband's
estate. Being executor, he managed affairs as he
liked. He borrowed his own capital; and every
quarter, he gravely paid her interest on his own money.
In the refinement of his generosity, he was not satisfied
to support her in the abundance to which she had
been accustomed; he wished to have her totally unconscious
of obligation, and perfectly free to dispose
of the funds as she pleased.

His goodness was not limited to his own household.
If a poor seamstress was declining in health,
for want of exercise and variety of scene, David
Trueman was sure to invite her to Niagara, or the
Springs, as a particular favour to him, because he
needed company. If there was a lone widow, peculiarly
friendless, his carriage was always at her service.
If there was a maiden lady uncommonly homely, his
arm was always ready as an escort to public places.
Without talking at all upon the subject, he practically

devoted himself to the mission of attending upon
the poor, the unattractive, and the neglected.

Thus the good old bachelor prevents his sympathies
from congealing, and his heart from rusting out.
The sunlight was taken away from his landscape of
life; but little birds sleep in their nests, and sweet
flowers breathe their fragrance lovingly through the
bright moonlight of his tranquil existence.