 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTER XXVIII.
I wish I could walk abroad without having misery forced
on my notice, which I have no power to relieve. The
other day, I looked out of my window, and saw a tall,
gaunt-looking woman leading a little ragged girl, of five or
six years old. The child carried a dirty little basket, and
I observed that she went up to every door, and stood on
tiptoe to reach the bell. From every one, as she held up
her little basket, she turned away, and came down the steps
so wearily, and looked so sad—so very sad. I saw this
repeated at four or five doors, and my heart began to swell
within me. “I cannot endure this,” thought I: “I must
buy whatever her basket contains.” Then prudence answered,
“Where's the use? Don't you meet twenty objects
more wretched every day? Where can you stop?”
I moved from my window; but as I did so, I saw my
guardian angel turn away in sorrow. I felt that neither
incense nor anthem would rise before God from that selfish
second thought. I went to the door. Another group of
suffering wretches were coming from the other end of the
street; and I turned away again, with the feeling that there
around me. I should have closed the door, perhaps, but
as the little girl came near, I saw on her neck a cross, with
a rudely carved image of the crucified Saviour. Oh,
blessed Jesus! friend of the poor, the suffering, and the
guilty, who is like thee to guide the erring soul, and soften
the selfish heart? The tears gushed to my eyes. I
bought from the little basket a store of matches for a year.
The woman offered me change; but I could not take it in
sight of that cross. “In the Saviour's name, take it all,”
I said, “and buy clothes for that little one.” A gleam
lighted up the woman's hard features; she looked surprised
and grateful. But the child grabbed at the money, with a
hungry avarice, that made my very heart ache. Hardship,
privation, and perchance severity, had changed the genial
heart-warmth, the gladsome thoughtlessness of childhood,
into the grasping sensuality of a world-trodden soul. It
seemed to me the saddest thing, that in all God's creation
there should be one such little child. I almost feared they
had driven the angels away from her. But it is not so.
Her angel, too, does always stand before the face of her
Father, who is in Heaven.
This time, I yielded to the melting of my heart; but a
hundred times a week, I drive back the generous impulse,
because I have not the means to gratify it. This is the
misery of a city like New-York, that a kindly spirit not only
suffers continual pain, but is obliged to do itself perpetual
wrong. At times, I almost fancy I can feel myself turning
to stone by inches. Gladly, oh, how gladly, do I hail any
little sunbeam of love, that breaks through this cloud of
misery and wrong.
The other day, as I came down Broome-street, I saw a
street musician, playing near the door of a genteel dwelling.
The organ was uncommonly sweet and mellow in its tones,
the tunes were slow and plaintive, and I fancied that I saw
sufficient refinement to prefer the tender and the melancholy,
to the lively “trainer tunes” in vogue with the populace.
She looked like one who had suffered much, and the
sorrowful music seemed her own appropriate voice. A little
girl clung to her scanty garments, as if afraid of all
things but her mother. As I looked at them, a young lady
of pleasing countenance opened the window, and began to
sing like a bird, in keeping with the street organ. Two
other young girls came and leaned on her shoulder; and still
she sang on. Blessings on her gentle heart! It was evidently
the spontaneous gush of human love and sympathy.
The beauty of the incident attracted attention. A group of
gentlemen gradually collected round the organist; and
ever as the tune ended, they bowed respectfully toward the
window, waved their hats, and called out, “More, if you
please!” One, whom I knew well for the kindest and truest
soul, passed round his hat; hearts were kindled, and the
silver fell in freely. In a minute, four or five dollars were
collected for the poor woman. She spoke no word of
gratitude, but she gave such a look! “Will you go to the
next street, and play to a friend of mine?” said my kindhearted
friend. She answered, in tones expressing the deepest
emotion, “No, sir, God bless you all—God bless you
all,” (making a courtesy to the young lady, who had stept
back, and stood sheltered by the curtain of the window,)
“I will play no more to-day; I will go home, now.” The
tears trickled down her cheeks, and as she walked away,
she ever and anon wiped her eyes with the corner of her
shawl. The group of gentlemen lingered a moment to look
after her, then turning toward the now closed window, they
gave three enthusiastic cheers, and departed, better than
they came. The pavement on which they stood had been
a church to them; and for the next hour, at least, their
hearts were more than usually prepared for deeds of gentleness
Why do we thus repress our sympathies, and chill the
genial current of nature, by formal observances and restraints?
I thank my heavenly Father for every manifestation of
human love. I thank him for all experiences, be they
sweet or bitter, which help me to forgive all things, and to
enfold the whole world with blessing. “What shall be our
reward,” says Swedenborg, “for loving our neighbour as
ourselves in this life? That when we become angels, we
shall be enabled to love him better than ourselves.” This
is a reward pure and holy; the only one, which my heart
has not rejected, whenever offered as an incitement to goodness.
It is this chiefly which makes the happiness of
lovers more nearly allied to heaven, than any other emotions
experienced by the human heart. Each loves the other
better than himself; each is willing to sacrifice all to the
other—nay, finds joy therein. This it is that surrounds
them with a golden atmosphere, and tinges the world with
rose-colour. A mother's love has the same angelic character;
more completely unselfish, but lacking the charm
of perfect reciprocity.
The cure for all the ills and wrongs, the cares, the sorrows,
and the crimes of humanity, all lie in that one word,
LOVE. It is the divine vitality that everywhere produces
and restores life. To each and every one of us it gives the
power of working miracles, if we will.
The word, the king of words, carved on Jehovah's heart.”
From the highest to the lowest, all feel its influence, all
acknowledge its sway. Even the poor, despised donkey is
changed by its magic influence. When coerced and beaten,
he is vicious, obstinate, and stupid. With the peasantry
of Spain, he is a petted favourite, almost an inmate of the
household. The children bid him welcome home, and the
he loves them all, for he feels in his inmost heart that they
all love him. He will follow his master, and come and go
at his bidding, like a faithful dog; and he delights to take
the baby on his back, and walk him round, gently, on the
greensward. His intellect expands, too, in the sunshine
of affection; and he that is called the stupidest of animals
becomes sagacious. A Spanish peasant had for many years
carried milk into Madrid, to supply a set of customers.
Every morning, he and his donkey, with loaded panniers,
trudged the well known round. At last, the peasant became
very ill, and had no one to send to market. His wife proposed
to send the faithful old animal by himself. The panniers
were accordingly filled with cannisters of milk, an
inscription, written by the priest, requested customers to
measure their own milk, and return the vessels; and the
donkey was instructed to set off with his load. He went,
and returned in due time with empty cannisters; and this
he continued to do for several days. The house bells in
Madrid are usually so constructed that you pull downward
to make them ring. The peasant afterward learned that
his sagacious animal stopped before the door of every customer,
and after waiting what he deemed a sufficient time,
pulled the bell with his mouth. If affectionate treatment
will thus idealize the jackass, what may it not do? Assuredly
there is no limit to its power. It can banish crime,
and make this earth an Eden.
The best tamer of colts that was ever known in Massachusetts,
never allowed whip or spur to be used; and the
horses he trained never needed the whip. Their spirits
were unbroken by severity, and they obeyed the slightest
impulse of the voice or rein, with the most animated promptitude;
but rendered obedient to affection, their vivacity
was always restrained by graceful docility. He said it
was with horses as with children; if accustomed to beating,
gentleness, united with consistent and very equable
firmness, the victory once gained over them, was gained
for ever.
In the face of all these facts, the world goes on manufacturing
whips, spurs, the gallows, and chains; while each
one carries within his own soul a divine substitute for these
devil's inventions, with which he might work miracles, inward
and outward, if he would. Unto this end let us work
with unfaltering faith. Great is the strength of an individual
soul, true to its high trust;—mighty is it even to the
redemption of a world.
A German, whose sense of sound was exceedingly
acute, was passing by a church, a day or two after he had
landed in this country, and the sound of music attracted
him to enter, though he had no knowledge of our language.
The music proved to be a piece of nasal psalmody,
sung in most discordant fashion; and the sensitive
German would fain have covered his ears. As this was
scarcely civil, and might appear like insanity, his next
impulse was to rush into the open air, and leave the hated
sounds behind him. “But this, too, I feared to do,” said
he, “lest offence might be given; so I resolved to endure
the torture with the best fortitude I could assume; when
lo! I distinguished, amid the din, the soft clear voice of a
woman singing in perfect tune. She made no effort to
drown the voices of her companions, neither was she disturbed
by their noisy discord; but patiently and sweetly
she sang in full, rich tones: one after another yielded to
the gentle influence; and before the tune was finished, all
were in perfect harmony.”
I have often thought of this story as conveying an instructive
lesson for reformers. The spirit that can thus
sing patiently and sweetly in a world of discord, must
indeed be of the strongest, as well as the gentlest kind.
of the multitude; and ever and anon comes the temptation
to sing louder than they, and drown the voices that cannot
thus be forced into perfect tune. But this were a pitiful
experiment; the melodious tones, cracked into shrillness,
would only increase the tumult.
Stronger, and more frequently, comes the temptation to
stop singing, and let discord do its own wild work. But
blessed are they that endure to the end—singing patiently
and sweetly, till all join in with loving acquiescence, and
universal harmony prevails, without forcing into submission
the free discord of a single voice.
This is the hardest and the bravest task, which a true
soul has to perform amid the clashing elements of time.
But once has it been done perfectly, unto the end; and that
voice, so clear in its meekness, is heard above all the din
of a tumultuous world; one after another chimes in with
its patient sweetness; and, through infinite discords, the
listening soul can perceive that the great tune is slowly
coming into harmony.
| Letters from New York | |