University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Massinger.

“Why is it,” inquired my friend, “that you so
generally have chosen your heroes among the parvenus
rather than the distingues of society? Have
the old rich families no characteristics worthy of
notice? Or are those Americanisms, which make
the peculiarities of our national habits and manners,
more easily discovered in country life and among
the middling classes?”

“That would undoubtedly be a good reason; for
the middling class is allowed, in every country, to
exhibit the most distinct and accurate pictures of

national peculiarities; but I cannot plead so reasonably.
I confess I have been chiefly influenced
by the wish of displaying the American character
in its fairest light; and I found the rising stars more
brilliant than the meridian ones, because the last
do not increase in brightness and magnitude in proportion
to their height and distance. To speak
without metaphor—the engrossing pursuit of Americans
is wealth. Now while there is a necessity
for this exertion in the circumstances of the individual,
the struggle ennobles his character, by calling
forth the strongest energies of his mind and
action. It is not merely to be rich that he strives.
He usually has some beloved and dependent ones
to provide for, which exercises and strengthens his
tender and affectionate feelings. And then he is
indulging the hope of achieving great things hereafter,
and the world gives him credit for the good
intention. But when his fortune is made, and he
continues the pursuit of gain, mostly, as it seems,
from the habit of accumulating, all the generosity
and nobleness of his enterprises vanish. What in
the rising man was industry and economy, becomes
in the rich man parsimony and avarice. To avoid
these imputations the rich often display an extravagance
in their style of living, which they do not
approve, and do not enjoy; only they feel it to be
necessary to silence the cavils of those who would
otherwise call them miserly, if they did not make
a show where they can so well afford it. I wish I
had models, such as I can imagine, of our republican
character, among the rich. How proud I should
be to make them heroes of the sketch and the
song!”

“Well, pray delineate such an one,” said my
friend, “if it be but a sketch of fancy.”

And I will—and should any rich man think the
character of the Lloyds fictitious, I wish he would,
before affirming such an opinion, to the injury of
my veracity, as a faithful delineator of American
traits, make an experiment of five years, at least, in
his own case, and see if these pictures cannot be
realized.

Arthur Lloyd was about twenty-two when, by
his father's death, he came into possession of property
worth half a million. His father died somewhat
suddenly, and the young man, who was then
in Paris, partly on business for his father, partly to
see the world, was summoned home by the cares
which such an inheritance naturally involved.
There are few scenes that more deeply try the spirit
of a man than a return to a desolate home. The
mind can support the separations, which the inevitable
current of human affairs renders inevitable,
without much suffering. One may even dwell in
the midst of strangers, and not feel lonely, if the

heart has a resting-place elsewhere. But when we
open the solitary apartments, where every thing we
see calls up associations of dear friends we can hope
to meet no more for ever, a blight falls on our path
of life, and we know that whatever of happiness
may await us, our enjoyments can never be as in
days past.

It was late on Saturday night when Arthur
Lloyd reached the elegant mansion in — street,
New York, of which he was now the sole proprietor.
The domestics had been expecting his arrival,
and every arrangement had been made, as far as
they knew his wishes and taste, to gratify him.
Wealth will command attention; but in this case
there was more devotion to the man than to his
money; for Arthur was beloved, and affection needs
no prompter.

“How sorry I am that this pretty mignonette is
not in blossom,” said Mrs. Ruth, the housekeeper;
“you remember, Lydia, how young Mr. Lloyd
liked the mignonette.”

“Yes, I remember it well—but I always thought
it was because Miss Ellen called it her flower, and
he wanted to please the pretty little girl.”

“That might make some difference, Lydia, for
he has such a kind heart. And now I think of it,
I wonder if Miss Ellen knows he is expected home
so soon.”

“She does,” said Lydia, “for I told her yesterday—but
she did'nt seem to care; and I do not
think she likes him.”

“She is melancholy, poor child! and who can
blame her, when she has lost her best friend?”

“Why, Mrs. Ruth, cannot young Mr. Lloyd be
as good a friend as his father? I am sure he will
be as kind.”

“Yes, no doubt of that. But, Lydia, it will not
do for a young man to be so kind to a pretty girl.
Ellen is now quite a young lady,—the world
would talk about it.”

“I wonder who would dare to speak a word
against Mr. Arthur?”—said Lydia, reddening with
indignation. When a man's household are his
friends, he hardly need care for the frowns of the
world; and even the gloom of sorrow was relieved
as Arthur shook hands with the old and favoured
domestics, whose familiar faces glowed with that
honest, hearty welcome, which no parasite can
counterfeit. But when he retired to his chamber,
the silence and solitude brought the memory of his
lost friends sadly and deeply on his mind. He felt
alone in the world. What did it avail that he had
wealth to purchase all which earth calls pleasures,
when the disposition to enjoy them could not be
purchased? The brevity of life seemed written on
every object around. All these things had belonged

to his parents. And now they had no part in
all that was done beneath the sun.

“And yet,” thought Arthur, “who knows that
their interest in earthly things is annihilated by
death? Why may not a good man receive much
of his heavenly felicity from witnessing the growth
of the good seed he has planted in living hearts?
Why may he not be gladdened, even when singing
the song of his own redemption, by seeing that the
plans he had devised for the improvement of his
fellow-beings are in progress, carried forward by
agents whom God has raised up to do their share of
the labour in fitting this world for the reign of the
just?—If—if my good parents are ever permitted
to look down upon the son they have trained so
carefully,—God grant they may find he has not departed
from the way their precepts and example
have alike made plain before him.”

There is no opiate, excepting a good conscience,
like a good resolution. And Arthur slept soundly
that night, and passed the Sabbath in the tranquillity
which a spirit resigned to the will of heaven,
and yet resolved to do all that earth demands of a
rational being, cannot but enjoy. But one thought
would intrude to harass him. His father's death
had occurred while Arthur was far away. He had
not heard the parting counsel, the dying benediction.
Perhaps his father had, in his last moments,

thought of some important suggestion or warning
for his son, but there was no ear, tuned by affection,
to vibrate at the trembling sound, and catch and
interpret the whispered and broken sentence, and
so the pale lips were mute.

With such impressions on his mind, Arthur was
prepared to read eagerly a letter, directed to himself,
which he found deposited in his father's desk,
purposely, as it appeared, to meet the notice of his
son, before beginning the inspection of those papers
business would render necessary. I shall give
the entire letter, because the character of the father
must be understood in order to comprehend the
influences which had modelled that of his son.

It is on the very rich and the very poor that domestic
example and instruction operate with the
most sure and abiding effect. We find the children
of parents in the middling class, removed
from the temptation of arrogance on the one hand
and despair on the other, are those who admire and
endeavour to imitate the models of goodness and
greatness which history furnishes, or the world
presents. Such may become, what is termed, self-educated—but
this process the very rich think unnecessary,
and the very poor impossible. Therefore,
when the early training of these two classes
has inclined them to evil, they rarely recover themselves

from the contamination. But the letter—it
ran thus:

“I informed you in my last letter, that my health
was declining. I felt, even then, though I did not
express it, that I should never see you again in this
world; still I did not anticipate the rapid progress
which my disease has since made. However, I
have much cause for thankfulness. I endure little
pain, and my mind was never more calm and collected.
I have resolved, therefore, to arrange some
of my thoughts and reflections for your perusal,
knowing that you will prize them as the last expression
of your father's love.

“I have often endeavoured, in my hours of health,
to bring the final scene of departure from this
world vividly before my mind. I have thought
I had succeeded. But the near approach to the
borders of eternity, wonderfully alters the appearance
of all earthly things. I often find myself saying—`What
shadows we are—and what shadows
we pursue!'

“Shadows, indeed! But it would not be well
that the veil should be removed from the eyes of
those whose journey of life is, apparently, long before
them. The duties which prepare us for heaven

must be done on earth. It is this moral responsibility
which makes the importance of every
action we perform. Considered in this light, the
example of every rational being is invested with a
mighty power for good or evil; and that good is
productive of happiness, and evil of misery, we
need not the award of the last judgment to convince
us. The history of the world, our observation,
our conscience, and our reason, all prove that
to deal justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly
before God, is the perfection of man's felicity. The
great error lies in mistaking our true interest. We
separate earth from heaven by an impassable gulf,
and in our labours for the body think the spirit's
work has no connexion. This false philosophy
makes us selfish while we are young, and superstitious
when we are old, and of consequence unhappy
through life. But these things may be remedied.
If the wise man spoke truth, there is a way
in which we should go, and we may be so trained
as to walk in it when we are young, and prefer it
when we are old.

“It has, my son, since you were given me, been
the great aim of my life to educate you in such
habits and principles as I believe will ensure your
present and final felicity. When I speak of what
I have done, it is with a humble acknowledgment
of the mercy and goodness of God, who has supported

and blessed me; and I would impress it on
your heart, that heaven's blessing will descend on
every one who seeks it with patience and with
prayer. But I did not always have these views.
I was not educated as you have been; and it is for
the purpose of explaining to you the motives which
have governed my conduct towards you, that I shall
enter into a recital of some incidents, which you
may know as facts, but of their consequences you
are not aware.

“My father, as you have often heard, left a handsome
fortune to each of his ten children, but as he
acquired his property late in life, by lucky speculations,
we were none of us subjected to the temptations
of luxury in our childhood. We were all
educated to be industrious and prudent, and an uncommon
share of these virtues had, as the eldest,
been inculcated on me. So that when, in addition
to my well-won thrift, the share I received from
my father's estate made me a rich man, I felt no
disposition to enjoy it in any other mode than to
increase it. I did not mean to drudge always in
the service of mammon; but I thought I must wait
till I was somewhat advanced, before I could retire
and live honourably without exertion; but, in
the meantime, I would heap pleasures on my family.

“Your mother was a lovely, amiable woman,

whom I had married from affection, and raised to
affluence; and she thought, out of gratitude to me,
she must be happy as I chose. The only path of
felicity before us, seemed that of fashion; and so
we plunged into all the gaieties of our gay city;
and for eight or ten years we lived a life of constant
bustle, excitement, show, and apparent mirth.
Yet, Arthur, I declare to you, I was never satisfied
with myself,—never contented during the whole
time. I do not say I was wretched—that would
be too strong an expression—but I was restless.
The excitements of pleasure stimulate; they never
satisfy. And then there was a constant succession
of disagreements, rivalries, and slanders, arising
from trifling things; but those whose great business
it was to regulate fashionable society, contrived to
make great matters out of these mole-hills. Your
mother was a sweet-tempered woman, forbearing
and forgiving, as a true woman should be; but,
nevertheless, she used sometimes to be involved in
these bickerings, and then what scenes of accusation
and explanation must be endured before the
matter could be finally settled, and harmony restored!
and what precious time was wasted on
questions of etiquette, which, after all, made no individual
better, wiser, or happier.

“We lived thus nearly ten years, and might have

dreamed away our lives in this round of trifling,
had not heaven awakened us by a stroke, severe
indeed, but I trust salutary. We had, as you know,
Arthur, three children, a son and two daughters.
Fashion had never absorbed our souls, so as to
overpower natural affection. We did love our
children most dearly, and every advantage money
could purchase had been lavished upon them. They
were fair flowers, but owing to the delicacy of their
rearing, very frail. One after the other sickened;
the croup was fatal to our little Mary; the measles
and the scarlet fever destroyed the others. In
six months they were all at peace.

“Never, never can the feeling of desolation I then
experienced be effaced from my heart. A house
of mourning had no attraction for our fashionable
friends. They pitied, but deserted us; the thought
of our wealth only made us more miserable; the
splendour which surrounded, seemed to mock us.

“`For what purpose,' I frequently asked myself,
`for what purpose had been all my labour? I
might heap up, but a stranger would inherit.' My
wife was more tranquil, but then her disposition
was to be resigned. Still she yielded, I saw, to
the gloom of grief, and I feared the consequences.
But her mind was differently employed from what
I had expected.

“She asked me one day if there was no method
in which I could employ my wealth to benefit
others.

“I inquired what she meant.

“`I am weary,' said she, `of this pomp of wealth.
It is nothingness; or worse, it is a snare. I feel
that our children have been taken from the temptations
of the world, which we were drawing
around them. There is surely, my husband, some
object more worthy the time and hearts of Christians
than this pursuit of pleasure.'

“These observations may seem only the common-place
remarks of a saddened spirit; but to me they
were words fitly spoken. They opened a communion
of sentiment between us, such as we had never
before enjoyed. I had often felt the vanity of our
fashionable life, but thought my wife was happier
for the display, and that it would be cruel for me
to deprive her of amusements I could so well afford,
and which she so gracefully adorned; and
I did not see what better use to make of my riches.
But the spell of the world was broken when we
began to reason together of its folly, and strengthen
each other to resist its enticements.

“Man is sovereign of the world; but a virtuous
woman is the crown of her husband—and this proverb
was doubtless intended to teach us that the
highest excellences of the human character, in

either sex, are attainable only by the aid of each
other.

“I could fill a volume with our conversations on
these subjects; but the result is the most important:
we resolved to make the aim of doing good the
governing principle of our lives and conduct.

“And these resolutions, by the blessing of God,
we were enabled in a measure to fulfil. Our fashionable
friends ascribed the alteration in our habits
and manners to melancholy for the loss of our children;
but it was a course entered on with the firm
conviction of its superior advantages, both of improvement
and happiness. We realized more than
we anticipated. There is a delight in the exertion
of our benevolent faculties which seems nearly allied
to the joy of the angels in heaven—for these
are ministering spirits; and this felicity the rich
may command.

“In a few years after we had entered on our new
mode of life, you, my son, were bestowed to crown
our blessings. We felt that the precious trust was
a trial of our faith. To have an heir to our fortune
was a temptation to selfishness; to have an heir to
our name was a chord to draw us again into the vortex
of the world. But we did not look back. We
resolved to train you to enjoy active habits, and benevolent
pleasures. It was for this purpose I used
to take you, when a little child, with me to visit the

poor, permitting you to give the money you had
earned of me by some feats of strength or dexterity,
to those you thought needed it. And when
you grew larger, you recollect, probably, how steadily
you would work in the shop, with your little
tools, finishing tiny boxes, &c. that your mother or
I paid you for, at stated prices, which money you
appropriated to the support of the poor families in
— street. By these means we gave you a motive
for exertions which improved your health, and
made you happy; and we gave you, also, an opportunity
of taking thought for others, and enjoying the
pleasure of relieving the destitute. The love for
our fellow-beings, like all other feelings, must be
formed by the wish, and improved by the habit of
doing them good. We never paid you for mental
efforts, or moral virtues, because we thought
these should find their reward in the pleasure
improvement communicated to your own heart
and mind, aided by our caresses and commendations,
which testified the pleasure your conduct
gave us.

“Thus you see, my son, that in all the restrictions
we imposed, and indulgences we permitted, it was
our grand object to make you a good, intelligent,
useful and happy man. We endeavoured to make
wisdom's ways those of pleasantness to you; and I
feel confident that the course your parents have

marked, will be followed by you, so far as your
conscience and reason shall approve.

“You will find yourself what the world calls rich.
To human calculation, had I rigidly sought my
own interest in all my business, I should have left
you a much larger fortune. But who knows that
the blessing which has crowned all my enterprises
would not have been withdrawn, had such selfish
policy governed me? I thank my Saviour that I
was inspired with a wish to serve my fellow men.
And my greatest regret now arises from the reflection,
that with such means I have done so little
good. Endeavour, my son, to exceed your father
in righteousness. The earth is the Lord's—consider
yourself only as the steward over the portion
he has assigned you. Enter into business, not to
add to your stores of wealth, but as the best means
of making that wealth useful to the cause of human
improvement. And let the honourable acquisition
and the generous distribution go on together. The
man, whose heart of marble must be smote by the
rod of death, before a stream of charity can gush
forth, deserves little respect from the living. To
give what we can no longer enjoy, is not charity
—that heavenly virtue is only practised by those
who enjoy what they give.

“I do not undervalue charitable bequests. These
may be of great public utility; and when they harmonize

with the example of the testators, they deserve
grateful acknowledgment and everlasting remembrance.
But I cannot commend, as a model,
the character of a man who has been exclusively
devoted all his life to amassing property, because
he acquires the means of leaving a large charitable
donation at his decease. This seems to be making
virtue a penance, rather than a pleasure.

“I wish you, my son, to frame for yourself a system
of conduct, founded on the rational as well as
religious principle, of doing to others as you would
they should do to you; and then your life, as well
as death, will be a public blessing. Another great
advantage will be, you can hold on your consistent,
christian course, to the end. You need never
retire from business, in order to enjoy yourself.
But I must shorten what I would wish to say, were
my own strength greater, or my confidence in your
character less firm. There is one other subject to
which I must refer.

“Your dear mother, as you well know, adopted
Ellen Gray, and intended to educate the girl, in
every respect, like a child. After your mother's
death, I placed the child under the care of Mrs. C.,
where she has ever since remained. You know
but little of Ellen, for you entered college soon
after she came to our house, and have been mostly
absent since; but when you return, it will be necessary

you should, as her guardian, and the only
friend she has a claim upon, become acquainted
with her. She is now at the winning age of sixteen—a
very lovely being in person and disposition;
one that I should be proud to call my daughter.

“Her mother was the dear friend of your mother;
and that circumstance, which first induced us to take
the orphan, joined with her own sweetness and
affectionate gratitude, has deeply endeared her to
me. And now, when I am gone, she will feel her
loneliness, for she has no relative; you will have a
delicate part to act as the son of her benefactor, and
the person whom, in the singleness and simplicity
of her pure heart, she will think she has a right to
confide in, to preserve that just measure of kindness
and dignity which will satisfy her you are her
friend, and make the world understand you intend
never to be more. I have secured her an independence,
and provided that she shall remain, for
the present, with Mrs. C. May the Father of the
Orphan guard her and bless her! She loved your
mother, Arthur, and for that you must be to her a
brother.

“And now, my son—farewell! I feel my hour has
nearly come, and I am ready and willing to depart.
My last days have been, by the blessing of the
Almighty, made my best. I have lived to the last,

and been able to accomplish most of the plans which
lay nearest my heart. Do not grieve that I am at
rest; but arouse all your energies for the work that
is before you. In a country and age distinguished
by such mighty privileges, it requires warm hearts,
and strong minds, and liberal hands to devise, and
dare, and do. May God preserve, strengthen and
bless you.

I am glad, thought Arthur, as he wiped away his
tears, after reading the letter for the third time in
the course of the day—I am glad my father has left
me perfectly free respecting Ellen. Had he expressed
a wish that I should marry her, it would
have been to me sacred as the laws of the Medes
and Persians. Yet I might have felt it a fetter on
my free will—and so capricious is fancy, I should
not, probably, have loved the girl as I now hope to
love her, that is, if she will love me—as a brother.