University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The charities of Madam L— had become proverbial.
Not only did the sufferers in her vicinity resort to
her under the pressure of calamity, but the roving beggar
trusted to find in her mansion, relief or shelter. These
mendicants, not being restrained at that period by the fear
of work-houses, were more numerous in proportion, and
vastly more at ease in their peregrinations than at the
present day. Although there were not among them, as in
England, any selling of stands and circuits, fortunes secretly
amassed, or establishments which transformed the
gains of the day into nocturnal revels, where the cripple
danced, and the blind recovered their sight; yet there
existed that system of sympathetic intelligence, by which
the houses of the bountiful were seldom unvisited, or
those of the churl entered. Madam L—, being one day
summoned to the kitchen to receive a guest of that order,
was accosted in piteous tones by a man, who raised himself
with difficulty by the aid of a staff upon one limb, while

the other was so bandaged that it seemed an useless appendage.
This he said was disabled by a shot at the battle
of the Eutaw Springs, where, being left senseless on the
field, his head was dreadfully lacerated by the tomahawks
of the Indians. A swelling, and excoriation upon his arm,
which he also exhibited, he termed a “Rose-Cancer.”
Moved by such a combination of ills, and ever alive to
the sufferings of those who fought the battles of our revolution,
the Lady bestowed on him alms, which rendered
him eloquent in thanksgiving, and ordered him some dinner.
As she retired to her parlour, Cuff following said in
a suppressed voice, “He been here afore, Ma'am. He
no more lame, than I lame.”

Returning, and scrutinizing him more closely as he partook
of his repast, she recognized in his face, half covered
by the large cap which concealed his wound, some resemblance
to a recent applicant. “Were you here, a short
time since?” she inquired. “No—God bless your soul,
Ma'am,” answered the man, rapidly. “I never see your
blessed face till this day,” regarding Cuff with eyes inflamed
with anger. Beulah then spoke,—“three weeks
ago yesterday, he come here, walking on two legs, without
any hurt in his head, or Rose-Cancer.” “Put a spoon
in your calabash-mouth, and see if that will keep down
your false tongue,” said the beggar, in his hoarse, natural
voice; forgetting the melancholy notes, to which he at
first set his articulation. Hastily seizing the pack, from
which he had unharness'd himself, that he might more

easily take refreshment, he slipped the strap over his
neck with such an ill grace, as to dislodge the cap, which
he said he was obliged always to keep over his wound,
because the “air made it ache tormentedly.” This unfortunate
occurrence discovered an unscalped head, with
a thick growth of hair. The wrinkles, with which he had
plaited his forehead, suddenly disappeared before the
emotion, which put disguise to flight; for, though probably
long inured to dissimulation, he could not without
some compunction be stripped of his mask, in the presence
of abused goodness. “You are the man,” said the Lady
in a calm voice, “who, a short time since, requested
charity for a houseless wife and seven children, whose
little home, erected by your industry, was burnt at midnight.
You wept, as you said, that your eldest daughter,
who was sick, perished in the flames. Did you not
tell me the name of the village within the borders of Massachusetts,
where your family remained, shelterless, and
that you were in haste to gain a little aid, that you might
return and comfort them?” To this mild appeal the dissembler
had no answer. He would have repelled anger
with impudence, but undeserved gentleness silenced him.
Busying himself to collect his cap, hat and staff, he unconsciously
found his useless limb, very serviceable in facilitating
his exit. “Fear not,” said the Lady, “that I shall
reclaim the alms I have given you. But remember, though
you may sometimes deceive your fellow-creatures, there
is a Judge whom you cannot escape, whose “eyes are
like a consuming fire to all iniquity.” Returning to her
parlour, she found her brother Dr. L—, waiting to make
her his daily visit. He was the only brother of her deceased
husband, and a few years younger than herself.
The residence of his family was opposite her own; and
the unrestrained intercourse, which had ever been maintained,
greatly alleviated her loneliness. Dr. L— was
a man of great goodness of heart, and exemplary life.
Gentleness of manner, moderation in sentiment, and sincere
piety were his characteristicks. As he approached
the close of a long life, (for more than fourscore years
were allotted him,) benevolence became more and more
his distinguishing feature; as the stream expands more
widely, as it prepares to enter the bosom of that sea,
where its course terminates. Invariable temperance, and
a mind a stranger to those starts of passion which disorder
the wheels of existence, gave him an age of unbroken activity
and health; cheered by the sight of his children's
children, springing up like olive plants around his path.
He lived to see the eyes of this beloved sister closed in
death, when she had nearly attained fourscore years and
ten. The fraternal attachment, which had been nourished
for more than half a century by the sympathies of daily
intercourse, did not fully reveal its strength, till its ties
were sundered. “Bowing down, he walked heavily, as
one who mourneth for his mother,”—and in two years
slumbered near her, beneath the clods of the valley.

At the period of this sketch, he was in his grand climacterick,

with a florid brow, and a step like youthful agility.
He was of small stature, and correct proportions, and in
his attire preserved those ancient fashions, which were
then thought to give consistency and dignity to the form
which time had honoured. A white, full bottomed wig,
beautifully curled, shaded his venerable brow. This was
surmounted by a low-crowned three-cornered hat, or, during
his favourite rides on horseback, by one with a deep
brim, to afford shelter to the eyes. His nicely plaited
stock, long waistcoat, and silver buckles, never yielded to
modern innovations; and the neatness, which distinguished
his dress, extended through his mansion, and its precincts.
It also pervaded every branch of the domestic department,
and like the spirit of order, promised to be an heirloom
in his family. Such was the person to whom Madam
L—, with the freedom of sisterly intercourse, related
the adventure which had just occurred in her kitchen.
“I have long wished,” he remarked, “for an opportunity
to converse with you on this subject. I believe
that you are often deceived by those who solicit your
charity. The good are not easily suspicious, and the
wicked take advantage of it.”

“I know brother,” she replied, “that I have sometimes
given to the unworthy. The occurrence of to-day is by
no means a solitary one. Yet how can we always discriminate,
unless we could read the heart? That suspicion,
which would guard us against dissimulation in one
instance, might turn us from the prayer of real want in

another. I have thought that while our reliance was upon
a Benefactor “kind to the unthankful and evil,” we ought
not to hold, with too strict a hand, the balance of merit,
when we hear the complaint of misery. I cannot find that
our Saviour hath said `Relieve only the righteous,' but,
“the poor ye have always with you, and whenever ye
will ye may do them good.” Does he not almost make
them His substitute? “me ye have not always,”—as if
they were to furnish proof of our compassion, when He
should be raised above the ills of humanity? When I
have thus reflected on this passage, I have felt that I had
rather relieve ten unworthy claimants, than to neglect one
suffering servant of my Lord.”

“These sentiments,” said Dr. L—, “might be expected
from the benevolence of your heart. Yet while
we indulge in charitable feelings, we should be careful
not to reward deceit, or cherish vice. We are commanded
not “to do evil that good may come?” Is it not possible
that, from a zeal to do good, evil may arise? It is
always safe to give food to the hungry, and clothing to the
naked, and kind words to him who is of a heavy heart.
But the indiscriminate gift of money enables the drunkard
to repeat his sin, and the indolent to become more vicious.
Benevolence is blessed in itself, but it must be
associated with discretion, ere it can confer blessings on
others. The science of medicine is salutary, but if the
physician use but one remedy for every disease, he will
sometimes occasion death. Yet I would not speak as if

you alone were liable to deception from those who solicit
charity. It is but a short time since a young man brought
to my house a paper, signed by several persons, declaring
him to be deaf and dumb from his birth. His
conduct comported with this declaration. His questions
were unintelligible to me, and his eye possessed that
earnest, inquiring gaze, which characterizes that interesting,
and unfortunate race. Affected at the lot of a being,
cut off from all the privileges and joys of society, I was
preparing to impart liberally to his wants. My wife,
regarding him with a penetrating look, said “she had no
doubt he was an impostor, who could hear and speak as
well as any of us.” He could not avoid turning his head
as if to listen, and, more moved by resentment than good
manners, answered, “You lie!”

“What,” inquired the Lady, “do you consider the best
method of doing good, with the least possible harm?”
“Undoubtedly, that of relieving the poor, through their own
industry,” he answered. “Thus, instead of the degradation
of beggary you elevate their character, with the consciousness
of a right improvement of time. If they are
addicted to vices, you diminish their strength, by destroying
indolence. You dry up the streams by choking the
fountain. A Christian should seek not merely to relieve
bodily want, but to elevate moral character. If you support
the children of an intemperate man, you take from him
the strongest possible motive to reformation and industry.
In those countries where establishments for the indigent

have been the most abundant, charity has at length discovered,
that the way to multiply the poor, is to provide for the
poor; or in other words to destroy their motives of action.”

“Your theory, my brother, no one can question; the
difficulty seems in reducing it to practice. The sick,
and the infant must ever be an exception, and those also,
who devote themselves to their comfort. The class of
roving mendicants would also evade it, until the community
shall be so impressed as to erect houses for their
restraint and labour. To the families of the poor, who
have health, it applies itself, as the most natural, and
efficacious system of relief. I have ever found wool and
flax gladly received, and wrought by poor, virtuous
females. Their children can assist them in some parts of
the toil, and thus industrious habits are implanted, where
otherwise a vagrant idleness might take root. When these
domestic manufactures have exceeded my own wants, I
have sometimes disposed of them at reduced prices among
those who have wrought them. Thus their families are
clad in durable materials, instead of those insufficient
fabrics, which the poor often purchase for the sake of
cheapness, but which vanish long before one inclement
season has past. I have usually found it expedient not to
render them payment in money, but in those articles
which are necessary to comfortable subsistence; for I
believe the cause of poverty will often be found to exist
in the destitution of that economy, which warns against
spending the little “all for that which is not bread, and

the labour for that which satisfieth not.” This system of
charity creates such an intimacy and freedom of detail,
that opportunities are discovered, where medicines for
sickness, and books for children may be distributed with
great advantage.” “This laborious system, have you then
been pursuing, so silently that I had not discovered it?”
said her brother. “What I began for a reproof ends as
usual in the commendation, that, “many daughters have
done virtuously, but thou still excellest.” “I pray you,
answered the Lady, to mention nothing of what I have
imparted to you. The detail was given merely for the
sake of the inference, that the system was too extensive
for an individual. To be rendered effectual, it should be
supported, by an association of the charitable. It ought
to comprise a warehouse, where the materials for labour
should be furnished, the manufactures exposed for sale,
and a stock of articles kept, suitable to be rendered in
payment. This should be superintended by the directors
of the institution; and a poor, and pious widow, might
receive a salary for attending in it. A collection of such
medicines, as might be administered safely without application
to a physician, might also be connected with it, and
would often prevent serious sickness in those, whose
strengh is put in daily requisition, without the power of
obtaining necessary cordials. Books of instruction for
children, and of consolation for the aged and sorrowful,
should also be kept for gratuitous distribution. I have
thought that a Charity School, if it were kept but on Saturday
afternoons, might give opportunity of teaching many
valuable precepts to the children of those who laboured in
this institution. It might at least then be ascertained how
they had passed their time during the week, and if they
were prepared to attend in a proper manner, the exercises
of the approaching Sabbath.”

“The great objection to this excellent system,” said
Dr. L—, “will be found in the love of ease. The rich
had generally rather satisfy the poor, and their own consciences,
at the least expense of time and thought. These
objects are accomplished by the gift of money, and a
claim to the title of bountiful is thus easily procured.
This mode of relief involves no troublesome inquiry into
the sources of want—no difficult, and perhaps abortive
attempt to awaken industry. To the actings of this indolent
spirit, we are all more or less prone. This moves
us even in the education of our children, to overlook instead
of exterminating the ramifications of evil, and to
cover an injury, which will probably affect them throughout
the whole of life, with the soft name of affectionate
indulgence.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a low rap at the
door, and the entrance of a woman apparently in humble
life. A cloak of homemade cloth covered a form whose
size promised great strength; and a decent black bonnet
partially concealed a face, where health and an expression
of cheerful contentment reigned. “I have brought home
Ma'am,” she said “the rest of the yarn which you wished

to have spun. If you have any more flax, I should be
very glad to take it.”—“Sit down Mrs. Rawson,” said
Madam L—. “You never seem to be tired, while any
work remains. Have you walked three miles this cold,
unpleasant day?”—“Any body who is strong, and well,
need not complain of walking a few miles, Ma'am. Some
part of the way is rather wet, but since I've been able
through your help to get such a pair of strong shoes, I
don't mind any sort of walking. What a blessed thing it
is, when the hearts of the rich are turned to give work to
the poor, and assist them to get the necessaries of life, for
themselves and families.”

“Heaven,” said Dr. L—, “helps those who are willing
to help themselves. Have you any children, good
woman?”—“O yes sir. God be thanked. What a lonely
creature I should be without them We live almost a mile
from any neighbour and they are company and comfort
to me. Some folks blame me, because I don't put them
to service. But there are only two of them, and they're
very serviceable to me. The boy is twelve years old,
and he takes care of the little spot of garden that we have,
and raises vegetables, and cuts my wood in the winter,
and when he can work out a day or two, with the farmers,
he's willing and thankful to do it, to get a little provision
for me, or help pay my rent. The girl is two years
younger, and does the chores while I spin. She takes to
the wheel too, herself, as natural as a duck runs to the
water. My eldest son wanted to follow the seas like his

father. It was a trial to me, but I remembered that he
had the same protector on the water, as on the land.
When he went away, he said—“Mother, keep up a good
heart. I shall come back, and bring you something to
help you along.” Oh! with what delight I used then to
read the 107th Psalm, which speaks of them “that go
down to the sea in ships; to do business in the great
waters, how they see the works of the Lord, and his wonders
in the deep.” Many a time, when I have lain awake,
in stormy nights, when my bed has shook under me with
the winds that rock'd the house, I have thought perhaps
my poor boy is among those who “mount up to the
heavens, and go down again to the depths, with their soul
melted because of trouble.” Then again it would come
into my mind, who knows but he “will cry unto the
Lord, and he will bring him out of his distresses.” That
thought comforted me. If he can only be made to seek
his God, in the days of his youth, what matter is it though
he should suffer, and his mother's heart ache? all would be
well in the end. When it came time to expect him back,
I found myself too anxious and impatient, for one who
ought to trust all to God. One day, when I was looking
for him, a wagon drove up to the door. My heart was
in my mouth. A man got out, and brought me a chest,
and said, “This belonged to your son. He died of a fever,
a fortnight before we arrived on this coast.” My
tongue was speechless—something said to me “be still!
and know that I am God.” All day long, as I went about
my work, that boy seemed to stand beside me, with his
face between smiles and tears, as when he last said.
“Good bye, mother.” When I went to bed, and all was
darkness, his pale corpse lay stretched before me, and I
trembled with agony as when I bore him. But through
that long sleepless night, the same voice repeated, “Be
still! and know that I am God.” The next day, I opened
his chest. There lay all the clothes, that those dear
hands had toiled to procure, and I had made for him. But
oh! what a blessing. Wrapt up in the choicest manner, I
found a prayer, which he had himself written. It has been
my comfort ever since, when I have grieved, as a mother
will grieve for her first-born. Then I could turn to the
psalm, which had been my companion in his absence, and
say, “Oh! that men would praise the Lord for his goodness!
and for his wonderful works to the children of men.”
How merciful that he was not thrown overboard, without
a moment's time to beg favour of God. But if the child
of many prayers did, in his sickness, pray himself for salvation,
and be heard, what more have I to desire? Sometimes
in my dreams, I have seen him as an angel, walking
on the waves, and reaching his hand toward me.—God
grant that I may not be deceived in my hope.” She
paused, to wipe the tears that were escaping down her
cheeks; and recollecting herself, said, “I ought to ask
pardon, for talking so much about my own poor concerns.”
Madam L— perceiving that her brother was
interested in the narration, said, “I am always edified to
hear the events of your life, my good Mrs. Rawson; for
you keep in view the Hand that rules, both under the
cloud, and in the sun-shine. I wish you would relate to my
brother, what you have told me, respecting your husband.”

“He was a man,” she answered, “of better education,
than people in his station always enjoy. I married
him, when I was sixteen, and my whole endeavour
was to please him. I did not consider that it is our duty
to seek “first the Kingdom of God, and his righteousness.”
My husband was an ambitious man; and at last became
master of a vessel. He was always looking for great
things, but seemed to be unfortunate. While he was gone
whole years, I would live upon as little as would keep
life in me, so as not to be a burden to him; and sometimes
when I was sick, and would have been thankful for
six-pence, to buy medicine, a letter would come from him,
full of nothing but poetry. Yet I was rejoiced to see only
a line, written by his hand, “because of the love I bore
him.” Once, when my babes and I were really in want of
food, there came from him a present to me, of a gold
ring, and his picture as big as life. The children were
frightened to death, at the sight of such a great face, that
did not talk; and they cried and screamed so, that I had
to carry it up garret, and turn it the backside out. I sold
the gold ring, and bought Indian meal, and some wool to
spin stockings for our bare feet. I would have sold the
picture, but nobody would buy it. I thought it was not
becoming in me to keep such a costly thing. I wrote to

my husband “if you had but sent me a piece of meat as
big as the picture, I should know what to do with it.
Here are three little mouths, wanting to be filled, that
call you Father.” But he meant all in kindness. Once
he sent me money to buy a small house, which he liked.
But the man, who had the care of it, spent it, and before
he got ready to pay me, he failed, and could not. Yet I
found that what I repined at, was in mercy. Not long
after, that very house took fire in the night, and burnt
down: and who knows, but what if we had lived there,
one of the children might have been burned in it?—
After some time, my husband came home, a poor, sick
creature, with a leg to be taken off. I felt as if I knew
not which way to turn, to make him comfortable. But
strength came with the need. The doctor was favourable
in his bill, and I was able to be about, both day and night.
My husband suffered every thing in the operation, and in
the sickness afterwards. He was disappointed at being
so poor, when he had promised himself riches; and all
together made him very unhappy, and violent. His oaths
and curses made me tremble, but I knew that he was in misery,
and my prayers rose for him with almost every breath.
Those, who heard him speak to me, thought he was unkind,
but they did not know what he suffered. My voice
was always cheerful to him; but, when he slept, I took
time to weep. My greatest sorrow was, that he seemed
to be hastening into the presence of his Maker, with a
heart bitter against him. If he awoke, and I was not by,
he would shriek after me in a voice that frightened me,
saying that when I was away, evil spirits came to tear
him. Yet when I appeared, he would sometimes say,
that my sight was hateful to him, as theirs. His pain,
made him loath all creatures, and himself also. But God
in mercy, gave him a better frame of spirit. For a month
before his death, there were no blasphemies, but prayers
for patience. He would ask me to read from the good
book, and listen with tears. I feared to say much to him,
because of his weakness; but I thanked my Father in
Heaven for his altered mind. When he died, he looked
at me, and his children, with a mild, pleasant face, and
though he was not able to speak, it seemed as if there was
peace within his heart. I asked him, if he could leave
his fatherless children with God, and he bowed his head
with a smile, that lifted a weight from my heart. For
many months, the sound of his groans lingered in my ears,
both when I lay down, and when I rose up, but I commended
my soul to the God of the widow, and was preserved.”

“And were you able,” said Dr. L—, “to support
your children entirely by your own industry?”

“Oh! that would have been but a light matter, Sir,”
replied Mrs. Rawson, “for they were all healthy, and
willing to help according to their years. We ate our humble
food with a good appetite, and found at night that the
“sleep of the labourer is sweet,” and rose in the morning
with thankful hearts to Him who permitted us to live in his
good and beautiful world. Once, when we were eating

our breakfast of potatoes, the youngest boy, who was then
about five years old, lifted up to me his bright eye, and
rosy face, and said, “Mother, when I am a little bigger,
the farmers will hire me to work, and then I shall bring
you home, a bushel of rye.” But what made me feel for
a little while, as if I did not know how to get along, was
when my father and mother came to live with me, just
after I was left a widow. I was willing to work my fingers
to the bone for them, but they were old, and infirm people,
and my house was very small, and I feared that I could
not make them comfortable. It did seem to me too, that
my sister, who sent them down to me from Vermont, was
better able to take care of them than I; for she had a
husband, and a good farm, and was well-off in the world—
while I had to work early and late to get my children
bread. But I thought again—God has ordered it, and he
will provide; though I have not even a barrel of meal, or
a cruse of oil, like the widow in the Old Testament. And
so it was—we were all able to live upon the little that my
hands obtained, until my poor mother became sick and
bedrid; and then the good people were very kind to help
me to medicines, and comfortable things for her. She was
a heavy woman, and in lifting her I strained my breast,
so that it has never been strong since. But how much
more did she endure for me in my infancy—and how small
a part could I pay the mother, who had patience with
my helpless and wayward years. Often have I thought,
when I was broke of my rest for many nights, and had
laboured hard in the day, “O if I could ever find it in
my heart to forsake my father and mother, how could I
hope that the Lord would take me up in my distresses.”
And I thank Him who gave me strength unto the end; for
their aged eyes blessed me, when their voice was lost in
death. “Surely goodness and mercy have followed me
all the days of my life; and I believe there will always
be a handful of corn, on the mountain-tops for me.”

“God will bless you, good woman,” said Dr. L—,
“he will be your shield in necessity, and reward your
piety in another world.” Then rising to depart, he put
something into the hand of his sister, saying, “Be my
almoner, you know best how to make it acceptable to
her. I perceive there are some, to whom it is safe to
give money—in whose hands it ceases to be the “root
of evil,” and bringeth forth good and peaceable fruits.”