 | THE ALMS-HOUSE. Myrtis |  |
THE ALMS-HOUSE.
Shun not the haunts of hapless poverty.”
The Retreat, which public charity had appropriated
to the homeless poor in one of the thriving villages
of New England, had a rural aspect, and occupied a
sheltered situation. The building was of one story,
yet comprised sufficient space for the accommodation
of its not numerous tenants. It was under the
charge of a farmer and his wife, who owned a few
acres of land contiguous to it, and were induced to
assume the care of these unfortunates as a mode of
income, which, though not peculiarly desirable, was,
as they sagely observed, “better than no income at
all.”
Mrs. Tuttle was a stirring, but kind-hearted matron.
She went on the principle that industry being
a cardinal virtue, it was her duty to give work to all
within the premises who were capable of employment.
She evinced great tact in proportioning tasks
to capacities, and in discovering latent ability for exertion,
however rusted by indolence, or buried under
imaginary disease. Those who were lame, and
could not stand at the great wheel, she was sure
might contrive to spin a little flax. Hands which
were too rheumatic to manage the wool-cards could
turn the quill-wheel, and wind spools for the loom,
fabrics. Old Mrs. Jones, who was fond of being
complimented with having seen better days, was
willing to do the lady-like work of the needle; and
Polly Larkin, an eratic genius, who had at times
been deranged, liked to be considered as having
power in the culinary sphere. Mrs. Lester, whose
system was universally enfeebled by chronic diseases,
gathered around her the few children of the little
community, who were there maintained until old
enough to go to service, and taught them the rudiments
of necessary knowledge, and the simple precepts
of the religion that she loved. When any were
sick, she was at their bedside with her nursing offices,
or repeating hymns of comfort. “She is our
missionary,” said they; and her smile of meekness
and love confirmed their designation.
Mingled with these, were some less impressible
natures. But the matron, who took care always to
deserve their respect, little heeded their ill humor.
Sometimes she was rewarded by gratitude, though
it is seldom to be expected in such a situation from
those whose reverses are aggravated by age, suffering,
and the imagined contempt of the world. With
true benevolence, she endeavored to interweave their
wayward and broken natures with the household
charities, and make them feel the comfort and interest
of the family as their own; and since misfortune,
and not crime, had made most of them her inmates,
the task was not difficult. But regular industry, and
mainly depended. Under the influence of the first
even decaying health sometimes revived, and her
consistent example of the latter won confidence from
those who did not aspire to imitation. In her intercourse
with them, she strove to keep ever in mind
the sweet precept, “God is love;” and when seated
with them around the simple board, or collected for
stated devotion, she remembered that every soul was
precious in His sight.
The same principles regulated the conduct of her
husband; but there was about him more distance
and reserve of manner, easily roused to sternness
when evil conduct required the exercise of authority.
Thus the sway of his partner, which might otherwise
have been too mild, or liable to be abused by refractory
natures, was happily and judiciously fortified.
Among the inmates of his dwelling were only two
of his own sex; one disabled by age, and the other
by casualty, from earning a subsistence by labor, yet
capable of occasionally aiding him in his vegetable
garden, or other light employments for the general
good. On the whole, this small community was like
a bee-hive; and industry has seldom evinced its power
more fully than by thus neutralizing the bitter
draught of poverty and scorn.
But the good farmer became suddenly the victim
of a violent fever. Long he lay on the verge of the
grave. He was indeed saved, but partial paralysis
ensued, and it was evident that life must be languished
expedient for him and his wife to accept the invitation
of a married daughter, who resided in a neighboring
town, to pass the remainder of their days under
her filial supervision. The poor people regretted
this change, and looked forward with apprehension;
for the overseer of the parish, finding that the house
they occupied needed many repairs, decided that it
would be cheapest to place them at board wherever
the best bargain could be obtained.
On the very day of the departure of good Mr. and
Mrs. Tuttle, a singular scene was exhibited in the
largest apartment of their mansion; an auction,
where not the highest, but the lowest bidder had
precedence.
Ranged on one side were the officers of the parish;
on the other, farmers, imbrowned by exposure,
whose features seemed to sharpen with desire of
gain. In the background were perceived flitting
sections of haggard faces, thrust through a half-open
door, or eyes wandering here and there, dilated with
a painful curiosity. The business proceeded. The
chief speaker addressed one of the applicants.
“For what price will you engage to take these
paupers per week?”
“Seventy cents a head.”
“Too much; too much, sir, altogether. We must
economize in these hard times. Mr. Jotham Tuttle
and his wife were good people. The only trouble
was, they were too good. They allowed the poor to
and a quarter, for every head of them. Now this
will never do. It is only offering encouragement
for idlers to come and throw themselves on us to
be maintained. Mr. Jed Tarbox, what will you take
the whole lot on 'em for?”
“Thirty cents for them that's able to help a little
around, and seventy cents for them that don't do nothing
but eat.”
“Lump them all together, Mr. Tarbox, lump them
all together; we can't spend time to go into such
fractional niceties.”
“I suspect there is a cripple or two among them,
and three or four others not much better. Them,
too, that they call working folks, don't do but a
precious little matter of labor. Supposing I take
them on trial a month or two, and allow the town
accordingly?”
“No, sir, no; we can't make no such conditions.
The town must understand what it binds itself to pay.
Will you take them for fifty cents in and out? you'll
make a good bargain.”
“Winter is a coming on,” said Mr. Tarbox, “and
bids fair to be a pretty tight one. Meat and grain
don't grow on every bush. It costs a sight of money
to maintain even my own small family.”
“You will get along with the whole of them cheaper
than any other man; your wife is a smart creature
for business.” As the negotiation seemed drawing
toward a close, the faces of the sorrowing poor were
furrowed brows were seen in the dim distance peering
one above the other, anon flitting, receding, and
returning in scowling, breathless alarm. At length,
after much close and sharp higgling, the bargain was
concluded at fifty-one cents and three quarters per
week.
Murmuring could no longer be suppressed. Miss
Polly Larkin, a meager and fearless spinster, coming
forward, accosted the town officers in a shrill
tone.
“Will you please to have it put into the bargain
that Mr. Tarbox shall hire a doctor for us by the year,
as old Mr. Tuttle always did?”
“Oh! here, that ought to have been thought of.
Here, Mr. Tarbox, will you set it down in the contract
that a doctor shall be hired?”
The purchaser of the poor, disconcerted, did not
readily answer. He twirled round the hat which he
held in his hand, and twice dropped his riding-whip
ere he spoke. “The doctor that Mr. Jotham Tuttle
hired is a dreadful dear man. There is one nigh
to my house that I can get, and pay him visit by
visit, instead of letting it run on to the eend of the
year.”
“He's a steam doctor!” screamed old Mrs. Jones;
“we shall all be killed with emetics and pepper pills.”
And far out in the distance was heard a hoarse echo
of “Steam doctor! we shall all be killed!”
“I do hope,” rejoined Mrs. Jones, “we shall have
in old chists, to save coffins.”
“Mr. Tarbox will undoubtedly see that all is
right,” said the men in power, buttoning themselves
to the throat for their homeward ride.
“Jed Tarbox is a skinflint,” said Polly Larkin, in
a spasmodic whisper, “and his wife is an old dragon.”
The future landlord of the poor, consented to receive
them immediately, and promised to send his
ox-team for such as were not able to walk three miles.
Our scene now changes to a pleasant dwelling in
the heart of the village.
“Maria,” said the sweet-voiced Ellen Mason to
her friend, with whom she was spending the evening,
“when were you last at the alms-house?”
“I am ashamed to say only once since your absence
on your visit. I missed your sweet company
on the long walk so sadly that I had no heart to go
again without you; besides, my school has been so
large as to allow me less leisure than formerly.”
“Can you go next Saturday afternoon?”
“Oh, yes; I have been wishing for some time to
carry a cap I have made for old Mrs. Lester, and
then will have ready sundry other little comforts for
our pensioners.”
With their work - baskets containing such articles
as are ever acceptable to the poor, were it only
as a proof that they are remembered by the more fortunate,
the young friends commenced their walk.
The keen air of closing autumn rendered brisk exercise
done before, how distance is beguiled by friendship,
and friendship heightened by benevolence. The
brilliance of the forest had passed away: the maple
gleaned not forth in crimson, as if its wounded heart
was gushing in life-blood through every leaf. Orange
and umbered brown no longer clothed the lofty
chestnut or the drooping elm. The gnarled oaks
stretched their scorbutic arms; the frozen earth returned
a grating echo to the traveler's wheel; and
Nature, expecting the tyranny of Winter, bowed
down to receive his fetters.
But in the heart of the young friends there was no
winter, and their cheeks brightened with new bloom
as they reached the house where they had so often
dispensed happiness. What was their surprise to
find it tenantless! like the struck tent of the Arab,
all around was desolation.
A casual passer-by informed them where those
whom they sought might be found; but the distance
was too formidable for a pedestrian excursion, and
they were compelled to defer their visit. When it
was next in their power to go, every trace of vegetation
had faded from the landscape, and hill and
valley were heavily robed in snow. The sleigh in
which they rode, furnished a convenient mode of
transporting a greater variety of articles for their
needy friends.
Their driver stopped opposite a tall, narrow, cold-looking
house, with a thin volume of blue smoke
peal of the sleigh-bells attracted attention, and Mrs.
Tarbox, a stout woman, was seen to fly about in various
directions ere she met the young ladies at the
door.
“I suppose you want to see old Mrs. Jones,” said
she. “She is a great deal worse to-day. Indeed,
she is e'en a just gone, and it will do no good to see
her at all.”
Not heeding this unwelcome reception, they entered,
remarking that they desired to see all the poor
people, and were not aware of the illness of good
Mrs. Jones. Considerable confusion was evident;
and among those who were running hither and thither
appeared a boy, with a basket of small sticks and
shavings, hurried by Mrs. Tarbox, to make a fire immediately
in the sick-chamber. Following him, they
entered a room where most of the poor people had
clustered round a bed.
“The poor creature has been a-dying the biggest
part of three days,” said Mrs. Tarbox. “She can't
swallow at all.”
“I could swallow well enough,” murmured the
weak, pettish voice of the sufferer, “if I had any thing
fit to swallow.”
This was tried and proved. She evinced joy at the
sight of her young friends; but it was a fluttering
and faint sensation, as if a stranger to her benumbed
breast. They inquired if she had seen a physician,
to which the lady of the house replied, “Her husband
expected every minute.”
“What is that?” exclaimed the aged woman, as
the unwonted blaze, which the boy had suddenly
kindled, went roaring up the chimney. “What is
that? fire!” fixing her startled eyes, and spreading
out her emaciated hands, with an unearthly scream
of delight. Still opening and shutting her fingers
with a convulsive movement, she uttered, in a hollow
tone, “Stand away, Tom Tarbox; let me see the
fire!”
Alas! it was a deeper eclipse than any intervention
of flesh and blood; for while one moment she exulted
in the unwonted warmth, the next she moaned,
stretched out her feet, and was no more.
The following day, in that cheerless habitation,
were the humble funeral obsequies. The principal
room was hastily put in order, and she who, in her
life, was scarcely allowed to tread on its carpeted
floor, now stretched herself there in the fearless
majesty of death. The cap which Maria's needle
had so neatly finished, with the hope that it would
gain a smile from her humble friend, was plaited
around that stiffened brow, which had taken its last
change from the adversities of earth.
Mrs. Tarbox had directed the poor people to be
dressed in their best clothes, and even spoke kindly
to them, for she knew that the two young ladies were
to be there, and bring their own minister from the
village to perform the last services for the dead.
those unfortunate ones, they gathered near him,
treasuring up every word; and while from his prayer
the balm of the Gospel distilled, and they were
reminded of those mansions of rest with the dear
Redeemer, when repentance had done its work, and
life's discipline was over, and when they saw a tear
on the bright cheeks of their benefactresses, they
wept audibly and long.
On returning from the church-yard, the good clergyman
addressed to each of the inmates some kind
inquiry or religious counsel. Cheered by his attentions,
they listened earnestly, and were surprised to
see the fierce eye of their hostess quail and cower
before his gentle regard.
She was informed by Ellen Mason that two of the
poor children were to be taken to the village in her
sleigh, as she had obtained eligible places for them to
reside, where their young services would be useful.
Inquiry was made for the hat of the little boy. “He
never had one worth speaking of,” said Mrs. Tarbox.
“Yes, but I had,” answered the child, gathering
courage at the prospect of escape. “I had one, till
your boy, Tom Tarbox, struck me with it and threw
it into the fire.” The little girl, who was about to
depart, put her arms affectionately round old Mrs.
Lester, who had tried to instruct her, and said in a
whisper, as she took leave,
“I am sorry I ever called you Goody Minister.”
“And I,” said the boy, “should not have called
me to.”
“My dear children,” was her reply, “I shall always
love you. Remember to say your prayers, and
read your Bible, and to obey those who have the rule
over you. How much I shall miss you! Half of
my little school will now be gone. God be with you,
and bless you.”
Her voice grew tremulous at parting; and the little
ones, though elated with the prospect of a change
of abode, wept at parting with the only being who
had ever labored for their improvement. Her kindness
to these not very promising pupils interested
the two young ladies, who, being themselves engaged
in the work of education, knew how true and sweet
is the affection which springs up between a teacher
and those committed to her charge.
The meek image of that pious, uncomplaining
woman dwelt with them, and they were grieved to
see how pale and thin she had grown since her change
of habitation. On investigating her history, they discovered
that her origin and education were respectable,
and that her constitution had been broken by
devotion to two sickly children, who died young, and
to the long helplessness of an intemperate husband,
who had left her in deep poverty. All that they heard
of her blameless life, of her spirit, resigned, and even
thankful under privation, served to heighten their
sympathy, and their desire to obtain for her a more
fitting refuge. After consulting their older friends,
jointly interested in a school for young ladies, they
felt that the income from their employment would
authorize them in assuming this work of benevolence.
They therefore decided to place her as a boarder
with a widow lady and her daughter, who occupied
a small, neat cottage in the neighborhood.
The gratitude of poor Mrs. Lester at this unexpected
change was unbounded; yet she could by no
means consent to be idle. Kind treatment and unwonted
comfort had a favorable effect on her health,
and she begged to be permitted to take charge of a
few pupils, to assist in defraying the expense of her
situation. She was found entirely competent to impart
the rudiments of knowledge, and also to impress
those habits of industry, good order, and kind affection
which enrich the unfolding elements of character
with a better wealth than the proud precocity of
intellect.
One fine afternoon in spring, Ellen and Maria called
at the cottage. It was a sweet, though humble abode.
A few beds of thyme and other aromatic herbs were
near the door, and among them the nestling bees
wrought, busy and musical. Near the window grew
an aged tree, clasped by a vine, whose peeping flowerets
gave out a fresh odor. It seemed an emblem
of the ancient teacher, surrounded by her happy pupils.
Their young, bright eyes were reverently fixed
on her, as, seated in her arm-chair, with a large Bible
before her, she read to them a few sentences, preparatory
hung beside her, their work-baskets and books were
laid neatly in their respective places, every little being
was quiet and attentive, for scrupulous order and
discipline were features of her system; and whoever
acquires these in childhood hath a goodly heritage
for riper days. Her simple garb was thoroughly neat
and appropriate, and her intonation tender, as she
uttered the inspired words, “Little children, love one
another.” At the sight of her young benefactresses
the light of grateful joy beamed from her placid features,
as she exclaimed, “What am I, or what was
my father's house, that thou hast brought me hitherto?”
Every interview heightened their good opinion of
this venerable woman, and their satisfaction at having
been able to rescue her from neglect, and render
her declining days comfortable. Such deeds of benevolence
give a charm to youth beyond the fascinations
of beauty; and a heartfelt delight, that vanity,
amid its proudest triumphs, never attains.
The sufferings of the homeless poor are but little
understood by those whose hearth-stones are always
bright with domestic comfort. Especially the custom
which has prevailed in some of our villages, of placing
them where they can be maintained at the least expense,
or farming them out to the lowest bidder, adds
unmingled bitterness to their cup of misery. Self-interest,
too often leagued with inhumanity, deprives
them of those comforts which infirmity and age require;
and the open consciousness that their scanty support
is deemed a burden, help to dry up the springs of
existence. Too much scope is thus allowed to tyranny
and cold calculation; and to the sick, the no
very delicate “measuring how long they have to live,”
adds to the force of depression and disease.
Even in our best-conducted alms-houses, there must
be many privations and trials to those whose earlier
days were marked by better fortunes, and more cheering
hopes. Among the keenest, is the absence of
human sympathy. The gentler sex, with whom is the
wealth of sympathy, and the most frequent opportunities
to exercise it, should not be forgetful of these
forgotten ones. A visit, and a few kind words, are
cordials of power, spots of greenness amid the “dark
mountains, where their feet stumble” onward to the
grave. Let the young and fortunate, amid their walks
of benevolence, not overlook the inmates of our alms-houses,
remembering that the consolation which they
there impart, is in conformity to His blessed example
who despised not the lowest, when He came to
save the lost.
| THE ALMS-HOUSE. Myrtis | |