The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man/Chapter XX
CHAPTER XX.
THE CONCLUSION.
It was early in the October following the 'Winter of Paulina's death that Mr. Aikin said, one fine day, to his children, "Come, if mother says yes, we'll all go down and see the new house."
As mother always said "yes" when any reasonable pleasure was offered to the children, hats and shawls were half on before the little monosyllable was fairly uttered. "Come, danfather, I tant half see it if you don't see it," said little Phil; and, "Come, Aunt Lottie, we sha'n't call it seeing it if you don't see it," said the rest of the children; and, "You and Juliet must go, Mr. Barlow," said Aikin, "and tell us how you like your new quarters;" and so, illustrating the truth that governed this family, that the good and happiness of one was the good and happiness of all, they set forth.
"Don't you and Juliet walk so fast," called out little Phil to his eager brother William, "I tant hardly hold danfather up, he stumbles so!"
"Phil is the most thoughtful and careful child you ever had, Susan; I tell you, he takes after me."
Susan, dutiful daughter as she was, could not but smile at the particular virtues her father had selected to fix the resemblance on, as she replied "I wish he may grow up half as good, father."
"Aunt Lottie," said little Ruth, "don't Mr. Beckwith getting this house done so soon for father put you in mind of Mr. Barlow's story about Aladdin's lamp?"
"I never take much notice of such stories, Ruth, but it puts me in mind of those words in the Bible, 'The liberal man deviseth liberal things; and the good that he purposeth, that he doeth quickly.'"
"I never knew anybody like you, Aunt Lottie; you always remember something in the Bible that seems to suit."
"Because, dear, I read the Bible more than all other books, and there is something in it fitting all occasions."
"I love to read the Bible with you, Aunt Lottie, for it seems as if—"
"As if what?" said Ruth.
"I know what is in my mind, but I don't know as I can express it. When our schoolmistress reads it to us, it seems as if she read it because she thought she ought to; but you seem to read it because you love it."
None should attempt to impart religious sentiments to children who do not feel them. "The letter killeth, the spirit giveth life."
"Where shall we begin first," said Harry Aikin, "at the kitchen or parlour?".
"Parlour!—are we going to have a parlour? Oh, that's what mother has been making the new carpet for!"
"Well, here it is, you see, with nice blinds, and a good grate, and all finished off neatly, so that you will have good reason for keeping every thing in order; and here is a place for books" (he opened the doors)—"bless me, it is half full already!" The children crowded round, and eagerly took down the books, and found them to be presents from each member of the Beckwith family to each member of the Aikins, down to "Cobwebs to catch Flies," and "Mother Goose's Melodies," for little Phil. The last grandfather averred to be nothing new-fangled, and about the divertingest book that was ever writ for children. To confess the truth, Uncle Phil's chief lore was derived from these immortal lyrics.
We wish that some of our friends whom, in splendid mansions, we have heard fretting and repining because they had not this elegance here, and that improvement there, could have heard the exclamations and seen the sparkling eyes of our humble friends as they surveyed their new tenement. "How nice," exclaimed Anne, "this parlour will be for our 'sociables!'—it will seem like a sociable every evening, with only our own family."
"So it will, Anne," cried Uncle Phil, rubbing his hands, "I declare it's as pleasant—ena'most—as the old house in Essex." Uncle Phil's eye caught the smile on his daughter's lips: "I know, gals," he added, "that was kind o' shattered when we left, and this is snugger and more fixed up; but, after all, it has not that look."
"You are quite right, father," replied Susan; and, as she spoke, the loving matron's eye turned to her husband: "there is nothing can have that look that our first love has."
"This little bedroom is next to Mr. Barlow's room, and just big enough for a single bed—this must be for Juliet," decided one voice, and echoed many others, as they passed out of the back room into a small apartment fitted up with presses and drawers, and ventilated and lighted by glazed panels above the doors. On the second floor were three rooms, in the largest a Franklin; and Mrs. Aikin, remembering Mr. Beck with had made inquiries as to what mode of warming her room Charlotte preferred, at once assigned this to her. "To be sure this is Aunt Lottie's," said little Ruth; "there is the very picture, Aunt Lottie, you was explaining to me at the print-shop window when Mrs. Beckwith stopped to speak to us."
"'Christ healing the sick' is the right picture for your room, Lottie," said her sister.
"Oh, Mrs. Beckwith is too good," said the grateful Lottie.
"Mrs. Beckwith is very good, but nothing in the world is too good for you. Aunt Lottie;" and, "No, indeed!" and, "No, indeed!" was echoed by the children.
We must not detain our readers with further particulars; suffice it to say, the rooms were well ventilated; presses and drawers abounded; the kitchen had every convenience to facilitate order and lighten labour; there was a pump, that supplied water from a copious cistern—drain—a large pantry, and close cupboards, &c. &;c.; and all the conveniences, from garret to cellar, producing such an amount of comfort to a worthy family, did not, as Mr. Beckwith demonstrated by his accounts, cost so much as many a single article of ornamental furniture, nor twice as much as a single pocket-handkerchief, or embroidered cape, sold daily by Mr. Stewart to the ladies of our city!
In the evening, at their own dwelling, the house naturally was the subject of conversation. "How very lucky," said Uncle Phil, "that Mr. Beckwith happened to build a house that suits us to a t!"
"It is not luck, father," said Harry Aikin, "when things suit precisely. Mr. Beckwith has studied the condition and wants of the labouring classes. He tells me, the attention of many rich men has been turned to the miserable tenements of the poorer classes; and he says, they believe the want of comfort and convenience about them to be a great evil to society—they think the intemperance of many men may be traced to this cause. To say nothing of the crowds huddled together in filthy unwholesome alleys, even the better houses of the poor are discouraging to the women: they get wearied out with their necessary work, and no strength and time left to clean a house that always wants cleaning. The poor husband has been working hard all day; comes home at night to a filthy, dark, cold room—his wife cross, or half sick and dumpish, and crying children—no wonder he goes out to the corner grocery, that looks so light and cheerful!"
"Then, after all, father, it's the woman, and not the house, that drives him off?"
"Ah, Will, the poor wife is disheartened; we are weak creatures, my son, and need help on every side."
"I am sure you and mother have not had so many helps."
"Have not we? I'll tell you some of my helps, Will: I had a good education, I do not mean as to learning, that is only one part of it; I was taught to use my faculties. But, first, and best of all, I early learned to seek the favour of God, and the approval of conscience. I have always had a cheerful home, a clean room to come to, clean children, and a nice wife. Your mother has performed her duties, great and small; as to the small, she never has failed a day since we were married to put on her t'other gown at evening, and a clean cap with a riband bow, most always of blue, the colour she knows I like best. Her trade has helped us through many a hard-rubbing day; and it has given me peace of mind, for I know, if I were taken from you, she could and would support you without running to any widows' societies or assistance societies. As to other helps, here has been your good grandfather setting us examples of kindness, and tending each of you as you came along; and your dear Aunt Lottie always a blessed help."
"Ah, yes! such a comfort!" interposed Susan.
"And then. Heaven-directed, came Mr. Barlow to give you better instruction; and, finally, Mr. Beck with to help us to a house, and take nothing from our independence; for he says the rent, which does not exceed more than that we now pay, will yield him eight per cent, for the money he has invested. He says he can afford the house lower to me than to some others, for he is sure of being punctually paid; and sure you will not mutilate and deface, as most children do, shaving the doors with penknives, breaking windows, and destroying every way. So, you see, that virtue, and good habits, and manners (which are the lesser virtues), are not only in the highest sense treasures, they are money to you. In the labouring class, property is a sign of good morals. In this country nobody sinks into deep poverty—slumps through, as your grandfather says, except by some vice, directly or indirectly. There are, perhaps, a few exceptions; I have known one, and but one. Come here, Ruth; is my sermon tiring you?"
"No, indeed, father, I always like your preaching; but I was thinking."
"Of what, Ruth?"
"That the scholars at our school don't know Mr. Beckwith; if they did, they would not call rich people so hateful."
"Children are excellent judges."
"But, father, their folks tell them."
"Observe for yourselves, my children, and don't trust to what others tell you. If you make good use of your bodily eyes, and the eyes of your mind, you will see that Providence has bound the rich and the poor by one chain. Their interests are the same; the prosperity of one is the prosperity of all. The fountains are with the rich, but they are no better than a stagnant pool till they flow in streams to the labouring people. The enterprise and success of the merchant give us employment and rich rewards for our labour. We are dependant on them, but they are quite as dependant on us. If there were none of these hateful rich people, Ruth, who, think you, would build hospitals, and provide asylums for orphans, and for the deaf and dumb, and the blind?"
"I never thought of that, father!"
"There are many older than you, my child, who come to wrong conclusions for want of thinking."
"Now, Harry Aikin," said Uncle Phil, who (as our readers may be) was getting tired and sleepy, "I don't see the use of so much thinking; thinking is dreadful puzzling work, I tell you! The whole of it is, you must just do your duty thoroughly, and then you'll be contented in this world, and happy in the next; and poverty or riches won't make a straw's difference either way."
"But 'tis a comfort, father," said Susan, "to the poor, to feel that there is nothing low in poverty—to remember that the greatest, wisest, and best Being that ever appeared on earth had no part nor lot in the riches of this world; and that, for our sakes, he became poor."
"To be sure it is, Susy—to be sure it is."