ANTIDOTE FOR MELANCHOLY.

“AH, friend K——, good-morning to you; I'm really happy to see you looking so cheerful. Pray, to what unusual circumstance may we be indebted for this happy, smiling face of yours, this morning?” (Our friend K——had been, unfortunately, of a very desponding and somewhat of a choleric turn of mind, previously.)

“Really, is the change so perceptible, then? Well, my dear sir, you shall have the secret; for, happy as I appear—and be assured, my appearances are by no means deceptive, for I never felt more happy in my life—it will still give me pleasure to inform you, and won't take long, either. It is simply this; I have made a whole family happy!”

“Indeed! Why, you have discovered a truly valuable: recipe for blues, then, which may be usedad libitum, eh, K——?”

“You may well say that. But, really, my friend, I feel no little mortification at not making so simple and valuable a discovery at an earlier period of my life, Heaven knows,” continued K——, “I have looked for contentment everywhere else. First, I sought for wealthy in the gold mines of California, thinking that was the true source of all earthly joys; but after obtaining it, I found myself with such a multiplicity of cares and anxieties, that I was really more unhappy than ever. I then sought for pleasure in travelling. This answered somewhat the purpose of dissipating cares, &c., so long as it lasted; but, dear me, it gave no permanent satisfaction. After seeing the whole world, I was as badly off as Alexander the Great. He cried for another world toconquer, and I cried for another world tosee.”

The case of our friend, I imagine, differs not materially from that of a host of other seekers of contentment in this productive world. Like “blind leaders of the blind,” our invariable fate is to go astray in the universal race for happiness. How common is it, after seeking for it in every place but the right one, for the selfish man to lay the whole blame upon this fine world—as if anybody was to blame but himself. Even some professors of religion are too apt to libel the world. “Well, this is a troublesome world, to make the best of it,” is not an uncommon expression; neither is it a truthful one. “Troubles, disappointments, losses, crosses, sickness, and death, make up the sum and substance of our existence here,” add they, with tremendous emphasis, as if they had no hand in producing the sad catalogue. The trouble is, we set too high a value on our own merits; we imagine ourselves deserving of great favours and privileges, while we are doing nothing to merit them. In this respect, we are not altogether unlike the young man in the parable, who, by-the-by, was also a professor—he professed very loudly of having done all those good things “from his youth up.” But when the command came, “go sell all thou hast, and give to the poor,” &c., it soon took the conceit out of him.

In this connexion, there are two or three seemingly important considerations, which I feel some delicacy in touching upon here. However, in the kindest possible spirit, I would merely remark, that there is a very large amount of wealth in the Church—by this I include its wealthy members, of course; and refer to no particular denomination; by Church, I mean all Christian denominations. Now, in connexion with this fact, such a question as this arises in my mind—and I put it, not, for the purpose of fault-finding, for I don't know that I have a right view of the matter, but merely for the consideration of those who are fond of hoarding up their earthly gains, viz.: Suppose the modern Church was composed of such professors as the self-denying disciples of our Saviour,—with their piety, simplicity, and this wealth; what, think you, would be the consequence? Now I do not intend to throw out any such flings as, “comparisons are odious”—“this is the modern Christian age”—“the age of Christian privileges,” and all that sort of nonsense. Still, I am rather inclined to the opinion, that if we were all—in and out of the Church—disposed to live up to, or carry out what we professedly know to be right, it would be almost as difficult to find real trouble, as it is now to find real happiness.

The sources of contentment and discontentment are discoverable, therefore, without going into a metaphysical examination of the subject. Just in proportion as we happen to discharge, or neglect known duties, are we, according to my view, happy or miserable on earth. Philosophy tells us that our happiness and well-being depends upon a conformity to certain unalterable laws—moral, physical, and organic—which act upon the intellectual, moral, and material universe, of which man is a part, and which determine, or regulate the growth, happiness, and well-being of all organic beings. These views, when reduced to their simple meaning, amount to the same thing, call it by what name we will. Duties, of course, imply legal or moral obligations, which we are certainly legally or morally bound to pay, perform, or discharge. And certain it is, there is no getting over them—they are as irresistible as Divine power, as universal as Divine presence, as permanent as Divine existence, and no art nor cunning of man can disconnect unhappiness from transgressing them. How necessary to our happiness, then, is it, not only to know, but to perform our whole duty?

One of the great duties of man in this life, and, perhaps, the most neglected, is that of doing good, or benefiting one another. That doing good is clearly a duty devolving upon man, there can be no question. The benevolent Creator, in placing man in the world, endowed him with mental and physical energies, which clearly denote that he is to be active in his day and generation.

Active in what? Certainly not in mischief, for that would not be consistent with Divine goodness. Neither should we suppose that we are here for our own sakes simply. Such an idea would be presumptuous. For what purpose, then, was man endowed with all these facilities of mind and body, but to do good and glorify his Maker? True philosophy teaches that benevolence was not only the design of the Creator in all His works, but the fruits to be expected from them. The whole infinite contrivances of everything above, around, and within us, are directed to certain benevolent issues, and all the laws of nature are in perfect harmony with this idea.

That such is the design of man may also be inferred from the happiness which attends every good action, and the misery of discontentment which attends those who not only do wrong, but are useless to themselves and to society. Friend K——'s case, above quoted, is a fair illustration of this truth.

Now, then, if it is our duty to do all the good we can, and I think this will be admitted, particularly by the Christian, and this be measured by our means and opportunity, then there are many whom Providence has blessed with the means and opportunity of doing a very great amount of good. And if it be true, as it manifestly is, that “it is more blessed to give than receive,” then has Providence also blessed them with very great privileges. The privilege of giving liberally, and thus obtaining for themselves the greater blessing, which is the result of every benevolent action, the simple satisfaction with ourselves which follows a good act, or consciousness of having done our duty in relieving a fellow-creature, are blessings indeed, which none but the good or benevolent can realize. Such kind spirits are never cast down. Their hearts always light and cheerful—rendered so by their many kind offices,—they can always enjoy their neighbours, rich or poor, high or low, and love them too; and with a flow of spirits which bespeak a heart all right within, they make all glad and happy around them.

Doing good is an infallible antidote for melancholy. When the heart seems heavy, and our minds can light upon nothing but little naughty perplexities, everything going wrong, no bright spot or relief anywhere for our crazy thoughts, and we are finally wound up in a web of melancholy, depend upon it there is nothing, nothing which can dispel this angry, ponderous, and unnatural cloud from ourrheumatic mindsandconscienceslike a charity visit—to give liberally to those in need of succour, the poor widow, the suffering, sick, and poor, the aged invalid, the lame, the blind, &c., &c.; all have a claim upon your bounty, and how they will bless you and love you for it—anyhow, they will thank kind Providence for your mission of love. He that makes one such visit will make another and another; he can't very well get weary in such well-doing, for his is the greater blessing. It is a blessing indeed: how the heart is lightened, the soul enlarged, the mind improved, and even health; for the mind being liberated from perplexities, the body is at rest, the nerves in repose, and the blood, equalized, courses freely through the system, giving strength, vigour, and equilibrium to the whole complicated machinery. Thus we can think clearer, love better, enjoy life, and be thankful for it.

What a beautiful arrangement it is that we can, by doing good to others, do so much good to ourselves! The wealthy classes, who “rise above society like clouds above the earth, to diffuse an abundant dew,” should not forget this fact. The season has now about arrived, when the good people of all classes will be most busily engaged in these delightful duties. The experiment is certainly worth trying by all. If all those desponding individuals, whose chief comfort is to growl at this “troublesome world,” will but take the hint, look trouble full in the face, and relieve it, they will, like friend K——, feel much better.

It may be set down as a generally correct axiom, (with some few exceptions, perhaps, such as accidents, and the deceptions and cruelties of those whom we injudiciously select for friends and confidants, from our want of discernment), that life is much what we make it, and so is the world.

AH me! Am I really a rich man, or am I not? That is the question. I am sure I don't feel rich; and yet, here I am written down among the “wealthy citizens” as being worth seventy thousand dollars! How the estimate was made, or who furnished the data, is all a mystery to me. I am sure I wasn't aware of the fact before. “Seventy thousand dollars!” That sounds comfortable, doesn't it? Seventy thousand dollars!—But where is it? Ah! There is the rub! How true it is that people always know more about you than you do yourself.

Before this unfortunate book came out (“The Wealthy Citizens of Philadelphia”), I was jogging on very quietly. Nobody seemed to be aware of the fact that I was a rich man, and I had no suspicion of the thing myself. But, strange to tell, I awoke one morning and found myself worth seventy thousand dollars! I shall never forget that day. Men who had passed me in the street with a quiet, familiar nod, now bowed with a low salaam, or lifted their hats deferentially, as I encountered them on thepave.

“What's the meaning of all this?” thought I. “I haven't stood up to be shot at, nor sinned against innocence and virtue. I haven't been to Paris. I don't wear moustaches. What has given me this importance?”

And, musing thus, I pursued my way in quest of money to help me out with some pretty heavy payments. After succeeding, though with some difficulty in obtaining what I wanted, I returned to my store about twelve o'clock. I found a mercantile acquaintance awaiting me, who, without many preliminaries, thus stated his business:

“I want,” said he, with great coolness, “to get a loan of six or seven thousand dollars; and I don't know of any one to whom I can apply with more freedom and hope of success than yourself. I think I can satisfy you, fully, in regard to security.

“My dear sir,” replied I, “if you only wanted six or seven hundred dollars, instead of six or seven thousand dollars, I could not accommodate you. I have just come in from a borrowing expedition myself.”

I was struck with the sudden change in the man's countenance. He was not only disappointed, but offended. He did not believe my statement. In his eyes, I had merely resorted to a subterfuge, or, rather, told a lie, because I did not wish to let him have my money. Bowing with cold formality, he turned away and left my place of business. His manner to me has been reserved ever since.

On the afternoon of that day, I was sitting in the back part of my store musing on some, matter of business, when I saw a couple of ladies enter. They spoke to one of my clerks, and he directed them back to where I was taking things comfortably in an old arm-chair.

“Mr. G——, I believe?” said the elder of the two ladies, with a bland smile.

I had already arisen, and to this question, or rather affirmation, I bowed assent.

“Mr. G——,” resumed the lady, producing a small book as she spoke, “we are a committee, appointed to make collections in this district for the purpose of setting up a fair in aid of the funds of the Esquimaux Missionary Society. It is the design of the ladies who have taken this matter in hand to have a very large collection of articles, as the funds of the society are entirely exhausted. To the gentlemen of our district, and especially to those who leave been liberallyblessed with this world's goods”—this was particularly emphasized—“we look for important aid. Upon you, sir, we have called first, in order that you may head the subscription, and thus set an example of liberality to others.”

And the lady handed me the book in the most “of course” manner in the world, and with the evident expectation that I would put down at least fifty-dollars.

Of course I was cornered, and must do something, I tried to be bland and polite; but am inclined to think that I failed in the effort. As for fairs, I never did approve of them. But that was nothing. The enemy had boarded me so suddenly and so completely, that nothing, was left for me but to surrender at discretion, and I did so with as good grace as possible. Opening my desk, I took out a five dollar bill and presented it; to the elder of the two ladies, thinking that I was doing very well indeed. She took the money, but was evidently disappointed; and did not even ask me to head the list with my name.

“How money does harden the heart!” I overheard one of my fair visiters say to the other, in a low voices but plainly intended for my edification, as they walked off with their five dollar bill.

“Confound your impudence!” I said to myself, thus taking my revenge out of them. “Do you think I've got nothing else to do with my money but scatter it to the four winds?”

And I stuck my thumbs firmly in the armholes of my waistcoat, and took a dozen turns up and down my store, in order to cool off.

“Confound your impudence!” I then repeated, and quietly sat down again in the old arm-chair.

On the next day I had any number of calls from money-hunters. Business men, who had never thought of asking me for loans, finding that I was worth seventy thousand dollars, crowded in upon me for temporary favours, and, when disappointed in their expectations, couldn't seem to understand it. When I spoke of being “hard up” myself, they looked as if they didn't clearly comprehend what I meant.

A few days after the story of my wealth had gone abroad, I was sitting, one evening, with my family, when I was informed that a lady was in the parlour, and wished to see me.

“A lady!” said I.

“Yes, sir,” replied the servant.

“Is she alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What does she want?”

“She did not say, sir.”

“Very well. Tell her I'll be down in a few moments.”

When I entered the parlour, I found a woman, dressed in mourning, with her veil closely drawn.

“Mr. G——?” she said, in a low, sad voice.

I bowed, and took a place upon the sofa where she was sitting, and from which she had not risen upon my entrance.

“Pardon the great liberty I have taken,” she began, after a pause of embarrassment, and in an unsteady voice. “But, I believe I have not mistaken your character for sympathy and benevolence, nor erred in believing that your hand is ever ready to respond to the generous impulses of our heart.”

I bowed again, and my visiter went on.

“My object in calling upon you I will briefly state. A year ago my husband died. Up to that time I had never known the want of anything that money could buy. He was a merchant of this city, and supposed to be in good circumstances. But he left an insolvent estate; and now, with five little ones to care for, educate, and support, I have parted with nearly my last dollar, and have not a single friend to whom I can look for aid.”

There was a deep earnestness and moving pathos in the tones of the woman's voice, that went to my heart. She paused for a few moments, overcome with her feelings, and then resumed:—

“One in an extremity like mine, sir, will do many things from which, under other circumstances she should shrink. This is my only excuse for troubling you at the present time. But I cannot see my little family in want without an effort to sustain them; and, with a little aid, I see my way clear to do so. I was well educated, and feel not only competent, but willing to undertake a school. There is one, the teacher of which being in bad health, wishes to give it up, and if I can get the means to buy out her establishment, will secure an ample and permanent income for my family. To aid me, sir, in doing this, I now make an appeal to you. I know you are able, and I believe you are willing to put forth your hand and save my children from want, and, it may be, separation.”

The woman still remained closely veiled; I could not, therefore, see her face. But I could perceive that she was waiting with trembling suspense for my answer. Heaven knows my heart responded freely to her appeal.

“How much will it take to purchase this establishment?” I inquired.

“Only a thousand dollars,” she replied.

I was silent. A thousand dollars!

“I do not wish it, sir, as a gift,” she said “only as a loan. In a year or two I will be able to repay it.”

“My dear madam,” was my reply, “had I the ability most gladly would I meet your wishes. But, I assure you I have not. A thousand dollars taken from my business would destroy it.”

A deep sigh, that was almost a groan, came up from the breast of the stranger, and her head dropped low upon her bosom. She seemed to have fully expected the relief for which she applied; and to be stricken to the earth by my words! We were both unhappy.

“May I presume to ask your name, madam?” said I, after a pause.

“It would do no good to mention it,” she replied, mournfully. “It has cost me a painful effort to come to you; and now that my hope has proved, alas! in vain, I must beg the privilege of still remaining a stranger.”

She arose, as she said this. Her figure was tall and dignified. Dropping me a slight courtesy, she was turning to go away, when I said,

“But, madam, even if I have not the ability to grant your request, I may still have it in my power to aid you in this matter. I am ready to do all I can; and, without doubt, among the friends of your husband will be found numbers to step forward and join in affording you the assistance so much desired, when they are made aware of your present extremity.”

The lady made an impatient gesture, as if my words were felt as a mockery or an insult, and turning from me, again walked from the room with a firm step. Before I could recover myself, she had passed into the street, and I was left standing alone. To this day I have remained in ignorance of her identity. Cheerfully would I have aided her to the extent of my ability to do so. Her story touched my feelings and awakened my liveliest sympathies, and if, on learning her name and making proper inquiries into her circumstances, I had found all to be as she had stated, I would have felt it a duty to interest myself in her behalf, and have contributed in aid of the desired end to the extent of my ability. But she came to me under the false idea that I had but to put my hand in my pocket, or write a check upon the bank, and lo! a thousand dollars were forthcoming. And because I did not do this, she believed me unfeeling, selfish, and turned from me mortified, disappointed, and despairing.

I felt sad for weeks after this painful interview. On the very next morning I received a letter from an artist, in which he spoke of the extremity of his circumstances, and begged me to purchase a couple of pictures. I called at his rooms, for I could not resist his appeal. The pictures did not strike me as possessing much artistic value.

“What do you ask for them?” I inquired.

“I refused a hundred dollars for the pair. But I am compelled to part with them now, and you shall have them for eighty.”

I had many other uses for eighty dollars, and therefore shook my head. But, as he looked disappointed, I offered to take one of the pictures at forty dollars. To this he agreed. I paid the money, and the picture was sent home. Some days afterward, I was showing it to a friend.

“What did you pay for it?” he asked.

“Forty dollars,” I replied.

The friend smiled strangely.

“What's the matter?” said I.

“He offered it to me for twenty-five.”

“That picture?”

“Yes.”

“He asked me eighty for this and another, and said he had refused a hundred for the pair.”

“He lied though. He thought, as you were well off, that he must ask you a good stiff price, or you wouldn't buy.”

“The scoundrel!”

“He got ahead of you, certainly.”

“But it's the last time,” said I, angrily.

And so things went on. Scarcely a day passed in which my fame as a wealthy citizen did not subject me to some kind of experiment from people in want of money. If I employed a porter for any service and asked what was to pay, after the work was done, ten chances to one that he didn't touch his hat and reply,

“Anything that you please, sir,” in the hope that I, being a rich man, would be ashamed to offer him less than about four times his regular price. Poor people in abundance called upon me for aid; and all sorts of applications to give or lend money met me at every turn. And when I, in self-defence, begged off as politely as possible, hints gentle or broad, according to the characters or feelings of those who came, touching the hardening and perverting influence of wealth, were thrown out for my especial edification.

And still the annoyance continues. Nobody but myself doubts the fact that I am worth from seventy to a hundred thousand dollars, and I am, therefore, considered allowable game for all who are too idle or prodigal to succeed in the world; or as Nature's almoner to all who are suffering from misfortunes.

Soon after the publication to which I have alluded was foisted upon our community as a veritable document, I found myself a secular dignitary in the church militant. Previously I had been only a pew-holder, and an unambitious attendant upon the Sabbath ministrations of the Rev. Mr——. But a new field suddenly opened before me; I was a man of weight and influence, and must be used for what I was worth. It is no joke, I can assure the reader, when I tell them that the way my pocket suffered was truly alarming. I don't know, but I have seriously thought, sometimes, that if I hadn't kicked loose from my dignity, I would have been gazetted as a bankrupt long before this time.

Soon after sending in my resignation as vestryman or deacon, I will not say which, I met the Rev. Mr——, and the way he talked to me about the earth being the “Lord's and the fullness thereof;” about our having the poor always with us; about the duties of charity, and the laying up of treasure in heaven, made me ashamed to go to church for a month to come. I really began to fear that I was a doomed man and that the reputation of being a “wealthy citizen” was going to sink me into everlasting perdition. But I am getting over that feeling now. My cash-book, ledger, and bill-book set me right again; and I can button up my coat and draw my purse-strings, when guided by the dictates of my own judgment, without a fear of the threatened final consequences before my eyes. Still, I am the subject of perpetual annoyance from all sorts of people, who will persist in believing that I am made of money; and many of these approach me in, such a way as to put it almost entirely out of my power to say “no.” They come with appeals for small amounts, as loans, donations to particular charities, or as the price of articles that I do not want, but which I cannot well refuse to take. I am sure that, since I have obtained my present unenviable reputation, it hasn't cost me a cent less than two thousand, in money given away, loaned never to be returned, and in the purchase of things that I never would have thought of buying.

And, with all this, I have made more enemies than I ever before had in my life, and estranged half of my friends and acquaintances.

Seriously, I have it in contemplation to “break” one of these days, in order to satisfy the world that I am not a rich man. I see no other effectual remedy for present grievances.

DESPAIR not of the better partThat lies in human kind—A gleam of light still flickerethIn e'en the darkest mind;The savage with his club of war,The sage so mild and good,Are linked in firm, eternal bondsOf common brotherhood.Despair not! Oh despair not, then,For through this world so wide,No nature is so demon-like,But there's an angel side.The huge rough stones from out the mine,Unsightly and unfair,Have veins of purest metal hidBeneath the surface there;Few rocks so bare but to their heightsSome tiny moss-plant clings,And round the peaks, so desolate,The sea-bird sits and sings.Believe me, too, that rugged souls,Beneath their rudeness hideMuch that is beautiful and good—We've all our angel side.In all there is an inner depth—A far off, secret way,Where, through dim windows of the soul,God sends His smiling ray;In every human heart there isA faithful sounding chord,That may be struck, unknown to us,By some sweet loving word;The wayward heart in vain may tryIts softer thoughts to hide,Some unexpected tone revealsIt has its angel side.Despised, and low, and trodden down,Dark with the shade of sin:Deciphering not those halo lightsWhich God hath lit within;Groping about in utmost night,Poor prisoned souls there are,Who guess not what life's meaning is,Nor dream of heaven afar;Oh! that some gentle hand of loveTheir stumbling steps would guide,And show them that, amidst it all,Life has its angel side.Brutal, and mean, and dark enough,God knows, some natures are,But He, compassionate, comes near—And shall we stand afar?Our cruse of oil will not grow less,If shared with hearty hand,And words of peace and looks of loveFew natures can withstand.Love is the mighty conqueror—Love is the beauteous guide—Love, with her beaming eye, can seeWe've all our angel side.

IN the month of December, in the neighbourhood of Paris, two men, one young, the other rather advanced in years, were descending the village street, which was made uneven and almost impassable by stones and puddles.

Opposite to them, and ascending this same street, a labourer, fastened to a sort of dray laden with a cask, was slowly advancing, and beside him a little girl, of about eight years old, who was holding the end of the barrow. Suddenly the wheel went over an enormous stone, which lay in the middle of the street, and the car leaned towards the side of the child.

“The man must be intoxicated,” cried the young man, stepping forward to prevent the overturn of the dray. When he reached the spot, he perceived that the man was blind.

“Blind!” said he, turning towards his old friend. But the latter, making him a sign to be silent, placed his hand, without speaking, on that of the labourer, while the little girl smiled. The blind man immediately raised his head, his sightless eyes were turned towards the two gentlemen, his face shone with an intelligent and natural pleasure, and, pressing closely the hand which held his own, he said, with an accent of tenderness,

“Mr. Desgranges!”

“How!” said the young man, moved and surprised; “he knew you by the touch of your hand.”

“I do not need even that,” said the blind man; “when he passes me in the street, I say to myself, 'That is his step.'” And, seizing the hand of Mr. Desgranges, he kissed it with ardour. “It was indeed you, Mr. Desgranges, who prevented my falling—always you.”

“Why,” said the young man, “do you expose yourself to such accidents, by dragging this cask?”

“One must attend to his business, sir,” replied he, gayly.

“Your business?”

“Undoubtedly,” added Mr. Desgranges. “James is our water-carrier. But I shall scold him for going out without his wife to guide him.”

“My wife was gone away. I took the little girl. One must be a little energetic, must he not? And, you see, I have done very well since I last saw you, my dear Mr. Desgranges; and you have assisted me.”

“Come, James, now finish serving your customers, and then you can call and see me. I am going home.”

“Thank you, sir. Good-by, sir; good-by, sir.”

And he started again, dragging his cask, while the child turned towards the gentlemen her rosy and smiling face.

“Blind, and a water-carrier!” repeated the young man, as they walked along.

“Ah! our James astonishes you, my young friend. Yes, it is one of those miracles like that of a paralytic who walks. Should you like to know his story?”

“Tell it to me.”

“I will do so. It does not abound in facts or dramatic incidents, but it will interest you, I think, for it is the history of a soul, and of a good soul it is—a man struggling against the night. You will see the unfortunate man going step by step out of a bottomless abyss to begin his life again—to create his soul anew. You will see how a blind man, with a noble heart for a stay, makes his way even in this world.”

While they were conversing, they reached the house of Mr. Desgranges, who began in this manner:—

“One morning, three years since, I was walking on a large dry plain, which separates our village from that of Noiesemont, and which is all covered with mill-stones just taken from the quarry. The process of blowing the rocks was still going on. Suddenly a violent explosion was heard. I looked. At a distance of four or five hundred paces, a gray smoke, which seemed to come from a hole, rose from the ground. Stones were then thrown up in the air, horrible cries were heard, and springing from this hole appeared a man, who began to run across the plain as if mad. He shook his arms, screamed, fell down, got up again, disappeared in the great crevices of the plain, and appeared again. The distance and the irregularity of his path prevented me from distinguishing anything clearly; but, at the height of his head, in the place of his face, I saw a great, red mark. In alarm, I approached him, while from the other side of the plain, from Noiesemont, a troop of men and women were advancing, crying aloud. I was the first to reach the poor creature. His face was all one wound, and torrents of blood were streaming over his garments, which were all in rags.

“Scarcely had I taken hold of him, when a woman, followed by twenty peasants, approached, and threw herself before him.

“'James, James, is it you? I did not know you, James.'

“The poor man, without answering, struggled furiously in our hands.

“'Ah!' cried the woman, suddenly, and with a heart-rending voice, 'it is he!'

“She had recognised a large silver pin, which fastened his shirt, which was covered with blood.

“It was indeed he, her husband, the father of three children, a poor labourer, who, in blasting a rock with powder, had received the explosion in his face, and was blind, mutilated, perhaps mortally wounded.

“He was carried home. I was obliged to go away the same day, on a journey, and was absent a month. Before my departure, I sent him our doctor, a man devoted to his profession as a country physician, and as learned as a city physician. On my return—

“'Ah! well, doctor,' said I, 'the blind man?'

“'It is all over with him. His wounds are healed, his head is doing well, he is only blind; but he will die; despair has seized him, and he will kill himself. I can do nothing more for him, This is all,' he said; 'an internal inflammation is taking place. He must die.'

“I hastened to the poor man. I arrived. I shall never forget the sight. He was seated on a wooden stool, beside a hearth on which there was no fire, his eyes covered with a white bandage. On the floor an infant of three months was sleeping; a little girl of four years old was playing in the ashes; one, still older, was shivering opposite to her; and, in front of the fireplace, seated on the disordered bed, her arms hanging down, was the wife. What was left to be imagined in this spectacle was more than met the eye. One felt that for several hours, perhaps, no word had been spoken in this room. The wife was doing nothing, and seemed to have no care to do anything. They were not merely unfortunate, they seemed like condemned persons. At the sound of my footsteps they arose, but without speaking.

“'You are the blind man of the quarry?”

“'Yes, sir.'

“'I have come to see you.'

“'Thank you, sir.'

“'You met with a sad misfortune there.'

“'Yes, sir.'

“His voice was cold, short, without any emotion. He expected nothing from any one. I pronounced the words 'assistance,' 'public compassion.'

“'Assistance!' cried his wife, suddenly, with a tone of despair; 'they ought to give it to us; they must help us; we have done nothing to bring upon us this misfortune; they will not let my children die with hunger.'

“She asked for nothing—begged for nothing. She claimed help. This imperative beggary touched me more than the common lamentations of poverty, for it was the voice of despair; and I felt in my purse for some pieces of silver.

“The man then, who had till now been silent, said, with a hollow tone,

“'Your children must die, since I can no longer see.'

“There is a strange power in the human voice. My money fell back into my purse. I was ashamed of the precarious assistance. I felt that here was a call for something more than mere almsgiving—the charity of a day. I soon formed my resolution.”

“But what could you do?” said the young man, to Mr. Desgranges.

“What could I do?” replied he, with animation. “Fifteen days after, James was saved. A year after, he gained his own living, and might be heard singing at his work.”

“Saved! working! singing! but how?”

“How! by very natural means. But wait, I think I hear him. I will make him tell you his simple story. It will touch you more from his lips. It will embarrass me less, and his cordial and ardent face will complete the work.”

In fact, the noise of some one taking off his wooden shoes was heard at the door, and then a little tap.

“Come in, James;” and he entered with his wife,

“I have brought Juliana, my dear Mr. Desgranges, the poor woman—she must see you sometimes, must she not?”

“You did right, James. Sit down.”

He came forward, pushing his stick before him, that he might not knock against a chair. He found one, and seated himself. He was young, small, vigorous, with black hair, a high and open forehead, a singularly expansive face for a blind man, and, as Rabelais says, a magnificent smile of thirty-two teeth. His wife remained standing behind him.

“James,” said Mr. Desgranges to him, “here is one of my good friends, who is very desirous to see you.”

“He is a good man, then, since he is your friend.”

“Yes. Talk with him; I am going to see my geraniums. But do not be sad, you know I forbid you that.”

“No, no, my dear friend, no!”

This tender and simple appellation seemed to charm the young man; and after the departure of his friend, approaching the blind man, he said,

“You are very fond of Mr. Desgranges?”

“Fond of him!” cried the blind man, with impetuosity; “he saved me from ruin, sir. It was all over with me; the thought of my children consumed me; I was dying because I could not see. He saved me.”

“With assistance—with money?”

“Money! what is money? Everybody can give that. Yes, he clothed us, he fed us, he obtained a subscription of five hundred francs (about one hundred dollars) for me; but all this was as nothing; he did more—he cured my heart!”

“But how?”

“By his kind words, sir. Yes, he, a person of so much consequence in the world, he came every day into my poor house, he sat on my poor stool, he talked with me an hour, two hours, till I became quiet and easy.”

“What did he say to you?”

“I do not know; I am but a foolish fellow, and he must tell you all he said to me; but they were things I had never heard before. He spoke to me of the good God better than a minister; and he brought sleep back to me.”

“How was that?”

“It was two months since I had slept soundly. I would just doze, and then start up, saying,

“'James, you are blind,' and then my head would go round—round, like a madman; and this was killing me. One morning he came in, this dear friend, and said to me,

“'James, do you believe in God?'

“'Why do you ask that, Mr. Desgranges?'

“'Well, this night, when you wake, and the thought of your misfortune comes upon you, say aloud a prayer—then two—then three—and you will go to sleep.'”

“Yes,” said the wife, with her calm voice, “the good God, He gives sleep.”

“This is not all, sir. In my despair I would have killed myself. I said to myself, 'You are useless to your family, you are the woman of the house, and others support you.' But he was displeased—'Is it not you who support your family? If you had not been blind, would any one have given you the five hundred francs?'

“'That is true, Mr. Desgranges.'

“'If you were not blind, would any one provide for your children?'

“'That is true, Mr. Desgranges.'

“'If you were not blind, would every one love you, as we love you?'

“'It is true, Mr. Desgranges, it is true.'

“'You see, James, there are misfortunes in all families. Misfortune is like rain; it must fall a little on everybody. If you were not blind, your wife would, perhaps, be sick; one of your children might have died. Instead of that, you have all the misfortune, my poor man; but they—they have none.'

“'True, true.' And I began to feel less sad. I was even happy to suffer for them. And then he added,

“'Dear James, misfortune is either the greatest enemy or the greatest friend of men. There are people whom it makes wicked; there are others made better by it. For you, it must make you beloved by everybody; you must become so grateful, so affectionate, that when they wish to speak of any one who is good, they will say, good as the blind man of the Noiesemont. That will serve for a dowry to your daughter.' This is the way he talked to me, sir: and it gave me heart to be unfortunate.”

“Yes; but when he was not here?”

“Ah, when he was not here, I had, to be sure, some heavy moments. I thought of my eyes—the light is so beautiful! Oh, God! cried I, in anguish, if ever I should see clearly again, I would get up at three o'clock in the morning, and I would, not go to bed till ten at night, that I might gather up more light.”

“James, James!” said his wife.

“You are right, Juliana; he has forbidden me to be sad. He would perceive it, sir. Do you think that when my head had gone wrong in the night, and he came in the morning, and merely looked at me, he would say—'James, you have been thinking that;' and then he would scold me, this dear friend. Yes,” added he, with an expression of joy—“he would scold me, and that would give me pleasure, because he tried to make his words cross, but he could not do it.”

“And what gave you the idea of becoming a water-carrier?”

“He gave me that, also. Do you suppose I have ideas? I began to lose my grief, but my time hung heavy on my hands. At thirty-two years old, to be sitting all day in a chair! He then began to instruct me, as he said, and he told me beautiful stories. The Bible—the history of an old man, blind like me, named Tobias; the history of Joseph; the history of David; the history of Jesus Christ. And then he made me repeat them after him. But my head, it was hard—it was hard; it was not used to learning, and I was always getting tired in my arms and my legs.”

“And he tormented us to death,” said his wife, laughing.

“True, true,” replied he, laughing also; “I became cross. He came again, and said,

“'James, you must go to work.'

“I showed him my poor, burned hands.

“'It is no matter; I have bought you a capital in trade.'

“'Me, Mr. Desgranges?'

“'Yes, James, a capital into which they never put goods, and where they always find them.'

“'It must have cost you a great deal, sir.'

“'Nothing at all, my lad.'

“'What is then this fund?'

“'The river.'

“'The river? Do you wish me to become a fisherman?'

“'Not all; a water-carrier.'

“'Water-carrier! but eyes?'

“'Eyes; of what use are they? do the dray-horses have eyes? If they do, they make use of them; if they do not, they do without them. Come, you must be a water-carrier.'

“'But a cask?'

“'I will give you one.'

“'A cart?'

“'I have ordered one at the cart-maker's.'

“'But customers?'

“I will give you my custom, to begin with, eighteen francs a month; (my dear friend pays for water as dearly as for wine.) Moreover, you have nothing to say, either yes or no. I have dismissed my water-carrier, and you would not let my wife and me die with thirst. This dear Madame Desgranges, just think of it. And so, my boy, in three days—work. And you, Madam James, come here;' and he carried off Juliana.”

“Yes, sir,” continued the wife, “he carried me off, ordered leather straps, made me buy the wheels, harnessed me; we were all astonishment, James and I; but stop, if you can, when Mr. Desgranges drives you. At the end of three days, here we are with the cask, he harnessed and drawing it, I behind, pushing; we were ashamed at crossing the village, as if we were doing something wrong; it seemed as if everybody would laugh at us. But Mr. Desgranges was there in the street.

“'Come on, James,' said he, 'courage.'

“We came along, and in the evening he put into our hands a piece of money, saying,” continued the blind man, with emotion—

“'James, here are twenty sous you have earned to-day.'

“Earned, sir, think of that! earned, it was fifteen months that I had only eaten what had been given to me. It is good to receive from good people, it is true; but the bread that one earns, it is as we say, half corn, half barley; it nourishes better, and then it was done, I was no longer the woman, I was a labourer—a labourer—James earned his living.”

A sort of pride shone from his face.

“How!” said the young man, “was your cask sufficient to support you?”

“Not alone, sir; but I have still another profession.”

“Another profession!”

“Ha, ha, yes, sir; the river always runs, except when it is frozen, and, as Mr. Desgranges says, 'water-carriers do not make their fortune with ice,' so he gave me a Winter trade and Summer trade.”

“Winter trade!”

Mr. Desgranges returned at this moment—James heard him—“Is it not true, Mr. Desgranges, that I have another trade besides that of water-carrier?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“What is it then?”

“Wood-sawyer.”

“Wood-sawyer? impossible; how could you measure the length of the sticks? how could you cut wood without cutting yourself?”

“Cut myself, sir,” replied the blind man, with a pleasant shade of confidence; “I formerly was a woodsawyer, and the saw knows me well; and then one learns everything—I go to school, indeed. They put a pile of wood at my left side, my saw and saw horse before me, a stick that is to be sawed in three; I take a thread, I cut it the size of the third of the stick—this is the measure. Every place I saw, I try it, and so it goes on till now there is nothing burned or drunk in the village without calling upon me.”

“Without mentioning,” added Mr. Desgranges, “that he is a commissioner.”

“A commissioner!” said the young man, still more surprised.

“Yes, sir, when there is an errand to be done at Melun, I put my little girl on my back, and then off I go. She sees for me, I walk for her; those who meet me, say, 'Here is a gentleman who carries his eyes very high;' to which I answer, 'that is so I may see the farther.' And then at night I have twenty sous more to bring home.”

“But are you not afraid of stumbling against the stones?”

“I lift my feet pretty high; and then I am used to it; I come from Noiesemont here all alone.”

“All alone! how do you find your way?”

“I find the course of the wind as I leave home, and this takes the place of the sun with me.”

“But the holes?”

“I know them all.”

“And the walls?”

“I feel them. When I approach anything thick, sir, the air comes with less force upon my face; it is but now and then that I get a hard knock, as by example, if sometimes a little handcart is left on the road, I do not suspect it—whack! bad for you, poor five-and-thirty, but this is soon over. It is only when I get bewildered, as I did day before yesterday. O then—-”

“You have not told me of that, James,” said Mr. Desgranges.

“I was, however, somewhat embarrassed, my dear friend. While I was here the wind changed, I did not perceive it; but at the end of a quarter of an hour, when I had reached the plain of Noiesemont, I had lost my way, and I felt so bewildered that I did not dare to stir a step. You know the plain, not a house, no passersby. I sat down on the ground, I listened; after a moment I heard at, as I supposed, about two hundred paces distant, a noise of running water. I said, 'If this should be the stream which is at the bottom of the plain?' I went feeling along on the side from which the noise came—I reached the stream; then I reasoned in this way: the water comes down from the side of Noiesemont and crosses it. I put in my hand to feel the current.”

“Bravo, James.”

“Yes, but the water was so low and the current so small, that my hand felt nothing. I put in the end of my stick, it was not moved. I rubbed my head finally, I said, 'I am a fool, here is my handkerchief;' I took it, I fastened it to the end of my cane. Soon I felt that it moved gently to the right, very gently. Noiesemont is on the right. I started again and I get home to Juliana, who began to be uneasy.”

“O,” cried the young man, “this is admir——”

But Mr. Desgranges stopped him, and leading him to the other end of the room,

“Silence!” said he to him in a low voice. “Not admirable—do not corrupt by pride the simplicity of this man. Look at him, see how tranquil his face is, how calm after this recital which has moved you so much. He is ignorant of himself, do not spoil him.”

“It is so touching,” said the young man, in a low tone.

“Undoubtedly, and still his superiority does not lie there. A thousand blind men have found out these ingenious resources, a thousand will find them again; but this moral perfection—this heart, which opens itself so readily to elevated consolations—this heart which so willingly takes upon it the part of a victim—this heart which has restored him to life. For do not be deceived, it is not I who have saved him, it is his affection for me; his ardent gratitude has filled his whole soul, and has sustained—he has lived because he has loved!”

At that moment, James, who had remained at the other end of the room, and who perceived that we were speaking low, got up softly, and with a delicate discretion, said to his wife,

“We will go away without making any noise.”

“Are you going, James?”

“I am in the way, my dear Mr. Desgranges.”

“No, pray stay longer.”

His benefactor retained him, reaching out to him cordially his hand. The blind man seized the hand in his turn, and pressed it warmly against his heart.

“My dear friend, my dear good friend, you permit me to stay a little longer. How glad I am to find myself near you. When I am sad I say—'James, the good God will, perhaps, of His mercy, put you in the same paradise with Mr. Desgranges,' and that does me good.”

The young man smiled at this simple tenderness, which believed in a hierarchy in Heaven. James heard him.

“You smile, sir. But this good man has re-created James. I dream of it every night—I have never seen him, but I shall know him then. Oh my God, if I recover my sight I will look at him for ever—for ever, like the light, till he shall say to me, James, go away. But he will not say so, he is too good. If I had known him four years ago, I would have served him, and never have left him.”

“James, James!” said Mr. Desgranges; but the poor man could not be silenced.

“It is enough to know he is in the village; this makes my heart easy. I do not always wish to come in, but I pass before his house, it is always there; and when he is gone a journey I make Juliana lead me into the plain of Noiesemont, and I say—'turn me towards the place where he is gone, that I may breathe the same air with him.'”

Mr. Desgranges put his hand before his mouth. James stopped.

“You are right, Mr. Desgranges, my mouth is rude, it is only my heart which is right. Come, wife,” said he, gayly, and drying his great tears which rolled from his eyes, “Come, we must give our children their supper. Good-by, my dear friend, good-by, sir.”

He went away, moving his staff before him. Just as he laid his hand upon the door, Mr. Desgranges called him back.

“I want to tell you a piece of news which will give you pleasure. I was going to leave the village this year; but I have just taken a new lease of five years of my landlady.”

“Do you see, Juliana,” said James to his wife, turning round, “I was right when I said he was going away.”

“How,” replied Mr. Desgranges, “I had told them not to tell you of it.”

“Yes; but here,” putting his hand on his heart, “everything is plain here. I heard about a month since, some little words, which had begun to make my head turn round; when, last Sunday, your landlady called me to her, and showed me more kindness than usual, promising me that she would take care of me, and that she would never abandon me. When I came home, I said to Juliana, 'Wife, Mr. Desgranges is going to quit the village; but that lady has consoled me.'”

In a few moments the blind man had returned to his home.

Back to IndexNext