Very Poor
"What has become of the Wightmans?" I asked of my old friend Payson.I had returned to my native place after an absence of several years.Payson looked grave."Nothing wrong with them, I hope. Wightman was a clever man, and hehad a pleasant family."My friend shook his head ominously."He was doing very well when I left," said I."All broken up now," was answered. "He failed several years ago.""Ah! I'm sorry to hear this. What has become of him?""I see him now and then, but I don't know what he is doing.""And his family?""They live somewhere in Old Town. I havn't met any of them for along time. Some one told me that they were very poor."This intelligence caused a feeling of sadness to pervade my mind.The tone and manner of Payson, as he used the words "very poor,"gave to them more than ordinary meaning. I saw, in imagination, myold friend reduced from comfort and respectability, to a conditionof extreme poverty, with all its sufferings and humiliations. Whilemy mind was occupied with these unpleasant thoughts, my friend said,"You must dine with me to-morrow. Mrs. Payson will be glad to seeyou, and I want to have a long talk about old times. We dine atthree."I promised to be with them, in agreement with the invitation; andthen we parted. It was during business hours, and as my friend'smanner was somewhat occupied and hurried, I did not think it rightto trespass on his time. What I had learned of the Wightmanstroubled my thoughts. I could not get them out of my mind. They wereestimable people. I had prized them above ordinary acquaintances;and it did seem peculiarly hard that they should have sufferedmisfortune. "Very poor"--I could not get the words out of my ears.The way in which they were spoken involved more than the wordsthemselves expressed, or rather, gave a broad latitude to theirmeaning. "Very poor! Ah me!" The sigh was deep and involuntary.I inquired of several old acquaintances whom I met during the dayfor the Wightmans; but all the satisfaction I received was, thatWightman had failed in business several years before, and was nowliving somewhere in Old Town in a very poor way. "They are miserablypoor," said one. "I see Wightman occasionally," said another--"helooks seedy enough." "His girls take in sewing, I have heard," saida third, who spoke with a slight air of contempt, as if there weresomething disgraceful attached to needle-work, when pursued as ameans of livelihood. I would have called during the day, uponWightman, but failed to ascertain his place of residence."Glad to see you!" Payson extended his hand with a show ofcordiality, as I entered his store between two and three o'clock onthe next day."Sit down and look over the papers for a little while," he added."I'll be with you in a moment. Just finishing up my bank business.""Business first," was my answer, as I took the proffered newspaper."Stand upon no ceremony with me."As Payson turned partly from me, and bent his head to the desk atwhich he was sitting, I could not but remark the suddenness withwhich the smile my appearance had awakened faded from hiscountenance. Before him was a pile of bank bills, several checks,and quite a formidable array of bank notices. He counted the billsand checks, and after recording the amount upon a slip of paperglanced uneasily at his watch, sighed, and then looked anxiouslytowards the door. At this moment a clerk entered hastily, and madesome communication in an undertone, which brought from my friend adisappointed and impatient expression."Go to Wilson," said he hurriedly, "and tell him to send me a checkfor five hundred without fail. Say that I am so much short in mybank payments, and that it is now too late to get the money anywhere else. Don't linger a moment; it is twenty five minutes tothree now."The clerk departed. He was gone full ten minutes, during whichperiod Payson remained at his desk, silent, but showing many signsof uneasiness. On returning, he brought the desired check, and wasthen dispatched to lift the notes for which this late provision wasmade."What a life for a man to lead," said my friend, turning to me witha contracted brow and a sober face. "I sometimes wish myself on anisland in mid ocean. You remember C----?""Very well.""He quit business a year ago, and bought a farm. I saw him the otherday. 'Payson,' said he, with an air of satisfaction, 'I haven't seena bank notice this twelvemonth.' He's a happy man! This note payingis the curse of my life. I'm forever on the streetfinanciering--Financiering. How I hate the word! But come--they'llbe waiting dinner for us. Mrs. Payson is delighted at the thought ofseeing you. How long is it since you were here? About ten years, ifI'm not mistaken. You'll find my daughters quite grown up. Clara isin her twentieth year. You, of course, recollect her only as aschool girl. Ah me! how time does fly!"I found my friend living in a handsome house in Franklin street. Itwas showily, not tastefully, furnished, and the same might be saidof his wife and daughters. When I last dined with them--it was manyyears before--they were living in a modest, but very comfortableway, and the whole air of their dwelling was that of cheerfulnessand comfort. Now, though their ample parlors were gay with richBrussels, crimson damask, and brocatelle, there was no genuine homefeeling there. Mrs. Payson, the last time I saw her, wore amousseline de lain, of subdued colors, a neat lace collar around herneck, fastened with a small diamond pin, the marriage gift of herfather. Her hair, which curled naturally, was drawn behind her earsin a few gracefully falling ringlets. She needed no other ornament.Anything beyond would have taken from her the chiefest of herattractions, her bright, animated countenance, in which her friendsever read a heart-welcome.How changed from this was the rather stately woman, whose realpleasure at seeing an old friend was hardly warm enough to meltthrough the ice of an imposed formality. How changed from this thepale, cold, worn face, where selfishness and false pride had beendoing a sad, sad work. Ah! the rich Honiton lace cap and costlycape; the profusion of gay ribbons, and glitter of jewelry; theample folds of glossy satin; how poor a compensation were they forthe true woman I had parted with a few years ago, and now soughtbeneath these showy adornments in vain!Two grown-up daughters, dressed almost as flauntingly as theirmother, were now presented. In the artificial countenance of theoldest, I failed to discover any trace of my former friend Clara.A little while we talked formally, and with some constraint allround; then, as the dinner had been waiting us, and was now served,we proceeded to the dining-room. I did not feel honored by thereally sumptuous meal the Paysons had provided for their old friend;because it was clearly to be seen that no honor was intended. Thehonor was all for themselves. The ladies had not adorned theirpersons, nor provided their dinner, to give me welcome and pleasure,but to exhibit to the eyes of their guest, their wealth, luxury, andsocial importance. If I had failed to perceive this, theconversation of the Paysons would have made it plain, for it was ofstyle and elegance in house-keeping and dress--of the ornamental inall its varieties; and in no case of the truly domestic and useful.Once or twice I referred to the Wightmans; but the ladies knewnothing of them, and seemed almost to have forgotten that suchpersons ever lived.It did not take long to discover that, with all the luxury by whichmy friends were surrounded, they were far from being happy. Mrs.Payson and her daughters, had, I could see, become envious as wellas proud. They wanted a larger house, and more costly furniture inorder to make as imposing an appearance as some others whom they didnot consider half as good as themselves. To all they said on thissubject, I noticed that Payson himself maintained, for the mostpart, a half-moody silence. It was, clearly enough, unpleasant tohim."My wife and daughters think I am made of money," said he, once,half laughing. "But if they knew how hard it was to get hold of,sometimes, they would be less free in spending. I tell them I am apoor man, comparatively speaking; but I might as well talk to thewind.""Just as well," replied his wife, forcing an incredulous laugh;"why will you use such language? A poor man!""He that wants what he is not able to buy, is a poor man, if Iunderstand the meaning of the term," said Payson, with some feeling."And he who lives beyond his income, as a good many of ouracquaintances do to my certain knowledge, is poorer still.""Now don't get to riding that hobby, Mr. Payson," broke in myfriend's wife, deprecatingly--"don't, if you please. In the firstplace, it's hardly polite, and, in the second place, it is by nomeans agreeable. Don't mind him"--and the lady turned to megaily--"he gets in these moods sometimes."I was not surprised at this after what I had witnessed, about hishouse. Put the scenes and circumstances together, and how could itwell be otherwise? My friend, thus re-acted upon, ventured nofurther remark on a subject that was so disagreeable to his family.But while they talked of style and fashion, he sat silent, and to mymind oppressed with no very pleasant thoughts. After the ladies hadretired, he said, with considerable feeling--"All this looks and sounds very well, perhaps; but there are twoaspects to almost everything. My wife and daughters get one view oflife, and I another. They see the romance, I the hard reality. It isimpossible for me to get money as fast as they wish to spend it. Itwas my fault in the beginning, I suppose. Ah! how difficult it is tocorrect an error when once made. I tell them that I am a poor man,but they smile in my face, and ask me for a hundred dollars to shopwith in the next breath. I remonstrate, but it avails not, for theydon't credit what I say. And I am poor--poorer, I sometimes think,than the humblest of my clerks, who manages, out of his salary offour hundred a year, to lay up fifty dollars. He is never in want ofa dollar, while I go searching about, anxious and troubled, for mythousands daily. He and his patient, cheerful, industrious littlewife find peace and contentment in the single room their limitedmeans enables them to procure, while my family turn dissatisfiedfrom the costly adornments of our spacious home, and sigh for richerfurniture, and a larger and more showy mansion. If I were amillionaire, their ambition might be satisfied. Now, their amplewishes may not be filled. I must deny them, or meet inevitable ruin.As it is, I am living far beyond a prudent limit--not half so far,however, as many around me, whose fatal example is ever tempting theweak ambition of their neighbors."This and much more of similar import, was said by Payson. When Ireturned from his elegant home, there was no envy in my heart. Hewas called a rich and prosperous man by all whom I heard speak ofhim, but in my eyes, he was very poor.A day or two afterwards, I saw Wightman in the street. He was sochanged in appearance that I should hardly have known him, had henot first spoken. He looked in my eyes, twenty years older than whenwe last met. His clothes were poor, though scrupulously clean; and,on observing him more closely, I perceived an air of neatness andorder, that indicates nothing of that disregard about externalappearance which so often accompanies poverty.He grasped my hand cordially, and inquired, with a genuine interest,after my health and welfare. I answered briefly, and then said:"I am sorry to hear that it is not so well with you in worldlymatters as when I left the city."A slight shadow flitted over his countenance, but it grew quicklycheerful again."One of the secrets of happiness in this life," said he, "iscontentment with our lot. We rarely learn this in prosperity. It isnot one of the lessons taught in that school.""And you have learned it?" said I."I have been trying to learn it," he answered, smiling. "But I findit one of the most difficult of lessons. I do not hope to acquire itperfectly."A cordial invitation to visit his family and take tea with themfollowed, and was accepted. I must own, that I prepared to go to theWightmans with some misgivings as to the pleasure I should receive.Almost every one of their old acquaintances, to whom I had addressedinquiries on the subject, spoke of them with commiseration, as "verypoor." If Wightman could bear the change with philosophy, I hardlyexpected to find the same Christian resignation in his wife, whom Iremembered as a gay, lively woman, fond of social pleasures.Such were my thoughts when I knocked at the door of a small house,that stood a little back from the street. It was quickly opened by atall, neatly-dressed girl, whose pleasant face lighted into a smileof welcome as she pronounced my name."This is not Mary?" I said as I took her proffered hand."Yes, this is your little Mary," she answered. "Father told me youwere coming."Mrs. Wightman came forward as I entered the room into which thefront door opened, and gave me a most cordial welcome. Least of allhad time and reverses changed her. Though a little subdued, andrather paler and thinner, her face had the old heart-warmth init--the eyes were bright from the same cheerful spirit."How glad I am to see you again!" said Mrs. Wightman. And she wasglad. Every play of feature, every modulation of tone, showed this.Soon her husband came in, and then she excused herself with a smile,and went out, as I very well understood, to see after tea. In alittle while supper was ready, and I sat down with the family intheir small breakfast room, to one of the pleasantest meals I haveever enjoyed. A second daughter, who was learning a trade, came injust as we were taking our places at the table, and was introduced.What a beautiful glow was upon her young countenance! She was thevery image of health and cheerfulness.When I met Wightman in the street, I thought his countenance woresomething of a troubled aspect--this was the first impression madeupon me. Now, as I looked into his face, and listened to hischeerful, animated conversation, so full of life's true philosophy,I could not but feel an emotion of wonder. "Very poor!" How littledid old friends, who covered their neglect of this family with thesecommiserating words, know of their real state. How little did theydream that sweet peace folded her wings in that humble dwellingnightly; and that morning brought to each a cheerful, resolutespirit, which bore them bravely through all their daily toil."How are you getting along now Wightman?" I asked, as, after biddinggood evening to his pleasant family, I stood with him at the gateopening from the street to his modest dwelling."Very well," was his cheerful reply. "It was up hill work forseveral years, when I only received five hundred dollars salary asclerk, and all my children were young. But now, two of them areearning something, and I receive eight hundred dollars instead offive. We have managed to save enough to buy this snug little house.The last payment was made a month since. I am beginning to feelrich."And he laughed a pleasant laugh."Very poor," I said to myself, musingly, as I walked away from thehumble abode of the Wightmans. "Very poor. The words have had awrong application."On the next day I met Payson."I spent last evening with the Wightmans," said I."Indeed! How did you find them? Very poor, of course.""I have not met a more cheerful family for years. No, Mr. Paysonthey are not 'very poor,' for they take what the great Fathersends, and use it with thankfulness. Those who ever want more thanthey possess are the very poor. But such are not the Wightmans."Payson looked at me a moment or two curiously, and then let his eyesfall to the ground. A little while he mused. Light was breaking inupon him."Contented and thankful!" said he, lifting his eyes from the ground."Ah! my friend, if I and mine were only contented and thankful!""You have cause to be," I remarked. "The great Father hath coveredyour table with blessings.""And yet we are poor--very poor," said he, "for we are neithercontented nor thankful. We ask for more than we possess, and,because it is not given, we are fretful and impatient. Yes, yes--we,not the Wightmans, are poor--very poor."And with these words on his lips, my old friend turned from me, andwalked slowly away, his head bent in musing attitude to the ground.Not long afterwards, I heard that he had failed."Ah!" thought I, when this news reached me, "now you are poor, verypoor, indeed!" And it was so.
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