A Lesson for Hard Times.
By Lyman Abbott
IF one of the characters out of Dickens' novels had walked into the room, I could not have been more surprised. It was press day; I was very busy in my sanctum when I heard the door open, and a curious shuffling noise followed, which made me look up a moment from my paper. It was but for a moment; I saw, as I supposed, a crippled beggar, shuffling his way on his knees toward my chair. I waved him away with my hand. "Nothing for you," I said resolutely, a little impatiently, possibly, and turning back to my desk, caught up the broken thread, and wound off the completed sentence from the editorial distaff. But the beggar was not repelled. He answered something; with a divided attention I could not well make out what. "Nothing for you," I repeated, somewhat more vigorously than before. The answer was plain enough this time, and in a tone that commanded attention: "I am no beggar, sir." I had gotten to the end of my sentence now. Two or three weeks ago I had been studying the parable of the Good Samaritan. Perhaps the recollection of two very pious men who were in so great a hurry that they could not attend to the unfortunate, may have had some influence on me. I laid down my pen and went to the unknown. He was on his knees; his legs, from his knees to his feet, were useless appendages, which dragged after him and produced the shuffling sound which first attracted my attention. His whole body was disjointed; his arms alternately hung down like the wooden arms of a great toy, and moved about in a grotesque attempt at gesture—like the toy arms when the image is pulled by the string from below. When he spoke, he worked and twisted his head from side to side, and contorted his face with the vigor of his endeavor, as though the words were stored below and could be brought up out of the reluctant throat only by a wrestling and invincible will. But his eye was clear, his brow high, and his whole face, when in repose, not unhandsome. "I have got something to sell, sir, and it is no humbug, either." Then I noticed for the first time a leathern bag slung over his shoulder. With a curious spasmodic twist he dove into it, and brought out a tin box labeled Prof. —'s soap, warranted to take out grease spots, etc., etc. In this, as in every other motion, his arms and hands made many attempts before they succeeded in their purpose, like those of a two or three months' old babe that has not yet come into possession of itself. "What brought you into this condition, my friend?" said I, looking down upon him. "I was born a cripple, sir," he answered. "But," he added quickly, as though he saw some sympathy in my face and would refuse it, "you must not think that I suffer, for I don't. I have no pain; it is only weakness—weakness of the spine, the doctors tell me; so that I don't have good use of my arms, or legs, or face. But I don't suffer, and I am not unhappy." I could hardly look in his face when he was speaking, his endeavors were so distressingly labored. I rarely give to beggars; for that reason I am always reluctant to turn away any one, from the gamin who is sweeping the street crossings up, who is endeavoring to earn an honest living. I bought his patent soap, and gave him the price—a quarter. He turned to go away; I should as soon have thought of offering charity to any other independent merchant as to him, but I stopped him with a question. It needed but a very little touch of sympathy to open his heart. He told me his story. I transcribe it here as well as I can; but I am painfully aware that it loses character in the transcription. "My father was a mechanic. I was always, from my birth, as you see me now. He supported me till I was twenty-eight. But I didn't like it. I wanted to be self-supporting." I noted a curious feature of his language. It was that of one born in the low ranks, but self-educated by courses of reading outside the literature of his companions. I thought this at the time; it was confirmed by a suggestive hint afterwards. "I told my father. He laughed at me: 'What can you do?' I told him that he could not always support me; he must die some day, and he had no money. 'The Lord will provide,' said he. But that did not suit me. I resolved if I could not have my own way, I would run away." There was something pathetically humorous in this picture of a man-boy of twenty-eight running away on his knees from a tyrannical father who despotically insisted on providing for him. Whether he actually did run away or not he did not tell me, and I did not ask him. "I bought this recipe for soap. At first I hired a man to go around with me and take care of me; but that did not pay. Then I went to a hotel, and hired a porter to dress and undress me. In the day time I took care of myself." All this, and much more—for I am compressing a long story into a short one—with labored speaking, and with labored listening too; for it was not always quite easy to tell what was the word which the corkscrew brought up. Like an old cork, it was broken and then came up in fragments. "I never expected to get married; for I never thought that any woman whom I would have would have me. But you know, sir, the old proverb, 'Every Jack has his Gill,' and I found my Gill. And I don't believe there is a man in New York that has a better wife than I have." From the pride with which he said this, and the love that lighted up his eyes, I could easily believe him. It must be a rare woman that could take such a man for her husband, one that she must dress and undress to the end, as she would a sick child. I resolved at once that if I might I would know that wife. "And don't you imagine that I am miserable, sir," he added. "I seem so to you because you judge me from your point of view. But I see many a rich and strong man, and I would not exchange with them. I have my advantages, too. Society claims a great deal of you, but it never claims anything of me. I am independent." Oh, wise philosopher! Is there any philosophy like that of calm content? "And I enjoy life; because, don't you see, sir, that I have nothing to do but to study how to enjoy it?" "Do you go to church?" I asked. "Well, sir, I am a member of the Baptist Church; but since I have moved away from the old church, and gone among strangers, I don't go to church, for I might create a sensation, don't you see?" Well, yes. I did see. I imagined this creature shuffling up the broad aisle of a fashionable church, or even of an unfashionable chapel, and thought he showed consideration for the worshippers and the preacher. "There is only one thing I want," he added; "I would like to get into a library." "A library?" said I. "What could you do in a library?" "Oh, as a member, I mean, sir," he said. "I would like to get books out to read." I took down his address, and, with all the inimitable dignity of a gentleman, he invited me to call. Then, with an apology for having taken so much of my time, and an inquiry—for we had exchanged names—whether I was the historian Abbott, he shuffled out of the door. I had hardly got to my seat and my pen in my hand before I heard him shuffling back again. He peered round the corner of the doorway, and with that curious Jack-in-the-box motion of his, held up three fingers. "Third bell," he said; "ring the third bell," and he was off again. And I sat down and thought; thought of that poor woman who began two years ago by selling her thousand-dollar piano, and last week was found with her clothes and furniture all pawned, and her only flannel garment, the remnant of an old blanket, wrapped around her; thought of that merchant who, eighteen months ago, was contributing to the support of one of our great charities, and is now on it for his family; and here is this cripple, without the right use of his legs, or arms, or hands, or voice, supporting himself and his wife, "happy as a king," and asking charity of no one; and I said I will leave a thread unspun on the editorial distaff till I have written down this lesson for hard times.—Lyman Abbott.