# The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man/Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.
A POOR MAN'S JOURNEY.
It was a lovely morning in June when Uncle Phil set forth for New-York with his invalid daughter. Ineffable happiness shone through his honest face, and there was a slight flush of hope and expectation on Charlotte's usually pale and tranquil countenance as she half rebuked Susan's last sanguine expression—
"You will come home as well as I am, I know you will, Lottie!"
"Not well—oh, no, Susy, but better, I expect—I mean, I hope."
"Better, then, if you are, that is to say, a great deal better——I shall be satisfied, sha'n't you, Harry?"
"I shall be satisfied that it was best for her to go, if she is any better."
"I trust we shall all be satisfied with God's will, whatever it may be," said Charlotte, turning her eye full of gratitude upon Harry. Harry arranged her cushions as nobody else could ​to support her weak back; Susan disposed her cloak so that Charlotte could draw it around her if the air proved too fresh; and then, taking her willow basket in her hand, the last words were spoken, and they set forth. Uncle Phil was in the happiest of his happy humours. He commended the wagon—"it was just like sitting at home in a rocking-chair—it is kind o' lucky that you are lame, Lottie, or maybe Mrs. Sibley would not have offered to loan us her wagon. I was dreadful 'fraid we should have to go down the North River. I tell you, Lottie, when I crossed over it once, I was a most scared to death—the water went swash, swash—there was nothing but a plank between me and etarnity; and I thought in my heart I should have gone down, and nobody would ever have heard of me again. I wonder folks can be so foolish as to go on water when they can travel on solid land—but I suppose some do!"
"It is pleasanter," said Charlotte, "to travel at this season where you can see the beautiful fruits of the earth, as we do now, on all sides of us." Uncle Phil replied and talked on without disturbing his daughter's quiet and meditation. They travelled slowly, but he was never impatient, and she never wearied, for she was an observer and lover of nature. The earth was clothed with its richest green—was all green, but of infinitely varied teints. The young corn was shooting forth—the winter wheat already waved over many a fertile hillside—the gardens were newly made, and clean, and full of promise—flowers, in this month of their abundance, perfumed the woods, and decked the gardens and courtyards, and where nothing else ​grew, there. were lilachs and pionies in plenty. The young lambs were frolicking in the fields—the chickens peeping about the barnyards; and birds, thousands of them, singing at their work.
Our travellers were descending a mountain where their view extended over an immense tract of country, for the most part richly cultivated.
"I declare," exclaimed Uncle Phil, "how much land there is in the world, and I don't own a foot on't, only our little half-acre lot—it don't seem hardly right." Uncle Phil was no agrarian, and he immediately added, "But, after all, I guess I am better off without it—it would be a dreadful care."
"Contentment with godliness is great gain," said Charlotte.
"You've hit the nail on the head, Lottie; I don't know who should be contented if I ain't—I always have enough, and everybody is friendly to me—and you and Susan are worth a mint of money to me. For all what I said about the land, I really think I have got my full share."
"We can all have our share in the beauties of God's earth without owning, as you say; a foot of it," rejoined Charlotte. "We must feel it is our father's. I am sure the richest man in the world cannot take more pleasure in looking at a beautiful prospect than I do—or in breathing this sweet, sweet air. It seems to me, father, as if every thine I look upon was ready to burst forth in a hymn of praise—and there is enough in my heart to make verses of if I only knew how."
"That's the mystery, Lottie, how they do ​it—I can make one line, but I can never get a fellow to it."
"Well, father, as Susy would say, it's a comfort to have the feeling, though you can't express it."
Charlotte was right. It is a great comfort and happiness to have the feeling, and happy would it be if those who live in the country were more sensible to the beauties of nature; if they could see something in the glorious forest besides "good wood and timber lots"—something in the green valley besides a "warm soil"—something in a waterfall besides a "mill-privilege." There is a susceptibility in every human heart to the ever-present and abounding beauties of nature; and whose fault is it that this taste is not awakened and directed? If the poet and the painter cannot bring down their arts to the level of the poor, are there none to be God's interpreters to them—to teach them to read the great book of nature?
The labouring classes ought not to lose the pleasures that, in the country, are before them from dawn to twilight—pleasures that might counterbalance, and often do, the profits of the merchant, pent in his city counting-house; and all the honours the lawyer earns between the court-rooms and his office. We only wish that more was made of the privilege of country life; that the farmer's wife would steal some moments from her cares to point out to her children the beauties of nature, whether amid the hills and valleys of our inland country, or on the sublime shores of the ocean. Over the city, too, hangs the vault of heaven "thick inlaid" with the witnesses of God's power and goodness—his altars are everywhere.
​The rich man who "lives at home at ease," and goes irritated and fretting through the country because he misses at the taverns the luxuries of his own house—who finds the tea bad and coffee worse—the food ill cooked and table ill served—no mattresses, no silver forks—who is obliged to endure the vulgarity of a common parlour—and, in spite of the inward chafing, give a civil answer to whatever questions may be put to him, cannot conceive of the luxuries our travellers enjoyed at the simplest inn.
Uncle Phil found out the little histories of all the wayfarers he met, and frankly told his own. Charlotte's pale sweet face attracted general sympathy. Country people have time for little by-the-way kindnesses; and the landlady and her daughters, and her domestics inquired into Charlotte's malady, suggested remedies, and described similar cases.
The open-hearted communicativeness of our people is often laughed at; but is it not a sign of a blameless life and social spirit?