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

CHAPTER XVII.
A CURE FOR THE HEARTACHE.
The next day, after Aikin had finished his morning devotions—this good man never ventured upon the business, temptations, and trials of the day, without first committing himself and his household to Him who "heareth those that call on him"—Juliet was observed to rise from her knees and rest her head on the back of the chair, so as to screen her face, while her bosom heaved and her tears fell on the floor. The children, quick to see and to sympathize, gathered round her; one said, "Do you feel sick, Juliet?"—another, "What is the matter, Juliet?"—and little Ruth, who was fresh from a moral lesson she had lectured from her Aunt Lottie, the amount of which was, that sin, in all its modifications, was the thing to be cried for in this world, Ruth asked, "Have you been naughty, Juliet?" Still Juliet did not reply, till Mrs. Aikin drew her towards her, and, setting her on her lap, said—"Tell me, Juliet, what troubles you?"
"Oh, ma'am," she answered, "I know, by Mr. Aikin's prayer, that my mother, as I call her, is going to die, and then I shall have to go away from you all—and I shall be all alone in the world." The children cast an imploring glance at their mother, which said as plain as words could express ​it—"Pray tell her that our home shall be her home—our friends her friends.". The elder children knew it belonged to their parents, and not to them, to give such an assurance; but the younger ones thought only of the quickest way to solace the poor child; and Ruth, putting her cheek to Juliet's whispered—"Mother will be your mother, and, if you want an aunt, you shall have a part of my Aunt Lottie."
Little Phil, the youngling of the flock and grandfather's pet, echoed Ruth's meaning, shouting—"And if you want a danfather, you shall have a piece of my danfather!" How certain it is that children will imbibe the qualities of the moral atmosphere in which they live. Parents, remembering this, should trust more to their examples, and expect less from their precepts. Tears fell from Mrs. Aikin's eyes—tears from the fountain of those feelings "that have less of earth in them than heaven;"—"My good little children," she said, "we will try not to disappoint you—wipe away your tears, Juliet—think of another thing Mr. Aikin said in his prayer—'God is the father of the fatherless;' be sure, therefore, you cannot be alone in the world."
"Come here, Juliet," said Mr. Barlow; and Juliet turned to him with a brightened face, verifying the wise man's saying, that, "as the dew assuageth the heat, so is a kind word."—You and I, Juliet," continued the good man, "have been led into the same fold, and, please God, we will not separate again. Will you live with me and be my little housekeeper—or room-keeper? I have now," he added, turning, as if in explanation, to Susan ​Aikin, "enough for us both; say, Juliet, will you go and live with me?"
Juliet hung her head; the children looked as if they were afraid she would say yes.
"Ah," added Mr. Barlow, in a tone of disappointment, "I thought you loved me, Juliet."
"So I do, sir; but—but it's so pleasant living here."
William Aikin, whose expressions were as impulsive as his feelings, clapped his hands, and the children all manifested, some in one way, some in another, their delight.
"Juliet is right," said Mr. Barlow, in a low tone, to Harry Aikin; "it is so pleasant living here, that, when I go away, I shall have that dismal feeling Juliet so dreads, that feeling of being alone. Oh, how many times have I wished the goodness and happiness in your family could be known. It would be a lesson to many a proud rich man—to many a discontented poor one."
"That's just what I say, Mr. Barlow," said Uncle Phil, rubbing his hands; "I tell you our folks are samples, and the whole secret of it is, that every one does their best—that is to say, lives up to their light, and if anybody can do any better than that, I should like to know how; but come, the breakfast is cooling while we are sarmonizing, as it were."
The breakfast was despatched; Aikin went to his daily business; Aunt Lottie and Juliet to nursing Paulina; Uncle Phil to a stroll in the sunshine with little Phil; Mr. Barlow, it being Saturday and a holyday, sat down in a corner with a book; and Mrs. Aikin was setting all "to rights" ​in that quiet, efficient way where every stroke tells, and marks the expert housewife.
"Did you learn any thing of poor little Juliet's parentage from the woman above?" asked Mr. Barlow at the first convenient opportunity. Mrs. Aikin related all she had learned; nothing could well be more unsatisfactory. Even Susan Aikin, whose bright, healthy moral vision always perceived the first streak of daylight, could see nothing "comforting" in it. As she finished, Mr. Barlow heaved a sigh, and then said, "You might have thought my proposal to take Juliet very strange."
"Oh, no, sir; I am sure it is quite natural to feel as if you wanted to stretch a wing over the poor child; but—but the thing is, a girl wants women to look after her; and I have concluded, when Paulina is gone, to take Juliet into our family."
"What, Mrs. Aikin, with all your children?"
"Yes, sir; when one is used to have the care of a good many, an addition does not seem to make any difference. We always have a little something to spare—and Juliet, poor child, might be fed from the crumbs that fall from the table."
"But then there are other expenses besides her food."
"Yes, sir; I have considered that, and determined, as long as my health is spared, to work one hour extra every night; what I can thus earn will certainly cover all Juliet's expenses to us—so, I see my way quite clear; it is a comfort, sir, not to lose this opportunity."
​"And blessed are those who seek such comforts, dear Mrs. Aikin. But this poor woman—will she be willing to leave Juliet with you?"
"She will be glad to. Her only desire now seems to be, for the little time that remains, to do right. Oh, Mr. Barlow, I believe there are many people in wicked courses who would turn from them if they only had some true friend. I wish Paulina to stay here the little time she has to live, so does my husband; but he will not run in debt, not even to help the distressed, which is a great temptation. It takes more than one would think to keep such a family as ours in necessaries; and, through the blessing of kind Providence upon our exertions, we have always had those, and some luxuries too."
"What luxuries?" asked Mr. Barlow, with a smile.
"A good warm fire all day—and a fire for Lottie's room whenever she wants it; plenty of books for the children, and a share in a library for ourselves—and the pleasure of going to bed every Saturday night without owing a shilling, and a little something in the Savings' Bank against a wet day; and—and—" Susan hesitated, for really she could not remember any thing else that did not come within the large class of necessaries. Mr. Barlow finished her list—
"And a shelter and food at your table for a friendless stranger. Mrs. Aikin, if I could help you to put your kind wishes into operation for this poor woman, it would be a real pleasure to me. I can ​let the room I have taken in Crosby-street, and pay the rent of hers, if you will permit me to be a boarder in your family, and retain my place in your father's room till this woman has no longer occasion for hers."
"You are very kind, sir; but there is back rent to be paid. However, we will talk it over when my husband comes, and contrive the best we can."
The dialogue of our friends was interrupted by the appearance of a gentleman who announced himself as Mr. Beckwith, and Susan being summoned to Paulina's room, he was left with Mr. Barlow. After a little playful talk with the sweet-tempered chubby children, Mr. Beckwith, feeling his way with that delicacy that marks the man who does not exclude the poor from the courtesies used among equals in fortune, made some remarks about Aikin, and the aspect of the family, that led Mr. Barlow to tell a portion of his own story, and to relate the Aikins' succouring charities to Juliet, and their kindness to the poor outcast Paulina. He spoke of their exemplary performance of their domestic duties, and of the advancement of their children in knowledge and virtue. "A country may well boast its equality," he said, in conclusion, that has such families as this in it, I never should have credited what goes on beneath this humble roof if I had not witnessed it. Here are the genuine fruits of Christianity, and such fruit as could only come to perfection in a land where the government and institutions are based on the gospel principle of equal rights and equal privileges to all."
"You are an Englishman, Mr. Barlow. Do ​you think, setting aside the greater compensation our working-men get than yours, they are happier!"
"That is setting aside a vast deal, sir. This superior compensation represents the comforts of life, the means of education. What could Aikin have been in my country with his shattered health, his children, and helpless father-in-law, and invalid sister? These independent dependants would have been tenants of the almshouse—Aikin himself, most probably, there, and his children supported by the parish. When I see, sir, that a man so conditioned can bring up a family as he does, in such a city as this——his boys to be intelligent and independent citizens, and his daughters to be respectable, well-informed wives and mothers,—I must think this, sir, the happiest country in the world for the labouring man."
"I believe you are right; but we do not make the most of our privileges. There is no telling what a nation, with our institutions, might become, if the domestic virtues were better understood and practised by the labouring classes,—if their foundation were laid in religion, and children were brought up from their cradles to be temperate and true, and industrious and frugal,—if every opportunity were seized for improving them in knowledge, and in the practice of the soul-preserving virtues. The rich here can make no separating lines which the poor cannot pass. It is the poor who fence themselves in with ignorance, and press themselves down with shiftlessness and vice. If there were more such families as this, the rich would feel less exultation in their wealth, the poor that there was no degradation in their ​poverty. The rich would get rid of their pride, the poor of their jealousy; and we should admit, not theoretically and in our prayers, but practically, that we are children of one family, and that the happiness and advancement of one is the happiness and advancement of all. I am fortunate," added Mr. Beckwith, in conclusion, "to have found you here, sir. Here is a trifling sum for the poor woman up stairs; it will, I hope, enable your friends to do what they wish for her—a far greater benefaction than any money I can give." Mrs. Aikin entered just in time to make her acknowledgments, and she made, them as if the kindness were done to herself. Mr. Beckwith changed the subject. "This house must be small for your family, Mrs. Aikin?"
"Yes, sir, but we contrive to make it do."
"What is your rent?"
"For the whole, sir, one hundred and fifty dollars."
"For the whole house, excepting that poor woman's room?"
"I wish it were, sir, but there are two rooms in the garret rented to different persons—the best at six, the other four shillings a week: then there is a good room on this floor that rents at seventy-five dollars a year; and the family in the cellar pay a dollar a week. Paulina's room is twenty shillings a week."
"And pray, Mrs. Aikin, what accommodations do you get for your hundred and fifty dollars?"
"There is this room—you see what it is, sir—a pot of paint and a pail of whitewash, always ready, keep it decent. My husband made this," ​she said, opening a closet, where every thing was stowed as neatly and compactly as honey in a hive; "we could not do with an open dresser in a room where we ate and slept; and here," opening a door into a little dark room,—"here is a comfortable place for the children." Comfortable it was, though dark and small, by virtue of the most exact order and cleanliness. "Then, sir, we have the whole of the second floor, which gives us a large comfortable room for my sister, another for father, and a little room for the children. We make out very well, sir."
"I know, Mrs. Aikin, there is a great virtue in this making out^ but you must suffer inconvenience when you have sickness in the family?"
"Why, sir," she replied, with a smile, "we take care not to get sick often; but, when we have needed a room for sickness, father has turned in with the boys;—father has such a contented disposition, nothing puts him out. Harry—I mean my husband, sir—says such a disposition as father's is meat, drink, and lodging."
"Pardon my making so many inquiries, Mrs. Aikin; believe me, it is not from idle curiosity. By what contrivance do you" (turning his eye to Mr. Barlow) "get a spare room?"
"A spare room, sir, is a blessing I never expect to have; but father has a sociable disposition, so we call his the spare room, and put a friend there when we have occasion."
Mr.Beckwith was reminded of a certain system of philosophy which teaches that there is no material world—no actual houses, furniture, &c.,—that these things are only shadows of ideas. "Ah," ​thought he, "my friends here are really richer than many that live in four-story houses." Having an important purpose in his inquiries, he went on. "Do you not, Mrs. Aikin, experience serious inconvenience from having so many families under one roof?"
"We do, sir. I have often thought the time must come when landlords would feel more for poor people, and be more considerate who they put together. It is so difficult to keep children from bad company, poor things—they are not particular, you know, sir. This is the only thing that has ever really worried me about our situation: I can contrive to get along with little troubles."
"And what are the little troubles?" .
"Why, sir, it is something of a trial not to have a decent steps, entry, and stairs. We have no place to store wood, so we cannot buy it in summer, which would be a great saving to us. Then, the cistern is leaky, and not half large enough to furnish water to half the tenants; and, if we set tubs under the front spout, there is always some one to dispute our right; so we have given up rain-water, and make pump-water do: since then, every one in the house offers us a portion of their rain-water; so, as my husband says, 'The peace principle is the best policy.'"
Mr. Beck with, after making a calculation, exclaimed, "Four hundred and sixty-nine dollars is paid for the rent of this house. The whole property is not worth four thousand five hundred. But so it is all over the city; the poor pay rents out of all proportion to the rich. With the very poor and vicious this is inevitable—they are transient tenants, and ​their pay uncertain. But the industrious and honest should not be obliged to endure such evils as you suffer, Mrs. Aikin. I trust the attention of capitalists will be attracted to this subject. Ask your husband to come to my house this evening. I am glad to have begun an acquaintance with you, Mrs. Aikin. It shall not be my fault if it end here."
Mr. Beckwith went his way, and, meditating on the power of the domestic virtues to enrich a home, and multiply the good things of this, life, he repeated, mentally, those words of which he thought he had witnessed the illustration:—
"And seek not what ye shall eat and what ye shall drink, neither be ye of doubtful mind. For all these things do the nations of the world seek after, and your father knoweth that ye have need of these things. But rather seek ye the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you."
* ↑ An argument similar to this we have often heard used by one whose sheltering charities seem only to be limited by the wants of those that come within her sphere.
* ↑ A little poor boy specified this to me as one of the exclusive privileges of the rich.