William Shakespeare - "Twelfth Night; or What You Will"

Arthur T. Quiller Couch - "The Splendid Spur"

William Shakespeare - "The Life of King Henry the Fifth"

Victor Appleton - "Tom Swift And His Giant Cannon"

Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing

T >> T.S. Arthur >> Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing









WHAT IS NOBLE?





WHAT is noble? to inherit
Wealth, estate, and proud degree?
There must be some other merit,
Higher yet than these for me.
Something greater far must enter
Into life's majestic span;
Fitted to create and centre
True nobility in man!

What is noble? 'tis the finer
Portion of our mind and heart:
Linked to something still diviner
Than mere language can impart;
Ever prompting--ever seeing
Some improvement yet to plan;
To uplift our fellow-being--
And like man to feel for man!

What is noble? is the sabre
Nobler than the humble spade?
There's a dignity in labour
Truer than e'er Pomp arrayed!
He who seeks the mind's improvement
Aids the world--in aiding mind!
Every great, commanding movement
Serves not one--but all mankind.

O'er the Forge's heat and ashes--
O'er the Engine's iron head--
Where the rapid Shuttle flashes,
And the Spindle whirls its thread;
There is Labour lowly tending
Each requirement of the hour;
There is genius still extending
Science--and its world of power!






THE ANEMONE HEPATICA.





TWO friends were walking together beside a picturesque mill-stream.
While they walked, they talked of mortal life, its meaning and its
end; and, as is almost inevitable with such themes, the current of
their thoughts gradually lost its cheerful flow.

"This is a miserable world," said one; "the black shroud of sorrow
overhangs everything here."

"Not so," replied the other; "Sorrow is not a shroud. It is only the
covering Hope wraps about her when she sleeps."

Just then they entered an oak-grove. It was early spring, and the
trees were bare, but last year's leaves lay thick as snow-drifts
upon the ground.

"The Liverwort grows here, one of our earliest flowers, I think,"
said the last speaker. "There, push away the leaves, and you will
find it. How beautiful, with its delicate shades of pink, and
purple, and green, lying against the bare roots of the oak-trees!
But look deeper, or you will not find the flowers; they are under
the dead leaves."

"Now I have learned a lesson that I shall not forget," said her
friend. "This seems to me a bad world, and there is no denying that
there are bad things in it. To a sweeping glance, it will sometimes
seem barren and desolate; but not one buried germ of life and beauty
is lost to the All-seeing Eye. I, having the weakness of human
vision, must believe where I cannot see. Henceforth, when I am
tempted to complainings and despair on account of the evil around
me, I will say to myself, 'Look deeper, look under the dead leaves,
and you will find flowers.'"






THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT.





_September 15th, eight o'clock._--This morning, while I was
arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in, and brought me the
basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For nearly twenty years
that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in her little
fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but Mother
Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm, and
cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of our
acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my
patronage has become her property.

She has put the basket upon my table, and as I wanted her husband,
who is a joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone
down stairs again immediately to send him to me.

At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her
voice; but now, that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not
as jovial as usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about
anything?

Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials,
that she might think she had received her full share already. Were I
to live a hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances
which first made her known to me, and which obtained her my respect.

It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg. I had
noticed her empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and being
attracted by its forsaken appearance, made my little purchases in
it. I have always instinctively preferred the poor shops; there is
less choice in them, but it seems to me that my purchase is a sign
of sympathy with a brother in poverty. These little dealings are
almost always an anchor of hope to those whose very existence is in
peril--the only means by which some orphan gains a livelihood. There
the aim of the tradesman is not to enrich himself, but to live! The
purchase you make of him is more than exchange--it is a good action.

Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost
that fresh bloom of youth, which suffering causes to wither so soon
among the poor. Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left off
working to become, according to the picturesque expression of the
workshops, _a worshipper of Saint Monday_. The wages of the week,
which was always reduced to two or three working days, were
completely dedicated by him to the worship of this god of the
Barriers,

The cheap wine-shops are outside the Barriers, to avoid the
_octroi_, or municipal excise.

and Genevieve was obliged herself to provide for all the wants of
the household.

One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, I
heard a sound of quarrelling in the back shop. There were the voices
of several women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve,
broken by sobs. On looking further in, I perceived the fruit-woman,
with a child in her arms, and kissing it, while a country nurse
seemed to be claiming her wages from her. The poor woman, who
without doubt had exhausted every explanation and every excuse, was
crying in silence, and one of her neighbours was trying in vain to
appease the countrywoman. Excited by that love of money which the
evils of a hard peasant life but too well excuse, and disappointed
by the refusal of her expected wages, the nurse was launching forth
in recriminations, threats, and abuse. In spite of myself, I
listened to the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and not thinking
of going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door.

The joiner had just come from the Barrier, where he had passed part
of the day at the public-house. His blouse, without a belt, and
untied at the throat, showed none of the noble stains of work: in
his hand he held his cap, which he had just picked out of the mud;
his hair was in disorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor of
drunkenness in his face. He came reeling in, looked wildly around
him, and called for Genevieve.

She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but at
the sight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steady
himself, she pressed the child in her arms, and bent over it with
tears.

The countrywoman and the neighbour had followed her.

"Come! come! Do you intend to pay me, after all?" cried the former,
in a rage.

"Ask the master for the money," ironically answered the woman from
next door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against the
counter.

The countrywoman looked at him.

"Ah! he is the father," resumed she; "well, what idle beggars! not
to have a penny to pay honest people, and get tipsy with wine in
that way."

The drunkard raised his head.

"What! what!" stammered he; "who is it that talks of wine? I've had
nothing but brandy. But I am going back again to get some wine.
Wife, give me your money; there are some friends waiting for me at
the _Pere la Tuille_."

Genevieve did not answer: he went round the counter, opened the
till, and began to rummage in it.

"You see where the money of the house goes!" observed the neighbour
to the countrywoman; "how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he
takes all?"

"Is that my fault, then?" replied the nurse angrily; "they owe it
me, and somehow or other they must pay me."

And letting loose her tongue, as those women out of the country do,
she began relating at length all the care she had taken of the
child, and all the expense it had been to her. In proportion as she
recalled all she had done, her words seemed to convince her more
than ever of her rights, and to increase her anger. The poor mother,
who no doubt feared that her violence would frighten the child,
returned into the back shop, and put it into its cradle.

Whether it was that the countrywoman saw in this act a determination
to escape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I cannot
say; but she rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds of
quarrelling, with which the cries of the child were soon mingled.
The joiner, who was still rummaging in the till, was startled, and
raised his head.

At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her
arms the baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her. She
ran towards the counter, and, throwing herself behind her husband,
cried,

"Michael, defend your son!"

The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a
start.

"My son!" stammered he; "what son?"

His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed
over his features.

"Robert," resumed he; "is it Robert?"

He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby,
but he tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage.

"My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she; "it is I who
have fed and brought it up; if you don't pay for what has made it
live, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall not
go till I have my due or the baby."

"And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressing
Robert against her bosom.

"Take it to the Foundling!" replied the countrywoman, harshly; "the
hospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food
of its little ones."

At the word "Foundling," Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror.
With her arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom,
and her two hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall,
and remained with her back against it, like a lioness defending her
young ones.

The neighbour and I contemplated this scene, without knowing how we
could interfere. As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making a
visible effort to comprehend it all. When his eye rested upon
Genevieve and the child, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; but
when he turned towards us, he again became stupid and hesitating.

At last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he cried
out--"Wait!"

And going to a tub full of water, he plunged his face into it
several times.

Every eye was turned upon him; the countrywoman herself seemed
astonished. At length he raised his dripping head. This ablution had
partly dispelled his drunkenness; he looked at us for a moment, then
he turned to Genevieve, and his face brightened up.

"Robert!" cried he, going up to the child, and taking him in his
arms. "Ah! give him me, wife; I must look at him."

The mother seemed to give up his son to him with reluctance, and
stayed before him with her arms extended, as if she feared the child
would have a fall. The nurse began again in her turn to speak, and
renewed her claims, this time threatening to appeal to law.

At first Michael listened to her attentively, and when he
comprehended her meaning, he gave the child back to its mother.

"How much do we owe you?" asked he.

The countrywoman began to reckon up the different expenses, which
amounted to nearly thirty francs. The joiner felt to the bottom of
his pockets, but could find nothing. His forehead became contracted
by frowns; low curses began to escape him; all of a sudden he
rummaged in his breast, drew forth a large watch, and holding it up
above his head--

"Here it is--here's your money!" cried he, with a joyful laugh; "a
watch, number one! I always said it would keep for a drink on a dry
day; but it is not I who will drink it, but the young one. Ah! ah!
ah! go and sell it for me, neighbour; and if that is not enough,
have my ear-rings. Eh! Genevieve, take them off for me, the
ear-rings will square all. They shall not say you have been
disgraced on account of the child. No, not even if I must pledge a
bit of my flesh! My watch, my ear-rings, and my ring, get rid of all
of them for me at the goldsmith's; pay the woman, and let the little
fool go to sleep. Give him me, Genevieve, I will put him to bed."

And, taking the baby from the arms of his mother, he carried him
with a firm step to his cradle.

It was easy to perceive the change which took place in Michael from
this day. He cut all his old drinking acquaintances. He went early
every morning to his work, and returned regularly in the evening to
finish the day with Genevieve and Robert. Very soon he would not
leave them at all, and he hired a place near the fruitshop, and
worked in it on his own account.

They would soon have been able to live in comfort, had it not been
for the expenses which the child required. Everything was given up
to his education. He had gone through the regular school training,
had studied mathematics, drawing, and the carpenter's trade, and had
only begun to work a few months ago. Till now, they had been
exhausting every resource which their laborious industry could
provide to push him forward in his business; but, happily, all these
exertions had not proved useless; the seed had brought forth its
fruits, and the days of harvest were close by.

While I was thus recalling these remembrances to my mind, Michael
had come in, and was occupied in fixing shelves where they were
wanted.

During the time I was writing the notes of my journal, I was also
scrutinizing the joiner.

The excesses of his youth and the labour of his manhood have deeply
marked his face; his hair is thin and gray, his shoulders stooping,
his legs shrunken and slightly bent. There seems a sort of weight in
his whole being. His very features have an expression of sorrow and
despondency. He answered my questions by monosyllables, and like a
man who wishes to avoid conversation. From whence is this dejection,
when one would think he had all he could wish for? I should like to
know!

_Ten o'clock_.--Michael is just gone down stairs to look for a tool
he has forgotten. I have at last succeeded in drawing from him the
secret of his and Genevieve's sorrow. Their son Robert is the cause
of it.

Not that he has turned out ill after all their care--not that he is
idle or dissipated; but both were in hopes he would never leave them
any more. The presence of the young man was to have renewed and made
glad their lives once more; his mother counted the days, his father
prepared everything to receive their dear associate in their toils,
and at the moment when they were thus about to be repaid for all
their sacrifices, Robert had suddenly informed them that he had just
engaged himself to a contractor at Versailles.

Every remonstrance and every prayer were useless; he brought forward
the necessity of initiating himself into all the details of an
important contract, the facilities he should have, in his new
position, of improving himself in his trade, and the hopes he had of
turning his knowledge to advantage. At last, when his mother, having
come to the end of her arguments, began to cry, he hastily kissed
her, and went away, that he might avoid any further remonstrances.

He had been absent a year, and there was nothing to give them hopes
of his return. His parents hardly saw him once a month, and then he
only stayed a few moments with them.

"I have been punished where I had hoped to be rewarded," Michael
said to me just now; "I had wished for a saving and industrious son,
and God has given me an ambitious and avaricious one. I had always
said to myself, that, when once he was grown up, we should have him
always with us, to recall our youth and to enliven our hearts; his
mother was always thinking of getting him married, and having
children again to care for. You know women always will busy
themselves about others. As for me, I thought of him working near my
bench, and singing his new songs--for he has learnt music, and is
one of the best singers at the Orpheon. A dream, sir, truly!
Directly the bird was fledged, he took to flight, and remembers
neither father nor mother. Yesterday, for instance, was the day we
expected him; he should have come to supper with us. No Robert
to-day, either! He has had some plan to finish, or some bargain to
arrange, and his old parents are put down last in the accounts,
after the customers and the joiner's work. Ah! if I could have
guessed how it would have turned out! Fool! to have sacrificed my
likings and my money, for nearly twenty years, to the education of a
thankless son! Was it for this I took the trouble to cure myself of
drinking, to break with my friends, to become an example to the
neighbourhood? The jovial good fellow has made a goose of himself.
Oh! if I had to begin again! No, no! you see women and children are
our bane. They soften our hearts; they lead us a life of hope and
affection; we pass a quarter of our lives in fostering the growth of
a grain of corn which is to be everything to us in our old age, and
when the harvest-time comes--good-night, the ear is empty!"

Whilt he was speaking, Michael's voice became hoarse, his eye
fierce, and his lips quivered. I wished to answer him, but I could
only think of commonplace consolations, and I remained silent. The
joiner pretended he wanted a tool, and left me.

Poor father! Ah! I know those moments of temptation when virtue has
failed to reward us, and we regret having obeyed her! Who has not
felt this weakness in hours of trial, and who has not uttered, at
least once, the mournful exclamation of "Brutus?"

But if _virtue is only a word_, what is there then in life which is
true and real? No, I will not believe that goodness is in vain! It
does not always give the happiness we had hoped for, but it brings
some other. In the world everything is ruled by order, and has its
proper and necessary consequences, and virtue cannot be the sole
exception to the general law. If it had been prejudicial to those
who practise it, experience would have avenged them; but experience
has, on the contrary, (sic) mader it more universal and more holy.
We only accuse it of being a faithless debtor, because we demand an
immediate payment, and one apparent to our senses. We always
consider life as a fairy tale, in which every good action must be
rewarded by a visible wonder. We do not accept as payment a peaceful
conscience, self-content, or a good name among men, treasures that
are more precious than any other, but the value of which we do not
feel till after we have lost them!

Michael is come back, and returned to his work. His son had not yet
arrived.

By telling me of his hopes and his grievous disappointments, he
became excited; he unceasingly went over again the same subject,
always adding something to his griefs. He has just wound up his
confidential discourse by speaking to me of a joiner's business,
which he had hoped to buy, and work to good account with Robert's
help. The present owner had made a fortune by it, and after thirty
years of business, he was thinking of retiring to one of the
ornamental cottages in the outskirts of the city, a usual retreat
for the frugal and successful working man. Michael had not indeed
the two thousand francs which must be paid down; but perhaps he
could have persuaded Master Benoit to wait. Robert's presence would
have been a security for him; for the young man could not fail to
insure the prosperity of a workshop; besides science and skill, he
had the power of invention and bringing to perfection. His father
had discovered among his drawings a new plan for a staircase, which
had occupied his thoughts for a long time; and he even suspected him
of having engaged himself to the Versailles contractor for the very
purpose of executing it. The youth was tormented by this spirit of
invention, which took possession of all his thoughts, and, while
devoting his mind to study, he had no time to listen to his
feelings.

Michael told me all this with a mixed feeling of pride and vexation.
I saw he was proud of the son he was abusing, and that his very
pride made him more sensible of that son's neglect.

_Six o'clock, P. M._--I have just finished a happy day. How many
events have happened within a few hours, and what a change for
Genevieve and Michael!

He had just finished fixing the shelves, and telling me of his son,
whilst I laid the cloth for my breakfast.

Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, the door opened, and
Genevieve entered with Robert.

The joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed it
immediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance of
displeasure.

The young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself into
his arms in an open-hearted manner, which surprised me. Genevieve,
whose face shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and to
restrain herself with difficulty.

I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with ease
and civility.

"I expected you yesterday," said Michael Arout, rather dryly.

"Forgive me, father," replied the young workman, "but I had business
at St. Germains. I was not able to come back till it was very late,
and then the master kept me."

The joiner looked at his son sideways, and then took up his hammer
again.

"It is right," muttered he, in a grumbling tone; "when we are with
other people we must do as they wish; but there are some who would
like better to eat brown bread with their own knife, than partridges
with the silver fork of a master."

"And I am one of those, father," replied Robert, merrily; "but, as
the proverb says, _you must shell the peas before you can eat them._
It was necessary that I should first work in a great workshop"--

"To go on with your plan of the staircase," interrupted Michael,
ironically.

"You must now say M. Raymond's plan, father," replied Robert,
smiling.

"Why?"

"Because I have sold it to him."

The joiner, who was planing a board, turned round quickly.

"Sold it!" cried he, with sparkling eyes.

"For the reason that I was not rich enough to give it him."

Michael threw down the board and tool.

"There he is again!" resumed he, angrily; "his good genius puts an
idea into his head which would have made him known, and he goes and
sells it to a rich man, who will take the honour of it himself."

"Well, what harm is there done?" asked Genevieve.

"What harm!" cried the joiner, in a passion; "you understand nothing
about it--you are a woman; but he--he knows well that a true workman
never gives up his own inventions for money, no more than a soldier
would give up his cross. That is his glory; he is bound to keep it
for the honour it does him! Ah! thunder! if I had ever made a
discovery, rather than put it up at auction I would have sold one of
my eyes! Don't you see, that a new invention is like a child to a
workman! he takes care of it, he brings it up, he makes a way for it
in the world, and it is only poor creatures who sell it."

Robert coloured a little.

"You will think differently, father," said he, "when you know why I
sold my plan."

"Yes, and you will thank him for it," added Genevieve, who could no
longer keep silence.

"Never!" replied Michael.

"But, wretched man!" cried she, "he only sold it for our sakes!"

The joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment. It was
necessary to come to an explanation. The latter related how he had
entered into a negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positively
refused to sell his business unless one-half of the two thousand
francs was first paid down. It was in the hopes of obtaining this
sum that he had gone to work with the contractor at Versailles; he
had an opportunity of trying his invention, and of finding a
purchaser. Thanks to the money he received for it, he had just
concluded the bargain with Benoit, and had brought his father the
key of the new work-yard.

This explanation was given by the young workman with so much modesty
and simplicity, that I was quite affected by it. Genevieve cried;
Michael pressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace he
seemed to ask his pardon for having unjustly accused him.

All was now explained with honour to Robert. The conduct which his
parents had ascribed to indifference, really sprang from affection;
he had neither obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, nor even
the nobler inspiration of inventive genius; his whole motive and
single aim had been the happiness of Genevieve and Michael. The day
for proving his gratitude had come, and he had returned them
sacrifice for sacrifice!

After the explanations and exclamations of joy, were over, all three
were about to leave me; but the cloth being laid, I added three more
places, and kept them to breakfast.

The meal was prolonged; the fare was only tolerable; but the
overflowings of affection made it delicious.

Never had I better understood the unspeakable charm of family love.
What calm enjoyment in that happiness which is always shared with
others; in that community of interests which unites such various
feelings; in that association of existences which forms one single
being of so many! What is man without those home affections, which,
like so many roots, fix him firmly in the earth, and permit him to
imbibe all the juices of life? Energy, happiness, does it not all
come from them? Without family life, where would man learn to love,
to associate, to deny himself? A community in little, is not it
which teaches us how to live in the great one? Such is the holiness
of home, that to express our relation with God, we have been obliged
to borrow the words invented for our family life. Men have named
themselves the _sons_ of a heavenly _Father_.

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