Alger-non, the Merchant
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The day closed, and Algernon, the merchant, turned thoughtfully from his counting-room, and took his way homeward. Almost without intermission, since morning, had he been absorbed in his money schemes, gathering in golden sheaves of wealth from the harvest-fields of trade.
"Am I happier for all this?" he said, questioning with himself; "does the larger increase add to my pleasure? Do houses and lands bring peace of mind, or ships upon the ocean bring a tranquil spirit? Rather, do not all these things multiply cares? Is my sleep sounder than it was twenty years ago, or my heart lighter?"
Way back into the past, went his thoughts, as the last sentence was uttered, and he remembered the time when, with the closing of day, he could dismiss the day's business, and find a pure delight in the humble home where wife and children welcomed his return with gladness. Now his magnificent dwelling was as little enjoyed as a prisoner's cell; for his affections were not there, but winging their way, with his thoughts, afar off, to distant seas or strange lands, or hovering about amid brilliant schemes, golden with the promise of untold wealth.
Algernon sighed as he contrasted days gone by, with the present, and his heart acknowledged that he was happier then than now. The merchant was in a softer mood than usual; and it was well for the half-starving woman, whose white face looked into his imploringly, that it was so. She had thrown herself, almost desperately, in his way, just as he turned from the crowded thoroughfare into a less frequented street, not far from his luxurious home, and with this appeal —
"If you have children, sir, pity mine!"
"What of your children?" asked the merchant, as he stood still, and looked into the woman's pale, pleading face, down upon which the rays of the gas lamp fell, and showed its lines of sorrow and suffering.
"They are hungry, and I have no food for them; they are sick, and I cannot get them medicine."
"Is this true?" said the merchant, half in doubt. Such extremity seemed almost impossible to him.
"Come and see! Oh, sir, come and see!" Hope, doubt, anguish, all blended in that mother's voice.
"Where is your home?" asked Algernon.
"Only in the next street," was replied.
"I will go with you. Lead the way."
Hurrying on before with rapid feet, went the eager woman; following, with a quicker movement than usual, came the merchant. They were soon at an old pile of buildings, not far from the place of meeting. The woman entered, and Algernon followed. The sight that met his eye stirred all the man within him, and awakened his utmost pity. A sick child, with hollow cheeks, waxen face, and large, glistening eyes — lay upon an old quilt on the floor; another wan-looking child sat crouching in the chimney corner, trying to warm her half-naked body by the almost imperceptible heat of a few dying coals; while a third, not over six years of age, stood on the other side of the fireplace, chewing at a bone from which it was impossible to extract nutrition.
"It is even so," said the merchant, as he glanced in painful surprise about the room. Then he gave the woman money, and told her to go quickly for food to nourish her children, and fuel to warm them. Nor did humanity end its good work here. He went to a store in the neighborhood, and purchased beds and bed clothing for the destitute family, and saw these comforts conveyed to the room they occupied, and the children, after being warmed and fed, laid in them with their faces full of wonder and gladness.
In a single half-hour Algernon, the merchant had changed the cold, desolate home of a poor widow into what to her and her children was now a Paradise of comfort. There was a large glowing fire upon the hearth, making the air of the room rosy with light, and genial with warmth. Added to a few broken chairs and an old table, which constituted the only furniture in the room, were two plain bedsteads, with beds and warm clothing laid over them, giving their promise of rest and comfort in the long cold nights. Flour, meal, meat, bread, sufficient to supply the little family for weeks, were piled up in one corner, and the mother crumpled tightly in her hands, a slip of paper containing an order for fuel enough to last the winter through.
"May He who pities the widow and the fatherless be better to you than this, even a thousand fold!" said the woman, as Algernon was leaving. Her eyes were full of tears, but the heart's warm glow of thankfulness was on her face and in her voice. "And may the memory of this good deed go with you as a blessing through life!"
An hour later, and the merchant sat alone in one of the luxurious rooms of his palace-home. A book lay on the table beside him, and his hand rested upon an open page. He had been reading, and this sentiment had arrested his attention, and given his thoughts a new direction — "We only possess — what we have bestowed." At first the strangely-sounding proverb struck him as a paradox.
"Possess only what we have bestowed!" said he, talking with himself. "How can I possess what I have given to another? The thing is absurd. And yet this writer is not in the habit of uttering absurd things. What does he mean?"
Algernon turned to the book again and read on. "Only what we enjoy — do we really possess." He lifted his eyes from the page again, and mused on this other proposition.
"There is truth somewhere here — a newer and higher truth than my thought has yet apprehended," Algernon talked on again with himself. "I have acquired great possessions — are they enjoyed? Am I happier now than when my wealth could be told in half the figures it now takes to record the sum? I have lands, houses, ships, gold, merchandise — do I really possess them — that is, in this sense of enjoyment? Do they not, in fact, weigh heavier upon my spirit with each new accumulation, making possession but a mockery?"
From ships, and merchandise, houses and lands — the thought of Algernon turned to the widow and her children, relieved from suffering under the sudden activity of an impulsive benevolence.
Instantly a glow of pleasure warmed his heart, and a thrill of delight went trembling to the very center of his being. Thirty dollars had this good deed cost him in money; and already he was in the possession of higher enjoyments therefrom, than all his day's large accumulations had given.
"This I possess!" he said, with rising enthusiasm. "This I have for all time, and for all eternity, a source of perennial pleasure. Moth cannot corrupt it, fire cannot burn it, thievescannot break through and steal it away. I can lay me down in the grave, and yet not lose my hold upon it. Is not this possession in its sublimest sense!"
Then the thoughts of Algernon went back upon his life, turning the pages of memory, and searching for the good deeds he had done. They were "few and far between," but around each was a halo that illumined the whole page. Side by side with the good deeds, were recorded the gains of the merchant; but always some other memory shadowed these records of gain, and robbed them blessing.
"These — these," said the merchant, as his thoughts returned to the present, "are my only real possessions. And yet how few they are — how poor I am!"
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