PREFACE

MANY of the scenes presented in this volume are such as show the mother's influence with her children; a few include the marriage relation; and a few give other domestic pictures. In all will be found, we trust, motives for self-denial and right action in the various conditions of social life. Home is the centre of good as well as of bad influence. How much, then, depends on those to whom have been committed the sacred trust of giving to the home-circle its true power over the heart!

This volume makes the fifth in "ARTHUR'S LIBRARY FOR THE HOUSEHOLD."

TAKING COMFORT

"REALLY, this is comfortable!" said I, glancing around the handsomely furnished parlour of my young friend Brainard, who had, a few weeks before, ventured upon matrimony, and was now making his first experiments in housekeeping.

"Yes, it is comfortable," replied my friend. "The fact is, I go in for comforts."

"I'm afraid George is a little extravagant," said the smiling bride, as she leaned towards her husband and looked tenderly into his face.

"No, not extravagant, Anna," he returned; "all I want is to have things comfortable. Comfort I look upon as one of the necessaries of life, to which all are entitled. Don't you?"

I was looking at a handsome new rose-wood piano when this question was addressed to me, and thinking about its probable cost.

"We should all make the best of what we have," I answered, a little evasively; "and seek to be as comfortable as possible under all circumstances."

"Exactly. That's my doctrine," said Brainard. "I'm not rich, and therefore don't expect to live in a palace, and have every thing around me glittering with silver and gold; but, out of the little I possess, shall endeavour to obtain the largest available dividend of comfort. Ain't I right?"

"Perhaps so."

"You speak coldly," said my friend. "Don't you agree with me? Should not every man try to be as comfortable as his means will permit?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Of course he should. Some men set a value upon money above every thing else, and sacrifice all comfort to its accumulation; but I don't belong to that class. Money is a good gift, because it is the means of procuring natural blessings. I receive it thankfully, and use it wisely. You see how I am beginning life."

"I do."

"Well, what do you think of it?"

By this time my observation of things had become more particular, and I saw many evidences of expenditures that indicated a lavish spirit.

"What rent do you pay?" I asked.

"Three hundred."

I shook my head.

"Too much?" said Brainard.

"I think so."

"Perhaps it is a little high. But you can't get a genteel, comfortable house, in a good neighbourhood, for any thing less."

As it was my first visit to the young couple, who were but a few weeks past their honey-moon, I did not feel like questioning the propriety of my friend's conduct to the serious extent he was about involving himself; and so evaded replying to this excuse for taking at least a hundred dollars more rent upon himself than he was justified in doing by his circumstances, he being simply a clerk, with a salary of one thousand dollars.

"Rents are high," was my apparently indifferent answer.

"Too high," said he. "A man who wants a pleasant house has to pay for it. This is my experience."

The subject of conversation changed; I passed an agreeable evening; at the close of which I left my friend and his lovely young bride in their comfortable home.

What I had seen and heard during the few hours spent with Brainard made me fear that he was about committing a too common error. His ideas of comfort were not in keeping with his circumstances. Some days subsequently I saw my friend and his wife riding out in a handsome vehicle, drawn by a gay horse.

"Taking their comfort," said I, as I paused and looked upon the happy young couple.

Not long after, I saw them dashing off again to enjoy an afternoon's ride. Next, I met them at a fashionable concert.

"Have you been to the opera yet?" asked Brainard, leaning forward to the seat that I occupied just in front of him.

"No," was my answer.

"Then there is a treat in store for you. We go twice, and sometimes oftener, every week. Truffi, Benedetti, Rosi—oh! they are enchanting."

"Rather expensive," said I.

"It does cost something," and Brainard shrugged his shoulders. "But I think it's money well spent. You know that I go in for the comforts of life."

And he leaned back, while I thought I perceived a slight shadow flit across his face. A singer came forward at the moment, and no more was said.

"It is possible," thought I, "in seeking after comfort, to get into the wrong road. I am afraid my young friends are about committing this error."

I not only suggested as much to Brainard soon afterwards, but actually presented a serious remonstrance against the course of life he had adopted. But he only smiled at the fears I expressed, and said he understood perfectly the nature of the ground he was treading. Thus it is with most young persons. Be their views true or false, they act upon them, in spite of all counsel from the more experienced, and in the end reap their harvest of trouble or pleasure, as the ease may be. Pride, which stimulates the desire to make a certain appearance in the world, is generally more at fault than a wish to secure the comforts of which my friend talked so much.

I had another acquaintance, by the name of Tyler, who was married about the same time with Brainard. His tastes were as well cultivated as those of the former, and his income was as large; yet, in beginning the world, he had shown more prudence and a wise forecast. I found him in a small, neat house, at a rent of one hundred and seventy dollars. His furniture was not costly, but in good taste and keeping with the house and his circumstances. As for real comfort, as far as I could see, the preponderance was rather in his favour.

"This is really comfortable," said I, glancing around the room in which he received me on the occasion of my first visit.

"We think so," replied my friend, smiling.

"Nothing very elegant, but as good as we can afford, and with that we have made up our minds to be content."

"If all the world were as wise, all the world would be happier," I remarked.

"Perhaps so," returned Tyler. "Brainard tried to get me into a house like the one he occupies; but I thought it more prudent to cut my garment according to my cloth. The larger your house, the more costly your furniture and the higher your regular expenses. He talked about having things comfortable, as he called it, and enjoying life as he went along; but it would be poor comfort for me to know that I was five or six hundred dollars in debt, and all the while living beyond my income."

"In debt? What do you mean by that?" said I. "It isn't possible that Brainard has gone in debt for any of his fine furniture?"

"It is very possible."

"To the extent of five or six hundred dollars?"

"Yes. The rose-wood piano he bought for his wife cost four hundred dollars. It was purchased on six months' credit."

"Foolish young man!" said I.

"You may well say that. He thinks a great deal about the comforts of life; but he is going the wrong way to secure them, in my opinion. His parlour furniture, including the new piano, cost nearly one thousand dollars; mine cost three hundred; and I'm sure I would not exchange comforts with him. It isn't what is around us so much as what is within us, that produces pleasure. A contented mind is said to be a continual feast. If, in seeking to have things comfortable, we create causes of disquietude, we defeat our own ends."

"I wish our friend Brainard could see things in the same light," said I.

"Nothing but painful experience will open his eyes," remarked Tyler.

And he was correct in this. Brainard continued to take his comfort for a few months, although there was a gradual sinking in the thermometer of his feelings as the time approached when the notes given for a part of his furniture would fall due. The amount of these notes was six hundred dollars, but he had not saved fifty towards meeting the payments. The whole of his income had been used in taking his comfort.

"Why, Brainard!" said I, in a tone of surprise, on meeting him one day, nearly six months after his marriage. "What has happened?"

"Happened? Nothing. Why do you ask?" replied the young man.

"You look troubled."

"Do I?" He made an effort to smile.

"Yes, you certainly do. What has gone wrong with you?"

"Oh, nothing." And he tried to assume an air of indifference; but, seeing me look incredulous, he added—

"Nothing particularly wrong. I'm only a little worried about money matters. The fact is, I've got two or three notes to pay next week."

"You have?"

"Yes; and what is more, I haven't the means to lift them."

"That is trouble," said I, shaking my head.

"It's trouble for me. Oh, dear! I wish my income were larger. A thousand dollars a year is too little."

"Two persons ought to live on that sum very comfortably," I remarked.

"We can't, then; and I'm sure we are not extravagant. Ah, me!"

"I spent the evening with our friend Tyler last week," said I. "His salary is the same as yours, and he told me that he found it not only sufficient for all his wants, but that he could lay by a couple of hundred dollars yearly."

"I couldn't live as he does," said Brainard, a little impatiently.

"Why not?"

"Do you think I would be cooped up in such a pigeon-box of a place?"

"The house he lives in has six rooms, and he has but three in family—your own number, I presume"—

"I have four," said Brainard, interrupting me.

"Four?"

"Yes. We have a cook and chambermaid."

"Oh! Mrs. Tyler has but one domestic."

"My wife wasn't brought up to be a household drudge," said Brainard, contemptuously.

"Your house has ten rooms in it, I believe?" said I, avoiding a reply to his last remark.

"It has."

"But why should you pay rent for ten rooms, when you have use for only five or six? Is not that a waste of money that might be applied to a better purpose?"

"Oh, I like a large house," said my friend, tossing his head, and putting on an air of dignity and consequence. "A hundred dollars difference in rent is a small matter compared with the increase of comfort it brings."

"But the expense doesn't stop with the additional rent," said I.

"Why not?"

"The larger the house, the more expensive the furniture. It cost you a thousand dollars to fit up your handsome parlour?" said I.

"Yes, I presume it did."

"For what amount did you give your notes?"

"For six hundred dollars."

"On account of furniture?"

"Yes."

"Tyler furnished his parlour for three hundred."

There was another gesture of impatience on the part of my young friend, as he said—

"And such furnishing!"

"Every thing looks neat and comfortable," I replied.

"It may do for them, but it wouldn't suit us."

"Whatever is accordant with our means should be made to suit us," said I, seriously. "You are no better off than Tyler."

"Do you think I could content myself in such a place?" he replied.

"Contentment is only found in the external circumstances that correspond to a man's pecuniary ability," was my answer to this. "Which, think you, is best contented? Tyler, in a small house, neatly furnished, and with a hundred dollars in his pocket; or you, in your large house, with a debt of six hundred dollars hanging over you?"

There was an instant change in my friend's countenance. The question seemed to startle him. He sighed, involuntarily.

"But all this won't lift my notes," said he, after the silence of a few minutes. "Good morning!"

Poor fellow! I felt sorry for him. He had been buying comfort at rather too large a price.

The more Brainard cast about in his mind for the means of lifting his notes, the more troubled did he become.

"I might borrow," said he to himself; "but how am I to pay back the sum?"

To borrow, however, was better than to let his notes be dishonoured. So Brainard, as the time of payment drew nearer and nearer, made an effort to get from his friends the amount of money needed.

But the effort was not successful. Some looked surprised when he spoke of having notes to meet; others ventured a little good advice on the subject of prudence in young men who are beginning the world, and hinted that he was living rather too fast. None were prepared to give him what he wanted.

Troubled, mortified, and humbled, Brainard retired to his comfortable home on the evening before the day on which his note given for the piano was to fall due. Nearly his last effort to raise money had been made, and he saw nothing but discredit, and what he feared even worse than that before him. Involved as he was in debt, there was no safety from the sharp talons of the law. They might strike him at any moment, and involve all in ruin.

Poor Brainard! How little pleasure did the sight of his large and pleasant house give him as it came in view on his return home. It stood, rather as a monument of extravagance and folly, than the abode of sweet contentment.

"Three hundred dollars rent!" he murmured. "Too much for me to pay." And sighed deeply.

He entered his beautiful parlour, and gazed around upon the elegant furniture which he had provided as a means of comfort. All had lost its power to communicate pleasure. There stood the costly piano, once coveted and afterwards admired. But it possessed no charm to lay the troubled spirit within him. He had bought it as a marriage present for his wife, who had little taste for music, and preferred reading or sewing to the blandishment of sweet sounds. And for this toy—it was little more in his family—a debt of four hundred dollars had been created. Had it brought him an equivalent in comfort? Far, very far from it.

As Brainard stood in his elegant parlour, with troubled heart and troubled face, his wife came in with a light step.

"George!" she exclaimed on seeing him, her countenance falling and her voice expressing anxious concern. "What is the matter? Are you sick?"

"Oh, no!" he replied, affecting a lightness of tone.

"But something is the matter, George," said the young wife, as she laid her hand upon him and looked earnestly into his face. "Something troubles you."

"Nothing of any consequence. A mere trifle," returned Brainard, evasively.

"A mere trifle would not cloud your brow as it was clouded a moment since, George."

"Trifles sometimes affect us, more seriously than graver matters." As Brainard said this, the shadows again deepened on his face.

"If you have any troubles, dear, let me share them, and they will be lighter." Anna spoke with much tenderness.

"I hardly think your sharing my present trouble will lighten it," said Brainard, forcing a smile, "unless, in so doing, you can put some four hundred dollars into my empty pockets."

Anna withdrew a pace from her husband, and looked at him doubtingly.

"Do you speak in earnest?" said she.

"In very truth I do. To-morrow I have four hundred dollars to pay; but where the money is to come from, is more than I can tell."

"How in the world has that happened?" inquired Mrs. Brainard.

Involuntarily the eyes of her husband wandered towards the piano. She saw their direction. Her own eyes fell to the floor, and she stood silent for some moments—silent, but hurriedly thoughtful. Then looking up, she said, in a hesitating voice—

"We can do without that." And she pointed towards the piano.

"Without what?" asked Brainard, quickly.

"The piano. It cost four hundred dollars. Sell it."

"Never!"

"Why not?"

"Don't mention it, Anna. Sell your piano! It shall never be done."

"But, George"—

"It's no use to talk of that, Anna; I will not listen to it."

And so the wife was silenced.

Little comfort had the young couple that evening in their finely furnished house. Brainard was silent and thoughtful, while Anna felt the pressure of a heavy weight upon her feelings.

How different was it in the smaller and more plainly attired dwelling of Tyler! There was comfort, and there were peace and contentment, her smiling handmaids.