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A LITERARY AND DOMESTIC MAGAZINE.
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Bditbd by KATE GARLAND.
ABBIBTBO BY THB BIST TALBHT.
WOMAN sat gazing idly in
to the bright firelight. The
room was furnished in luxu
rious style, and all about her
J? w flv
were evidences of plenteous wealth. Her
home was pointed out as the most elegant
one of the large city in which she resided,
and it was said by those who knew her
well that every wish was gratified, so far
as gold could buy. I knew of this woman
—knew her present surroundings but
not her past history. I knew that the
man who provided all this luxury had
married in a distant city—and the beauty
of his young wife did well adorn the home
to which he brought her. I had thought
of her as being a woman who should enjoy
all the happiness that this life can give.
Others possess in various and varying
degrees that which brings happiness. It
may be the comforts of a well arranged
borne; it may be the blessing of good
health; it may be the priceless boon of a
contented disposition; it may be that in
dispensable requisite to happiness, the love
of loyal hearts; it may be the pursuit of
some pet idea or popular fancy. These
are things which may or may not bring
peace and gladness, for other elements
may be missing, the absence of which casts
over our shortsighted minds a darkness
that will not be dispelled.
But in the surroundings of this favored
woman there seemed to4)e no void. Money
was awaiting her every wish or whim. A
worthy husband was proud of her beauty
and her intellectual attainments—proud
to bestow upon her all the love of his heart.
Two beautiful children delighted to play
about her knee, and a mother’s eyes never
lingered more fondly on an object of affec
tion than did this mother’s as they followed
the movements of her little ones here and
there. “Surely,” I thought! “there is
nothing to mar the life of this woman—
nothing but gladness to enter her heart.”
♦ * ♦
I sometimes visited the city to which I
have referred—visited a home near the
abode of plenty above described. It was
a modest home—that of my friend—but
none the less dear to me because of its un
pretentiousness. There was comfort in it,
and there was love. There was also plenty
there, but not to wastefulness. The true
hearts that beat therein loved all unselfish
ly—loved not alone the dear ones of the
home circle, but pitied and loved the poor
and the needy, the sick and the distressed.
Many were the cold who were com
forted there, many the hungry who were
satisfied.
I was in this home on the evening to
which I first referred above. It was a
cold day—one of the very coldest that
come down occasionally and remind the
dwellers of the fair Southland that all is
not warmth and sunshine, that some days
must be cold and dreary out of doors, and
that the inner circle should be kept all the
more cozy and attractive because of this.
I sat with my friend and we chatted of
experiences and interests—chatted to the
music of the wind as it whistled about the
house corners. After a while the door
bell rang, and my hostess went to admit
the caller. This friend whom I visited
had no servants at her beck and call, but
this circumstance, which would have
wrecked the happiness of many women of
our advanced age, had no depressing
effect on her cheerful disposition, She,
found it a pleasure with her own hands
to serve her loved ones; I imagine that
the most loving natures always find it
so.
My friend left me, to answer the sum
mons of the door bell, and when she re
turned there was ushered into my presence
a victim of poverty and suffering—an
object of pity. She was a woman, almost
in rags and tatters, and her frail form
shivered with cold as she approached the
open fire and held out her rough hands.
Hers was the same story that is so often
heard in our cities; the details vary some
what—the circumstances are more or less
heart-rending according to the degree of
misery and want, but it is the same story
of sickness and of cold and hungry ones'
with no strong hands to provide for
them.
I wish that some means might be de
vised by which the hearts of all these poor
and needy would be made glad, by which
they would suffer no more lor food and shel
ter and warmth. I know not how it could
be done, but my heart goes out to them in
sympathy and pity. Suggest some meth
od for thoir relief, and the reply is that all
the poor cannot be provided for from the
public funds; yet I sometimes wonder that
schools and books are offered free to boys
and girls whose cry for bread is an
swered not.
• » *
I listened with pity to this woman’s
story of her husband who was prostrated
on a consumptive’s couch, and of her three
innocent children who could not realize
their father’s helplessness, but begged that
sustenance and warmth be given them.
Perhaps the woman’s story was not all
true. For aught I knew the consumption
of whiskey was the cause of her husband's
helplessness and his family’s needs. It is
easy to moralize on these matters and
have them serve us as excuses for not
responding when beggars ask for aid. It
is very convenient, when we are loath to
divide the store with which a.bountiful
Providence has rewarded our efforts, or
to which chance has made us the inheri
tors, to persuade ourselves that it is wrong
to give except to those who are known to
be worthy. But my friend had no such
excuse to offer. She very promptly went
to find articles of clothing or food that she
could give to this miserable supplicant.
I was left alone with the poor woman
and she was disposed to tell me of her
troubles. It is usually a relief for the
burdened heart to give utterance to its
sorrows. The poor beggar is accustomed
to tell the tale of suffering, but it is so
often received with coldness and with
scorn that the words are spoken mechani
cally, eliciting no expression of interest and
creating no hope of sympathy. I en
couraged this needy creature, and she told
me many of her troubles—told me in
trembling tones which bespoke the sadness
in her heart and pictured all too plainly
the tragedies that are lived over and over
in our cities.
There were tears in her eyes and a “God
bless you” fervently spoken when my friend
gave her the things which she had gather
ed for her comfort. It was then that she
told of having come from the home of
luxury which I have described—told of
coming away with bitter words of reproach
ringing in her ears.
The story was not asked for, but kind
treatment had so touched the heart-chords
of this pauper woman that she told of
how she had insisted on seeing that beauti
ful queen of wealth, and how, after much
waiting in the cold winter’s blasts, she had
at last been ushered into her presence not
withstanding the instructions to servants
that their mistress was “not at home” to
any but a select list of visitors.
But, ah, the bitterness of the words that
awaited this miserable unfortunate! No
sympathy and no help did she find there,
but warning that “her kind” must not
dare intrude their presence within the
confines of those well kept grounds. She
WOMAN’S WORK.
was abused as a low creature, unworthy
of sympathy or of help; the appealing look
of those sunken eyes and the unanswer
able argument of those tattered garments
were of no avail with this beautiful wo
man of fortune—this wife who had no
wish ungratified, who wasted enough to
have made this poor sufferer and her mis
erable ones feel oppulent.
This was the loving wife, the tender
mother, the leading star of the fashionable
social world. A fair blossom, but the
fragrance of charity was not there. A
flower beautiful to look upon, but at its
heart was the blight of selfishness. Boun
teous sums for lavish entertainment or
useless display, but not a crust of bread
for the starving, nor a bit of cloth with
which to clothe the shivering poor! I
have seen this woman since, but always as
a thing of beauty that has been shattered
into fragments. I envy not her wealth or
her station. I doubt if she enjoys either,
in the true sense of enjoyment, and I
wonder if they will remain with her to the
end.
* * *
On a plain headstone I once read this
simple inscription after a woman’s name:
“She hath done what she could.” I know
no words that express greater praise. I
have a friend who is fond of saying that
when a man has done his best to follow
the path of duty and of right his failures
and his faults are not subjects for censure.
It is not easy to decide just when we have
done our best-, but if it could be truly said
of each woman, “She hath done what she
could,” I would show you a picture the
beauty and sublimity of which this world
has never known. I once thought that
happiness depended to a great extent on
wealth and independence, but the heart of
that woman who “hath done what she
could” is filled with joys that wealth can
not buy nor independence command. I
have seen money a very millstone about
the necks of its owners, pulling them down
into the depths of bitterness. I have seen
dependence the sweetest of privileges,
holding hearts in bonds of affection strong
er than any bands of steel. I have
known women of wealth whose every
phase of life was a failure. I have known
others in the humblest walks of society of
whom it might be said “they have done
what they could.” There is no need to
ask which was happiest, for the plainest
face will show the mark of care or the
smile of content. I had rather have it
said of me “she hath done what she could”
than to have my name emblazoned in
letters of gold on all the heights of fame
because of some selfish achievement. Alas!
I can claim no such words of praise. Alas!
that there are so few of us who will ever
receive or deserve them.
* * *
If we think of the indifference with
which responsibilities are so often assumed
only to be betrayed, we have an alarming
picture for our contemplation. I saw a
fair young woman stand at the marriage
altar and vow to the world and to God
that she wedded the man of her choice
the man whom her heart could love, honor
and cherish in sickness and in health, for
better or for worse, unto the end. It
seems to me that no other obligation is so
sacred; every promise should be inviolably
kept, but over and above them all is the
promise at the bridal altar—equally bind
ing on man and woman. It was an im
pressive scene as this young man and
young woman joined hands and announced
to the world that henceforth there would
be no separate existence for either. Their
efforts and their interests should be in
unison, and their highest joy should be
to help one another along the journey of
life.
The way was bright then. It darkened,
and all the dream of love was forgotten.
I will not now discuss the faults of which
that husband may have been guilty.
Sometimes the man, sometimes the wo
man, extinguishes the light of affection
and forbearance that should guide them
over the rough places of life. Usually
there is blame to be attached to each, and
not always are the rough breakers which
are exposed to public view the ones on
which the bark weakens.
I watched the course of the young
couple whom I have mentioned; watched
it first with eyes of gladness, watched it
later with eyes of sorrow. It was not a
case in which wild dissipation or flagrant
inconstancy played a part. The world
looks on at these and blames one while
it pities both, that the tempter came. I
wonder if it is not worse when love is
allowed to die and two lives are wrecked
for no specific reason—for general indiffer
ence and misunderstanding on the part of
each.
In the one case it is as a garment torn in
tatters and destroyed before there is hope
of mending. In the other case we look
on the first little rent, almost impercepti
ble in the texture; but it is not closed, and
a little larger, a little more conspicuous
it grows from day to day until it is all
too late. The apertures are too wide for
reuniting; beauty and loveliness have
vanished and the ruin is complete.
So it was with the man and wife of
whom I write. All was smooth and
prosperous at first; love seemed to rule
supreme in their hearts and home, and
there was no warning of the trouble that
was to come. As I said above, Ido not
know to what extent each may have been
responsible, but I do know from the re
sults, that all those sweet promises at the
marriage altar were forgotten, and all the
obligations of a husband and wife to
promote the happiness of each other were
overlooked.
I imagine that their drifting apart came
as many others have come, by the gradual
omission of those delicate little offices
which watchful love knows so well
how to bestow, and which truly loyal
hearts should never allow to wane. Then
the little complaints that so often com
mence and grow as the family purse grows
lighter and the necessity for economy
becomes more exacting. What a danger
now confronts this home! What a weight
of responsibility now devolves upon this
wife! How hard for the woman who has
known naught of self-denial to look en
forced and unrelenting economy calmly
in the face and smile as sweetly as she did
upon prosperity! Here is the test of love
—the test, alas! under which so many
fail.
When a man squanders his substance
for whiskey or loses at the gaming table,
and thus entails suffering on his family, I
have no course to prescribe for his wife:
his conduct is indefensible, and if his wife’s
resentment may sometimes seem extreme,
who shall condemn her and excuse the
provocation? But if man and woman
have protested undying love as they start
on life’s uncertain way together, it is
when the flowers of prosperity cease to
bloom, and the thorns of adversity tear
their feet, that I look anxiously on and
pray that their loye may be true and wor
thy of the name, that it may draw them
nearer to each other as the clouds seem to
gather about them.
This is the time when the real wife
modestly, gently and unpretentiously
defies all the demons of thought that whis
per reproaches of her husband that he
could not stay the tide of misfortune—the
time when we see in all its beauty and
glory, the power of noble womanhood.
* » *
My heart throbs with pity for the man
who goes out to battle with the stern
realities of bread-winning and the re
verses of business if he finds no welcoming
smile and comforting hands, no voice
musical with affection when he crosses the
threshold of home.
It was here that failure came to the
lives that I have mentioned. It was
written on the face of the husband—it was
(Continued on page 12.)
FEBRUARY, 1896.