Part 4 (1/2)
I don't think that I shall ever want to go abroad myself; for they say that in foreign countries one sees so many poor, miserable children; and that would make me so unhappy that I should not enjoy any thing. I said so to David; but he talks like a young philosopher. He seems to have a way of keeping himself from feeling badly about others, though he has a very good heart, and, if he gave way to it, could make himself as unhappy about others as I sometimes do. He says he could enjoy looking at St. Peter's quite as much if there were a few beggars around it. I was sure, for my part, that I could take no pleasure in looking at the most beautiful building, if I saw any one who was suffering at the same time.
Clarendon laughed when he heard me make this remark, and said that I was too chicken-hearted for a boy, and ought to have been a girl. He need not smile at me, for he feels himself more quickly than the New-Englanders, though, after they have weighed any case of suffering in their own minds, they would do quite as much to relieve it. I can never think them cold-hearted, after visiting Boston and seeing their hospitals and schools. While I was there, there was a tremendous fire in the neighbourhood, by which a great many poor people lost their all. But the intelligence was hardly received before thousands of dollars were subscribed for their relief. They certainly have a great deal of real feeling and generosity, and if they would only express a little more of it in manner and words, every body would allow them to be, what I know they are, the kindest people in the world, always excepting the dear old Virginians. They speak, act, think, and feel just as they ought to do.
You will perceive, from this last remark, that I am not turning traitor to the Old Dominion. We have been so successful in our fis.h.i.+ng that I hope ere long to see it once more; and, till then, shall remain affectionately yours,
PIDGIE BEVERLEY.
LETTER VII.
MOODY d.i.c.k'S SISTER LOUISA.
FROM PIDGIE TO BENNIE.
Schooner Go-Ahead, August 1st, 1846.
You will think from my last letters, dear Bennie, that I have lost all interest in Moody d.i.c.k; and to be sure I did forget his story in the excitement of our visit to the Cunard steamer.
The evening after that great event was so pleasant, that David and I, who in general are great sleepy-heads, had no desire to rest; perhaps from having seen so much that was new during the day. The sailors are too used to such visits to think any thing about them; and, besides, they are a mighty independent set of men, and care as little for the world as the world for them. Clarendon sat on one end of the schooner reading some English papers by the moonlight, which was intensely bright, while at the other end Brown Tom and some of his friends were regaling themselves with a smoke and a long yarn. I had not seen d.i.c.k since morning to notice him, but could not help observing him now, as he walked about with the air of a man who is trying to free himself from some melancholy thought. I did not interrupt him, when he pa.s.sed the place where I was sitting with David, but two or three times he halted as he came by us. My Yankee friend was giving me a lively description of a clam-bake at Swampscot, in return for a picture I had drawn of life on a plantation in Virginia; but though it was most amusing, I could not help pitying d.i.c.k. By and by he stopped near us, and stood looking earnestly at something which he had taken from his bosom. A sudden wave struck the vessel, which gave it a tilt, and in preserving his footing d.i.c.k dropped a small locket on the edge of the deck, which David caught fast as it was slipping into the water.
As he handed the trinket to its owner, I could not help seeing that it held the miniature of a lovely child, not more than four years old. The hair was very light, and curled so sweetly, that the eyes were like Lily Carrol's, only a little sadder; but the mouth seemed as ready to smile as hers always is. The face was not at all like d.i.c.k's, but yet it reminded me of what his might have been when a child.
”O, how beautiful!” I exclaimed involuntarily, as David placed it in d.i.c.k's hand.
”Do you think so?” he asked, earnestly. ”Look again at this merry face, and tell me if it ever ought to have been saddened by sorrow.”
”But, you know, 'by the sorrow of the countenance the heart is made better,'” I replied, wis.h.i.+ng to soothe the grief which he evidently felt, as he held the miniature for me to look at it again.
”Better!” repeated d.i.c.k, sternly. ”There could not be a better heart than my sweet sister Louisa always had. That picture gives only a faint idea of her lovely face, for it represents its least pleasing expression, and she had not then reached the height of her beauty. Yet it is very like,” he added, gazing sadly upon it. ”Even now I seem to hear those rosy lips utter their first sweet lisp,--'Dear brother.'”
”No wonder that you loved her, if she was even prettier than this!” I exclaimed; ”for I could lay down my life for such a sister.”
”I did not love her,” he answered, to our great surprise. ”You are astonished at the confession; but I am not sure that, affectionate as you boys both seem, you either of you know what true love is. I was proud of Louisa. When she was an infant I liked to hear her praises; and as she grew more and more beautiful, and began to pour out the first woman feelings of her guileless heart upon me, I received them with grat.i.tude, and really believed she was, what I called her, 'my heart's treasure.'”
”Then why do you say that you did not love her?” I inquired, hesitatingly.
”Because years have convinced me,” he replied, ”that I was even then, what I have ever since been, one ma.s.s of selfishness. I never gave up a single wish for her pleasure, or made one effort to add to her happiness. Never say, my boys, that you love any one, till you find your own will giving way to the desire to please them, and that you can cheerfully renounce your most cherished plans for their sake.”
As he said this, Bennie, I asked myself whether it could be true that I did not even love my mother, and tried to think whether I had ever made the least sacrifice of my will to her comfort. O, how many acts recurred to my mind of selfish imposition upon her yielding gentleness! I am afraid that we boys all take the kindness of our parents too much as a matter of course, and do not often enough question ourselves whether we are making any return for their love.
But I am getting to scribble away my own thoughts quite too freely. Yet it is only a year since I could think of no other commencement to a letter than ”As this is composition day, I thought that I would write to you.”
As d.i.c.k thus spake of his own want of consideration for the feelings of his little sister, he became exceedingly agitated and was unable to proceed. Clarendon, who had finished reading his papers, came to the side of the boat where we were sitting, and told me that he was going to turn in, and that it was quite time for me to be asleep too. I was very reluctant to go, but when brother was out of hearing, d.i.c.k said,--”It is as well. I find I have not self-command enough to go over the sad story of my own folly. If you will give me a pencil and some paper, to-morrow I will write such portions of it as I think may interest or be of service to you. Do not criticize the expressions, for it is many years since I have done any thing of the kind, and the life I have led has about destroyed all traces of my early education.”
Of course, David and I were obliged to accept this promise in lieu of the evening's entertainment which we had expected, and marched off to our berths.
The next day we came upon a fine shoal of mackerel; so every one was busy, and it was not till nearly a week afterwards that d.i.c.k handed us two closely-written sheets of paper, with a caution not to show them to any one else. David and I read them with much interest, and I copied them to send to you. Here they are, and you must take care that I have them safe on my return.
CONTINUATION OF d.i.c.k'S STORY.