A BIT OF GREEN.
"Thou oughtest, therefore, to call to mind the more heavy sufferings of others, that so thou mayest the easier bear thy own very small troubles."--THE IMITATION OF CHRIST.
Children who live always with grass and flowers at their feet, and aclear sky overhead, can have no real idea of the charm that countrysights and sounds have for those whose home is in a dirty, busy,manufacturing town--just such a town, in fact, as I lived in when Iwas a boy, which is more than twenty years ago.
My father was a doctor, with a very large, if not what is called a"genteel," practice, and we lived in a comfortable house in a broadstreet. I was born and bred there; and, ever since I could remember,the last sound that soothed my ears at night, and the first to which Iawoke in the morning, was the eternal rumbling and rattling of thecarts and carriages as they passed over the rough stones. I nevernoticed if I heard them in the day-time, but at night my chiefamusement, as I lay in bed, was to guess by the sound of the wheelswhat sort of vehicle was passing.
"That light sharp rattle is a cab," I thought. "What a noise it makes,and gone in a moment! One gentleman inside, I should think. There's anomnibus; and there, jolty-jolt, goes a light cart; that's a carriage,by the way the horses step; and now, rumbling heavily in the distance,and coming slowly nearer, and heavier, and louder, this can be nothingbut a brewer's dray!" And the dray came so slowly that I was asleepbefore it had got safely out of hearing.
Ours was a very noisy street, but the noise made the night cheerful;and so did the church clock near, which struck the quarters; and sodid the light of the street lamps, which came through the blind andfell upon my little bed. We had very little light, except gaslight anddaylight, in our street; the sunshine seldom found its way to us, and,when it did, people were so little used to it that they pulled downthe blinds for fear it should hurt the carpets. In the room my sisterand I called our nursery, however, we always welcomed it with blindsrolled up to the very top; and, as we had no carpet, no damage wasdone.
But sunshine outside will not always make sunshine shine within, andI remember one day when, though our nursery was unusually cheerful,and though the windows were reflected in square patches of sunlight onthe floor, I stood in the very midst of the brightness, grumbling andkicking at my sister's chair with a face as black as a thunder-cloud.The reason of my ill-temper was this: Ever since I could remember, myfather had been accustomed, once a year, to take us all into thecountry for change of air. Once he had taken us to the sea, butgenerally we went to an old farmhouse in the middle of the beautifulmoors which lay not many miles from our dirty black town. But thisyear, on this very sunshiny morning, he had announced at breakfastthat he could not let us go to what we called our moor-home. He hadeven added insult to injury by expressing his thankfulness that wewere all in good health, so that the change was not a matter ofnecessity. I was too indignant to speak, and rushed upstairs into thenursery, where my little sister had also taken refuge. She was alwaysvery gentle and obedient (provokingly so, I thought), and now she satrocking her doll on her knee in silent sorrow, whilst I stood kickingher chair and grumbling in a tone which it was well the doll could nothear, or rocking would have been of little use. I took pleasure intrying to make her as angry as myself. I reminded her how lovely thepurple moors were looking at that moment, how sweet heather smelt,and how good bilberries tasted. I said I thought it was "very hard."It wasn't as if we were always paying visits, as many children did, totheir country relations; we had only one treat in the year, and fatherwanted to take that away. Not a soul in the town, I said, would be asunfortunate as we were. The children next door would go somewhere, ofcourse. So would the little Smiths, and the Browns, and _everybody_.Everybody else went to the sea in the autumn; we were contented withthe moors, and he wouldn't even let us go there. And, at the end ofevery burst of complaint, I discharged a volley of kicks at the leg ofthe chair, and wound up with "I can't think why he can't!"
"I don't know," said my sister, timidly, "but he said something aboutnot affording it, and spending money, and about trade being bad, andhe was afraid there would be great distress in the town."
Oh, these illogical women! I was furious. "What on earth has that todo with us?" I shouted at her. "Father's a doctor; trade won't hurthim. But you are so silly, Minnie, I can't talk to you. I only knowit's very hard. Fancy staying a whole year boxed up in this beastlytown!" And I had so worked myself up that I fully believed in thetruth of the sentence with which I concluded--
"_There never_ WAS _anything so miserable!_"
Minnie said nothing, for my feelings just then were something likethose of the dogs who (Dr. Watts tells us)
"delight To bark and bite;"
and perhaps she was afraid of being bitten. At any rate, she held hertongue; and just then my father came into the room.
The door was open, and he must have heard my last speech as he camealong the passage; but he made no remark on it, and only said, "Wouldany young man here like to go with me to see a patient?"
I went willingly, for I was both tired and half-ashamed of teasingMinnie, and we were soon in the street. It was a broad and cheerfulone, as I said; but before long we left it for a narrower, and thenturned off from that into a side street, where the foot-path wouldonly allow us to walk in single file--a dirty, dark lane, where surelythe sun never did shine.
"What a horrid place!" I said. "I never was here before. Why don'tthey pull such a street down?"
"What is to become of the people who live in it?" said my father.
"Let them live in one of the bigger streets," I said; "it would bemuch more comfortable."
"Very likely," he said; "but they would have to pay much more fortheir houses; and if they haven't the money to pay with, what's to bedone?"
I could not say, for, like older social reformers than myself, I feltmore sure that the reform was needed, than of how to accomplish it.But before I could decide upon what to do with the dirty littlestreet, we had come to a place so very much worse that it put theother quite out of my head. There is a mournful fatality about thepretty names which are given, as if in mockery, to the most wretchedof the bye-streets in large towns. The street we had left was calledRosemary Street, and this was Primrose Place.
Primrose Place was more like a yard than a street; the houses were allirregular and of different ages. On one side was a gap with palingsround it, where building was going on, and beyond rose a huge blackfactory. But the condition of Primrose Place was beyond description. Ihad never seen anything like it before, and kept as close to my fatheras was consistent with boyish, dignity. The pathway was broken up,children squalled at the doors and quarrelled in the street, whichwas strewn with rags, and bones, and bits of old iron, and shoes, andthe tops of turnips. I do not think there was a whole unbroken windowin all the row of tall miserable houses, and the wet clothes hangingout on lines stretched across the street, flapped above our heads. Icounted three cripples as we went up Primrose Place. My father stoppedto speak to several people, and I heard many complaints of the badstate of trade to which my sister had alluded. He gave some money toone woman, and spoke kindly to all; but he hurried me on as fast as hecould, and we turned at last into one of the houses.
My ill-humour had by this time almost worked itself off in the freshair, and the novel scenes through which we had come; and, for thepresent, the morning's disappointment was forgotten as I followed myfather through the crowded miserable rooms, and clambered up staircaseafter staircase, till we reached the top of the house, and stumbledthrough a latched door into the garret. After so much groping in thedark, the light dazzled me, and I thought at first that the room wasempty. But at last a faint "Good day" from the corner near the windowdrew my eyes that way; and there, stretched on a sort of bed, andsupported by a chair at his back, lay the patient we had come to see.
He was a young man about twenty-six years old, in the last stage ofthat terrible disease so fatally common in our country--he was dyingof
consumption. There was no mistaking the flushed cheek, thepainfully laborious breathing, and the incessant cough; while two oldcrutches in the corner spoke of another affliction--he was a cripple.His gaunt face lighted up with a glow of pleasure when my father camein, who seated himself at once on the end of the bed, and began totalk to him, whilst I looked round the room. There was absolutelynothing in it, except the bed on which the sick man lay, the chairthat supported him, and a small three-legged table. The low roof wasterribly out of repair, and the window was patched with newspaper; butthrough the glass panes that were left, in full glory streamed thesun, and in the midst of the blaze stood a pot of musk in full bloom.The soft yellow flowers looked so grand, and smelled so sweet, that Iwas lost in admiration, till I found the sick man's black eyes fixedon mine.
"You are looking at my bit of green, master?" he said, in a gratifiedtone.
"Do you like flowers?" I inquired, coming shyly up to the bed.
"Do I like 'em?" he exclaimed in a low voice. "Ay, I love 'em wellenough--well enough," and he looked fondly at the plant, "though it'slong since I saw any but these."
"You have not been in the country for a long time?" I inquired,compassionately. I felt sad to think that he had perhaps lain therefor months, without a taste of fresh air or a run in the fields; but Iwas _not_ prepared for his answer.
"_I never was in the country, young gentleman._"
I looked at my father.
"Yes," he said, in answer to my glance, "it is quite true. William wasborn here. He got hurt when a boy, and has been lame ever since. Forsome years he has been entirely confined to the house. He was neverout of town, and never saw a green field."
Never out of the town! confined to the house for years! and what ahouse! The tears rushed to my eyes, and I felt that angry heart-achewhich the sight of suffering produces in those who are too young to beinsensible to it, and too ignorant of GOD's Providence tosubmit with "quietness and confidence" to His will.
"My son can hardly believe it, William."
"It is such a shame," I said; "it is horrible. I am very sorry foryou."
The black eyes turned kindly upon me, and the sick man said, "Thankyou heartily, Sir. You mean very kindly. I used to say the same sortof things myself, when I was younger, and knew no better. I used tothink it was very hard, and that no one was so miserable as I was. ButI know now how much better off I am than most folks, and how manythings I have to be thankful for."
I looked round the room, and began involuntarily to count thefurniture--one, two, three. The "many things" were certainly notchairs and tables.
But he was gazing before him, and went on: "I often think how thankfulI ought to be to die in peace, and have a quiet room to myself. Therewas a girl in a consumption on the floor below me; and she used to sitand cough, while her father and mother quarrelled so that I could hearthem through the floor. I used to send her half of anything nice Ihad, but I found they took it. I did wish then," he added, with asudden flush, "that I had been a strong man!"
"How shocking!" I said.
"Yes," he answered; "it was that first set me thinking how manymercies I had. And then there came such a good parson to St. John's,and he taught me many things; and then I knew your father; and theneighbours have been very kind. And while I could work I got goodwage, and laid by a bit; and I've sold a few things, and there'll bethese to sell when I'm gone; and so I've got what will keep me whileI do live, and pay for my coffin. What can a man want more?"
What, indeed! Unsatisfied heart, make answer!
A fit of coughing that shook the crazy room interrupted him here. Whenhe had recovered himself, he turned to my father.
"Ay, ay, I have many mercies, as you know, Sir. Who would have thoughtI could have kept a bit of green like that plant of mine in a placelike this? But, you see, they pulled down those old houses oppositejust before I got it, and now the sun couldn't come into a king's roombetter than it comes into mine. I was always afraid, year after year,that they would build it up, and my bit of green would die; and theyare building now, but it will last my time. Indeed, indeed, I've hadmuch to be thankful for. Not," he added, in a low, reverential tone,"not to mention greater blessings. The presence of the LORD!the presence of the LORD!"
I was awed, almost frightened, by the tone in which he spoke, and bythe look of his face, on which the shadow of death was falling fast.He lay in a sort of stupor, gazing with his black eyes at the brokenroof, as if through it he saw something invisible to us.
It was some time before he seemed to recollect that we were there, andbefore I ventured to ask him. "Where did you get your plant?"
He smiled. "That's a long story, master; but it was this way. You see,my father died quite young in a decline, and left my mother tostruggle on with eight of us as she could. She buried six, one afteranother; and then she died herself, and brother Ben and I were leftalone. But we were mighty fond of one another, and got on very well. Igot plenty of employment, weaving mats and baskets for a shop in thetown, and Ben worked at the factory. One Saturday night he came homeall in a state, and said there was going to be a cheap trip on theMonday into the country. It was the first there had been from theseparts, though there have been many since, I believe. Neither he nor Ihad ever been out of the town, and he was full of it that we must go.He had brought his Saturday wage with him, and we would work hardafterwards. Well, you see, the landlord had been that day, and hadsaid he must have the rent by Tuesday, or he'd turn us out. I'd gotsome of it laid by, and was looking to Ben's wages to make it up. ButI couldn't bear to see his face pining for a bit of fresh air, and soI thought I could stay at home and work on Monday for what would makeup the rent, and he need never know. So I pretended that I didn'twant to go, and couldn't be bothered with the fuss; and at last I sethim off on Monday without me. It was late at night when he came backlike one wild. He'd got flowers in his hat, and flowers in all hisbutton-holes; he'd got his handkerchief filled with hay, and wascarrying something under his coat. He began laughing and crying, and'Eh, Bill!' he said, 'thou hast been a fool. Thou hast missed summat.But I've brought thee a bit of green, lad, I've brought thee a bit ofgreen.' And then he lifted up his coat, and there was the plant, whichsome woman had given him. We didn't sleep much that night. He spreadthe hay over the bed, for me to lay my face on, and see how the fieldssmelt, and then he began and told me all about it; and after that,when I was tired with work, or on a Sunday afternoon, I used to say,'Now, Ben, tell us a bit about the country.' And he liked nothingbetter. He used to say that I should go, if he carried me on his back;but the LORD did not see fit. He took cold at work, and wentoff three months afterwards. It was singular, the morning he died hecalled me to him, and said, 'Bill, I've been a dreaming about thattrip that thou didst want to go after all. I dreamt--' and then hestopped, and said no more; but, after a bit, he opened his eyes wide,and pulled me to him, and he said, 'Bill, my lad, there's suchflowers in heaven, such flowers!' And so the LORD took him.But I kept the bit of green for his sake."
Here followed another fit of coughing, which brought my father fromthe end of the bed to forbid his talking any more.
"I have got to see another patient in the yard," he said, "and I willleave my son here. He shall read you a chapter or two till I comeback; he is a good reader for his age."
And so my father went. I was, as he said, a good reader for my age;but I felt very nervous when the sick man drew a Bible from his side,and put it in my hands. I wondered what I should read; but it was soonsettled by his asking for certain Psalms, which I read as clearly anddistinctly as I could. At first I was rather disturbed by hisoccasional remarks, and a few murmured Amens; but I soon got used toit. He joined devoutly in the "Glory be to the Father"--with which Iconcluded--and then asked for a chapter from the Revelation of St.John. I was more at ease now, and read my best, with a happy sense ofbeing useful; whilst he lay in the sunshine, folding the sheet withhis bony fingers, with his eyes fixed on the beloved "bit of green,"and drinking in the Words of Life wit
h dying ears.
"_Blessed are they that dwell in the heavenly Jerusalem, where thereis no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it; for theglory of_ GOD _does lighten it, and the Lamb is the lightthereof._"
By the time that my father returned, the sick man and I were fastfriends; and I left him with his blessing on my head. As we went home,my good kind father told me that I was nearly old enough now to takean interest in his concerns, and began to talk of his patients, and ofthe poverty and destitution of some parts of the town. Then he spokeof the bad state of trade--that it was expected to be worse, and thatthe want of work and consequent misery this year would probably bevery great. Finally he added, that when so many were likely to bestarving, he had thought it right that we should deny ourselves ourlittle annual treat, and so save the money to enable us to take ourpart in relieving the distressed.
"Don't you think so, my boy?" he concluded, as we reached the door ofour comfortable (how comfortable!) home.
My whole heart was in my "Yes."
It is a happy moment for a son when his father first confides in him.It is a happy moment for a father when his son first learns toappreciate some of the labour of his life, and henceforth to obey hiscommands, not only with a blind obedience, but in the sympathizingspirit of the "perfect love" which "casts out fear." My heart was toofull to thank him then for his wise forbearance and wiser confidence;but when after some months my sister's health made change of air tothe house of a country relative necessary, great was my pride andthankfulness that I was well enough to remain at the post of duty bymy father's side.
One day, not long after our visit to William, he went again to seehim; and when he came back I saw by the musk-plant in his hand thenews he brought. Its flowers were lovelier than ever, but its masterwas transplanted into a heavenly garden, and he had left it to me.
Mortal man does not learn any virtue in one lesson; and I have onlytoo often in my life been ungrateful both to GOD and man. Butthe memory of lame William has often come across me when I have beentempted to grumble about small troubles; and has given me a littlehelp (not to be despised) in striving after the grace of Thankfulness,even for a "bit of green."
MONSIEUR THEVISCOUNT'S FRIEND.
A TALE IN THREE CHAPTERS.
"Sweet are the vses of aduersitie Which like the toad, ougly and venemous, Weares yet a precious lewell in his head." AS YOU LIKE IT: A.D. 1623.
Melchior's Dream and Other Tales Page 4