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BOOK V

CONTAINING THE ADVENTURES OF A GOOD SAMARITAN

CHAPTER I.
THE PHILANTHROPIST'S FAMILY

If my first introduction to the life of the philanthropic Zachariah Longstraw (for that was his name) was attended with circumstances of fear and danger, I did not thereby escape those other evils, which, as I hinted before, might have been anticipated, had I reflected a moment on the situation of his body. It was covered with bruises from head to foot, and there was scarce a sound bone left in it; so that, as I may say, I had, in reanimating it, only exchanged anguish of spirit for anguish of body; and which of these is the more intolerable, I never could satisfactorily determine. Philosophers, indeed, contend for the superior poignancy of the former; but I must confess a leaning to the other side of the question. What is the pain of a broken heart to that of the toothache? The poets speak of vipers in the bosom; what are they compared to a bug in the ear? Be this, however, as it may, it is certain I had a most dreadful time of it in Mr. Longstraw's body; and it would have been much worse, had not the blows I had received on the head kept me for a long time in a delirium, and therefore in a measure unconscious of my sufferings. The truth is, the body which I so rashly entered was in such a dilapidated condition, so bruised and mangled, that it was next to an impossibility to restore its vital powers; and it was more than two weeks, after lying all that time in a state of insensibility, more dead than alive, before I came to my senses, and remembered what had befallen me; and it was not until four more had elapsed that I was finally able to leave my chamber, and snuff the early breezes of spring.

As soon as I began to take notice of what was passing about me, I perceived that I lay in a good, though plainly-furnished chamber, and that, besides the physicians and other persons who occasionally bustled around me, there were two individuals so constantly in attendance, and so careful and affectionate in all their deportment, that I did not doubt they were members of my new family. Indeed, I had no sooner looked upon their faces, and heard their voices, than I felt a glow of satisfaction within my spirit; which convinced me they were my very dear and faithful friends, and that I loved them exceedingly.

They were both young men, the one perhaps of twenty-five, the other six or seven years older. Both were decked in Quaker garments, the elder being uncommonly plain in his appearance, wearing smallclothes, shoe-buckles, and a hat with a brim full five inches wide, which he seldom laid aside. These gave him a patriarchal appearance, highly striking in one of his youth, which was much increased by an uncommon air of gravity and benevolence beaming from his somewhat swarthy and hollow visage.

The younger had no such sanctimonious appearance. There was a janty look even in the cut of his straight coat; he had a handsome face, and seemed conscious of it; he swung about the room at times with a strut that excited his own admiration; and any three moments out of five he might be seen before the looking-glass, surveying his teeth, inspecting the sweep of his shoulders, and brushing up his hair with his fingers. His plain coat was set at naught by a vest and trousers of the most fashionable cut and pattern; he had a gold guard-chain, worn abroad, and his watch, which, in all likelihood, was gold also, was stuck in his vest-pocket, in the manner approved of by bucks and men of the world, instead of being deposited, according to the system of the wise, in a fob over the epigastrium; and, to crown his list of vanities, he had in his shirt a breastpin, which he took care to keep constantly visible, containing jewels of seven or eight different colours. It was manifest the young gentleman, if a Quaker, as his coat showed him to be, was quite a free one; and, indeed, the first words I heard him utter (which were also the first that I distinguished after rousing from my long sleep of insensibility) set the matter beyond question. I saw him peer into my face very curiously, and directly heard him call out to his companion – "I say, Snipe, by jingo, uncle Zack's beginning to look like a man in his senses!"

These words imparted a sensation of pleasure to my breast, but I felt impelled to censure the young man for the freedom of his expressions. My tongue, however, seemed to have lost its function; and while I was vainly attempting to articulate a reprimand, the other rushed up, and, giving me an earnest stare, seized upon one of my hands, which he fell to mumbling and munching in a highly enthusiastic manner, crying out, with inexpressible joy and fervour, "Blessed be the day! and does thee open thee eyes again? Verily, this shall be a day of rejoicing, and not to me only, the loving Abel Snipe, but to thousands. Does thee feel better, Zachariah, my friend and patron? Verily, the poor man that has mourned for thee shall be now as one that rejoices; for thee shall again speak to him the words of tenderness, and open the hand of alms-giving; yea, verily, and the afflicted shall mourn no more!"

These words were even more agreeable than those uttered by the junior; and I experienced a feeling of displeasure when the latter suddenly cut them short by exclaiming, "Come, Snipe, none of thee confounded nonsense. I reckon uncle Zack has had enough philanthropy for the season; and don't thee go to humbug him into it any more. Thee has made thee own fortune, and should be content."

"Verily, friend Jonathan," said the fervent Abel Snipe, addressing the junior, but still tugging at my hand, "thee does not seem to rejoice at thee uncle's recovery as thee should; but thee jokes and thee jests sha'n't make my spirit rejoice the less."

"Verily," said Jonathan, "so it seems; but if thee tugs at uncle Zack in that way, and talks so loud, thee will do his business."

"Verily," said Abel —

"And verily," said Jonathan, interrupting him, "thee will say it is thee business to do his business; which is very true – but not in the sense of murder. So let us hold our tongues; and do thou, uncle Zachariah," he added, addressing me, "keep thyself quiet, and take this dose of physic."

It was unspeakable how much my spirit was warmed within me by this friendly contest between the two young men, and by their looks of affection. I longed to embrace them both, but had not the strength; and, indeed, it was three or four days more before I felt myself able, or was allowed by the physicians, to indulge in conversation.

At the expiration of that period I found myself growing stronger; the twenty thousand different pangs that had besieged my body, from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot, whenever I attempted to move, were less racking and poignant; and, waking from a slumber that had been more agreeable than usual, and finding no one near me save the ever faithful Abel Snipe, I could no longer resist the impulse to speak to him.

"Abel Snipe," said I.

"Blessed be thee kind voice, that it speaks again!" said Abel Snipe, devouring my hand as before, and blubbering as he devoured.

"Thy name is Abel Snipe?" said I.

"Verily and surely, it is Abel Snipe, and no other," said he; "I hope thee don't forget me?"

"Why, really," said I, "I can't exactly say, friend Abel, seeing that there has a confusion come over my brain. But art thou certain I am no longer Abram Skinner?"

At this question Abel Snipe's eyes jumped half out of his head, and they regarded me with wo and horror. I saw he thought my wits were unsettled, and I hastened to remove the impression.

"Don't be alarmed, friend Abel; but, of a verity, I think I was killed and buried."

"Yea," said Abel; "yea, verily, the vile, ungrateful, malicious John Smith did smite thee over the head with a club, so that the bone was broken, and thee was as one that was dead; but oh! the villain! we have him fast in jail; and oh! the unnatural rascal! we'll hang him!"

"Verily," said I, feeling uncommon concern at the idea, "we will do no such wicked deed; but we will admonish the poor man of the wickedness of his ways, and, relieving his wants, discharge him from bondage."

"Yea," said Abel Snipe, with an air of contrition; "so will we do, as becometh the merciful man and Christian. But, verily, the flesh did quarrel with the spirit, and the old Adam cried out to me, 'Blood for blood,' and the thing that is flesh said, 'Vengeance on the wicked man that smote the friend of the afflicted!' But now thy goodness reproves me, and teaches me better things: wherefore I say, be not hard with the miserable man, for such is the wicked, and such is John Smith; who is now mourning over his foolish acts in the county prison. Yea, verily, we will be exceeding lenient," – and so forth, and so forth.

I do not think it needful to repeat all the wise and humane things said by Abel Snipe: they convinced me he was the most benevolent of beings, and warmed a similar spirit that was now burning in my breast, and which burnt on until it became at last a general conflagration of philanthropy. Yea, the transformation was complete; I found within me, on the sudden, a raging desire to augment the happiness of my fellow-creatures; and wondered that I had ever experienced any other passion. The generous Abel discoursed to me of the thousands I – that is, my prototype, the true Zachariah – had rescued from want and affliction, and of the thousands whom I was yet to relieve. My brain took fire at the thought, and I exulted in a sense of my virtue; I perceived, in imagination, the tear of distress chased away by that of gratitude; I heard the sob of sorrow succeeded by the sigh of happiness, and the prayer of beseeching changed to the prayer of praise and thanksgiving. A gentle warmth flowed from my bosom through the uttermost bounds of my frame, and I felt that I was a happy man; yea, reader, yea, and verily, I was at last happy. My only affliction was, that the battered condition of my body prevented my sallying out at once, and practising the noble art of charity. The tears sprang into my eyes when Abel recounted the numbers of the miserable who had besieged my doors during my two weeks of insensibility, crying for assistance.

"Why didst thou not relieve them, Abel Snipe?" I exclaimed.

"Verily," said Abel, turning his eyes to heaven with a look of fervent rapture, "I did relieve the sorrowing and destitute even to the uttermost penny that was in my pocket. Blessed be the deed, for I have not now a cent that I can call my own. As for thine, Zachariah, it became me not to dispense it, without thy spoken authority; the more especially as thy nephew, Jonathan, did hint, and vehemently insist, that thou hadst bestowed too much already for thy good, and his."

These words filled me with concern and displeasure.

"Surely," said I, "the young man Jonathan is not averse to deeds of charity?"

"Verily," said Abel, clasping his hands, and looking as if he would have wept, "the excellent and beloved youth doth value money more than the good which money may produce; and of that good he esteemeth chiefly the portion that falleth to his own lot. Of a surety, I do fear he hath an eagerness and hankering, a fleshly appetite and an exceeding strong desire, after the things of the world. He delighteth in the vanity of fine clothes, and his discourse is of women and the charms thereof. He hath bought the picture of a French dancing-woman, and hung it in his chamber, swearing (for he hath a contempt for affirmation) that it is a good likeness of the maiden Ellen Wild; and yesterday I did perceive him squeaking at a heathenish wind-instrument, called a flute, and thereupon he did avow an intention to try his hand at that more paganish thing of strings, called a fiddle; and, oh! what grieved me above all, and caused the spirit within me to cry 'avaunt! and get thee away, Jonathan,' he did offer me a ticket, of the cost of one dollar, to procure me admission into the place of sin and vanity, called the theatre, swearing 'by jingo' and 'by gemini' there was 'great fun there,' and offering to lend me a coat, hat, and trousers, so that the wicked should not know me. Yea, verily, the young man is as a young lion that roameth up and down – as a sheep that wandereth from the pinfold into the forbidden meadows – and as for charity, peradventure thee will not believe me, but he averred, 'the only charity he believed in was that which began at home.'"

These confessions of the faithful Abel in relation to the young man Jonathan, caused my spirit to wax sorrowful within me. But it is fitting, before pursuing such conversations further, that I should inform the reader who the faithful Abel and the young man Jonathan were.

The latter, as Abel himself informed me, was my – or, if the reader will, my prototype's – nephew, the only, and now orphan, son of a sister, who had married, as the phrase is, "out of meeting," and, dying destitute, left her boy to the charge of the benevolent Zachariah, who, being himself childless, adopted him as his son and heir, and had treated him as such, from his childhood up. The great wish of Zachariah was to make the adopted son a philanthropist, like himself; in which, however, he was destined to disappointment; for Jonathan was of a wild and worldly turn, fond of frolic and amusement, and extremely averse to squander in works of charity the possessions he designed applying in future years to his own benefit. Nevertheless, he was greatly beloved by his uncle; and I, who was imbued with that uncle's spirit, and destined to love and abhor what he had loved and abhorred, whether I would or not, soon began to regard him as one of the two apples of my eyes.

CHAPTER II.
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE WORTHY ABEL SNIPE

The faithful Abel Snipe, it seems (his history was told me by Jonathan), was a man whom Zachariah, some years before, while playing the Howard in a neighbouring sovereignty, had found plunged in deep distress, and making shoes in the penitentiary. To this condition he had been reduced by sheer goodness; for, being an amateur in that virtuous art of which Zachariah was a professor, and having no means of his own to relieve the woes of the wretched, he had borrowed from the hoards of his employers (the president and directors of a certain stock-company, in whose office he had a petty appointment), and thus, perforce, made charitable an institution that was chartered to be uncharitable. He committed the fault, however, of borrowing without the previous ceremony of asking – either because he was of so innocent a temper as to think such a proceeding unnecessary, or because he knew beforehand that the request would not be granted; and the consequence was, that the president and directors, as aforesaid, did very mercilessly hand him over to the prosecuting attorney, the prosecuting attorney to a grand jury, the grand jury to a petit jury, the petit jury to a penitentiary, and the penitentiary to the devil – or such, at least, would have been the ending of the unfortunate amateur, had not the philanthropist, who always ordered his shoes, for charity's sake, at the prison, been struck with the uncommon excellence of a pair constructed by Abel's hands.

He sought out the faithful maker (for sure a man must be faithful to make a good pair of shoes in a penitentiary), was melted by his tale of wo, even as the wax through which Abel was then drawing a bunch of ends was melted by the breath thereof; and shedding tears to find the poor creature's virtue so shabbily rewarded, ran to the prosecutors with a petition, which he induced them to sign, transmitted it to the governor, with a most eloquent essay on the divine character of mercy, and, in less than a week, walked Abel Snipe out of prison, a pardoned man.

The charity of the professor did not end with Abel's liberation. Enraptured with the fervour of his gratitude, touched by the artlessness of his character, and moved by the destitution to which a pardon in the winter-time exposed him, he carried him to his own land and house, fed, clothed, and employed him upon a new pair of shoes; and, discovering that he had talents for a nobler business, advanced him in time to the rank of accountant, or secretary, collector of rents, dispenser of secret charities, and, in general, factotum and fiduciary at large. Such a servant was needed by the humane Zachariah; his philanthropy left him no time to attend to his own affairs, and his nephew Jonathan had fallen in love, and become incompetent to their management.

Never was experiment more happy for subject and object: Abel Snipe was made an honest and useful man; and Zachariah Longstraw obtained a friend and servant without price. The gratitude of Abel was equal to his ability; humility, fidelity, and religion, were the least of his virtues – he became a philanthropist, like his master. He managed his affairs with such skill, that Zachariah had always pennies at hand for the unfortunate; which, it seems, had not always happened before; and, what was equally charming, the zealous Abel dived into every lane, alley, and gutter, to discover new objects of charity for his patron. To crown all, he felt moved in the spirit to profess the faith so greatly adorned by his protector; and, after due preparation and probation, appeared in the garb of peace and humility, and even went so far as to hold forth once at meeting.

In a word, Abel Snipe was a jewel of the first water, who supplied the place of the idle Jonathan in all matters of business, and almost in the affections of his kinsman. If not equally beloved, he was more highly esteemed; and his shining worth consoled the philanthropist for many of the derelictions of his nephew. He became the confidant, the coadjutor, and the adviser of Zachariah; and Zachariah never found occasion to lament the benevolence that had redounded so much to his own advantage.

CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH THE YOUNG MAN JONATHAN ARGUES SEVERAL CASES OF CONSCIENCE, WHICH ARE RECOMMENDED TO BE BROUGHT BEFORE YEARLY MEETING

My nephew Jonathan had no great love for poor Abel; and he did not tell me his story without passing sundry sarcasms on him, as well as myself, for bestowing so much confidence on the poor unfortunate man. I rebuked the youth for his freedom and uncharitableness, and remembering what Abel had told me of his own idle and trifling course of life, I felt impelled by the new spirit of virtue that possessed me to take him to task; which I did in the following manner; and it is wondrous how completely and how soon (for I was yet lying on my back, groaning with my unhealed wounds and bruises) my spirit assumed and acted upon all that was peculiar in the nature of Zachariah Longstraw.

"Nevvy Jonathan," said I, "the uncharitableness of thy spirit afflicts me. Trouble not thyself to censure the worthy Abel Snipe; but think how thou shalt amend thine own crying faults. It has been said to me, Jonathan, my son, and verily I fear it is true, that thou squeakest upon flutes, and that thou makest profane noises with fiddles; and, furthermore, that thou runnest after, and dost buy, the vanity of pictures, and triest thy hand at painting the same."

"I do," said Jonathan; "and I find nothing against them in the Scripture."

"Verily," said I, "but dost thou find nothing against them in thine own spirit?"

"Not a whit," said Jonathan; "my heart says love them, and my head approves the counsel. Where's the harm in these things? I know thee don't say they are in themselves sinful."

"Verily, no," said I; "but they are indirectly so; for, being wholly useless, the time bestowed upon them is time lost and wasted; and that, nevvy Jonathan, I think thee will allow to be sinful."

"Not I," said Jonathan, stoutly; "I don't believe the wasting of time to be any such heinous matter as thee supposes; had it been so, man would not have been made to waste a third of his existence in slumber. But granting this, for the sake of argument, I deny thy premises, uncle Zachariah. The time bestowed upon these things is not wasted. Heaven has given to nine men out of ten a capacity to enjoy both music and painting; it has done more – it has set an example of both before our eyes, and thus laid the foundation of the divine arts in Nature. What is the world around us but a great concert-hall, echoing with the music of bird and beast, of wind, water, and foliage? what but a great gallery of pictures, painted by the hand of Providence? Nature is a painter – Nature is a musician; and her sons can do nothing better than follow her example. But were Nature neither, it is not the less evident that these arts are lawful and sinless. They can be proved so, uncle Zachariah, upon thine own system of philanthropy; for they add to the happiness of our existence, and they do so without corrupting our morals or injuring our neighbours. I say, uncle," quoth Jonathan, who had pronounced this defence with much enthusiasm, and now concluded with a grin of triumph, "I have thee there dead as a herring!"

"Verily," said I, more pleased than offended at the young man's ingenuity, for my spirit yearned over him the more at every word, "thee has a talent for argument, which I would thee would cultivate; for then thee could get into the Assembly, and finally, perhaps, into Congress, and do much good to thy fellow-men, by reforming divers crying abuses."

"Verily," said he, "the first thing I should reform would be thy philanthropy."

"Don't be funny, nevvy," said I, "for I have not done with thee. Thee was dancing last night, in the house of the vain man Ebenezer Wild."

"I was," said Jonathan; "I was shaking my legs; and I can't see the harm of it, for the flies do the same thing all day long."

"Verily, thee should remember that a reasonable being, that hath a brain, should rather exercise that than his heels."

"I grant thee," said Jonathan; "but thee knows brains are not so abundant as heels; and thee should expect the mass of people to conduct according to their endowments."

"Jonathan," said I, "if thee thinks to make me laugh, thee is mistaken. Of a verity I will not be rigid with thee; but, verily, I must speak to thee of what I hold thy faults. Thou hast a vain and eager hankering after the society of giddy women."

"I have!" said Jonathan, with great fervour. "Heaven made women to be loved, and I love them – especially Ellen Wild!"

"Sure," said I, "I have heard that name?"

"Sure," said Jonathan, "it would be odd if thee had not; for thee knows her well – thine old friend Ebenezer's daughter."

"A giddy girl, Jonathan, I fear me; a giddy girl!"

"As giddy as the dev – that is, as giddy as a goose," said Jonathan.

"What!" said I; "thee meant something worse! Verily, I have heard thee uses bad language, Jonathan."

"By jingo!" said the youth, indignantly, "there is no end to the slanders people will say of one. I use bad language? By jingo!"

"Why, thee is at it now," said I; "let thy yea be yea, and thy nay nay; for all beyond is profanity or folly. But thee will allow, Jonathan, that when thee is among the people of the world, thee uses the language thereof, forgetting the language of simplicity and sobriety, which would best become thy lips?"

"Ay; there I plead guilty, and with good reason too," said Jonathan. "When I was a boy, thee had thoughts of making me a merchant, and thee compelled me to study French and German. Now, when I meet a Frenchman or a German unacquainted with the English tongue, in what language does thee suppose I address him?"

"Why, French or German, to be sure."

"Verily, I do," said the youth; "and when I get among the people of the world, I speak to them in the language of the world; for, poor ignorant creatures, they don't understand Quaker. Moreover, uncle, does thee know Ellen Wild is of opinion we Friends don't speak good grammar? Now she and I spent a whole hour the other evening, trying to parse 'thee is,' 'thee does,' 'thee loves,' and so on, and we could not work them according to Murray. I say, uncle, does thee know of any command in Scripture to speak bad grammar?"

"No," said I; "but it is not forbidden; and the phrases mentioned, thou knowest, have crept into our speech as corruptions, and are only used for conversational purposes."

"Truly," said Jonathan, "and the language of the world is used for conversational purposes also. I say, uncle Zachariah, that now's a clincher!"

"I won't quarrel with thee on this account, Jonathan. But how comes it thou wert seen in that wicked place, the theatre?"

"By jingo!" said he, "Snipe has been blabbing there too!"

"What!" said I, "does thou strive to conceal it?"

"Yea," said Jonathan; "for when we do our good deeds, we should do them in secret. Uncle Zachariah, I went to the theatre in charity."

"Thee did," said I, charmed more than I can express at the thought of the young man's virtue.

"Yes, uncle," said the youth; "and great need have the actors of charity; for a poorer set of fellows I think I never saw got together." And here the rogue fell a laughing in my face: "And so thee need not distress thyself; for I sha'n't go there again until they get a better company. But, uncle Zachariah, thee has exhorted me enough for one time, and it is my turn now. So do thou be conformable, and answer my questions; for, I can tell thee, I have a fault to find with thee. According to thine own system of philanthropy, it is thy duty to make thy fellow-creatures happy. Now I ask thee whether thou dost not think it thy duty to make me, thy loving nephew, happy, as well as a stranger?"

"Verily," said I, "I do."

"Why then," said Jonathan, "there is a short way of doing it. Uncle Zachariah, I want to be married. Ellen and I have talked the matter over, and she says she'll have me. Now, uncle, thee did once talk of giving me a counting-house, and ten or twenty thousand dollars, as the case might be, to begin a commission business; and Mr. Wild talked of doing as much in the way of dowry to Ellen. And now I say, uncle Zachariah, as the shipwrecked sailor did when he prayed among the breakers, if thee means to help me, now's the time."

"What!" said I, "have I so much property?"

"Thee is joking," said the youth; "thee is a rich man, and thee knows thee can afford it. But thee must do it soon, or it may be too late; for, I can tell thee, folks begin to talk of thy philanthropy, and say thou art flinging away so much money that presently thou wilt have nothing left to give me. Mr. Wild is of this mind, and he has hinted some things to me very plainly. In a word, uncle, if thee does not permit me to marry Ellen soon, he will break the match. And so, if thee will make me a happy man – "

"I will," said I, with uncommon fervour; "thee shall marry the maiden, and I will straightway see what I can do for thee. Verily, what is wealth but the dross of the earth, unless used to purchase happiness for those that are worthy."

At these words Jonathan leaped for joy, seized my hand and kissed it, vowed I was "his dear old dad, for all I was only his uncle," and ran from the room – doubtless to impart the happy tidings to his mistress.