ONE of the most successful merchants of his day was Mr. Alexander.In trade he had amassed a large fortune, and now, in the sixtiethyear of his age, he concluded that it was time to cease getting andbegin the work of enjoying. Wealth had always been regarded by himas a means of happiness; but, so fully had his mind been occupied inbusiness, that, until the present time, he had never felt himself atleisure to make a right use of the means in his hands.
So Mr. Alexander retired from business in favour of his son andson-in-law. And now was to come the reward of his long years oflabour. Now were to come repose, enjoyment, and the calm delights ofwhich he had so often dreamed. But, it so happened, that the currentof thought and affection which had flowed on so long and steadilywas little disposed to widen into a placid lake. The retiredmerchant must yet have some occupation. His had been a life ofpurposes, and plans for their accomplishment; and he could notchange the nature of this life. His heart was still the seat ofdesire, and his thought obeyed, instinctively, the heart'saffection.
So Mr. Alexander used a portion of his wealth in various ways, inorder to satisfy the ever active desire of his heart for somethingbeyond what was in actual possession. But, it so happened, that themoment an end was gained, the moment the bright ideal became a fixedand present fact, its power to delight the mind was gone.
Mr. Alexander had some taste for the arts. Many fine picturesalready hung upon his walls. Knowing this, a certain picture-brokerthrew himself in his way, and, by adroit management and skilfulflattery, succeeded in turning the pent-up and struggling current ofthe old gentleman's feelings and thoughts in this direction. Thebroker soon found that he had opened a new and profitable mine. Mr.Alexander had only to see a fine picture, to desire its possession;and to desire was to have. It was not long before his house was agallery of pictures.
Was he any happier? Did these pictures afford him a pure andperennial source of enjoyment? No; for, in reality, Mr. Alexander'staste for the arts was not a passion of his mind. He did not lovethe beautiful in the abstract. The delight he experienced when helooked upon a fine painting, was mainly the desire of possession;and satiety soon followed possession.
One morning, Mr. Alexander repaired alone to his library, where, onthe day before, had been placed a new painting, recently imported byhis friend the picture-dealer. It was exquisite as a work of art,and the biddings for it had been high. But he succeeded in securingit for the sum of two thousand dollars. Before he was certain ofgetting this picture, Mr. Alexander would linger before it, andstudy out its beauties with a delighted appreciation. Nothing in hiscollection was deemed comparable therewith. Strangely enough, afterit was hung upon the walls of his library, he did not stand beforeit for as long a space as five minutes; and then his thoughts werenot upon its beauties. During the evening that followed, the mind ofMr. Alexander was less in repose than usual. After having completedhis purchase of the picture, he had overheard two persons, who wereconsidered autocrats in taste, speaking of its defects, which wereminutely indicated. They likewise gave it as their opinion that thepainting was not worth a thousand dollars. This was throwing coldwater on his enthusiasm. It seemed as if a veil had suddenly beendrawn from before his eyes. Now, with a clearer vision, he could seefaults where, before, every defect was thrown into shadow by anall-obscuring beauty.
On the next morning, as we have said, Mr. Alexander entered hislibrary, to take another look at his purchase. He did not feel veryhappy. Many thousands of dollars had he spent in order to secure themeans of self-gratification; but the end was not yet gained.
A glance at the new picture sufficed, and then Mr. Alexander turnedfrom it with an involuntary sigh. Was it to look at other pictures?No. He crossed his hands behind him, bent his eyes upon the floor,and for the period of half an hour, walked slowly backwards andforwards in his library. There was a pressure on his feelings, heknew not why; a sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction.
No purpose was in the mind of Mr. Alexander when he turned from hislibrary, and, drawing on his overcoat, passed forth to the street.It was a bleak winter morning, and the muffled pedestrians hurriedshivering on their way.
"Oh! I wish I had a dollar."
These words, in the voice of a child, and spoken with impressiveearnestness, fell suddenly upon the ears of Mr. Alexander, as hemoved along the pavement. Something in the tone reached the oldman's feelings, and he partly turned himself to look at the speaker.She was a little girl, not over eleven years of age, and in companywith a lad some year or two older. Both were coarsely clad.
"What would you do with a dollar, sis?" replied the boy.
"I'd buy brother William a pair of nice woollen gloves, and acomforter, and a pair of rubber shoes. That's what I'd do with it.He has to go away, so early, in the cold, every morning; and he's'most perished, I know, sometimes. Last night his feet were soakingwith wet. His shoes are not good; and mother says she hasn't moneyto buy him a new pair just now. Oh, I wish I had a dollar!"
Instinctively Mr. Alexander's hand was in his pocket, and, a momentafter, a round, bright silver dollar glittered in that of the girl.
But little farther did Mr. Alexander extend his walk. As if bymagic, the hue of his feelings had changed. The pressure on hisheart was gone, and its fuller pulses sent the blood bounding andfrolicking along every expanding artery. He thought not of picturesnor possessions. All else was obscured by the bright face of thechild, as she lifted to his her innocent eyes, brimming withgrateful tears.
One dollar spent unselfishly, brought more real pleasure thanthousands parted with in the pursuit of merely selfishgratification. And the pleasure did not fade with the hour, nor theday. That one truly benevolent act, impulsive as it had been,touched a sealed spring of enjoyment, and the waters that gushedinstantly forth continued to flow unceasingly.
Homeward the old man returned, and again he entered his library.Choice works of art were all around him, purchased as a means ofenjoyment.
They had cost thousands,--yet did they not afford him a tithe of thepleasure he had secured by the expenditure of a single dollar. Hecould turn from them with a feeling of satiety; not so from theimage of the happy child whose earnestly expressed wish he hadgratified.
And not alone on the pleasure of the child did the thoughts of Mr.Alexander linger. There came before his imagination another picture.He saw a poorly furnished room, in which were a humble, toilingwidow and her children. It is keen and frosty without; and hereldest boy has just come home from his work, shivering with cold.While he is warming himself by the fire, his little sister presentshim with the comforter, the thick gloves, and the overshoes, whichhis benevolence has enabled her to buy. What surprise and pleasurebeam in the lad's face! How happy looks the sister! How full of asubdued and thankful pleasure is the mother's countenance.
And for weeks and months, did Mr. Alexander gaze, at times, uponthis picture, and always with a warmth and lightness of heart unfeltwhen other images arose in his mind and obscured it.
And for a single dollar was all this obtained, while thousands andthousands were spent in the fruitless effort to buy happiness.
Strange as it may seem, Mr. Alexander did not profit by thislesson--grew no wiser by this experience. The love of self was toostrong for him to seek the good of others, to bless both himself andhis fellows by a wise and generous use of the ample means whichProvidence had given into his hands. He still buys pictures andworks of art, but the picture in his imagination, which cost but asingle dollar, is gazed at with a far purer and higher pleasure thanhe receives from his entire gallery of paintings and statues.
If Mr. Alexander will not drink from the sweet spring of truedelight that has gushed forth at his feet, and in whose clear watersthe sun of heavenly love is mirrored, we hope that others, wiserthan he, will bend to its overflowing brim, and take of itstreasures freely.
THE END.
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