Democratic Sentinel, Volume 2, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 March 1878 — THE TWO NEPHEWS. [ARTICLE]

THE TWO NEPHEWS.

At the parlor window of a pretty villa, near Walton-on-Thami s, sat, one evening at dußk, an old man and young woman. The age of the man might be some 70 years, while his companion had certainly not reached 19. ‘ Her beautiful, blooming face and active, light and upright figure were in strong contrast with the worn countenance and bent frame of the old man, but in his eye and in tha corners of his mouth were indications of a gay self-confidence which ago and Buffering had dampened but not extingniohed, ‘‘No use looking any more, Marv ” said lie; “ neither John Meade nor Peter i’ inch will bo here before d irk Very hard that, when a sick uncle asks his two nephews to come and seo him they can t come at once. The duty is simple in the extreme-only to help me to die and take what £ caoose to leave them in my Wl J} • . P°°h ! when I was u young man I d have done it for my uncle with the utmost --plenty. But the world’s getting quite heart]e s r

“ Oil, sir !” saiil Mary “And what does ‘Oh, sir!' mean?” said he. “D’ye think! shan’t die? ‘i know better. A little more, ami there’!! be an end of Billy Collett/ He’ll have lett tins dirty world for a cleaner—to the great sorrow (and advantage) of Jiis as lectiouato relntives ! u*ih ! aJIL 7„ glaasofthedoctor into a Pae 1 t * a Lilvin « contem piare.i it tor a moment w tli infina,, gast manage, 1 to g* i,h„„n *- «Md 51,88 Mary Sutton,” of your ‘ 01, y 'nouns approve UuSof it“Un; I ??' ,tßir '' “■> hate to be called 'it Si 7 wl how 1 couldn’t bo more „I “ r», r Wll - T ' y<ra a charity-m r | Jnd T « K tf i l , f you were low'd j.Tit N I n bfa ,le magoldMmty Sutton if , your n °nßense, your iawful trnnr f; U P efiße - I’ve been «u mom!,”! STSoul °I T“ likings and disliknigs 6to kuow my PorFrJnV art) \ iu ß ia *“s pocket, or b red he loved me- I’m sure he did. He bequeathed me his only child that ” 11180 f < VCry fnend that would do u n hind and generous protector you have ever been ! ” J Well, I don’t know; I've tried not to be a brute, but I dare say I have been, .uon 11 speak roughly to you sometimes? naven tl given you good, prudent, vauridly advice about John Meade, and made myself quite disagreeable and unJike a guardian? Come, confess you love this pehniless nephew of mme.” “Pennilesp, indeed.”

“ Ah, there it is,” said Mr. Collett. “What business has a poor devil of an artist to fall in love with my ward ? And what business has mp ward to faß in love with a poor devil of an artist?'vßut that’s Fred Sutton's daughter all ov?r. Haven’t I two nephews ? Why couldn’t yon fall in love with the 4j»raat the thriving? -Potsc ing he’s an attorney—is % wprtijjy young man ! He is indnstrioufe inxhe extreme, and attends to other people’s business only when he is paM f ofit. He despises sentiment, and to thqpnain ohance. But John Meade, m# dear Maty, may spoil canvas forever and not grow rich. He’s all for art, and truth, and social reform, and spiritual elevation, and the Lord knows what. Peter Finch willo4 e in, his carriage and. f plash The naran interrupted by axing at the gate, and Mr. Pete* Finch was announced. He had scarcely taken his seat when another pull at the bell was heard, and Mr. John Meade was announced. Mr. Collett eyed his two nephews with a queer sort of smile, while they made speeches expressive of sorrow at the nature of their visit. At last, stopping them, he said: “ Enough, boys, enough 1” said he. ‘ ‘ Let us find some better subject to discuss than the state of an old man’s health. I want to know a little more about you both. I haven’t seen much of you up to the present time, and for anything I know you may be rognes or fools. ” John Meade seemed rather to wince under this address, but Peter Finch sat calm and confident. “To put a case, now,” said Mr. Collett, “this morning a poor wretch of a gardener came begging here. He could get no work, and said he was starving. Well, I knew something about the fellow, and I believe he only told the truth; so I gave him a shilling to get rid of him. Now I’m afraid I did wrong. What reason had I for giving him a shilling ? What claim bad he on me ? What claim had he on anybody? The value of his labor on the market is all that a workingman has a right to; and, when his labor is of no value, why, then he must go to the devil, or whatever else he can—eh, Peter? That’s my-philoso-phy; what do you think?” “I quite agree with you, sir,” said Mr. Finch; “pefeotly agree with you. The value of their labor in the market is all that laborers can pretend to—all that they should have. Nothirig acts m«re perniciously than the absurd, extraneous support called charity. ” “ Hear, hear!” said Mr. Collett. “ You’re a very clever fellow, Peter. Go on, my dear boy, go on.” “ What results from charitable aid ?” continued Peter. “ The value of labor is kept on an unnatural level. State charity is State robbery, private charity is public wrong. ” “ That’s it, Peter I” said Mr. Collett. “ What do you think of our philosophy, John?” “I don’t like it—l don’t believe it!” said John. “ You were quite right to give the man a shilling. I’d have given him a shilling myself.” “Oh, yon would, would yon?” said Mr. Collett. “You’re very generous with your shillings. Would you fly in the face of all orthodox political economy, you vandal ?” “Yes,” said John; “as the vandals flew in the face of Rome and destroyed what had become a falsehood and a nuisance.” “Poor John !” said Mr. Collett, “we shall never make anything of him, Peter. Really, we’d better talk of something else. John, tell us all about the last new novel. ” They conversed on various topics until the arrival of the invalid’s early bedtime parted uncle and nephews for the night. Mary Sutton seized ape opportunity the next morning before breakfast to speak to John Meade alone. “ John,” said she, “do think more of your own interest—of onr interest. What occasion for you to bo so violent Jaet night anl to contradict Mr. Co 1 left so shockingly ? I saw Peter Finch laughing to himself, John; you must be more careful or we shall never bo married.”

“ Well, Mary,' dear, I’ll do my best,” said John. “It was that confounded Peter, with his chain of iron maxims, that made me fly ou*. I’m not an iceberg, Mary.” “ Thank Heaven, you’re not!” said Mary; “ but an iceberg floats—think of that, John. Remember, every time you offend Mr. Collett, you please Mr. Finch.” “So I do,” said John. “Yes, I’U surely remember that.” “If you would only try to be a little mean and hard-hearted,” said Marv; “just a little to begin with. You would only stoop to conquer, John, and you deserve to conquer. ” I “ May I gain my deserts, then,” said John. “Are you not to be my loviDg wife, Mary ? Are you not to* sit at needle-work in my studio while I paint my great historical picture ? How can this come to pass if Mr. Collett will do nothing for us?” “ Ah, how, indeed ?” said Mary. “ But here’s our friend Peter Finely coming through the gate from his walk. I leave you together.” And, so saying, she withdrew, “What, Meade,” said Peter Finch, as he entered, “skulking in-doors on a fine morning like this ? I’ve been all through the village—not an ugly place—but wants looking after sadly—roads shamefully muddy; pigs allowed to walk on the foot-path !” “Dreadful!” exclaimed John. “ I say, you came out pretty strong last night,” said Peter. “ You*quite defied the old man ! I like your spirit.” '* I have no doubt you do,” thought John.

“ Oh, when I was a youth I was a little that way mfSalf,” said Peter. “ but the world - —the world, my dear sirs soon j cures us of all romantic notions. I rogret, of course, to see poor people miserable ; but what's the use of regretting? It’s no part of the business if tlie super or classes to interfere with the la vs of supply and demand ; poor people must be miserable. Wlmt 'han’t be cured must be endured. ’ “T-iat is to say,” returned John, “ wha 1 . we c m’t cure they mu&t endure. ” “Exactly so,” said Peter. Mr. Collett this day was too ill to leave his bed. About noon he requested to see his nephews in his bedroom. They found him propped up by pillows, looking very weak, but in good spirits as usual.

“Well, boys,” said he, “here I am, you see ; brought to anchor at last! The doctor will be here soon, I suppose, to shake his head and wiite recipes. Humbug, my boys I Patients can do as much for themselves, I believe, as doctors can do for them; they’re all in the dark together—the only difference is that the patients grope in English and the doctors grope in Latin.” “You are too skeptical, sir,” said John Meade. “ Pooh !” said Mr. Collett. “Let us change the subject. I want your advice, Peter and John, on matters that concern your interests. I am. going to make my will to-day, and I don’t know liow to act about your cousin, Emma Briggs. Emma disgraced us by marrying an oilman.” “An oilman !” exclaimed John. “A vulgar, shocking oilman!” said Mr. Collett; “ a wretch who not only sold oil, bat soap, candles, turpentine black lea-’ and birch brooms. It was a dreadful blow to the family. Her poor grandmother never got over it, and a maiden aunt turned Methodist in despair. Well, Briggs, the oilman, died last it seems, aiuj his has

written to me, asking for assistance. Now, I have thonght of leaving her a hundred a year in my will. What do you think of it? I’m afraid she don’t deserve it. What right had she to marry against the advice of her friends? What have I to do with her misfortunes?” “My mind is quite made up,” Baid Peter Finch; “no notice ought to be taken of her. She made an obstinate and unworthy match; let her abide the consequences.” “Now I would like your opinion, John,” said Mr. Collett. “ Upon my word, I think I must say the same,” said John Meade, bracing himself up boldly for the part of the worldly man. “ What right had she to marry—as you observed with great justice, sir? Let her abide the consequences—as you very properly remarked, Finch. Can’t she carry on the oilman’s business ? I dare say it will support her very well.” “ Why, no,” said Mr. Collett; “ Briggs died a bankrupt, and his widow and children are very destitute.” “ That does not alter the question,” said Peter Finch. * ‘ Let Briggs’ family do something for her themselves.” “To be sure,” said Mr. Collett, “ Briggs’ family are the people to do something for her. She mustn’t expect anything from us—must she John?" “Destitute, is she?” said John. “ With children, too ? Why, this is an other case, sir. You sureiy ought to notice her—to assist her. Confound it, I’m in for letting her have the hundred a year.” “Oh, John, John! what a break down!” said Mr. Collett. “So vou were trying to follow Peter 1 Finch through Atony Arabia, and turned back at the second step! Here’s a brave traveler for you, Peter! John, keep your Arabia Felix, and - leave sterner ways to very different men. Good-by, both of you. I’ve no voice to talk any more. I’ll think over all you have said.” He pressed their hands and they left the room. The old man was too weak to speak the next day, and in three days after that he calmly breathed his last. As soon as the funeral was over the will was read by the confidential man of business, who had always attended to Mr. Collett’s affairs. The group that sat around him preserved a decorous appearance of disinterestedness, and, the usual preamble to the will having been listened to with breathless attention, the man of business read the following, ia a clear voice : “ I bequeath to my niece, Emma Briggs, notwithstanding that she shocked her family by marrying an oilman, the •sum of £4,000, being fully persuaded that her lost dignity, if she could ever And it again, would do nothing to provide her with food, or clothing, or shelter.”

John Meade smiled and Peter Finch ground his tfeeth, bnt in a quite respectable manner. The man of business went on with his reading. “ Having always had the opinion that woman should be rendered a rational and independent being—and having duly considered the fact that society practically denies her the right to earn her own living—l hereby bequeath to Mary Sutton, the only child of my old friend, Frederick Sutton, the sum of £IO,OOO, which will enable her to marry or to remain single as she may prefer. ” John Meade gave a prodigious start upon hearing this, and Peter Finch ground his teeth again, but in a manner hardly perceptible. Both, however, by a violent effort, kept silent. The man of business went on with his reading. “Ihave paid some attention to the character of my nephew, John Meade, and have been grieved to find him much possessed with a feeling of philanthropy and with a general preference for whatever is noble and true over what is base and false. As these tendencies are by no means such as caif advance him in the world, I bequeath him the sum of £lO,000, hoping that he will thus be kept out of the workhouse, and be enabled to paint his great historical picture, which, as yet, he has only talked about. “As for my other nephew, Peter Finch, he views all things in bo sagacious and selfish a way, and is so certain to get on in life, that Ishouldonly insnlt him by offering an aid which he does not require; yet, from his affectionate uncle, and entirely as a testimony of admiration for his mental acuteness, I venture to hope that he will accept a bequest of £SOO toward the completion of liis extensive library of law books.” • How Peter Finch stormed and called .names, how John Meade broke into a of jov, how Mart Sutton cried *dn*«nd then laughed. fttxWhen latiglied and cried together ; all thefee matters I shall not attempt to describe. Mary Sutton is now Mrs. John Meade, and her husband has actually begun the great historical picture. , Peter t JFinch has taken to discounting bills and bringing actions on them, and drives about in his brougham already.