Democratic Sentinel, Volume 6, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 December 1882 — TWO WAYS. [ARTICLE]

TWO WAYS.

by MARGARET B. HARVEY.

“May I come in. Lillie?” merrily called Cornelia Cary. “I tapped half a dozen times, but you never heard.” Lillie started, closed her boftk, and advanced to meet her friend, who stood outside her half-opened door. It was a dainty little retreat, Lillie Walter’s own room. Like a fairy bower, verily, all in pure white and baby blue. “Come in, of course, Cornie!” she exclaimed, greeting the other pretty girl with a kiss. Two “rosebud” maidens they were, with their creamy skins, pink lips, and hair of the shade of a half-opened sulphur-rose. No one had ever been able to decide whether their eyes were black or b ue. Their resemblance to each other was accounted for by the fact that they were distant cousins. Their relationship, however, did not prevent them from being tho best of friends. “There!” continued Lillie, “sit down in that lovely chair, which I have just finished upholstering myseif. Do you see what it is ?” “Why,” cried Cornelia, “it can’t be possible! Not your papa’s old campchair, covered with patch work, made from your blue cashmere waist, embroid red with daisies in crewel?’’ “It certainly is,” declared Lillie. “And do you know what the white blocks are ? Why, the pieces left from Miss Foster’s opera-cloak.” “And yon really did make that cloak, after all?” queried Cornie. “Well, I must say, for an amateur dressmaker, you are qu'te a success. But I hope this venture will be your last.” Lillie looked grave. “No, Cornie,” she quietly answered, “I’m afraid not.” “But you go to Swarthmore next month, you know.” “I don’t know,” returned Lillie, “that is—l believe I must give that up.” “Why, what do you mean?” Cornie looked at Lillie in surprise. “I thought you had fully resolved upon it. ” “ So I had, ” was Lillie s sad response, “but I have almost changed my mind.” Lillie’s eyes wandered until they reached the book, which she had dropped hastily upon her bed. Cornie followed her glance, and then took up the volume. “What’s this?” she asked. “Are you not too big to spend your time over tho children’s Sunday-school libraries ?” “Willie brought it home,” said Lillie, absently, setting her lips hard together. “Now, Lillie,” —Cornie’s tone was very vigorous—“will you te 1 me what’s got into you ? Has this book anything to do with it ?” “That book,” faltered Lillie, “is about a boy—who wanted to go to college—but because he was—the eldest of a large family ” “"Well, what?” crisply demanded Cornelia. “He made up his mind,” went on Lillie, “that it was his duty to give it up, and work for the others, and give them a chance. ” “And like a fool ho did it!” tartly finished her cousin. “He did,” responded the other: “but not like a fool, Cornie —like the blessed Master.” “Fidd ; e ticks!” exclaimed Miss Cary. “Did the Master sell His birthright for a mess of pottage? I don’t believe stich a sacrifice was ever required of anybody.” “Well,” calmly asserted Lillie, “I believe it is of me.” “Nothing of the kind,” remonstrated Cornie. “Plague take such stories! I believe they do* more harm than good. That old ‘ yarn ’ of sacrificing one’s self for the sake of others is worn threadbare. Such unnatural sacrifices are never appreciated, and always work wrong in the end.” “Cornie!” cried poor Lillie, “are we not required to overcome our own selfishness ?” She looked bewildered. “Certainly,” assented Cornie, “but selfishness is one thing; a proper regard for one’s self another. Don’t Shakspeare say, ‘ Self-love is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting? ’” “Yes,” answered Miss Walter, “but think. Here am I, the eldest of a large family. Papa is not well off. I have saved enough money by teaching and sewing to take me through Swarthmore College. But if I stay at hoiue and cob-

tinne to sew, and use my money on my brothers and sisters, they can all be educated; whereas, if I went, as I intended, they might have no advantages." “Lillie," suddenly inquired Cornie, “are they your children ?” “No.” “Are you responsible to God for their existence ?" “No." “Couldyou ever have anything until you earned it?” “Never.” “Now, then, let me tell you, they are not one bit better than you are. Your soul is just as precious as any one’s. You are responsible for yourself, not for any one else. No one else can work out your own development for you; no one else can insure your salvation. I tell you, our individuality is a burden which wo ourselves must bear, and which we cannot lightly shift off. Those children have the same parents as you had, to support them while they are little; they have just the same chance of earning money and educating themselves as you had. Hoe your own row first, and be sure of yout own corn before you stop to hoe for other people.” Miss Cary’s earnestness had flushed her face and exhausted her breath. “But I can’t be selfish, Cornie,” feebly answered Lillie. “Do you think it wrong to commit suicide?” abruptly asked Cornelia. “ Oh!—most assuredly 1” “Well, do you think destroying one’s life the only way in which to do such a thing?” continued Cornie. “What of deliberately destroying one’s mental powers, one’s prospects of happiness and usefulness ? You would willingly dv> ar f yourself on the merest chance that the others will turn out better than you?” Lillie was silent. “Have you any moral right to do it?” persisted Cornie. “What will you say when you come to staud before the Lord, and can only give Him your one talent folded in a napkin, when you might have been able to present at least five talents?” “T will tell Him,” declared Lillie, firmly, “that I buried my talent in order that I might better do my duty to others.” “Yes,” tartly enunciated Cornelia. “‘Lord, I was a female Jesuit! I did evil that good might come!’ ” Miss Walter started. “I did not think of that,” she murmured. “Well, you’d better think of that,” advised Cornie, “if you don’t I’ll tell you how it will be. Your sisters will dress better than you, on your earnings, and look down on you. They’ll marry before you, and do better—that is, provided you marry at all. Your brothers will despise you, for not many boys can stand being pecuniarily helped by a woman, when they might just as well work. No matter how much you do, they’ll only find fault because you don’t do more. At last, when you’re old and ugly and worn out and poor, you’ll have to beg your living among them all, the best way you can. Finally, like one of Mrs. Livermore’s superfluous women, you’ll be pushed back on the shelf—that is, unless, like some good, oldmaid aunties, you end your days as a child’s nurse, in a home of which you ought to have been mistress. “ You say you don’t want to be selfish. Suppose you make others so? Suppose you do so much for them that they take it as a matter of course. Don’t you see that you will strengthen the selfishness in them, and so d® them harm instead of good ? It is all very well to talk of being unselfish, but the fact remains that we cannot get away from ourselves. We must bear our own punishments—why not our own rewards? “Hush, Lillie! I am not done yet. Look at nature all around you. Don’t the squirrel, the ant and the bee provide enough for themselves, before they have any to spare ? It is instinct, implanted by the Creator. We have the same instinct, but we think it an outcropping of our total depravity, and try to conquer it. The consequence is, we do nobody any good, and ourselves nothing but evil. We end in mental and moral suicide. “Let me tell you what a doctor told me. Do you know where the coronary artery is ? It nourishes the heart, and is the first one given off by the circulatory system. The heart has to supply the whole body; but it feeds itself first, and with the best and purest blood. Why ? Because it has a great deal of work to do, and needs strength. How could it accomplish anything, if it supplied i’self last, and with the feeblest, most impure blood ? Will you h >.ve your body better cared for than your soul ? “I tell yon this illustrates a mo t important truth. Yet men sometimes, and women often, set themselves up to be wiser than their Maker. As if Ho ordained that hippiness a..d comfoit should always be wrong, misery and distress right! The hardest task is far more likely to be found out of the line of duty than in it. “I didn’t expect to preach so long a sermon. But I mean it every word. Now, Lillie, take my advice. G > to college, do exactly as you intended. Be strong yourself, first; then it will be time enough for you to think of aiding the weak.” For a few minutes Lillie said nothing. At last she ventured. “But I would like to be really noble.” “In the estimation of others,” added Cornelia. “My dear,, that’s another form of selfishness, in which you did not know you were indulging. To covet the world’s good opinion is, in a certain sense, pitiful, reprehensible. Do right yourself, and never mind what others think of you. The whole world is often wrong. “I,” continued Miss Cary, “like you, am the eldest of a large family, in moderate circumstances. I have been over the same ground as you, that is why I am so sure. But I have made up my mind to goto Vassar, as I have all along hoped to. Perhaps people will talk about us both, and, if you give up your project, say that you are noble and I am selfish. But wait till the end of the chapter—then see.” Cornelia took her departure, leaving Lillian in a state of intense bewilderment. But after a short, quick battle with herself she decided to reject her cousin's advice and hang out a dressmaker’s sign. For a while, all went well. Work camo so fast, money rolled in so promptly that she had no time to think. Her three sisters, Adelia, Cora and Laura, were, one after another, taken from the grammar-school, which had be n "Cod enough for her, and entered at a fashionable Institute; In the simplicity of her

heart, Lillie imagined that they would appreciate their advantages, and show some corresponding degree of thankfulness. Alas! dress, dress, dress, was their constant cry. It took all their sister's spare dollars and odd half hours to ela!x>ra‘e their stylish costumes. But Jack, her eldest brother, should prepare for the university. . He should have a private tutor, even if she had to do without that seal-skin coat for which she had hoped so long. The coat was sacrificed, the tutor engaged, but Jack would shirk his lessons. “I don’t see why you can’t let a feller alone!” he gruffly exclaimed when remonstrated with. The time for examination drew near; but, one fine day, Jack was missing. Next they heard that he had shipped before the mast. The tutor, however, had seen Lillie only to admire her. If he had been touched with her devotion to her family, she had, also, with his patience toward Jack. But, when he asked her to leave this life of toil and share his lot, which, . however humble, should always be beautified with love—she said, while her lips turned white, “I can’t; the children need me.” This was Lillie’s only offer. She never entered any society in which she could meet gentlemen, for as years passed cn she had grown so neglectful of her own appearance that she never owned a suitable dress in which to shew herself. The girls grew older, and took their places in the same circles as their school-friends. Next, Addie had a beau. Next, “Lillie, I think you might take that horrid sign down; we don’t want everybody to know that our sister is only a dressmakerl” Parties succeeded, and then a wedding. Lovely, fairy-like dresses of Swiss and satin followed one another, all stitched by the faithful fingers of the sister, whose form was growing stooped and whose hair was turning gray. And when Addie became the wife of a wealthy Judge’s son, Lillie went to church in a black silk whose seams showed white, and a bonnet three seasons behind the times. And some people wondered who that dowdy, oldmaidish looking woman was who sat with the family—possibly a favored servant or humble dependent. In all these years of industry Lillie had 1 iid by about SSOO. Upon this she thought she could place some reliance when old age came. But her father’s house was heavily mortgaged. She handed out her savings, and never made any more. “If I were to die tomorrow,” she bitterly thought, “I haven’t a dollar to bury me!” Well, Lillie’s story henceforth does not vary much. Her sisters all married wealthy, her younger brothers, thanks to her energy, became well established in business. Her parents grew old and feeble, and she alone supported them. When they died she contributed just as much toward their burial as those who “could buy and sell her.” The proceeds of the house, divided, amounted to little. After awhile J ckcame back, rich in ships and merchandise, having succeeded best of them all. and without her help. When she was past work, she led a tolerated exi tcnce for a few years, from one house to another, until, finally, at her own request, her brothers and sisters clubbed together and made up a sum sufficient to procure her admission to the Old Ladies’ Home—where they frequently forgot to visit her. What of Cornelia Cary all this time? Well, she went to Vassar, as the had intended. They missed her at home, and were sometimes pinched wi bout her, but it didn’t hurt them any—she had been pinched, too. They lived and got along very well, until she graduated with honor. And then weren’t they proud of “Our Cornie!” When she came home at last, and spent a few weeks with them, they appreciated her presence, and all, from father down to baby Eddie, were glad to do something for her. She hadn’t cheapened herself, as they knew her value. Next she received an appointment as professor of mathematics in a Western college, at a salary of $1,500 a year and her board. Then, when she was able, she tXmembered her family at home, and sent them freely more in one year than poor Lillie could earn in three. Because the respected herself, they respected her and themselves; and every one of her brothers and sisters studied dili ently and turned out well. Mr. Cary was soon relieved from the press ure of all his debts, and had the - satis faction of owning his home before ho died. And next, after three years of sue cessful, noble labor, Cornelia married a State Senator, and became a devoted, model wife and mother. She had a beautiful ideal home, and exerted a grand, elevating influence in social, educational and church circles. Constantly increasing her loveliness and usefuln ss. she grew younger instead of older, until it could' be truthfully said of her, that her last years were her best. One day Cornelia visited her old-time friend at the home. Little was said by either, as they sat, side by side, clamping each other’s hands, their eyes filled with tears. “You see I was right,” whispered Cornie, in a choking voice; “no one ever thought of calling me selfish. I only lived out my own life, day by day, as the way seemed to open before me. And my brothers and sisters are guiltless of the sin of ingratitude. I did my duty and they did theirs.” • “Lillie, Lillie,” called Cora, “it is half-past six. Tea’s ready.” Lillie sprang to her feet and glanced at the little clock on her mantel-piece. She had thrown herself across the foot of her bed, and slept just one hour. The revulsion of feeling almost made her faint. She sank upon her knees, and exultingly cried, “Thank God, I am saved!” “Are you coming, Lillie?” asked Cora, outside. “Yes,” answered Lillie, following her sister. “Where’s Willie? Willie, run right down the street and tell Cornie I’m going to Swarthmore.” “Why, she knows it, don’t she?” queried the boy, wonderingly. “No matter,” returned Lillie, excitedly. “Go, tell her; she’ll understand what I mean.” — Demorest’s Monthly.

In the history of Bowdoin College, Prof. A. S. Packard says he remembers Hawthorne as he looked in the recitation room, with “the same shy, gentle bearing, black, drooping, full, inquisitive eye, and low, musical voice that he ever had,” and Longfellow, sitting two seats behind Hawtherne, a fai -ha idd youth, blooming with health anti early propuse,