the steps of a public building in Florence an old, disabled soldier sat playing a violin. By his side stood a faithful dog holding in his mouth a veteran’s hat, into which, now and then, a passer-by would drop a coin. A gentleman, in passing, paused, and asked for the violin; first tuning it, he then began to play.
The sight of a well-dressed man, playing a violin in such a place, with such associations, attracted the passers-by, and they stopped. The music was so charming that they stood enchanted. The number of contributions largely increased. The hat became so heavy that the dog began to growl. It was emptied, and soon filled again. The company grew until a great congregation was gathered. The performer played one of the national airs, handed the violin back to its owner, and quickly retired.
One of the company present said: “This is Amard Bucher, the world-renowned violinist. He did this for charity; let us follow his example.” And immediately the hat was passed for a collection for the old man. Mr. Bucher did not give a penny, but he flooded the old man’s day with sunshine.
So, too, it was related that when Michael Angelo was at the height of his fame, when monarchs and popes were paying fabulous prices for his works, a little boy met him on the street, with an old pencil and a piece of dirty brown paper, and asked him for a picture. The great artist sat on the curbstone and drew a picture for his little admirer.
A like charming story is told of Jenny Lind, the great Swedish singer, which shows her noble nature. Once when walking with a friend she saw an old woman tottering into the door of an almshouse. Her pity was at once excited, and she entered the door, ostensibly to rest for a moment, but really to give something to the poor woman. To her surprise, the old woman began at once to talk of Jenny Lind, saying,--
“I have lived a long time in the world, and desire nothing before I die but to hear Jenny Lind.”
“Would it make you happy?” inquired Jenny.
“Ay, that it would; but such folks as I can’t go to the playhouse, and so I shall never hear her.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Jenny. “Sit down, my friend, and listen.”
She then sang, with genuine glee, one of her best songs. The old woman was wild with delight and wonder, when she added,--
“Now you have heard Jenny Lind.”
Sweeter than the perfume of roses is a reputation for a kind, charitable, unselfish nature; a ready disposition to do to others any good turn in your power. “The mind’s sweetness,” says Herbert, “has its operation on the body, clothes, and habitation.” So Cervantes spoke of one whose face was like a benediction. “Good looking,” as Horace Smith remarks, “is looking good.” “Be good,” says our Amesbury poet, “be womanly, be gentle, generous in your sympathies, heedful of the good breeding of all around you,--and you will not lack kind words of admiration.”
Was there ever an unselfish person, of charitable and generous impulses, sociable, loving, kind, of tender spirit, thoughtful for others, who was not universally beloved? He, indeed, is the light-bearer.
Some people are born happy. No matter what their circumstances are, they are joyous, content, and satisfied with everything. They carry a perpetual holiday in their eyes, and see joy and beauty everywhere. When we meet them they impress us as having just met with some good luck, or as having some good news to tell. Like the bees that extract honey from every flower, they have a happy alchemy which transmutes even gloom into sunshine. In the sick-room they are better than the physician and more potent than drugs. All doors open to these people. They are welcome everywhere.
The most fascinating person is always the one of the most winning manners; not the one of greatest physical beauty.
We do not need an introduction to feel his greatness, if you meet a cheerful man on the street on a cold day you seem to feel the mercury rise several degrees.
The two main characteristics of a lady or of a gentleman are, according to Earl Beaconsfield, propriety and consideration for others. “Will you fall into any extreme?” asks De Sales. “Let it be on the side of gentleness.” How appropriate are such sentiments for household mottoes! “Let each one strive to yield oftenest to the wishes of the other, in absolute unselfishness.” “Never part without loving words.”
The following was found in an old manor-house in Gloucestershire, England, written and framed, and hung over the mantel-piece of a sitting room: “The true gentleman is God’s servant, the world’s master, and his own man. Virtue is his business; study, his recreation; contentment, his rest; and happiness, his reward. God is his father; Jesus Christ, his Savior; the saints, his brethren; and all that need him his friends. Devotion is his chaplain; chastity, his chamberlain; sobriety, his butler; temperance, his cook; hospitality, his housekeeper; Providence, his steward; charity, his treasurer; piety, his mistress of the house; and discretion, his porter, to let in or out, as most fit. Thus is his whole family made up of virtue, and he is master of the house. He is necessitated to take the world on his way to heaven, and he walks through it as fast as he can, and all his business by the way is to make himself and others happy. Take him in two words—a man and a Christian.”
Chapter III.
The Great-Hearted
One act of charity will teach us more of the love of God than a thousand sermons. –Robertson
It was a cold, dark evening, and the city lights only intensified by their sharp contrast the gloom of the storm. It was the time when wealthy shoppers were eating their hot dinners, when the stores were closing, and when the shop-girls were plodding home, many too poor to ride, tired with the long day’s standing and work.
A shop-girl was hurrying home through the slush after a hard day’s work. She was a delicate girl, poorly dressed, and wholly unable to keep out the winter’s cold with a thin fall cloak. She was evidently very timid and self-absorbed.
A blind man was sitting in an alley by the pavement, silently offering pencils for sale to the heedless crowd. The wind and sleet beat upon him. He had no overcoat. His thin hands clasped with purple fingers the wet, sleet-covered pencils. He looked as if the cold had congealed him.
The girl passed the man, as did the rest of the hurrying crowd. When she had walked half a block away she fumbled in her pocket, and turned and walked back.
For a moment she looked intently at the vender of pencils, and when she saw that he gave no sign, she quietly dropped a ten-cent piece into his fingers, and walked on.
But she was evidently troubled, for her steps grew slower.
Then she stopped, turned, and walked rapidly back to the dark alley, and the man half hiding in it. Bending over him, she said softly, “Are you really blind?”
The man lifted his head and showed her his sightless eyes. Then with an indescribable gesture he pointed to his breast. There hung the dull badge of the Grand Army of the Republic.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said humbly. “Please give me back my ten cents.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, and held out the coin.
She took out her purse. It was a very thin one. It contained but two silver dollars, one-third of her week’s hard earnings,
