ARTHUR LELAND was a young lawyer of some twenty-seven years of age.His office stood a stone's throw from the court-house, in a thrivingtown in the West. Arthur had taken a full course in a Northerncollege, both in the collegiate and law department, and with somehonour. During his course he had managed to read an amazing amountof English literature, and no man was readier or had a keener tastein such things than he. He had a pleasing personal appearance, afluent and persuasive manner, an unblemished character. Everymorning he came to his office from one of the most pleasant littlecottage homes in the world; and if you had opened the little frontgate, and gone up through the shrubbery to the house, you would haveseen a Mrs. Leland, somewhere in-doors, and she as intelligent andpleasant a lady as you ever saw. You would have seen, moreover,tumbling about the grass, or up to the eyes in some mischief, asnoble-looking a little fellow of some three years old as you couldwell have wished for your own son.
This all looks well enough, but there is something wrong. Not in thehouse. No; it is as pleasant a cottage as you could wish--plenty ofgarden, peas and honeysuckles climbing up everywhere, green grass,white paint, Venetian blinds, comfortable furniture.
Not in Willie, the little scamp. No; rosy, healthy, good head,intelligent eyes, a fine specimen he was of an only son. Full ofmischief, of course, he was. Overflowing with uproar and questionsand mischief. Mustachios of egg or butter-milk or molasses aftereach meal, as a matter of course. Cut fingers, bumped forehead, tornclothes, all day long. Yet a more affectionate, easily-managed childnever was.
The mischief was not in Lucy, the Mrs. Leland. I assure you it wasnot. Leland knew, to his heart's core, that a lovelier, moreprudent, sensible, intelligent wife it was impossible to exist.Thrifty, loving, lady-like, right and true throughout.
Where was this mischief? Look at Leland. He is in perpetual motion.Reading, writing, walking the streets, he is always fast, in deadearnest. Somewhat too fast. There is a certain slowness about yourstrong man. You never associate the idea of mental depth and powerwith your quick-stepping man. You cannot conceive of a Roman emperoror a Daniel Webster as a slight, swift man. The bearing of a man'sbody is the outward emblem of the bearing of his soul. Leland israther slight, rather swift. He meets you in his rapid walk. Hestops, grasps your hand, asks cordially after your health. There isan open, warm feeling in the man. No hypocrisy whatever. Yet hetalks too fast. He don't give you half a chance to answer one of hisrapid questions, before he is asking another totally different. Heis not at ease. He keeps you from being at ease. You feel itspecially in his house. He is too cordial, too full of effort tomake your visit pleasant to you. You like him, yet you don't feelaltogether at home with him. You are glad when he leaves you to hismore composed wife. You never knew or heard of his saying or doinganything wrong or even unbecoming. You look upon him as a peculiarsort of man--well, somehow--but! He is at the bar defending thatwoman, who sits by him, dressed in mourning--some chancery case. Orit is a criminal case, and it is the widow's only son that Leland isdefending. If you had been in his office for the last week, youwould have acknowledged that he has studied the case, has preparedhimself on it as thoroughly as a man can. He is an ambitious man. Heintensely desires to make for himself a fortune and a position. Hisaddress to the judge, or to the jury, as the case may be, is a goodone. Yet, somehow, he does not convince. He himself is carried awayby his own earnestness, but he does not carry away with him hishearers. His remarks are interesting. People listen to him fromfirst to last closely. Yet his arguing does not, somehow, convince.His pathos does not, somehow, melt. He is the sort of man thatpeople think of for the Legislature. No man ever thinks of him inconnexion with the Supreme Bench or Senate.
Wherein lies the defect? Arthur Leland is well read, a gentleman ofspotless character, of earnest application, of popular manners. Whyis not this man a man of more weight, power, standing? Why, youanswer, the man is just what he is. He fills just the position up towhich his force of mind raises him. Did he have more talent, hewould be more. No, sir. Every acquaintance he has known, he himselfknows, that he is capable of being much more than he is--somehow,somehow he does not attain to it! It is this singular impressionLeland makes upon you. It is this singular, uneasy, unsatisfiedfeeling he himself is preyed upon by. "He might be, but he is not,"say his neighbours. "I am not, yet I might be," worries him as anincessant and eternal truth.
It broke upon him like a revelation.
He was at work one fine morning in his garden, in a square in whichyoung watermelon plants of a choice kind were just springing. Williewas there with him, just emerged fresh for fun from the waters ofsleep. Very anxious to be as near as possible to his father, who wasalways his only playmate, Willie had strayed from the walk in whichhis father had seated him, and stood beside his father. With aquick, passionate motion, Leland seized his child, and placed himviolently back in the walk, with a harsh threat. The child whimperedfor a while, and soon forgetting himself, came to his father againover the tender plants. This time Leland seized him still moreviolently, seated him roughly in the walk, and, with harsh threats,struck him upon his plump red cheek. Willie burst into tears, andwept in passion. His father was in a miserable, uneasy frame ofmind. He ceased his work, bared his brow to the delicious morningair. He leaned upon his hoe, and gazed upon his child. He felt therewas something wrong. He always knew, and acknowledged, that he wasof a rash, irritable disposition. He now remembered that ever sincehis child's birth he had been exceedingly impatient with it. Heremembered how harshly he had spoken to it, how rudely he had tossedit on his knee when it awoke him with its crying at night. Heremembered that the little one had been daily with him for now threeyears, and that not a day had passed in which he had not spokenloudly, fiercely to the child.
Yes, he remembered the heavy blows he had given it in bursts ofpassion, blows deeply regretted the instant after, yet repeated onthe first temptation. He thought of it all; that his boy was but alittle child, and that he had spoken to it, and expected from it, asif it were grown. All his passionate, cruel words and blows rushedupon his memory; his rough replies to childish questions; hisunmanly anger at childish offences. He thought, too, how the littleboy had still followed him, because its father was all on earth tohim; how the little thing had said, he "was sorry," and had offereda kiss even after some bitter word or blow altogether undeserved.Leland remembered, too, as the morning air blew aside his hair, howoften he had shown the same miserable, nervous irritability to hisdog, his horse, his servants; even the branch of the tree thatstruck him as he walked; yea, even to his own wife. He rememberedhow the same black, unhappy feelings had clouded his brow, had burstfrom his lips at every little domestic annoyance that had happened.He could not but remember how it had only made matters worse--hadmade himself and his family wretched for the time. He felt howundignified, how unmanly all this was. He pictured himself beforehis own eyes as a peevish, uneasy, irritable, unhappy man--soweak-minded!
He glanced at the house; he knew his wife was in it, engaged in hermorning duties; gentle, lady-like, loving him so dearly. He glancedat his sobbing child, and saw how healthful and intelligent he was.He glanced over his garden, and orchard, and lawn, and saw howpleasant was his home. He thought of his circle of friends, hisposition in business, his own education and health. He saw how muchhe had to make him happy; and all jarred and marred, and cursed byhis miserable fits of irritation; the fever, the plague increasingdaily; becoming his nature, breathing the pestilent atmosphere ofhell over himself and all connected with him.
As he thus thought, his little boy again forgot himself, and strayedwith heedless feet toward bis father. Leland dropped his hoe,reached toward his child. The little fellow threw up his hands, andwrithed his body as if expecting a blow.
"Willie," said the father, in a low, gentle voice. Willie looked upwith half fright, half amazement. "Willie, boy," said the father ina new tone, which had never passed his lips before, and he felt thedeep, calm power of his own words. "Willie, boy, don't walk on pa'splants. Go back, and stay there till pa is done."
The child turned as by the irresistible power of the slow-spoken,gentle words, and walked back and resumed his seat, evidently notintending to transgress again.
As Leland stood with the words dying on his lips, and his handextended, a sudden and singular idea struck him. He felt that he hadjust said the most impressive and eloquent thing he had ever said inhis life! He felt that there was a power in his tone and mannerwhich he had never used before; a power which would affect a judgeor a jury, as it had affected Willie. The curse cursed here too! Itwas that hasty, nervous disposition, which gave manner and tone tohis very public speaking; which made his arguments unconvincing, hispathos unaffecting. It was just that calm, deep, serene feeling andmanner, which was needed at the bar as well as with Willie. Arguingwith that feeling and manner, he felt, would convince irresistibly.Pleading with that quiet, gentle spirit, he felt would melt, wouldaffect the hearts as with the very emotion of tears.
Unless you catch the idea, there is no describing it, reader. Lelandwas a Christian. All that day he thought upon the whole matter. Thatnight in the privacy of his office he knelt and repeated the wholematter before God. For his boy's sake, for his wife's sake, for hisown sake, for his usefulness' sake at the bar, he implored steadyaid to overcome the deadly, besetting sin. He pleaded that,indulging in that disposition, he was alienating from himself hisboy and his wife; yea, that he was alienating his own better selffrom himself, for he was losing his own self-respect. And here hisvoice sank from a murmur into silence; he remembered that he wasthus alienating from his bosom and his side--God!
And then he remembered that just such a daily disposition as helacked was exactly that disposition which characterized God when Godbecame man. The excellence of such a disposition rose serenelybefore him, embodied in the person of Jesus Christ; the young lawyerfell forward on his face and wept in the agony of his desire and hisprayer.
From that sweet spring morning was Arthur Leland another man; awiser, abler, more successful man in every sense. Not all at once;steadily, undoubtedly advanced the change. The wife saw and felt,and rejoiced in it. Willie felt it, and was restrained by it everydrop of his merry blood; the household felt it, as a ship does aneven wind; and sailed on over smooth seas constrained by it. You sawthe change in the man's very gait and bearing and conversation.Judge and jury felt it. It was the ceasing of a fever in the frameof a strong man; and Leland went about easily, naturally, the strongman he was. The old, uneasy, self-harassing feeling was forgotten,and an ease and grace of tone and manner succeeded. It was a higherdevelopment of the father, the husband, the orator, the gentleman,the Christian. Surely love is the fountain of patience and peace.Surely it is the absence of passion which makes angels to be thebeings they are.
Men can become very nearly angels or devils, even before they haveleft the world.
THE END.
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