CHAPTER XVII.
THE USES OF ADVERSITY.
The change proposed was speedily made. As they shrunk closer together in this smaller house, they felt more sensibly the warmth of each other’s hearts. The mother joined with her daughters in their efforts to cut off every expense, and when they proposed doing without a servant, made no objection, but rather approved the measure. So the servant was dismissed, and the whole care and labor of the household devolved upon Mrs. Townsend, Eveline, and Eunice.
At their last removal, they found great difficulty in crowding the furniture, taken from a house almost double that of the one they were to occupy, into the smaller space allotted for its reception. Compression was no longer possible. A council on the subject was held, at which it was decided to sell certain large and costly articles, and retain only such as corresponded to their reduced style of living. Quite a large selection was made and sold at vendue, from which the handsome sum of one thousand dollars was raised, which was paid into Mr. Townsend’s hands, just in time to enable him to make a heavy payment, and thus prevent a knowledge of his crippled state from becoming known.
“How strangely events turn out,” he said to his daughter Eunice, with whom he could speak on the subject of his business and prospects, more freely and intimately than with any other member of his family, not even excepting his wife, whose spirits usually became depressed, when allusion was made to the subject. “But for you, no one would have thought of a reduction of expense by moving into a cheaper house. The cheaper house was smaller, and, therefore, to get into it, we had to reduce our furniture. For what was surplus, and therefore useless, a thousand dollars were received, and these thousand dollars came just in time to enable me to make a payment, otherwise impossible, upon which almost every thing depended. How strangely events turn out! I am bewildered at times.”
“He leads us by a way that we know not,” Eunice said, low and reverently.
“Who?” Mr. Townsend spoke ere he reflected.
“He whose tender mercies are over all his works,” was replied.
For a few moments there was silence.
“You think, then, that the hand of Providence is in every thing?” said Mr. Townsend.
“Oh, yes, surely it is!” returned Eunice. “The Creator of all must be the Sustainer of all.”
“That is, doubtless, true. A general providence over a man’s life may exist, but I can hardly believe that there is a particular providence regarding all the minuter things.”
“Can there be such a thing as a general, that is not made up of particulars? A general providence not the sum of particular providences?”
This question Mr. Townsend did not answer immediately. The proposition was new to his mind, and came upon it with the force of truth.
“There is such a thing as a general superintendence of affairs,” he said, thoughtfully.
“True, but is it not to the end that particular things, within its sphere of supervision, may be kept in order? Break up the harmony and dependence of particular things one upon another, and what becomes of general harmony? Does not all sink into confusion? How small a circumstance often involves the most important consequences; and if the greater result is regarded by Providence, surely the seemingly insignificant cause must also be regarded. Depend upon it, father, there is a particular providence, or no providence at all.”
“Perhaps you are right, Eunice. I never saw the subject in that light. As you intimate, we must give up all idea of Providence, and feel that every thing is governed by chance, or admit that it reaches to the most intimate things of our lives. It may be as Shakespeare says, ‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will.’”
“It is so, father, depend upon it. Human prudence, as Mr. Carlton has so often said, and said it to you in my hearing some years ago, is nothing. You did not believe it then, but you cannot entirely doubt it now.”
“I cannot, certainly,” replied Mr. Townsend, speaking sadly, “for my prudence has availed nothing.”
“Not for the salvation of your worldly possessions. The good things of natural life were taken from you and from us, but is it not possible for this to prove a blessing and not a curse?”
“I do not know. At present it is far from being apparent to my mind.”
“It is not altogether so to mine,” returned the daughter. “As for me, I know myself better, and have learned to regard the good of others, and to seek for that good as well as my own; and this is a heavenly affection, and its exercise prepares us for heaven. The very life of heaven is a love of being useful to, and making others happy, and unless we have this love, we cannot go to heaven when our few brief years are closed up here. Surely any natural circumstance that helps us to see what is evil in our hearts, and also to put it away, should be regarded as a blessing.”
“Perhaps so, viewed in that light; one in which, I must own, it has never been presented to my mind.”
“But is it not the true light, father? Are not our spirits the real and substantial about us?”
“Substantial, Eunice? Our bodies are substantial.”
“Not substantial like our minds. Material substance is perishing, but spiritual substance endures for ever. In a little while our natural bodies will decay, but neither death, decay, nor corruption can touch our spiritual bodies. Our spiritual well-being is, therefore, of infinite importance, compared to our mere natural well-being.”
The words of the young preacher sunk into the heart of her father; a deep sigh struggled up from his bosom, and he sat thoughtful for many minutes.
“Doubtless you are right, Eunice,” he then said, speaking in a subdued voice. “Something of this I have heard before, but it never impressed me as it does now. I never felt that it was true. Fifty or sixty years is nothing to an eternal existence. The things of time are, therefore, of small moment, compared to the things of eternity; and the wealth of this world dross compared to heavenly riches.”
The eyes of Eunice were filled with tears as they turned with looks of happy affection upon the face of her father, and her voice was half broken as she said,
“To be able to see and feel this, father, is a great attainment, and not dearly bought, even at the price you have paid for it.”
“Perhaps not,” he replied. “The price has certainly been large.”
“Now it appears so; but the time will come, I hope, when the price that has been paid will seem really insignificant, compared to the good it procured; nay, I am sure it will come.”
“I trust it may, Eunice; but it has not come yet,” said Mr. Townsend, again sighing deeply. His natural affections still clung to the good things of natural life, while his perception of spiritual things, seen clearly only for a few moments in the light of his daughter’s mind, were but dim and confused. Still, there had been some progress. The uses of misfortune had been, to some small extent, realized.