THOU knowest, DIEDRICH, that it has long been settled that Noah
landed in America, and that Mount Ararat is in the State of
New-York. I am inclined to believe, from this undoubtedly genuine
ballad, which I discovered in the lining of an old trunk in the
garret of the principal inn at Ramapo, that the Jews resided here
at a much later period of their history; but that has nothing to
do with us at present. All that I wished to prove by the ballad
is, that the great wielder of jaw-bones was hen-pecked. So was
Cicero.[B] So was Mr. Liner. Mr. Liner was, beside, pullet-pecked.
Miss Catharine pecked him. Not that Miss Catharine was by any means
ill-natured; for I have seen her only 'grin a ghastly' when she met
a rival belle better dressed; but she made her poor father keep his
eyes open night after night, by pinching himself, and by wondering
at her astonishing strength of limb, '_effera vis crurum_,' as he
delighted to call it. And when the old gentleman would hint to his
daughter that he thought it high time to depart, she would meet his
suggestion by a decided negative: 'Oh no! not yet, pa!' pronounced
with that sweet asperity and bitter mellifluousness of manner, which
we often notice in people whose toes have been trodden upon by a
distinguished stranger, who apologizes. Metaphysically speaking, her
tone was a cross between a smile and a snarl.
[B] 'AN ille mihi liber cui mulier imperat? cui leges imponit,
præscribit, jubet,' etc.
In the summer Miss Liner visited at the watering-places--Saratoga,
Sharon, Rockaway--and returned fully impressed with the truth of
a late traveller's remark: 'The social intercourse of American
watering-places may be defined as follows: the gentlemen spit and
the ladies spat.' She herself came home with no less than five
quarrels on her hands, which she was heroical enough not to regret,
when the five foes gave parties and left her out.
The first year or two of this kind of life was very pleasant;
but as winter after winter rolled on its balls, and summer after
summer found her haunting the same places, and she found herself
still remaining Liner, a sigh, soft yet spiteful, escaped from her
'heaving breast.'
(_Nota._--All breasts 'heave' in romances, as if they were Irishmen
employed in coal-yards.)
'Why,' whispered she, softly, 'can I not find some one on whom I may
lavish the treasures of affection that I have been hoarding for so
many years?'
'There,' hissed she, spitefully, 'is that Henrietta Hoogeboom, not
half so stylish as I am, and a miserable waltzer, and yet she is
engaged!'
One young man, a foreigner from Tobolsk, encouraged by her bravos at
his performances, did propose; but was indignantly refused. Old Mrs.
Liner, who was a little à la Malaprop, said, crimson with rage, that
she 'wouldn't make use of him as a foot-pad.' Had the youth from
Tobolsk asked a few years later, he would have been accepted. A man
can carry off any single woman, if he only chooses the right time.
Drowning men are said to catch at straws. It may be so. We have
never witnessed a drown, and cannot say: but spinsters about sinking
into the vast profound of old-maidism do catch at straw men. This we
can assert.
No good parti offered. Attention too began to be scanty. The world
of beaux, empty-stomach'd as empty-hearted, rushed to her balls to
enjoy the suppers, and to dance with newer belles. They were smiling
but unsatisfactory. Now and then some eager débutant would claim her
hand for a waltz, and lead her off in triumph, amid the sneers of
the experienced. Pardon us, good friends, if we again recur to the
romance, the _analyses_ of which we have been giving you:
'THE ball room was bright and beautiful. Two thousand candles
shone in the lofty rooms; two hundred belles flashed as they
sidled in the waltz and simpered in the cotillion. The 'middle
ages' line the walls; capped, sitting bolt upright, wide
awake, smiling, but looking out like highwaymen for rich young
men. Tarpenny descends from the dressing-room, and trembles.
It is his fourth party. Simple-minded youth! He feels the
arduous nature of his undertaking. He gives his hair the last
adorning touch, the _coup de grâce_; with hands glued to
sides, he enters, fixes his eye upon the hostess, and rushes
headlong at her. Politeness urges her to advance to meet him;
self-preservation prompts her to avoid. Convulsively forward
jerks his hand, eager for a shake; two taper fingers only,
cautiously advanced, are feebly placed within his grasp. His
friendly force betrays him; he shakes the air; loses his
balance; hops upon one foot. While on the hop, his rosy face
meets a cognizant female eye. He bows upon one leg, totters
still, and half falls against a man of muslin. He jumps away,
muttering an indistinct '_Pardon!_' With a hot, painful
sensation in the face, he takes refuge behind a door, to emerge
again when coolness brings relief, and the nose no longer
glistens. He looks about him, and gallantly resolves to dance.
Miss Liner meets his inquiring eye. When a little boy he had
seen beaux about her. It was years ago. She is a belle. There
can be no doubt about it. How lucky that she is not engaged! He
sees distinction close at hand, and hurries to the hostess. She
presents him. He stammers out the question. Miss Liner grumbles
a 'Yes.' He leads her off in triumph. Short-sighted mortal!'
MRS. LINER began to ask, 'Why don't the men come forrard?' and old
Liner was heard to mutter: 'Quousque tandem _Caty Liner_ abutêre
patientiâ nostrâ?'
Another year, and the last faint _spark_ expired.
'Why is it Mrs. Liner,' quoth the father, as he was tying his
night-cap strings, 'that our daughter cannot get a husband? I know
very well that Erasmus says, in speaking of women, _Nulla bona,
Nullus beau_; but we, thank God! are rich, and I am sure we all
have tried hard enough. There was Shuffleshank, for instance. Did
not we run after him at balls, plays, concerts, until I got the
pleurisy, and you a bilious attack? And Catharine, poor soul! did
she not dance after him until she wore herself down to a skeleton?
and all for nothing? Something must be done, Mrs. Liner. Gad! I have
a plan----' A rattling, reverberating snore completed Mr. Liner's
paragraph; and soon the married noses, blended in harsh discord,
pealed a lullaby through the bed-curtains. As to Miss Catharine,
she looked upon the first part of the proverb, '_L'homme propose_,'
as an absurd and cruel fiction, invented by a tantalizing wretch.
And when her cousin, Miss Frizzle--who like the Scythian in Elian
was all face, and poor and ill-natured to boot--when Frederica
Frizzle, whose physiognomical and moral qualifications were forcibly
described by one of her friends as
'Nose carnation,
Temper darnation!'
when Miss Frizzle, I say, engaged herself to her first offer, a
nice musical young man, with the slightest possible moustache, then
Catharine waxed gloomy, and her snowy _batiste_ was bedewed with
tears. As the poet hath it:
'Through fingers tiny
Streamed the briny.'
We have now come to the beginning of our story. Miss Liner sits
weeping upon the sofa, regretting Shuffleshank and her first offer
from Tobolsk. It remains for us to see what was Mr. Liner's plan.