I tried not to meet any body, but I met every body, and every body WOULD

speak to me: beggars stopped me, country folks singled me out to inquire

the way--_me!_ why _me?_ with a street full of people? Did I direct them

wrong? Let them learn to ask somebody next time who does not mourn a

lost MS.; somebody whose life is not spent in locking up things and

losing the keys; somebody who is not required to write an article with a

stupid chambermaid flying in and out every ten minutes, leaving your

door ajar, whirling your papers across the room, and scattering your

ideas to the remorseless winds; somebody whose meals are not _always_

not to be had, when type and printers wait for no woman.

This is a digression. I reached the goal at last; simply and only

because one who keeps moving must inevitably fetch up somewhere. I

performed my errand, or thought I had, till I had got half-way home,

when I recollected an important fact omitted--_n’importe_. I was

desperate now. Guns and pistols could not have turned my steps back

again. How it blew! how it snowed! I did not hurry one step; I took a

savage pleasure in thinking of my spoiled bonnet-ribbon, wet feet, and

ice-ermined skirts. I even stopped, as I observed some umbrella-shielded

pedestrian looking wonderingly at me, and gazed with affected delight at

the miserable feminine kick-shaws in the shop windows, just to show my

sublime indifference to the warring elements.

I reached my room, by dint of climbing the obnoxious stairs. I turned

the key, as I fondly hoped, on all my species.

Rat, tat, rat, tat!

Shall I hear it?

Not I!

Rat, tat, tat, rat, tat!

It is of no use; I shall go mad with that thumping. I had rather face

Cloven Foot himself than hear it. I open the door; it is my washerwoman.

She has a huge pile of clothes to be counted, and sorted, and paid for,

too! She dumps them down on the floor, just as if every minute was not

to me so much gold-dust until that MS. was resurrectionized. I look

around for my list of the clothes. It is not in the big dictionary, no,

nor in the Bible, no, nor in the pocket of my blue, red, gray, green, or

plaid dress.

Bother! I exclaim, I can’t find it. I dare say you have them all

right; so I commence taking them out, and counting the pieces with an

eye to her pay. What’s that? A dickey, two shirts, and a vest! I hold

them up to the light with the tips of my fingers.

Woman alive! what need has a female of such garments?

She had made a mistake. She had brought me Mr. ----’s clothes--I will

not expose him by telling his name, for they were wretchedly ragged; but

as I turned the key again on them and her, I squeezed this drop of

comfort out of my misery--Thank heaven, I have not to mend those

clothes!

Rat, tat, tat! Merciful man! what now?

A bundle of proofs, big as my head, to read and return by the bearer

immediately, and quick at that.

I sat down. So did the devil. I began to read, pen in hand. I could

not remember, with my bewildered brain, whether “_stet_” stood for “let

it be,” or “take it out;” or what “_d_” signified in a typesetter’s

alphabet. I read on. Could it be possible that _I_ ever wrote such a

disconnected sentence as this? No, they have left out an entire line;

and forgot to send the MS. copy, too!

Devil take it! I exclaim; and so he does (the literal infernal!) and

is out of sight before I can explain that the unorthodox exclamation was

wrung out of me by the last drop in my brimming cup on that unlucky day.

A HOT DAY.

Sissing fry-pans, and collapsed flapjacks--what a hot day! Not a

breath of air stirring, and mine almost gone. Fans enough, but no nerve

to wield ’em. Food enough, but no strength to chew it. Chairs hot; sofa

hotter; beds hottest. Sun on the back stoop; sun on the front stoop; and

hot neighbors on both sides. Kittens mewing; red-nosed babies crying;

poor little Hot-ten-tots! dogs dragging about with protruding tongues

and inquiring tails; cockerels feebly essaying to crow. Every thing

sticky, and flabby, and limpsy. Can’t read; can’t sew; can’t write;

can’t talk; can’t walk; can’t even sleep; hate every body who passes

through the room to make it hotter.

Now, just see that fly. If I have knocked her off my nose once, I have

done it forty times; nothing will serve her but the bridge of my nose. I

say _her_, because I am sure it is a female, on account of its

extraordinary and spiteful persistence.

“Will I have any thing to drink?” No. Wine heats me; lemonade sours

me; water perspires me. “Will I have the blinds closed?” No. “Will I

have ’em open?” No. “What _will_ I have?” Well--if there’s an old maid

to be had, for heaven’s sake, walk her through this room to cool it.

“What will I have for dinner?” Now, isn’t that the last drop in my

brimming cup? Dinner, indeed! Soup hot; fish hot; beef hot; mutton hot;

chicken hot;--ugh! Hot potatoes; hot squash; hot peas; hot pudding; hot

children;--ugh! Tell that butcher to make his will, or get out of my

kitchen. “Lady down stairs wishes to see me?” In the name of Adam and

Eve, take all my dresses off the pegs and show her--but never believe

I’d be so mad as to get into them for any body living.

FUNERAL NOTES.

Was there ever any thing like these insensate New Yorkers? Peep with

me into that undertaker’s shop, sandwiched between a millinery

establishment and an oyster saloon. See the coffins, Behemoth and

Lilliputian, pyramided in corners, spread out in rows, challenging in

platoons, on the sidewalk, the passers-by; while in the windows are

corpse-caps, stiffly starched and plaited, with white ribbon strings,

ready to be tied under your chin, or mine.

See the jolly owner, seated on a chair in the middle of his shop, with

his legs crossed, his hat on the back of his head, nonchalantly smoking,

with his children about his knee; as if the destroying angel had charge

to pass unvisited _his_ blood-besprinkled door-post; as if eyes now

bright with hope were never to weep themselves dim over those narrow

houses.

Now a customer comes in; a young man, whose swollen lids tell their

own sorrowful tale. The jolly undertaker, wide awake, throws away his

cigar stump, hands a chair to the new comer, exchanges a few words with

him, draws pencil and paper from his pocket, and _taking an infant’s

coffin into his lap for a writing desk_, commences scribbling down

directions. Meanwhile, a hearse rattles up to the door; none of your

poor-house hearses, in rusty black, with “seedy” driver, and hang-dog

looking horses; but a smart, sonsie, gay-looking New York turn-out--fit

for a turtle-consuming, turtle-consumed mayor; with nine huge ostrich

feathers, black and white, nodding patronizingly to the a-gape urchins,

who stand around the door, who are almost willing to get into a coffin

to have a ride with them--with two spanking white horses, equal to Dan

Rice’s “Excelsior,” with ostrich feathers in either ear, flowing as

their well-combed tails, which whisk gracefully over the black velvet

pall and trappings, as if Life were a holiday and Death its Momus.

Now the young man staggers out, shuddering as he passes the hearse,

and screening his swollen lids from curious gazers and the obtrusive

sunshine, to whom broken hearts are an every-day story. The jolly

undertaker rubs his hands, for death is busy and business is brisk. The

young man has made no bargain with him beforehand as to prices; how

could he? his heart was full of the widowed sister he left behind, and

her newly-made orphans; he only remarked, as he left the street and

number, “to do what is customary;” and custom requires that carriages

shall be provided for all the “friends and acquaintances” who may wish

to go. So “friends and acquaintances” gather (when the funeral hour

arrives). Why not? The day is fine and a ride to the out-of-town

cemetery pleasant, and (to them) inexpensive; they whose eyes scarce

rested with interest on the living form, gaze ceremoniously and

curiously on the dead; the widow’s tears are counted, the mourning

dresses of herself and children scrutinized; the prayer that always

falls so immeasurably short of what critical ears demand, is said; a

great silence--then a rustling--bustling--whispering--then the coffin is

borne past the widow, who sees it through a mist of tears; and then the

long procession winds its way through harlequin Broadway, with its brass

bands, and military companies, its thundering omnibusses, its bedizened

courtezans, its laughing pedestrians, and astonished, simple-hearted

country-folk. Wheels lock, milk carts and market wagons join the

procession; Barnum’s band pipes from out the Museum balcony merry

“Yankee Doodle,” and amid curses and shouts, laughter and tears, the

mournful cavalcade moves on.

And now the incongruous showy farce is over, and the “friends and

acquaintances” alighting at their respective houses, re-cross their

unblighted thresholds, and the widow and children return to their

desolate hearth-stone (_how_ desolate, God and themselves only know);

while poverty, strange and unbidden guest, creeps stealthily after them,

and takes the empty chair.

O clamorous tyrant, Custom! O thoughtless, unfriendly friends, who can

mourn for the dead only in carriages, that swallow up the little legacy

left for the living, by the dead for whom you profess to grieve!

Beautiful the calm faith of Swedenborg, turning its hopeful eye away

from such childish sackcloth mummery; anchoring where no wave of earthly

trouble rolls; gliding through the accustomed life-paths, not lonely,

not hopeless; feeling still the warm life-clasp, hearing still the loved

voices, breaking the bread, or blessing the meat.

THE “FAVORITE” CHILD.

Why will parents use that expression? What right have you to have a

_favorite_ child? The All-Father maketh his sun to shine alike upon the

daisy and the rose. Where would you be, were His care measured by your

merits or deserts? Is your child none the less your child, that nature

has denied him a fluent tongue, or forgotten her cunning, when, in

careless mood, she fashioned his limbs? Because beauty beams not from

the eye, is there no intelligence there? Because the rosy flush mantles

not the pale cheek, does the blood never tingle at your coldness or

neglect? Because the passive arms are not wound about your neck, has the

soul no passionate yearnings for parental love? O, how often does God,

more merciful than you, passing by the _Josephs_ of your household,

stoop in his pity and touch those quivering lips with a live coal from

off the altar? How often does this neglected one, burst from out the

chrysalis in which your criminal coldness has enveloped him, and soaring

far above your wildest parental imaginings, compel from your ambition,

what he could not gain from your love?

How often does he replenish with liberal hand the coffers which the

“favorite child,” in the selfishness which you fostered, has drained of

their last fraction. “He that is first shall be last, and the last shall

be first.” Let parents write this on their heart tablets. Let them

remember it when they repulse the little clinging arms, or turn a deaf

ear to the childish tale of sorrow. O, gather up those clinging tendrils

of affection with gentlest touch; trample them not with the foot of

haste or insensibility rudely in the dust.

“And they, in the darkest of days, shall be

Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.”

A QUESTION, AND ITS ANSWER.

To Mary M., who desires a frank expression of opinion from the

undersigned, with regard to her marrying an old bachelor.

Answer. Don’t do it. A man who for so long a period has had nobody but

himself to think of, who knows where the finest oysters and venison

steaks are to be found, and who has for years indulged in these and

every other little selfish inclination unchecked, will, you may be sure

(without punning), make a most miserable _help-meat_. When you have tea,

he will wish it were coffee; when you have coffee, he will wish it were

tea; when you have both, he will desire chocolate; and when you have

all, he will tell you that they are made much better at his favorite

restaurant. His shirts never will be ironed to suit him, his cravats

will be laid in the drawer the wrong way, and his pocket-handkerchiefs

marked in the wrong corner. He will always be happy to wait upon you,

provided _your_ way is his way; but an extra walk round a block will put

him out of humor for a week. He will be as unbending as a

church-steeple--as exacting as a Grand Turk, and as impossible to please

as a teething baby. Take my advice, Mary; give the old fossil the

mitten, and choose a male specimen who is in the transition state, and

capable of receiving impressions.

WINTER.

Hoary-headed old Winter, I have had enough of you! Not that I shrink

from facing your rough breath, in a ten-mile walk, on the coldest day on

which you ever made icicles; for I am no fair-weather sailor, not I; I

have no thousand-dollar dress to spoil, and I am not afraid to increase

the dimensions of my ankle by a never-to-be-sufficiently-adored

India-rubber boot. I am dependent neither upon cars nor omnibusses,

though I am, like other mortals, sometimes brought up short for want of

a ferry-boat; but I am tired of frozen ground. I am tired of denuded

trees, and leafless vines and branches, scraping against walls and

fences, in the vain attempt to frictionize a little warmth into their

stiffened limbs. I am tired of gray skies, and the mournful wailing of

the winter wind; the stars have a steel-like glitter, and the moonbeams

on the snow petrify me like the ghost of a smile on the face of a

wire-drawn old maid. I long, like a prisoned bird, for a flight into

green fields--I can not sing without the blossoming flowers. I would go

to sleep with them, nor wake till the soft spring sheds warm, joyful

tears, to call forth her hidden treasures.

And yet, old Winter, I have liked thee less well than now; when the

hungry fire devoured the last remaining faggot, and Nature’s frozen face

was but typical of the faces that my adverse fortune had petrified; but

who cares for thee or them? So surely as prosperity brought back their

sycophantic smiles, so surely shall thy stiff neck be bowed before the

bounty-laden Spring. “Hope on--hope ever;” and yet how meaningless fall

these words upon the ear of the poor widow, who but a stone’s throw from

my window, sits watching beside her dead husband, heeding neither the

wailing cry of the babe at her breast, nor the wilder wail of the winter

wind, as it drifts the snow against the door.

“Hope on--hope ever.” She looks at you with a vacant stare, and then

at the lifeless form before her, as if that were her mute answer. You

tell her to trust in God, when it is her bitterest sorrow that the voice

of her rebellious heart is, “Ye have taken away my idol, and what have I

left?”

“Left?” poor mourner. O, so much, that you can not see until those

falling tears have cleared your vision and eased your pain. “Left?” the

sweet memory of unclouded earthly love, of which not even death can rob

you; tones and looks which you will count over, when no human eye sees

you, as the miser tells his hoarded gold.

“Left?” his child and yours, who, with the blessed baptism of holy

tears, you will call God’s. “Left?” O, many a household, whose inmates

pressing their anguished brows under _living_ sorrows, would bless God

for the sweet memories of earthly love that you cling to in your pain.

“Left?” tearful mourner; a crown to win, sweeter for the wearing, when

thorns have pressed the brow.

“Left?” a cross to bear, but O, so light to carry, when heaven is the

goal!

“One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,

Do not fear an armed band;

One will fade as others greet thee,

Shadows passing through the land.

“Do not look at life’s long sorrow,

See how small each moment’s pain;

God will help thee for to-morrow,

Every day begin again.”

A GAUNTLET FOR THE MEN.

I maintain it: all the heroism of the present day is to be found among

women. I say it to your beards. I am sick of such remarks as these:

“Poor fellow! he was unfortunate in business, and so he took to

drinking;” or--“poor fellow! he had a bad wife, and lost all heart.”

What does a _woman_ do who is unfortunate in business, I would like to

know? Why--she tries again, of course, and keeps on trying to the end of

the chapter, notwithstanding the pitiful remuneration man bestows upon

her labor, notwithstanding his oft-repeated attempts to cheat her out of

it when she has earned it! What does a woman do, who has a bad,

improvident husband? Works all the harder, to be sure, to make up his

deficiencies to her household; works day and night; smiles when her

heart and back are both breaking; speaks hopeful words when her very

soul is dying within her; denies herself the needed morsel to increase

her children’s portion, and crushed neither by the iron gripe of

poverty, nor allured by the Judas-smile of temptation, hopefully puts

her trust in Him who feedeth the sparrows.

She “the weaker sex?” Out on your pusillanimous manhood! “Took to

drinking because he was unhappy!” Bless--his--big--Spartan--soul! How I

admire him! Couldn’t live a minute without he had every thing to his

mind; never had the slightest idea of walking round an obstacle, or

jumping over it; never practiced that sort of philosophical

gymnastics--couldn’t grit his teeth at fate, and defy it to do its

worst, because they chattered so;--poor fellow! Wanted buttered toast,

and had to eat dry bread; liked “2.40,” and had to go a-foot; fond of

wine, and had to drink Croton; couldn’t smoke, though his stove-pipe

did; rushed out of the world, and left his wife and children to battle

with the fate that his coward soul was afraid to meet. Brave,

magnanimous fellow!

Again--we are constantly hearing that the extravagance of women debars

young men from the bliss of matrimony. Poor things! they can’t select a

wife _from out_ the frivolous circle of fashion; there are no refined,

well-educated, lady-like, practical girls and women, whom any man, with

a man’s soul, might be proud to call wife, nobly struggling for an

honest maintenance as writers, governesses, teachers, semptresses, and

milliners. They never read such an advertisement as this in the papers:

“Wanted, by a young girl, a situation as governess. She can teach

the English branches, French and Italian; and is willing to accept

a small remuneration, to secure a respectable home.”

Fudge! None so blind as they who _won’t_ see. The truth is, most of

the young men of the present day are selfish to the backbone. “Poor,”

too--very poor!--never go to Shelby’s or Delmonico’s for a nice little

game supper, washed down with champagne at $2 a bottle; never smoke

dozens of cigars a day, at six cents a piece; never invite--_themselves_

to go to concerts, the opera, or the theater! Wish they could afford to

get married, but can’t, at least not till, as they elegantly express it,

“they meet a pretty girl who has the tin.”

SOLILOQUY OF A LITERARY HOUSEKEEPER.

“Spring cleaning!” Oh misery! Ceilings to be whitewashed, walls to be

cleaned, paint to be scoured, carpets to be taken up, shaken, and put

down again; scrubbing women, painters, and whitewashers, all engaged for

months a-head, or beginning on your house to secure the job, and then

running off a day to somebody else’s to secure another. Yes, spring

cleaning to be done; closets, bags, and baskets to be disemboweled; furs

and woolens to be packed away; children’s last summer clothes to be

inspected (not a garment that will fit--all grown up like Jack’s

bean-stalk); spring cleaning, sure enough. I might spring my feet off

and not get all that done. When is that book of mine to get written, I’d

like to know? It’s Ma’am, will you have this? and Ma’am, will you have

that? and Ma’am, will you have the other thing? May I be kissed if I

hadn’t more time to write when I lived in an attic on salt and potatoes,

and scrubbed the floor myself. Must I turn my house topsy-turvy, and

inside out, once a year, because my grandmother did, and send my MSS.

flying to the four winds, for this traditionary “spring cleaning.”

Spring fiddlestick! Must I buy up all Broadway to be made into dresses,

because all New York women go fashion-mad? What’s the use of having a

house, if you can’t do as you like in it? What’s the use of being an

authoress, if you can’t indulge in the luxury of a shabby bonnet, or a

comfortable old dress? What’s the use of dressing when your cook can

outshine you? What is the use of dragging brocade and velvet through

ferry-boats and omnibusses, to serve as mats for market-baskets and

dirty boots? “There goes Lily Larkspur, the authoress, in that

everlasting old black silk.” Well--what’s the use of being well off, if

you can’t wear old clothes. If I was poor, as I was once, I couldn’t

afford it. Do you suppose I’m going to wrinkle up my face, scowling at

unhappy little boys for treading on a five-hundred-dollar silk? or fret

myself into a fever because some _gentleman_ throws a cigar-stump on its

lustrous trailing folds? no, no; life is too short for that, and much

too earnest. Give me good health--the morning for writing, and no

interruptions, plenty of fresh air afterwards, and an old gown to enjoy

it in, and you may mince along in your peacock dry-goods till your soul

is as shriveled as your body.

A BREAKFAST-TABLE REVERIE.

I looked up--they were laughing at me--I am accustomed to be laughed

at--so it neither moved nor astonished me. They had been laughing

because I had been reading so long, and so intently, the advertising

page of my daily paper. And why not? when it is often to me the most

interesting part of it. To be sure, I look at it with a pair of eyes

that have not always been undimmed with tears; I think sometimes of the

unwritten tragedy there may be in a four-line advertisement which scarce

arrests the careless, laughing eye. I think of the days and nights of

misery it took, the suffering and privation, to goad the sensitive heart

up to its first appeal to the public ear--the trembling fingers which

may have penned it--the tears which well-nigh obliterated it--the leaden

feet which bore it, almost helplessly, to its destination.

No, I was not vexed that they laughed at me, for how should they,

whose life-path had been always flower-bestrown, think of these sad

things?

I had been reading what follows. Listen

“A young lady, suddenly thrown upon her own resources for

support, desires a situation as Governess. She can teach all the

English branches, understands French, German, and Italian, and

would be willing to accept even the smallest compensation.”

I saw her! homeless--friendless--heart-broken; willing to accept the

most humiliating, grinding conditions for a safe and _immediate_ shelter

for her innocence. I saw the cold, calculating eye of some lady

fashionist fasten upon the touching appeal. I saw her place the young

girl’s pressing necessities in one scale, and her avarice in the other.

I saw her include, in her acceptance of the post of governess, that of

lace-laundress and nursery-maid; and I saw the poor young creature

meekly, even thankfully, accept the conditions, while her wealthy

patroness questioned her qualifications, depreciated her services, and

secretly rejoiced at securing such a prize, at such an economical rate

of compensation.

I saw another young girl similarly situated, but even less fortunate

than the one of whom I have spoken. I saw the libidinous eye of a wretch

who reads the advertising sheet with an eye to “young governesses,”

fasten upon her advertisement. I saw him engage her, as he has others,

for some fictitious family, in some fictitious place, constituting

himself the head of it, and her escort on the way--only to turn, alas!

her sweet innocent trust into the bitter channel of a life-long and

unavailing remorse.

I took up the paper and read again:

“Who wants a boy?--A widower, with six children, will dispose of

an infant to some family inclined to receive it.”

That a widower might possibly be so situated as to render such a

measure necessary, I could conceive, but that a _father_ could pen such

a brusque, hilarious, jocular--“_halloa-there_”--announcement of the

fact, rather stunned me.

“Who wants a boy?”

As if it were a colt, or a calf, or a six-weeks young pup--or any

thing under heaven but his own flesh and blood! as if the little

innocent had never lain beneath the loving heart of _her_ whose last

throb was for its sweet helplessness--last prayer for its vailed future.

Shade of the mother hover over that child!

I read again:

“Information wanted of a little girl, who, at the age of five

years, was placed, ten years ago, in ---- alms-house.”

I thought of _her_ cheerless childhood (as I looked around my own

bright hearthstone at my own happy children). I saw _her_ yearning

vainly for the sweet ties of kindred. I followed her from thence out

into the world, where all _but_ herself, even the humblest, seem to have

some human tie to make life sweet; I saw her wandering hither and

thither, like Noah’s weary dove, without finding the heart’s

resting-place; wondering, when she had time to wonder (for the heavy

burden of daily toil which her slender shoulders bent beneath), if one

heart yet beats on God’s green earth, through which her own life-tide

flows.

I think of this--I wonder _who_ it is who “wants information”

concerning her. I wonder is it some remorseful relative, some brother,

some sister, some father whose heart is at length touched with pity for

the unrecognized little exile--ay--such things have been!

“Clerks out of employment.”

Need it be? With acres of fertile earth lying fair in the broad

sunshine, waiting only the touch of their sinewy muscles, to throw out

uncounted embryo treasures, while ruddy Health stands smiling at the

plow!

Then I read of starving seamstresses, with no stock in trade but their

needle; nothing but that too often, God help them! between their souls

and perdition; and, then, in the very face of my womanly instincts, I

say, _let_ them lecture--_let_ them preach--let them even be doctors, if

they will (provided they keep their hands off me!)

Then I read, alas! advertisements, which promise youth and purity to

lead them through the scorching fires of sin unharmed, unscathed, which

say that the penalty annexed by a just God to his violated laws (even in

this world), _they_ will turn aside; that a man _can_ take fire into his

bosom and _not_ be burned. And then I think that the editor who for

paltry gain, throws such firebrands into pure and happy homes _should

look well that the blight fall not on his own_.

But there is comedy as well as tragedy in an advertising sheet. I am

fond of poetry; my eye catches a favorite extract from Longfellow, or

Bryant, or Percival, or Morris; I read it over with renewed pleasure,

blessing the author in my heart the while. I am decoyed into the

building to which it serves as a fairy vestibule. Where do I find

myself?

By Parnassus! in a carpet-warehouse--in a sausage-shop--in a

druggist’s--shoemaker’s--tailor’s--or hatter’s establishment.

Who shall circumscribe American ingenuity where dollars and cents are

concerned?

Answer me, great Barnum!

A GLANCE AT A CHAMELEON SUBJECT.

“Tell you what are the fashions?” I, who am sick of the very word

fashion? who could shake hands with every rustic I meet, for very

delight at his napless hat, and ark-like coat?

You should be surfeited, as I am, with harlequin costumes; disgusted,

as I am, with troops of women, strutting, like peacocks, to show their

plumage; but who, less sensible than peacocks, never _shed their

feathers_. You should see brocades, and silk velvets, fit only for

carriage or dinner dresses, daily mopping up the tobacco pools on these

unmitigatedly nasty sidewalks. You should see the gay little bonnets,

and oh! you should see the vapid, expression-less, soul-less faces

beneath them. You should see the carriages, with their liveried

servants, in our republican streets, and the faces, seamed with _ennui_

and discontent, which peer through the windows, from beneath folds of

lace and satin.

You should see how this dress furore infects every class and circle.

You should see the young apprentice girl who can afford but one bonnet,

buying a flimsy dress-hat, to be worn in all weathers; securing for

Sunday, a showy silk dress and gilt bracelet, when she has hardly a

decent chemise, or petticoat, and owns, perhaps, but one handkerchief,

and a couple of pairs of stockings. You should see the wife of the young

mechanic, with her embroidered pocket-handkerchief, and flaunting pink

parasol, while she can number but one pair of sheets, and one

table-cloth. You should see her children, with their plumed hats, while

parti-colored, dilapidated petticoats peep from beneath their dresses,

and they are shivering for the want of warm flannels. You should see the

servant-girl, with her greasy flounces, and soiled artificial flowers.

You should see young men, with staring diamond pins stuck on their

coarse shirt-bosoms, with shabby velvet vests, and mock chains looped

over them.

You should go into the “furnishing stores for ladies’ and children’s

garments;” and see how _impossible_ it is to find _plain_, _substantial_

articles of clothing _for either_--two thirds, at least, of the cost of

every article being for elaborate trimming, and ruffling, and useless

embroidery. You should go into the “ladies’ cloak stores,” and see these

garments loaded indeed with gay trimmings, but miserably thin, and

ill-adapted for winter wear; hence the _stories_ of garments you

frequently notice on New York ladies (as winter intensifies), as if one

good, sensible, thickly-wadded, old-fashioned, outside garment, could,

by any possibility, be more awkward and ugly than such an “arrangement,”

and as if it were not a million degrees more comfortable, and less

troublesome; but, then--Fashion says, No!

“Tell you the fashions?”

Excuse my rambling. Well; here they are, as near as I can find out:

Puff your hair and your skirts. Lace your lungs and your handkerchief.

Put on the most stunning dress you can find; wear it of a _stumbling_

length, because Queen Victoria’s royal ankles are thick.

Take a handful of artificial roses, each of a different color, half a

dozen yards of ribbon ditto, lace ditto. Secure them, for a bonnet, to

your bump of amativeness, with two long pins. Then sprinkle the contents

of a jeweler’s shop promiscuously over your person; and by no means,

before you go out, omit drawing on a pair of bright _yellow_ gloves;

that _sine quâ non_ of a New York woman’s toilette.

“Tell you the fashions?” Take a walk down Broadway, and see for

yourself. If you have a particle of sense, it will cure you of your

absorbing interest in that question during your natural life, though

your name be written “Methuselah.”

FACTS FOR UNJUST CRITICS.

A few scraps from the “Life of Charlotte Bronte,” that I would like to

see pasted up in editorial offices throughout the length and breadth of

the land:

“She, Miss Bronte, especially disliked the lowering of the standard by

which to judge a work of fiction if it proceeded from a feminine pen;

and praise, mingled with pseudo-gallant allusions to her sex, mortified

her far more than actual blame.

“Come what will,” she says, “I can not, when I write, think always of

myself, and of what is elegant and charming in femininity; it is not on

these terms, or with such ideas, that I ever took pen in hand, and if it

is only on these terms my writing will be tolerated, I shall pass away

from the public and trouble it no more.

“I wish all reviewers believed me to be a man; they would be more just

to me. They will, I know, keep measuring me by some standard of what

they deem becoming to my sex; where I am not what they consider

graceful, they will condemn me.

“No matter--whether known or unknown--misjudged or the contrary--I am

resolved not to write otherwise. _I shall bend as my powers tend._ The

two human beings who understood me are gone; I have some who love me

yet, and whom I love, without expecting or having a right to expect they

shall perfectly understand me. I am satisfied, _but I must have my own

way in the matter of writing_.”

Speaking of some attacks on Miss Bronte, her biographer says:

“Flippancy takes a graver name, when directed against an author by an

anonymous writer; we then call it _cowardly insolence_.”

She also says:

“It is well that the thoughtless critics, who spoke of the sad and

gloomy views of life presented by the Brontes in their tales, should

know how such words were wrung out of them by the living recollection

of the long agony they suffered. It is well, too, that they who have

objected to the representation of _coarseness, and shrank from it with

repugnance, as if such conception arose out of the writers, should

learn, that not from the imagination, not from internal conception--but

from the hard cruel facts, pressed down, by an external life upon their

very senses, for long months and years together, did they write out what

they saw, obeying the stern dictates of their consciences_. They might

be mistaken. They might err in writing at all, when their afflictions

were so great that they could not write otherwise than as they did of

life. It is possible that it would have been better to have described

good and pleasant people, doing only good and pleasant things (_in which

case they could hardly have written at any time_): all I say is, that

never, I believe, did women possessed of such wonderful gifts exercise

them with a fuller feeling of responsibility for their use.”

A friend of Miss Bronte says:

“The world heartily, greedily enjoyed the fruits of Miss Bronte’s

labors, _and then found out she was much to blame for possessing such

faculties_.”

Mrs. Gaskell says:

“So utterly unconscious was Miss Bronte of what was by some esteemed

‘_coarse_’ in her writings, that on one occasion, when the conversation

turned upon women’s writing fiction--she said, in her grave, earnest

way, ‘I hope God will take away from me whatever power of invention, or

expression I may have, before he lets me become blind to the sense of

what is fitting, or unfitting to be said.’”

Fanny Fern says:

I would that all who critically finger women’s books, would read and

ponder these extracts. I would that reviewers had a more fitting sense

of their responsibility, in giving their verdicts to the public;

permitting themselves to be swayed neither by personal friendship, nor

private pique; speaking _honestly_, by all means, but remembering their

own sisters, when they would point a flippant, smart article _by

disrespectful mention of a lady writer; or by an unmanly, brutal

persistence in tearing from her face the mask of incognito-ship, which

she has, if she pleases, an undoubted right to wear_. I would that they

would speak respectfully of those whose pure, self-denying life, has

been through trials and temptations under which _their_ strong natures

would have succumbed; and who tremblingly await the public issue of days

and nights of single-handed, single-hearted weariness and toil. Not that

a woman’s book should be praised because it is a woman’s, nor, on the

contrary, condemned for that reason. But as you would shrink from seeing

a ruffian’s hand laid upon your sister’s gentle shoulder, deal honestly,

but, I pray you, _courteously_, with those whose necessities have forced

them out from the blessed shelter of the home circle, into jostling

contact with rougher natures.

TRY AGAIN.

“No woman ever produced a great painting or statue.”--_Ex._

On the contrary, she has produced a great many “statues,” who may be

seen any sunshiny day, walking Broadway, in kid gloves and perfumed

broadcloth, while “Lawrence” lies in ashes.

“No woman ever wrote a great drama.”--_Ex._

Ay--but they have lived one; and when worn out with suffering at hands

which should have shielded them, have died without a murmur on their

martyr lips.

“No woman ever composed a great piece of music.”--_Ex._

What do you call a baby?

“No woman was ever a great cook!”--_Ex._

True--it takes a man to get up a _broil_.

“Women have invented nothing outside of millinery since the world

began.”--_Ex._

How can they? when they are so _hooped_ in?

“Women have written clever letters, tolerable novels, and intolerable

epics.”--_Ex._

Indeed! It strikes me, though, that we have furnished you the material

for yours; just tell me what _your_ “letters,” _your_ “novels,” _your_

“epics,” would have amounted to, without the inspiring theme--_woman_.

When the world furnishes us _heroes_, perhaps _we_ shall write splendid

novels, and splendid epics. Pharaoh once required bricks to be made

“without straw.”

“Letters?” No man, since the world began, could pen a letter equal to a

woman. Look at the abortions dignified by that name in men-novels;

stiltified--unnatural--stiff--pedantic, or else coarse. You can no more

do it than an elephant can waltz. The veriest school girl can surpass

you at it. I have often heard men confess it (when off their guard). One

thing at least we know enough to do, viz.: when we wish to make one of

your sex our eternal and unchangeable friend we always allow him to beat

us in an argument.

FAIR PLAY;

OR, BOTH SIDES OF THE STORY.

“It is too bad,” said a lady to me, not long since, “it is too bad; I

am almost tired to death.” She had been to York on a shopping

expedition; and, having finished her purchases, and returned, laden with

them to the ferry, found two thirds of the seats in the _ladies’ cabin_

of the ferry-boat occupied by _men_, while she and several other ladies

were compelled to stand till the boat reached the pier. “It is too bad,”

she repeated; “they have no right to occupy the _ladies’_ cabin, when

ladies are standing. Give them a dig, Fanny, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” said I; “the case, to my mind, is clearly against

the coat-tails; more especially, as, when the boat touches the pier,

they rush past the ladies, and by right of their pantaloons leap over

the chain (which femininity must wait to see unhooked), in order to

monopolize all the seats in the street cars, to the exclusion of the

aforesaid dismayed and weary ladies. Most certainly I will give them a

dig, my dear; it is an exhibition of ‘grab’ which is quite disgusting.”

But stay--have the _ladies_ no sins to answer for? May it not be just

possible that the men are at last getting weary of rendering civilities

to women who receive them as a matter of right, without even an

acknowledging smile, or “Thank you?” May they not have tired of

creeping, with an abject air, into cars and omnibusses, and gradually

and circumspectly lowering themselves amid such billows of hoops and

flounces? May they not at last have become disgusted at the absurd

selfishness which ladies manifest on these occasions? the “sit closer,

ladies,” of the conductors and drivers being met with a pouting frown,

or, at best, the emigration of the sixteenth part of an inch to the

right or left. And is it not a shame, that a deprecating blush should

crimson a gentleman’s forehead because he ventures to seat himself, in a

public conveyance, in the proximity of these abominable,

limb-disguising, uncomfortable, monopolizing hoops? Women who are

blessed with hips, should most certainly discard these nuisances, and

women who are not, should know that narrow shoulders, and a bolster

conformation, look more ramrod-y still, in contrast with this artificial

voluminousness of the lower story.

And then the little girls! The idea of hunting under these humbugs of

hoops, for little fairy girls, whose antelope motions are thus

circumscribed, their graceful limbs hidden, and their gleeful sports

checked--the monstrosity of making hideous _their_ perfect proportions,

and rendering them a laughing-stock to every jeering boy whom they meet;

and--worse than all--the _irreparable moral wrong_ of teaching them that

comfort and decency must be sacrificed to Fashion! Bah!--I have no

patience to think of it. I turn my pained eyes for relief to the little

ragged romps who run round the streets, with one thin garment, swaying

artistically to the motion of their unfettered limbs. I rush into the

sculptor’s studio, and feast my eyes on limbs which have no drapery at

all.

Yes, it is trying to feminine ankles and patience, to have gentlemen

occupy ladies’ places in the “ladies’ cabin,” and gentlemen who do this

will please consider themselves rebuked for it; but it is also

disgusting, that women have not fortitude sufficient to discard the

universal and absurd custom of wearing hoops. Nay, more, I affirm that

any woman who has not faith enough in her Maker’s taste and wisdom, to

prefer her own bones to a whale’s, deserves the fate of Jonah--minus the

ejectment.

TO GENTLEMEN.

A CALL TO BE A HUSBAND.

Yes, I did say that “it is not every man who has a call to be a

husband;” and I am not going to back out of it.

Has that man a call to be a husband, who, having wasted his youth in

excesses, looks around him at the eleventh hour for a “virtuous young

girl” (such men have the effrontery to be _very_ particular on this

point), to nurse up his damaged constitution, and perpetuate it in their

offspring?

Has that man a call to be a husband, who, believing that the more the

immortal within us is developed in this world, the higher we shall rank

with heavenly intelligences in the next, yet deprecates for a wife a

woman of thought and intellect, lest a marriage with such should peril

the seasoning of his favorite pudding, or lest she might presume in any

of her opinions to be aught else than his echo?

Has that man a call to be a husband, who, when the rosy maiden he

married is transformed by too early an introduction to the cares and

trials of maternity, into a feeble, confirmed invalid, turns impatiently

from the restless wife’s sick-room, to sun himself in the perfidious

smile of one whom he would blush to name in that wife’s pure ears?

Has _he_ any call to be a husband, who adds to his wife’s manifold

cares that of selecting and providing the household stores, and

inquires of her, at that, how she spent the surplus shilling of

yesterday’s appropriation?

Has _he_ any call to be a husband, who permits his own relatives, in

his hearing, to speak disrespectfully or censoriously of his wife?

Has _he_ any call to be a husband, who reads the newspaper from

beginning to end, giving notice of his presence to the weary wife, who

is patiently mending his old coat, only by an occasional “Jupiter!”

which may mean, to the harrowed listener, that we have a President worth

standing in a driving rain, at the tail of a three-mile procession, to

vote for, or--the contrary? and who, after having extracted every

particle of news the paper contains, coolly puts it in one of his many

mysterious pockets, and goes to sleep in his chair?

Has _he_ a call to be a husband, who carries a letter, intended for

his wife, in his pocket for six weeks, and expects any thing short of

“gunpowder tea” for his supper that night?

Has he a call to be a husband, who leaves his wife to blow out the

lamp, and stub her precious little toes while she is navigating for the

bed-post?

Has he a call to be a husband, who tells his wife “to walk on a couple

of blocks and he will overtake her,” and then joins in a hot political

discussion with an opponent, after which, in a fit of absence of mind,

he walks off home, leaving his wife transformed by his perfidy into “a

pillar of salt?”

Has he any call to be a husband, who sits down on his wife’s best

bonnet, or puts her shawl over her shoulders upside down, or wrong side

out at the Opera?

Has he any call to be a husband, who goes “unbeknown” to his wife, to

some wretch of a barber, and parts, for twenty-five cents, with a beard

which she has coaxed from its first infantile sprout, to luxuriant,

full-grown, magnificent, unsurpassable hirsuteness, and then comes home

to her horrified vision a pocket edition of Moses?

Has he any call to be a husband, who kisses his wife only on Saturday

night, when he winds up the clock and pays the grocer, and who never

notices, day by day, the neat dress, and shining bands of hair arranged

to please his stupid milk-and-water-ship?

TO THE LADIES.

A CALL TO BE A WIFE.

Has that woman a call to be a wife, who thinks more of her silk dress

than of her children, and visits her nursery no oftener than once a day?

Has that woman a call to be a wife, who cries for a cashmere shawl when

her husband’s notes are being protested?

Has that woman a call to be a wife, who sits reading the last new novel,

while her husband stands before the glass, vainly trying to pin

together a buttonless shirt-bosom?

Has that woman a call to be a wife, who expects her husband to swallow

diluted coffee, soggy bread, smoky tea, and watery potatoes, six days

out of seven?

Has she a call to be a wife, who keeps her husband standing on one leg a

full hour in the street, while she is saying that interminable “last

word” to some female acquaintance?

Has she a call to be a wife, who flirts with every man she meets, and

reserves her frowns for the home fireside?

Has she a call to be a wife, who comes down to breakfast in abominable

curl-papers, a soiled dressing-gown, and shoes down at the heel?

Has she a call to be a wife, who bores her husband, when he comes into

the house, with the history of a broken tea-cup, or the possible

whereabouts of a missing broom-handle?

Has she a call to be a wife, whose husband’s love weighs naught in the

balance with her next door neighbor’s damask curtains, or velvet carpet?

Has she a call to be a wife, who would take advantage of a moment of

conjugal weakness, to extort money or exact a promise?

Has she a call to be a wife, who “has the headache” whenever her

husband wants her to walk with him, but willingly wears out her gaiter

boots promenading with his gentlemen friends?

Has she a call to be a wife, who takes a journey for pleasure, leaving

her husband to toil in a close office, and “have an eye, when at home,

to the servants and children?”

Has she a call to be a wife, who values an unrumpled collar or

crinoline more than a conjugal kiss?

Has she a call to be a wife, to whom a _good_ husband’s society is not

the greatest of earthly blessings, and a house full of rosy children its

best furnishing, and prettiest adornment?

MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENTS.

That prurient young men, and broken-down old ones, should seek

amusement in matrimonial advertisements, is not so much a matter of

surprise; but that respectable papers should lend such a voice in their

columns, is, I confess, astonishing. I do not say that a virtuous woman

has never answered such an advertisement; but I do say, that the virtue

of a woman who would do so is not invincible. There is no necessity for

an attractive, or, to use a hateful phrase, a “marketable” woman, to

take such a degrading step to obtain what, alas! under legitimate

circumstances, often proves, when secured, but a Dead Sea apple. It is

undesirable, damaged, and unsaleable goods that are oftenest offered at

auction. A woman must first have ignored the sweetest attributes of

womanhood, have overstepped the last barrier of self-respect, who would

parley with a stranger on such a topic. You tell me that marriage has

sometimes been the result. Granted: but has a woman who has effected it

in this way, bettered her condition, how uncongenial soever it might

have been? Few husbands (and the longer I observe, the more I am

convinced of the truth of what I am about say, and I make no exception

in favor of education or station) have the magnanimity to use justly,

generously, the power which the law puts in their hands. But what if a

wife’s helplessness be aggravated by the reflection that she has

_abjectly solicited_ her wretched fate? How many men, think you, are

there, who, when out of humor, would hesitate tauntingly to use this

drawn sword which you have foolishly placed in their hands?

Our sex has need of all the barriers, all the defenses, which nature

has given us. No--never let woman be the wooer, save as the flowers woo,

with their sweetness--save as the stars woo, with their brightness--save

as the summer wind woos--silently unfolding the rose’s heart.

A SABLE SUBJECT.

Every day, in my walks, I pass a large bow window on the corner of two

streets, in which is displayed the agreeable spectacle of big and little

coffins of all sorts and shapes, piled up and standing on end. This is

in bad taste enough; but yesterday, through the ostentatious

glass-windows of the shop, I saw a little rosy baby crawling over and

around them, while the elder children were using them for play-houses

for their dolls! Now such a sight may strike other people agreeably, or

they may pass it every day with entire indifference; unfortunately for

my peace of mind, I can do neither one nor the other, for by a sort of

horrid fascination my eyes are attracted to that detestable window, and

familiarity but increases my disgust.

Now I know I shall need a coffin some day or other; but to-day the

blue sky arches over my head, the fresh wind fans my temples, and every

blade of grass, and new-blown violet, makes me childishly happy; now

what right has that ghoul of an undertaker to nudge me in my healthy

ribs as I pass, check my springing step, send the blood from my cheek

back to my heart, change my singing to sighing, and turn this bright

glorious earth into one vast charnel-house? In the name of cheerfulness,

I indict him, and his co-fellows, for unmitigated nuisances.

And while I am upon this subject I would like to ask why the New York

sextons, for I believe it is peculiar to them, should have the exclusive

privilege of advertising their business on the outer church-walls, any

more than the silversmith who furnishes the communion-plate; or the

upholsterer who makes the pulpit and pew-cushions; or the bookseller who

furnishes the hymn-books; or the dry-goods merchant who sells the black

silk to make the clergyman’s robe? It strikes me that it is a monopoly,

and a very repulsive one. In my opinion, this whole funeral business

needs reforming. Much of the shrinking horror with which death is

invested even to good Christians, is traceable to these repulsive, early

associations, of which they can not, by any exercise of faith, rid

themselves in after years. These unnecessary, ostentatious,

long-drawn-out paraphernalia of woe; these gloomy sable garments, which

all should unite in abolishing; these horrible pompous funerals, with

their pompous undertakers, where people who scarce ever glanced at the

living face congregate to sniffle hypocritical tears over the dead one;

these stereotyped round-about prayers that mean so little, and which the

mourner never hears; this public counting of scalding tears by careless

gazers at the grave-yard or the tomb; it is all horrible--it need not

be--for the sake of childhood, often, through fear of death, all its

life-time subject to bondage, it _ought not_ to be. Even the “heathen,”

so called, have the advantage of us in the cheerfulness with which they

wisely invest a transition, from which flesh and blood, with its

imperfect spiritualization, instinctively shrinks.

NEW YORK.

“There is no night there,” though spoken of a place the opposite of

New York, is nevertheless true of Gotham; for by the time the ennuied

pleasure seekers have yawned out the evening at the theater or opera,

and supped at Taylor’s, or danced themselves lame at some private ball,

a more humble but much more useful portion of the community are rubbing

open their eyelids, and creeping by the waning light of the street

lamps, and the gray dawn, to another brave day of ill-requited toil;

while in many an attic, by the glimmer of a handful of lighted shavings,

tear-stained faces resume the coarse garment left unfinished the night

before. At this early hour, too, stunted, prematurely-old little boys

may be seen, staggering under the weight of heavy shop window shutters,

and young girls, with faded eyes and shawls, crawl to their prisoning

workshops; while lean, over-tasked omnibus horses, commence anew their

never-ceasing, treadmill rounds. God help them all! my heart is with the

oppressed, be it man or beast.

The poet says there are “sermons in stones.” I endorse it. The most

eloquent sermons I ever heard were from “_A. Stone_;” (but that is a

theme I am not going to dwell upon now.) I maintain that there are

sermons in _horses_.

Crash--crash--crash!

I turned my head. Directly behind me, in Broadway, was a

full-freighted omnibus. One of the horses attached had kicked out both

his hind legs, snapped the whiffle-tree to the winds, and planting his

hoofs into the end window, under the driver’s seat, had shivered the

glass in countless fragments, into the faces of the astonished

passengers, plunging and rearing with the most ’76-y spirit. Ladies

screamed, and scrambled with what haste they might, out on to the

pavement; gentlemen dropped their morning papers, and uttering angry

imprecations as they brushed the glass splinters from their broadcloth,

followed them; while the driver cursed and lashed in vain at the

infuriated hoofs, which abated not a jot of their fury at all his

cursing and lashing.

“Vicious beast!” exclaimed one bystander. “Ought to be shot

_instanter_!” said a second. “I’d like to lash his hide raw!” exclaimed

a third Nero.

Ah! my good friends, thought I, as I went laughing on my way, not so

fast with your anathemas. The cause of that apparently malicious and

unprovoked attack, _dates a long way back_. Count, if you please, the

undeserved lashings, the goadings, and spurings, that noble creature has

borne, while doing a horse’s best to please! Think of the scanty feed,

the miserable stable, the badly-fiting, irritating harness; the

slippery pavements, where he has so often been whipped for stumbling;

the melting dog-days with their stinging bottle-flies and burning

sun-rays, when he has plodded wearily up and down those interminable

avenues, sweating and panting under the yoke of cruel task-masters.

’Tis the last ounce which breaks the camel’s back; ’tis the last atom

which balances the undulating scales. Why should that noble horse bear

all this? He of the flashing eye, arching neck, and dilating nostril? He

of the horny hoof and sinewy limb? _He!_--good for a _score_ of his

oppressors, if he would only think so!--_Up go his hoofs!_ As a Bunker

Hill descendant, I can not call that horse--a jackass.

AIRY COSTUMES.

Are the New York children to be frozen this winter, I want to know?

Are their legs to be bared from the knee to the tip of their little

white socks, just above the ankle, to please some foolish mother, who

would rather her child were a martyr to neuralgia and rheumatism, its

natural life, than to be out of fashion? Are sneezing babes to face the

winter wind in embroidered muslin caps, lined with silk, the costly lace

borders of which are supposed to atone for the premature loss of their

eye-sight? Are little girls to shiver in cambric pantalettes, and skirts

lifted high in the air by infantile hoops? Are their mothers to tiptoe

through the all-abounding “slosh” of New York streets, in paper-soled

gaiters, and rose-colored silk stockings? And yet one scarcely cares

about the latter, because the sooner such “mothers of families” tiptoe

themselves into their graves, the better for coming generations; but for

the children, one can but sigh, and shiver too; and inquire, as did an

old-fashioned physician of a little undressed victim, “If cloth was so

dear that her mother could not afford to cover her knees?” It is a

comfort to look at the men, who, whatever follies they may be guilty of

(and no human arithmetic can compute them), have yet sense enough to

wear thick-soled boots, and wadded wrappers in the proper season. One

looks at their comfortable garments and heaves a sigh for breeze and

mud-defying pantaloondom; for with the most sensible arrangements for

skirts, they are an unabated and intolerable nuisance in walking; and

yet those horrid Bloomers! those neutral, yet “strong-minded” Miss

Nancys! with their baggy stuff-trowsers, flaping fly-aways, and

cork-screw stringlets. I _could_ get up a costume! but alas! the brass

necessary to wear it! I see now, with my mind’s eye, the jaunty little

cap, the well-fitting, graceful pants, the half-jacket, half-blouse--the

snow-white collar, and pretty fancy neck-tie--the ravishing boot--the

nicely fitting wrist-band, with its gold sleeve-buttons; but why awake

the jealousy of the other “sect?” Why drive the tailors to commit

suicide in the midst of their well-stocked warehouses? Why send little

boys grinning round corners? Why make the parson forget his prayers, and

the lawyer his clients? Why drive distracted the feminine owners of big

feet and thick ankles? Why force women to mend the holes in the heels of

their stockings? Why leave to scavengers the pleasant task of mopping up

dirty streets and sidewalks? Why drive “M. Ds.” to take down their

signs, and take up “de shovel and de hoe?” I’ll be magnanimous. I won’t

do it.

A PEEP AT THE OPERA.

I was at the opera last night. It was all gas-glare, gilding and girls.

Oh, the unspeakably tiresome fix-up-ativeness of New York women! The

elaborate hair-twistings and braidings; the studied display of bracelets

and rings; the rolling-up of eyes, and casting-down of eye-lashes; the

simperings and smirkings; the gettings-up and sittings-down, ere the

fortunate attitude is fixed upon; the line at which a shawl must be

dropped to show a bust; the ermine sheets, worn without reference to

lily or leopard complexions; the fat damsels who affect Madonna-ism; the

lean women, whaleboned to “Peter Schemel”-ism; the tinsel-y

head-dresses; the gaudy opera-cloaks; the pray-do-look-at-me air; the

utter absence of simplicity, and of that beautiful self-forgetfulness

which is the greatest charm of woman. It is a relief to see some honest

country people stray in, simply cloaked and bonneted (and old-fashioned

and homely at that,) who, ignorant of the mighty difference between

“point” and cotton-lace, ermine and cat-skin, drop into a seat, ignore

their artificial neighbors, and lose themselves in the illusions of the

stage.

Mark GRISI! What perfection of grace in attitude, what simplicity and

appropriateness in costume, what a regal head, what massive white

shoulders, what a queenly tread. How could such an imperial creature

ever love that effeminate little pocket-edition--MARIO? A _pretty_ man!

with his silky locks parted in the middle, and a little dot of an

imperial under his little red lip! Antidote me his effeminacy, oh

memory, with the recollection of Daniel Webster’s unfathomable eyes and

Lucifer-ish frown;--something grand--something noble--something _homely_

if you like, but for Heaven’s sake, something _manly_.

HARD TIMES.

“Is _me_ velvet j-a-c-k-e-t ready to try on?” drawled a lady, dropping

her elegant cashmere from one shoulder, as she sauntered into Mme.

----’s dress-making saloon.

“It is not,” replied the young girl in waiting.

“_Ve’y_ extraordinary--_ve’y_ surprising; madame promised it, without

fail, this morning.”

“Madame has been unexpectedly called out,” replied the girl, coolly

rehearsing the stereotyped fib.

“_Ve’y_ perplexing,” muttered the lady; “_ve’y_ ridiculous--pray, when

_will_ she see me?” she asked (unwilling to trust the draping of her

aristocratic limbs to less practiced hands).

“This afternoon at five,” answered the girl, fibbing a second time,

knowing very well that it was part of madame’s tactics to keep her

saloon daily filled with just such anxious expectants, up to the last

endurable point of procrastination. And there they sat, poor imbeciles!

grouped about the room, pulling over the last fashion prints,

overhauling gayly-colored paper dress patterns, discussing modes, robes,

basques, and trimmings, with the most ludicrously-grave earnestness,

ordering ruinous quantities of point lace and velvet, with the most

reckless abandon, and vying which should make themselves look most

hideously-Babylonish and rainbow-like; while their husbands and fathers,

in another part of the city, were hurrying from banks to

counting-houses, sweating and fretting over “protested notes,” care,

meanwhile, anticipating old Time in seaming their brows, and plowing

their cheeks with wrinkles.

* * * * *

In an unfashionable, obscure part of the city, in the basement of a

small two-story house, sat a woman of twenty-seven years, the mother of

_ten_ children, who were swarming about her like a hive of bees--fat,

clean, rosy, noisy, merry, and happy. They had little space for their

gymnastics, it is true, the little room dignified as “the parlor” being

only twelve feet square; back of this was a dark bedroom, leading to a

small kitchen, filled with the usual variety of culinary utensils. The

pot of potatoes for their simple dinner, was boiling over the kitchen

fire; the happy mother of this little family was putting the last

touches to a silk dress for a lady in the neighborhood; and the baby was

sleeping as sweetly, as though its brothers and sisters were not using

their lungs and limbs, as God _intended_ children’s lungs and limbs

should be used. On a small table in the corner lay a pile of medical

books--for the father of these ten children was absent at a medical

lecture, preparatory to a physician’s practice.

“Poor George!” said the prolific young mother, with a laugh--“all

these big books yet to be crammed into his curly head; never mind--I had

rather do all my own work, take in dress-making, and support the family

two years longer, than that he should be disappointed in his favorite

wish of becoming a doctor. There he comes!” said she, dropping her

needle, as a dark-eyed, intelligent-looking, mercurial little fellow

bounced into the room--snatched the baby from the cradle--jumped

pell-mell into the laughing group of little boys and girls, and kissed

his wife’s forehead, as he helped her to draw out the dinner-table.

Ah, thought I, as I contrasted this with the scene at Madame B----’s

saloon, better is a dinner of potatoes where _love_ is, than a stalled

ox and a protested note therewith!

COUNTER IRRITATION.

“That is all clerks are fit for,” said a heartless woman, who had been

diverting herself with turning a store full of goods topsy-turvy.

Is it?

Is the situation of a clerk always a congenial one? Have those who

occupy it never a soul above ribbons and laces? Are they as frivolous,

and mindless as many of the ladies upon whom they are often obliged to

wait? Is their future bounded by the counter to which necessity has

chained them?

Not at all.

Look into our library reading-rooms of an evening. See them joining

the French, Spanish, German, and Italian classes. See them, unconscious

of the flight of time, devouring with avidity works of history,

biography, and books of travel. See the eye sparkle, and the brow flush,

as they read how a Greeley shut his teeth on discouragement, and hewed

out with his unaided arm a path to honor and usefulness. Ah! has the

clerk no noble, hopes or aspirations for the future, which the grinding,

treadmill round of his daily toil can neither smother nor crush out? Is

there no far-off home from which he is an unwilling exile? No mother, no

sister, whom he must make proud of son and brother? No bright-eyed,

winsome young girl, whose image enshrined in his heart is at once a

talisman against evil, and a spur to unremitting exertion? the hope of

whose love sweetens and dignifies his unpretending labor, nerves him to

bear uncomplainingly, unresentfully, the overbearing and undeserved

rebuke of arrogant assumption?

You shake your head, and cite sad instances to the contrary. You tell

me of dishonest, dissolute, improvident clerks, lost to every just,

generous, and noble feeling; who look not beyond the present hour either

for soul or body.

True.

But what if, when they entered upon their clerkship they stood alone

in the world, uncared for, irresponsible, held in check by no saving

home influences, adrift upon the great human life tide? What if their

employers looked upon them merely as tools and machines, not as human

beings? What if they ground them down to the lowest possible rate of

compensation. What if never by look, act, word, or tone, they manifested

a kindly parental interest in their future, cared not what company they

kept, or what influences surrounded them in their leisure hours? What if

these young men returned at night, after their day’s meagerly rewarded

toil, to a small, dreary, desolate, comfortless, lodging room, where

there was nothing to cheer the eye or rest the heart? What if the syren

voice of sin softly whispered those youthful, restless, craving hearts

away?

What then?

Oh! if employers sometimes thought of this! Sometimes stopped the

Juggernaut wheels of Mammon to look at the victims which lay crushed

beneath, for want of a little human love, and care, and sympathy!

Sometimes thought, while looking with fond pride upon their own young

sons, that fortune’s wheel, in some of its thousand revolutions, might

whirl them through the same fiery ordeal, and that their now unclouded

sun might go down while it was yet day.

You, who are employers, think of it!

Youth hungers for appreciation--sympathy--must have it--ought to have

it--_will_ have it. Oh, give it an occasional thought whether the source

from whence it is obtained be good or evil, pure or impure! Speak kindly

to them.

Oh, the saving power there is in feeling that there is one human being

who cares whether we stand or fall!

SUNDAY IN GOTHAM.

’Tis Sabbath morning in Now York. You are wakened by children’s

voices, pitched in every variety of key, vying which shall shout the

loudest: “Her’ld--_Dis_patch--Sun’y Times--Sunny Atlas”--parenthetized

by an occasional street-fight between the sturdy little merchants, when

one encroaches on the other’s “beat.” You have scarce recovered from

their ear-splitting chorus, before the air is rent by a sound like ten

thousand Indian war-whoops, and an engine thunders by, joined by every

little ragamuffin whose legs are old enough to follow. Close upon the

heels of this comes the milk-man, who sits philosophically on his cart,

and glancing up at the windows, utters a succession of sounds, the like

of which never was heard in heaven above, or earth beneath, or in the

waters under the earth.

Now, saloons and cigar stores open half a shutter each, and

apple-stalls multiply at street corners. Then the bells ring for

church, and, with head and heart distracted, you obey the summons.

On your way you pass troops of people bound to Hoboken, Jersey,

Williamsburg--anywhere, but to the house of God. Groups of idle young

men, with their best beavers cocked over one eye, stand smoking and

swearing at the street corners; and now Yankee Doodle strikes on your

ear, for the dead is left to his dreamless sleep, and the world jogs on

to a merrier measure.

You enter the church porch. The portly sexton, with his thumbs in the

arm-holes of his vest, meets you at the door. He glances at you: your

hat and coat are new, so he graciously escorts you to an eligible seat

in the broad aisle. Close behind you follows a poor, meek, plainly-clad

seamstress, reprieved from her treadmill round, to think one day in

seven of the Immortal. The sexton is struck with a sudden blindness. She

stands one embarrassed moment, then, as the truth dawns upon her,

retraces her steps, and, with a crimson blush, recrosses the threshold,

which she had profaned with her plebeian foot.

Now the worshipers one after another glide in; silks rustle; plumes

wave; satins glisten; diamonds glitter; and scores of forty-dollar

handkerchiefs shake out their perfumed odors.

What an absurdity to preach the gospel of the lowly Nazarite to such a

set! The clergyman knows better than to do so. He values his fat salary

and his handsome parsonage too highly. So with a velvet-y tread he walks

round the ten commandments, places the downiest of pillows under the

dying profligate’s head, and ushers him with seraphic hymning into an

upper-ten heaven.

From this disgusting farce let me take you to the lecture-room of the

Rev. Dr. Tyng. It is the first Sunday afternoon of the month (when he

regularly meets the children of his parish, who are mostly members of

his Sabbath-school). It would seem an easy thing to address a company

of children. Let him who thinks so, try it! Let him be familiar without

being flat; let him be instructive, and at the same time entertaining;

let him fix roving eyes; let him nail skittish ears; let him stop just

at the moment when a child’s mental appetite has lost its digestive

power. All this requires a--Dr. Tyng.

See--group after group of bright faces gather around him, and take

their seats; not one is afraid of “the minister.” He has a smile of love

and a word of kindness for all. He has closed his church _purposely_ to

meet them, and given the grown-folks to understand, that the soul of a

child is as priceless as an adult’s, and that he has a message from God

for each little one, as well as for father and mother and uncle John. He

asks some question aloud. Instantly a score of little voices hasten to

reply, as fearlessly as if they were by their own fire-side. He wishes

to fix some important idea in their mind: he illustrates it by an

anecdote, which straightway discloses rows of little pearly teeth about

him. He holds up no reproving finger when some lawless, gleeful little

two-year-older rings out a laugh musical as a robin’s carol. He calls on

“John,” and “Susy,” and “Fanny,” and “Mary,” with the most parental

familiarity and freedom. He asks _their opinion_ on some point (children

like that!), he repeats little things they have said to him (_their_

minister has time to remember what even a little child says!) He takes

his hymn-book and reads a few sweet, simple verses; he pitches the tune

_himself_, and, at a wave of his hand, the bright-eyed cherubs join him.

Look around. There is a little Fifth Avenue pet, glossy haired, velvet

skinned--her dainty limbs clad in silk and velvet. Close by her side,

sits a sturdy, freckled, red-fisted little Erin-ite, scantily clad

enough for November, but as happy, and as unconscious of the deficiency

as his tiny elbow neighbor; on the same seat is a little African, whose

shiny eye-balls and glittering teeth, say as plainly as if he gave

utterance to it, _we are all equal, all welcome here_.

Oh, _this_ is Christianity--this is the Sabbath--this is millennial.

Look around that room, listen to those voices, if you can, without a

tear in your eye, a prayer in your heart, and Christ’s sweet words upon

your lips: “_Feed my Lambs_.”

ANNIVERSARY TIME.

MR. GOUGH AT THE OPERA HOUSE.

Funny, isn’t it? Country ministers, with their wives and daughters, in

the unhallowed precincts of an Opera House! I trust they crossed

themselves on the threshold, by way of exorcising Beelzebub. Observe

their furtive glances at the naked little dimplednesses perched upon

yonder wooden pillars. How legibly is--Saints and angels! where are

those children’s trowsers? written upon the elongated corners of their

evangelical mouths. R-a-t-h-e-r different, I confess, from the Snagtown

“meetin’-house,” with its slam-down seats, its swallow-nested roof, and

its shirt-sleeved chorister; but, my strait-laced friends, if you strain

at a harmless marble Cupid, how could you swallow an electric

flesh-and-blood ballet-dancer? Such as we are wont to see in this house?

I have tried to educate myself up to it, but may I be pinched this

minute if I do not catch myself diligently perusing the play-bill,

whenever they execute one of their astounding rotary _pas_. I can’t

stand it; and yet my friends, at the risk of being excommunicated, allow

me to say, that I would rather stand a ballet-dancer’s chance of getting

to heaven, than that of many a vinegar-visaged saint of high repute in

your churches.

But this is a digression. Just see those women seating themselves _on

the stage_. Saucy as I am, I could not do that; nor, if I did, would I

put my feet upon the rounds of a chair in front of me--and the audience.

How patriarchal Solon Robinson looks, with his clear, calm face, and his

long, snow-white beard! He is quite a picture. What a pity he ever

burned his fingers with “Hot Corn.” But let him throw the first stone

who has never by one well-meant, but mistaken act of his life, called

forth the regretful “what a pity!” The river which never overflows its

banks may never devastate, nor--does it ever freshen the distant and

arid Sahara. Many a poor man has blessed, and will bless, the name of

Solon Robinson; and many a hard-toiling woman, too, whom he has

instructed how to procure the most nutriment for her starving children

from an old bone or a couple of onions. Let those who make wry mouths at

“Hot Corn,” taste his “poor man’s soup,” and do justice to the active

brain and philanthropic heart of its originator.

I used to think the “New York Tribune,” of which Solon is agricultural

editor, a great institution, until I discovered two things: first, the

number of able, talented, practical men employed in its getting up;

secondly, that a _bull’s head_ is kept constantly seething in the

machine boiler to impart a wholesome ferocity to its paragraphs!

Hush! here comes the speaker of the evening--John B. Gough, supported

by Dr. Tyng (who believes in preaching to dear little children, as well

as to their fathers and mothers). John says, “Ladies and gentlemen”

(not--_Gentlemen_ and ladies, as do some ungallant orators). “Ladies and

gentlemen, when the admission tickets are twenty-five cents I feel

doubtful of giving you your money’s worth; judge then how a fifty cent

ticket embarrasses me.” A very politic preface, John; but ere you had

spoken five consecutive sentences, I knew it was mock-modesty. You know

very well that no man understands better how to sway a crowd; you know

that many an audience, who yawn through addresses that are squared,

rounded, and plumb-ed by nicest rules of rhetoric, will sit spell-bound

unconscious hours, and laugh and cry at _your_ magnetic will. John, you

are a good and a great institution, and right glad am I that the noble

cause in which your eloquence is enlisted, has so pleasing and

indomitable a defender.

But John--it is not all in _you_. Double-edged is the sword wielded in a

_just_ cause; and not a man, woman, or child has listened to your

burning words to-night who did not know and feel that you spoke God’s

truth.

Success to the Temperance cause, and all its apostles, both great and

small; and above all, _never_ let _woman’s_ lip baptize the bowl, which,

for aught she can tell, may sepulcher her dearest hopes this side

heaven.

WAYSIDE WORDS.

I wonder is there a country on the face of the earth, where the

Almighty is oftener called upon to send to perdition the souls of those

who offend its inhabitants? Everywhere that horrid imprecation, so

familiar that it is unnecessary to shock you by writing it, meets the

pained ear. I say pained, because I, for one, can not abhor it less on

account of its frequency, or consider it less disgusting, because it

filters through aristocratic lips. Everywhere it pursues me; in crowded

streets, on ferry boats, in omnibusses, and, I am sorry to say, in

ladies’ parlors, which should afford a refuge from this disgusting

habit.

From old men--whose toothless lips mumble it almost inarticulately;

from those who would resent to the death any question of their claim to

the title of gentlemen; from young men, glorious else, in the strength

and vigor of youth; and sadder still--from little children, who have

caught the trick, and bandy curses at their sports. _An oath from a

child’s lips!_ One would as soon expect a thunderbolt from out the heart

of a rose. And yet, there are those who deliberately _teach_ little

children to swear, and think it sport, when the rosy lips, with childish

grace, lisp the demoniac lesson.

An oath from a _woman’s_ lips! With shuddering horror we shrink away,

and ask, what bitter cup of wrong, suffering, and despair, man has

doomed her to drink to the dregs, ere she could so belie her beautiful

womanhood.

One lovely moonlight night, I was returning late from the opera, with

a gentleman friend, the delicious tones I had heard still floating

through my charmed brain. Suddenly from out a dark angle in a building

we passed, issued a woman; old, not in years, but in misery, for her

long, brown hair curtained a face whose beauty had been its owner’s

direst curse. To my dying day I shall never forget the horrid oaths of

that wretched woman as she faced the moonlight and me. Perhaps I had

evoked some vision of happier days, when she, too, had a protecting arm

to lean upon; sure I am, could she have read my heart, she would not

have cursed me. But oh, the wide gulf between what she must have been

and what she was! Oh, the dreadful reckoning to be required at the hands

of him who defaced this temple of the living God, and left it a

shapeless, blackened ruin!

CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

Who has not read “Jane Eyre?” and who has not longed to know the

personal history of its gifted author? At last we have it. Poor

Charlotte Bronte! So have I seen a little bird trying bravely with

outspread wings to soar, and as often beaten back by the gathering

storm-cloud--not discouraged--biding its time for another trial--singing

feebly its quivering notes as if to keep up its courage--growing bolder

in each essay till the eye ached in watching its triumphant

progress--up--up--into the clear blue of heaven.

Noble Charlotte Bronte! worthy to receive the baptism of fire which is

sent to purify earth’s gifted. I see her on the gloomy moors of Haworth,

in the damp parsonage-house--skirted by the grave-yard, sickening with

its unwholesome exhalations, crushing down, at the stern bidding of

duty, her gloomy thoughts and aspirations; tending patiently the

irritable sick, performing cheerfully the most menial household

offices; the days “passing in a slow and dead march;” cheered by no

mother’s loving smile, or rewarding kiss; waiting patiently upon the

hard, selfish, unsympathizing father, who saw, one by one, his gifted

daughters sink into untimely graves, for want of the love, and sympathy,

and companionship for which their yearning hearts were aching.

I see these sisters at night, released from toil, when their father

had retired to rest, denied the cheerful candle-light, pacing up and

down, in utter darkness, the dreary little sitting-room, talking of the

vacant past and present, and trying vainly to pierce the impenetrable

future for one glimmering ray of hope; and as years passed on, and

vision after vision faded away--alas! with those who wove them--I see

Charlotte, the last survivor of that little group, pacing _alone_ that

desolate sitting-room; while the winds that swept over the bleak moor,

and through the church-yard, and howled about the windows, seemed to the

excited imagination of the lonely, feeble watcher, like the voices of

her sisters shrieking to be again enfolded in her warm, sisterly

embrace. Alone--_all_ alone!--no shoulder to weep upon--no loving

sister’s hand to creep about her waist--the voices of her soul crying

eternally, unceasingly, vainly, Give, give--and he who gave her life,

sleeping, eating, drinking, as stoically as if ten thousand deaths were

not compressed, to that feeble girl, into each agonized moment.

One smiles now, when the praise of “Jane Eyre” is on every tongue, at

the weary way the author’s thumbed manuscript traveled from publisher to

publisher, seeking a resting-place, and finding none; and when at length

it did appear in book form--the caution of the sapient book-dissecting

“London Athenæum” containing only “very qualified admissions of the

power of the author”--also of “The Literary Gazette,” which “considered

it unsafe to pronounce upon an unknown author;” also at “The Daily

News,” which “did not review novels”--but found time soon afterward to

notice others. Mistaken gentlemen! you were yet, like some others of

your class, to take off your publishing and editorial hats to the little

woman who was destined to a world-wide fame, but--and if ye have manly

hearts they must have ached ere now to think of it--not until the bitter

cup of privation and sorrow had been so nearly drained to the dregs by

those quivering lips, that the laurel wreath, so bravely, hardly won,

was twined with the cypress vine.

Literary fame! alas--what is it to a _loving_ woman’s heart, save that

it lifts her out of the miry pit of poverty and toil? To have one’s

glowing thoughts handled, twisted, and distorted by coarse fingers; to

shed scalding tears over the gravest charge which can be untruthfully

brought against a woman’s pen; to bear it, writhing in silence, and have

that silence misconstrued, or speak in your own defense, and be called

unwomanly; to be a target for slander, envy, and misrepresentation, by

those of both sexes who can not look upon a shining garment without a

wish to defile it--all this, a man’s shoulders may be broad enough to

bear, but she must be a strong _woman_ who does not stagger under it.

I see Charlotte Bronte in the little parsonage parlor, at Haworth,

draperied, hung with pictures, furnished, at last, with books from the

proceeds of her own pen; and upon the vacant chairs upon which should

have sat the toiling, gifted sisters, over whom the grave had closed, I

see inscribed, Too late--Too late! and I look at its delicate and only

inmate, and trace the blue veins on her transparent temples, and say,

Too late!--even for _thee_--Too late! Happiness is not happiness if it

be not shared--it turns to misery. But, thank God, at last came the

delirious draught of love, even for so brief a space, to those thirsting

lips--but which, incredible as it may seem, the father, in his

selfishness, would have dashed aside; relenting at last, he gave up this

tender, shrinking flower to more appreciative keeping; but the blast had

been too keen that had gone before--the storms too rough--the sky too

inclement. We read of a wedding, the happiness of which the selfish

father must cloud at the last moment, by refusing, for some inexplicable

reason, or no reason at all, to give away the bride in person according

to episcopal usage--we read of a short bridal tour--of a return to a

love-beautified, love-sanctified home--we read of a pleasant walk of

the happy pair--of a slight cold taken on that occasion--of a speedy

delirium--of a conscious moment, in which the new-made bride opened wide

her astonished eyes upon her kneeling husband, pleading with God to

spare her precious life; and we read the heart-rending exclamation of

the latter as the truth flashed upon her clouded intellect--“O! I am not

to die _now_?--when we have been so happy?” and with streaming eyes we

turn away from the corpse of Charlotte Bronte.

THE END.

Transcriber’s Note:

This book contains inconsistent hyphenations which have been left as

printed. Corrections to punctuation have been made without comment.

Other changes that have been made are:

Page 70 From posssible

To possible

Page 103 From what do you thing of this?

To what do you think of this?

Page 138 From betwen the leaves

To between the leaves

Page 181 From and and her heart

To and her heart

Page 194 From friendles sonly

To friendless only

Page 218-219 From childred

To children

Page 258 From coat-of arms

To coat-of-arms

Page 278 From Soup hop; fish hot;

To Soup hot; fish hot;

Page 297 From mingled wth

To mingled with

The original chapter numbering has been retained, despite there being

two chapters numbered “IV” in the “Fanny Ford” Story.