GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXIV. May, 1849. No. 5.
Table of Contents
Mr. and Mrs. John Johnson Jones
Lines to an Idea that Wouldn’t “Come.”
A Summer Evening Thought
The Naval Officer
The Rustic Shrine
Luna.—An Ode.
From Buchannan
The Recluse. No. II.
A Voice from the Wayside
A Sonnet
Passages of Life in Europe
The Grass of the Field
To an Absent Sister
Taste
The Man of Mind and the Man of Money
A May Song
Fifty Suggestions
History of the Costume of Men
Wild-Birds of America
Ariel in the Cloven Pine
Reminiscences
Parting
Montgomery’s House
Editor’s Table
Review of New Books
Virtue’s Evergreen
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
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[Illustration: Anaïs Toudouze
LE FOLLET
Boulevart S^{t}. Martin, 61.
_Robes de M^{me}._ Bara Bréjard, _r. Lafitte, 5—_
_Coiffures de_ Hamelin, _pass. du Saumon, 21_.
_Fleurs de_ Chagot ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81—Dentelles de_ Violard, _r.
Choiseul, 2^{bis}_.
Graham’s Magazine]
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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
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VOL. XXXIV. PHILADELPHIA, May, 1849. NO. 5.
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MR. AND MRS. JOHN JOHNSON JONES.
A TALE OF EVERYDAY LIFE.
BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.
“These are the spiders of society.”
Mr. and Mrs. John Johnson Jones were commonplace people, but like him
who cried because there were no more worlds to conquer, they were
ambitious. There was one sphere within whose sacred precincts they could
not enter, and they wanted—to be fashionable. They looked around—they
beheld others, who, like themselves, had once been excluded from the
“land of promise,” and with a mighty resolution, determined to die or
conquer—to overthrow the _chevaux-de-frise_ surrounding Japonicadom,
with “the impudence of wealth;” and at length—at length the charmed
gates at which Mrs. Jones had sat in an agony of despair, burst open to
her delighted gaze, and she rose in public estimation high as the frothy
pyramids with which she ornamented her expensive suppers and baited her
guests.
After all, and in spite of the old copy that we have written, about the
root of all evil, money is a “great invention;” especially here, where
it bestows wit on fools, beauty on beasts, and covering the blots on all
escutcheons, forces us to that promiscuous mingling which out-democrats
democracy. How magnanimous it makes us! While the friends of the needy
assist them down the hill of fortune and bid them farewell, they turn to
help the lucky over its stepping stones, and lifting the pedlar’s pack
from his shoulders, rub them down, and push him into what we call “our
first circle”. And a pretty circle it would be, were the beginning
known! But the shining gold that glitters through a handsome purse, is
the _passe partout_; and like the princess in the fairy tale, nobody
looks behind for fear of hobgoblin discoveries of his next door
neighbor. Besides, reduced people are _so_ contemptible! Put them out!
With each new reign new peers arise, and so new houses should rear their
tops over the old ones, when the owners are useless and the furniture
tarnished.
Such a generation as we are! Such an age of refinement! Who would sit
down in the year 1849, to a dinner on a square-table! Who would touch
any but a Westphalia ham—drink champagne from a narrow glass—take a
cup of tea from any but a silver urn—sit in any but a Louis
Quatorze—kiss a baby that wore corals—notice an acquaintance with a
last winter bonnet, or a _visite_ instead of a Jenny Lind? Dear me! dear
me! I have been thinking a long time, and don’t know anybody that would!
Mrs. Jones knew better for one—so did Mr. Jones; and while they were as
vulgar as pride and ignorance could make them, learned to look upon
themselves as “glasses of fashion and moulds of form.” They had to labor
for the distinction with a zeal worthy a better cause; and my readers
shall have the benefit of their attempts if they are not already too
tired to proceed.
Mrs. Jones canvassed among her female acquaintances for popularity, by
calling, flattering, cringing, and sending them delicacies made by her
own fair hands; and Mr. Jones, who was very anxious to be “genteel,”
studied Chesterfield, and wondered what it meant. He belonged to one of
the first families of a state, in which all the families were first—a
universal right of distinction. His connections would have been titled
in an aristocracy; but their respect for the American government made
them condescend to be plain Misters, Madams, and Misses.
Mr. Jones himself was a little finnikin man, with sharp, black eyes, and
high cheek bones, upon which rested two red spots like the remains of a
fly-blister. He combed his hair into a stiff _toupet_, that made him
look like an inverted furniture-brush, with the usual equivocal portrait
of some very great individual upon it.
Fortune particularly distinguished Mr. Jones and saved him the trial of
an impossibility—the one of distinguishing himself. She gave him the
key to every door when she made him wealthy, and in pure gratitude he
converted his soul into a cent, and his heart into hard specie.
Then, Fortune bestowed on him the would-be-elegant Miss Pushaw, as
high-born as himself; and he was certainly a happy man when he stood up
with a bride whose dress was, like Margaret Overreach’s, “sprinkled o’er
with gold.” He was soon dazzled by her manœuvering qualities, and
touched by the congeniality of feeling which existed between them. An
adoration of fine clothes, fine furniture, and fashionable people, was
the sacred link that bound these loving hearts into one; and upon their
removal from the country to the city, no marble-cutter labored harder,
or struck more small pieces right and left, than did Mr. and Mrs. John
Johnson Jones, when they fawned and flattered, and ran small errands for
the neighbors that surrounded them, “the great Athenians.”
Mrs. Jones kept a small confectionary establishment in her pantry, for
all the ladies who fell sick; and Mr. Jones was kind enough to open a
cigar and drinking establishment for the gentlemen who were obliging
enough to call. They progressed, however, slowly in the affections of
the proud ——ians, and were somewhat discouraged, but recollecting the
pretty motto of “Hope on, hope ever,” they did not despair, and
contemplated taking larger strides toward gentility.
Mrs. Jones had been originally called Sally, but changed the appellation
for the softer one of Sara. Spring came on, and she resolved to follow
the world of fashion to one of its favorite resorts, the little village
of Quiproquo. She persuaded her loving spouse to rent one of its
cottages; and covering some old sofas and chairs with new chintz,
furnished it nicely and neatly enough to have satisfied the most
fastidious. But to every visiter the same apology was made for its
plainness; and Mrs. Jones informed them all that “her house in town was
furnished _elegunt_, but she didn’t like to bring out her mahogany
cheers,” while her husband’s invariable rejoinder was, “Why, Sara, there
are plenty more where them came from!” A mere playful allusion to the
amount of his fortune, a fact he never lost sight of, and in time it had
its due effect on his listeners.
This house became at length the _pied-à-terre_ for all the high-bred
loungers that had nothing to do but smoke, drink, and play Boston in the
summer months; the season of inevitable idleness for all Southerners of
all professions—doctors excepted.
Mrs. Jones talked very loud and very much _du nez_; she took all the
empty speeches she listened to for witticisms, and was forever busy in
the service of others, running about shaking a little basket of keys, to
impress them with a due sense of her importance.
Mr. Jones’s wine flowed freely, (so did his brandy par parenthesis.
Brandy-and-water drinking becomes a solemn duty in the warm weather,
among the inhabitants of Quiproquo.) Then the boxes of best Havanas were
fast emptied, and clouds of smoke arose from the front piazza,
frightening the neighbors into thinking the house was on fire until they
were used to it. And Boston! and whist! there was no end to these
favorite games, while the gossips of the village whispered that it was a
very profitable amusement to Mr. Jones.
But there was still a Mordecai at the gate of poor Mrs. Jones’s soul.
Many had called to see her, whose nod a few months previous was as great
as Jove’s from Mount Olympus; but like all who strive for much, she
wanted more. There was one card whose reception would at once stamp her
“a peer,” give her the right to place the golden grasshopper in her
hair; for Mrs. Macfuss was one of the proud Autochthones whose boast was
that she had never been but the first among the first. She had been
heard to say that she could not think of encouraging such persons as the
Joneses! And such a speech from the cynosure of all eyes threw Mrs.
Jones into hysterics.
Mrs. Macfuss’s house was the house par excellence; her suppers were
given in the Hall of Apollo, where Lucullus supped with Lucullus. The
dinners were triumphs of culinary art, over which the very spirit of Ude
must have presided. Her toilette was ever in the most exquisite taste.
Her dresses gave the _ton_, and her patronage decided the fate of a
mantuamaker for life. The entire race of milliners would have credited
her forever sooner than lose the honor of her custom; and she it was for
whose favor poor Mrs. Jones pined in green and yellow melancholy. She
cried for very spite, while Mr. Jones swore that he would trample on the
d—n proud set after a while.
They determined to make a mighty effort, and commenced preparations for
a ball. Invitations were written on scented paper, and put into
envelopes with embossed vines and bouquets over the seal. These were
sent to her new acquaintances, and the “picked and chosen” of her old
ones; and breaking through the charmed rules of etiquette, Mrs. Jones’s
cards were slipped into some of the invitations and left at Mrs.
Macfuss’s for herself and family. A band of music was engaged, and every
thing prepared on a large scale.
Mrs. Jones was seen rushing in and out of the house in an old loose gown
looking like—herself; sleeves up to her elbows, and said elbows covered
with eggs, sugar and butter; while behind her ran Master Pushaw Jones,
on a pair of hard fat, blue legs, his face besmeared with the same sweet
compound that graced his mamma’s arms, enlivening the scene with shrill
screams for egg-shells, into which he concocted sundry messes that defy
description.
In every sunny spot around the house were tables covered with cakes like
pyramids of snow, so white and smooth was the icing poured over them. In
the kitchen were fowls roasting and hams boiling; turkeys innumerable in
their tin houses, getting basted and browned; and oysters getting
plumped and pickled, peppered and spiced. There was more shuffling,
running about, upsetting and breaking, than can be imagined, and
fussing, to Mrs. Jones’s content. Baskets of champagne arriving from
town; blocks of ice; borrowed china and glass; lamps, candelabras, &c.,
&c. Servants rushing out to assist the draymen, shouting, tumbling over
one another in an agony of amazement at “Miss Sally’s importance,” and
ransacking drawers and closets for cup-towels and tumbler-towels that
were insufficient for all the wiping that was to be done.
The table was set out—and a magnificent one it was, if profusion is
beauty. There was nothing wanting. Plenty of lights, too, were in
readiness, and nearly all was completed the evening before, to poor Mrs.
Jones’s relief. She went to bed, endeavoring to think the fatigue a
pleasure, and slept soundly enough to feel recruited.
But, alas! a bad day and a worse night damped her expectations, and she
walked about, giving her directions with less buoyancy than the evening
previous. _Then_, the fair moon was filling the earth with her silver
light, and covering the galleries (whereon the guests were to have
promenaded) with her radiance. _Now_, the air was damp and chilly, the
rain was still dropping over the roof, and the roads were, of course,
almost impassable. The grandees shrugged their shoulders at the idea of
a wet drive to Mrs. Jones’s party, and many who would have gone,
remained at home for want of comfortable equipages.
The musicians called the quadrilles in hoarse voices, and their
instruments were out of tune. The wind blew out the lights, and great
confusion prevailed among the dancers. The icing ran down the sides of
the cakes, the Charlotte Russes flowed over and the beautiful jelly, so
perfectly moulded, melted away like a dream. Mrs. Jones was ready to
swoon, but rallied, and talked louder than ever as she ran to and fro,
in great agony of mind. Her husband suffered less; he was winning at
cards, and the expenses of the party were much lessened as some of the
guests pockets lightened. He even forgot the absent Macfusses, and
wondered that Sara “took on so.” Supper was announced—the champagne
foamed and sparkled, the corks flew about like hail-stones, and every
body was pleased but poor Mrs. Jones, who was glad when it ended, and
lay down at length with a terrible _migraine_. Then came the nightmare
in the shape of one of her own black cakes thrown at her head by Mrs.
Macfuss—and so ended the party for her.
She had, however, the consolation of telling her next door neighbor, who
was too sick to accept her invitation, what an “elegant supper she had,
and how much it had cost her.” She enumerated the number of empty
bottles that _had_ been full, the loaves of sugar that were broken up,
and the hundreds of pounds of ice that had been used for freezing, &c.,
&c. The dozens of eggs, the ounces of gelatin! She had followed Miss
Leslie’s receipts, “and,” added she, taking breath, “you know, Mrs.
Hill, that you _must_ go to vast expense for that, as she directs you to
take the best of every thing.”
Mrs. Hill did not doubt it, and as she afterward told her sister, heard
an account so minute of the costs of the entertainment, that she could
easily have made out the bills for the city confectioners and grocers.
“But she did not tell me who were her guests, Eda; and I really had no
opportunity of asking,” said she, smiling. “Now I might have learned
something more interesting for your benefit.”
“Not for mine, Fanny,” returned Miss Seymour, laughing. “Poor Mrs.
Jones! she could not tell you that Mrs. Macfuss did not accept her
polite invitation, and in _her_ absence, she considered her rooms empty.
Is she not a host within herself?”
“I should like to have seen _her_ reception of Mrs. Jones’s envelopes
and cards,” exclaimed young Seymour, rising from the sofa, and seating
himself at his sister’s side. “It is certainly a bore to have such
vulgarians thrust themselves among us. Fancy your compliance with the
request I heard her make _you_, Eda, to ‘Come over and be intimate!’”
“You may look as disdainful as you please, my exclusive brother,” said
Mrs. Hill, laying her white hand upon his own, “but I prophecy Mrs.
Jones’s rise in the world of fashion as a thing of certain occurrence,
as much as we all now laugh at and despise her vulgarity and ignorance.
She will be as well considered as you or I, and more, for she has
wealth, and we have only education and high-breeding.”
“Tell it not in Gath! What, Macfusses and all, Fanny!” cried her
brother. “Impossible! No one is a prophet in his own country, my dear
sister, and thus I console myself for the shock you have given me.”
“_Nous verrons, ce que nous verrons_, Harry,” said Mrs. Hill, smiling,
“but I think I am right. Human nature is the same all over the world,
and I have learned to study it of late years. Did not Lady Montague
write, that wherever she had gone in her travels in Europe and the East,
she met with ‘men and women!’”
“Very true, Fanny, but if what you predict comes to pass, I shall play
Timon of Athens, and fly to Texas.”
“O, lame and impotent conclusion!” said Eda, rising and running her
fingers over the harp-strings, sending a full, clear strain through the
apartment.
“‘If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that surfeiting—’
I may forget Fanny’s shocking view of fashionable human nature. She is a
perfect old Diogenes, and deserves no better than a tub! Play, Eda, that
‘music for a time may change _her_ nature.’”
“Nay, sing, sister,” said Fanny; “’twill soothe his troubled spirit
sooner. Sing something from Lucia di Lammermoor, and I will promise not
to repeat my offence.”
But Mrs. Hill was right. She did not presume to deny the title of every
one in our own free country to the equality it claims. She would exclude
none from the advantages of society, let their pedigree be what it
might. She respected honesty, and venerated truth. She knew that wealth
could not confer either, and was too often acquired in their absence; to
her it covered no faults, mended no reputation, refined no coarseness of
mind, and looking upon it as affording opportunities of relieving
misery, ways of making others happy, of giving to genius the advantages
of education and learning, it was no wonder that she sighed, as she
witnessed its daily influence on the minds and hearts of those with whom
she mingled. There was no bitterness in her contemplation of its
consequences, for she was too good and gentle to be envious, too pious
to repine. She had been in the sunshine of the great world’s favor, and
was now beginning to see its clouds, as her means of affording mere
entertainment to its votaries began to decline. But, although she felt
privations, the want of comforts to which she had ever been accustomed;
although she felt that wealth can bestow much happiness on those who
know its proper use, she murmured not, nor thought more of those on whom
fortune was conferring her choicest favors. No wonder, then, that she
could foresee the success of Mrs. Jones, when with _her_ accomplishments
and fine, noble mind, the diminution of prosperity brought her less
consideration. The mortification to her was, not the loss of fortune,
but the mistake she made in fancying that her real worth had been
appreciated. She knew that true hearts could not forsake her, that true
friends could not be changed, and the rest passed from her mind as a
dream that had lasted too long.
Winter approached, and after giving dinners, suppers, and picknicks
innumerable in honor of her new acquaintance, Mrs. Jones prepared to
remove into her house in town. At the same time Mrs. Macfuss was ready
to do the like, and as mortified as the former felt at her palpable
neglect, it was a comfort to know that their furniture-wagons went side
by side for six good miles.
And so ended Mrs. Jones’s first year of climbing. The ladder seemed not
so steep, nor the ascent so difficult; she could look up and smile on
those at the top, while hands were held out to help her as she mounted.
She dreamed of Paradise, and began to breathe and hope. Who would not in
her place? She talked louder than ever, and began to patronize a few,
offering to chaperone very young ladies, or ladies of a certain age. Her
toilette was magnificent, and began to be elegant. Mrs. Jones had
improved decidedly.
The house continued to be thronged with her usual visiters. Her parlors
were a kind of club-room for young men who staggered about, half-sober,
after having played cards all night, or rested their weary heads upon
the satin pillows of her sofas, and dozed off the effect of the
champagne. Mrs. Jones declined all further communication with her former
friends, and wrote pompous notes to all who took any liberty with her
name. It was a thing she could not think of allowing; she had certainly
the right of choosing her associates, and neither herself nor Mr. Jones
could permit any one to question their conduct in any manner. Indeed,
she was often upon the point of requesting Mr. Jones to impress it upon
the minds of the silly creatures, that she could not acknowledge the
acquaintance of such a promiscuous set. They had fastened upon her
during her residence at “the Creek,” and she could not shake them off;
she never dreamed of encouraging them, and had resolved on her return
from the North, not to notice any calls paid her by such an obstinate
set.
“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed the bosom-friend of days gone by, upon hearing
all this repeated; “she don’t intend to know us! Perhaps she forgets how
glad she was when aunt invited her and her sister to a party, and they
mortified us so, by coming with paper crowns on their heads, and little
baskets filled with artificial flowers on their arms?”
“And every one laughed so!” cried another. “She came to see _me_ once,
with a colored dress on, trimmed all over with broad white ruffles.
Wasn’t that a costume? I wonder who _she_ is, to slight us! She would do
better to recollect what she springs from. Indeed! the time was—”
But we have not time to repeat the angry sayings of Mrs. Jones’ friends.
Some were told to her, but she cared not a _sous_, since the old set and
the new would never meet to canvass her pedigree or her paper wreaths of
yore. So, bidding a long farewell to them all, she left for New York, in
all the glory of traveling-dresses, trunks labeled “John Johnson Jones,”
and a white nurse for Master Pushaw.
CHAPTER II.
“I dressed myself from top to toe.”
“Are you going out this morning, Sara?” said Mr. Jones, as he saw an
unusual quantity of finery on the dressing-table, embroidered collars,
cuffs, handkerchiefs and gay ribbons.
“Yes; I have some calls to make—no very important ones to be sure; I
intend dining out to Mrs. Hill’s place at Summerfield. But as I think it
a duty to assist in putting down the pride of such people, I wish to go
with some eeclaw, and will take Pushaw with me, to show off his handsome
suit. Some of my friends told me it was folly in me to put myself to the
trouble of calling, but I wish them to see how mistaken they were, poor
things! when they took upon themselves to treat us with so much
indifference when we were neighbors. The Hills are of no earthly use,
everybody knows that! and I vow and declare that I saw Mrs. Hill wear
that shine silk of hers two winters ago. I really must ask some of her
acquaintances; it is worth while to ascertain it. I suppose I must go
alone, for I could not ask any one to be charitable enough to go with
me; and after this, I mean to cut the Seymour and Hill clique most
decidedly.”
Mrs. Jones took breath, and laughed at her own wit as though she
relished it; and well she might, for the idea of her being able to “cut
people” was a very funny one to be sure.
“Hill is doing a bad business this winter,” said her husband, buttoning
his coat, and straightening himself before the glass. “He’ll be ‘done
up’ at the end of it, I’ll wager any thing, for he sold his beautiful
horse a short time since, and a man must be in a poor way to part with
such an animal as that is. Sinclair bought him, and hardly knows how to
ride.”
“Well, I’m sure _I_ don’t care, for one,” remarked Mrs. Jones, with
great elegance of manner and tone, as she threw over her shoulders a
Brussels cape that had been sent up by her modiste for her inspection.
“This is splendid, I declare! I’m glad Mrs. Puff thought of sending
this; it is exactly like one Mrs. Macfuss wore at the Ford’s fine
dinner, and so it must be the fashion. As I was saying, Mr. Jones, the
Hills were rather high with me last summer; I never could get them to
come over and be intimate. Now there’s Marian Fawney, as sweet a girl as
ever lived, I had only to tell her once, and we’ve been like sisters
ever since.”
“Yes; a little _too_ intimate for my good,” said Mr. Jones, as he
thought of the constant visits of all Miss Fawney’s family. “It may all
be very fine for you, Sally, and she may be a very good girl, but I
think she loves rich folks, and no others.”
“Well, and who don’t?” replied his wife, who felt herself subject to a
similar weakness. “Besides, Mr. Jones, her acquaintance has been an
advantage, consider that! I have no doubt but that through her influence
we shall have Mrs. Macfuss in our house before the season is out.”
“D—n Mrs. Macfuss!” exclaimed Mr. Jones, forgetting Chesterfield in his
indignation at the heart-aches she had given him and his helpmate. “You
expect the Saxons, too, I suppose! For they are as proud as the others,
and as grand in their notions.”
“The Saxons dine here on Monday,” said Mrs. Jones, with a look of
triumph. “They called this week, and I immediately asked them, reserving
the news for one of your cross humors, and you were just beginning one
at the Macfusses.”
Mr. Jones “unknit his threatening brow” and congratulated his wife upon
her cleverness. “And never mind, Sally,” continued he, forgetting to use
the more musical name of Sara, “I’ll pull down those Macfusses yet, with
the fortune I’m making; for I have sworn to be the wealthiest man in
——, and I don’t think Macfuss can say as much. I have the means before
me, and if Will can help, ‘there’s no such word as fail.’ Hurrah, Sally!
hurrah!”
Mr. Jones was like Richard, “himself again,” and almost upset the
chiffoniere in the middle of the room. His wife smiled benignantly upon
his playfulness, but thought it time to end his exhilaration where it
began; “for,” said she to herself, “if any one should hear him!” So she
dismissed him by reminding him of the hour, and Mr. Jones left his
Penates for his sanctuary, the counting-room. In his mind, if mind it
were, there was but one idea, the one of amassing wealth, and he was as
unlike that being of superiority, man, as the sloth to the bee. While
his limbs moved, while his fingers marked down the all-important
figures, his mind lay dormant, his soul stagnant; and forgetful of the
treasures that “neither rust nor moth doth consume, where thieves do not
break through nor steal,” he left uneared for the harvest which we are
bound to reap—the harvest of a good and useful life. Where his treasure
was, there also was his heart; but such things pass away, and will be
like a drop in the ocean; where then would lie the benefit of all this
toil, these struggles for the vain possessions of a passing world?
Equally heedless of _her_ real fortune, his wife proceeded to her duty
of _une grande toilette_. Calling her sable handmaid, she gave
directions for Master Pushaw’s outfit, upon this unusual occasion for
display.
“Dress him in the suit that came from the North, Cilla,” said she, with
an air of Zenobian authority. “I wish to take him with me. Be prompt,
and do not cross him, for he would cry, and I cannot have his face
swollen. It will disfigure him.”
There were few charms to destroy in Master Jones’s little dish-face, but
his mother descended to the front parlor with a Gracchi perception of
greatness in embryo, and walked up and down before the pier-glass until
her father’s softened image followed her. Sundry shrill screams had
found their way below, but as the injuries were entirely confined to
poor Cilla’s face and hands, Mrs. Jones was satisfied. She surveyed him
attentively, and the result was satisfactory; although Master Pushaw
looked very much as if he were about to mount Miss Foote for a race, or
a circus pony for a ride around the ring. His clothes were remarkable
for their gay color, and he wore a fools-cap, whose long gold tassel
swung to and fro as his motions grew animated. We have seen little
creatures dressed like, and resembling him—but they were not children.
Mrs. Jones was whirled off in triumph to Mrs. Hill’s. A pretty cottage,
elegantly but simply furnished, stood unmoved as the splendid equipage
dashed up to the front door. A servant opened it, at sound of the bell,
and answered in plain English that his mistress was “at home.” Mrs.
Jones descended the steps, and was ushered into the parlor. Still there
was no unusual stir about the place, the pretty portraits kept in their
frames on the wall, and the flowers remained unwithered at her approach.
Mrs Jones’s astonishment redoubled, and when Mrs. Hill entered the room,
her smiling, blooming countenance completed the disappointment of her
guest. Nay, her quiet manner, and indifference to the mass of ribbons,
flounces and embroidery that sat before her, gave Mrs. Jones nervous
twitches at the mouth, and she at length asked for Mrs. Hill’s little
boy, certain of seeing him, as Master Pushaw looked when he was not
“dressed in the suit that came from the North.”
But the nurse entered holding by the hand a beautiful boy, whose smooth,
fresh complexion was ornamented with only the bloom “Nature’s cunning
hand had laid on.” His costume was as unlike a fancy one as possible,
and Mrs. Jones felt the thorn deeper in her side, as his bright dark eye
rested boldly and scrutinizingly upon his visiter.
“What a funny cap!” exclaimed he, as it swung to and fro when Pushaw
turned his head.
“And so it is funny, dear!” replied the nurse with true Irish naiveté.
“Take the little boy with you, Charley, and get him a nice biscuit,”
said Mrs. Hill, and she felt relieved as the children left the room. “A
glass of wine will refresh you after the drive, Mrs. Jones,” continued
she, hoping to direct her attention to a different channel; and pulling
the bell, she ordered a tray of refreshment for her fashionable guest,
not fearing to display the contents of her pantry to such practiced
eyes.
Mrs. Jones swallowed a sponge cake, and washed it down with a mouthful
or two of wine; but it almost choked her, and she rose to go without
having dazzled Mrs. Hill with an account of her “elegant dinner-service,
and the splendid silver tea-set.” She remained imperturbable during the
enumeration of the parties Mrs. Jones had attended, and the invitations
she had been forced to decline, so bidding her hostess good morning, the
lady stepped into her carriage with a feeling of bitter disappointment,
“for” said she, “Mrs. Hill don’t look at all as though her husband were
doing a bad business. Mr. Jones must be mistaken; no woman on the verge
of poverty could ever look as undisturbed as she did this morning.”
No woman like Mrs. Jones _could_ have been cheerful under the sad
reverses of the young creature whom she chose to despise. _Her_ aim was
fashion—her idol wealth. Mrs. Hill cared for neither; she struggled to
preserve in adversity the happiness that had begun in prosperity. The
object of the visit she received was intelligible to her, and her only
emotion was one of pure amusement as she resumed her quiet rational
pursuits. Mrs. Jones would have disdained pleasures that occasioned no
display. Fanny felt grateful to the Giver of all good for the resources
that supplied the place of the worldly amusements in which she could no
longer afford to participate; and felt that however they may gratify for
a time, they leave, from their uselessness, a void in the heart.
That night, while she and her husband sat together in animated,
sprightly discourse over some work they had been reading, four people
were assembled around the centre-table in one of Mrs. Jones’s handsome
parlors. The lady herself, her husband, and Miss Fawney, with her
brother, a little snub-nosed, purple-visaged fellow, conceited, of
course, and fond of talking.
Mrs. Jones held a pencil in her hand. Before her lay a _portfeuille_ of
unexceptionable shape and hue, and on a sheet of satin paper she was
writing a list of the guests to be invited to a ball Miss Fawney thought
it advisable for her to give. It was a popularity party, but as she
catered for patronage that needed notes from the élite, not from the
vulgar, it was a very exclusive affair.
“Every thing shall be perfectly _elegunt_, Marian—so be as select as
you please, my love, I fear no rivalry in business like this; Mrs.
Macfuss shall see herself at home, if she accepts,” said Mrs. Jones,
raising her head proudly, and smiling as she concluded.
“That’s right, Sara!” said her husband, stroking his small crop of
whiskers. “Go the whole hog, and give us something out of the way.” (Mr.
Jones was forgetting Chesterfield, decidedly, but then he had not so
much need to learn refinement, since his rise in the world.)
“Do mind him for once, Mrs. Jones, although you ladies don’t love
obedience to the conjugal yoke,” observed Mr. Fawney, screwing up his
face to refrain from laughing at his own wit. “All the young men in town
are wishing that you would give a party. They know what they may expect,
I can tell you.”
“Do they, indeed?” said the lady, expanding. “Then lose no time, Marian
Fawney, I leave the invitations to you, for you know none but the first
people here, and we can ask as many as you will write down. I give you
_coorte blonche_.”
“Will you, dear Mrs. Jones,” cried she, embracing that lady with great
affection, and filled with delight at the commission given her. “How
kind of you to leave every thing to me! But then you know how much I
feel—” Miss Fawney here wept a little, and wiping her eyes and
snuffling, resumed: “Now we’ll begin with—the Macfusses, of
course—then the Fentons—”
“But none of them have called on Sara,” interrupted Mr. Jones.
“But they will—I know that they intend it. Mrs. Macfuss told me the
other day that Mrs. Jones entered a room like a Parisian, and that her
dress was perfect!” said Marian.
This appeased Mr. Jones, and so enraptured his wife, that it was a pity
it was not true; but Miss Fawney told an untruth so gracefully that
falsehood became in her _plus belle que la belle verité_.
“Shall Mrs. Hill be invited?” asked she in a tone that plainly demanded
a negative.
“Might as well,” said Mr. Jones, picking his teeth with fashionable
ease.
“Poor thing!” sighed Miss Fawney, while her face lengthened as she
assumed a look of compassion, “does she go out this winter?”
“Mrs. Jones says her husband does a bad business this season,” observed
Mrs. J. “She can’t get a ball-dress, what’s the use of tempting her?”
“Ever principled, my dear Mrs. Jones!” cried Miss Fawney, much affected
a second time, but restraining her tears. “However, she might borrow one
from her sister,” continued she, feeling that the more she dwelt upon
Mrs. Hill’s reverses, the less inclined Mrs. Jones was to be polite to
her.
“D—n it, let ’em come!” said the master of the house, conscious of no
reason for slighting people who were never rude. “What’s the difference
to Sally how they dress! She don’t lose by it, does she?”
“You have such a kind heart!” cried Marian, taking his hand, and gazing
upon him with a look of two-fold approbation; but Mr. Jones turned away,
wondering inwardly “what in heaven’s name the girl was forever crying
about!”
“Come, Sara, decide! shall the invitation be written, or not?” said he,
somewhat impatiently.
“No!” said the lady, positively, for she had just remembered Mrs. Hill’s
indifference to her costly silk, her new carriage, and Pushaw’s fancy
cap.
* * * * *
“Fanny,” said Miss Seymour, as she stepped from her carriage one evening
at her sister’s door, “come with me, wont you? I am going to drive on to
the city, having some _emplettes_ to make, and we can call on Mrs. Jones
as we return. The sound of her silvery voice will re-animate you this
evening, for you do not look so well.”
Mrs. Hill was not as cheerful as was her wont, for her prospects did not
brighten, and she had been sitting on the steps, thinking, until a few
tears rolling over her sweet face, left their glaze, and did not escape
Eda’s eye of affection. Ever willing to oblige, however, and anxious to
resume her usual looks, before her husband should return to mark and
grieve over her sadness, she assented.
“You must wait awhile, Eda, until I change my dress; I must put on a
more ceremonious costume, for Mrs. Jones has ceased asking me to ‘come
over and be intimate’ since my fortunes are changing. This satin de
laine would be an insult after the magnificence with which she assailed
me two weeks ago? Can you give me time to make _une toilette soignée_?”
“Certainly,” said Miss Seymour, seating herself and taking her little
nephew on her lap, “although you require but a slight change in my
humble opinion, to present yourself at Mrs. Jones’s door.” Fanny smiled
and hastened in; but soon returned, looking pretty enough to make the
fine lady jealous, in despite of her simple attire. She had that real
elegance of manner which Mrs. Jones so much admired in herself, but
could not see in others that failed to prosper in the world’s
estimation.
She was “at home,” the servant said, and they were ushered in by an
African damsel, in washing attire. Her clothes were looped about her
waist like a _blanchisseuse_, and she displayed a pair of ebony legs
ending with wide, naked feet. Her drapery was not like her mistress’s
company, “select,” but seemed to hold the accumulated dust and dirt of
the house.
Seated in the parlors, the sisters had leisure to contemplate the
contents of the apartment they had often heard described. Two portraits
hung opposite. One represented Mrs. Jones in ball costume, giving the
finishing touch to her toilette. On her lap was a very work-box looking
casket, out of which she was taking a string of most unequivocal
wax-beads, supposed to resemble pearls.
Mr. Jones sat bolt upright, with a book in his hand, looking very
learned, and very much puzzled about some weighty question.
But what struck them most was, that on the tables in the corners, stood
cake-baskets, covered with doilies, and candlesticks innumerable were
disposed about the room, with unlit candles, and curled paper wound
around them. Some of the baskets contained cake that plainly looked,
“don’t touch me yet,” and we forgot to mention a tub of rather muddy
water that stood in the middle of the folding-doors, on a large
oil-cloth, as though the dark damsel, with the very short garments, had
been interrupted in the act of scouring paint at this untimely hour.
“Mrs. Jones has scrubbing done at a strange time,” said Eda, pointing to
the implements before mentioned.
“Hush, Eda! I’m sure that we have called at a very wrong hour,” said
Fanny, pointing in her turn to the cake and candles. “Does not that look
like a bidding of guests to the banquet hall?”
“It does, indeed. What have we done, Fanny? How could we know of such
preparations when the stupid girl said her mistress was at home? The
idea of scouring at such an hour, too! Housekeeping should be like the
mechanism of the clock—we know that it goes, but do not see the
operation. When was our house ever seen in such a trim by visiters?”
“In such an _un_trim, you mean to say,” said Fanny; “but pray do not
laugh, Eda, it is like hypocrisy to do so now, that we have given
ourselves the trouble of coming to see Mrs. Jones.”
“You are too good, Fanny; but if you keep your face serious in that
absurd way, striving to practice what you preach, I shall shriek out,”
replied her sister. “Do laugh, if you feel like it.”
“No, Eda, no!” said Fanny, trying to look grave. “Do not make me act
rudely. _We_ have made the mistake, for we live in the country and hear
none of these ‘fine ladies’ doings.”
“Pshaw! Mrs. Jones cannot give a party without _my_ hearing of it; she
owes me the invitation, and you also.”
“I never shall expect one,” said Mrs. Hill, smiling, and the servant
entered to ask “if Miss Seymour were in the parlor.”
“Miss Seymour and Mrs. Hill,” said Eda, wondering what was to come next.
“Well, then, marm, Miss Sarly say, (and I told her it was you and Mrs.
Hill, too,) that she’s been busy all day, and can’t see no company.
Here’s a ticket for you to come to the party. Miss Sarly say she never
had no time to send it out in the country, but long’s you are here, she
told me to fotch it down. They a’nt none for you marm,” turning to
Fanny.
This new way of sending invitations was, in reality, ignorance on the
part of poor Mrs. Jones. She had not yet been out as far as Mr.
Seymour’s country-seat, and thought it an excellent idea to take
advantage of Eda’s presence in the house. The neglect of Mrs. Hill was
intentional, as we have seen, but it was _now_ difficult to say which
was most uncontrollable, Eda’s indignation, or her sister’s amusement.
“I have a mind to send it back to her,” cried Eda, in French. “What
gross impertinence!”
“Ignorance, sister; she knew no better, and I told you I expected
nothing from Mrs. Jones,” said Fanny. “Do let us go, dear Eda! I cannot
help it now, I must laugh! Come”—and she led the way out, observing
that she ought to forgive it, as Mrs. Jones had not yet unlearned her
_habitudes de chaumière_. The door stood open, and behind it was Mrs.
Jones, intent upon hearing what comments were passed by Mrs. Hill, when
she found herself “neglected.” She had the great satisfaction of knowing
that she was seen, for Fanny’s merry eyes rested full upon her; and she
was somewhat disappointed as she heard the sweet, silver laugh that
echoed behind them as the carriage rolled away.
This was not pleasant, but Mrs. Jones remembered that Mrs. Hill saw no
one now, “and, of course, Miss Seymour wont come when her sister is not
invited. I wish I had not kept on this old gown, since they spied me
out; but, lor! it don’t make any difference. I wonder what they said,
too; I couldn’t tell from here.”
She asked Cilla; but Cilla replied that “they didn’t talk Merrican, and
how could _she_ understand? But I tell you what, Miss Sarly, I didn’t
like to invite one ’thout tother; and I felt very oncomfortable ’bout
it, too!”
So Cilla had the advantage over her mistress in good feeling at least,
but she was told to hold her tongue and go to her work, and no one was
ever the wiser by it. But as we wish to give only an account of the rise
of Mr. and Mrs. John Johnson Jones, we must pay less attention to the
little incidents of every-day life.
To have slighted Mrs. Hill, “whose husband did a bad business,” was one
triumph—to have secured Eda’s non-attendance, another. But to receive
Mrs. Macfuss’s acceptance, was one worthy of the gods! This joyful blow
was too much for Mrs. Jones’s nervous system! She had the paint
rescoured, and Cilla, much discomforted, observed (out of her lady’s
hearing, of course,) “that if cos Mrs. Makefuss is a comin’ I has to do
all my work over, I wish, (oh, my sakes! if Miss Sarly could hear me!)
she’d a kept her ’ceptance to herself. Here’s Miss Sarly almost out her
head, and when the ’oman _do_ come, she’ll be crazy as a coot—and coots
is bad off for sense.”
Cilla was not far wrong. When Miss Fawney communicated the intelligence
that an acceptance was to be sent on the morrow, Mrs. Jones ran about in
playful bewilderment and relieved herself a little by adding some
extra-artificials to her dress. She borrowed more candlesticks and
lamps, and had some idea of illuminating the house from attic to cellar,
ordering lanterns to be hung at the gate, that Mrs. Macfuss might not
mistake. “And now, Marian, my dear child,” continued she, turning to her
convenient friend, “do tell me what Mr. and Mrs. Macfuss like best to
eat. What more _can_ I have on my table that they would relish? I know
they always have the finest of every thing—think well now, and let me
know.”
Miss Fawney was a little puzzled at first, but suddenly recollected what
she liked most herself, so informed Mrs. Jones that Mr. Macfuss was very
fond of _pâté de foie gras_, and also of oyster gumbo.
“The gumbo I have prepared, my love, of course; but the potty dee foy
graws I had almost forgotten. Gourmand has quantities of potties, as he
is a Frenchman, and imports those articles from Paris direct. I think
you said Mrs. Macfuss liked sherbet and lemon ice cream?”
No; Miss Fawney liked vanilla best, and affirmed that Mrs. Macfuss was
very partial to it.
“Is she, indeed! Oh, Marian, I had ordered lemon!” cried Mrs. Jones, in
dismay. “Come, we’ll go to Praline’s this instant and reverse it. And
those pine apples. They must be rich. Smith! have the carriage round
immediately; I’ll go up and put on my bonnet, Marian;” and when Mrs.
Jones arrived at Praline’s her heart dilated as she saw in how much
consideration she was held by her confectioner and his wife. They were
all smirks and smiles, particularly as she constantly repeated “you know
now, Mrs. Praline, that I mind no expense whatever.” And Miss Fawney
called her an extravagant creature! “But I knew, Mrs. Jones, that when
you did give a party, it would be a magnificent affair!”
And so, indeed, it proved. The weather was fine and everybody came. Mrs.
Macfuss meeting her own set, and seeing so much display, was reconciled
to her new acquaintance. Mr. Macfuss, seeing a magnificent supper and
drinking the finest of wines, shook hands with his host, and asked him
to come and see him sociably.
There was a pleasant combination of things. The host and hostess said
they never would regret the ball, and Miss Fawney was profuse in her
congratulations. At length they had reached the goal, and began to feel
with Mr. and Mrs. Vincent Crummles, the sweets of popularity.
Mrs. Jones who heard soon after to say that she had scarcely time to
take her meals, people so thronged the house; and before she was quite
aware of it, she had asked Mrs. Macfuss to come over and be intimate!
* * * * *
One evening, as Mrs. Hill and her brother stood together at the gate of
her pretty cottage, a handsome equipage dashed by, filling with dust the
mouths of the plebeian pedestrians on either side of the smooth road
through Summerfield.
Two ladies were on the back seat, while in front sat two little boys,
looking very gravely at one another. The driver had on a coat filled
with brass buttons—and this was called a livery; so the whole effect
was very grand and imposing.
“Who was that, Fanny?” said young Seymour; “whose carriage is that?”
“The carriage belongs to Mrs. John Johnson Jones, brother. Did you not
see her?”
“I did not recognize her—she bowed, did she not?”
“Not she, my good sir; she never bends so low. Could you not see how
stiff the lady was?”
“Then who did bow to you just now?”
“Mrs. Macfuss,” said Fanny, smiling archly.
“Whew! Whose little innocents were those in front?”
“Master Pushaw Jones and Master Johnny Macfuss.”
Mr. Seymour paused.
“Fanny,” said he at length, “I’ll go to Texas. I see that Mrs. Macfuss
has been over, and is intimate!”
* * * * *
LINES TO AN IDEA THAT WOULDN’T “COME.”
BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
“Why thus longing, thus forever sighing
For the far off, unattained and dim?
“Has Hope like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree,
With the talisman’s glittering glory.
Has Hope been that bird to thee?”
Oh! fondly wished for, why delay?
This virgin page awaits thee—
It’s waited since the dawn of day—
What can it be belates thee?
Thou ne’er wilt find a nicer couch,
A softer or a fairer?
Thou ne’er wilt find a desk to which
Thy coming could be rarer.
Oh! airy rover, rainbow-winged!
Oh! coy and cold deceiver!
Alight upon this beggar leaf,
And blessèd be forever!
Alight and shut your gleaming wing,
And let my verse be amber,
To make for you, while glad you sing,
A fitting, fairy chamber!
Whether around the dainty tip
Of Whitman’s pen you hover,
Or rest on Greenwood’s rosy lip,
To greet some poet-lover;
Or hide in glorious Hewitt’s heart
Until you’re robed divinely,
Or lend impassioned Eva’s line
The glow she paints so finely.
Oh! fly them all, and fly to me!
I’ll entertain ye rarely;
My happy pen your host shall be,
And introduce you fairly.
I’ll dress you in the prettiest words
You possibly can think of,
I’ll let you sip the purest ink
That e’er you tried to drink of.
Your rich _relations_ throng to _them_,
While I’m alone and needy;
And though I cannot sing, my gem,
In tones so rich and reedy.
Be sure I’ll make the most of thee!
While throned in state and glory,
Oh! think what pride alone to be
_Unrivaled_ in my story!
Oh! fairy treasure, fine and fleet,
Oh! subtle, rare creation!
Whatever obstacles you meet,
Accept my invitation!
I’ll give you welcome warm and true,
However strange you be;
And take what route it pleases you,
It’s all the same to me.
Oh! come by telegraph from Maine,
Or by a junk from China,
By steamboat from the shores of Spain,
Or cars from Carolina!
But _come_—at all events—without
Another doubt or fear;
Fly, fly to this devoted heart,
And be—“my own Idea!”
* * * * *
A SUMMER EVENING THOUGHT.
BY COUSIN MARY.
See the fire-flies brightly sparkling,
While the night around is darkling;
See, above, the star-light streaming,
Part of Heaven’s own radiance seeming.
Brighter than the stars’ far beaming
Is the nearer fire-flies’ gleaming;
This, a moment shall endure,
That, forever, calm and pure.
To our world-bound hearts are given
Joys of earth and hopes of Heaven—
Flitting in the path before us,
Star-like, beaming calmly o’er us.
Shame such choice to deathless spirits,
Who _some_ god-like traits inherit!
Groveling still, we turn our eyes
Earthward from the distant skies,
And to our benighted vision
Brighter earth than “fields Elysian;”
Dearer are the joys here given
Than the promised joys of Heaven!
* * * * *
THE NAVAL OFFICER.
BY WM. F. LYNCH.
(_Continued from page 230._)