wrinkled, old and bent that even death seems to have forgotten her
existence. It would be difficult to imagine that once she was a beauty,
but true it is that many years ago no fresher, fairer maiden could be
found than this same strange old woman. Sixty years ago she had a sailor
lover, who loved her truly and well. On his return after every cruise it
was a sight to soften the heart of even the hardest, to witness the
joyful meeting, the lovers kiss, in which there was no shame, the tears
of joy in which there was no weakness; the heartfelt pleasure of two
honest hearts. But the partings were soon to be over, for after the next
voyage the young lovers were to be wedded. The simple wedding dress was
made and all was ready. With gay snatches of song, and merry feet the
young girl flitted about the house, impatiently waiting the day which
was to bring her lover. There was only one more day of waiting and
"to-morrow, to-morrow he comes," she sang. Early in the evening dark
clouds formed in the sky, the wind began to moan, the waves beat high
upon the shore, the murmuring winds changed to howling blasts, the waves
rolled mountains high, the spirits of the sea and air seemed to have
arisen in their fury, doors rattled, houses shook on their
foundations--and to-morrow came, but no lover. The wedding clothes were
laid away, and the day which was to have seen the young girl made a
happy wife, found her a heart-broken stricken woman; and now she must
take up her burden, and from month to month and year to year, carry this
leaden weight called a heart.
The years rolled by taking with them her girlish beauty, and leaving in
its place the wrinkles of time and sorrow. As time passed the idea took
possession of her that her lover would still come back. True the vessel
in which he sailed had been wrecked, but still there lingered the one
faint hope, and every night she lit the lamp and placed it in the
window as she had done in her youth, as the beacon light for the absent
love. As time passed she followed her father to the grave and in a short
time stood by the bed of her dying mother. And now she was alone in her
loneliness and desolation. Every year when the day came which was to
have been her wedding day, the white dress, which had grown yellow with
age, was taken out, folded and flowers scattered over it as carefully as
we would sprinkle flowers over a child's grave, for in the box in which
the garment lay, were buried all her hopes. Does it not seem strange
that one can live on year after year, with no hope, no joy; waken in the
morning with the thought that "here is another day to be passed over,"
another night with the sad dreams and gloomy awaking.
At the approach of a storm, when the clouds began to gather, the
solitary woman could be seen standing on the shore gazing long and
earnestly over the dark waters. But at last it was with difficulty that
she dragged herself to the beach and her hands trembled so that she
could scarcely light the lamp for the window, but she said to herself
"he will surely come," for if faith, hope and long suffering, if patient
waiting, prayers and longing have power to affect disembodied spirits,
my faith will surely be rewarded.
And now another year has passed and again the anniversary of the sad day
has dawned. With trembling, withered hands, she once more unfolds the
wedding dress. She must make one more visit to the shore, for she feels
it will be for the last time, as with slow uncertain steps she drags
herself along. And now as night approaches she is too ill to light the
lamp.
Neighbors miss the accustomed light, find the lonely woman too ill to
rise, and they know that in a few hours all will be over. They lit the
lamp to humor the whim of a dying woman. The winds began to moan
fitfully; the waves could be heard dashing on the shore, while the
lightning flashed and illuminated the room in which the woman lay. There
is something weird in the whole scene--the lighted lamp for the lover,
dead over half a century, the dying woman, the moaning wind, and the
sound of the waters. And now she is muttering in her dreams, and talking
to her lover, she has forgotten all the years that have passed, and is
bidding him a joyous welcome and while the storm is at its height, a
smile of tenderness has passed over the face of the old creature, making
her look almost young, when the door opens; a figure in a wet winding
sheet, with hair in which was mingled sea weed, glides to the bed-side,
a whispered utterance from the dying woman, "he has come," the figure
moves again to the door. An invisible power has extinguished the light,
and the flame of the lamp and the woman's soul, have gone out together,
while from the bedside to the door there is the trail of wet garments.
Again I hear the voice of the Cynic.
This is an age of shoddyism, and it is difficult at times to distinguish
the real from the sham. The woman who is covered with jewelry, looking
like a travelling doorplate, is the kind from whom we expect the bow to
vary, in coldness or cordiality, according to the clothes we wear, or
the entertainments we are able to give. With such people money means
everything, brains and breeding being secondary considerations. And it
is very amusing on meeting Madam Shoddy to note the look with which she
scans one from head to foot, balancing in her mind the cost of each
article of apparel, her mind wholly given up to dollars and cents, and
woe unto the person, who does not come up to the proper standard, of
pounds, shillings and pence.
In talking with such a one you will find their conversation frequently
interlarded with the use of the words _ladies_ and _gentlemen_. But
madam shoddy does really very little actual harm, all these things being
a harmless sort of imbecility.
But at the hands of Madam Snob, one will not fare as well, for having
nothing noble in her own nature she is constantly picking flaws in the
character of others. Madam Snob will entertain you with a long account
of her family connections. Poor soul she is constantly resurrecting the
remains of dead and gone ancestors; her life is spent in the charnel
house, being very careful however, to let the remains of a certain few
rest in peace, while she rattles the dry bones of her favored ones in
our face, until we are tempted to cry "peace." At last our curiosity is
aroused, and we make inquiries as to these noble ancestors, and find the
overwhelming fact--that they had been born! and that they had died! very
noble of them to have been born, and very heroic, to have died. If the
successors would follow their illustrious example in the last act, the
world would still exist. But you say "this is harmless and only another
form of idiocy." True if it stopped there, no harm would be done. But
did any one ever know Madam Snob to stop there? After having visited her
family vault, you are requested to enter the abode of your neighbor's
dead, and then your turn will come next and you are asked by madam to
unearth your dead. Now to people who know little and care less about
their great, great, great grandfather, all this is very amusing. If the
Bible be true, and who can doubt it? there was an ark built in which
God's chosen were placed for safety. Now any one is safe in saying "my
ancestry dates from the ark" but I think it would be rather difficult
for a person to trace their ancestry from the time the chosen few
stepped from the ark to dry land, down to the present time. But every
one has some imagination, and in order to gratify Madam Snob's
curiosity, just make use of it. Tell her some were hanged, some were
drowned, some were in prison for debt, one fought in the War of the
Roses, one was killed in a street brawl, another hanged for treason.
Tell her--well tell her anything that will satisfy her curiosity, for
there are times when an elastic conscience is excusable. There is
another Madam Snob, who not knowing in the slightest degree what
constitutes a lady, is ignorant of the fact that a lady is civil to
everyone; this madam is uncivil to her servants, but does not hesitate
to gossip with them, is careless, in speech and manner, in the presence
of inferiors, in fact is guided wholly in matters of civility by the
position in which the people are in, whom she is with; is constantly
talking of _society_, and turning up her aristocratic nose at
trades-people and in nine cases out of ten, her father was a cobbler, or
kept a peanut stand, neither of which would do her any harm, if she only
knew that "silence is golden." We say, _that_ is the lowest form of
_snob feminine_ and rarely met with.
There is another form of snobbery which is not so easily recognized, and
requires a good judge of human nature to detect. This Madam Snob is one
who should be a lady, for by education and good breeding she is entitled
to the name. Now, she really possess a good, kind heart, is kind to the
poor, tries to do her duty, but away down, under several layers of good
intentions, there is a little taint of snobbery, and she really has not
the moral courage to rid herself of it. This Mrs. Snob may have a large
circle of friends, but to each one she accords a different reception; to
all she is kind, remember, but you can judge of her opinion of different
ones, from the invitations which she issues. First in her estimation,
come the fashionable people, those she asks to her dinner parties; then
the people whose position in life is not very good, she asks to
luncheon; then at last, come those whom she really does not know how to
place, and they are the ones she asks to meet her alone.
Now this poor woman, for whom I have a degree of pity, not unmixed with
contempt, is in a constant struggle with herself, in her desire to do
what she thinks to be right, and at the same time, do everything that
her neighbors do, for she is bound hand and foot and dare not make an
independent move. But if Mrs. Fitznoodle were to do certain things, Mrs.
Fitzsnob would follow her example, and the people who are asked to meet
their hostess--alone, might find themselves seated around the mahogany
with Mr. and Mrs. Fitznoodle and daughters and a select circle of little
Noodles.
Again, Mrs. Fitznoodle, with several marriageable daughters, is
constantly on the lookout for unwary young men, ignoring the fact of
their want of brains, lack of breeding, and wholly regardless of the
fact that they have no "family" connections, but she spreads her net and
perhaps succeeds in catching this "eligible" young man. Mrs. Fitzsnob
immediately sees something in that young man to admire, and seeks his
acquaintance, and much to his surprise, and to the surprise of everyone
else, he finds himself for the first time in what is termed _good
society_. Now this Mrs. Fitzsnob is not a _rara avis_, but is frequently
met with. Yet how many ladies do we see? We meet many calling
themselves such, who do not hesitate to talk scandal, to injure their
neighbors; to ridicule people, to accept of hospitality and comment
ill-naturedly upon it, to talk slang. All these things and more, people
do who call themselves, ladies. There are houses on which should be
placed signs, as on pest houses, and whose occupants should be labelled
"dangerous," for their tongues are more dangerous than the sting of the
adder, and they are in so-called "society." Heaven save the mark!
Woman, the most perfect of all God's work, why do you not scourge
society of scandal mongers, of snobs? Why do you not _dare_ to do what
you think and know to be right? Why will you allow yourselves to be
ruled and guided by the opinion of others? A woman's instinct is her
safest guide; if she follows it she will not err.
It is not women alone, who are tainted with snobbishness and shoddyism,
but how frequently we see it in men, generally those who have very
little brain and often in those whom the world calls self-made-men. Now
there is nothing in the world so aggressive as the same self-made-man.
The air with which he moves along, as though upon him depended the
revolution of the world on its axis, and the safety and welfare of its
inhabitants. He never allows himself, nor others, to forget the fact
that he is self-made. The laborer, who, by dint of hard work and
economy, has succeeded in making a little money; with what eagerness he
tries to gain some petty office, and in a few years his daughters will
tell us that they "belong to the old families." How much old families
have got to answer for! It would sound refreshing in this age of
snobbery, to see some one who did not consider themselves "as belonging
to one of the old families." The male snob has developed within the past
year, into the dude. By a process of evolution, which Darwin undoubtedly
could have traced, we have him before us in all his beauty. To commence,
first, he must have a little money, with that he buys a tight fitting
suit of clothes, a diamond ring, a gold headed cane, a very small hat,
carries his arms akimbo, and in all the perfection of loveliness, he
stands out, a thing apart from the rest of humanity. Perhaps in two or
three centuries, the process of evolution taking place all the time,
something may be put into the small cranium, which will be called a
"brain," but it must evolute rapidly or the sun will have cooled, and
there will be another glacial period before that event takes place.
Then we have before us the man with three hundred dollars a year income,
who apes the manner of the gentleman of leisure.
And now again we have what may be called an intellectual snob; the man
who has a fair share of brain, but not sufficient to make a name for
himself, not enough to make himself distinguished in any way. So where
honest candor would expose him, he apes the manner of clever men,
allowing himself to get decidedly "out at elbows," to wear clothes
which decidedly require brushing, seats himself in a corner as though
pondering some weighty matter, tries to look profound--when he probably
looks simply, stupid. This is intellectual snobbishness. How many people
we meet who cover their ignorance by a look of profundity.
When will people learn that snobbery is the evidence of a small mind,
and that shoddyism is the proof of a vulgar one? How long before people
will be convinced of the fact, that, education, talent, and good
breeding, are the most essential requisites for success.
* * * * *
* * * * *
The psychologist says.
In dreams, and profound reveries we forget our surroundings, we travel
over land and seas, through sunny lands, and many persons tell us that
it is simply the mind which creates, the mind which travels. Not so; it
is the soul which journeys forth and is actually in those places, having
left the body while it wanders alone.
A person lying dangerously ill, suffering acute pain, is given a
narcotic and after a time, sleep is produced. The pain-racked body lies
there motionless as a lump of clay, pain is forgotten but the soul takes
a journey, and for a time revels in joy, flits through a shady grove, or
stops for a moment beside a running brook, scales lofty heights or
lingers in a lovely valley; the effect of the narcotic wears off, pain
returns and the pleasant vision is ended. Now the mind could not have
created these pleasant scenes, for as everyone knows, there is complete
sympathy between the body and mind, and a diseased, pain-tossed body,
would produce a diseased mind. Between sleep and death there is a
wonderful similarity. In sleep the soul wanders forth and returns to the
body, in death it journeys over the broad sea of eternity into the great
unknown. Have you ever stood at the bedside of a dying child and seen
the look of joy that passes over its face? In many instances the child
being too young to reason, too young to create for itself pleasant
scenes. Then what could have produced the ecstatic joy? I stood by the
bed of a dying child, a mere infant. The little sufferer had lain
unconscious during the day, efforts were made to arouse it, the mother
was bending over the bed anxious for one look of recognition, but the
efforts were useless, the stupor continued until suddenly, to the
surprise of the watchers, the little creature raised its hand, and
pointed upward, with a smile of perfect joy, and at that moment the soul
winged its flight.
Materialists will say the child had been told of the beauties of
another world, and at the last moment memory and reason returned, and
the beauties which had been depicted, were suddenly recalled to mind.
But in this instance the child was too young to have been told pleasing
stories; and the mind could not have created for itself a vision. Then
what was it? At the moment of dissolution the soul had flitted through
the gates of the eternal city.
* * * * *
* * * * *
A study in sombre tints:
In one of the large cities in the wretched portion where men, women and
children hive together, there lived--or existed--a little boy, so small,
so insignificant, that the people with whom he came in contact would
scarcely have considered him worthy of mention. He was a wee specimen of
humanity with flaxen hair and blue eyes, and people who stopped to
notice him at all, saw something so strange, so pathetic in the childish
look, that they involuntarily turned to look again. He spent the days
selling matches; the nights he spent as he could, in empty boxes, on
bundles of straw, in miserable alleys, anywhere, where night overtook
him. There was no one to make enquiries, for he was alone, alone in the
great city, alone in the world. One stormy night a woman found her way
to one of the wretched tenement houses, bearing in her arms a tiny
burden. One of the inhabitants, more kindly than the rest, took her in,
gave her the only bed they had, a pallet of straw, on which she lay for
a few days, making no complaint, giving little trouble. The women saw at
a glance that she was a different order of being from themselves, that
she belonged to another world than theirs. But by what chance had she
wandered there? Questions were asked but no answers returned. She simply
asked to be left alone. In a short time she died, leaving behind the
little bundle of humanity, bequeathing to him nothing but her own
sensitive nature, the same blue eyes and flaxen hair, and the name
"Ned," nothing more. They buried her in the potter's field, and a life's
tragedy was ended. Little Ned lived among them, getting more blows than
kind words, nearly always hungry, but never complaining. If they gave
him food he ate it; if he got none, he never murmured. The rough women,
involuntarily, lowered their voices when little Ned was present, for
there was something they could never comprehend about the strange child.
They felt he was with them but not of them. He was unlike the children
in the street, never seeking, but shunning their society. After a time
he was old enough to go on the street and sell matches, and it was a
relief to the women when he was gone, for then there was no restraint,
and the little lonely waif was turned adrift. Little Ned seemed never
quite alone, for he frequently talked alone, asked questions which
seemed to have been answered--in fact lived in a world, peopled by his
own childish fancy, and passed unharmed through danger and sin, where
one, more conscious of evil, would have fallen. How unlike the world he
was in, was the one he pictured to himself. At night he crawled into
empty boxes, scarcely knowing what it was to go to sleep without feeling
hungry, but the Goddess of dreams wove golden threads through the brain
of little Ned, weaving her most brilliant colors, through the warp and
woof of his childish dreams, as if in compensation for the sombre colors
and gloom of his waking moments, and no child lying on his bed of down,
placed there by the careful hands of nurse, and receiving the mother's
good night kiss, ever had sweeter, purer dreams, than the friendless,
homeless match-seller on his bed of straw. Mothers, do you ever think
when you see your children safe in their warm beds, of the numberless
little waifs in large cities, whose resting places are pallets of straw,
whose good night kisses are the cold breath of poverty?
There was very little variety in the life of little Ned. Waking in the
morning, he would start out with the matches, selling them if he could,
if not, hunger, to which he was so accustomed, was his companion. So
from day to day it was the same story, the only variation, the only
change was in his dreams and visions; hunger could not deprive him of
that solace, the cold could not freeze the warm fancies and
imaginations. One morning in early spring little Ned awoke from his
pleasant dreams and started on his route. Passing numberless people,
some stopped to look at him carefully, for his face had such a strange
look, his eyes had such a dreamy expression, and at times he smiled to
himself as he moved along. But people did not stop long, for who in a
large, busy city has time to enquire into the life and means of living
of a little match seller. All day long, he trudged his weary way, and
towards night-fall he found himself nearer the suburbs than he had ever
been before. He passes a house which is brilliantly lighted, and strains
of gay music reach his ear. Moving to the window, which was open, he
gazes with open-eyed wonder at the scene within. It is evidently a
children's party for little fairy forms are flitting about in a merry
dance, and all is light, warmth and happiness, while outside with his
face pressed close to the window stands little Ned. His flaxen hair is
blown by the wind, his blue eyes open to their widest extent as he looks
at the gay scene, of which he forms no part. Inside, all is happiness,
outside is the gloom of night, and the desolate figure of little Ned. He
turns away with a sigh, turns away from the happiness he has never
known, into the darkness with which he is so familiar. He has grown
very hungry, having eaten nothing since noon. Seeing a woman before a
handsome carriage, he tells his story, but it falls on stony ground, the
woman has nothing to give, and leaves him standing there, while she
dries away. "O, the rarity of Christian charity!" Such are the women
whose names very often head the list of subscriptions for Christian
missions, but who turn a deaf ear to the sorrows of people at their own
door; but if they give to the poor in secret no one will know it, while
if they head a list with a large sum, they will be called good Christian
women.