for so many generations been the subject of pitiless jokes, rung
through all manner of changes, and not always in the best taste,
that it is pardonable to throw back a few jests, provided it be
done in sport, rather than in malice. The simple fact is, however,
that what I have said of unmarried women is also true of unmarried
men; their being single is often the result of superior delicacy
and refinement of feeling. Those who are determined to marry, will
usually accomplish their object, sooner or later, while those
who shrink from making wedlock a mere convenience, unsanctified
by affection, will prefer isolation, though they sometimes find
it sad. I am now thinking of one, who, for many reasons would
probably be accepted by ninety-nine women out of a hundred. I once
said to him, “How is it, that a man of your domestic tastes and
affectionate disposition has never married?” He hesitated a moment,
then drew from under his vest the miniature of a very lovely woman,
and placed it in my hand. I looked up with an inquiring glance,
to which he replied: “Yes, perhaps it might have been; perhaps it
_ought_ to have been. But I had duties to perform toward my widowed
mother, which made me doubt whether it were justifiable to declare
my feelings to the young lady. Meanwhile, another offered himself.
She married him, and is, I believe, happy. I have never seen
another woman who awakened in me the same feelings, and so I have
remained unmarried.”
I knew twin brothers, who became attached to the same lady. One
was silent, for his brother’s sake; but he never married; and
through life he loved and assisted his brother’s children, as
if they had been his own. There are many such facts to prove
that self-sacrifice and constancy are far from being exclusively
feminine virtues.
But my impression is, that there is a larger proportion of
unmarried women than of unmarried men, who lead unselfish, useful
lives. I, at least, have happened to know of more “Aunt Kindlys,”
than Uncle Kindlys. Women, by the nature of their in-door habits
and occupations, can nestle themselves into the inmost of other
people’s families, much more readily than men. The household
inmate, who cuts paper-dolls to amuse fretful children, or soothes
them with lullabies when they are tired,--who sews on buttons
for the father, when he is in a hurry, or makes goodies for the
invalid mother,--becomes part and parcel of the household; whereas
a bachelor is apt to be a sort of appendage; beloved and agreeable,
perhaps, but still something on the outside. He is like moss on
the tree, very pretty and ornamental, especially when lighted up
by sunshine; but no inherent part of the tree, essential to its
growth. Sometimes, indeed, one meets with a genial old bachelor,
who cannot enter the house of a married friend, or relative,
without having the children climb into his lap, pull out his watch,
and search his pocket for sugar-plums. But generally, it must
be confessed that a _Vieux Garçon_ acts like an Old Boy when he
attempts to make himself useful in the house. His efforts to quiet
crying babies are laughable, and invariably result in making the
babies cry more emphatically. A dignified, scholastic bachelor, who
had been spending the night with a married friend, was leaving his
house after breakfast, when a lovely little girl of four or five
summers peeped from the shrubbery, and called out, “Good morning!”
“Good morning, child!” replied he, with the greatest solemnity of
manner, and passed on. A single _woman_ would have said, “Good
morning, dear!” or “Good morning, little one!” But the bachelor was
as dignified as if he had been making an apostrophe to the stars.
Yet he had a great, kind heart, and was a bachelor because that
heart was too refined to easily forget a first impression.
Bachelors do not become an outside appendage, if they are fortunate
enough to have an unmarried sister, with whom they can form one
household. There is such a couple in my neighborhood, as cozy
and comfortable as any wedded pair, and quite as unlikely to
separate, as if the law bound them together. The sister is a
notable body, who does well whatever her hands find to do; and the
brother adopts wise precautions against tedious hours. He was a
teacher in his youth, but is a miller now. An old mill is always
a picturesque object, standing as it must in the midst of running
water, whose drops sparkle and gleam in sunlight and moonlight.
And our bachelor’s mill is hidden in a wood, where birds love to
build their nests, and innumerable insects are busy among ferns
and mosses. The miller is busy, too, with a lathe to fill up the
moments unoccupied by the work of the mill. He has made a powerful
telescope for himself, and returns to his home in the evening to
watch the changing phases of the planets, or to entertain his
neighbors with a vision of Saturn sailing through boundless fields
of ether in his beautiful luminous ring. He can also discourse
sweet music to his sister, by means of a parlor seraphine.
I know another bachelor, who finds time to be a benefactor to
his neighborhood, though his life is full of labors and cares.
In addition to the perpetual work of a farm, he devotes himself
with filial tenderness to a widowed mother and invalid aunts, and
yet he is always ready wherever help or sympathy is needed. If
a poor widow needs wood cut, he promptly supplies the want, and
few men with a carriage and four are so ready to furnish a horse
for any kindly service. The children all know his sleigh, and
call after him for a ride. None of his animals have the forlorn,
melancholy look which indicates a hard master. The expression of
his countenance would never suggest to any one the condition of an
old bachelor; on the contrary, you would suppose he had long been
accustomed to look into the eyes of little ones clambering upon his
knees for a kiss. This is because he adopts all little humans into
his heart.
I presume it will generally be admitted that bachelors are more
apt to be epicures, than are unmarried women. In the first place,
they have fewer details of employment to occupy their thoughts
perpetually; and secondly, they generally have greater pecuniary
means for self-indulgence. The gourmand, who makes himself unhappy,
and disturbs everybody around him, if his venison is cooked the
fortieth part of a minute too long, is less agreeable, and not less
ridiculous than the old fop, who wears false whiskers, and cripples
his feet with tight boots.
There is a remedy for this, and for all other selfishness and
vanity; it is to go out of ourselves, and be busy with helping
others. Petty annoyances slip away and are forgotten when the mind
is thus occupied. The wealthy merchant would find it an agreeable
variation to the routine of business to interest himself in the
welfare and improvement of the sailors he employs. The prosperous
farmer would find mind and heart enlarged by helping to bring into
general use new and improved varieties of fruits and vegetables;
not for mere money-making, but for the common good. And all would
be happier for taking an active interest in the welfare of their
country, and the progress of the world.
Nothing can be more charming than Dickens’s description of the
Cheeryble Brothers, “whose goodness was so constantly a diffusing
of itself over everywhere.”
“‘Brother Ned,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and
stooping to listen, ‘are you busy, my dear brother? or can you
spare time for a word or two with me?’
“‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow,’ replied a voice from within,
‘don’t ask me such a question, but come in directly.’ Its tones
were so exactly like that which had just spoken, that Nicholas
started, and almost thought it was the same.
“They went in without further parley. What was the amazement of
Nicholas, when his conductor advanced and exchanged a warm greeting
with another old gentleman, the very type and model of himself;
the same face, the same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and
neckcloth, the same breeches and gaiters; nay, there was the very
same white hat hanging against the wall. Nobody could have doubted
their being twin brothers. As they shook each other by the hand,
the face of each lighted up with beaming looks of affection, which
would have been most delightful to behold in infants, and which in
men so old was inexpressibly touching.
“‘Brother Ned,’ said Charles, ‘here is a young friend that we must
assist. We must make proper inquiries into his statements, and if
they are confirmed, as they will be, we must assist him.’
“‘It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should. When you
say that, no further inquiries are needed. He _shall_ be assisted.’
“‘I’ve a plan, my dear brother, I’ve a plan,’ said Charles. ‘Tim
Linkinwater is getting old; and Tim has been a faithful servant,
brother Ned; and I don’t think pensioning Tim’s mother and sister,
and buying a little tomb for the family when his poor brother died,
was a sufficient recompense for his faithful services.’
“‘No, no,’ replied the other, ‘not half enough; not half.’
“‘If we could lighten Tim’s duties,’ said the old gentleman, ‘and
prevail upon him to go into the country now and then, and sleep in
the fresh air two or three times a week, Tim Linkinwater would grow
young again in time; and he’s three good years our senior now. Old
Tim Linkinwater young again! Eh, brother Ned, eh? Why, I recollect
old Tim Linkinwater quite a little boy; don’t you? Ha, ha, ha!
Poor Tim! Poor Tim!’ and the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly
together; each with a tear of regard for old Tim Linkinwater
standing in his eye.
“‘But you must hear this young gentleman’s story,’ said Charles;
‘you’ll be very much affected, brother Ned, remembering the time
when _we_ were two friendless lads, and earned our first shilling
in this great city.’
“The twins pressed each other’s hands in silence, and, in his own
homely manner, Charles related the particulars he had just heard
from Nicholas. It is no disparagement to the young man to say
that, at every fresh expression of their kindness and sympathy, he
could only wave his hand and sob like a child.
“‘But we are keeping our young friend too long, my dear brother,’
said Charles. ‘His poor mother and sister will be anxious for his
return. So good by for the present. Good by. No, not a word now.
Good by.’ And the brothers hurried him out, shaking hands with him
all the way, and affecting, very unsuccessfully (for they were poor
hands at deception), to be wholly unconscious of the feelings that
mastered him.
“The next day, he was appointed to the vacant stool in the
counting-house of Cheeryble Brothers, with a salary of one hundred
and twenty pounds a year. ‘And I think, my dear brother,’ said
Charles, ‘that if we were to let them that little cottage at Bow,
something under the usual rent--Eh, brother Ned?’
“‘For nothing at all,’ said his brother, ‘We are rich, and should
be ashamed to touch the rent under such circumstances as these. For
nothing at all, my dear brother.’
“‘Perhaps it would be better to say something,’ suggested the
other, mildly. ‘We might say fifteen or twenty pound; and if it
was punctually paid, make it up to them in some other way. It
would help to preserve habits of frugality, you know, and remove
any painful sense of overwhelming obligation. And I might secretly
advance a small loan toward a little furniture; and you might
secretly advance another small loan, brother Ned. And if we find
them doing well we can change the loans into gifts; carefully, and
by degrees, without pressing upon them too much. What do you say
now, brother?’
“Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should
be done, but had it done. And in one short week, Nicholas took
possession of his stool, and his mother and sister took possession
of the house; and all was hope, bustle, and lightheartedness.”
There are Cheeryble old bachelors in real life; genial souls, and
genuine benefactors to mankind.
When they are so, I think they deserve more credit
than married men of similar characters; for
the genial virtues are fostered by
kindly domestic influences, as
fruit is matured and
sweetened by the
sunshine.
[Illustration]
The dog in the kennel growls at his fleas; the dog that is busy
hunting does not feel them.
CHINESE PROVERB.
[Illustration]
TAKING IT EASY.
BY GEORGE H. CLARK.
Admit that I am slightly bald,--
Pray, who’s to blame for that?
And who is wiser for the fact,
Until I lift my hat?
Beneath the brim my barbered locks
Fall in a careless way,
Wherein my watchful wife can spy
No lurking threads of gray.
What though, to read compactest print,
I’m forced to hold my book
A little farther off than when
Life’s first degree I took?
A yoke of slightly convex lens
The needful aid bestows,
And you should see how wise I look
With it astride my nose.
Don’t talk of the infernal pangs
That rheumatism brings!
I’m getting used to pains and aches,
And all those sort of things.
And when the imp Sciatica
Makes his malicious call,
I do not need an almanac
To tell me it is fall.
Besides, it gives one quite an air
To travel with a cane,
And makes folk think you “well to do,”
Although you are in pain.
A fashionable hat may crown
Genteelest coat and vest,
But ah! the sturdy stick redeems
And sobers all the rest.
A man deprived of natural sleep
Becomes a stupid elf,
And only steals from Father Time
To stultify himself.
So, if you’d be a jovial soul,
And laugh at life’s decline,
Take my advice,--turn off the gas,
And go to bed at nine!
An easy-cushioned rocking-chair
Suits me uncommon well;
And so do liberal shoes,--like these,--
With room for corns to swell;
I cotton to the soft lamb’s-wool
That lines my gloves of kid,
And love elastic home-made socks,--
Indeed, I always did.
But what disturbs me more than all
Is, that sarcastic boys
Prefer to have me somewhere else,
When they are at their noise;
That while I try to look and act
As like them as I can,
They will persist in _mister_-ing me,
And calling me a man!
* * * * *
True--Time will seam and blanch my brow.
Well, I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grisly beard becomes me then.
And should no foul dishonor lie
Upon my head, when I am gray,
Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.
Then haste thee, Time,--’tis kindness all
That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes,
And, as thy shadowy train depart,
The memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.
W. C. BRYANT.
[Illustration]
OLD AUNTY.
The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy old
woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered with
apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little Joanna,
who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls from one
of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got up a
petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble picture;
but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty’s
self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual
love between her and the children of the neighborhood.
L. M. C.
All the children knew Old Aunty. Every day, in rain or shine, she
sat there in the Park, with her little store of candies, cakes, and
cigars, spread on a wooden box. Her cheerful smile and hearty “God
bless you!” were always ready for the children, whether they bought
of her or not. If they stopped to purchase, she gave right generous
measure, heaping the nuts till they rolled off the top of the pint,
and often throwing in a cake or stick of candy; so generous was her
heart.
Like all unselfish people, Aunty was happy as the days are long.
Had you followed her home at night, you would have seen her travel
down a poor old street, narrow and musty, and climb the broken
stairs of a poor old house that was full of other lodgers, some
of them noisy, disorderly, and intemperate. When she opened the
creaking door of her one small room, you would have seen the boards
loose in the floor, little furniture, very little that looked like
rest or comfort, like _home_ for a tired body that had toiled
full seventy years, and had once known the pleasure of a cheerful
fireside and a full house.
But presently you would hear the patter of little feet, and the
music of children’s voices, and little hands at work with the rusty
door-latch, till open it flew. You would have heard two merry
little creatures shouting, “Granny’s come home! Dear Granny’s come
home!” You would have seen them dancing about her, clapping their
hands, and saying, “O we’re so glad, so glad you’ve come back!”
These are the orphan grandchildren, to feed and clothe whom Old
Aunty is willing to walk so far, and sit so long in the cold, and
earn penny by penny, as the days go by.
She kindles no fire, for it is not winter yet, and the poor can
eat their supper cold; but the children’s love and a well-spent
day kindle a warmth and a light in the good dame’s heart, such as
I fear seldom beams in some of those great stately houses in the
Square.
With such a home, it is not strange that Aunty liked to sit under
the pleasant trees of the Parade Ground (for so the Park was
called), breathe the fresh air, and watch the orderly people going
to and fro. Many stopped to exchange a word with her; even the
police officers, in their uniforms, liked a chat with the sociable
old lady; and the children, on their way to school, were never too
hurried for a “Good morning, Aunty!” that would leave a smile on
her wrinkled face, long after they had bounded out of sight.
It was nearly as good as if Aunty had a farm of her own; for it
is always country up in the sky, you know; in the beautiful blue,
among the soft clouds, and along the tops of the trees. Even in
that dismal, musty street, where she lived, she could see the
sunshine, and the wonderful stars at evening. Then all about the
Parade Ground stood the fine great houses of Washington Square; and
leading from it, that Fifth Avenue, which is said to be the most
splendid street in the world,--whole miles of palaces.
“Don’t I enjoy them all, without having the care of them?” Aunty
used to say.
When we asked if she didn’t grow tired of sitting there all day,
she would answer, “Sure, and who isn’t tired sometimes, rich or
poor?”
“But is not the ground damp, Aunty?”
“I expect it is, especially after a rain; but what then? It only
gives me the rheumatism; and that is _all_ the trouble I have. God
be praised!”
“But it is so cold now, Aunty; so late in November; and you are so
old; it isn’t safe.”
“O, but it’s safer than to have my children starve or turn beggars,
I guess. I have my old umbrella when it rains or snows, and them’s
my harvest-days, you see; for there’s a deal of pity in the world.
And besides, the children in that house yonder, often bring me out
a hot cup of tea at luncheon-time, or cakes of good warm bread in
the morning. Let me alone for being happy!”
But earthly happiness hangs on a slight thread. There came a change
in the city government; Aunty’s good friends among the police were
removed; the new officers proved their zeal by making every change
they could think of. “New brooms sweep clean,” and they swept off
from the Parade Ground, poor Aunty, and all her stock in trade.
But in one of the houses opposite Aunty’s corner of the Park, lived
a family of children who took especial interest in her; Charlie,
Willie, Vincent, and Joanna, and I can’t tell how many more. It
was they who christened her “Aunty,” till all the neighbors, old
and young, took up the name; it was they who, on wintry days, had
offered her the hot cup of tea, and the warm bread. They almost
felt as if she were an own relative, or a grown-up child given them
to protect and comfort.
One morning, Joanna looked up from the breakfast-table, and
exclaimed, “There! Aunty is not in the Park; they have sent her
away!”
The children had feared this change. You may guess how eagerly they
ran to the window, and with what mournful faces they exclaimed
again and again, “It is too bad!” They would eat no more breakfast;
they could think and talk of nothing but Aunty’s wrongs.
It was a bleak December day, and there the poor old woman sat
outside the iron railing, no pleasant trees above her, but dust and
dead leaves blowing wildly about. Charlie said, with tears in his
eyes, “It’s enough to blind poor Old Aunty.”
“It’s enough to ruin her candy,” said Joanna, who was a practical
little body. She had a look in her eyes that was better than tears;
a look that seemed to say, “Her candy shall _not_ be ruined. Aunty
shall go back to her rightful place.”
We did not know about Aunty’s having any _right_ to her old seat;
but we all agreed that it was far better for her to sit near
the path that ran slantwise through the Park, and was trodden
by hundreds and thousands of feet every day; clerks going to
Sixth Avenue, and merchants to Broadway; newsmen, porters,
school-children, teachers, preachers, invalids; there was no end to
the people. Many a cake or apple they had taken from Aunty’s board,
and in their haste, or kindness, never waited for change to the bit
of silver they tossed her.
In New York every one is in such a hurry that unless you are almost
under their feet they cannot see you. For this reason, on the day
of Aunty’s absence, she had the grief of watching many old friends
and customers go past, give a surprised look at her old seat, and
hurry on, never observing her, though she sat so near.
A few, who espied Aunty, stopped in their haste to hear her story
and condole with her. The children found her out, you may be sure,
and gathered about her, telling her how much too bad it was; and
how they should like to set the policemen, Mayor and all, out there
on a bench in the dust, for one half-hour; but what could children
do? So they passed on. Some of the fashionable ladies in the Square
stopped to tell Aunty how they pitied her, begged her not to feel
unhappy, and passed on. Only Trouble stood still and frowned at
her; all the rest passed on.
No, not all; not our little Joanna. She came home with a thoughtful
face, and asked, very energetically, “What do you mean to do about
Aunty? It is a shame that all these rich, strong, grown-up people
on the Square, cannot stand up for the rights of one poor old
woman.”
We told her the city was richer than the richest, stronger than the
strongest.
“O,” persisted Joanna, “if we, or any of them, wanted a new
lamp-post, or a hydrant mended, we should muster strength fast
enough. And now, what’s to become of Aunty and her poor children?
that is all I ask.”
We smiled at Joey’s enthusiasm, and thought it would soon pass
away. When she came home from school that afternoon, with a whole
troop of little girls, we thought it had already passed away. As
they ran down the area-steps, we wondered what amusement they were
planning now. Presently, Joanna came up-stairs, her eyes looking
very bright, and said, “Please give me the inkstand.”
We asked, “What now, child?”
“O, do just give me the inkstand!” said she, impatiently. “We are
not in any mischief; we are attending to _business_”; and off she
ran.
Before very long she appeared again with a paper, her black eyes
burning like stars. “There, mother,--and all of you,--you must sign
this letter, as quick as ever you can. I have made a statement of
Aunty’s case; all the children have signed their names; and now we
are going to every house in the Square, till we have a good long
list.”
“And what then?”
“I shall ask father to take it to the Mayor. He won’t be so
unreasonable as to refuse us; no one could.”
Joanna had written out Aunty’s story, in her own simple, direct
way. She told how this nice, neat, pleasant old person had been
turned out of the Park; how the children all had liked her, and
found it convenient to buy at her table; and how she never scolded
if they dropped papers and nutshells about, but took her own little
pan and brush and swept them away; she was so orderly. She ended
her letter with a petition that the Mayor would be so good to the
children, and this excellent old grandmother, as to let her go back
to her old seat.
If the Mayor could refuse, we could not; so our names went down
on the paper; and before the ink was dry, off ran Joanna. The
hall-door slammed, and we saw her with all her friends run up the
steps of the neighboring houses, full of excitement and hope.