Sophia Ann. The mother was as propitious as could have been desired, and
the father, who was swayed in all things by the superior energy of his
wife, acquiesced on this occasion. Tousky Wousky supposed that all the
essential preliminaries were now settled, and that it only remained to
fix a day for the marriage ceremony. He had omitted, however, one little
form. He had not yet asked the young lady herself whether she had any
objection to becoming his bride. Dire was his dismay when, on popping
the question, she rejected him point blank, without hesitation,
reservation or equivocation. He twirled his moustaches, and showed his
teeth in what was meant for a smile irresistible. Strange to say, Sophia
Ann did not rush into his arms. He knelt and rolled up his eyes after
the most approved Parisian fashion. The obdurate, intractable girl
laughed in his face. He rose and attempted to clasp her waist and kiss
her. Sophia upset a heavy piano-stool upon his shins, and, with a face
burning with indignant blushes, left the room.
Tousky Wousky was completely nonplussed. The idea of being rejected by a
“native,” one, too, who had never visited Paris, had not entered into
his calculations. He looked in the glass—surveyed his incomparable
whiskers, and glanced at his blameless legs.
“_Sacrè!_ The girl must be crazy!” muttered Tousky Wousky, as he
finished his examination of his person.
He laid his case immediately before the parents of the refractory young
lady; alluded very pointedly to the numerous countesses and baronesses
who were perishing for him in France, Germany, and Italy—swore that he
had never known what love was till he had met Sophia Ann—and concluded
by avowing the romantic determination to depart instantly for Niagara,
jump into a skiff just above the rapids, loosen it from the shore, and,
with folded arms, glide down over the cataract into the “peaceful arms
of oblivion.”
The parents of Sophia Ann were much shocked at this tragic menace; and
the mother declared that the cruel girl should be brought to her
senses—it wasn’t probable she would ever have such another chance of
becoming a countess—and marry Tousky Wousky _she should_! And off the
old lady started to enforce her commands in person. Sophia Ann was not
to be found. The fact was, she had just discovered that she was in want
of a quantity of muslin, and knowing of no place in the city where she
could procure it of a quality more to her satisfaction, she hastened to
the store of Flash, Fleetwood & Co., and had a long consultation with
the handsome clerk.
“Never mind, Sophy dear,” said Allen, after he had heard the story of
her persecutions, “I have a plan for unmasking him. Do not suppose that
I have been idle since you told me of your mother’s designs.”
And Sophy tripped home and listened very resignedly to a long lecture
from her mother, upon the impropriety of young ladies presuming to
decide for themselves upon matrimonial questions.
One of the consequences of Allen’s plan ensued the very day after these
events.
Tousky Wousky was parading Broadway in all his magnificence. The African
king, whose principal escape from nudity consisted in a gold-edged
_chapeau bras_, never moved among his fellows with a more complacent
feeling of superiority than Tousky Wousky experienced as he strutted
across Chambers street toward the Astor House. His forehead was
contracted in a superb and scornful frown—his whiskers and moustaches
looked black as night—and his half-closed eyes seemed as if they deemed
it an act of condescension on their part to open upon the works of the
Creator. Tousky Wousky swung his cane, and looked neither to the right
nor to the left, except when he bowed to some envied female
acquaintance. As for that highly respectable portion of the human race,
the males, the count rarely condescended to recognize their existence.
He passed them by with supreme indifference. Had he known how many
consultations there had been as to the propriety of knocking him down,
perhaps he would have amended his conduct in this respect.
On the occasion, at which my narrative had now arrived, the count was
interrupted in his promenade by an individual, gaily but not
fastidiously dressed, who accosted him in the most familiar manner.
“Well met, Philippe!” cried the stranger, holding out his hand.
“You are mistaken in the person, sir,” said Tousky Wousky, drawing
himself up, and attempting to look magnificently dignified.
“None of your nonsense, Philippe,” returned the stranger; “don’t you
remember your old fellow-artist, Alphonse? Of course you do. Come—”
“Out of the way, fellow, or I will demolish you with my cane.”
“Be civil, Philippe, and acknowledge me, or I will pull off your
whiskers here in Broadway.”
This threat seemed to operate forcibly upon the count, for, extending
his hand and striking an attitude, he exclaimed, “Alphonse! why how the
devil did you get here?”
“Hush! don’t call me Alphonse. I am Count Deflamzi.”
“The deuce you are! Why, I am a count, too.”
“So I supposed. How do you get on?”
“Brilliantly—and you? When did you arrive?”
“By the last Cunard steamer. Is it possible you haven’t seen me
announced in the newspapers?”
“I never read them. I consider newspapers a bore.”
“Ha! I understand. Beau Shatterly thought the same of parish
registers—‘a d—d impertinent invention!’ So they are—as thus; _Beware
of imposition_: A scoundrel calling himself Count Tousky Wousky, but
whose real name is—”
“Hush! Are you mad?”
“Ah! Philippe! Philippe! The chief cook at Vevay’s always used to say
you would come to the gallows—eh?”
As he revived the recollection of this pleasant vaticination, Count
Deflamzi poked the end of his cane at one of Tousky Wousky’s ribs, in a
manner which partook more of the familiar than the dignified. Poor
Tousky Wousky bent his body to escape the blow, while he looked the
picture of despair—the more so as at that moment old Remnant’s carriage
drew up near the curb-stone, and Sophy’s mother put her head out of the
window to speak to her intended son-in-law.
“Good-bye, Alphonse; I will see you again soon,” said Tousky Wousky,
endeavoring to shake off his unwelcome friend, and darting towards the
carriage.
Deflamzi followed him, and after permitting him to greet Mrs. Remnant,
and receive from her some intelligence in regard to Sophia Ann, he
pulled Tousky Wousky by the skirt, and said; “My dear fellow, this is
really embarrassing. Why don’t you introduce me to the lady?”
“Ahem! Blast the—Oh, yes—certainly—Mrs. Remnant, Count
Deflamzi—Count Deflamzi, Mrs. Remnant.”
“Glad to see you, old lady,” said Deflamzi; and then, at a loss for a
remark to show his quality, he added—“What a devilish vulgar country
this is of yours!”
“An eccentric devil!” whispered Tousky Wousky in Mrs. Remnant’s ear;
“who has a plenty of money and thinks he has a right to abuse every
thing and every body.”
“I am most happy, count, to make your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Remnant,
quite overlooking the puppy’s impertinence in her delight at being seen
conversing with a couple of counts in Broadway.
“The pleasure of meeting Mrs. Remnant to-day is as unexpected as it is
gratifying,” said Deflamzi. “I had intended asking my old friend Rufsky
Fusky here, long since to introduce me, but—”
“Rufsky Fusky!”
“A nick-name, by which he used to call me when we were boys,” said poor
Tousky Wousky hastily, and then, in an _aside_, he muttered to Deflamzi;
“Curse you, Alphonse! I wish you would call me by my right name.”
“What is it?”
“Tousky Wousky.”
“Ah, yes! pardon me,” said Deflamzi; and then, turning to the old lady
in the coach, he continued; “as I was saying, Madam, I had intended
asking my old friend, Whisky Frisky, to introduce me before, but the
good fortune of—”
“Whisky Frisky!”
“You see he will have his joke, Madam,” said Tousky Wousky, making a
painful effort to smile.
“Ha, yes! A wag, I see. Well, I like pleasantry.”
“What I was about to say,” resumed Deflamzi, “simply was, that the
felicitous accident which has made me acquainted with Mrs. Remnant,
enables me to extend in person an invitation, which I had intended
sending through our excellent friend Rowdy Powdy. Shall I have the honor
of seeing you and your charming daughter, with Mr. Remnant of course, at
a small dinner party, which I give at the Globe to-morrow to our
distinguished friend here, Count Hoaxy Folksy?”
Mrs. Remnant was too much fluttered and flattered by this mark of
respect to pay any attention to Deflamzi’s eccentric perversions of his
friend’s name. She eagerly accepted the invitation; and Deflamzi took
his leave of her and Tousky Wousky, with a significant hint to the
latter, that if he did not come too he should be exposed.
“Dinner will be on the table at six. _Au revoir!_” said Deflamzi, bowing
grotesquely, and strutting down Broadway.
“How vastly genteel!” thought Mrs. Remnant.
The next day, at the appointed hour, a select party, consisting of the
two _counts_, the Remnant family, Mr. Allen, and half a dozen
fashionable young men, whom Tousky Wousky remembered to have seen
frequently in society, met in one of Blancard’s pleasant parlors. Mrs.
Remnant was a little puzzled at encountering Allen; but, remembering
that Deflamzi was an “eccentric devil,” she concluded it was all right.
The good lady was placed at one end of the table, and Deflamzi took his
seat at the other. Tousky Wousky and Sophia Ann sat opposite to each
other, near the centre. Soup was handed round in the midst of an
animated conversation, in which Deflamzi, however, did not join. His
manner toward all but Tousky Wousky seemed singularly constrained and
respectful.
As the soup was being passed round, a keen eye might have detected a
piece of legerdemain practised by one of the waiters, in serving Tousky
Wousky. Instead of giving him the plate, which Deflamzi had filled from
the tureen, another was placed before him, which seemed to have been
whisked in a mysterious manner from a side-table, unnoticed of course by
the unsuspecting count.
The minute Tousky Wousky tasted his soup, he dropped his spoon with a
face expressive of the deepest disgust.
“What is the matter, count?” asked Sophia Ann, while a mischievous
twinkle was swimming in her dark eyes.
“Is it possible you can relish that soup?” inquired Tousky Wousky,
regarding her with amazement as she swallowed spoonful after spoonful.
“It is very good, is it not?” said Sophy, looking the very picture of
sweet simplicity.
Tousky Wousky took another spoonful, then suddenly seized a tumbler of
iced water to drown the recollection of the nauseous compound. Turning
to Deflamzi, he said, “What do you call this—stuff, my dear count?”
“It is Soup _à la Julien_ to be sure, and very good.”
“Soup _à la Julien_!” exclaimed Tousky Wousky, “I should call it soup à
la swill-pail. I never tasted anything half so bad. Here, _garçon_! take
this plate away, and tell the cook I shall have him indicted for an
attempt to poison.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
The dinner was a good dinner, and Tousky Wousky was suffered to finish
the remainder of it in peace. Just before the dessert was introduced,
Count Deflamzi was called out by a servant, and begging to be excused
for a few minutes, quitted the apartment. He had not been gone long when
the same servant re-entered and informed Tousky Wousky, that the cook,
to whom he had sent the message touching the soup, desired to speak with
him.
“Show him in! show him in!” exclaimed several voices. “Ten to one, he
means to challenge you, Tousky Wousky, for abusing his soup. Ha! ha!
ha!”
Tousky Wousky began to look pale, but tried to laugh it off, and said,
“Nonsense! I can’t see the fellow now. Tell him to call on me at my
hotel.”
“That won’t do. Show him in, _garçon_, show him in!” cried Tom Cawley,
who was Allen’s principal ally in the plot.
Here the cook burst into the room. He had on a white cap and a white
apron. A white apron was thrown over his shoulder, and his hands were
white with flour.
“Alphonse!” exclaimed Tousky Wousky, starting up with dismay, as he
gazed on the once familiar apparition.
“Count Deflamzi!” ejaculated Mrs. Remnant. “This is indeed eccentric.”
“No more Count Deflamzi, madame, than this is Count Tousky, but plain
Alphonse Fricandeau, gastronomical artist, or in vulgar language, cook,
from Paris.”
“What! isn’t he a count?”
“No, madame; he is a cook!”
“A cook! my salts, Mr. Remnant! Quick, you stupid man!”
“I appeal to the company,” said Tousky Wousky, recovering himself,
“Madame, this is a conspiracy. I can produce letters from the first
noblemen in London—”
“The company shall soon be satisfied on that point,” said Monsieur
Fricandeau. “Eugene, request the attendance of Lord Morvale.”
At the sound of this name, Tousky Wousky sank into his chair quite
unmanned. Lord Morvale soon entered, and after bowing to the rest of the
company, turned to Tousky Wousky, and said, “At your old tricks,
Philippe! Rogue! Have I found you at last?”
“Count Tousky Wousky a rogue! What does it all mean?” asked old Mr.
Remnant, who could not well comprehend what was going on.
Lord Morvale turned to the company, and said, “This fellow, ladies and
gentlemen, who calls himself Count Tousky Wousky, was for two years
chief cook in my establishment, and I will do him the justice to say
that his talents in that vocation are truly respectable. But it seems
that he had a soul above pans and _pâtés_, and one day I found that he
had broken open my desk, taken from it some money and letters, and
decamped. I afterwards met him in Paris, but he was so skilfully
disguised that I did not recognize him; and it was not till Monsieur
Fricandeau apprised me that Count Tousky Wousky was my old cook in a new
character, that I suspected the fact.”
This revelation was listened to without surprise by all except Mr. and
Mrs. Remnant. No better proof of its truth was needed than Tousky
Wousky’s abject appearance. Tom Cawley took Lord Morvale aside and
whispered a few words in his ear, after which his Lordship came forward,
and addressed Mr. and Mrs. Remnant as follows; “Any legal process
against this fellow would from recent events be calculated to make
public certain domestic occurrences in your family, the discussion of
which might prove annoying. I will, therefore, consent to refrain from
molesting him so you will consent to secure your daughter’s happiness by
giving her to the man of her choice, and one who appears to be every way
worthy of her preference. I allude to Mr. Allen, and I take this
opportunity of inviting myself to his wedding.”
The idea of having a live lord present at the nuptials of her daughter,
amply consoled Mrs. Remnant for the loss of Tousky Wousky as a
son-in-law. It was not long before her visions were fulfilled. Lord
Morvale gave away the bride; and a proud day it was for the race of the
Remnants when that memorable event took place.
As for Count Tousky Wousky, I take this opportunity of cautioning the
public against him. He is still prowling about the country under assumed
names, and intends figuring at our principal watering places before the
summer is over. He is quite confident that he will ultimately succeed in
picking up a Yankee heiress, and I should not be surprised any day to
hear of the fulfilment of his designs. The recent example of Captain
S—— has inspired him with new hopes.
It is Tousky Wousky’s intention to visit Portland while the warm weather
lasts. To my certain knowledge he carries letters from his near kinsman,
General Count Bratish Eliovitch, to my gifted and open-hearted friend,
John Neal. Before Mr. Neal lends him his pocket-book and his protection,
I beg that he will peruse a letter in regard to the character of the
count’s endorser, from our minister at Paris, Mr. Cass, to Mr.
Fairfield, Governor of Maine.
* * * * *
FAREWELL TO A FASHIONABLE ACQUAINTANCE.
BY S. G. GOODRICH.
There is a smile which beams with light,
When all around is flush and fair,
Yet turns to scorn when Sorrow’s night
Wraps its lorn victim in despair.
That smile is like the illusive ray
The false, fictitious diamond gives;
Reflecting back the beams of day;
In borrowed light it only lives.
That smile is like the rifled rose,
That on a syren’s breast doth shine;
Oh! who would weep to part with those
Whose smiles are such as this of thine!
And these are friends who call one “dear,”
When Fortune favors all one’s wishes;
Yet when the goddess changes—sneer,
And pick one’s character to pieces.
Poor moths that round the taper wheel—
Addled in light—in darkness fled—
Too poor to crush—too false to feel—
Beneath our scorn—to memory dead!
Yet they may teach a lesson stern—
In the deep caverns of the mind,
To build our castle home, and spurn
The heartless things we leave behind.
Unwept the false, unwept the fair—
To fashion, folly, falsehood, tied—
With truth and love, we now may share
The bliss that flattery denied.
——
Lady, farewell! no more we meet,
My cream, my strawberries, all are banished;
Thy flatteries too are fled, thy sweet,
Fond speeches with my ices vanished.
——
Forgive me if I mourn thee not,
For at a price I know thee willing;
Such souls as thine, fair dame, are bought,
Like cakes and custards, by the shilling.
’Tis thus with thee, ’tis thus with all,
That throng gay Fashion’s trickish mart;
Each has his price, and, great or small,
Cash is the measure of the heart.
Seest thou yon proud and peerless belle,
That saunters through the gay cotillion,
With eyes that speak of heaven? Well—
She’s just knocked down at half a million.
There is the purchaser—a poor,
Mean, craven thing—whose merit lies
In this, his father left him store
Of stocks; and he hath bought those eyes!
Yon maiden, whirling in the waltz—
A salamander that doth live
Unscathed in fire—hath too her faults,
But yet her price is—what you’ll give.
And this is Fashion’s magic ring
So envied, sought—where yet the heart,
Stript of its guises, is a thing
That makes poor, simple Virtue start.
So false within, without so fair.
’Twas here, sweet dame, that first I met thee,
’Tis meet that I should leave thee where
Thou art at home—and thus, forget thee!
* * * * *
SONG.
BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.
When poor in all but troth and love,
I clasped thee to this beating heart
And vowed for wealth and fame to rove,
That we might meet no more to part.
Years have gone by—long weary years—
Of toil to win the comfort now,
Of ardent hopes—of sick’ning fears—
And Wealth is mine! but where art thou?
Fame’s dazzling dream for thy dear sake
Rose brighter than before to me;
I clung to all I deem’d could make
This burning heart more worthy thee!
Years have gone by—the laurel droops
In mock’ry o’er my cheerless brow;
A conquer’d world before me stoops,
And Fame is mine! but where art thou?
In life’s first hours, despised and lone,
I wander’d through the busy crowd,
But now that life’s best hopes are gone,
They greet with smiles and murmurs loud.
Oh! for thy voice—that happy voice—
To breathe its joyous welcome now!
Wealth, Fame, and all that should rejoice,
To me are vain, for where art thou?
* * * * *
THE JOHNSONS.
BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
It was a deceitful thing, but my day of trouble dawned with a promise of
uncommon enjoyment. It was our weekly holiday, and I looked from my
bed-chamber window—merry as a bird, and peculiarly alive to the
beauties of a bright June morning. The sky was warm, blue and cloudless,
the flowers full of sweetness and lying with the dew upon them in its
utmost abundance. The birds were all brimful of melody and the very
gravel walk looked cool and clean with a shower that had swept over it
during the night.
The sun was just up and we were ready with our bonnets on—my
school-mate and I—for Colonel M. had promised us a ride and his phaeton
was at the door.
“Come—come, are you ready,” exclaimed Maria, bounding into my room with
her hat on one side—for she had been taking a run after her mamma’s
dog, Pink, in the garden, and Pink had led her a race through a
raspberry thicket which made a change of slippers necessary, and had
displaced her bonnet as I have said.
“Come, Sophy, come, Tom has driven to the door—papa is in the hall and
the horses are as restless as two wild eagles—nonsense, don’t take that
great red shawl, the morning is beautiful—Come—”
Before Maria finished speaking she had run down stairs, through the
hall, and stood on the door step looking back impatiently for myself and
her father, who was very tranquilly drawing on his gloves as he chatted
to his wife through a door of the parlor where she still lingered by the
breakfast table.
There is no enjoyment like riding, whether on horseback or in a
carriage, providing your equipage be in good taste, your companions
agreeable and the day fine. We were fortunate in all these. There was
not a lighter or more beautiful phaeton in New Haven than that of
Colonel M., and his horses—you never saw such animals in
harness!—their jetty coats, arched necks and gazelle-like eyes were the
very perfection of brute beauty. Never were creatures more perfectly
trained. The play of their delicate hoofs was like the dancing of a fine
girl, and they obeyed the slightest motion of the rein to a marvel.
As to my companions, they were unexceptionable, as the old ladies say;
Maria was a lovely creature, not decidedly handsome, but good and
delicate, with an eye like a wet violet. Her father was just the kind of
man to give consequence to a brace of happy girls in their teens—not
young enough to be mistaken for a brother or lover, nor old enough to
check our mirth with wise saws and sharp reprimands—he was a careless,
good-hearted man, as the world goes, in the prime of his good looks,
with his black hair just beginning to be threaded with silver and the
calm dignity of a gentleman fitting him like a garment. He always
preferred the society of persons younger than himself, and encouraged us
in an outbreak of mirth or mischief which made him one of the most
pleasant protectors in the world, though, if the truth must be told, a
serenade or so by two very interesting students of the Sophomore class,
who played the guitar and flute with exceeding sweetness, and who had
tortured those instruments a full hour the previous night, while looking
unutterable things at our chamber windows, had just given us a first
idea that gray hairs might be dispensed with, and the companion of a
ride quite as agreeable. Nay, we had that very morning, before Pink
deluded Maria into the garden, consulted about the possibility of
dislodging the colonel from his seat in the phaeton in favor of the
flute amateur, for my friend very thoughtfully observed that she was
certain the interesting youth would be delighted to drive us out—if
_we_ could find the carriage, for, poor fellows, they never had much
credit at the livery stables—but Colonel M. had something of Lady Gay
Spanker’s disposition, he liked to “keep the ribbons,” and Maria, with
all her boldness, had not courage to desire him to resign them to
younger hands. I must say that the colonel—though her father—was a
noble looking figure in an open carriage. There was not a better dressed
man about town—his black coat, of the finest cloth, satin vest and
plaited ruffles, were the perfection of good taste, and his driving
would have made the aforesaid Lady Gay half crazy with envy; he would
have scorned a horse that could not take his ten miles an hour, and
without a quickened breath, too. Colonel M. had his imperfections and
was a little overbearing and aristocratic in his habits, but he was a
kind man and loved his wife, child, and horses—or rather his horses,
child and wife, with a degree of affection which overbalanced a thousand
such faults; he was proud of his house, of his gardens and hot-houses,
but prouder of his stables, and would have been inclined to fox hunting
if such a thing had ever been heard of in dear old Connecticut. He was
very kind also to a certain wayward, idle, teasing young school girl,
who shall be nameless, but who has many a pleasant and grateful memory
connected with his residence.