[Who is at a Watering Place.]
NEW YORK, July 12, 1870.
MY DEAR DAUGHTER: How are you getting on, dear? Well, I hope, for you
know I _do_ want to get you off, desperately. Thirty-seven, and still on
my hands! Mr. GUSHER, of the Four-hundred-and-thirty-ninth Avenue, goes
down next Saturday. He will hunt you up. Mr. GUSHER is a nice man--so
sympathetic and kind; and has such a lovely moustache. Besides, my dear
SOPHY, he has oceans of stamps. Quite true, my child, he hasn't much of
anything else, but girls at thirty-seven must not have too sharp eyes,
nor see too much. Do, dear, try and fix him if you can. Put all your
little artifices into effect. Walk, if possible, by moonlight, and
alone; that is, with him. Talk, as you know you can, of the sweets of
love and the delights of home. Dwell on the felicities of love in a
cottage, and if he doesn't see it, dilate on the article in a
brown-stone front, with marble steps. Picture to him in the most glowing
terms the joys of the fireside, with fond you by his side. If he hints
that a fireside in July is slightly tepid, thoughtfully suggest that it
is merely a figure of speech, and introduce an episode of cream to cool
it. Quote vehemently from TENNYSON, and LONGFELLOW, and Mrs. BROWNING.
Bring the artillery of your eyes to bear squarely on the mark. Remember
that thirty-seven years and an anxious mother are steadily looking down
upon you.
Cut SMIRCH. SMIRCH is a worthless fellow. Would you believe it? his
father makes boot-pegs for a living. The house of WIGGINS cannot consort
with the son of one who pegs along in life in this manner! Never. Banish
SMIRCH. Don't let SMIRCH even look at your footprints on the beach.
Then there is Mr. BLUSTER. What is he? Who? Impertinent puppy! Pretended
to own a corner-house on the Twenty-fifth Avenue, and wanted to know how
_I_ should like it? Like it? I should like to see him in Sing-Sing! _He_
own a house?--a brass foundry more like, and that in his face! Keep a
sharp eye on BLUSTER and his blarney. He's what our neighbor GINGER
calls a "beat," whatever that is--a squash, no doubt.
Don't spare any pains, my dear, for a market. I was only twenty-six when
I married the late lamented Mr. WIGGINS. And a dear good man he
was--only I wish he had paid his bills at the corner groceries. How he
_did_ love, my dear--that favorite demijohn in the corner! And then when
he came home at night with such a smile--he'd been taking them all day.
Don't fail to catch somebody. GUSHER, depend, is the man. Money is
everything. Never mind what he hasn't got just under the hat. It is the
pocket you must aim at. What is life and society--what New York--without
money? Say you love him to distraction. Declare your existence is bound
up in his. (Greenback binding.) Throw yourself at his feet at the
opportune moment, and victory must be yours. Impale him at all hazards.
Remember you are thirty-seven and well on in life. Your own loving