not take the things to the hotel, you know, so we told the men they
might as well bring them here. I suppose they might be removed into the
parlors at once.”
I remarked that my parlors were already as full of furniture as was
desirable, and that their best plan would have been to have had them
removed—at once to some cabinet-makers shop to be repaired, and boxed
for transportation.
“That was what Mrs. Scrooge thought,” returned Mrs. Dilberry, “but we
went to two or three shops and found they charged such different prices,
that I made up my mind to wait, and go round to a dozen at least, till I
could find out where the best bargain was to be made. So you may as well
put them among your own things and have the credit of them till I can
look about a little.”
I had no resource now but to send the chairs to the third story, the
table to the dining-room, and to leave the sofa and piano where they
stood. Whilst her possessions were being moved by the servants, Mrs.
Dilberry ran about the house giving orders as if quite at home.
“Now I must tell you about our tower among the mantua-makers,” said she,
at length settling herself in the drawing-room, and mopping her face
with her handkerchief, after her exercise; “but, girls, why don’t you
follow my example and take your bonnets off? Don’t wait to be
coaxed—Mrs. Allanby don’t expect you to make strangers of yourselves
with her; as we’ve come to spend the afternoon, we may as well be
comfortable first as last. But where was I about the mantua-makers? Oh,
I believe I hadn’t began. Well, a lady at the tavern gave us the names
of three of them, written on a card, with directions where they were to
be found. So we got into an omnibus, in front of the hotel, and were let
out at the corner next to the place that was nearest. We soon found the
house—as I’m alive, a large three-story brick, with marble steps, and
nothing like a sign about it. But the name was on the door-plate, and we
rang the bell. A black boy took us into the parlors, and what should we
see but Brussels carpets, and looking-glasses as tall as yours, and
spring-seated chairs, and a pyanna, and every thing as fine as you
please. ‘Mercy on us, maw,’ says Jane Louyza, ‘there’s nothing looks
like a mantua-maker’s here!’ I thought so myself, and told the girls we
had better slip out before any body came; but Easter Ann would not hear
to it—she said it would look undignified, and, says she, ‘If we are
mistaken, maw, let me make the apology.’
“In a few minutes a lady steps in, dressed in a handsome black silk
wrapper, with a watch at her side, looking as stiff as a poker. ‘We were
told that we would find Mrs. N——, the mantua-maker, here, ma’am,’ says
I.
“‘I am Mrs. N——,’ says she, stiffer, if any thing, than before.
“‘We have three dresses to make, ma’am,’ says Easter Ann; ‘perhaps it
wouldn’t be convenient for you to undertake them?’
“‘I am always prepared to do any amount of work,’ says she.
“‘What may be your charges, ma’am?’ says I.
“‘That depends upon the material, and the style in which it is to be
made,’ says she.
“‘One is a silk, and the other two are balzarines,’ says I.
“‘And we want them made fashionably,’ put in Jane Louyza.
“‘I make every thing fashionably,’ says she, as high as if she was the
president’s lady.
“We had our bundles with us, and we opened them, and though our dresses
are beautiful, considering how cheap we got them, she looked at them
without saying a word, and didn’t even deign to take them in her hands.
‘I want mine made quite plain,’ says I; ‘but my daughters will expect to
have theirs flounced off to the top of the mode—mine’s the silk one.
But we’ll have to settle first what you’ll take to do the job—it’s a
large one, remember, ma’am—three dresses—and it will be nothing but
fair that you should make allowance for that.’
“‘I never make abatement,’ says she; ‘my charge is three dollars for a
plain silk dress, and four for such as the others, if full trimmed.’
“Eleven dollars for making three dresses—just think of it! the girls
looked dumb-foundered, and so was I; but being in the scrape, we had to
get out of it the best way we could. ‘Very well, ma’am,’ says I, making
up our bundles again, and looking unconcerned, ‘we’ll call again when we
get the trimmings.’
“‘As you please,’ says she, more like Queen Victoria than a
mantua-maker; and we walked out in double-quick time, my lady never
condescending to step to the door. ‘She may call us fools if she ever
catches us again,’ says I to the girls.
“Well, we went on to the next. The house looked pretty fine, too, this
time; but under the name on the door was another plate with
‘_Fashionable Dress-making_’ on it, and we thought it didn’t look quite
so stuck up. A girl let us in, and we didn’t find the parlors quite so
grand, though they were stylish enough, dear knows. This was Mrs.
B——’s. She was down stairs herself, waiting for customers, we
supposed, which looked as if she was not above her business, and she had
a table beside her covered all over with fashion-plates and magazines,
like yours, on the centre-table. She was a little, sharp-eyed,
fidgetty-looking woman, with a very pointy nose. She sent away a girl
she was fixing a sleeve for, and came forward to meet us, and gave us
seats, and seemed very sociable.
“‘We have some dresses to be made, ma’am,’ says I; ‘here’s three in our
hands, and it’s likely we may have some more if we can make a good
bargain about these.’ I thought it best to hold out a large inducement
to her.
“‘And I suppose you will want the three without delay?’ said she,
talking very glib; ‘dear me, how unfortunate just at this time! I have
so much work on hand already. I keep twenty-two hands working night as
well as day, and I don’t see how I possibly can get through all that I
have taken in. But, really, I should like to oblige you three ladies—I
always do all in my power to accommodate strangers—you are from the
country, I presume?’
“‘From Tarry-town,’ says Easter Ann.
“‘Ah, indeed! I am very glad to have customers from Tarry-town; I have
made dresses to be sent there several times.’ We could not help looking
at each other, for we had known every dress in Tarry-town for years, and
not one of them had ever touched her hands. ‘I make dresses for ladies
in all parts of the country,’ she kept on; ‘my establishment is very
popular with strangers, because it is known that I make it a point to
accommodate them even at the risk of making sacrifices among my city
customers. Of course, you ought to have your dresses in two or three
days, and I’ll try what can be done. The silk is for you, ma’am, I
perceive,’ and she tore open the bundles; ‘very appropriate, indeed, for
an elderly lady, and the balzarines will make up quite dressy for your
daughters. Look at the plates, ladies—this will suit you, ma’am, quite
plain, but very genteel; the sleeve is particularly proper for a stout
lady; and you, ma’am,’ to Easter Ann, ‘would look best in this, with
flounces pretty high up, as you are tall and not fleshy. You, miss,’ to
Jane Louyza, ‘ought to have front trimming, as you are rather low;’ and
she actually slipped a tape measure round my waist. I was on thorns, for
she hadn’t given us a word of satisfaction about her prices, and I told
her we hadn’t made up our minds yet how we would have them made, ‘and,
beside,’ says I, ‘we must first know what they are to cost.’
“‘Certainly, ma’am, that’s all very reasonable,’ says she; ‘and I know
you wont find fault with my charges—I can perceive at a glance that you
are a lady of property; are you certain that you have enough of the
material?—ladies of your size require a very full skirt;’ and before I
could have said ‘no,’ she had actually gathered up my silk and clipped a
nick in it for a breadth of the skirt.
“‘I don’t think, ma’am, we have time to wait for the dresses to be cut
out,’ says I, ‘we haven’t, neither, got the linings nor the sewing-silk,
nor the other trimmings.’
“‘It will take me but a few minutes,’ says she, making another nick in
the silk, ‘for I cut by a patent measure; and I always find the
trimmings myself—I can then have them to suit me, and, you know, it all
amounts to the same thing in the end;’ and she snatched up a piece of
Holland from the table, and began measuring off a pair of backs. ‘Stop,
if you please, ma’am,’ says I, ‘we’ve made no bargain yet, and it’s
nothing but what I have a right to expect, to know what you are to
charge me.’
“‘It will be difficult to tell,’ says she, ‘before the dresses are
finished—it is not our custom to settle the prices until we have seen
how the work is done.’
“‘But, ma’am,’ says I, ‘I insist upon a rough guess.’
“‘Then let me see,’ says she, ‘supposing we say something like five or
six dollars each, trimmings included, for the young ladies’ dresses, and
four for yours.’
“‘Why, bless my soul!’ says I, ‘I could get cord, and hooks and eyes,
and sewing-silk, and linings enough for all three, for a dollar; and as
to paying five or six dollars for making a dress, I’ll never do it in
the world; it’s outrageous—it’s an imposition,’ and I snatched my silk
out of her hands in short order.
“‘It’s too late, now,’ says she, pert enough, ‘to talk about that, as
soon as the scissors are put in the work, it is considered as taken in.’
“‘It’s we that are taken in, or we came pretty near it,’ says I; and I
bundled the silk under my arm, and the girls took up their balzarines;
but such a tongue-lashing as we got, I never heard the like of it in my
life before; and you may be sure I didn’t take it all quietly—I’m not
very mealy-mouthed; and if it hadn’t been for Easter Ann telling me loud
enough for her to hear, ‘Come along, maw, it’s not dignified to be
disputing with a mantua-maker,’ she’d likely have got the worst of it.
“The girls were so put out that they didn’t want to try any more; but
I’m not one to be brow-beat; I had got my spirit up, and I made them go
on to the next. When we came to the house, there stood two splendid
carriages, with black fellows about them that had gold bands on their
hats, and velvet on their coats, and what not. ‘Don’t let’s go in,’ says
Jane Louyza; ‘I dare say the house is full of customers already;’ and
just then another coach and pair drives up, and two or three girls,
dressed to death, jumps out, and orders their niggers to bring in their
parcels—a whole carriage load, pretty near—so, thinks I, there’s not
much encouragement for us to go in there, sure enough. We came away, and
there hasn’t been a stitch put in our dresses yet.”
I gave my visiters a very early tea, and having no excuse for billeting
themselves on me for another night, they made their departure before
dark. They did not, however, forget to invite themselves for the
following day.
The next morning, greatly to my relief, proved to be very rainy, and
feeling secure from the premeditated inroad, I seated myself cosily at
my sewing. But, alas! a vehicle stopping at the door drew me to the
front windows. I had some expectation of my husband’s return, and
instead of his carriage was a hackney-coach, which had already
discharged its living cargo, and from which two large hair-trunks were
unloading; at the same time the bell-wire cracked to the point of doom,
and the Dilberrys rushed in.
“Here we come, bag and baggage, Mrs. Allanby, to make our home with
you,” cried the old lady, “we have had a grand blow up at the hotel, and
I’m determined, as long as I live, to keep exposing your city landlords
for taking advantage of unprotected females.”
“I hope nothing very unpleasant has happened?” said I, my heart sinking
at the prospect before me.
“I wonder if there hasn’t! What do you think, Mrs. Allanby, of our being
charged twelve dollars a piece for six days’ board?”
“That, I believe, is the regular charge,” said I.
“Well, they’re not coming their regular charges over me again, I can
tell them. Last night we were talking our bargains over in bed, and we
made up our minds that as we could get things so low at auction, we
might as well keep on till we had furniture enough for the spare
bed-room, as well as for the parlors—people in Tarry-town expect
something a little extra from us. We calculated how far our money would
go, and it struck us that we had never found out what we were living up
to at the hotel. So the next morning I told the waiter to bring us our
bill, and what should it be but thirty-six dollars—two dollars a piece
a day, and no allowance for the four meals we had eaten with you, and
the night we had slept here. I sent for the landlord, and spoke my mind
about the bill pretty plainly, letting him know that charging us for
what we had not got was down-right imposition; and I told him he seemed
to suppose we had no friends to see us righted, but that he was
mistaken, for we had brought a letter of introduction to Mrs. Allanby,
and her husband would soon be at home to speak up for us. He cut me
short by telling me that he made no deductions, and that as long as we
hadn’t given up our rooms we must expect to pay as their occupants; and
he walked off as cool as a cucumber. So I sent out for a hack, knowing
you would be glad to have us with you for company, as Mr. Allanby is not
at home, particularly as you have house-room plenty, and servants enough
to wait on your friends. Six dollars a-day, indeed! why we didn’t cost
him one!”
“We are all very small eaters, as you may have observed, Mrs. Allanby,”
said Jane Louisa.
“And though they gave us two chambers with a door between them, we all
slept in one of them,” rejoined Esther Ann.
The visitation now began to have a serious aspect, but what was to be
done? I could not, with truth, make any excuse to get rid of my
obtrusive guests, except that of my want of inclination to entertain
them, and to hint at that would have required more philosophy than I
could command. My only hope now was in the speedy return of Mr. Allanby,
on whose resolution or ingenuity I knew I might rely.
This was Saturday, and the weather remaining inclement, I had to endure
for the rest of the day, and the whole of the next, the uninterrupted
flow of their loquacity, which was a continuous exposition of ignorance,
vulgarity, selfishness and meanness. On Monday morning the old lady,
after some whispering and winking with her daughters, assailed me with,
“We told you, Mrs. Allanby, what a pucker we were in about getting our
dresses made. Before we left the tavern, we went to Mrs. Scrooge’s
room—the old lady, you remember, that took us to the auction; and she
let us know how we might snap our fingers at the mantua-makers. She said
there were women that go out sewing by the day, and that by hiring one
of them, and helping along with the easy parts ourselves, we might have
our dresses made for little or nothing. At the hotel we couldn’t have
done it, for paying board for a seamstress would have been but a poor
speculation; but now that we are in a private family visiting, there
would be some sense in it. I dare say she could sit in one of our
sleeping-rooms, and the little one woman would eat couldn’t be of much
consequence to you.”
“I do not know where such a person could be found,” said I.
“Oh, that is all settled already. Mrs. Scrooge is to call for us to go
to a second-hand furniture store this morning, and she promised that she
would take us to a seamstress that goes out for thirty-one cents a-day.”
Again I succumbed to my inability to say “no.” Mrs. Scrooge did call—a
vinegar-faced old lady, with a voice sharp enough to have given one an
ear-ache; and I learned that the seamstress was engaged, though she
could not come until the latter end of the week. The next day Mrs.
Scrooge came again, and my trio departed to a second auction. The result
of this expedition was another load of furniture, driven up to the door
in the middle of the day. The first article discharged was a sideboard,
capacious enough, almost, to serve as a pantry, with broken locks and an
impaired foot, which fell off in the difficult descent of the main body
from the wagon; then came a dressing-bureau, of scarcely smaller
dimensions, with defective knobs and a low, distorted glass; and,
lastly, a wash-stand, with a cracked marble slab. Mrs. Dilberry stood on
the front steps, superintending their passage into the house, and giving
orders at the top of her voice, when I ran out to protest against their
being carried up stairs, which she was directing—the broken wall of the
entry serving as a warning to me—and to propose their being stored in
the wash-house. Whilst I was endeavoring to make myself heard, my
husband, with a wondering countenance, presented himself before me. In
my joy I dragged him into the first room, and shut the door.
“My dear Mary,” said he, “I was not right certain whether it was proper
for me to come into my own house—what is the meaning of this
commotion?”
I gave him a hurried narration of my trials, at which he laughed
immoderately, as I thought, and at once he opened to me a prospect of
relief. “I have made arrangements with one of my friends,” said he, “to
send you on an excursion of several weeks among the mountains, to
matronize his daughters. The young ladies are now, I suppose, on their
way to meet you with carriage and servants, and, as soon as possible,
you must be off. I shall lose no time to make the announcement to your
visiters. As they have attached themselves to you merely for their own
convenience, there will be nothing unfair in getting rid of them for
ours.”
In half an hour my guests were on flatteringly familiar terms with Mr.
Allanby, to whom they confessed that they had dreaded his return, as
they were afraid they could not feel so “free and easy” if there was a
gentleman in the house. “Now that we have seen you,” observed the old
lady, “we would rather have you here than not; you appear to suit us
exactly, and we will be all the better off for having some one to beau
us about.”
I own I could not myself have had courage to lower them from such a
height of contentment, but my husband was less qualmish, and Mrs.
Dilberry soon afforded him a desirable opportunity to approach the
unexpected topic, by saying, “I suppose if you had known your wife had
found such good company to cheer her up, you’d have been in no hurry to
come back.”
“At least,” returned Mr. Allanby, “I should not have made a positive
promise to send her from home as soon as her trunk could be packed.” He
explained the arrangements he had made, and with all proper courtesy
regretted that they should be peremptory.
“And what do you say, Mrs. Allanby, to your husband taking so much upon
himself without leave or license from you?” asked the old lady, winking
at me.
“That I always consider myself in duty bound to fulfill any engagement
he may make for me, whether agreeable or not,” replied I, taking
courage.
“Indeed!” exclaimed both Mrs. Dilberry and Esther Ann, in a tone of
surprise and pique.
“If I did not know how fastidious you ladies are upon such points,”
resumed Mr. Allanby, “I should beg you to share my bachelor
establishment with me. As it is I must be content to render myself as
useful to you as possible. If you commission me, I shall make exertions
to find a boarding-house where you can be accommodated as comfortably as
with us.”
“You needn’t concern yourself,” said Mrs. Dilberry, tartly; “if I had
wanted to go to a boarding-house, I dare say I could have found one
where we could have lived a great deal cheaper than at any you would be
likely to pitch upon. I got enough of living on expense at the tavern,
and I’ve not made up my mind to pay boarding for the little pleasure
we’re likely to have. We’ve been to the theatre only once, and never
were taken any where else, and there seems to be but precious little
pains spent upon having attentions showed us. I’m one of them that
always speak their minds; and I must say I can’t see where the
politeness is in people, when they have company, running off and leaving
them in the lurch, particularly when they haven’t got their dresses made
or any thing. I shall be careful who I take a letter of introduction to
again.”
The third day after this I was prepared to commence my trip, and my
guests having taken passage for their homeward journey, were to leave
the house at the same time, it having been decided that their furniture
was to be boxed and sent after them. They had comported themselves, in
the meantime, as if under a strong sense of injury, Miss Esther Ann
being frigid and lofty, her sister sullen, and the old lady snappish and
uncivil. The carriage was waiting for my conveyance, when the
stage-coach, well-loaded with passengers, drove up to the door for them.
I had wished them a safe and pleasant journey, offering them my hand,
which they pretended not to observe, and was standing on the door-step
to see them off, when Mrs. Dilberry paused, with one foot on the floor
of the coach, as my husband was assisting her to climb in, and winking
at her daughters, called back to me, “Good by to you, ma’am, and I hope
you may have a merrier time of your trip than we have had of ours. I’ll
not forget to give your love to the doctor’s wife, and let her know how
you honored her letter of introduction.”
A chuckling laugh, which reached me in spite of the grinding of the
wheels as they rolled away, was the last I heard of my wind-fall from
Tarry-town.
* * * * *
DIRGE,
The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.—_Coleridge’s Wallenstein._
Thou art gone!
We shall miss thee when the flowers
Come again with vernal hours,
Brightly though thy roses bloom,
They will whisper of the tomb!
And thy voice will linger still
In the gurgle of the rill,
In the murmurs, low and sweet,
Where the silver waters meet,
In the summer even’s gale,
Sporting with the violets pale.
Meekly will their blue eyes weep
O’er thy still and solemn sleep;
And the wild-bird’s gentle moan
Murmur o’er thy slumbers lone,
Like a viewless spirit’s lay,
Asking of thee Far Away!
Fare thee well!
Thou art gone!
On thy brow, so pale and fair,
On thy dark and glossy hair,
Wreathed in many a shining braid,
Sad, autumnal flowers were laid.
Slowly to thy tomb they bore thee,
Tender farewells murmured o’er thee,
Veiled thee in its silence deep,
In thy last and dreamless sleep.
Where thou liest, soft and low,
Winter spreads his sheet of snow,
Pure and spotless as thy form.
Thou hearest not the surly storm
Sweeping o’er the dazzling wold;
Stars are gleaming, pale and cold,
On thee from the vault above,
Like the watchful eyes of Love.
Fare thee well!
* * * * *
THE FUGITIVE.
BY THE VISCOUNTESS D’AULNAY.
[Most of our readers are familiar with “Claire d’Albe,” the work
spoken of in the following pages, either in the original or as
translated, and will recollect the pleasure its perusal gave
them. Its author is better known in America, however, by one of
her subsequent works, which has been translated into almost
every written language, admired wherever it has been read, and
which has been justly ranked among the first productions in that
department of French literature to which it belongs. We refer to
that affecting story, over which so many tears have been shed,
“Elizabeth, Or The Exiles of Siberia.” In translating the
following account we have been obliged, from its great length,
to condense from the original—leaving out nothing, however,
which was essential to the interest of the story. It will be
recollected that the incidents of our tale took place in 1793,
when France was convulsed by political revolutions.]
“Madam, this is beautifully written,” said an old nurse, looking up with
the familiarity of an ancient and privileged servant.
The person thus addressed was a young woman, clothed in black, so small
and so frail, that at first sight, without doubt, one would have taken
her for a child. She was seated before a table of dark wood, drawn up in
front of a good fire, upon which burned two wax candles, shining upon a
heap of loose leaves, one of which she had just finished writing, and
was then reading. Laughing at the admiration of her nurse, she asked,
“And do you, then, find it so beautiful?”