The bindery in which Hattie Butler, with over one hundred other
persons, male and female, worked, was famous for doing very fine
private work, outside of that done for many publishers who had their
work contracted for there. Gentlemen of wealth and taste, who had
rare old works in worn-out covers, and wished them preserved in more
stately dress, frequently brought them there for the purpose of outer
renovation.
So it happened that on the very morning which succeeded the night when
Hattie received the California letter, a fine equipage, from far up
town, stopped in the narrow street which fronted the bindery, and an
elderly, old-fashioned gentleman got out and toiled up the stairs to
the bindery floor with a bundle of some size under one arm.
He was met, quite obsequiously, by Mr. W----, one of the proprietors,
who knew, by past experience, that some nice, well-paying work was in
view, and asked into the office.
“No, no, I am in a hurry,” said the old gentleman. “I want to see
your foreman--I have some French and German reviews here--old and
rare--which are all to pieces and somewhat mixed up. I bought them at
an auction--a regular old bookworm once owned them, but he died, and
his graceless heirs sold off the collection of years for a mere song,
compared to their real value. I wish these properly collated, and bound
nicely for my library.”
“The foreman will wait upon you, Mr. Legare, in a few moments,” said
the proprietor. “Take a seat by this table.”
The man of wealth sat down, and Mr. W---- sent a boy after the foreman.
The latter came and looked over the mixed up and scattered pages with a
perplexed look.
“I’m afraid you can do nothing with them,” said Mr. Legare, noticing
the expression in the foreman’s face. “I am sorry, for I doubt if a
second copy of either work can be found in this city, or indeed in
America.”
“Try, Mr. Jones--try your very best,” said Mr. W----, anxiously.
“I think we can do it, sir,” said the foreman, brightening up. “I
accidentally discovered that one of our girls, Hattie Butler, is a good
linguist--reads German and French as well as she does English--one of
our best and most quiet girls, too.”
“Send for her, please,” said Mr. Legare. “I do so want to preserve
these works in good shape.”
And presently Hattie Butler stood before the trio--one of her
employers, Mr. Legare, and the foreman--calm and lady-like, neat in her
white apron and brown calico dress, her black hair wound in a queenly
crown about her shapely head.
“Hattie, see what can be done with these old reviews,” said the
foreman, with the familiar, bossy style peculiar to too many of his
class.
The young girl took up the French work, and instantly said:
“This is very old. A French review of Dante’s ‘Inferno.’ Some pages, I
see, are misplaced; but if all are here, sir, I can soon arrange them.”
Mr. W---- looked at Mr. Legare triumphantly.
“The German work--can you arrange that also, young lady?” asked Mr.
Legare, looking in wonder at this beautiful girl, so young, working
here, yet evidently a scholar.
Hattie took up the other review, glanced over the pages, and replied:
“Yes, sir. I see that this is a bitter attack on Martin Luther, and
must date with the first ages of the Protestant Reformation.”
“Great Heaven! why, young lady, what are you doing here with such an
education?”
“Working, sir, as thousands do in this great city and elsewhere, for my
daily bread.”
“Sewing folios at the bench, and we have no better in the shop,” added
the foreman.
“Do you understand any other languages?” asked the wondering man of
wealth.
“Italian and Spanish, sir. I was taught by my mother, who was not only
a fine linguist, but had traveled a great deal in the countries where
these various languages are spoken. I was born in Italy.”
“Yet of American parentage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is no place for you, young lady. Your education should place you
in a far higher sphere.”
“Excuse me, sir. Shall I at once go to work to arrange these pages? I
will sew them myself when I have them all right, so there will be no
mistake.”
“Yes--yes--thank you. I will reward you well,” said Mr. Legare, with
unusual warmth, for he was a very steady, precise old gentleman,
generally, in all things.
“Thank you, sir; all pay and emoluments must go to my employers. I
receive my wages--no more.”
And Hattie, with a graceful bow, took up the scattered pages, and went
to her work-bench.
“W----, who on earth is this prodigy? The mistress of five
languages--for she speaks English perfectly, and as pretty and
lady-like as any woman that I ever met.”
The proprietor almost blushed when he said:
“My dear Mr. Legare, she has worked here, I believe, for nearly
two years, at the same bench, and until to-day I never knew her
acquirements. I have often noticed her beauty and extreme modesty, for
she has avoided all intimacies in the shop, but nothing beyond this has
attracted my notice. I never make myself familiar with my hands--seldom
speak to them, except through the foreman. I am as much surprised as
you at this discovery, and shall promote the girl at once, and increase
her wages. Our work has increased so much--private work, like yours,
that as a collator, translator, and arranger, she will have enough to
do nearly all the time. Mr. Jones, you can so inform her, and prepare a
table in some quiet part of the shop, where there is little noise, and
she will not be disturbed.”
The foreman turned away with a bow of acquiescence, but was recalled to
receive directions as to the style of binding required by Mr. Legare
for the new works.
“This young lady--Miss Butler, I believe, is her name--will tell you
what titles to put on the backs, and be sure to have the original dates
of the issue of works there also. I am very particular about that.”
“I know it, sir, and we will be very careful,” said the foreman.
And when the man of wealth and influence turned to leave, Mr. W----
went down the stairs with him, and saw him into his carriage, and
stood bare-headed on the sidewalk until he had driven away.
And this is Republican, Democratic America!
No kings, nor dukes, nor lords here--but to the sovereignty of wealth
the reddest or blackest republican, or the noisiest democrat, bends his
servile knee and cowering head more abjectly than any serf in Russia
bows before the imperial form.
Independence! Bah! ’Tis but a name!