satirical sketch, entitled '_The House of Mourning: a Farce_.' Squire
HAMPER and his lady, personages rather of the rustic order, who have come
up to London from the family seat in the country, in the progress of
shopping in a street at the west end of the metropolis, stop at a
dry-goods undertakers, with a hatchment, and '_Maison de Deuil_,' or House
of Mourning, by way of a sign over the door. 'Mason de Dool!' exclaims the
Squire, responding to his wife's translation; 'some foreign haberdasher's,
I 'spose.' The lady, however, coaxes him to go in; for although she has
lost no friends, she longs to see the 'improvements in mourning,' which
she can do by 'cheapening a few articles, and buying a penny-worth of
black pins.' The worthy pair enter, take an ebony chair at the counter,
while a clerk in a suit of sables addresses the lady, and in sepulchral
tones inquires if he 'can have the melancholy pleasure of serving her.'
'How deep would you choose to go, Ma'am? Do you wish to be very poignant?
We have a very extensive assortment of family and complimentary mourning.
Here is one, Ma'am, just imported; a widow's silk, watered, as you
perceive, to match the sentiment. It is called the 'Inconsolable,' and is
very much in vogue in Paris for matrimonial bereavements.' 'Looks rather
flimsy, though,' interposes the Squire; 'not likely to last long, eh,
Sir?' 'A little slight, praps,' replies the shopman; 'rather a delicate
texture; but mourning ought not to last forever, Sir.' 'No,' grumbles the
Squire; 'it seldom does, 'specially the violent sorts.' 'As to mourning,
Ma'am,' continues the shopman, addressing the lady, 'there has been a
great deal, a very great deal indeed, this season; and several new fabrics
have been introduced, to meet the demand for fashionable tribulation, and
all in the French style; they of France excel in the _funebre_. Here for
instance is an article for the deeply-afflicted; a black crape, expressly
adapted to the profound style of mourning; makes up very sombre and
interesting. Or, if you prefer to mourn in velvet, here's a very rich one;
real Genoa, and a splendid black; we call it the 'Luxury of Woe.' It's
only eighteen shillings a yard, and a superb quality; fit, in short, for
the handsomest style of domestic calamity.' Here the Squire wants to know
'whether sorrow gets more superfine as it goes upward in life.'
'Certainly--yes, Sir--by all means,' responds the clerk; 'at least, a
finer texture. The mourning of poor people is very coarse, very; quite
different from that of persons of quality. Canvass to crape, Sir.' The
lady next asks if he has a variety of half-mourning; to which he replies:
'O, infinite--the largest stock in town; full, and half, and quarter, and
half-quarter mourning, shaded off from a _grief prononce_ to the slightest
_nuance_ of regret.' The lady is directed to another counter, and
introduced to 'the gent. who superintends the Intermediate Sorrow
Department;' who inquires: 'You wish to inspect some half-mourning, Madam?
the second stage of distress? As such Ma'am, allow me to recommend this
satin--intended for grief when it has subsided; alleviated, you see,
Ma'am, from a dead black to a dull lead color. It's a Parisian novelty,
Ma'am, called 'Settled Grief,' and is very much worn by ladies of a
certain age, who do not intend to embrace Hymen a second time.' ('Old
women, mayhap, about seventy,' mutters the Squire.) 'Exactly so, Sir; or
thereabout. Not but what some ladies, Ma'am, set in for sorrow much
earlier; indeed, in the prime of life; and for such cases it is a very
durable wear; but praps it's too _lugubre_: now here's another--not
exactly black, but shot with a warmish tint, to suit a woe moderated by
time. The French call it a 'Gleam of Comfort.' We've sold several pieces
of it; it's very attractive; we consider it the happiest pattern of the
season.' 'Yes,' once more interposes the Squire; 'some people are very
happy in it no doubt.' 'No doubt, Sir. There's a charm in melancholy, Sir.
I'm fond of the pensive myself. Praps, Madam, you would prefer something
still more in the transition state, as we call it, from grave to gay. In
that case, I would recommend this lavender Ducape, with only just a
souvenir of sorrow in it; the slightest tinge of mourning, to distinguish
it from the garb of pleasure. But possibly you desire to see an
appropriate style of costume for the juvenile branches, when sorrow their
young days has shaded? Of course, a milder degree of mourning than for
adults. Black would be precocious. This, Ma'am, for instance--a dark
pattern on gray; an interesting dress, Ma'am, for a little girl, just
initiated in the vale of tears; only eighteen-pence a yard Ma'am, and
warranted to wash.' The 'Intermediate Sorrow Department,' however, derives
no patronage from the 'hard customer;' and we next find her in the
'Coiffure Department,' looking at caps, and interrogating a show-woman in
deep mourning, who is in attendance, and enlarging upon the beauty of her
fabrics: 'This is the newest style, Ma'am. Affliction is very much
modernized, and admits of more _gout_ than formerly. Some ladies indeed
for their morning grief wear rather a plainer cap; but for evening sorrow,
this is not at all too _ornee_. French taste has introduced very
considerable alleviations.' Failing however, in 'setting her _caps_' for
the new customer, the show-woman 'tries the handkerchief' enticement;
exhibiting one with a fringe of artificial tears worked on the border--'the
'_Larmoyante_,' a sweet-pretty idea.' The Squire intimates that as a
handkerchief _to be used_, it would most likely be found 'rather scrubby
for the eyes.' But the show-woman removes _this_ objection: 'O dear, no,
Sir--if you mean wiping. The wet style of grief is quite gone out--quite!
The dry cry is decidedly the genteel thing.' No wonder that the Squire, as
he left the establishment with his 'better half,' was fain to exclaim:
'Humph! And so that's a Mason de Dool! Well! if it's all the same to you,
Ma'am, I'd rather die in the country, and be universally lamented after
the old fashion; for, as to London, what with the new French modes of
mourning, and the 'Try Warren' style of blacking the premises, it do seem
to me that before long all sorrow will be sham Abram, and the House of
Mourning a regular Farce!' . . . A _Canadian Correspondent_, in a few
'free and easy' couplets, advises us how much we have lost by declining a
MS. drama of his, which he is hammering out on the anvil of his brain. We
subjoin a few lines of 'The Angry Poet:'
'THE _damper_, the _draft_ of my drama you've checked;
You've stunted my laurels--my rich cargo wrecked!
That cargo! O! never was galleon of Spain
Thus freighted, by winds wafted over the Main!
There were stuffs, and brocades, and rich laces and blonde;
There were Damascene blades, and thy silks Trebisond;
There was armor from Milan, both cuirass and helm,
Abelards, Eloisas, and Father Anselm:
There were jewels, and gold, and the amulet's power,
A hero to spout, and to rant by the hour;
A lady to love, and be loved, and to faint,
As a matter of course, turning pale through her paint!
There were clowns who the grave-digger clown could outvie,
And princes who on the stage strutted so high
That Prince Hamlet they'd _cut_; who could pick up a scull,
Vote his morals a bore, and his wit mighty dull!
There were spirits that roam in the caves of the deep,
Coming back to our earth, as ghosts will do, to peep!
A king of the Cannibals--warriors, a host;
And a city with domes, mid the dim waters lost:
There was some one descended from BRIAN BORU;
For Pleasaunce a hunchback, in French 'Un Tortu;'
Every scene was an episode--tragic each act;
Winding up with swords clashing, or pistols well cracked.'
* * * * *
WE have just received the following from an esteemed correspondent, who
transcribes it verbatim from the familiar letter of a friend. If we have a
solitary reader who can peruse it without emotion, let him confine his
indifference within his own cold bosom:
'I HAVE just returned from the funeral of poor EMMA G----, a
little girl to whom I had been for years most tenderly attached.
As there was something very touching in the circumstances
connected with her death, I will relate them to you. She was the
daughter of a widow, a near neighbor of mine. When I first knew
her, she was a sprightly child of about four years of age, perfect
in form and feature. The bloom of health was on her cheek; her eye
was the brightest I ever saw; while in her bosom there glowed a
generous affection that seemed to embrace all with whom she came
in contact. But when she reached her seventh year, her health
began to decline. The rose suddenly paled on her cheek, and her
eye had acquired prematurely that sad, thoughtful expression which
gives so melancholy a charm to the features of wasting beauty. Her
mother looked on with an anxious heart and at an utter loss to
account for so sudden a change in her health. But soon a new
source of anxiety appeared. While dressing her one day, she
observed on EMMA'S back, just between the shoulders, a small
swelling, of about the size of a walnut. As she watched this spot,
and observed that it grew larger from day to day, the mother began
to have sad misgivings. These however she kept to herself for a
time. Soon afterward, a slight stoop in her gait became visible.
The family physician was now called in, and the worst forebodings
of the mother were confirmed. Her idolized child was fast becoming
a hump-back!
'I will not attempt to describe the feelings of the mother, who
was thus doomed to witness from day to day the slow growth of that
which was to make one so dear to her a cripple and a dwarf.
Suffice it to say, her love as well as care seemed to be
redoubled, and EMMA became more than ever the child of her
affections. Nor did her little companions neglect her when she
could no longer join in their out-door sports, and her own
sprightly step had given place to a slow, stooping-gait, and the
sweet ringing voice to a sad or querulous tone, that sometimes
made the very heart ache. On the contrary, all vied with each
other in administering to her amusements. Among them, none clung
to her with more assiduity than her brother WILLIAM, who was the
nearest to her own age. He gave up all his own out-door play, in
order to be with her, and seemed never so happy as when he could
draw a smile, sad though it was, from her thoughtful features. But
after a while, EMMA grew wayward under her affliction; and
unfortunately, though generally good-natured, WILLIAM had a quick
temper, to check which required more self-command than commonly
falls to one so young. Sometimes, therefore, when he found plan
after plan, which he had projected for her amusement, rejected
with peevish contempt, he could hardly conceal from her his own
wounded feelings. Yet, though at times apparently ungrateful, EMMA
was perhaps not so in fact; and she loved her brother better than
any one else, save her mother. It was only in moments when her too
sensitive nature had been chafed perhaps by her own
reflections--for like the majority of children in her
circumstances, she was thoughtful beyond her years--that her
conduct seemed unkind. And then, when she marked the clouded
expression of her brother's face, she would ask forgiveness in so
meek a spirit, and kiss his cheek so affectionately, that he
forgave her almost as soon as offended.
'Years thus passed on, when one day, after she had been more than
usually perverse and fretful, WILLIAM, who had been reading to
her, on receiving some slight rebuff, started suddenly from his
seat by her side, called her '_a little hunch-back_,' and left the
room. In a moment, however, his passion subsided, and returning,
he found his sister in tears. He attempted to put his arm around
her neck, but she repulsed him, and slipping away, retired to her
own chamber. Her mother soon after learned what had happened, and
going to EMMA, found her upon the bed in a paroxysm of grief. She
endeavored to soothe her feelings, but in vain; she refused to be
comforted. 'I want to _die_, mother,' she replied to all her
endearments; 'I have long felt that I was a burden to you all.'
She cried herself to sleep that night, and on the morrow was too
ill to rise. The doctor was called in, and warned the mother
against an approaching fever. For three days she remained in an
uncertain state; but on the fourth, the fever came in earnest, and
thenceforth she was confined to her pillow.
'In the mean time, the grief of WILLIAM had been more poignant
even than that of his sister. Thrice he had been to her bedside to
ask her forgiveness, and kiss once more her pallid cheek; but she
turned her face resolutely away, and refused to recognize him.
After these repulses he would slowly leave the room, and going to
his own chamber, sit brooding for hours over the melancholy
consequences of his rashness. Owing to the previous enfeebled
health of EMMA, the fever made rapid progress, and it soon became
apparent that she must die. WILLIAM, in consequence of the violent
aversion of his sister, had latterly been denied admittance to the
chamber, though he lingered all day about the door, eagerly
catching the least word in regard to her state, and apparently
unmindful of all other existence.
'One morning there was evidently a crisis approaching; for the
mother and attendants, hurrying softly in and out the sufferer's
chamber, in quick whispered words gave orders or imparted
intelligence to others. WILLIAM saw it all, and with the quick
instinct of affection, seemed to know what it foreboded. Taking
his little stool, therefore, he sat down beside the chamber-door,
and waited in silence. In the mean time, the mother stood over the
dying child, watching while a short unquiet slumber held her back
for a little while longer. Several times a sweet smile trembled
round the sufferer's lips, and her arms moved as if pressing
something to her bosom. Then she awoke, and fixing her eyes upon
her mother, whispered faintly, 'I thought WILLIAM was here.' A
stifled sob was heard at the door, which stood partly open. Mrs.
G---- stepped softly out, and leading WILLIAM to the bed-side,
pointed to his dying sister. He threw himself upon her bosom, and
pressing his lips to her pale cheek, prayed for forgiveness. EMMA
did not heed him; but looking again in her mother's face, and
pointing upward, said softly: 'I shant be so _there!_--shall I,
mother?'
'No, my poor child!' replied the weeping parent; 'I hope not. But
don't talk _so_, EMMA. Forgive your poor brother, or you'll break
his heart.'
'EMMA tried to gasp something; but whatever it was, whether of
love or hate, it never reached a mortal ear. In a few moments she
was no more.'
* * * * *
WE take your amiable hint, good 'P.' of S----, and shall venture the
forfeit. That our own 'humor is no great shakes,' we very cheerfully
admit--so that there is an end to _that_ 'difference of opinion.' 'P.'
reminds us of an anecdote which we had not long since from a friend.
'There, take that!' said a would-be facetious doctor to a patient, whom he
had been boring almost to extinction with what he fancied to be humor;
'take it; 't will do you good, though it _is_ nauseous.' 'Don't say a word
about _that_,' said the patient, swallowing the revolting potion; 'the man
who has endured your _wit_, has nothing to fear from your _physic!_' . . .
'C. M. P.'s parody on '_Oh no, I never mention Him_,' is a very
indifferent affair, compared with HOOD'S transcript of that well-known
song. We remember a stanza or two of it:
'OH, no, I never mentioned it,
I never said a word;
But lent my friend a five-pound note,
Of which I've never heard.
He said he merely borrowed it
To pay another debt;
And since I've never mention'd it,
He thinks that I forget!
'Whene'er we ride, I pays the 'pike;
I settles every treat;
He rides my horse, he drives my cab,
But cuts me when we meet.
My new umbrell' I lent him too,
One night--'t was very wet;
Though he forgets it ne'er came back,
Ah, me! _I_ don't forget!'
* * * * *
THE kite-season has opened with great activity. Did you ever remark,
reader, when Nature begins to waken from her winter-sleep; when the woods
'beyond the swelling floods' of the rivers begin to redden; when the first
airs of spring assume their natural blandness; when ladies are out with
their 'spring hats' and carmen with their spring-carts; when the snow has
left us, and the city-trees are _about_ leave-ing; how innumerous kites
begin to thicken in the air? Yonder a big unwieldy fellow rises with calm
dignity, trailing his long tail with great propriety behind him; here a
little bustling creature ducks and dives, coquetting first on this side,
then on that; until finally turning two or three somersets, it almost
reaches the earth; but soon rises at a tangent, and sails far up into the
bright blue firmament. Look! the air is full of them! It is a charming
amusement, this kite-flying of the boys. We greatly affect it, even now,
although we are 'out of our 'teens!' There is something ethereal in it;
some thing that lifts up the young admiration
'To that blue vault and sapphire wall
That overhangs and circles all,'
and the mysterious realm that lies beyond its visible confines. . . . WE
select from the '_Random Reminiscences of a Retired Merchant_' a single
passage; the entire article being quite too short for any other department
of our work: 'There once flourished in one of our commercial cities a
little French merchant, who was very well known to every man and boy by
the fact of his being always followed by a curly-haired yellow dog with
his tail 'cut a little too short by a d----d sight!' During the last war,
our little Frenchman was doing a very thriving business in the dry-goods
line, and was supposed to be a little sharper at a bargain than any of his
fellow-tradesmen. There also flourished at the same time, in the same
city, an importing merchant of Yankee origin, who was noted as a
long-headed, close-fisted dealer. It is well known that during the war
English goods were sold at enormous prices. The Yankee merchant was in
that line of trade; and a few days before the arrival in this country of
the news of peace, he received private advices from the Continent which
led him to anticipate it. As he had a large supply of English goods on
hand at the time, the prices of which would of course instantly fall, he
set about disposing of them as soon as possible to his less informed and
unsuspecting customers. The little Frenchman was one of his victims. After
much haggling, and the offer of a long credit, the importer effected a
bill of sale of goods to him, to the amount of something like twenty
thousand dollars, taking his notes on long time in payment. These he
considered perfectly good, of course, as his customer's reputation in the
money-market was unsullied. The bargain being consummated, the two friends
parted, each in a capital humor with himself; the Yankee to deposit the
notes in his strong box, and the Frenchman to his store, where, receiving
his newly-purchased goods, he immediately commenced marking them one
hundred per cent. above cost, thus making before midnight, to use his own
boast, a _profit_ of twenty thousand dollars on his purchase! Three days
afterward the official news of peace came; English goods instantly fell
one half, and our little Frenchman awoke in horror from his dream of cent.
per cent. Nine persons out of every ten under such circumstances would
have failed at once. But _nil desperandum_ was the motto of our Frenchman.
He saw that he had been '_bit_' by his commercial friend, and he
immediately set his wits at work to turn the tables upon him. So, late in
the evening of the next day he repaired to the dwelling of the importer,
and told a long and pitiful story of his embarrassments. He said his
conscience already smote him for making so heavy a purchase while in
failing circumstances, and that he had come to make the only reparation in
his power; namely, to yield up the goods obtained of the importer, on the
latter's cancelling the notes given therefor. The Yankee at first
demurred; but on the Frenchman insisting that he was a bankrupt, and that
he feared the moment he opened in the morning the sheriff would pounce
upon him with a writ that would swallow up every thing, he finally agreed
to the proposition. 'Half a loaf was better than no bread,' he thought;
and so the notes and the bill of sale were accordingly cancelled. By
daylight in the morning the Yankee was at the Frenchman's store, with his
teams, as had been agreed upon the night before, and every package of his
goods was soon removed. The two merchants again parted, the Frenchman with
a mind relieved of a heavy load, and the Yankee rather down in the mouth
at the result of his trade. Two or three days afterward, as the importer
was passing the Frenchman's store, he observed his sign still up, and
every thing apparently as flourishing as ever. He stepped in to see what
it all meant. 'Hallo! Mr. S----,' said he, 'I thought you had failed!'
'_Failed!_' repeated the Frenchman, thrusting his thumbs in the arm-holes
of his vest, and sliding his legs apart from counter to counter, till he
resembled a small Colossus of Rhodes: '_Failed?_ No, be gar! Firmer than
ever, Mr. H----, but I _should_ have failed, _almosht_, if I hadn't got
rid of dem tamn'd English goods at cost!' Straitway the out-witted Yankee
'departed the presence!'' . . . IT has been generally supposed that the
oratorical efforts of 'Major POGRAM,' as described by Mr. DICKENS in a
late number of his 'Chuzzlewit,' rather carricatured even the worst
specimens of western eloquence; but the subjoined passage from the speech
of a Mr. MAUPIN in the Indiana legislature, upon the subject of
establishing a tobacco warehouse and inspection at Paducah, seems to
militate against the validity of this 'flattering function:'
'MR. SPEAKER: I feel incompetent to measure this comprehensive
subject. Were my thoughts as deep as the Mississippi, and as clear
as the Ohio, I could not grasp its whole magnitude. It requires a
mighty mind; one that can look beyond the landscape; he must be
able to look even beyond the ocean; to grapple with all the
intricacies and winding convolutions of the subject, and to map in
his mind the whole length and breadth of its territories. Here,
Sir, is a river, whose broad and deep stream meanders from Paducah
through one of the most fertile tobacco countries in the world, to
Ross's landing, and at the terminus of the great Charleston
railroad, and possessing a steam navigation of eight hundred
miles, and giving commercial facilities to the briny ocean. Behold
this vast channel of commerce; this magnificent thoroughfare of
trade; one grand, unbroken chain of inter-communication, like to a
prodigious sarpent, with his head resting upon the shores of
Europe, and his lengthened form stretching over the ocean and
curling along this great winding stream in serpentine grandeur,
proudly flaps his tail at Paducah! . . . SIR, the ball is in
motion; it is rolling down in noise of thunder from the mountain
heights, and comes booming in its majesty over the wide-spread
plain. Yes, Sir, and it will continue to roll on, and on,
gathering strength and bulk in its onward progress, until it
sweeps its ponderous power to the town of Paducah, and there stand
a towering monument of patriotic glory and sublime grandeur, with
the noble American eagle proudly perched upon its cloud-capped
summit, and gazing with swelling pride and admiration down upon
the magnificent spectacle of the greatness of human wisdom and
power!'
* * * * *