[_Aside to Nokes._] She's all blood, my dear fellow.
_Nokes [looking toward her in alarm]._ What? Where?
_Sponge._ No, no; don't misunderstand me. I mean she's all high birth.
If I had met your wife anywhere--in an omnibus, for instance--and only
heard her speak, I should have exclaimed, "There's a Montmorenci!"
_Nokes [pleased]._ Should you really, now, my dear Sponge? Well, that
shows you are a man of discernment.
_Robinson [to Susan]._ It is such a real pleasure to us, Mrs. Nokes,
that you speak English. We were afraid we should find it difficult to
converse with you. Sponge is the only one of us who understands--
_Sponge._ Yes, madam, we did fear that since no other tongue is spoken
in courts and camps--or, at all events, in courts--we should have some
difficulty in following your ideas. But you speak English like a native.
_Susan [emphatically]._ I believe you. [_Recollecting and correcting
herself_] Dat is, I do trai mai best. It please my _mari_--my what ees
it?--my husband. He don't talk French heemself--not mooch.
_Nokes._ Well, I don't think you should quite say that, my dear. I could
always make myself understood abroad, you know, though my accent is
perhaps a little anglicized.
_Susan [laughing]._ Rayther so.
[_Guests exchange looks of astonishment._]
_Nokes [with precipation]._ My dear, what an expression! The fact is, my
friends, that madame has a young brother--Count Maximilian de
Montmorenci--at school in England, and what she knows of our language
she has mainly acquired from him. The consequence is, she occasionally
talks--in point of fact--slang.
_Susan [in broken English]._ Cherk the tinklare, coot your luckies, whos
your hattar? [_To Rasper_] Have your moder sold her mangle?
[_NOKES, SPONGE, and ROBINSON roar with laughter._]
_Rasper [aside]._ Confound that Nokes! He must have told her about my
family. [_With indignation_] Madam, I--[_Points by accident to the
portfolio._]
_Susan._ What? you weesh to see mai sketch? Oh, yas! [_Opens the
portfolio; the three guests crowd round it. Nokes comes down to the
front._]
_Nokes [aside]._ I wish they'd take their lunch and go away. They put me
in a profuse perspiration. I know they'll find her out.
_Robinson [with a sketch-book in his hand]._ Beautiful!
_Sponge [looking over his shoulder on tiptoe]._ Exquisite! most lovely!
it's what I call perfection.
_Rasper._ First-rate--only I've seen something like it before. [_Aside_]
If I haven't seen that in some print-shop. I'll be hanged. [_Blows._]
_Susan._ Ha! ha! you halve seen eet beefore, Mr.--_Gasper_? Think of
that, my husband,--Mr. Gasper has seen it beefore!
_Nokes [laughing uncomfortably]._ Ha! ha! What a funny idea!
_Rasper [obstinately]._ But I _have_, though; and in a shop-window, too.
_Susan [delightedly]._ That is superbe, magnifique! I am so happy, _so_
proud! My husband, they have copied this leetle work of mine in London!
[_ROBINSON and SPONGE clap their hands applaudingly._]
_Rasper [shakes his head; aside]._ Dashed if I don't believe it's a
chromolithograph! [_To Nokes_] I say, Nokes, you wrote to us in such
raptures about your wife's hands. Why does she keep her gloves on?
_Nokes [confused]._ Keep her gloves on? You mean why does she wear them
in-doors? Well, the fact is, the Montmorencis always do it. It's been a
family peculiarity for centuries,--like the Banshee. And, besides, she
does it to keep her hands delicate: they're just like roses--I mean
_white_ roses,--if you could only see 'em. But then she always wears
gloves.
_Rasper [grunts disapproval]._ Then I suppose it's no use asking her to
give us a tune on the piano?
_Nokes [hastily]._ Not a bit, not a bit; of course not; and, besides, we
shall have lunch directly.
_Susan [approaching them]._ What is dat, Mr. Gasper? Did you not ask for
a leetle music? What you like for me to play?
_Nokes [aside to Susan]._ How can you be such a fool? Why, this is
suicide! [_To Rasper_] My dear fellow, my wife would be delighted, but
the fact is the piano is out of order. The tuner is coming to-morrow.
_Susan [seats herself at the piano]._ My dear husband, it weel do very
well. He only said we must note "thomp, thomp" until he had seen it; dat
is all. Now, gentlemens, what would you like?
_Sponge [with an armful of music-books]._ Nay, madam, what will you do
us the favor to choose? [_Aside_] There is nothing I love so much in
this world as turning over the leaves of a music-book for a lady of
birth!
_Susan._ Ah, I am so sorry, because I do only play by de ear, here
[_points to her ear_]. But what would you like, gentlemens? Handel,
Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, _it is all exactly de same to me_.
_Robinson._ Oh, then, pray let us have Mendelssohn,--one of those
exquisite Songs without Words of his.
_Susan._ Yas? with plaisir. I like dose songs best myself,--de songs
without words.
_Nokes [aside, despairingly]._ It's impossible she can get out of this.
Now we shall have an _éclaircissement_, an exposure, an explosion.
_Susan [strikes piano violently with both hands, and a string breaks
with a loud report]._ Ah, _quel dommage!_ How stupide, too, when he told
me not to "thomp, thomp"! I am so sorry, gentlemens! I did hope to give
you a song, but I cannot sing without an accompaniment.
_Rasper [maliciously]._ There's the harp, ma'am,--unless its strings
are in the same unsatisfactory state as those of the piano.
_Susan [with affected delight]._ What, you play de harp, Mr. Gasper? I
_am_ so glad, because I do not play it yet myself: I am only learning.
Come, I shall sing, and you shall play upon de harp.
_Rasper [angrily]._ I play the harp, madam! what rubbish! of course I
can't.
_Sponge [eagerly]._ But _I_ can, just a little,--just enough to
accompany one of Mrs. Nokes's charming songs. [_Brings the harp down to
the front, and sits down to it, trying the strings._]
_Nokes [aside]._ The nasty little accomplished beast! He'll ruin
everything. Susan is at her wits' end. [_Aside to Susan_] What on earth
are we to do now?
_Enter SERVANT._
[_In stentorian tones_] Luncheon is on the table! [_Then, approaching
Susan, he adds, in lower but distinct tones_] A lady wishes to see you,
madam, upon very particular business.
_Susan [surprised]._ A lady! what lady?
_Nokes [to Susan, aside and impatiently]._ Never mind _what_ lady; see
her at once, whoever she is: it will be an excuse for getting away from
these people.--My wife is engaged for the present, my good friends, so
we'll sit down to lunch without her.
[_All bow and leave the room, receiving in return from Susan a stately
courtesy. Nokes, the last to leave, kisses his hand to her_.] Adorable
Susan, you have conquered, you remain in possession of the field; but
you must not risk another engagement. I will see to that. Champagne
shall do its work on Rasper--_Gasper_.
_Enter MRS. CHARLES NOKES, neatly but cheaply attired. SUSAN rises,
bows, and looks toward her interrogatively._
_Mrs. Charles Nokes._ I did not send in my name, madam, because I feared
it would but prejudice you against your visitor. I am Charles's--that
is, your husband's niece by marriage; not a near relation to yourself,
you might say, if you wished to be unkind,--which [_with earnestness_] I
do not think you do.
_Susan [distressed, but endeavoring to remain firm]._ Oh, but I do,
ma'am. I wish to be as hard as a stone. [Aside] Only I can't. What a
pretty, modest young creature she is!
_Mrs. C.N._ The poor give you no such severe character, madam; and,
taking courage by their report, and being poor myself, and, alas! having
been the innocent cause of making others poor, I have ventured hither.
_Susan [aside]._ Oh, I wish she wouldn't! I can't stand this. There's
something in her face, too, that reminds me--but there! have I not
promised my husband to be brutal and unfeeling? [_Aloud_] Madame, I am
sorry, but I have noting for you. Mr. Noke, mai husband, he tell me dat
hees nephew is very foolish, weeked _jeune homme_--
_Mrs. C.N. [interrupting]._ Foolish, madam, he may have been, nay, he
was, to fall in love with a poor orphan like myself, who had nothing to
give him _but_ my love,--but not wicked. He has a noble heart. His
sorrow is not upon his own account, but for his wife and child. He has
bent his proud spirit twice to entreat his uncle's forgiveness, but in
vain. And now _I_ have come to appeal to _you_,--though you are not of
my own country,--a woman to a woman.
_Susan [aside]._ Dear heart alive! I'm melting like a tallow candle.
_Mrs. C.N._ I was a poor Berkshire curate's daughter--
_Susan [interrupting hastily]._ A _what_? [_Recollecting herself._] A
poor _curé_'s daughter--yas, yas--in Berkishire, _qu'est-ce que c'est_
Berkishire?
_Mrs. C.N._ It is in the south of England, madam. We were poor, I say,
and I had been used to straits, even before my poor father died. But my
husband has been always accustomed to luxury and comfort, and now that
poverty has come suddenly upon us--
_Susan [interrupting with emotion, but still speaking broken English.]_
Were you considaired like your fader?
_Mrs. C.N._ Yes, madam, very like.
_Susan [anxiously and tremblingly]._ What was his name?
_Mrs. C.N._ Woodward, madam. He was curate of Salthill, near Eton.
_Susan [throwing herself at her feet and kissing her hands]._ Why,
you're Miss Clara! and I'm Susan,--Susan Montem, to whom he was so kind
and noble [_sobbing_]. I'm no more a Montmorenci than you are,--nor half
as much. I'm a workhouse orphan, and--and--your aunt by marriage.
[_Aside, and clasping her hands_]. Oh, what _can_ I do to help them?
what _can_ I do?
_Mrs. C.N. [fervently]._ I thank heaven. There is genuine gratitude in
your kind face. I remember you now, though I am sure I should never have
recognized you, Susan.
_Susan._ I dare say not, Miss Clara [_rising and wiping her eyes_]. Fine
feathers make fine birds. Lor, how I should like to have a talk with you
about old times! But there, we've got something else to do first.
Where's your good husband?
_Mrs. C.N._ In the garden, hiding in the laurel-bed, with Chickabiddy.
That's our baby, you know.
[_Carriage heard departing; they listen. Enter Mr. Nokes, slightly
elevated with champagne, and not perceiving Mrs. C.N._]
_Nokes._ Hurrah, my dear! they're off, all three of them,--all five of
them, for each of them sees two of the others; they have no notion that
your name is Susan--[_sees Mrs. C.N._] I mean Constance. [_Aside_] Oh,
Lor! just as I thought we'd weathered the storm, too, and got into still
water!
_Susan [gravely]._ She knows all about it, husband. That lady is the
daughter of my benefactor, Mr. Woodward, to whom I owed everything on
earth till I met you.
_Nokes [with enthusiasm, and holding out both hands]._ The deuce she is!
I am most uncommonly glad to see you, ma'am, under this roof. [_Aside to
Susan_] She don't look very prosperous, Susan: if there's anything that
money can get for her, I'll see she has it; mind that.
_Susan [aloud]._ She is poor, sir, and much in need of home and friends.
_Nokes [to Mrs. C.N.]._ Then you have found them here, ma'am. You're a
fixture at "the Tamarisks" for life, if it so pleases you.
_Mrs. C.N._ You are most kind, sir, but I have a husband and one
_little_ child.
_Nokes._ Never mind that: he'll grow. There's room here for you and your
husband and the little child, even if he does grow. Where are they? Show
them up.
_Mrs. C.N. runs to window and calls, "Charles, Charles."_
_Nokes [aside]._ I think I've had quite as much champagne as is good for
me; just enough; the golden mean.
_Enter CHARLES with baby, which he holds at full stretch of his
arms._
_Nokes [indignantly]._ You young scoundrel! How dare you show your face
in this house?
_Mrs. C.N. [interfering]._ You sent for him, sir.
_Nokes._ I sent for nothing of the sort. I sent for your husband.
_Mrs. C.N._ That is my husband, sir, and our little child. You promised
us an asylum for life under your roof; and I am certain you will keep
your word.
_Nokes [to Susan, endeavoring to be severe]._ Now, this is all _your_
fault; and yet you promised me never to interfere on behalf of these
people.
_Susan_. Nor _did_ I, my dear husband. You have done it all yourself.
_Nokes [aside]._ It was all that last glass of champagne.
_Charles [giving up the baby to his wife, and coming up with
outstretched hand to his uncle]._ Come, sir, pray forgive me. I could
not enjoy your favors without your forgiveness, believe me.
_Nokes [holding out his hand unwillingly]._ There. [_Aside_] How _could_
I be such a fool, knowing so well what champagne is made of?--Well, sir,
if you have regained your place here, remember it has all happened
through your aunt's goodness. Let nobody ever show any of their airs to
my Susan.
_Charles and his wife [together]._ We shall never forget her kindness,
sir.
_Nokes._ Mind you don't, then. For, you see, it's to her own
disadvantage, since when I die--and supposing I have forgiven you--the
child that has to grow will inherit everything, and Susan only have a
life-interest in it.
_Charles [hopefully]._ I don't see that, sir. Why shouldn't you have
children of your own?
_Nokes [complacently]._ True, true. Why shouldn't we? I didn't like to
dwell upon the idea before, but why shouldn't we? At all events, Susan
[_comes forward with Susan_], I am sure I shall never repent having shot
at the pigeon--I mean, having wooed the Montmorenci, but won THE
SUBSTITUTE.
JAMES PAYN.
NEW YORK LIBRARIES
New York has been accused of being purely commercial in tone, and there
was a period in her history when she must have pleaded guilty to the
indictment. That day, however, is past: she has now many
interests--scientific, artistic, literary, musical--as influential as
that mentioned, though not perhaps numerically so important. Of the fine
arts the city is the acknowledged New World centre, and it is fast
forming a literary circle as noteworthy as that of any other capital.
The latter owes its existence in part, no doubt, to the great
publishing-houses, but has been attracted chiefly by the facilities for
research afforded by those great storehouses of learning, the city
libraries. Few old residents are aware of the literary wealth stored in
these depositories, or of the extent to which they are consulted by
scholars and by writers generally.
There are four large libraries in the city whose interest is almost
purely literary,--the Society, the Astor, the Lenox, and the Historical
Society's,--one both literary and popular,--the Mercantile,--one
interesting as being the outcome of a great trades' guild,--the
Apprentices',--and one purely popular,--the Free Circulating Library.
There are others, of course, but the above are such as from their
character and history seem best calculated for treatment in a magazine
paper. The oldest of these is the Society Library, which is located in
its own commodious fire-proof building at No. 67 University Place. This
library is perhaps the oldest in the United States: its origin dates
back to the year 1700, when, Lord Bellamont being governor and New York
a police-precinct of five thousand inhabitants, the worthy burghers
founded the Public Library. For many years it seems to have flourished
in the slow, dignified way peculiar to Knickerbocker institutions. In
1729 it received an accession in the library of the Rev. Dr. Millington,
rector of Newington, England, which was bequeathed to the Society for
the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, and by it transferred to
the New York Public Library. The institution remained under the care of
the city until 1754, when a company of gentlemen formed an association
to enhance its usefulness by bringing it under private control. They
collected a number of books, and on application the Public Library was
incorporated with these, and the whole placed under the care of trustees
chosen by the shareholders. Believing that "a public library would be
very useful as well as ornamental to the city," and also advantageous to
"our intended college," the shareholders agreed to pay "five pounds each
on the first day of May, and ten shillings each on every first of May
forever thereafter." Subscribers had the right to take out one book at a
time by depositing one-third more than the value of it with the
library-keeper. Rights could be alienated or bequeathed "like any other
chattel." No person, even if he owned several shares, could have more
than one vote, nor could a part of a subscription-right entitle the
holder to any privileges. By 1772 the Society had increased to such an
extent that it was thought best to incorporate it, and a charter was
secured from the crown. In its preamble seven "esquires," two
"merchants," two "gentlemen," and one "physician" appear as petitioners,
and fifty-six gentlemen, with one lady, Mrs. Anne Waddel, are named
members of the corporation. The style of the latter was changed to the
"New York Society Library," and the usual corporate privileges were
granted, including the right to purchase and hold real estate of the
yearly value of one thousand pounds sterling. The Society is practically
working under this charter to-day, the legislature of New York having
confirmed it in 1789. The earliest printed catalogue known to be in
existence was issued about 1758: it gives the titles of nine hundred and
twenty-two volumes, with a list of members, one hundred and eighteen in
all. A second catalogue followed in 1761. During the Revolution many of
the volumes were scattered or destroyed. The first catalogue printed
after the war enumerates five thousand volumes; these had increased in
1813 to thirteen thousand, in 1838 to twenty-five thousand, and the
present number is estimated at seventy-five thousand. Down to 1795 the
library was housed in the City Hall, and during the sessions of Congress
was used by that body as a Congressional Library. Its first building was
erected in 1795, in Nassau Street, opposite the Middle Dutch Church,
and here the library remained until 1836, when, its premises becoming in
demand for business purposes, it was sold, and the Society purchased a
lot on the corner of Broadway and Leonard Street. A building was
completed on this lot in 1840, and the library removed thither from the
rooms of the Mechanics' Society in Chambers Street, where it had been
placed on the sale of its property in 1836. In 1853 a third removal was
made, to the Bible House, its property on Broadway being again swallowed
up by the advancing tide of business. In the same year its present
property on University Place was purchased, on which, two years later,
in 1855, the commodious building which it now occupies was erected, the
Society taking possession in May, 1856. Many features of the Society
Library are unique, to be met with, perhaps, in no other organization of
the kind in the world. Many of its members hold shares that have
descended to them from father to son from the time of the first
founders. The annual dues are placed at such a figure (ten dollars) as
practically to debar people with slender purses. The scholar, however,
may have the range of its treasures on paying a fee of twenty-five
cents, and the stranger may enjoy the use of the library for one month
on being introduced by a member. The market value of a share is now one
hundred and fifty dollars, with the annual dues of ten dollars commuted,
but shares may be purchased for twenty-five dollars, subject to the
annual dues. The library proper occupies the whole of the second floor.
On the first floor, besides the large hall, is a well-lighted
drawing-room, filled with periodicals in all languages, a ladies'
parlor, and a conversation-room. The library-room is a large, airy,
well-lighted apartment, with a series of artistic alcoves ranged about
two of its sides. Here are to be found the Winthrop Collection,
comprising some three hundred curious and ancient tomes, chiefly in
Latin, which formed a part of the library of John Winthrop, "the founder
of Connecticut," the De Peyster Alcove, containing one thousand
volumes, very full in special subjects, the Hammond Library, collected
by a Newport scholar, comprising some eighteen hundred quaint and
curious volumes, and a collection of over six hundred rare and costly
works on art contained in the John C. Green Alcove. This last alcove,
which was fitted up and presented to the library by Mr. Robert Lenox
Kennedy as a memorial of Mr. and Mrs. John C. Green, benefactors of the
Society, is an artistic gem. The sides and ceilings are finished in hard
woods by Marcotte, after designs by the architect, Sidney Stratton.
Opposite the entrance is a memorial window, its centre-pin representing
two female figures,--Knowledge and Prudence,--with the four great poets,
Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Chaucer, in the corners. On the east wall is a
portrait of Mr. Green by Madrazo, and on the west a tablet with an
inscription informing the visitor that, the library having received a
donation of fifty thousand dollars from the estate of John Cleve Green,
the trustees had placed the tablet as a memento of this munificence.
There are books in this alcove not to be duplicated in European
libraries. A work on Russian antiquities, for instance, containing
beautifully-colored lithographs of the Russian crown-jewels, royal
robes, ecclesiastical vestments, and the like, cannot be found, it is
said, either in Paris or London. The scope of the collection may be seen
by a glance at the catalogue, whose departments embrace architecture,
art-study, anatomy, biography, book-illustration, cathedrals and
churches, costumes, decorative, domestic, and industrial art, heraldry,
painting, and picturesque art.