smoked up as yours is.”
“It was a glorious trick!”
“That it was, and I advise you to try it upon Mr. Washburn.”
“I! I couldn’t take a pinch of snuff any more than I could swallow an
elephant.”
“Smoke, then. There are some nice little cigars sold at the
apothecaries, made on purpose for ladies. They are so mild that they
wouldn’t make you sick; though, even if they did, you wouldn’t mind, so
they cure your husband of smoking.”
“It seems too bad to play such a trick upon him--he is always so kind,
and permits me to do just as I please,” said the tender-hearted Mrs.
Washburn.
“What else could he do?”
“It looks kind of mean to me.”
“Not a bit.”
“I don’t know as it would succeed.”
“Nonsense! I am sure it would. He never would let you smoke, for these
husbands have an awful horror of any impropriety in their wives.”
“Then, he says he has always smoked, and can’t leave it off.”
“Pshaw! The old story!”
“I am almost tempted to try it.”
“I would.”
“It seems so unkind, though, that I have hardly the heart to do it.”
“You are notional, my dear Mrs. Washburn. When you have been married--”
The remark was broken off by the abrupt entrance of the “abominable
wretch” himself. Mrs. Washburn rose as he entered, and in spite of the
abominable odor that his breath must have exhaled, printed a kiss upon
his tobacco-stained lips.
The lady “who had been married several years” was disgusted, and after
a few words concerning the weather, took her leave.
_CHAPTER II._
Mrs. Washburn was a pretty, affectionate, gentle-hearted wife. Her
whole existence was bound up in her husband, as well it might be; for
never was husband more devoted to his wife than he was. To our mind she
was a model wife; none of your stormy vixens, that set their hearts
upon attaining a point, and will pull the house down upon your head but
they _will_ attain it.
In her eye, Mr. Washburn had only one fault; and that was the
villainous habit of smoking, which all her eloquence had been powerless
to overcome. She didn’t “put her foot down,” as her friend, Mrs.
Volant, had done; for--poor, gentle-hearted creature--she couldn’t
think of provoking a quarrel with him, and had about concluded to make
the best of it, and let him smoke in peace.
But there was something so irresistibly funny about Mrs. Volant’s plan,
that she determined to try it, and, accordingly, on the afternoon of
the next day, she sent the Irish girl to the apothecary’s shop for a
bunch of “Bagdad cigars.” Disposing a few of them in her work basket,
ready for the momentous occasion, her mind pictured the scene that
would ensue when she should light one of them. It was so funny that
she laughed out loud at the idea. Wouldn’t he be surprised to see her,
who had teased him so much to leave off smoking, commence the practice
herself! Wouldn’t his eyes stick out, when he should see her puffing a
cigar at her sewing, as he did when he read the evening paper!
She was so pleased with the plan, that she would have put it in
execution, even if it had been only for the sport it promised her,
independently of any good result which might flow from it. Wouldn’t he
beg her to smoke no more! Wouldn’t he be mortified, and wouldn’t she
win the day, and glory over his defeat! Wouldn’t he be glad to promise
her that he wouldn’t smoke another cigar as long as he lived! She was
so delighted that she could hardly contain herself.
Mr. Washburn came home to tea, and, as usual when he entered the house,
he gave her a kiss, and a tender greeting. They were seated at the tea
table; Mrs. Washburn was so full of mirth, that she came near scalding
herself with the hot tea when she poured it out. Her merry, mischievous
laugh rang pleasantly on her husband’s ear, who, poor fellow, could
have had no idea of the terrible ordeal through which he was doomed to
pass.
When tea was over, the astral lamp transferred to the lightstand, and
Mr. Washburn had stretched himself into a comfortable position in the
large easy rocking chair, with his legs lazily reposing in another
chair, the everlasting cigar was produced, lighted, and began to
diffuse its fragrance through the room.
Mrs. Washburn could hardly control her inclination to burst into a
laugh at the mere thought of what she was about to do. Seating herself
at the side of the table opposite her husband, she took from the
work basket, with an air as brave and solemn as a judge, one of the
“Bagdads.” Placing the filthy roll between her ruby lips, she glanced
at her husband.
“Now, Mr. Smoker,” thought she,--it would have spoiled the joke to
have said it,--“we will see whether you don’t abandon that nasty habit.”
Mr. Washburn happened to glance at her; but, contrary to her
expectation, he manifested no surprise, and went on reading the
Transcript.
“So, so, Mr. Smoker,” thought she again, “you think I am joking, do
you? I will soon convince you;” and the lady took a taper, and applied
a light to the cigar.
But Mrs. Washburn was rather inexperienced in the _modus operandi_
of lighting a cigar, and she was unable to make it “go.” She lit
another taper, and puffed away with all her might; but the Bagdad was
as resolute as the great caliph himself. She persevered, till her
extraordinary exertions again attracted the attention of Mr. Washburn.
“You are lighting the wrong end, my dear,” said he, with the utmost
_nonchalance_.
“How provoking he is!” thought Mrs. Washburn. “Why don’t he
remonstrate?”
“You should bite off the twisted end, and then put it in your mouth,”
continued the husband, turning to the paper again.
Aided by these directions, the lady took another cigar, which she
succeeded in lighting. The first taste of the tobacco smoke was
horrible; but she had determined to be a martyr for her husband’s sake;
and taking her sewing, she continued to puff away as she plied her
needle, till a certain nausea compelled her to abandon the experiment
for that time. Casting the Bagdad into the grate, she began to wish she
had not listened to Mrs. Volant.
“What is the matter, my dear? Wasn’t it a good cigar? Try mine; they
are Monte Christos of the first quality,” and the imperturbable Mr.
Washburn offered her a choice from his case.
“No, I thank you, my dear; I will not smoke any more to-night.”
“But what’s the matter, Mary? You are as pale as a sheet!”
“I feel a little faint; I shall be better in a moment,” and Mrs.
Washburn was obliged to leave the room.
Poor woman! she was sick all the evening! But the next day, Mrs.
Volant, who had called to learn the success of the experiment, advised
her to try again, assuring her it would not make her sick the second
time.
_CHAPTER III._
Mr. Washburn had a couple of his intimate friends at his house to play
a game of whist the next evening, and the devoted wife resolved to try
the effect of a smoke in their presence.
When the party were seated, Mr. Washburn passed round his cigar case.
“Won’t you smoke, my dear?” asked he, tendering the cigars to his wife.
“I will; but you know, Joseph, that I never smoke _your_ cigars; they
do not suit my taste.”
Whew! that was cool!
Mrs. Washburn lit a Bagdad.
“Is it possible you smoke, Mrs. Washburn?” asked Mr. Barnes, astonished
at the singular spectacle of a woman puffing away at a cigar, for all
the world, like a loafer in a bar room.
“Occasionally, just to please my husband,” replied Mrs. Washburn, after
she had blown out a long wreath of blue smoke.
“Yes, Barnes,” interposed Mr. Washburn; “it is more sociable, you know,
to have company when one smokes. We are generally alone in the evening,
and she is so kind as to smoke with me. Ah, Barnes, teach _your_ wife
to smoke, it is so pleasant to smoke with one’s wife.”
The lady was thunderstruck. Was it possible that he had no more respect
for the proprieties of life than that? She smoke? She had already
acquired the reputation of being a smoker, without having produced any
of the anticipated good results.
Mrs. Washburn threw the lighted Bagdad into the stove. She had almost
cried with vexation.
“Not smoke, my dear?” said her husband.
“I think you can be sociable to-night, if I don’t smoke.”
“_Do_ smoke, my dear; it gives me so much pleasure to see _you_ enjoy a
good cigar.”
“That’s too bad, Joseph.”
Mr. Washburn laughed outright, and throwing down his cards, explained
the event of the preceding evening.
“I will own up; I did it to break him of the habit. I give it up!”
When the gentlemen had taken their leave, Mrs. Washburn explained by
whose advice she had adopted the plan.
“Mrs. Volant has the reputation of being a perfect shrew. Her husband
is a laughing stock for all State Street. She is a bad adviser.”
“How slick you have turned the joke upon me!” said Mrs. Washburn,
laughing heartily.
“To tell the truth, I overheard some of your conversation when the plot
was laid.”
“O, ho! you did? No wonder it failed, then.”
“I did; but, Mary, are you so very much against my smoking? I love the
weed, but I love you more;” and Mr. Washburn kissed her tenderly.
“Nay, I will say no more about it. Perhaps I was selfish.”
“Not selfish; I will leave it off, my dear, for your sake.”
“No, no; I don’t want you to do so. If you are so very fond of smoking,
I never will say another word about it.”
And Mr. Washburn has smoked his cigar in peace ever since.
“OUT OF BUSINESS;”
OR,
THE HISTORY OF A SPLENDID “BUST-UP.”
_CHAPTER I._
“Out of business, are you, Ned? Well, that is bad,” said Mr. Joseph
Murdock, a stock broker, to his nephew.
“Decidedly bad.”
“But why did you leave Green & Smith? That is a good concern.”
“Salary was too small.”
“Better than you get _now_, at all events,” replied the worthy old
gentleman, with a look of displeasure.
“Couldn’t pay my way on it.”
“Not on five hundred dollars!” and ‘uncle Joe,’ as he was commonly
called, held up both hands in astonishment.
“I am in debt at this moment,” returned Ned, with a rueful glance at
his uncle.
“And likely to be. Of course you don’t expect to pay your debts by
wandering about the streets.”
“I expect to find business again.”
“You do not expect to get five hundred dollars the first year, do you?”
“I intend to strike for a thousand.”
“Strike! you won’t hit it.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
“Ned, you are going to the deuse as fast as high living and dissipation
in general will carry you.”
“Why, uncle, I’m sure you don’t know me.”
“Sit down, Ned; let us talk it over. I want a young man in my office,
and perhaps we can make a trade.”
“Thousand dollars, uncle Joseph;” and Ned Murdock attempted to look sly.
“Not out of me, Ned.”
“Can’t live on less.”
“Better die then. I want a young man to assist my bookkeeper, run of
errands----”
“An errand boy, you mean;” and Ned felt hurt at the slight put upon his
dignity.
“An errand boy, then. My clerk intends to go into business for himself
one of these days, and if you are attentive to business, here is an
opportunity to advance yourself;” and uncle Joe looked seriously into
the face of his nephew.
“What is the salary?”
“Four hundred, for the present.”
“I should starve on it.”
“Live within your means. When I was of your age, I lived on two
hundred.”
“Times have changed since then.”
“What do you pay for board, Ned?”
“Six dollars a week. I board at a hotel.”
“Six dollars a week! Ned, you are crazy;” and uncle Joe’s eyes stuck
out “like two tallow candles.”
“Two of us room together in the attic, so that they board us low.”
“Should think they did--low for them, but high for you. Costs you a
hundred for clothes, I suppose, don’t it?”
“About that,” replied Ned, evasively.
“Do you go to the ‘play’ often?”
“Not above once a week, except when there are ‘stars’ on.”
“Not _above_ once a week! Ned, you are an extravagant dog; you will die
in the poorhouse!”
“Pshaw! Uncle Joseph, _you_ are old-fashioned!”
“If it is old-fashioned to live within one’s means, to pay one’s debts,
and wear an honest face, then--thank God!--I _am_ old-fashioned,”
replied the worthy old gentleman, with considerable spirit.
“I mean to be honest, and practise all your old-fashioned virtues.”
“You can’t do it, Ned, on five hundred dollars a year with your habits.”
“Can’t be honest?”
“No; it is not honest to run up a bill at your tailor’s which you have
not the ability to pay; it is not honest to get in debt to support
extravagant habits.”
“You don’t mean to say that I am _dis_honest, uncle Joseph?” asked the
young man, with a blush on his cheek.
“Well, well, we won’t talk about _that_, now. I want a young man, and
if you have a mind to lay aside your extravagances, and go into my
office determined to stick to your business, I will see to the rest.”
“What salary shall I have, uncle Joseph?”
“Four hundred the first year,” replied uncle Joseph, firmly.
“But I can’t live on that.”
“Yes, you can. Leave your hotel and board in a private family. Quit the
theatre and the opera, and pay as you go.”
“But my debts?”
“How much do you owe?”
“About two hundred and fifty dollars.”
Uncle Joe scratched his head, contracted his eyebrows, and looked
decidedly stormy.
“Bad business, Ned,” said he, after a few moments’ consideration. “I
could easily get you out of the scrape, provided I saw any hope of
amendment on your part. You don’t even say that you will reform.”
“To be serious, uncle Joseph, I can’t see how I can reform. I must
_live_, you know.”
“And you must live within your means.”
At this moment the penny post deposited a letter on the table, by the
side of the stock broker, the contents of which perfectly amazed him.
_CHAPTER II._
The letter was from the attorney of Miss Mary Marker, a maiden aunt
of Ned Murdock, formerly residing at the west. It contained the
intelligence of the spinster’s death. The old lady, happening to have
a fit of generosity when she made her will, had bequeathed to her
graceless nephew the sum of ten thousand dollars.
Here was a godsend, and Ned leaped up six feet in the air, with
astonishment and delight.
But the worthy stock broker was troubled; for although he was a broker,
he was a good Christian, and had the welfare of his dissolute nephew
near his heart. There was something about the youth that he liked,
notwithstanding he went to the play and boarded at a fashionable hotel.
His only object was the reformation of the young man, whose ruin and
premature decay were foreshadowed in his daily habits. His proposition
to employ him in his own office was merely a stratagem to obtain a hold
upon him.
This legacy seemed to step between him and the accomplishment of his
benevolent purpose.
“What are you going to do with this money, Ned?” asked he with a
troubled countenance; “I am named, as your guardian, you perceive.”
“Bah, guardian! I am twenty-one next week, uncle Joseph,” replied the
young man, unable to conceal the elation the astounding intelligence
had produced in his mind.
“True; but this legacy may be the ruin of you, Ned.”
“You are absurd, uncle.”
“I am sorry your aunt died so soon; I wish she could have been
prevailed upon to live till you had come to the years of discretion.”
“If I had known she intended to remember me in her will, I should
certainly have expressed my desire that she might have lived forever,
or some such hyperbole.”
“What are you going to do, Ned? It is rather a serious question.”
“Time enough to decide it when I get the money.”
“Take my advice Ned; settle yourself down in some quiet position; get
another clerkship; don’t go into business till you are more experienced
in the ways of the world. You had better accept my offer, and take your
first lesson in learning to live within your means.”
“Be an errand boy on four hundred dollars a year, when I have ten
thousand dollars in my possession? Did they do so in old times?” and
Ned bestowed a good-natured sneer upon his quiet old uncle.
“They learned to creep before they walked. If it will make any
difference, I will give you the same salary you received at Green &
Smith’s.”
“Couldn’t think of it, uncle Joseph. A thousand would not procure my
services _now_.”
The stock broker sighed. Ned was as good as lost, in his opinion. There
was no hope for him, and much as it troubled him, he saw no method of
preventing the catastrophe.
For an hour longer, uncle Joe tried to prevail upon his wilful nephew
to adopt a system of prudent living, and preserve his capital until a
favorable opportunity occurred for investing it.
Ned was resolute. Visions of balls, operas, theatres, fast horses,
and a rich wife, flitted before his excited imagination. The sum of
ten thousand dollars appeared to be inexhaustible. In vain uncle Joe
reasoned that its possession was only equivalent to an income of six
hundred dollars. Ned was sure of being worth twenty thousand in five
years, and fifty in ten. It never occurred to him that fast horses and
the opera could not be supported without encroaching upon the principal.
_CHAPTER III._
While they were debating the question, Tom Murdock, a cousin of Ned,
entered the office.
“Ah, Tom,” said Ned, “here we are; I had quite forgotten to inform our
good uncle that you too were out of business.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed uncle Joseph. “Both out of business? I hope
you have not been foolish, Tom.”
“No, uncle, Tom is never foolish--one of your dignified boys--proper,
and all that sort of thing,” replied Ned.
“My services were no longer required. You know I only supplied the
place of another,” added Tom.
“You have been there three months.”
“Yes.”
“On thirty dollars a month!” added Ned, “and saved money at that. Tom
will just fit your place, uncle.”
“Do you want a clerk, uncle Joseph?” asked Tom, meekly.
“I thought of having another; but it is very small pay,” answered the
stock broker, a little nettled; for he had created the want only to
save the reputation of Ned.
“I should be very glad to enter your service, even at a small salary.
Anything is better than being out of business.”
“Right, Tom, right!” exclaimed the old gentleman. “The salary is four
hundred, and you shall have the place.”
And Tom took the place, while Ned, instead of adopting his uncle’s
excellent advice, moved down two flights at the hotel, rode out to
Porter’s every day, and went to the opera every night.
In due time the legacy reached uncle Joseph, who placed Ned in full
possession.
In another month a large gilt sign, bearing the “name and style” of a
new firm, (E. Murdock & Co.,) astonished the mercantile world, and Ned
was no longer out of business.
The dignity of the new firm--the “Co.” was merely a flourish of the
artist’s pencil to give _éclat_ to the thing--demanded that the senior
partner should have a wife. Fortunately for the felicitous carrying
out of Ned’s idea on this subject, things had for several months been
progressing towards this event.
Our young merchant had paid his addresses to the daughter of a
mercantile man, reputed to be wealthy; and now that he “had come to his
possessions,” there was no obstacle to an immediate marriage.
A house in a fashionable street was procured; the cage being ready,
the bird was caught, and Ned found himself in the full enjoyment of
life. He was no nigger, and things went on swimmingly. Dinner parties,
and tea parties, and evening parties followed each other in rapid
succession.
Money flowed like water. Notes on three, six, and nine months were
given, and Ned said the business was bound to prosper.
One half of his legacy only had been invested in his business at the
commencement of the operation. Six, nine, and twelve months did the
rest. But his housekeeping affairs absorbed the other half in less than
six months. His wife was from a rich family, he reasoned, and must be
supported in state.
At the end of those six months, when the first of the notes became due,
Ned was not a little astonished to find that he had nothing to pay them
with. He looked over his books to see where the ten thousand had gone
to; it was only dust in the balance when weighed against his business
and his family expenditures.
Bad debts and unfortunate speculations stared him in the face from
every page, and Ned began to be a little troubled. A dim consciousness
that he had been going too fast crept into his mind. It was a
disagreeable reflection, and when he went home to dinner that day, he
dodged round a corner to avoid meeting uncle Joe.
In the mean time, Tom had acquitted himself to the entire satisfaction
of his uncle. The head clerk had left, and he had been installed
in his place. Living within his means, indulging in no fashionable
dissipations, the future was bright with hope.
_CHAPTER IV._
One morning, while Ned was pondering the unsatisfactory state of his
affairs, a neighbor brought him the news of the failure of his wife’s
father.
Ned was horrified, for, it must be confessed, that in his present
emergency, he had based some rather extravagant hopes on the fact of
having a rich father-in-law.
It was a heavy stroke to his philosophy. The little financial theory
based upon his rich wife, which he had matured to meet the approaching
emergency, suddenly and violently exploded.
A five hundred dollar note came due that day, and he had been thinking
of dropping into his father-in-law’s counting-room about one o’clock,
to see if he had “any thing over.”
The thought of applying to uncle Joe occurred to him; but the worthy
old gentleman was too blunt by half, and would be likely to tell him
some homely truths.
The day wore away with vain devisings of means to extricate himself
from his embarrassments. The note was not paid--was protested.
The next day, people, who had long suspected that Ned was travelling
too fast, began to see with a clear vision the true state of the case.
Before two o’clock, Ned was in chancery!
“How is this, Ned?” asked uncle Joseph, entering the counting room.
“Don’t mention it, uncle; don’t mention it! Before you say a word, I
will own that you were all right, and I was all wrong,” replied Ned,
groaning in spirit.
“I did not come to reproach you, Ned; far from it. I gave the best
advice I was capable of giving; but as you did not deem it advisable to
follow it, of course I shall not taunt you in your troubles.”
This was kind of uncle Joseph, and it was spoken in a kindly manner,
without the slightest appearance of that triumphant “I knew it
would be so,” which wise old men sometimes assume. It went to Ned’s
heart, for Ned had a heart, notwithstanding the little foibles of his
character.
“Why did you not come to me for assistance, Ned? I always meant well by
you.”
“My case was a hopeless one; and to tell the truth, uncle Joseph, after
what passed between us, I was ashamed to meet you.”
“Fie, Ned!” and the old gentleman was highly flattered by his nephew’s
humility.
“I wish I had accepted your offer, even at a salary of four hundred
dollars a year. I should have been a great deal better off now.”
“Well, well, we will not mind that now. The place is still open.”
“Is it?” asked Ned, eagerly.
“Tom is my head clerk. Of course I could not displace him.”
“No, certainly not.”
“But as you have a wife, I will make the salary six hundred now.”
“Thank you, uncle; I will gladly accept the place.”
Ned did accept it, and though it was a sad fall from his former
position, he took his place at the desk in his uncle’s office as the
assistant of Tom, with the best grace in the world.
It is surprising how misfortunes will humble a man; how they will make
him accept with joy a position at which, in the days of his prosperity,
he turned up his nose in disgust.
Mrs. Murdock, was, in the main, a sensible person, and made the best
of her altered circumstances. Three rooms in a retired street were
obtained, to supply the place of the fashionable residence in Tremont
street, and the young couple went to housekeeping on a reduced scale.
Ned kept within his means this time. The humiliation of his fall
gradually wore away, and he was surprised to find himself and his wife
much happier than when they had been surrounded by all the appliances
of wealth and luxury.
Ned remained three years with uncle Joseph, who annually increased his
salary, thus enabling him to add to the comforts of life, and still
keep within his means.
At the end of this period, the old gentleman, finding himself old
enough and rich enough to retire, gave up his business to his two
nephews, who, we are happy to record, are now doing remarkably well.
* * * * *
MORAL.--When you are out of business, do not be over nice; and when you
have a legacy left to you, do not be rash.
“SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE.”
_CHAPTER I._