house, Mr. Miller?” stammered George Harrison to the father of his
intended.
“O, yes, of course,” replied the father, carelessly.
“And you must be favorably disposed towards the matter, or you would
not have permitted it to continue as long as it has.”
“Well, Mr. Harrison, those are affairs that I don’t like to meddle
with, though my opinion is, a great deal of judgment ought to be used
in relation to them.”
“Certainly, sir; they affect the parties for life,” replied George,
seriously.
“You do not intend to be married at present, do you?”
“Yes, sir; we have been thinking of it; that is, not under a month.”
“A month! Pray, Mr. Harrison, what have you got to support a wife
with?” asked the careful father, gazing with considerable astonishment
into the face of the candidate for matrimony.
“Well, sir, I have not got much now, it is true; but I think I shall be
able to pay my way.”
“You _think_ so, but you may be laboring under a mistake. Young men are
apt to be rash.”
“I am going into business, as you are aware, next week. I have hired a
store, and have no doubt I shall do well.”
“I suppose not. Have you the capital wherewith to stock your store?”
“My capital is small, but I have friends.”
“Every body has friends. Who are they?”
“There is Mr. Redman, who offers to let me have half my stock on six
months.”
“And the other half?”
“I can obtain it on the same terms from other parties.”
“And you propose to lay in all your stock on six months’ credit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rather a dangerous scheme, young man.”
“I think not. I have no doubt that I shall be able to sell goods enough
to pay most of the notes; if not, I can easily get them renewed.”
“You are confident.”
“Perhaps I am vain; but I trust a great deal to my ability as a
salesman. Why, Smith, Jones, & Co. offered me a thousand dollars for
the next year if I would stay with them.”
“You had better accept the offer, young man.”
“I think not; if I am worth a thousand dollars to them, I am worth it
to myself. No, sir; I mean to have the benefit of my own talents.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the prudent Mr. Miller.
“Perhaps I _am_ vain.”
“You are, Mr. Harrison. You will find that your ability in a concern
like that of Smith, Jones, & Co. is much more available than it would
be in your own hands.”
“We differ in that matter,” replied George Harrison, with some display
of wounded dignity. “If you please, we will turn to the subject to
which my present visit relates.”
“To be sure, young man, if you wish. I have no desire to force my
advice upon you, though I cannot help thinking you had better heed the
counsel of those who are older and more experienced than you are.”
“I am very willing to hear any advice.”
“More willing to hear it than to follow it.”
“I wish to be reasonable. If a young man never attempts to better his
condition, it is plain that he never will get ahead in the world.”
“Very true; but let him labor as hard as he may, without proper
discretion, he never will succeed.”
“You question my judgment, do you, sir?” asked George, rather sharply.
“Excuse me, Mr. Harrison, but I do. The relation in which you stand to
my family prompts me to speak very plain. No man in his senses would
stock his store on six months’ credit, and expect to succeed. How can
you pay your notes, coming all together as they do?”
“With your leave, I will take care of that matter,” replied George,
with dignity.
“Very well,” replied Mr. Miller, smiling at the young man’s warmth.
“You propose to be married in about a month?”
“We do.”
“Have you got a house?”
“I have looked at one.”
“Have you the means of furnishing it?”
“Rowe & Co. have offered to sell it to me on six months.”
“Then in six months, Mr. Harrison, I will talk with you about marriage.
In the mean time, I must decline all negotiation.”
_CHAPTER II._
George Harrison was a “crack salesman,” and save and excepting that he
rather over-estimated his talents and business ability, he was a fine
fellow.
He did not believe in looking on the dark side of things. His heart was
full of hope, and he confidently expected that whatever he put his hand
upon would be instantly turned into money.
George was a young man of spirit, and he did not relish the manner in
which his prospective father-in-law had treated him.
“He used me like a boy,” mumbled George, as he left the counting room
of Mr. Miller; “just as though he knew every thing, and I didn’t know
any thing. But I’ll teach him better than that.”
Directing his steps to the house of Mr. Miller, he found Hannah, his
lady love, arrayed for a walk.
“I have bad news, my dear,” said he.
“Bad news! Why, what, George?”
“Let us walk to the Common, and I will tell you all about it.”
Seated on one of the stone seats by the “Frog Pond,” George narrated
the substance of his interview with Mr. Miller.
“But he only postponed the matter for six months George,” said Hannah,
relieved by his statement. “Perhaps it would be better to put it off.”
“You know, dearest, we intended to be married next month.”
“Still, we can wait.”
“There is no need of waiting, Hannah.”
“Perhaps there is not; but if my father thinks so, hadn’t we better
humor him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why, what would you do?”
“Be married;” and George told her how romantic it would be to run away
to New York, and come home man and wife--how it would surprise their
friends.
Hannah’s “spirit” was fully equal to that of George; and the moment she
began to feel that her “cruel father” was persecuting them, she was
ready for any thing, even for an elopement.
The arrangement was made, and George hired the house he had looked
at. Rowe & Co. furnished it, and took George’s note on six months in
payment, with a mortgage for security.
The new store was opened, and things went on “swimmingly.” Business was
good, and every body said George was making money “hand over fist.”
At the appointed time the elopement took place. The newspapers duly
chronicled the event, and, for a time, George was a lion. The ladies,
eager to behold and converse with a gentleman who had the “spunk” to
tear a persecuted daughter from the grasp of a cruel father, and elope
with her, flocked to his store. The elopement was a decided hit, and
George’s gains were largely augmented by it.
The happy couple took up their residence in the new house. It was
beautifully furnished, and Hannah felt that she was a queen in
paradise. To her the day was not long enough to hold all the happiness
that crowded upon her.
And her father, too, instead of treating her harshly after the rash
step she had taken, came to see her, was as kind to her as though
nothing had happened, and never said a single word about the elopement.
Her cup of joy was full.
George was a prince. He was coining money; he snapped his fingers at
the notes, and wondered what Mr. Miller said now!
Flushed with success, he returned home one night after an unusually
good day’s sale, and, after kissing his wife--they were just
married,--and playfully chucking her under the chin, he vented his
exuberant satisfaction in a rhapsody on the joys of life.
“Happy as princes!” exclaimed he. “The money pours in as fast as I care
to handle it.”
“How glad I am!” responded Hannah, artlessly.
“We have nothing more to wish for, have we, Hannah?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know! Why, I thought you were perfectly happy.”
“So I am, dear George; but I was thinking, the other day, how pleasant
it would be to have a piano in the house,” replied she, with some
little diffidence.
“So it would, Hannah; what a dolt I have been not to think of it! I
have felt all along as though there was some thing wanting.”
“But I hope, George, you will not buy one if you cannot afford to do
so.”
“Afford to! Certainly I can; I shall be a rich man in one year. You
shall have one of Chickering’s best to-morrow.”
On the following day the piano came. George paid cash for it from his
surplus funds. But no sooner had the piano come than Hannah began to
feel that the rest of their furniture in the parlor did not correspond
with it. George agreed with the proposition, and their parlor furniture
was sent to Leonard’s forthwith. A new and expensive set was furnished,
and paid for in cash.
Thus things went on for several months. It took all of George’s profits
to keep house and buy the new things which were every day discovered to
be wanting.
The dull season had come on, and George suddenly found that there was
no more business to be done. He had not even money enough at the end
of six months to pay his second quarter’s rent, to say nothing of the
notes which came due at that time.
_CHAPTER III._
The six months had fully expired, even down to the last day of grace.
Hannah sat at the piano, playing “Home, sweet home,” anxiously waiting
the return of George. The hour at which he usually came home had gone
by, and she occasionally cast an impatient glance at the clock.
She had observed that for several days he had worn a troubled air,
and had even been so cross as to repulse her when she offered her
accustomed caress; but the thought that his business matters were in
an embarrassed condition never occurred to her. He had often boasted
of his success, and of course she had no reason to dread the calamity
which her father had pointed out to her before her marriage.
A violent pull at the door bell started her from the piano. A
rough-looking person was ushered into her presence.
“Very sorry, ma’am,” said he, with an awkward bow; “but I’ve come to
take possession.”
“What do you mean, sir?” exclaimed Hannah, affrighted by the crowd of
disagreeable thoughts that rushed to her brain.
“Why, simply, ma’am, that the notes haven’t been paid, and Mr.
Harrison’s creditors have attached the property. This furniture now
belongs to Messrs. Rowe & Co.”
The deputy sheriff, having placed a keeper over the goods, politely
bowed himself out, leaving Hannah a prey to a thousand anxious
forebodings.
The arrival of George was an intense relief to her.
“Just as I supposed!” exclaimed he. “My creditors have had their heads
together, and every thing has gone by the board at once.”
“Pray, what does it all mean, George?” asked Hannah.
“I have failed; my creditors have driven me into an assignment. I am a
beggar.”
“Why, George, I thought you were doing remarkably well.”
“I was; but, with all the business I have done, I doubt if I could ever
have met these notes.”
“But how much do you owe, George? Can’t you sell the piano, and pay it?”
“It would be only a drop in the bucket. To come right to the fact, I
suppose my creditors saw that I lived up to my income, and so it was no
use for them to be gentle. I must find a situation now as a salesman,
and we must give up this house, and board.”
“You ought not to have bought that piano; you know I didn’t want you to
if you couldn’t afford it.”
“And a thousand other things ought not to have been bought. If I had
saved the money, my creditors would probably have given me an extension
on my paying a part of their demands. But it is too late now; I have
been a fool. Your father was right after all.”
“I am afraid he was; but here he comes.”
“Six months after date,” said Mr. Miller, entering the room.
“You were right, sir; I have been a fool,” replied George, with due
humility.
“Well, the victory is half won when you see the error. But I have not
come to reproach you for your folly, George. How much do you owe?”
George stated the amount.
“Very well,” continued Mr. Miller. “I have already seen your creditors,
and with my name on your paper, they have agreed to give you an
extension.”
“Sir!” exclaimed George, starting back in amazement.
“But you must let Messrs. Rowe & Co. take these useless traps; your
house is furnished well enough for a prince.”
“George is fully sensible where the error lies, father; we are ready to
profit by the lesson.”
“All right. Young folks _think_ that old folks are fools, and old folks
_know_ that young ones are. Well, well; we must live and learn.”
“I am _very_ grateful to you, sir,” began George.
“There, there! that will do. All I desire is, your prosperity. When I
objected to your marriage, I foresaw the event which has now happened.
You have done remarkably well in your business; but the best business
in the world wouldn’t pay for a stock of goods in six months, to say
nothing about a thousand dollars in furniture and knick-knacks.”
* * * * *
George went to work again on a better principle. When he entered a note
on his “Bills Payable,” it was not until after he had made a close
calculation upon the means of meeting it. He was successful at last,
though, like a majority of young men on the same street, he won his way
to success through failure and disaster, over the rough road of bitter
experience.
A smaller house was procured, and furnished in a neat and plain style,
and Hannah is quite as happy as she was during the honeymoon in her
more ample establishment, especially as George--who is now never
embarrassed by money matters--is always cheerful, contented, and withal
a loving and devoted husband; and the prospect now is, that he will be
so “_Six Months after Date_.”
A WORLD OF TROUBLES.
_CHAPTER I._
“I am so glad you have come, Thomas!” exclaimed Mrs. Butler, a pale,
care-worn young wife, as her husband entered the room in which she had
prepared the evening meal.
“Why, what is the matter _now_?” returned the husband, laying a wicked
emphasis upon the word “now,” as though he meant to imply that there
always was something the matter.
“Nothing; only I wanted you to bring in a pail of water, for I am _so_
tired, that I declare I can hardly keep upon my feet.”
“Is that all? I did not know but what the baby had had a fit, or got
scalded, or something of that sort.”
“Nothing of the kind; I have trouble enough to get along with, without
sickness in the family. I feel just as though I should die every night
when I get my work done;” and Mrs. Butler sighed, as she placed the
smoking tea upon the table, and threw herself into a chair, apparently
so exhausted that she could not have stood another moment.
“You must have a girl, Mary; you know I don’t want you to work so hard.
I have often told you so before,” said Mr. Butler.
“A girl, indeed! Can you afford to keep a girl, Thomas?”
“Certainly, I can. I am earning twelve dollars a week now, and I am
sure our expenses are not above eight. A dollar and a half a week added
to this sum would leave me a handsome surplus.”
“Just like you, Thomas; that is one of your calculations.”
“Certainly, that is one of _my_ calculations,” replied Mr. Butler, a
little tartly.
“I suppose you wouldn’t reckon any thing for a girl’s board,” sneered
the wife.
“A mere trifle.”
“Every thing is a mere trifle with you.”
Thomas stuffed half a hot biscuit into his mouth to help him keep his
temper.
“And then she would waste double her wages,” continued the lady.
“Pshaw! that is an old woman’s bugbear,” replied Butler, impatiently.
“Yes; that’s just the way you always talk.”
“It is correct talk, though.”
“Girls don’t waste, I suppose?”
“I presume they do, many of them; but you abominably exaggerate the
amount.”
“No, I don’t; I say they waste double their wages.”
“No such thing.”
“Ask any one who has kept them.”
“What articles do they waste to such an enormous extent?”
“Every thing--provisions, groceries; and they burn up twice as much
fuel as there is any kind of need of.”
“Twice as much?”
“Yes; _twice_ as much.”
“Let me see;” and Thomas pulled out a bit of paper and a pencil, and
went to figuring with all his might. “We use three tons of coal in six
months. Twice as much would be six tons, which would come to forty-two
dollars, or twenty-one dollars waste. That is eighty cents a week.”
“Clear waste!” exclaimed Mrs. Butler, with palpable horror depicted on
her countenance.
“Now, allow that she wastes one-half the provisions and one-half the
groceries, which is absurd, and she would just double my bills. They
were fifty-two dollars for the last six months, which makes a waste
of two dollars per week. Why, Mary, we have only made the waste to be
two dollars and eighty cents even with these figures. Double her wages
would be three dollars.”
“She would waste enough, as you would find out to your sorrow, if you
kept one,” added Mrs. Butler, not pleased with the state of her side of
the argument.
“You don’t believe she _could_ waste half the fuel and stores?”
Mrs. Butler did not believe it, but she did not like to say so.
“Probably, my dear, under your excellent supervision, she could not
possibly waste more than fifty cents a week.”
“Well, that is twenty-six dollars a year.”
“But I can afford to lose that, rather than that you should make a
slave of yourself.”
“I don’t want a girl; it would be more work to look after her than it
would be to do the work myself.”
“As you please, my dear.”
“I don’t want your friends to think, you have got an extravagant wife.”
“Fudge on my friends!”
“Yes, it is easy enough for _you_ to say so.”
“And for you, too, if you choose.”
“I don’t want to spend all we get.”
“Nor I, my dear; but, to be very plain with you, I had much rather do
it, than hear you everlastingly complain how hard you have to work.”
“Don’t I work hard?”
“I don’t know but you do.”
“Just think what I have to do.”
“Well, I have to work hard, too; but I am sure it does not make one
feel any better to be continually grumbling about it.”
“Who’s grumbling? Can’t a body speak without being accused of
grumbling?” said Mrs. Butler, rather pettishly.
“I only mean to say, that you work twice as hard with your imagination
as you do with your hands; your thoughts make the work hard.”
“Yes, it is easy for you to say so,” said the wife, wiping away the
tears from her wan cheeks.
“When have I come into the house, Mary, for the last six months, and
you have not told me a heap of troubles as big as a mountain? I can’t
stand it.”
“I never thought you _could_ be so harsh to _me_. You did not use to
speak to me in that way,” sobbed Mary, feeling that she was the most
cruelly used wife in the world.
“You irritate me with your troubles.”
“I can’t help my troubles; I do the best I can to keep your house in
order, and take good care of the baby.”
“I never found any fault with your management. I am abundantly pleased
with all you do, save and except your croaking and grumbling.”
“What can I do?”
“Go about your work cheerfully, and with a disposition to make the best
of every thing. By a cheerful and contented disposition, you will make
even the hardest day of toil a day of satisfaction. You look darkly
upon your lot, and that makes it black.”
“I can’t help my feelings.”
“Yes, you can, Mary. At any rate, you ought not to imbitter my
existence with your incessant complainings.”
“I have tried to make you happy.”
“If you have, you have signally failed; for it has come to that, I
almost hate to come into the house, so much do I dread to hear your
tale of woe.”
“I will try to do better.”
“Do, Mary; home will become a curse to me instead of the brightest spot
upon earth, as it ought to be, if you do not.”
The baby cried at this point of the conversation, and Mrs. Butler wiped
away her tears, and took the little cherub from the cradle where he had
been sleeping, all unconscious of the matrimonial squall which had been
blowing around him.
_CHAPTER II._
When Mrs. Butler was married, she was a bright, cheerful, and happy
maiden. For more than a year she and her devoted husband had not known
the meaning of matrimonial strife. It was a new state of existence to
her, and while the novelty of the thing lasted, she was as happy as the
day was long.
But in the course of events, she was deprived of the pleasure of going
abroad much, and the pretty home in which she had spent a year of
joy, began to rust on her imagination. Not that her husband was less
devoted; though he might not have been quite so dreamy and sentimental
as he was in the days of their courtship, yet he was all that a
reasonable wife could expect. He was indulgent, kind, and sympathized
deeply with her in all those matters wherein a young wife needs
tenderness and care.
Little Bobby was born; but the little stranger made such a heap of
work for the fond mother, that she declared she should die under the
infliction. She would not listen to her husband’s suggestion to keep a
girl. She had a kind of vanity in her composition, which led her to
endure rather than subject her husband’s purse to such an expenditure.
She feared folks would say she was not as “smart” as she wished to be
considered, or that Thomas’s relations would deem her extravagant and
lazy.
She continued to do her work, though each day was a day of misery.
Before she got breakfast, dinner, or tea, she sat and moped over it,
thinking what a terrible hard job it was for her to perform. She
dreaded washing day from about Friday morning; and over the washtub she
was as miserable as soapsuds and a rubbing-board could possibly make
her.
The reader may imagine that she was lazy; but I do not think so. She
lived in a “world of trouble;” she looked upon the dark side of every
thing. Of course, there were many hardships she was called upon to
endure--as who is not? She was obliged to keep occupied most of the
time in the duties of the household and the care of the baby. Her
position was undoubtedly one of trial and vexation, as those who are
experienced in these matters will readily understand.
But the principal difficulty was to be found in Mrs. Butler’s unhappy
disposition. She was not cheerful and contented with her lot. Her
morbid imagination magnified the little trials of every-day life into
monstrous woes, and she suffered intolerably in her mind, which was
communicated to the body. She was the most miserable of women--the most
unreasonably miserable.
Of course, her husband, who was of a directly opposite temperament,
was rendered miserable, also. Mrs. Butler seemed so wedded to her woe,
that every effort on his part to alleviate it was promptly repulsed.
He had grown disgusted. His wife was always complaining. He never came
into the house without being assailed by a relation of her woes. He
cursed his stars--blamed himself for ever becoming a husband.
But, then, poor fellow, what could he do? Mary was as gentle and
pleasant a maiden before her marriage as one often finds. She had never
been placed in a position to try her character. He might have heard her
fret over a new dress that did not fit, or something of that sort; but
he never dreamed that a tempest could ever blow out of such a little
cloud. It was only when she felt the cold touch of life’s realities,
that she showed out exactly what she was.
It was too late now; the mischief had been done. She was his wife;
she was the mother of little Bobby. He loved her still, though his
affections had been terribly shocked by her thoughtless grumbling.
Mary had promised to do better; but, alas for the vanity of human
promises, they were words written in sand. The habit had become
deep, rooted. Thomas was in despair. He had tried by threats and by
persuasions to make her reasonable, but all in vain. His house was a
hell to him. If she had scolded him, been negligent of her household
duties, a gadder in the street, a gossip--anything but a grumbler, he
felt that he could have endured it, loved her, and continued to be
happy.
But it was an ever present leaf of woe her countenance presented to
him, and when home had ceased to be a pleasant place, he gradually
absented himself, and the still loving but incorrigible wife smelt the
rum in his breath when he returned from his evening amusements.
[Illustration: A WORLD OF TROUBLE. Page 234.]
One night, about two months after the conversation we have narrated,
as the clock was striking the midnight hour, he was brought home,
helplessly drunk, in the arms of two watchmen, who had picked him up in
the street.
What a sight for a young and loving wife, to behold the father of her
child drunk! They placed him in bed, and she spent a sleepless night in
weeping over his senseless, imbruted form. O, the agony of that bitter
time! Her husband a drunkard! she a drunkard’s wife! Earth has its
miseries, but none like those of the inebriate’s wife.