and two grown-up daughters to take tea with her. She had been engaged
for three days in the preparations, and such a display of nice things
was calculated to astonish the minister and his family--to give them
a two-fold surprise--first, at the variety and extent of her culinary
resources, and, secondly, at her folly in attempting to make a display
far beyond her means.
The Someses were in comfortable circumstances. Mr. Somes was a farmer,
and probably his income might have amounted to four hundred dollars per
annum.
Mrs. Somes was a prudent, careful housewife, who wasted no more of her
culinary skill upon her own family than was absolutely necessary; but
she delighted in making a grand appearance when she had company. Mr.
Somes and the boys were sometimes so ill-natured as to growl at her
careful catering when the house contained no company, and it cut them
to the bone to see such extraordinary preparations for the neighbors.
It was “kiss the cook” when they were alone; but the board groaned with
plenty when there were guests present.
Mr. Jotham Somes had just come from the sitting room where the table,
with all its tempting array of viands was spread. He did not like it a
bit, and after passing the time of day with the parson and his family,
he proceeded to the kitchen, where his wife was just taking the hot
biscuits out of the oven.
“What do you mean by folly, I should like to know?” replied Mrs. Jotham
Somes, somewhat tartly.
She was a second wife, and having been redeemed from one of the advance
stages of maidenhood, her temper had grown a little sour before she
became a wife.
“The folly of setting a table as you have yours,” replied the husband.
“I should think you were going to have the president and the royal
family to take tea with you.”
“I am going to have the Rev. Mr. Meeklie and his family.”
“But I can’t afford such extravagance as this. You will ruin me.”
“I will take care of my business, if you will of yours,” returned the
lady, slamming the oven door.
“Perhaps this is not my business.”
“No, I’m sure it is not.”
“Who pays for all them gewgaws and gimcracks?”
“You do, of course.”
“But it is none of my business?”
“No; I never thought before you were so confounded mean,” said the
lady, her face reddening with anger.
“Mean! I’m not mean. But when you get victuals for your own family, you
think almost any thing is good enough for them. We never see any pies,
and cakes, and knicknacks.”
“Do you think I’m going to make pies and cakes for the men folks to eat
every day?” retorted the indignant housekeeper.
“Then don’t do it for company. What is good enough for me is as good as
I can afford to give my visitors.”
“I really believe if you had your way, you would have me as mean with
company as the Smiths.”
“The Smiths are as good folks and as liberal as any in town; and I’ll
warrant Parson Meeklie thinks a heap more of them than he does of you,
with all your four kinds of cake.”
“You’re a fool, Mr. Somes!”
“I am fool enough to know that folks are not judged by the quantity of
sweet cakes they put upon the table when they have company. I repeat
it--there is no better folks in town than the Smiths.”
“I s’pose not; but they had nothing but cold biscuit and molasses
gingerbread when we took tea there.”
“That’s as good as they can afford; but it is no better than they have
every day, and I admire their independence.”
“They’re contemptible, mean folks, there!”
“Why? Because they don’t attempt to make folks believe they live
better than they do? For my part, I don’t think it is any better than
hypocrisy to make such a parade as you do, especially when it is hard
work for me and the boys to get a decent meal of victuals.”
“Did any body ever hear the like?” groaned the lady, who had by this
time arrived at that pitch of excitement when tears are more effective
than words.
“Perhaps they never did; but if ever I see any thing of this sort
again, they will be pretty likely to hear of it,” replied Mr. Somes,
throwing off his blue frock, and commencing his preparations for taking
tea with the minister.
_CHAPTER II._
The plate of hot biscuit was placed in the midst of the profusion of
fancy eatables with which the table was crowded. The minister and his
family were duly seated, and the ceremony was proceeding decently and
in order.
Mrs. Somes had not wholly recovered from the excitement of the
interview in the kitchen, and her hand trembled slightly as she handed
Mrs. Meeklie her tea. Mr. Somes had donned his best blue coat, with
brass buttons, which had done duty as a Sunday garment for the past
fifteen years.
He seemed to be somewhat uneasy; and though he and the minister had
always been on the best of terms, his answers were too short and crusty
for a courteous host.
“Won’t you pass the biscuit to Mrs. Meeklie, husband?” said Mrs. Somes,
with her sweetest smile, albeit not very sweet at that.
Mr. Somes did pass the biscuit to Mrs. Meeklie, and she took one; but
when he passed them to Mr. Meeklie, he smilingly declined.
“No, I thank you, Mr. Somes; I never eat hot bread. It does not agree
with me,” said he.
Mrs. Somes passed the cold bread, thinking all the time how very
uncivil it was in the parson to refuse the hot biscuit she had taken so
much pains to prepare.
But Mr. Meeklie was very respectful to his stomach; for he found, when
insulted and imposed upon, that it was tyrannical and disagreeable;
and he paid more deference to his digestive organs than he did to the
feelings of his vain parishioners.
“My biscuit are not very nice; I did not have as good luck as I
generally do,” suggested Mrs. Somes, as Mrs. Meeklie took a second cake.
“Better,” interposed Mr. Somes.
The lady looked at him with very evident marks of displeasure.
“They are very nice,” said the parson’s wife.
“Take a little more of this quince preserve, Miss Meeklie. I dare say
it is not so nice as your mother makes; but the truth is----”
“It has stood too long,” interrupted Mr. Somes. “The jar has not been
opened since you were here last fall.”
Mrs. Somes looked daggers; but the parson very considerately asked Mr.
Somes whether he had done planting just at that moment, and her anger
evaporated without any unpleasant effects.
“Husband, won’t you pass that cake to Mr. Meeklie?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Somes; I never eat cake. Your bread is very good; I
will thank you for some more.”
“Really, Mr. Meeklie, you will take some of this cake? It is not very
rich; there is very little butter in it.”
“Not any, I thank you; I never eat cake, unless it be something very
simple, such as gingerbread or molasses cake.”
What a calamity! Four kinds of cake and the parson wouldn’t touch one
of them!
“But you will take some of these jumbles; I made them on purpose for
you.”
“That’s a fact, Mr. Meeklie,” added Mr. Somes, maliciously.
He would further have added that his wife never made pies and cakes for
her own family; but he was afraid of frightening the parson.
“You must excuse me. I doubt not they are very nice; but I have to be
careful.”
Mrs. Meeklie and her two grown-up daughters were more courteous, and
each nibbled a small bit of the rich pound cake; but they seemed to do
it against their consciences, and against their better judgment.
The truth was, they felt embarrassed by the extraordinary display Mrs.
Somes had made. They did not feel at home. The whole affair was too
set and artificial to be enjoyed, and at an early hour the whole party
withdrew, mentally determining to make it a long time before they took
tea with Mrs. Somes again.
_CHAPTER III._
“Wife, where is the piece of meat I sent home for dinner?” asked Farmer
Somes, as he and the boys came in for their noonday meal, on the day
following the tea party.
The farmer glanced inquiringly at the table which was spread before
him. Involuntarily his nasal organ contracted longitudinally; it would
not be polite to say he “turned up his nose,” though such was the fact
beyond the possibility of denial.
Farmer Somes was not, in any sense, an epicure. He liked a plain,
substantial diet, that “which was good, and enough of it,” as he
forcibly expressed his ideas of table economy.
Lest the reader should suppose he was one of those grouty, ill-natured
“feeders,” who would grumble at the ambrosia and nectar of the gods,
we deem it necessary to particularize the articles on the board of the
lady who placed four kinds of cake before company.
Certainly there was variety enough to satisfy the most fickle taste. On
a broken plate--the best dishes were religiously reserved to the use of
company--was the half of one sausage and two thirds of another, making
one sausage and one sixth, all told. They were partially embedded in a
petrified sea of suspicious-looking fat, and altogether, the aspect of
the dish was singularly forbidding.
On a white plate, with a long black fracture extending quite across
it, lay, in an aggregated mass, three dozen baked beans, and an
infinitesimal fragment of a pork rind. This was an antiquity. Farmer
Somes and the boys had a very distinct remembrance of having seen
this dish every day during the previous fortnight, proving that Mrs.
Somes was not only one of the most economical, but one of the most
persevering dames in the world. The farmer and the boys had virtually
said they would not eat those same beans, and Mrs. Somes virtually said
they should.
On a worn-out blue plate, superannuated, and “nicked” in a thousand
places, were four pork bones, looking as though they had been preyed
upon by that army of mice which Whittington’s cat destroyed. These
bones had seen service during the last twelve days; the joint, of
which they were the disintegrated members, had graced the table just a
fortnight before.
There were sundry other articles, antique, old fashioned “titbits,”
which might have been set before Noah and his friends in the ark. Six
long red potatoes, unpeeled, even unsprouted, completed the array of
edibles, ornamental and substantial.
The farmer’s nose contracted as before related.
“Where is the meat I sent home?”
“Hanging in the well.”
“Hadn’t we better eat it?”
“I want it for company next Sunday.”
“The ---- ahem! Company again?”
“I expect my brother will dine with us then, and I want something fit
to set before him.”
Mr. Somes looked sulky.
“And you mean to starve me and the boys in the mean time?”
“I should like to know if there is not enough for you?” said the dame,
pointing at the table.
Farmer Somes turned up his nose.
“Did I ever refuse to buy victuals when you wanted it?” said he, rather
sternly.
“Not that I know of; but I didn’t suppose you wanted to buy fresh meat
_every_ day,” returned the wife, sourly. “I am sure I try to be as
economical as I can.”
“Four kinds of cake, which nobody would touch, I suppose is prudent,
ain’t it?”
“Ah, good morning, Mr. Somes; I am glad to find you at home,” said Mr.
Meeklie, walking into the room unannounced.
Good gracious! the minister, and with such a table as that spread
before the family! What a commentary on four kinds of cake for company!
Mrs. Somes was all confusion. Though the parson intended to look right
at the farmer, she could see that more than once his eyes wandered over
the table.
“Glad to see you, parson; sit down and take some dinner with us,” said
Mr. Somes, shaking the minister’s offered hand.
“Thank you; I don’t care if I do,” replied Mr. Meeklie. “I have a long
walk to take before I return home.”
Farmer Somes was pointing him to a chair, when the lady interposed.
“We have got a picked-up dinner to-day. Husband sent home a joint of
veal; but it didn’t get here till half after eleven; so I had no time
to cook it.”
“Got here by eight o’clock,” said Farmer Somes; “no fibs to the parson.”
“But if you will wait only a few moments, I will fry some of the veal.”
“Sit down, parson; it is every day fare; but then, what is good enough
for me is good enough for my friends.”
“Right, Mr. Somes,” replied the minister, drawing up his chair. “My
business relates to the new bell for the meeting house. I am carrying
round the subscription paper.”
“I am with you, parson.”
Farmer Somes was in most malicious good humor, and, with a broad laugh
on his honest phiz, he opened the paper the minister gave him.
“Smith, twenty dollars.”
“Twenty dollars!” exclaimed Mrs. Somes; “I should not think he could
afford it.”
“He gives his friends nothing but gingerbread,” said the farmer. “Put
me down for thirty; we have four kinds of cake.”
The parson consumed one “long red,” and one of the vulgar fractions of
a cold sausage. He preferred brown bread to white, and wouldn’t touch
any of the pies which the prudent housekeeper set before him.
Mrs. Somes was awfully mortified. Her reputation was sacrificed, and
Farmer Somes never again had occasion to find fault with her for making
a vain show of three kinds of pies, two kinds of preserves, and four
kinds of cake.
EXTREMES MEET;
OR,
FACT AND FICTION.
_CHAPTER I._
“What are you reading, sis?”
“Hard Times.”
“A novel!”
“Yes; why not? Dickens’s last new novel, and a capital thing it is,
too.”
The two ladies, between whom this conversation passed, were sisters,
and nieces of one of the better class of New England farmers, with
whom they resided. ’Squire Fairbank, without being a very brilliant
man, had acquired considerable distinction in the village where
he lived, probably because, besides being “worth money,” he was a
straightforward, conservative, reliable man, and had frequently served
the town in an acceptable manner, both in the legislature, and as
moderator in town meeting. He was the most notable man in the village,
and won the title of ’Squire, which was universally accorded to him,
simply by being a very respectable person and a man of influence.
Susan and Mary Fairbank were orphans, inheriting from their father the
very pretty little sum of five thousand dollars each. Both had attained
their majority, and consequently were in full possession of their
portions, untrammelled even by the authority of as indulgent a guardian
as ’Squire Fairbank had proved to be.
They had been well educated at a celebrated female seminary in the
vicinity of Boston, and as a matter of course, had brought home to
the quiet village of Poppleton many strange notions and remarkable
peculiarities. But they were sensible girls in the main, and though
their habits and education elevated them above the reigning _ton_ of
the place, it was generally conceded that they knew “what was what,”
and were not “a mite more stuck up” than would naturally have been
expected.
Mary and Susan were essentially different in temperament and
disposition. The former was exceedingly open and free-hearted, while
the latter was rather disposed to truckle to the formality of the
world, or to the circumstances in which she happened to be placed. Mary
never asked what the world would say or think, and while her notions
of duty were very clearly defined, she chose to be independent and
straightforward. People said she “took after” her father.
Susan, on the contrary, was nicely sensitive to the good opinion of
others. She had not the energy to do any thing in opposition to popular
sentiment. Indeed, she was very much like some of the distinguished
public servants at Washington, who do every thing with an eye to a
reëlection or to government patronage.
A short time before our story opens, a young minister had been settled
in Poppleton, and being a single man, ’Squire Fairbank had consented,
as a special favor, to receive him into his house. The Rev. Mr.
Carlisle was universally allowed to be a very promising young man. He
was talented, had a graceful elocution, and, what pleased the young
ladies better still, was decidedly a handsome person. Those who were
not much influenced by talent, elocution, and personal beauty, thought
he was rather bigoted for one so young, and hoped that time would wear
off the rough corners of his repulsive theology.
Susan Fairbank was deeply interested in the young clergyman, and as
a natural consequence to one of her vacillating temperament, became
deeply interested in spiritual things. We do not believe she had any
intention of playing the hypocrite; but her devotion to the young
minister involuntarily led her to assume an interest, which, if Mr.
Carlisle had been old, ugly, or married, she would not have felt.
“A novel, sis! only think of it!” exclaimed Susan, holding up both
hands with pious horror.
“Pray, Susan, how long is it since you have possessed this holy
repugnance to novels? It was only last winter that I saw you reading
The Children of the Abbey,” returned Mary, laughing heartily.
“I have not read one since, and I never mean to again.”
“Fudge!”
“What do you think Mr. Carlisle would say if he should see you reading
a novel?”
“I shouldn’t care what he said.”
“Why, Mary!”
“I shouldn’t; if he does not like it, he may whistle for all me.”
“Don’t talk so, Mary.”
“Why will you make a fool of yourself, Susan? Mr. Carlisle cares no
more for you than he does for the fifth wheel of a coach; I would not
stand in such fear of him for the world.”
“Fear of him! I do not fear him; I only respect him as a very good man.”
“You have set your cap for him; but let me tell you to be more
independent, or you never will catch him,” said Mary, laughing.
“How absurd you talk!”
“Do I?”
Susan fell to biting her finger nail--a very vulgar habit, by the
way--and to think of something which her sister had no difficulty in
discerning.
“Do you really love him, Susan?” asked Mary.
“Love him! No; I never thought of such a thing.”
Perhaps she never did.
“What makes you go to all the prayer meetings, and mope round the house
like a sick owl, then?”
“I think I am under conviction,” replied Susan, demurely.
“Conviction of what?”
“Conviction of sin.”
“Conviction that Mr. Carlisle is a very handsome fellow, more like.”
“How absurd you are!”
“And I have heard a report round town, that you were going to join the
church.”
“I have spoken to Mr. Carlisle about it.”
Mary looked serious for a moment.
“If you really feel so, I commend your conduct; but I advise you not to
be too hasty. Examine your heart attentively, and do not bring scandal
upon the church by having side motives. But here comes Mr. Carlisle,”
said Mary, as she again turned her attention to the fascinating pages
of Hard Times.
[Illustration: EXTREMES MEET. Page 267.]
_CHAPTER II._
The young minister entered the room. Susan had taken up Saints’ Rest,
which lay by her, and commenced reading where she had left off, when
she saw Mr. Carlisle coming up the yard. As he came into the room
she laid down the book, and looked, for all the world, as though she
had not a friend in the world. The assuming of this appearance was
involuntary on her part; it was in accordance with her nature.
Mr. Carlisle seated himself by her side, and commenced catechising her
in regard to the impression the contents of the book produced upon her
mind--whether it afforded her consolation in her troubled mind--and
finally whether she really thought she had a hope. To all these queries
Susan replied in a satisfactory manner, assuring the handsome young
shepherd that she had been much edified by her reading.
There was a smile of mischief playing upon the pretty and expressive
face of Mary, as she peered over the top of Hard Times, to observe
the ghostly interview. She could see that Mr. Carlisle engaged in
the conversation with her sister merely as a matter of professional
interest--sincerely, it is true, but with no unusual interest in the
penitent. He regarded her as a wandering sheep, whom it was his duty to
bring into the fold.
But she compassionated her sister, who had deluded herself into the
belief that she could win the heart of the shepherd by becoming one of
his sheep; and she was provoking enough to tell her that instead of
making a sheep, she had made a calf of herself.
When the minister had finished his professional counsel, he turned to
Mary. As he did so, an involuntary smile came upon his lips. It was not
the smile of a ghostly father, but of a young man who has flesh in his
heart and blood in his veins.
Mary laid down her book as she noticed his intention to address her.
“What are you reading, Miss Fairbank?” asked he.
“Hard Times,” promptly replied Mary.
“A novel?”
“Yes, sir.”
The jaw of the young minister dropped down two inches.
“Do you like it?”
“O, very much, indeed!” replied Mary, with wicked enthusiasm; “I admire
Dickens’s of all the novels I ever read.”
“Do you make a practice of reading novels?”
“I seldom read anything else. I did read Reveries of a Bachelor and
Dream Life.”
The minister shook his head.
“I take the newspapers, and I always read them through--stories,
poetry, sentiment, editorials, and all.”
“Will you allow me to suggest some reading for you? and I should take
the greatest pleasure in lending you the books.”
“Thank you.”
“Baxter’s Call to the Unconverted is an excellent book for----.”
“It is _so_ stupid!”
Mr. Carlisle was horrified.
“I would not be hired to read it.”
“Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, perhaps, would suit your taste better.”
“I have read it; but don’t you call that a novel?”
“An allegory.”
“If I mistake not, I saw you reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I’m sure that
is a novel, and no better novel either than any of Dickens’s.”
“It is a moral and philanthropic work.”
“So are Dickens’s works. Indeed, I have never read a novel from which a
great deal of good might not be obtained, though I know there are such.”
“Mere fictions generally have a debasing tendency.”
“I judge novels as I do anything else--by their own merits. If I
understand you, Mr. Carlisle, you object to works of fiction, as such,
and not on account of any evil they may contain.”
“Certainly.”
“You insist that the book must be true in its narrative in order to be
good.”
“I do.”
“Then you despise the teachings of Him you profess to serve. He spoke
in parables--in fiction. I do not understand the Prodigal Son to be a
narrative of facts.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Then why may not Scott, Dickens, Irving, Miss Bremer, and Miss Leslie
teach us love and charity through the same medium?”
“Such works vitiate the taste.”
“O, it is the taste, and not the heart, that is damaged.”
“Both; the latter through the former. Let me induce you to read
Baxter’s Call, and you will then allow that you have obtained more
real good from it than from all the novels you ever read in your life.”
“It is too dull and insipid for me. I must draw my inspiration from
more sparkling fountains.”
“You misjudge the book.”
“Perhaps I do. I am not a saint, I am willing to acknowledge; therefore
it does not suit me. And I fancy it is so with half the world, who,
rejecting the counsels of the church, get their wisdom and their
goodness from works of fiction. They are readable to those whose taste,
like mine, has not become sanctified; without them they would read
nothing, and thus the world is better for novels.”
Mr. Carlisle could not but grant that there was some truth in what Mary
had said; and though he did not, in so many words, yield the point, an
impression was produced upon his mind which could not fail to soften
down the bigotry of his views.
But the merry, fearless, independent tones of the eloquent advocate of
works of fiction, went deeper down than the mind, and touched a weak
spot in his theological heart. Her pretty, sparkling eye, roused and
animated by her earnest thought, were irresistible; and the Rev. Mr.
Carlisle, maugre the carnal nature of the fair debater, actually fell
in love with the contemner of Baxter’s immortal works.
Mary was undoubtedly a great sinner, but she was a beautiful and
spirited girl for all that. We will not trouble the reader with the
ingenious plans which the enamoured minister laid that night to reclaim
the erring beauty; it is only necessary to say that, within a week, he
popped the question to her; and that she, out of consideration for her
sister, refused to consider the proposal.
_CHAPTER III._
Susan was a docile lamb, and her conversion progressed to the entire
satisfaction of her spiritual adviser. It was rumored that she was to
be “propounded” on the following Sabbath.
Mary had quite as strong a veneration for spiritual things as her
sister; but she was too straightforward to assume what she did not
possess, and too sensible to be led into imaginary raptures by any
extraneous influence. She knew Susan too well to believe her holy
aspirations were real; she knew that the poor girl had involuntarily
deluded herself. She was not surprised to hear that she had concluded
to join the church.