the shepherd,” said she.
“Nay, sister, you wrong me. Can you think me a hypocrite?”
“Not a hypocrite; you have misled yourself.”
“I have carefully examined my heart, and I am confident that I am not
deluded.”
“What would you say if I should tell you that Mr. Carlisle can never
love you?”
“I should say that you knew nothing about it,” replied Susan,
unthinkingly; but in an instant she corrected the mistake. “But that
has nothing to do with it.”
“I fear it has. Tell me honestly, Susan, do you not love Mr. Carlisle?
I will not laugh at you.”
Susan hesitated.
“Be candid sister.”
“I do not love him; but if he loved me, I feel that I could return his
affection.”
“He does not love you, Susan.”
The ambitious “sheep” looked earnestly into the face of her sister.
“How do you know?”
“I _do_ know.”
Susan looked pensive and sad.
“What do you know?”
“That he has even offered his hand and heart to another.”
“The hypocrite!” exclaimed Susan, with a flushed face.
“Why, sis!” and Mary was filled with astonishment, for it appeared from
Susan’s violent ebullition of feeling that the matter had passed much
farther than she had suspected. “Why do you use that pointed word? Did
he ever speak to you of love?”
“Never; but he has led me to believe by his constant attentions that he
was interested in me.”
“That was professional, sis; you have mistaken his zeal to bring you
into the fold for love. I warned you of this.”
“You did; I am a fool. But to whom has he offered himself.”
“It is a secret.”
“Tell _me_!”
“Will you be discreet?”
“I will.”
“To me!”
“To you! You who despised Baxter’s Call and Saints’ Rest?”
“Even so. Extremes meet sometimes.”
“I wish you joy, Mary.”
“But I declined the offer.”
“Why?”
“For your sake. I knew that you loved him.”
Susan was deeply affected at the generosity of her sister.
“I do not love him, sister. Do not let me be an obstacle in the way of
your happiness.”
“I have not said that I loved him.”
“But you do?”
“I have refused him.”
“Nay, he is a noble and a good man, besides being handsome and
talented. You need not be a fool because I have been. I assure you I am
completely cured; I think he is a flirt.”
Mary did not think so, and the young minister was too deeply enamoured
of her, too devotedly admired her wit and beauty, no less than her
innate goodness of heart, to be content with a refusal. When he renewed
his suit, the spirited girl was more tractable, and in process of time
they were married.
Whether Mr. Carlisle ever succeeded in removing those pernicious
notions about novels from the mind of his wife, we are unable to say;
but we do know that Scott, Dickens, and Irving have found a place on
the shelves of his library, beside the tomes of theology and history;
and we infer that a mutual influence has brought each to adopt more
reasonable views both of Baxter and the novelists.
THE MERCANTILE ANGEL.
_CHAPTER I._
“The contemptible little jackanapes! he had the audacity to ask me to
play whist with him!” exclaimed Sophia Danvers to her sister.
“And why should he not, sister?” answered Mary Danvers, calmly.
“Why should he not, indeed! Did he think I would demean myself by
playing whist with a clerk--one of my father’s servants?” and Sophia
tossed her head in proud disdain.
“I can see no impropriety in your associating with him, Sophia. He is
certainly a handsome, intelligent and well-behaved young man.”
“Behaves well enough, for aught I know; but only think of it--a clerk
in our drawing room! For my part, I wonder how father could ever think
of such a thing as admitting him into the family.”
“I suppose it was because he liked the looks of him.”
“What will Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert say when he finds us associating
with poor clerks--the trash of counting rooms?”
“It matters little to me what he thinks; he is a conceited puppy, and I
wonder that you can endure his presence,” replied Mary, smartly.
“But he is the leader of the _ton_, Mary,” said Sophia, astonished at
the plebeian notions of her sister.
“He is a perfect flat, for all that, and infinitely inferior, in all
that constitutes a man, to Mr. Harlowe, whom you affect to despise.”
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Danvers.
“How could you bring that horrible clerk into the house, papa?” said
Sophia, as the merchant prince seated himself by the blazing grate.
“Horrible clerk! Pray, what is the matter with him?” asked Mr. Danvers,
evincing some surprise at the plain speech of his daughter.
“Why, he is a clerk.”
“But a respectable young man.”
“Respectable enough, but not fashionable, papa.”
“I was a clerk once, Sophia; I commenced by sweeping out a store, and
carrying bundles about the city.”
“How absurdly you talk, papa!”
“But Mr. Harlowe is a very estimable young man; I am confident you will
find him agreeable company.”
“I shall have nothing to say to him,” replied Sophia, with a shrug of
the shoulders.
“Beware, Sophia; there is an old proverb, you know, about entertaining
angels unawares.”
Sophia laughed heartily at the idea of a poor clerk being an angel.
“But what says Mary?” asked the merchant, turning to his gentle-hearted
daughter.
“O, _I_ like him very much; we are already fast friends,” replied Mary,
and a slight blush seemed to emphasize the remark.
“Just like her, papa; I should not wonder if she got head over heels in
love with your mercantile angel.”
“She must do as she pleases about that,” replied Mr. Danvers, smiling.
“Pooh, Sophy! who said a word about falling in love? Can’t a body be
civil to a young gentleman without falling in love with him?”
The pretty Mary blushed as she spoke, in good earnest--blushed so
palpably that her father began to think the affair was something more
than a mere jest.
“But pray, papa, when does your new partner arrive?” asked Sophia.
“If all the accounts I have heard of his wit, gallantry, and personal
attractions are true, I shall certainly set my cap for him.”
“He will appear one of these days,” replied Mr. Danvers.
“I hope you will not keep this stupid clerk in the house after he
comes.”
“I certainly shall.”
“But, papa, we shall ‘lose caste’ if you do; it is really abominable.”
“Small loss, my child. If we are dependent upon the apes and puppies
of fashionable life for our position in society, the sooner we lose it
the better for our own self-respect,” said Mr. Danvers, smiling good
humoredly.
“You are absurd, papa.”
“Now, Sophy, you have given me a lesson, let me give you one. The
idol you worship is more senseless than those of the Feegee Islands.
Fashionable society is as hollow as a brass pan; place no reliance upon
it. The fops and fools who follow in your train are as soulless as they
are brainless.”
“I wish Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert could hear you say so,” added Sophia.
“Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert was a journeyman barber in New Orleans, less
than a year ago. I had the honor of being shaved by him last winter
when I was there.”
“O, horrid, papa! Why have you not exposed him?”
“Why should I, my child? He is as good a fellow, as sensible a person,
and, according to your statement, as fashionable a man as Mr. Finstock,
whose great grandfather was the governor of the state.”
“Is it possible that Mr. Fitzherbert was a barber?” exclaimed Sophia,
horrified at the appalling statement.
“Nothing else, my child.”
“An impostor?” added Mary.
“Just so. Probably he is trying to obtain a rich wife.”
“It is abominable, I declare! One hardly knows, nowadays, who is
respectable and who is not,” said Sophia.
“Therefore, my child, we ought not to speak so disparagingly of persons
in humble life, as you have to-night.”
“Pooh! a clerk!”
At this moment, Mr. Harlowe, the new clerk, entered the room, and, as
Sophia would have expressed it, had the impudence to seat himself by
the side of Mary Danvers, who appeared not at all averse to this close
proximity with him.
Frederic Harlowe was, as Mary had said, a handsome, intelligent, and
agreeable young man; and Sophia, if she could have forgiven him for
being a clerk, could have appreciated his society quite as highly as
did her sister.
With her father’s permission, Mary accepted an invitation from Frederic
to attend Alboni’s last concert.
They had scarcely left the house before Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert
was ushered into the sitting room. This gentleman was an exquisite
of the “first water.” In his personal appearance, he certainly was
sufficiently well endowed to challenge the admiration of the fair sex;
but, unfortunately, he was sadly lacking in that necessary element of a
man of sense--brains.
Sophia could scarcely refrain from expressing the contempt she felt
for the journeyman barber in disguise. The leader of the “ton,” in her
estimation, was a ruined man.
The dandy, as a matter of courtesy, inquired for Mary, and was informed
that she had gone to the concert with Mr. Harlowe.
“With Mr. Harlowe--a clerk--aw?” said the ex-journeyman barber, with a
sneer, as he twirled up the long “rat tail” of his mustache.
“A very worthy young man,” replied Mr. Danvers.
“No doubt of it, saw; but a clerk--aw.”
“Pray, were you never a clerk, Mr. Fitzherbert? _I_ was.”
“A clerk! No, saw--nevaw!”
“Did I not meet you in New Orleans last winter?”
The dandy started up like a parched pea from a hot pan.
“I have a faint recollection of having met you in a barber’s shop
there,” continued the merchant, tormentingly.
“Aw, very likely, saw. I patronize the barbaws.”
“And now I think of it, you wore a little white apron, and, if I
mistake not, I had the pleasure of being shaved by _you_ in person.”
“Quite a mistake, saw, I assuaw you.”
Suddenly Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert, whose real name was John Smike,
remembered an imperative engagement, and hastened to take his leave.
He was seen to enter the cars for New York on the following day, and
nothing has been heard of him since.
_CHAPTER II._
Of course the reader understands that Frederic Harlowe and Mary are
deeply, irretrievably in love with each other by this time. The poor
clerk had won his way to the heart of the fair girl, and she, poor
thing, had been captivated by the manly attractions, the noble soul of
him who offered incense before her shrine.
As the world goes, it would be deemed a very wicked thing for a poor
clerk to fall in love with the daughter of his aristocratic employer.
Some people would say it was ungrateful in him thus to spirit away the
affections of a confiding girl, when his position and prospects did not
warrant his presuming to be her husband.
These questions are still open to the casuist. He may debate them to
his entire satisfaction; but Mr. Danvers, either because he was more
sensible than many of the aristocratic merchants of the day, or for
some other equally potent reason, neglected to make any fuss about the
matter, and suffered the clerk to woo and win his daughter, without
even remonstrating against the wickedness of the act.
But Sophia was deeply grieved by her sister’s folly, as she deemed it,
and used all the arguments in the range of her shallow sophistry to
dissuade her from the folly and madness of wedding a clerk.
Mary was obstinate. The only excuse she offered in palliation of the
flagrant misdemeanor was, that she loved him; and if she _loved_
a scavenger, she would cling to him with the last breath she was
permitted to draw.
“A ring!” exclaimed Sophia, one day when matters appeared to have taken
a very decided turn. “Well, well, I suppose you are engaged.”
“We are, Sophia,” replied Mary, with a face radiant with happiness.
“And you intend to be married?”
“Certainly we do; that is the end of an engagement.”
“My conscience! to think that the daughter of a merchant prince should
became the wife of a poor, insignificant clerk!”
“Nothing very alarming about it, Sophy; it wouldn’t be half so
ridiculous as another daughter of a merchant prince becoming the wife
of an ex-journeyman barber. I believe Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert was your
beau ideal of what a fashionable husband ought to be.”
“The impostor!”
“I am at least sure that Frederic is not an imposter--a humbug; one
would not be likely to _assume_ the character of a clerk.”
“Perhaps not; but pray, sister, when do you intend to become the wife
of this counting room cherub?”
“The day has not been fixed yet; in the spring, probably.”
“And may I ask what you intend to do with yourself? His salary is only
a thousand dollars a year.”
“We can get along very well on that sum.”
“Yes, I suppose so, and live in some ten footer in a dark alley.”
“We intend to live out of town, in a nice little cottage.”
“Y-e-s! a nice little cottage!” drawled Sophia, in derision. “O sis, I
will show you how to live when I am married. None of your nice little
cottages for me. But I wonder when the new partner is coming.”
“Papa told me this morning that he had deferred the arrangement till
next spring, and that the gentleman would attend to his business at the
south as heretofore.”
“How provoking! I have been reserving my affections on purpose for him.
I mean to make a conquest of him in just one month.”
“How foolish you talk, Sophy! One would think you had entirely
forgotten your maidenly delicacy.”
“Pooh! I’m jesting; it’s between _us_;” and Sophia relapsed into
a revery, which, we are almost sure, related to the aforesaid new
partner, who was not only a nice young man, but was to put thirty
thousand dollars into the concern when he became a partner.
* * * * *
The winter passed away, and the spring came. Frederic and Mary were
to be married in a few days. Mr. Danvers, to the infinite chagrin of
Sophia, had readily consented to the match. The proud sister--though
in the natural goodness of her heart she would not have had Mary’s
affections blasted--would fain have had a little opposition, to save
appearances.
The bridal day came, and after the ceremony had been performed, the
happy parties started for their new residence in the suburbs. Sophia,
who had acted as bridesmaid, was to accompany them.
The carriage wound through an elm-shaded road, and suddenly brought to
the view of the delighted party a splendid country residence.
“That is the cottage,” exclaimed the bride.
“That a cottage! Why, Mary it is a palace!” replied Sophia, in utter
astonishment; for she had never taken interest enough in her sister’s
affairs to visit her proposed residence.
The carriage stopped before the door, which was half hidden behind a
vine-laced portico, and the party alighted.
The place was a perfect paradise, and many were the encomiums lavished
upon it by the bewildered Sophia.
“You cannot think how surprised I was when I first beheld it,” said
Mary, when she and Sophia were alone. “It seemed more like a dream
of fairyland than a reality. But Frederic is so very odd about these
things.”
“I should think that he was! Why, sis, it will certainly ruin him, a
poor clerk on a thousand dollars salary.”
“Well, he knows best; he says the rent is nothing.”
“Nothing, indeed; but it will eat up his poor pittance.”
“Well, I gave him a lesson on extravagance; but he only laughed in my
face, and said he knew what he was about.”
“But here are Frederic and father; I am sure papa has been scolding him
for his recklessness.”
“He does not look as though the scolding had produced a very powerful
effect,” said Mary, as she saw her husband’s smiling countenance.
“What a beautiful house!” exclaimed Sophia, as Frederic Harlowe joined
the group.
“A fitting nest for my pretty bird,” replied the husband, gayly, as he
chucked his blushing wife under the chin.
“I should think your thousand dollars a year would have to suffer
some,” said Sophia, bluntly.
“O, your father has been so very good as to elevate me a peg, so that I
can well afford to incur the expense.”
“Yes, my child,” interposed Mr. Danvers; “you know I said something to
you about entertaining angels unawares. Sophy, _Mr. Frederic Harlowe_
is the new partner.”
“What an abominable cheat, papa! I’ll warrant you told Mary of it in
the beginning,” said Sophia, with abundant good humor.
“Nay, she knew nothing of it till a few days before her marriage. This
was all Mr. Harlowe’s whim; he must explain it for himself.”
Mr. Harlowe did attempt to explain his motive in entering the family
_incog._, but it was a lame explanation. Probably the reader, who
readily penetrates the secret thoughts of the hero of the story, has
already divined his motive. He wanted a wife, and had the sense to seek
for genuine goodness in preference to name and position in society. He
won the daughter of a merchant prince as a simple clerk; there was no
doubt that she loved him.
Mary was very much surprised, and perhaps not a little chagrined, to
find the romance of marrying a clerk so suddenly disappear; but in the
wealth of a mutual love they were richer than in the smiles of fickle
fortune, which had blessed them with an abundance of the good things of
this life.
CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN;
BEING THE SUBSTANCE OF WHAT SOME YOUNG MEN THINK, BUT NEVER SAY.
_CHAPTER I._
When I was a boy, the schoolmaster succeeded in impressing upon my mind
the truth of that common saying--“If a man thinks nothing of himself,
no one will think any thing of him.” The pedagogue believed it himself,
and his daily deportment was based upon it. Whether I learned any thing
else of him I cannot now say; but I am sure I learned to set a high
value upon myself.
[Illustration: CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN.]
At the age of eighteen, I found myself in the service of an eminent
merchant of Boston, in the capacity of assistant bookkeeper, on the
paltry salary of four hundred dollars a year. I was worth more--I was
sure of it. But perhaps my employer had not yet come to a knowledge of
the treasure he possessed in me, and I wisely determined to wait till I
had a better opportunity to distinguish myself.
Certainly I took a great deal of pride in discharging the duties of my
position. I labored assiduously to please both the merchant and the
head bookkeeper, and they seemed to regard me with satisfaction; but
I resolved to make myself so necessary that the business could not be
carried on without me.
Whether my imagination was more lively than my reason, or not, I do
not know; but certainly, at the end of six months I made up my mind
that Mr. Bancroft could not possibly continue in business a single
month without me. As to my superior, he would be perfectly powerless
if I should leave. In fact, I “conceited” that I was in reality _the_
bookkeeper of the concern, though he received the salary and did all
the dictating.
I was an ambitious young man. I built a great many very pretty castles
in the air; among them the idea of marrying my employer’s beautiful
daughter was not the least attractive. She was a splendid girl--people
called her the belle of Boston--and what to me was just as insinuating,
she was an only child, and consequently the heiress of all Mr.
Bancroft’s reputed wealth.
I never was one of that sort who wistfully dream over fine things,
without making an attempt to attain them. That stale old maxim to the
effect that “faint heart ne’er won fair lady,” was uppermost in my
mind. I had come to the conclusion that Rosabel Bancroft should have
the supreme felicity of becoming my household deity.
But the way was full of difficulties. I had never seen the peerless
maiden, save on occasions when I had called at the house in the
capacity of an errand boy--for the key of the safe, to get Mr. Bancroft
to sign a check, or something of that sort. She was a proud beauty,
and had never even taken the pains to look at me. “Ah, my fine lady,”
thought I, “when we are married, I will teach you what is what!”
Certainly I would! And as for marrying her, why, that was a settled
fact in my mind--I had resolved to do the deed.
I flattered myself that I was a decidedly good-looking fellow, and a
great many young men cherish this idea in these progressive times.
My looking glass had told me I was handsome, and there was no going
behind its impressive declaration. But I was aware that my beauty
needed a little cultivation, and accordingly I applied to Bogle for
some of the “compounds,” and in a few weeks, I had the satisfaction
of contemplating the addition of a downy mustache upon my well-turned
upper lip. I took a great deal of pains with this beautifier of my
physiognomy, and felt perfectly sure that the charming Rosabel would be
unable to resist my killing attractions.
There was to be a grand ball at Union Hall, and I heard that my
divinity was to form one of the revellers. I will not trouble the
reader with a relation of the difficulties that beset me in procuring a
ticket--for the affair was intended solely for the “upper ten;” but I
got one, though it cost me in the neighborhood of twenty-five dollars,
to say nothing of twenty-five more expended in a fancy vest, cravat,
and other little amiabilities.
When I was dressed for the occasion, the effect was perfectly stunning.
Rosabel was certainly a goner!
My _entrée_ into the drawing room seemed to create a profound
sensation. All the gentlemen stared at me, and I felt assured of being
the lion of the evening. It was plain that my “personal” had created
a _furor_ among the aristocratic dandies; but I tried to treat them
all with respect and politeness. It is true I saw some of them turn up
their noses at me; and all evinced a disposition to avoid me. But I
attributed all these unmannerly symptoms to the envy which my superior
personal attractions had roused in their narrow minds. I did not resent
their ill nature--I could afford to be magnanimous.
I walked like a king through the sumptuous apartments; indeed I always
prided myself on my gait. More than once, when I have been leisurely
promenading Washington Street, I have felt sure that all the ladies had
singled me out for especial admiration.
There was something magnificent about my style of walking, and I did
not blame the dear creatures for sighing when I passed them. It was a
great pity that, in the illiberality of our laws, only one lady could
ever have the satisfaction of calling me her husband. I am naturally
of an sympathetic temperament, and I assure the reader that it deeply
grieved me to think of the number of fair, promising ladies who would
be disappointed in winning my affections. I could not love them all,
and from the bottom of my heart I pitied those who were doomed to be
disappointed.
Rosabel Bancroft was destined to be my wife. I had deliberately made up
my mind, and though I thought, in consideration of my condescension in
choosing her from the thousands who would have rejoiced to win me, she
ought to meet me half way. But I was not over nice, and in deference to
the fashions of the times, I mentally consented to do all the courting
myself.
I succeeded in getting an introduction to her, and she consented to
dance with me. I was not much elated; I regarded my progress as a
matter of course. During the quadrille, I did the agreeable to my own
satisfaction, and though the impression was not as marked and decided
as I had expected, I was assured that everything was going on well.
“Procrastination is the thief of time,” said somebody. I don’t remember
whether it was Plato or Diogenes. When the dance was ended, and I had
conducted her to the drawing room, I made bold to express my admiration
of her beauty and grace. She blushed, smiled, and looked confused. Poor
thing! how could she help it?
Just then a dandy spoke a word to her, and then retreated. I was not
to be balked, and with all the eloquence I possessed--and I would just
hint that Demosthenes, Cicero, or Daniel Webster couldn’t hold a candle
to me in making a speech--I popped the question.
It was handsomely done, and Rosabel was taken all aback. I expected all
this--I knew all about making love--Ovid couldn’t tell me any thing
about it. Girls at this momentous crisis, do not always mean half they
say; and I was prepared to hear her declare it was rather sudden, that
she must ask papa about it, and all that sort of thing.
But my ardent confession seemed to throw her into a perspiration--if I
may so unpoetically express the confusion which my declaration produced.
“You impudent puppy!” exclaimed she, her pretty cheeks red with anger;
“so you are one of my father’s clerks, and have the presumption to ask
me to dance with you, and then to offer me such an indignity! Leave my
presence, sir, this instant, or I will ask my friends to kick you away!”