not know her own mind. Some of those envious noodles had been exciting
her prejudices against me. That dandy had told her I was her father’s
clerk, before I had had an opportunity to weave my spell upon her.
Comforting myself with the assurance that there were thousands of
heiresses who were more discriminating than she, I whistled an air, and
ambled away from her. If there is any person on the face of the earth
whom I pity more than another, it is he or she who wilfully throws away
a good opportunity.
Poor Rosabel! I pitied _her_! I believe I was unselfish enough to
deplore her misfortune more acutely than I did my own. I had lost
nothing that might not be regained; she had cast away one of the most
brilliant opportunities that ever dawned upon the destiny of a maiden.
I have the credit, among those who know me best, of possessing
firmness in a very remarkable degree; and it was melancholy to think
she had cast me off forever, for, I am sure, if she had fallen upon her
knees, and begged and pleaded, I should have been as firm as a rock.
Those insulting, unlady-like words, had “fixed her flint”--to use a
rather homely phrase, which I believe did not originate either with
Addison or Macaulay.
I did not dance any more that evening. I found that I had fallen among
fools, who could not appreciate me. And strange as it may seem to
the unphilosophical reader, the fact did not in the least disturb my
natural equanimity. Why should it? Did not Socrates experience the same
coldness at the hands of the fickle Athenians, who put him to death by
mixing poison with his “sherry cobbler?” Why should I expect a better
fate than others whose misfortune it is to be superior to the masses
around them?
I left the hall regretting only that the eighth part of my year’s
salary had been wasted in the adventure.
When I went to the counting room next morning, Mr. Bancroft summoned me
to his private office.
“You are a fool, young man!” said he, and his face was flushed with
anger.
O the ingratitude of the world! This was a pretty return for the
distinguished honor I had intended for his daughter, and which only
her own wilfulness had prevented her from receiving at my hands.
“If you ever presume to speak to my daughter again, under any
circumstances, I will immediately discharge you from my service,”
continued he, with the utmost coolness.
“Nonsense!” thought I--and I beg the reader will not suppose I uttered
this unseemly expression--“you won’t do any thing of the kind. You know
your own interest too well.”
Discharge me! I should have liked to see him do it. I believe I should
actually have gone, if he had said the word, and left him to take care
of his business as best he might! If he had got me mad, I should just
as lief seem him fail as not--it is my temperament. To a friend, I am a
friend; to a foe, a foe of the most determined sort.
But he knew better than to provoke me too far. Bancroft was a
shrewd man. He knew just how far I would have permitted him to go,
in deference to the dignity of his position, and he did not exceed
that limit. It was a lucky thing for him that he did not. Disaster,
mercantile ruin, would have been the inevitable consequence of such an
imprudent act!
I regret that my space does not permit me to give the reader the
details of my exploits in the arena of Cupid for the succeeding six
months. They were rich and varied; but I am happy to console my friends
and admirers with the assurance that I am at present engaged in writing
out the history of the whole period, which in due time will appear,
complete in seven volumes, with portraits and illustrations.
From the events of this campaign, I deduce the melancholy conclusion
that the fair sex are sadly wanting in good taste and nice
discrimination. The fact that I am still a bachelor is a sad commentary
on this truth. The ladies “are not what they are cracked up to be”--to
use a rather inelegant expression, which I think was original with
Hogg, the poet.
But disappointed of my matrimonial hopes, I determined to make commerce
the study of my life. I had about made up my mind to offer my time
and talents to Bancroft--in short, to offer to become his partner
in business. I never was much in favor of these complications of
mercantile affairs, and to become a partner of his might involve me in
some future sacrifices, which it might not be pleasant to make.
I thought it best, on the whole, to retain my present situation. But
the salary was too small. I must wait upon Bancroft, and consent to
remain in his service, if he would add a hundred dollars to my pay. Of
course he could not be so imprudent as to run the risk of failure and
utter ruin for so trifling a matter as this.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bancroft,” said I, in my blandest tones,--for
even a highway robber is polite nowadays when he blows a man’s brains
out--“but I have taken the liberty to wait upon you for the purpose of
asking you to advance my salary from four to five hundred dollars.”
“Go to the devil!” said he, rudely.
It is astonishing how some folks will even kick an angel out of their
presence. Poor Bancroft! he “stood in his own light,”--to borrow from
Carlyle or Mephistopheles, I forget which.
“You are dear help at two hundred a year; I don’t want you any longer
at any price,” continued Bancroft.
“There’s stupidity for you!” thought I.
My blood was up, and I determined to leave him, let the consequences be
what they might.
I did leave him, assured that the mercantile world would be startled
to its centre by a crash, in a very short time. The concern has not
broke down yet, but there is a moral certainty that it must soon “go by
the board,”--to quote from Captain Cook, or Sir John Franklin, it is
not very material which.
I had not been out of business a week before I discovered that
literature was the proper sphere for me. I intend to bring about a
revolution in the world of letters, by introducing an entirely new
style of composition, adapted both to prose and poetry. I have several
works under way, including a complete History of the Musquito Kingdom,
Annals of Hull, and a poem in two hundred and seventy-six cantos, on
the Want of Appreciation and Correct Taste in the Female Sex,--all of
which will appear as soon as written and published.
THE BACHELOR BEAU.
_CHAPTER I._
“I can no longer struggle against the current of misfortune,” exclaimed
Mr. Whiting, a small merchant, who had by the pressure of hard times
become somewhat involved; “I am ruined!”
“Nay, my husband, do not be distressed. Worse calamities than this
might happen, and we will make the best of it.”
“But wife, I must fail; I cannot sustain myself another day.”
“You have done all you can to avert the misfortune, and if it must
come, let us not repine, but bear it like Christians.”
“I will try to keep calm; but it seems hard, after weathering the worst
of the storm, to be wrecked in sight of the land.”
“Perhaps your creditors will give you more time,” suggested Mrs.
Whiting.
“I cannot hope it; the note which comes due to-morrow, and which I am
utterly unable to pay, is in the hands of my bitterest enemy.”
“He will not distress you.”
“I know him well. He is a villain!”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Bacher.”
“God help us, if _he_ is your creditor!”
“As near as I can learn, he bought the note on purpose to perplex me,
and perhaps to obtain his revenge.”
“Why is he so bitter against you?”
“Because I exposed a swindling operation, in which he was engaged.”
“How much is the note, father?” asked a beautiful, hazel-eyed girl, who
had not before spoken, but who had been listening with intense interest
to the conversation between her father and mother.
“Three thousand dollars, Sarah,” replied Mr. Whiting, fixing a glance
of anxiety upon the fair girl.
“Can’t you borrow it, father?”
“Alas! my child, my credit is very much impaired. My notes have been
too thick in State Street for me to borrow without paying exorbitant
interest; and that, I think, would wrong my creditors in case any thing
should happen.”
“It is not so very dreadful to fail, is it, father?”
“It would be ruinous to me, my child. If I could pay this note
to-morrow, I could get along very well. I should not have been
embarrassed, had it not been for the failure of Jones. But I suppose it
must be, and we must content ourselves to live a little more closely
than we have been accustomed to do.”
Sarah asked no more questions, and though the conversation was
continued by her father and mother, she seemed to pay no attention to
it. She appeared to be musing deeply over something.
As the evening advanced, John Barnet, a clerk, who had for some months
been attentive to Sarah, and who, report said, was a favored suitor,
made his accustomed evening visit. Every body said that John Barnet was
a nice young man, and every way worthy of so beautiful and amiable a
wife as Sarah Whiting would undoubtedly make him.
If there is any thing in smiles and gentle words, the affection of the
young clerk was warmly reciprocated by Sarah. They were not engaged,
however, though he called at Mr. Whiting’s house from four to seven
evenings in a week.
Mr. Whiting and his wife retired at an early hour in the evening,
leaving the lovers “to have it out.”
As usual, John Barnet begged her to make him happy by promising to be
his forever. To his utter surprise and consternation, she told him she
could never be his wife, and entreated him to think no more about her.
Of course, the lover pressed her for an explanation of this sudden and
remarkable change in her manner towards him. But she could not even do
this, and John took his leave, feeling that he had not another friend
in the world.
_CHAPTER II._
Sarah Whiting had another suitor in the person of a wealthy and
eccentric old bachelor, who, after withstanding the assaults of
thousands of bright eyes and bewitching smiles, had laid his heart at
the feet of our beautiful heroine. We don’t blame the old fellow for
falling in love with her, any more than we blame Sarah for laughing at
him, when he threw himself at her feet and “popped the question.”
Mr. Landyke Somerset was only about forty, so that, if Sarah had been
less cruel, it would not have been exactly “May and December,” but
about June and November. He loved her with all the fervor which the
march of time had left in his heart, and was actually disconsolate when
she told him “no.”
Mr. Landyke Somerset was not an ill-looking man, though he was an old
bachelor. True, his hair was not as black and glossy as it had been
twenty years before; there was an occasional iron-gray hair, which
looked a little suspicious; yet, when he began to make his court to the
divinity of his dreams, even these suddenly disappeared, and people
were malicious enough to say it was through the influence of a certain
compound applied by the barber. True, also, there was now and then a
wrinkle in his face, which some young ladies affect to dislike. But
what of all these things? Old age is honorable, and the iron-gray hairs
and the wrinkles did not in the least mar the kindly expression of his
phiz.
He was a very clever fellow, and though the merry little Sarah Whiting
could not help laughing when he “popped the question” to her, she would
very willingly have had just such an uncle, or something of that sort.
In short she _liked_ him, but she didn’t _love_ him.
Mr. Landyke Somerset was a firm believer in the ancient verity, that
“faint heart ne’er won fair lady,” and he determined not to faint or
give up the chase till he had bagged the game, or had seen her the
wife of another. Consequently he held out all the inducements in his
power to engage her heart in his favor.
He was not what young ladies called an “old fool,” for he had sense
enough to feel that he should never be able to gain the victory on the
strength of his physical attributes--his personal beauty. But he was an
amiable man at heart, and trusted solely to the influence of his moral
and mental qualities for success. They had thus far failed him, though
he still persevered.
Mr. Whiting, readily understanding what these attentions meant, did all
in his power to favor his suit; for he was an old-fashioned man, and
placed more confidence in the power of a good heart and plenty of money
to make his daughter happy, than he did in the more common attributes
of youth and good looks, even though the possessor of the first-named
commodities had passed the meridian of life.
But Sarah had a mind of her own in these matters, and though she
appreciated her kind father’s motives, she could not think of throwing
herself away on a man of forty, even if he was an angel.
It was only the afternoon of the day preceding the conversation we
have recorded, that Mr. Somerset had paid her a visit, and renewed his
protestations of love to her. She had told him for the twentieth time,
“no.”
When she heard her father relate the particulars of his embarrassment,
the image of Mr. Somerset had involuntarily presented itself to her
mind. He was abundantly able to assist them in this emergency, and for
the love he bore her perhaps he would.
But, then, if she applied to him, and he afforded the necessary aid,
she would be under an obligation to him, which she might find it very
inconvenient to discharge.
Ruin stared her father in the face. He had said it was _ruin_, and she
was sure it was. What right had she to be selfish or over nice, when,
perhaps, she had it in her power to avert the dreadful calamity? Her
father was all in all to her; and though some girls are so sentimental
as to sacrifice father, mother, home, friends, for a lover, she would
sacrifice a dozen lovers for her father alone, to say nothing of her
mother, who was at least worth two dozen more.
Let not the reader suppose the pretty Sarah did not love him upon whom
she had smiled--she did; but her bump of veneration was bigger than
that other bump on the back of the head.
Her resolution was formed, and about eleven o’clock the next day,
she put on her bonnet, and walked up to the Revere House, where Mr.
Somerset boarded.
_CHAPTER III._
Mr. Landyke Somerset was a nabob, and retained a private parlor, to
which the obsequious servant conducted Sarah Whiting.
Of course the bachelor was reasonably astonished at this visit.
“Indeed, Miss Whiting, I am delighted to see you,” exclaimed he, with
rapturous enthusiasm.
“I knew you would be, and that’s the reason I came,” laughed Sarah,
and at the same time she blushed so sweetly that Mr. Landyke Somerset
had almost dissolved in a rapture of delight.
“Ah, my dear Miss Whiting, you are not always so kind to me as you are
to-day.”
“But I always will be hereafter,” and Sarah smiled, though her heart
beat like the boundings of a race horse.
“Ah, you are so good, and so pretty, too.”
“I will save you the trouble of all these useless adulations, by saying
that I have come to accept your oft-repeated proposal.”
“Indeed!” and the bachelor was taken “all aback;” he could hardly
believe the evidence of his own senses.
“What, sir! Do you recede from your offer?” said Sarah, laughing with
all her might--a very convenient cloak for young ladies sometimes.
“Capital joke, eh?” and the bachelor laughed too.
“No joke, sir; I am in earnest.”
Sarah looked as sober as the matron of an orphan asylum.
“Nay, nay, my pretty Sarah, do not make sport of me.”
“I will give you my promise in writing, with my signature, if you
desire it.”
“Is it possible that you mean so?” said the doubtful Mr. Somerset.
“Take my hand.”
The bachelor took it, pressed it to his lips, and began to think
himself the happiest fellow in the world.
“I am yours, Mr. Somerset.”
“Bless you, Sarah!”
“On one condition.”
“Name it.”
Sarah recounted the story of her father’s embarrassment.
“Fill me out a check for three thousand dollars, and I promise to
become your wife within one year.”
Mr. Landyke Somerset mused. He appeared to be in doubt. He was a
high-souled man, and the idea of _buying_ the hand of his wife was to
the last degree repugnant to him.
“You hesitate sir; I know you do not love me,” said Sarah, with
apparent pique.
“On my soul, I do! I agree; here is the check,” replied Mr. Somerset,
as he seated himself at the table and drew the check.
“Now enclose it in a note to my father, saying you learned his trouble
from a mutual friend, and then beg the privilege of loaning him the
amount of the check.”
“And you sacrifice yourself to your father, my fair Sarah!” said the
bachelor, as he sealed the note.
“I do.”
“You are an angel!”
“Nay, I must go now.”
The check did the business, and Mr. Whiting was as happy as ever he
was in his life. Bacher could not sleep that night because he had been
foiled in his revenge.
In the evening Mr. Somerset called at the house to see his future
bride. She treated him kindly, and permitted him to sit by her side,
hold her work basket, and pick up her thimble when she dropped
it--which was glory enough for an evening, to one as moderate in his
wishes as the bachelor beau of our heroine.
But about eight o’clock, to Sarah’s utter consternation, John Barnet
paid his usual visit. The poor clerk was sadly distressed, as well he
might be, and had called to desire an explanation of the cool manner in
which he had been dismissed.
The presence of Mr. Somerset was all the explanation he desired. He was
uneasy; he could not join in the conversation, and aware that he was
making himself disagreeable to the party, he determined to take his
leave; but how could he leave her?
He knew Mr. Somerset to be one of the best men in the world, and he
resolved to request an interview with him on the spot.
The worthy bachelor kindly condescended to walk down the street a short
distance with him, and John Barnet told him the whole story; how he
loved Sarah, and how he had every reason to believe that Sarah loved
him. He was sure that some unfair advantage had been taken, and he
wanted the matter explained.
“Come back to the house, young man, and I will give you all the
satisfaction you desire.”
John consented.
A few minutes sufficed to explain to Mr. Whiting and the discarded
lover the nature of the sacrifice which the devoted Sarah had made for
her father’s sake.
“Bless you, my child!” exclaimed the merchant, his eyes filling with
tears of love, as he tenderly embraced his noble-hearted daughter.
“You understand it now, don’t you, Mr. Barnet?” said the bachelor, with
a good natured smile.
“I do, indeed,” replied John, sorrowfully; “she is a noble girl, and I
shall never cease to love her, though she can never be mine.”
Sarah cast a sad glance at him, and her eyes filled with tears. She
never knew till that moment how much she loved the poor clerk. But it
was all over now--the bright dreams of love had passed away, and she
could never be happy again.
“What, Sarah! do you recede from your promise?” asked Mr. Somerset.
“Nay, I do not. Farewell, John! farewell forever!” and the poor girl
sobbed convulsively.
“Farewell, Sarah!” and the clerk seized his hat and rushed towards the
door.
“Hallo! stop, young man!” exclaimed Mr. Somerset; “don’t go off mad.
Give me your hand.”
The bachelor took the clerk’s hand.
“You are a good fellow; I honor you. Your hand, Sarah,” and Mr.
Somerset took the little white hand of the weeping maiden, and placed
it in that of John Barnet. “Be happy!”
“What do you mean, sir?” asked Sarah, bewildered at the actions of the
bachelor.
“Mean? You love him, don’t you?”
“With all my soul!”
“And you do not love me?”
Sarah began to understand.
“I _like_ you.”
“You are his; be happy! You did not for a moment suppose I could be so
mean as to take advantage of such a noble act of self-sacrifice as you
performed to-day? No! I love you, but I will not make you miserable.”
Poor Sarah! How happy she was, and how she pitied poor Mr. Somerset,
who loved her so much! She felt that, if she had never seen John
Barnet, she would have been glad to become his wife, iron gray and
wrinkles to the contrary notwithstanding--he was such a dear good soul!
“Be happy! and that isn’t all; when I die you shall have half my
fortune.”
The bachelor kept his word, and though he didn’t die of a broken heart,
he did not live many years; yet when he did die, the hand of woman--of
as true and loving a woman as ever made home a paradise--smoothed his
dying pillow, and closed his eyes in their last sleep; and there were
sincere mourners over his bier.
Poor Mr. Landyke Somerset! though he found not a wife in Sarah Whiting,
he found a true friend.
THE GRAND RECEPTION BALL.
_CHAPTER I._
Tiptop is somewhere in the State of Massachusetts; but, in
consideration of the unpleasant nature of the details of my story, I
do not feel at liberty to state its precise geographical position.
Undoubtedly, too, there are within the limits of our ancient
commonwealth a great many Tiptops, and, by assigning it a specific
_locale_, many whom the coat fits will fail to put it on.
Tiptop was fully up with the times. The distinctions of caste were as
precisely defined and protected as in New York or Philadelphia. It is
true, a belle from one of the emporiums of fashion would not have felt
at home there; but then the Tiptopites labored to be as fashionable as
the metropolitans, and if they did not succeed, it was not their fault.
There were balls, parties, and lyceums in Tiptop; but, unfortunately
for the luminous propensities of the “upper ten,” they were obliged to
call in the aid of the _canaille_ on these occasions, in order to make
the expense fall as lightly as possible on the glorified few.
There was a great excitement in the place when it was understood that
the Hon. Mr. Silas Lumpkin, M. C., from one of the Western States,
proposed to spend a few days with Squire Rogers, his “chum” in college.
The Hon. Mr. Lumpkin was a distinguished man in his day and generation.
Though not thirty-five at the period of our story, he had made a mark
on the country which time will not immediately obliterate.
But Mr. Lumpkin was a sensible man, notwithstanding the temptations of
his position to be otherwise. We have referred to the Congressional
Globe, but we do not find that he ever made a long speech, which, in
our mind, fully establishes his reputation as a model Congressman.
The distinguished gentleman’s visit to Tiptop, promised to be an epoch
in the history of the place. The notables were duly impressed with the
honor which awaited them, and immediately put their heads together
to devise a suitable plan for a public demonstration. They fully
appreciated the great man’s condescension, and it only remained to make
a proper expression of it.
A voluntary committee of the most notable of the notables waited on
Squire Rogers in this emergency. Unfortunately, the Squire was a legal
man, and did not feel competent to advise in an affair of this kind;
and the squire, too, was a sensible man, and had it not been for the
fact that he was a candidate for the office of representative to the
next General Court, would probably have expressed his disgust at the
whole thing.
But while the voluntary committee were discussing a scheme for a public
dinner in the town hall, the ladies decided that a grand reception ball
should be given on the occasion of Mr. Lumpkin’s arrival.
Of course the matter was settled, for Miss Araminta Pipkin and
Annabellina Punkinton had said so. Miss Dorothea Pilkinton was opposed
to it at first, on account of the shortness of the time; but Miss
Pipkin was an Amazon in an argument, and carried the day.
_CHAPTER II._
It was after dark when the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin arrived at Tiptop. The
Lyceum Hall was already in a blaze of brilliancy, and the revellers
were rapidly gathering to do honor to the man who had distinguished
himself by holding his tongue.
Mr. Lumpkin, all unconscious of the honors that were in store for him,
cordially grasped the hand of Squire Rogers, and entered the house. He
drank several cups of particularly strong tea, and found himself fully
refreshed from the fatigues of his journey.
“The hall was lighted as you passed, was it not?” asked the squire,
thinking it time to broach the subject of the complimentary ball.
“The building on the hill?”
“Yes--next to the meeting house.”
“It was.”
“Something grand there to-night; we must go up.”
“Political?”
“No, nothing of the kind; your friends in this place, without
distinction of party, propose to welcome you to Tiptop in a grand
reception ball.”
“The deuse they do!”