Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_), text enclosed
by equal signs is in bold (=bold=), and ^{} encloses superscripted
material.
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
VAN HOUTEN’S COCOA.
[Illustration: _Mr. Pickwick._]
“_Chops and tomato sauce are excellent, my dear M^{rs.} Bardell, but
let the liquid be Van Houten’s Cocoa._
“_It is a glorious restorative after a fatiguing journey._”
“Best & Goes Farthest.”
The Standard Cocoa of the World.
A Substitute for Tea & Coffee.
Better for the Nerves and Stomach.
Cheaper and more Satisfying.
At all Grocers. Ask for VAN HOUTEN’S.
Perfectly Pure--“Once tried, used always.”
☞A comparison will quickly prove the great superiority of VAN HOUTEN’S
COCOA. _Take no substitute._ Sold in =1/8=, =1/4=, =1/2= and =1 lb.=
Cans. ☞If not obtainable, enclose 25c. in stamps or postal note to
either VAN HOUTEN & ZOON, 106 Reade Street, New York, or 45 Wabash
Ave., Chicago, and a can containing enough for 35 to 40 cups will
be mailed _if you mention this publication_. Prepared only by _the
inventors_, VAN HOUTEN & ZOON, Weesp, Holland.
* * * * *
THE MAN.
A STORY OF TO-DAY,
With Facts, Fancies and Faults Peculiarly its Own; Containing Certain
Truths Heretofore Unpublished Concerning Right Relation of the Sexes,
etc., etc.
BY ASPASIA HOBBS.
COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY J. S. OGILVIE.
THE SUNNYSIDE SERIES, No. 47. Issued Monthly. December, 1891. Extra.
$3.00 per year. Entered at New York Post-Office as second-class
matter.
THREE OPEN LETTERS.
LETTER NO. 1.
BUFFALO, N. Y., July 1, 1891.
TO MARTHA HEATH,
_Friend_:--You said that someone would surely print it, and I write
you this to say that after four publishers had most politely rejected
the manuscript, the fifth has written me saying the story does not
amount to much; in fact, that I have no literary style, but as the
book is so out of the general run they concluded to accept it. They
sent me a check for $300.00 which they say is a bonus, and after the
first 5,000 copies are sold they propose to pay me a royalty. So you
see even if I have lost my place at Hustler’s, I am not destitute, so I
will not accept your offer of a loan. You and Grimes (dear old Grimes)
are the only persons in all this great city who have stood by me in my
trouble. If you had presented me with a box of candy I would thank you,
but for all the kindness I have received, prompted by your outspoken
and generous nature, I offer not a single word. Words, in times like
these, to such as you, are of small avail, my heart speaks. You say
you dislike awfully to see those last five chapters in print, and so
will I, my dear. Little did we think when I began this book that the
story would have such an ending; but, Martha, I am not writing a pretty
novel, but simple truth just as the facts occurred. I offer no excuse
nor apology, but will simply give you this from Charles Kingsley’s
“Alton Locke:”
Scene: A street corner in London, on one hand a gin palace, opposite a
pawn shop--those two monsters who feed on the vitals of the poor--all
about is abject wretchedness.
Locke stops, sighs and says, “Oh, this is so very unpoetic.” Sandy
Mackaye replies, “What, man, no poetry here! Why, what is poetry but
chapters lifted from the drama of life, and what is the drama if not
the battle between man and circumstance, and shall not man eventually
conquer? I will show you too in many a garret where no eye but that of
the good God enters, the patience, the fortitude, the self-sacrifice
and the love stronger than death, all flourishing while oppression and
stupid ignorance are clawing at the door!”
But right will conquer, dearest, and the goodness that has never been
weighed in the balances, nor tried in the fire, how do you know it _is_
goodness at all? It may only be namby-pamby--wishy-washy--goody-goody,
_who knows_? _We_ are all in God’s hand, sister, and the bad is the
stuff sent, on which to try our steel.
Yours ever,
ASPASIA.
* * * * *
LETTER NO. 2.
July 3, 1891.
TO PYGMALION WOODBUR, ESQ., Attorney-at-Law.
_Sir_:--I have received your letter warning me that if I use your name
in a certain book of local history (said book entitled THE MAN) that
you will cause my arrest for malicious libel, and also sue me for
damages. To this I can only say that the book is now in the hands of
the electrotypers, and I am not inclined to change a line in it, on
your suggestion, even if I could. Please believe me, when I say, that I
bear you no ill-will and have no desire to injure you or place you in
a wrong light before the public, what I have written being but truth
penned without exaggeration or coloring. I make no apology or excuse.
What I have written I have written.
Yours, etc.,
ASPASIA HOBBS.
* * * * *
LETTER NO. 3.
BUFFALO, N. Y., July 3, 1891.
TO JOHN BILKSON, of Hustler & Co.,
_Sir_:--Your registered letter of June 30th, received, wherein you
state that you have no further use for my services, and that whereas
you generally give an employee a letter of recommendation when you
discharge them, yet in my case you cannot do so.
Although I have made no request for such recommendation, I regret your
conscience will not allow you to supply it.
You remember the scene of five years ago in your office? No one knows a
word of this, and never will, unless you tell it (which I hardly think
you care to do). You swore then you would get even with me--is your
vengeance now satisfied?
I have no malice toward you--I cannot afford to have against
anyone--although I must say that your action in deducting from my
wages the price of one set of false teeth purchased from Dr. Poole is
not exactly right. You know, Mr. Bilkson, you lost those teeth purely
through accident and no one regretted the occurrence more than I. With
best wishes for the continued prosperity of Hustler & Co., I remain,
Yours, as ever,
ASPASIA HOBBS.
* * * * *
THE MAN.
CHAPTER I. MYSELF.
What I have to write is of such great value, the circumstances so
peculiar, the record so strange, and the truths so startling, that it
is but proper I should explain who and what I am, in order that any
person, so disposed, may fully verify for himself the things I am about
to relate.
Just at that most quiet hour of all the twenty-four, in the city, on
a summer’s morning, when the darkness is stubbornly giving way to
daylight, there came a violent ring at Mr. Hobbs’ door-bell, followed
up with what seemed to be quite an unnecessary knocking.
Mr. Hobbs was interested in an elevator, and when he heard that ring he
was sure the elevator had burned--in fact, he had a presentiment that
such would be the case; besides this, Mr. Hobbs always carried a goodly
assortment of fears ready to use at any moment.
“There, didn’t I tell you!” he excitedly exclaimed to his wife, as he
rushed down the stairs--he hadn’t told his wife anything, just bottled
up his fears in his own bosom and let them ferment, but that made no
difference--“Didn’t I tell you!” and he hastily unlocked and opened the
door. No one there!
He looked up the street and down the street. Nothing but a
clothes-basket, covered over with a threadbare shawl, which evidently
a long time ago had been a costly one. Mr. Hobbs expected a messenger
with bad news and Mr. Hobbs was disappointed, in fact was mad; and he
snatched that shawl from the basket, staggered against the door, and a
voice, like unto that of a young and lusty bull, went up the stairway
where Mrs. Hobbs stood peering over the banisters:
“Maria, for God’s sake come quick! There’s something awful happened!
Quick, will you!”
Mrs. Hobbs was not very brave, but curiosity often reinforces courage;
so the good lady came down the stairs two steps at a time, and stood by
the side of her liege, who had got his breath by this time and stood
peering over the basket.
And there they stood together, all in white, with bare feet, on the
front porch, and nearly broad daylight.
In the basket, all wrapped up in dainty flannel, smiling, cooing and
kicking up its heels, lay a baby--well, perhaps two months old, and on
a card written with pencil were these words:
“_God knows._”
Mr. and Mrs. Hobbs had no children, and they each looked upon this as a
gift from providence--basket and all. They cared for the waif as their
own child, and if their reward does not come in this life, I am sure it
will in another.
“Her name shall be Aspasia Hobbs, for I always said my first girl (Mr.
and Mrs. Hobbs had been married five years, and had no children, but
the babies were already named; which, I am told, is the usual custom)
should be named Aspasia, after your mother, dear,” said Mrs. Hobbs.
And Aspasia Hobbs it was, and is yet: and I am Aspasia Hobbs: and Mr.
and Mrs. Hobbs are the only parents I have ever known.
I am now an old maid, aged thirty-seven (I must tell the truth). I am
homely and angular, and can pass along the street without a man turning
to look at me. From five years’ constant pounding on a caligraph my
hands have grown large and my knuckles and the ends of my fingers are
like knobs. I can walk twenty miles a day, or ride a wheel fifty.
The bishop of Western New York, in a sermon preached recently, said
riding bicycles is “unladylike” (and so is good health for that
matter)--but if the good bishop would lay aside prejudice and robe
and mount a safety, he could still show men the right way as well as
now--possibly better, who knows?
But, in the language of Spartacus, “I was not always thus.” Thank
Heaven, I am strong and well! They used to say, “She is such a
delicate, sensitive child, we can not keep her without we take very,
v-e-r-y good care of her.” Some fool has said that hundreds of people
die every year because they have such “very good care.”
My father was a member of the firm of Hobbs, Nobbs & Porcine, was
a Board of Trade man, and, therefore, had no time to give to his
children; but he was a good provider, as the old ladies say, and used
to remind us of it quite often. “Don’t I get you everything you need?”
he once roared at my mother, when she hinted that an evening home once
in a while would not be out of place. “Here you have an up-stairs girl,
a cook, a laundress, a coachman, a gardener, a tutor for Aspasia, and
don’t I pay Doctor Bolus just five hundred dollars a year to call here
every week and examine you all so as to keep you healthy? Great Scott,
the ingratitude of woman! they are getting worse and worse every day!”
My father was a good man--that is he was not bad, so he must have been
good. He never used tobacco, and I never heard him swear but once, and
that was when Professor Connors brought in a bill reading:
“Debtor, to calisthenics for wife and daughter, $50.”
“I’ll pay it,” said my father grimly, “but I will deduct it from Bolus’
check, for you say it’s for the health and therefore it belongs to
Bolus’ department and he should have furnished the goods.”
We lived on Delaware avenue, in one of the finest houses, which my
father bought and had furnished throughout before my mother or any
one of us were allowed to enter. He was a good man, and wanted to
astonish--that is to say, surprise us. So one Saturday night, at
dinner, he said,
“On Monday, my dears, we will leave this old Michigan street for a
house on the ‘Avenue.’ I have given up our pew in Grace Church, and
to-morrow, and hereafter, Rev. Fred. C. Inglehart and Delaware avenue
are plenty good enough for us.”
Our family have the finest monument in Forest Lawn, and father assured
us that if Methusalah was now a boy this monument would be new when his
great grandchildren died of old age. He waxed enthusiastic, and added,
as he lapsed into reverie,
“It’s a regular James Dandy, and knocks out Rodgers and Jowette in one
round.”
I am a graduate of Dr. Chesterfield’s academy, and also of the
high-school. I have studied music with Mr. McNerney and Senor Nuno,
elocution with Steele Mackaye; and father once offered to wager Mr.
Porcine that “Aspasia could do up any girl on the avenue or Franklin
street at the piano.”
I was a rich (alleged) man’s daughter, and as I had a managing mamma
and went in society I had the usual love (how that word is abused!)
experiences. I am not writing an autobiography, but merely telling
what is absolutely necessary for you to know of me; otherwise, I would
relate some insipid mush about flirtations with several gilded youths,
who waltzed delightfully and made love abominably--just as if a man
could _make_ love! But suffice it to say, I never, in those old days,
met a man I could not part with and feel relieved when he had taken his
“darby” and slender cane and hied him down the steps. Mamma said I was
heartless and didn’t know a good chance when I saw it.
One little affair of the pocket-book--that is, I mean of the
heart--might be mentioned. A certain attorney, Pygmalion Woodbur by
name--old Buffalonians know him well--paid his respects to me in an
uneasy and stilted fashion. He was ten years my senior, had a monster
yellow moustache generally colored black, which he combed down over the
cavern in his face. He dressed in the latest, and was looked upon as a
great catch. How these old bachelor men-about-town are lionized by a
certain set of women!
He called several times, invited himself to dinner, took mamma riding
and threw out side glances--grimaces--in my direction. One fine evening
I sat reading in the parlor, alone, and in walked Mr. Woodbur and began
about thusly:
“Aspasia--I may call you by your first name, now can’t I?--and you must
call me Pyggie, for short. I have just spoken to your father and he
says it’s all right,” etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
He slid off from the sofa on his knees, and seized my left hand and
kissed it violently.
Fair lady, have you ever been kissed with a rush, by a man with a large
yellow moustache colored black? Well it’s just like being jabbed with a
paint brush!
Now, after his poorly memorized speech had been delivered, and I had
jerked my hand away, there was a pause. I tried to laugh and I tried
to cry; then I tried to faint, and was too mad to do either; so I just
inwardly raged and then came the explosion--
“No! no! no! a thousand times _no_! Stick to you, Woodbur! _Never!_ I
hate you--get out of my sight, quick!”
Just then in came papa and mamma, who it seems were taking a turn about
at the keyhole.
“Why! why what’s the matter with my little girl,” and I fell sobbing in
my mother’s arms.
“You must excuse her, Mr. Woodbur,” said the good lady. “Since her
sunstroke, she has these spells quite often. You will excuse her, I
know.”
“Why, when was the gal struck! You never told me nothing about it,”
broke in my father.
“Now Hobbs, don’t be a fool,” said my mother under her breath.
Father started to answer. Woodbur saw his opportunity, and escaped
under cover of the smoke, and forgot to come back for his umbrella,
which I now have tied up with a white ribbon and put away with mint and
lavender in memory of days gone by--and the best that I can say of the
days that have gone by is that they have gone by.
As time wore, life seemed to grow dull and heavy, my cheeks grew
pale, and in summer I sat on the piazza, often from breakfast until
dinner-time, with a white crepe shawl thrown about my shoulders,
listlessly watching the passers-by. Mother said, “Poor girl, I wish she
would get mad just once as she used to. She is so good and submissive.”
Doctor Bolus said I needed cod liver oil with strong doses of quinine,
and once a week Glauber salts taken in molasses and sulphur; but still
in spite of all medicine could do for me, I grew weaker and weaker. I
fed on Mrs. Hemans and Tupper, and finally they carried me daily out to
the big carriage, and the coachman was instructed to drive very slowly,
and we went out through the Park, out to Forest Lawn and looked at our
family monument, which gleamed in the beautiful sunshine.
Mother generally rode with me, and one morning she left me waiting in
the carriage while she went over near our “lot,” so she could more
closely inspect the monument. While waiting the coachman turned to me
and said:
“Missis, yer father have bust, yer mother don’t know it; but you are no
fool, missis, and I thought you should know it, to kinder prepare like.
They have been around inventizering the horses and carriages and are
going to sell them next week--see? And my wife said you are the only
one who has sense, and I should break the news to you easy like--see?”
I heard him rattling on, but did not seem to understand what he said;
but I felt my heart beating fast and the blood coming to my cheeks. The
old dead submissiveness was gone, and I said:
“John, shut up, and repeat to me what you said first.”
“Nothin’,” said John, “only that your father have bust and run off to
Canada, and C. J. Hummer and the rest is goin’ to bounce you out next
week.”
I saw his grieved tone, or felt it rather, and said:
“John, I did not mean to speak cross to you.”
“Never mind, missis, I have no favors to ax, and you couldn’t grant eny
even if I did--for your father have bust, dwye see?”
Mother was coming from the monument, and greatly vexed, I saw.
“Why, Smythe has not put any foundation under it at all scarcely,” she
said, as she stepped into the carriage. “The weight on top is gradually
crushing the bottom, and I believe it is full six inches toppled over
to the west.”
“It is probably going west to grow up with the country,” I said.
Think of such a remark from a dying invalid!
My mother turned in astonishment to see if it was really her daughter.
“John,” said I, “drive home--go fast--let them out, will you--go home
quick. Mrs. Hobbs is not well.”
I felt an awful propensity to joke, and a wild exultation and pleasure
came over me that I had not known since we used to climb the hills at
our summer-house at Strykersville. John cracked the whip and saluted
all the other coachmen as we passed. He whistled, and so did I. For the
first time in five years I felt free; and John had lost the fear that
he would not be impressive, and he too was free. My mother sat bolt
upright in a rage.
“You are both drunk,” she said. “John, sit straight on that box. Don’t
carry the whip over your shoulder, and don’t cross your legs or I will
discharge you Saturday night!”
John turned round--smiled--looked at me and winked.