PARTICULAR.
NELLY, dearest, I have formed a great determination. Nothing
shall ever induce me to become that poor, absurd, ill-used creature,
called a governess. I would starve sooner, or make shirts (which is
pretty nearly the same thing), or emigrate and marry the first savage
I met, or be a "touter" at a bonnet shop, or even go into service at a
cheap lodging-house; anything, Nelly, sooner than be turned into that
hopeless, spiritless, friendless being a governess seems destined by
nature, or society, to be.
A governess in a private family is bad enough, but then she is not
totally deprived of the comforts of home. She has a room, or at least
a bed, entirely to herself, and her meals are generally the same as
those of the family. Besides, a certain degree of respect is always
paid to her. The servants are obliged to treat her with civility, _at
all events in the presence of their mistresses;_ and the mistresses are
compelled to show her a little attention, if it is only done to set
a good example to their servants. Then, again, their "young charges"
cannot invariably be amusing themselves at her expense. They cannot
always be teasing her. When they are taken out for an airing in the
carriage, or when they are brought down after dinner with their shiny
faces and glossy ringlets, or whenever there is company, or their
parents and strangers are present, the governess enjoys a brief respite
from that system of petty tyrannies she is the untiring victim of
elsewhere. She has her few pleasures, though perhaps they may come at
long straggling intervals; she has her distractions, her excitements in
moving about in the world, and going to places of public amusements,
and occasionally she knows what it is to enjoy the sweet success of
rivalry--for have we not seen, Nelly, many a poor neglected governess
who was doing the work of a musician at the piano, without his wages,
receive in the course of the evening more attention than the fine young
ladies themselves who were the worshipped idols of the establishment?
But the governess in a girls' school has a very different life of it,
Nelly. She hasn't a moment to herself. She is the first to rise and the
last to go to bed. She hasn't even the privacy of a bedroom to herself,
for she is obliged to sleep in the same room as the girls, to look
after them. The only privacy she knows is when she creeps into bed and
draws the curtains round her. Our play-hours are no play-hours to her;
rather on the contrary, for then her torments really begin, and only
end when the bell rings again for class. She is the target at which
every little chit fires her fun, and thinks she has a perfect right to
do so. She is the only game at which the girls never tire of playing,
and to see how they enjoy it you would imagine there was no amusement
like it. It is true, Nelly, I have not seen much misery yet, and hope
I never shall; but I can hardly imagine anything in this world _more
miserable than a school governess on a half-holiday_.
Why, look at poor Blight. I have only to look upon her to feel for the
sufferings of the whole class. Her nature seems to be sun-dried. She
never smiles, and there is such an air of resignation about her, such a
tone of despair that runs through all her words and smallest movements,
that it is perfectly clear Hope never whispers into her ear any of
those soft motherly words which soothe the agony of one's heart and
lull it quietly off to sleep.
She may justly be called our "mistress of all work." She does a little
of everything; she helps the smallest girls to dress; takes the junior
pupils; hears the reading; sees to the wardrobes; gives out the linen;
teaches needlework; and superintends the Saturday night's cleaning;
in short, she is expected, as they say of servants, "to make herself
generally useful," which means, in our instance, that she is worked
to death by everybody, and spared by nobody; besides being teased,
deceived, bullied, and ridiculed by every one who has a fancy that way;
and for leading a life like this, she only gets 16_l._ a year, and her
board and lodging during the holidays!
Snapp (another of our teachers) smiles at Blight's old-fashioned
learning. She says it is quite out of date, and only fit for a charity
school. Mademoiselle (the French teacher) quizzes her dress, and makes
fun of her melancholy, and talks of her contemptuously, as, "_ça_,"
which I am told is the same as if you were speaking of a cook, or a
poor relation, and called her "it." Fraulein (the German mistress)
mimics her, and laughs over her patient endurance and old-maidish
manners.
It must be confessed that poor Blight's appearance affords plenty of
temptation for this cruel ridicule. She is certainly very ugly, and
no one ever loses an opportunity of telling her so. The worst is, the
example set by the schoolmistress is followed with the greatest zest
by the schoolgirls, who indulge in all kinds of practical jokes at her
expense. She is unfortunately very short-sighted, and consequently they
are always hiding her spectacles, or else rubbing the glasses over with
butter or ink. No one considers there is any harm in this, for the
girls have grown to look upon Blight as "fair game;" and if any one can
put her into a passion, it is considered "rare fun," and thought just
as harmless as throwing bread-pills at one another when the mistress's
back is turned. When there is no other amusement going on, the cry
is always raised, "Let's go and tease Blight," and you see the whole
school rushing forward as eagerly as if a gypsy suddenly appeared at
the play-ground gate to tell us our fortunes. But if any one is in
trouble, Blight is the first to screen her. If any girl is ill, Blight
will sit up with her all night, and will pet and nurse the little
sufferer until she almost fancies herself at home; and when the little
invalid has grown well again, and has recovered the use of her tongue
and fingers, Blight never says a word about the ungrateful return, but
bears it all like a martyr, which, in truth, she really is. Ugly as she
is, I really think there are times when I could _throw my arms round
her neck, and kiss her for her goodness_.
I cannot tell you all the nicknames which they have for her face
and person, nor would it altogether be agreeable for you, Nelly,
I think to hear them. Suffice it to say, the poor thing, is very
old--_thirty-nine_, if she is a day; and she has the funniest little
head of hair, every hair appearing to be pulled as tight, and to be
almost as wide apart, as the strings of a harp. The top of her head is
mounted with a round knot of hair no bigger than the worsted ball you
see on a Scotch cap. It's a wonder to me she doesn't wear a wig or a
cap of some sort, though perhaps it would be too dangerous, as every
one would undoubtedly be trying to pull it off. The girls declare no
one can recollect her having a new gown. Every quarter a very thin,
snuff-brown silk, on a very stiff lining, is brought out as Sunday
best; but it is only the old one turned and altered a bit, for that
little wicked thing, Jessie Joy, put a drop of ink on one of the
breadths on purpose to find it out; and there it is still, journeying
about backwards and forwards, first in front and then behind; now on
the top, just under her chin, and next down at the bottom, sweeping
the floor, precisely as the faded silk is twisted or turned to hide
the creases and the ravages of old age. The girls calculate the period
they have been at school by this venerable gown; and it's no unusual
thing to hear them, when disputing about any particular date, settling
it at once by referring to the age of Miss Blight's brown silk,
saying, "I recollect very well it was in the ninth quarter of Blight's
Sunday gown;" and a reference to a date of this kind is considered as
indisputable as to a Family Bible, or an old almanac.
But these are small matters, Nelly, which I am half ashamed to tell
you, for under this poor garment there is a heart of so much goodness
as to make us wonder at the strange hiding-places in which virtue
sometimes delights in lurking, as if from modesty it had taken every
precaution not to be found out. What do you think, Nelly? I am told
by Meggy that poor Blight supports an old bedridden mother! She has
no positive proof of this, but she is morally sure of it. This, then,
accounts for the reason why the poor governess is always working so
hard--never resting from crocheting purses, and knitting antimacassars
sufficient to cover all the sofas in the world. If you ask her for
whom she makes this extraordinary quantity (you can't think, Nell, how
quickly and beautifully she works), she simply replies, her pale face
becoming paler, "_for a dear friend;_" and that is all we can get out
of her to reward our vulgar curiosity. This must be the truth, for at
all hours, both early and late, has she got a needle in her hand. There
is a story that she wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night,
and works whilst the girls around her are sleeping. But no one knows
the cause of her excessive industry, and I really think she would be
miserable if it were known, and her fingers would not ply their work of
love half so nimbly if she suspected that the girls, as they watched
her with such fixed curiosity, were acquainted with the sacred object
for which she was toiling. It is a puzzle when or where she sells all
the things she finishes, and no one exactly likes to find out, though
one or two attempts have been made, but always ending, I am happy to
say, in the most complete failure. It makes me sad to watch her anxiety
when there is a postman's knock at the door. She starts up in her seat,
and pauses for a while in her work (the only pause it ever knows),
until she gives out the letters; and then you would pity her with all
your heart to see how disappointed she is--what a vacancy of hope falls
like a dark shadow upon her face--when she learns that there is not one
for her! Though, when there is a letter, it is scarcely any better. She
sighs heavily, looks sometimes at a little locket she carries in her
breast, and hurries on with her work quicker than ever, as if the purse
she was finishing was to contain her own money instead of somebody
else's, and she had so much that she wanted the use of it immediately.
If you have any fancy-work you want doing (any braces or cigar-cases
you wish to give away as presents), will you send it to me, Nelly, and
I will ask Blight, if I can do so without offending her, to do it for
me?
I'm obliged to finish my letter, Nelly, for the fact is I have been
writing the latter part of it in our bedroom with a piece of wax candle
I took out of a candlestick there was in the hall, and there is only
just sufficient left to enable me to scramble into bed, and to assure
you how dearly you are loved by
Yours affectionately,
KITTY CLOVER.
P. S.--I intend that my bootlace shall come undone somewhere about
the grocer's, when we are out a walking to-morrow, so that I may lag
behind, and drop this in the post unobserved. Oh! dear--the candle's
gone out. What sh--
* * * * *
TO MISS LAURA.
SO let it be: what shall I lose or gain
By looking less within those eyes?
The promise made shall therefore firm remain,
Though it may cause me care and pain;
My passion will not die, but rise
Beyond the earth, and pierce the skies.
Thine image is impressed upon my heart,
And though you hate, and even spurn,
I still will love, though I do bleed and smart
I'll be as true, nor seek to part;
The love which binds me still shall burn.
Though friends to foe should choose to turn.
So it may be: yet hate me not, I pray;
'Tis a pure love that fills my breast;
Yet I have sought to tear that love away,
To crush it in its dawning day,
And, failing, am I curst or blest
In living void of hope or rest?
Curst you will say, and you may pity me,
And look less cold, or even smile;
A sweet, kind smile will not impov'rish thee,
Or make thy heart less light and free;
Me from my grief 'twill part awhile,
From sadness and despair beguile.
CHARITY ENVIETH NOT.
BY ALICE B. NEAL.
"You don't say so!"
"True as the Gospel, _Miss_ Snelling. That velvet cloak of hers--_she_
calls it a Talma--cost every cent of twenty-five dollars. Then there's
her bonnet--that came from New York, too; _Miss_ Dunn's work ain't good
enough for her of late years. Well, that bonnet couldn't be bought for
less'n eight dollars. Why, the ribbon must be four and six a yard,
not to speak of the feathers. Then there's that new plaid silk, you
know, and that French merino; neither of 'em less'n twelve shillings,
and that's the way she dresses. Time was when she was glad enough to
get me to sew for her. I've had her beg, and beg, and _beseech_ me to
give her a day, or even half a day, in my spring hurry; and now she's
got a seamstress, as she calls that stuck-up girl, that sets in the
settin'-room all day. She makes the children's clothes, and _her'n_ are
cut and fixed in New York, when they ain't made there."
"She's dreadful extravagant for a church member," said Mrs. Snelling,
with a sigh, as she turned herself slowly round before the little
looking-glass. She was having a lining fitted by the village
dressmaker, Miss Prime, and a merino dress she had worn two years
was partly ripped up on the chair by the window. It was the only
dressmaking she had on hand for the season. It was a hard winter, and,
what with the sickness of the children, and Mr. Snelling losing so much
time by the frost, their means were unusually limited. No wonder that
she thought of the ease and plenty of the rich manufacturer's household
with a feeling of envy. She did not know it, though. She was a plain,
good-hearted person naturally, struggling on to do her duty through the
discouragement of ill health, ailing children, and very narrow means;
but she could not help thinking Mrs. Hubbard was getting worldly and
extravagant as, year by year, her household arrangements and personal
expenses increased.
Only the day before, at meeting, she could not fix her attention upon
the sermon for looking at the velvet Talma worn for the first time
by her old friend and still kind neighbor, Mrs. Hubbard. They were
members of the same church, of which Mr. Hubbard was the most liberal
supporter. He gave according to his means, and, at the same time,
desired his wife and family to dress and live as became his altered
position and prospects.
"Time was when she had to work hard enough," continued Miss Prime,
pinching in a side seam in the endeavor to produce the hour-glass
shape, orthodox when she "learned her trade." "I remember when they
first set up housekeeping, and she had to do her own work as well as
other people, and her own sewing, too. Now I don't believe she takes
a needle in her hand from morning till night, while you and I, _Miss_
Snelling, don't git _many_ play spells."
The leaven of uncharitableness worked on in Mrs. Snelling's heart.
"I'm afraid there isn't much spiritual growth, Miss Prime. The cares
of this world choke the seed." Poor woman! she thought it was only an
interest in her neighbor's best good that prompted such a constant
review of her conduct. "People that have their hearts set on dress and
high living can't have much time for better things."
"That's what I think. How do you like them _bask_ waists, Miss
Snelling? I hear they're all the fashion in New York. Miss Dunn said
she'd try an' git me a pattern when she went down in the spring. I
wouldn't ask Miss Hubbard to lend me hers to look at for nothing in the
world. How am I goin' to get out new backs, Miss Snelling?"
"There's the cape, you see."
"Why, so there is! I never calculated the cape. I was studyin'
an' contrivin' all the while you was to breakfast. Says I, 'Miss
Snelling'll have to have them backs pieced, and then everybody in
town'll know it's been made over.'"
As if everybody in Mrs. Snelling's community would not have known and
noticed, under any circumstances, that her brown merino of two winters
ago had been turned and made up again for her best dress. She had set
her heart, early in the fall, on a new style of plaids, for sale at
Brown & Chapins; but the doctor's bill was so much larger than she
expected, she was obliged to give it up. The sacrifice had cost her
many hours of calculation, alternate resolves, and reconsiderations.
Every purchase that she made, indeed, was of necessity turned over and
over in her mind for weeks.
Miss Prime went on with her fitting by the window, and Mrs. Snelling
with her task of washing up the breakfast-dishes, "jogging the cradle"
with one foot, every now and then, as her youngest child stirred in his
morning nap.
"That was a lucky thought, that cape." Miss Prime resumed her thimble
and her conversation together. "It don't seem to be worn as much as the
rest, neither."
"No, it isn't; I only kept it for very cold days. I thought of it in
church, Sunday, right in the middle of the sermon. Queer, wasn't it?
I was so dreadfully afraid you couldn't get it out. So, as soon as I
came home, I took it out and looked at it; sure enough, it was the very
thing."
"I see Miss James has got a new cloak this winter. She hain't worn
hers more than three winters, to my knowledge. Well, these rich people
are jist as worldly, for all I see, as if they wasn't professors."
Miss Prime was one of the most constant attendants of the church
prayer-meetings, and saw "no beam in her own eyes."
"Time was, as you say, Miss Prime, when we were all plain people
together, with good feelings towards each other. I think of it very
often--the days when Susan Hubbard and I used to send our little
presents to each other New Year's, and be neighborly all along. That
was before the Jameses moved here, or lawyer Martin's people. She's so
intimate with them now she hasn't got any time for old friends. Many
and many's the time I've sent her things right off my table; and, when
her Jane had the scarlet fever, I sat up with her night after night.
But I don't mind that. What I look at is Christian professors being so
taken up with dress, and going about, but dress particularly. It don't
_look_ right, and it isn't, according to Scripture."
It was a wearisome, fatiguing day to Mrs. Snelling, who did the whole
work of her household. Her oldest son was learning his father's trade,
and the dinner for the two had to be on the table precisely at twelve,
for they had but an hour's nooning. So, scarcely were the breakfast
things cleared away, when there were the meat and vegetables to prepare
for "a boiled dinner;" and twice she was obliged to stand and be pinned
up in the thick jean lining Miss Prime was fitting with unexampled
tightness. The afternoon was no better; she had Tuesday's ironing to
finish, her little boy was sick and fretful; though four years old, and
very heavy, he required to be nursed and tended as if he had been a
baby. She wanted to sew with Miss Prime; but, no sooner would she get
her needle threaded, and her thimble on, than some new demand would be
made upon her time, and so the short afternoon passed before she could
stitch up a seam, and tea must be ready by dark. Besides all this, Miss
Prime was disposed to continue her conversation with very little pause
or stint, discussing the affairs of the neighborhood and the church
with a train of moral, religious, and _personal_ reflections. Every one
knows how fatiguing it is to be expected to listen to such a discourse,
and respond in the right place, even when the mind is unoccupied;
and then the dress did not look nearly so well as Mrs. Snelling had
figured it in her mind, the new pieces being several shades darker
than the main body of the material. More discouraging than all, it
needed "finishing off" when seven o'clock sounded the signal for the
conference meeting Miss Prime would not miss on any account.
"I wouldn't mind staying over my time jist to give you a helpin' hand,
if it wasn't church meetin' night; but, you know, it's very important
all should be there that can. To be sure, _Miss_ Hubbard is so took up
with other things now, she never goes; and, though _Miss_ James joined
by letter when _she_ came, she's never been to a business meeting.
For my part, I think we've got just as good a right to vote in church
meetin' as the men, and speak, too, if we want to, though Deacon Smith
has set his face against it of late years. So, you see, I'll have to
go; and there's only the facing to face down, and them side seams to
stitch up, and the hooks and eyes to go on. The sleeves are all ready
to baste in--oh, and there's the bones; but bones are nothing to put
in--especially as John Lockwood is to be dealt with to-night for going
to the theatre last time he was in New York. For my part, I never did
put much faith in his religion--and the more some of us stay away, the
more the rest of us ought to go. Don't forget to take in that shoulder
seam a little. For my part, I think his sister ought to be labored with
for singing such songs as she does on the piano. Clear love songs, and
plays _opera pieces_, Miss Allen says. Now which is the worst, _I'd_
like to know, going to the theatre or playing opera pieces? _Miss_
Hubbard's Jane does that, when she's home in vacations, though. That
piece under the arm don't look so _very_ bad, _Miss_ Snelling--there
ain't more'n two hours' work, any way."
Two hours' work, to a person who could scarcely get time to do her
mending from week to week, was no trifle. Mrs. Snelling wavered for a
little while between the accumulating pile of dilapidated under-clothes
in the willow basket and the unfinished dress; but the dress must be
done before New Year's day, now close at hand, and she lighted another
lamp, and drew her little workstand up to the fire, as the clock again
struck eight. Her mind had opened itself to discontented thoughts in
the morning, and "the enemy had come in like a flood," until all the
brightness of her life had been swept out of sight. She saw only the
successive woes of ill health, loss, and wearing anxiety which had
rolled over them in the past, and a blank, dreary prospect for the
future. Her very occupation reminded her of it. If she could have
afforded Miss Prime's assistance two days instead of one, she might
have got ahead in her sewing a little; now here was another drawback,
and she had so little time. And "there was Susan Hubbard; but, then,
_she_ did not give up everything to dress and display, thank goodness!
as Susan Hubbard did, bringing scandal in the church, and setting
herself up over everybody."
A knock at the front door was a fresh annoyance; for the work had to
be put down again, the sick boy quieted, before Mrs. Snelling went
shivering through the cold, narrow hall to answer it.
The neighborly visitor was no other than Mrs. Hubbard; "and no fire
except in the kitchen," was Mrs. Snelling's first thought, as she
recognized her with a mixed feeling of gratification, "hard thoughts,"
and curiosity. Certainly it was a curious coincidence that the person
who had formed the subject of her thoughts and conversation, so much of
the day, should suddenly appear.
"Don't mind me," Mrs. Hubbard said, pleasantly, stepping on before her
old neighbor. "This way, I suppose?" And she led the way to the kitchen
herself, thus avoiding the necessity of an apology on the part of Mrs.
Snelling. "How bright and cheerful a cook stove looks, after all! and
your kitchen always was as neat as wax. We never used to keep but one
fire, you know." This last was an unfortunate allusion. Mrs. Snelling's
softening face grew coldly rigid at what she considered an attempt to
patronize her.
"Poor folks _had to_," she said, taking up her work and stitching away
vigorously.
"I haven't forgotten old times, Jane," Mrs. Hubbard went on, not caring
to notice the ungracious tone in which this remark was made, "when we
were all beginning the world together. You seem to, though, for then
you used to run in and see me, and I was thinking to-night you haven't
been up to our house since October."
Mrs. Snelling began to say something about "not going where she was not
wanted;" but it died away lower and lower, when she remembered Mrs.
Hubbard had been in twice since then.