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PENCIL SKETCHES:
OR,
OUTLINES OF CHARACTER AND MANNERS.
BY MISS LESLIE.
INCLUDING "MRS. WASHINGTON POTTS," AND "MR. SMITH," WITH OTHER STORIES.
"So runs the world away."--SHAKSPEARE.
PHILADELPHIA:
A. HART, LATE CAREY & HART,
126 CHESTNUT STREET.
1852.
Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
A. HART, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
E. B. M
EARS, STEREOTYPER. T. K. & P. G. COLLINS, PRINTERS.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The work from which the following is a selection, has been long out of
print; and many inquiries have been made concerning it. Since its first
appearance, a new generation of young people has grown up; and they may,
perhaps, find amusement and improvement in pictures of domestic life,
that were recognised as such by their mothers.
The present volume will probably be succeeded by another, containing the
remainder of the original Pencil Sketches, with additional stories.
ELIZA LESLIE.
UNITED STATES HOTEL,
Philadelphia, March 25th, 1852.
CONTENTS.
MRS. WASHINGTON POTTS 13
MR. SMITH 50
UNCLE PHILIP 82
THE ALBUM 131
THE SET OF CHINA 147
LAURA LOVEL 157
JOHN W. ROBERTSON; A TALE OF A CENT 197
THE LADIES' BALL 217
THE RED BOX; OR, SCENES AT THE GENERAL WAYNE 240
THE OFFICERS; A STORY OF THE LAST WAR WITH ENGLAND 266
PETER JONES; A SKETCH FROM LIFE 297
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE 314
THAT GENTLEMAN; OR, PENCILLINGS ON SHIP-BOARD 333
THE SERENADES 358
SOCIABLE VISITING 376
COUNTRY LODGINGS 402
CONSTANCE ALLERTON; OR, THE MOURNING SUITS 415
MRS. WASHINGTON POTTS.
"The course of _parties_ never does run smooth."--SHAKSPEARE.
Bromley Cheston, an officer in the United States navy, had just returned
from a three years' cruise in the Mediterranean. His ship came into New
York; and after he had spent a week with a sister that was married in
Boston, he could not resist his inclination to pay a visit to his
maternal aunt, who had resided since her widowhood at one of the small
towns on the banks of the Delaware.
The husband of Mrs. Marsden had not lived long enough to make his
fortune, and it was his last injunction that she should retire with her
daughter to the country, or at least to a country town. He feared that
if she remained in Philadelphia she would have too many temptations to
exercise her taste for unnecessary expense: and that, in consequence,
the very moderate income, which was all he was able to leave her, would
soon be found insufficient to supply her with comforts.
We will not venture to say that duty to his aunt Marsden was the young
lieutenant's only incentive to this visit: as she had a beautiful
daughter about eighteen, for whom, since her earliest childhood, Bromley
Cheston had felt something a little more vivid than the usual degree of
regard that boys think sufficient for their cousins. His family had
formerly lived in Philadelphia, and till he went into the navy Bromley
and Albina were in habits of daily intercourse. Afterwards, on returning
from sea, he always, as soon as he set his foot on American ground,
began to devise means of seeing his pretty cousin, however short the
time and however great the distance. And it was in meditation on
Albina's beauty and sprightliness that he had often "while sailing on
the midnight deep," beguiled the long hours of the watch, and thus
rendered more tolerable that dreariest part of a seaman's duty.
On arriving at the village, Lieutenant Cheston immediately established
his quarters at the hotel, fearing that to become an inmate of his
aunt's house might cause her some inconvenience. Though he had performed
the whole journey in a steamboat, he could not refrain from changing his
waistcoat, brushing his coat sleeves, brushing his hat, brushing his
hair, and altering the tie of his cravat. Though he had "never told his
love," it cannot be said that concealment had "preyed on his damask
cheek;" the only change in that damask having been effected by the sun
and wind of the ocean.
Mrs. Marsden lived in a small modest-looking white house, with a green
door and green venetian shutters. In early summer the porch was canopied
and perfumed with honeysuckle, and the windows with roses. In front was
a flower-garden, redolent of sweetness and beauty; behind was a
well-stored _potager_, and a flourishing little orchard. The windows
were amply shaded by the light and graceful foliage of some beautiful
locust trees.
"What a lovely spot!" exclaimed Cheston--and
innocence--modesty--candour--contentment--peace--simple
pleasures--intellectual enjoyments--and various other delightful ideas
chased each other rapidly through his mind.
When he knocked at the door, it was opened by a black girl named Drusa,
who had been brought up in the family, and whose delight on seeing him
was so great that she could scarcely find it in her heart to tell him
that "the ladies were both out, or at least partly out." Cheston,
however, more than suspected that they were wholly at home, for he saw
his aunt peeping over the bannisters, and had a glimpse of his cousin
flitting into the back parlour; and besides, the whole domicile was
evidently in some great commotion, strongly resembling that horror of
all men, a house-cleaning. The carpets had been removed, and the hall
was filled with the parlour-chairs: half of them being turned bottom
upwards on the others, with looking-glasses and pictures leaning against
them; and he knew that, on such occasions, the ladies of a family in
middle life are never among the missing.
"Go and give Lieutenant Cheston's compliments to your ladies," said he,
"and let them know that he is waiting to see them."
Mrs. Marsden now ran down stairs in a wrapper and morning cap, and gave
her nephew a very cordial reception. "Our house is just now in such
confusion," said she, "that I have no place to invite you to sit down
in, except the back porch."--And there they accordingly took their
seats.
"Do not suppose," continued Mrs. Marsden, "that we are cleaning house:
but we are going to have a party to-night, and therefore you are most
fortunate in your arrival, for I think I can promise you a very pleasant
evening. We have sent invitations to all the most genteel families
within seven miles, and I can assure you there was a great deal of
trouble in getting the notes conveyed. We have also asked a number of
strangers from the city, who happen to be boarding in the village; we
called on them for that purpose. If all that are invited were to come,
we should have a complete squeeze; but unluckily we have received an
unusual number of regrets, and some have as yet returned no answers at
all. However, we are sure of Mrs. Washington Potts."
"I see," said Cheston, "you are having your parlours papered."--"Yes,"
replied Mrs. Marsden, "we could not possibly have a party with that
old-fashioned paper on the walls, and we sent to the city a week ago for
a man to come and bring with him some of the newest patterns, but he
never made his appearance till last night after we had entirely given
him up, and after we had had the rooms put in complete order in other
respects. But he says, as the parlours are very small, he can easily put
on the new paper before evening, so we thought it better to take up the
carpets, and take down the curtains, and undo all that we did yesterday,
rather than the walls should look old-fashioned. I _did_ intend having
them painted, which would of course be much better, only that there was
no time to get _that_ done before the party; so we must defer the
painting now for three or four years, till this new paper has grown
old."
"But where is Albina?" asked Cheston.
"The truth is," answered Mrs. Marsden, "she is very busy making cakes;
as in this place we can buy none that are fit for a party. Luckily
Albina is very clever at all such things, having been a pupil of Mrs.
Goodfellow. But there is certainly a great deal of trouble in getting up
a party in the country."
Just then the black girl, Drusa, made her appearance, and said to Mrs.
Marsden, "I've been for that there bean you call wanilla, and Mr. Brown
says he never heard of such a thing."
"A man that keeps so large a store has no right to be so ignorant,"
remarked Mrs. Marsden. "Then, Drusa, we must flavour the ice-cream with
lemon."
"There a'n't no more lemons to be had," said the girl, "and we've just
barely enough for the lemonade."
"Then some of the lemons must be taken for the ice-cream," replied Mrs.
Marsden, "and we must make out the lemonade with cream of tartar."
"I forgot to tell you," said Drusa, "that Mrs. Jones says she can't
spare no more cream, upon no account."
"How vexatious!" exclaimed Mrs. Marsden. "I wish we had two cows of our
own--one is not sufficient when we are about giving a party. Drusa, we
must make out the ice-cream by thickening some milk with eggs."
"Eggs are scace," replied the girl, "Miss Albinar uses up so many for
the cakes."
"She must spare some eggs from the cakes," said Mrs. Marsden, "and make
out the cakes by adding a little pearl-ash. Go directly and tell her
so."
Cheston, though by no means _au fait_ to the mysteries of confectionary,
could not help smiling at all this making out--"Really," said his aunt,
"these things are very annoying. And as this party is given to Mrs.
Washington Potts, it is extremely desirable that nothing should fail.
There is no such thing now as having company, unless we can receive and
entertain them in a certain style."
"I perfectly remember," said Cheston, "the last party at which I was
present in your house. I was then a midshipman, and it was just before I
sailed on my first cruise in the Pacific. I spent a delightful evening."
"Yes, I recollect that night," replied Mrs. Marsden. "In those days it
was not necessary for us to support a certain style, and parties were
then very simple things, except among people of the first rank. It was
thought sufficient to have two or three baskets of substantial cakes at
tea, some almonds, raisins, apples, and oranges, handed round
afterwards, with wine and cordial, and then a large-sized pound-cake at
the last. The company assembled at seven o'clock, and generally walked;
for the ladies' dresses were only plain white muslin. We invited but as
many as could be accommodated with seats. The young people played at
forfeits, and sung English and Scotch songs, and at the close of the
evening danced to the piano. How Mrs. Washington Potts would be shocked
if she was to find herself at one of those obsolete parties!"
"The calf-jelly won't be clear," said the black girl, again making her
appearance. "Aunt Katy has strained it five times over through the
flannen-bag."
"Go then and tell her to strain it five-and-twenty times," said Mrs.
Marsden angrily--"It must and shall be clear. Nothing is more vulgar
than clouded jelly; Mrs. Washington Potts will not touch it unless it is
transparent as amber."
"What, Nong tong paw again!" said Cheston. "Now do tell me who is Mrs.
Washington Potts?"
"Is it possible you have not heard of her?" exclaimed Mrs. Marsden.
"Indeed I have not," replied Cheston. "You forget that for several years
I have been cruising on classic ground, and I can assure you that the
name of Mrs. Washington Potts has not yet reached the shores of the
Mediterranean."
"She is wife to a gentleman that has made a fortune in New Orleans,"
pursued Mrs. Marsden. "They came last winter to live in Philadelphia,
having first visited London and Paris. During the warm weather they took
lodgings in this village, and we have become quite intimate. So we have
concluded to give them a party, previous to their return to
Philadelphia, which is to take place immediately. She is a charming
woman, though she certainly makes strange mistakes in talking. You have
no idea how sociable she is, at least since she returned our call;
which, to be sure, was not till the end of a week; and Albina and I had
sat up in full dress to receive her for no less than five days: that is,
from twelve o'clock till three. At last she came, and it would have
surprised you to see how affably she behaved to us."
"Not at all," said Cheston, "I should not have expected that she would
have treated you rudely."
"She really," continued Mrs. Marsden, "grew quite intimate before her
visit was over, and took our hands at parting. And as she went out
through the garden, she stopped to admire Albina's moss-roses: so we
could do no less than give her all that were blown. From that day she
has always sent to us when she wants flowers."
"No doubt of it," said Cheston.
"You cannot imagine," pursued Mrs. Marsden, "on what a familiar footing
we are. She has a high opinion of Albina's taste, and often gets her to
make up caps and do other little things for her. When any of her
children are sick, she never sends anywhere else for currant jelly or
preserves. Albina makes gingerbread for them every Saturday. During the
holidays she frequently sent her three boys to spend the day with us.
There is the very place in the railing where Randolph broke out a stick
to whip Jefferson with, because Jefferson had thrown in his face a hot
baked apple which the mischievous little rogue had stolen out of Katy's
oven."
In the mean time Albina had taken off the brown holland bib apron which
she had worn all day in the kitchen, and telling the cook to watch
carefully the plum-cake that was baking, she hastened to her room by a
back staircase, and proceeded to take the pins out of her hair; for
where is the young lady that on any emergency whatever, would appear
before a young gentleman with her hair pinned up? Though, just now, the
opening out of her curls was a considerable inconvenience to Albina, as
she had bestowed much time and pains on putting them up for the evening.
Finally she came down in "prime array;" and Cheston, who had left her a
school-girl, found her now grown to womanhood, and more beautiful than
ever. Still he could not forbear reproving her for treating him so much
as a stranger, and not coming to him at once in her morning-dress.
"Mrs. Washington Potts," said Albina, "is of opinion that a young lady
should never be seen in dishabille by a gentleman."
Cheston now found it very difficult to hear the name of Mrs. Potts with
patience.--"Albina," thought he, "is bewitched as well as her mother."
He spoke of his cruise in the Mediterranean; and Albina told him that
she had seen a beautiful view of the bay of Naples in a souvenir
belonging to Mrs. Washington Potts.
"I have brought with me some sketches of Mediterranean scenery," pursued
Cheston. "You know I draw a little. I promise myself great pleasure in
showing and explaining them to you."
"Oh! do send them this afternoon," exclaimed Albina. "They will be the
very things for the centre-table. I dare say the Montagues will
recognise some of the places they have seen in Italy, for they have
travelled all over the south of Europe."
"And who are the Montagues?" inquired Cheston.
"They are a very elegant English family," answered Mrs. Marsden,
"cousins in some way to several noblemen."
"Perhaps so," said Cheston.
"Albina met with them at the lodgings of Mrs. Washington Potts," pursued
Mrs. Marsden, "where they have been staying a week for the benefit of
country air; and so she enclosed her card, and sent them invitations to
her party. They have as yet returned no answer; but that is no proof
they will not come, for perhaps it may be the newest fashion in England
not to answer notes."
"You know the English are a very peculiar people," remarked Albina.
"And what other lions have you provided?" said Cheston.
"Oh! no others except a poet," replied Albina. "Have you never heard of
Bewley Garvin Gandy?"
"Never!" answered Cheston. "Is that all one man?"
"Nonsense," replied Albina; "you know that poets generally have three
names. B. G, G. was formerly Mr. Gandy's signature when he wrote only
for the newspapers, but now since he has come out in the magazines, and
annuals, and published his great poem of the World of Sorrow, he gives
his name at full length. He has tried law, physic, and divinity, and has
resigned all for the Muses. He is a great favourite of Mrs. Washington
Potts."
"And now, Albina," said Cheston, "as I know you can have but little
leisure to-day, I will only detain you while you indulge me with 'Auld
lang syne'--I see the piano has been moved out into the porch."
"Yes," said Mrs. Marsden, "on account of the parlour papering."
"Oh! Bromley Cheston," exclaimed Albina, "do not ask me to play any of
those antediluvian Scotch songs. Mrs. Washington Potts cannot tolerate
anything but Italian."
Cheston, who had no taste for Italian, immediately took his hat, and
apologizing for the length of his stay, was going away with the thought
that Albina had much deteriorated in growing up.
"We shall see you this evening without the ceremony of a further
invitation?" said Albina.
"Of course," replied Cheston.
"I quite long to introduce you to Mrs. Washington Potts," said Mrs.
Marsden.
"What simpletons these women are!" thought Cheston, as he hastily turned
to depart.
"The big plum-cake's burnt to a coal," said Drusa, putting her head out
of the kitchen door.
Both the ladies were off in an instant to the scene of disaster. And
Cheston returned to his hotel, thinking of Mrs. Potts (whom he had made
up his mind to dislike), of the old adage that "evil communication
corrupts good manners," and of the almost irresistible contagion of
folly and vanity. "I am disappointed in Albina," said he; "in future I
will regard her only as my mother's niece, and more than a cousin she
shall never be to me."
Albina having assisted Mrs. Marsden in lamenting over the burnt cake,
took off her silk frock, again pinned up her hair, and joined
assiduously in preparing another plum-cake to replace the first one. A
fatality seemed to attend nearly all the confections, as is often the
case when particular importance is attached to their success. The jelly
obstinately refused to clarify, and the blanc-mange was equally
unwilling to congeal. The maccaroons having run in baking, had neither
shape nor feature, the kisses declined rising, and the sponge-cake
contradicted its name. Some of the things succeeded, but most were
complete failures: probably because (as old Katy insisted) "there was a
spell upon them." In a city these disasters could easily have been
remedied (even at the eleventh hour) by sending to a confectioner's
shop, but in the country there is no alternative. Some of these
mischances might perhaps have been attributed to the volunteered
assistance of a mantua-maker that had been sent for from the city to
make new dresses for the occasion, and who on this busy day, being "one
of the best creatures in the world," had declared her willingness to
turn her hand to anything.
It was late in the afternoon before the papering was over, and then
great indeed was the bustle in clearing away the litter, cleaning the
floors, putting down the carpets, and replacing the furniture. In the
midst of the confusion, and while the ladies were earnestly engaged in
fixing the ornaments, Drusa came in to say that Dixon, the waiter that
had been hired for the evening, had just arrived, and falling to work
immediately he had poured all the blanc-mange down the sink, mistaking
it for bonnyclabber.[1] This intelligence was almost too much to bear,
and Mrs. Marsden could scarcely speak for vexation.
[Footnote 1: Thick sour milk.]
"Drusa," said Albina, "you are a raven that has done nothing all day but
croak of disaster. Away, and show your face no more, let what will
happen."
Drusa departed, but in a few minutes she again put in her head at the
parlour door and said, "Ma'am, may I jist speak one time more?"
"What now?" exclaimed Mrs. Marsden.
"Oh! there's nothing else spiled or flung down the sink, jist now," said
Drusa, "but something's at hand a heap worse than all. Missus's old Aunt
Quimby has jist landed from the boat, and is coming up the road with
baggage enough to last all summer."
"Aunt Quimby!" exclaimed Albina; "this indeed caps the climax!"
"Was there ever anything more provoking!" said Mrs. Marsden. "When I
lived in town she annoyed me sufficiently by coming every week to spend
a day with me, and now she does not spend days but _weeks_. I would go
to Alabama to get rid of her."
"And then," said Albina, "she would come and spend _months_ with us.
However, to do her justice, she is a very respectable woman."
"All bores are respectable people," replied Mrs. Marsden; "if they were
otherwise, it would not be in their power to bore us, for we could cut
them and cast them off at once. How very unlucky! What will Mrs.
Washington Potts think of her--and the Montagues too, if they _should_
come? Still we must not affront her, as you know she is rich."
"What can her riches signify to us?" said Albina; "she has a married
daughter."
"True," replied Mrs. Marsden, "but you know riches should always command
a certain degree of respect, and there are such things as legacies."
"After all, according to the common saying, 'tis an ill wind that blows
no good;' the parlours having been freshly papered, we can easily
persuade Aunt Quimby that they are too damp for her to sit in, and so we
can make her stay up stairs all the evening."
At this moment the old lady's voice was heard at the door, discharging
the porter who had brought her baggage on his wheelbarrow; and the next
minute she was in the front parlour. Mrs. Marsden and Albina were
properly astonished, and, properly delighted at seeing her; but each,
after a pause of recollection, suddenly seized the old lady by the arms
and conveyed her into the entry, exclaiming, "Oh! Aunt Quimby! Aunt
Quimby! this is no place for you."
"What's the meaning of all this?" cried Mrs. Quimby; "why won't you let
me stay in the parlour?"
"You'll get your death," answered Mrs. Marsden, "you'll get the
rheumatism. Both parlours have been newly papered to-day, and the walls
are quite wet."
"That's a bad thing," said Mrs. Quimby, "a very bad thing. I wish you
had put off your papering till next spring. Who'd have thought of your
doing it this day of all days?"
"Oh! Aunt Quimby," said Albina, "why did you not let us know that you
were coming?"
"Why, I wanted to give you an agreeable surprise," replied the old lady.
"But tell me why the rooms are so decked out, with flowers hanging about
the looking-glasses and lamps, and why the candles are dressed with cut
paper, or something that looks like it?"
"We are going to have a party to-night," said Albina.
"A party! I'm glad of it. Then I'm come just in the nick of time."
"I thought you had long since given up parties," said Mrs. Marsden,
turning pale.
"No, indeed--why should I--I always go when I am asked--to be sure I
can't make much figure at parties now, being in my seventy-fifth year.
But Mrs. Howks and Mrs. Himes, and several others of my old friends,
always invite me to their daughters' parties, along with Mary; and I
like to sit there and look about me, and see people's new ways. Mary had
a party herself last winter, and it went off very well, only that both
the children came out that night with the measles; and one of the lamps
leaked, and the oil ran all over the side-board and streamed down on the
carpet; and, it being the first time we ever had ice-cream in the house,
Peter, the stupid black boy, not only brought saucers to eat it in, but
cups and saucers both."
The old lady was now hurried up stairs, and she showed much
dissatisfaction on being told that as the damp parlours would certainly
give her her death, there was no alternative but for her to remain all
the evening in the chamber allotted to her. This chamber (the best
furnished in the house) was also to be 'the ladies' room,' and Albina
somewhat consoled Mrs. Quimby by telling her that as the ladies would
come up there to take off their hoods and arrange their hair, she would
have an opportunity of seeing them all before they went down stairs. And
Mrs. Marsden promised to give orders that a portion of all the
refreshments should be carried up to her, and that Miss Matson, the
mantua-maker, should sit with her a great part of the evening.
It was now time for Albina and her mother to commence dressing, but Mrs.
Marsden went down stairs again with 'more last words' to the servants,
and Albina to make some change in the arrangement of the centre-table.
She was in a loose gown, her curls were pinned up, and to keep them
close and safe, she had tied over her head an old gauze handkerchief.
While bending over the centre-table, and marking with rose-leaves some
of the most beautiful of Mrs. Hemans' poems, and opening two or three
souvenirs at their finest plates, a knock was suddenly heard at the
door, which proved to be the baker with the second plum-cake, it having
been consigned to _his_ oven. Albina desired him to bring it to her, and
putting it on the silver waiter, she determined to divide it herself
into slices, being afraid to trust that business to any one else, lest
it should be awkwardly cut, or broken to pieces; it being quite warm.
The baker went out, leaving the front door open, and Albina, intent on
her task of cutting the cake, did not look up till she heard the sound
of footsteps in the parlour; and then what was her dismay on perceiving
Mr. and Mrs. Montague and their daughter.
Albina's first impulse was to run away, but she saw that it was now too
late; and, pale with confusion and vexation, she tried to summon
sufficient self-command to enable her to pass off this _contre-tems_
with something like address.
It was not yet dusk, the sun being scarcely down, and of all the persons
invited to the party, it was natural to suppose that the English family
would have come the latest.
Mr. Montague was a long-bodied short-legged man, with round gray eyes,
that looked as if they had been put on the outside of his face, the
sockets having no apparent concavity: a sort of eye that is rarely seen
in an American. He had a long nose and a large heavy mouth with
projecting under-teeth, and altogether an unusual quantity of face;
which face was bordered round with whiskers, that began at his eyes and
met under his chin, and resembled in texture the coarse wiry fur of a
black bear. He kept his hat under his arm, and his whole dress seemed as
if modelled from one of the caricature prints of a London dandy.
Mrs. Montague (evidently some years older than her husband) was a
gigantic woman, with features that looked as if seen through a
magnifying glass. She wore heavy piles of yellowish curls, and a crimson
velvet tocque. Her daughter was a tall hard-faced girl of seventeen,
meant for a child by her parents, but not meaning herself as such. She
was dressed in a white muslin frock and trowsers, and had a mass of
black hair curling on her neck and shoulders.
They all fixed their large eyes directly upon Albina, and it was no
wonder that she quailed beneath their glance, or rather their stare,
particularly when Mrs. Montague surveyed her through her eye-glass. Mr.
Montague spoke first. "Your note did not specify the hour--Miss--Miss
Martin," said he, "and as you Americans are early people, we thought we
were complying with the simplicity of republican manners by coming
before dark. We suppose that in general you adhere to the primitive
maxim of 'early to bed and early to rise.' I forget the remainder of the
rhyme, but _you_ know it undoubtedly."
Albina at that moment wished for the presence of Bromley Cheston. She
saw from the significant looks that passed between the Montagues, that
the unseasonable earliness of this visit did not arise from their
ignorance of the customs of American society, but from premeditated
impertinence. And she regretted still more having invited them, when Mr.
Montague with impudent familiarity walked up to the cake (which she had
nicely cut into slices without altering its form) and took one of them
out.--"Miss Martin," said he, "your cake looks so inviting that I cannot
refrain from helping myself to a piece. Mrs. Montague, give me leave to
present one to you. Miss Montague, will you try a slice?"
They sat down on the sofa, each with a piece of cake, and Albina saw
that they could scarcely refrain from laughing openly, not only at her
dishabille, but at her disconcerted countenance.
Just at this moment, Drusa appeared at the door, and called out, "Miss
Albinar, the presarved squinches are all working. Missus found 'em so
when she opened the jar." Albina could bear no more, but hastily
darting out of the room, she ran up stairs almost crying with vexation.
Old Mrs. Quimby was loud in her invectives against Mr. Montague for
spoiling the symmetry of the cake, and helping himself and his family so
unceremoniously. "You may rely upon it," said she, "a man that will do
such a thing in a strange house is no gentleman."
"On the contrary," observed Mrs. Marsden, "I have no doubt that in
England these free and easy proceedings are high ton. Albina, have not
you read some such things in Vivian Grey?"
"I do not believe," said Mrs. Quimby, "that if this Englishman was in
his own country, he would dare to go and take other people's cake
without leave or license. But he thinks any sort of behaviour good
enough for the Yankees, as they call us."
"I care not for the cake," said Albina, "although the pieces must now be
put into baskets; I only think of the Montagues walking in without
knocking, and catching me in complete dishabille: after I had kept poor
Bromley Cheston waiting half an hour this morning rather than he should
see me in my pink gingham gown and with my hair in pins."
"As sure as sixpence," remarked Mrs. Quimby, "this last shame has come
upon you as a punishment for your pride to your own cousin."
Mrs. Marsden having gone into the adjoining room to dress, Albina
remained in this, and placed herself before the glass for the same
purpose. "Heigho!" said she, "how pale and jaded I look! What a
fatiguing day I have had! I have been on my feet since five o'clock this
morning, and I feel now more fit to go to bed than to add to my
weariness by the task of dressing, and then playing the agreeable for
four or five hours. I begin to think that parties (at least such parties
as are now in vogue) should only be given by persons who have large
houses, large purses, conveniences of every description, and servants
enough to do all that is necessary."
"Albina is talking quite sensibly," said Aunt Quimby to Mrs. Marsden,
who came in to see if her daughter required her assistance in dressing.
"Pho!" said Mrs. Marsden, "think of the eclat of giving a party to Mrs.
Washington Potts, and of having the Montagues among the guests! We shall
find the advantage of it when we visit the city again."
"Albina," said Aunt Quimby, "now we are about dressing, just quit for a
few moments and help me on with my long stays and my new black silk
gown, and let me have the glass awhile; I am going to wear my lace cap
with the white satin riband. This dark calico gown and plain muslin cap
won't do at all to sit here in, before all the ladies that are coming
up."
"Oh! no matter," replied Albina, who was unwilling to relinquish the
glass or to occupy any of her time by assisting her aunt in dressing
(which was always a troublesome and tedious business with the old lady);
and her mother had now gone down to be ready for the reception of the
company, and to pay her compliments to the Montagues. "Oh! no matter,"
said Albina, "your present dress looks perfectly well; and the ladies
will be too much engaged with themselves and their own dresses, to
remark anything else. No one will observe whether your gown is calico or
silk, and whether your cap is muslin or lace. Elderly ladies are always
privileged to wear what is most convenient to them."
Albina put on the new dress that the mantua-maker had made for her. When
she tried it on the preceding evening Miss Matson declared that "it
fitted like wax." She now found that it was scarcely possible to get it
on at all, and that one side of the forebody was larger than the other.
Miss Matson was called up, and by dint of the pulling, stretching, and
smoothing well known to mantua-makers, and still more by means of her
pertinacious assurances that the dress had no fault whatever, Albina was
obliged to acknowledge that she _could_ wear it, and the redundancy of
the large side was pinned down and pinned over. In sticking in her comb
she broke it in half, and it was long before she could arrange her hair
to her satisfaction without it. Before she had completed her toilette,
several of the ladies arrived and came into the room; and Albina was
obliged to snatch up her paraphernalia, and make her escape into the
next apartment.
At last she was dressed--she went down stairs. The company arrived fast,
and the party began.
Bromley Cheston had come early to assist in doing the honours, and as he
led Albina to a seat, he saw that, in spite of her smiles, she looked
weary and out of spirits; and he pitied her. "After all," thought he,
"there is much that is interesting about Albina Marsden."
The party was _very_ select, consisting of the élite of the village and
its neighbourhood; but still, as is often the case, those whose presence
was most desirable had sent excuses, and those who were not wanted had
taken care to come. And Miss Boreham (a young lady who, having nothing
else to recommend her, had been invited solely on account of the usual
elegance of her attire, and whose dress was expected to add prodigiously
to the effect of the rooms), came most unaccountably in an old faded
frock of last year's fashion, with her hair quite plain, and tucked
behind her ears with two side-combs. Could she have had a suspicion of
the reason for which she was generally invited, and have therefore
perversely determined on a reaction?
The Montagues sat together in a corner, putting up their eye-glasses at
every one that entered the room, and criticising the company in loud
whispers to each other; poor Mrs. Marsden endeavouring to catch
opportunities of paying her court to them.
About nine o'clock, appeared an immense cap of blond lace, gauze riband,
and flowers; and under the cap was Mrs. Washington Potts, a little,
thin, trifling-looking woman with a whitish freckled face, small sharp
features, and flaxen hair. She leaned on the arm of Mr. Washington
Potts, who was nothing in company or anywhere else; and she led by the
hand a little boy in a suit of scarlet, braided and frogged with blue: a
pale rat-looking child, whose name she pronounced Laughy-yet, meaning La
Fayette; and who being the youngest scion of the house of Potts, always
went to parties with his mother, because he would not stay at home.
Bromley Cheston, on being introduced to Mrs. Washington Potts, was
surprised at the insignificance of her figure and face. He had imagined
her tall in stature, large in feature, loud in voice, and in short the
very counterpart to Mrs. Montague. He found her, however, as he had
supposed, replete with vanity, pride, ignorance, and folly: to which she
added a sickening affectation of sweetness and amiability, and a flimsy
pretension to extraordinary powers of conversation, founded on a
confused assemblage of incorrect and superficial ideas, which she
mistook for a general knowledge of everything in the world.
Mrs. Potts was delighted with the handsome face and figure, and the very
genteel appearance of the young lieutenant, and she bestowed upon him a
large portion of her talk.
"I hear, sir," said she, "you have been in the Mediterranean Sea. A
sweet pretty place, is it not?"
"Its shores," replied Cheston, "are certainly very beautiful."
"Yes, I should admire its chalky cliffs vastly," resumed Mrs. Potts;
"they are quite poetical, you know. Pray, sir, which do you prefer,
Byron or Bonaparte? I dote upon Byron; and considering what sweet verses
he wrote, 'tis a pity he was a corsair, and a vampyre pirate, and all
such horrid things. As for Bonaparte, I never could endure him after I
found that he had cut off poor old King George's head. Now, when we talk
of great men, my husband is altogether for Washington. I laugh, and tell
Mr. Potts it's because he and Washington are namesakes. How do you like
La Fayette?"--(pronouncing the name à la canaille).
"The man, or the name?" inquired Cheston.
"Oh! both to be sure. You see we have called our youngest blossom after
him. Come here, La Fayette, stand forward, my dear; hold up your head,
and make a bow to the gentleman."
"I won't," screamed La Fayette. "I'll never make a bow when you tell
me."
"Something of the spirit of his ancestors," said Mrs. Potts, affectedly
smiling to Cheston, and patting the urchin on the head.
"His ancestors!" thought Cheston. "Who could they possibly have been?"
"Perhaps the dear fellow may be a little, a very little spoiled,"
pursued Mrs. Potts. "But to make a comparison in the marine line (quite
in your way, you know), it is as natural for a mother's heart to turn to
her youngest darling, as it is for the needle to point out the
longitude. Now we talk of longitude, have you read Cooper's last novel,
by the author of the Spy? It's a sweet book--Cooper is one of my pets. I
saw him in dear, delightful Paris. Are you musical, Mr. Cheston?--But of
course you are. Our whole aristocracy is musical now. How do you like
Paganini? You must have heard him in Europe. It's a very expensive thing
to hear Paganini.--Poor man! he is quite ghastly with his own playing.
Well, as you have been in the Mediterranean, which do you prefer, the
Greeks or the Poles?"
"The Poles, decidedly," answered Cheston, "from what I have heard of
_them_, and seen of the Greeks."
"Well, for my part," resumed Mrs. Potts, "I confess I like the Greeks,
as I have always been rather classical. They are so Grecian. Think of
their beautiful statues and paintings by Rubens and Reynolds. Are you
fond of paintings? At my house in the city, I can show you some very
fine ones."
"By what artists?" asked Cheston.
"Oh! by my daughter Harriet. She did them at drawing-school with
theorems. They are beautiful flower-pieces, all framed and hung up; they
are almost worthy of Sir Benjamin West."[2]
[Footnote 2: The author takes this occasion to remark, that the
illustrious artist to whom so many of his countrymen erroneously give
the title of Sir Benjamin West, never in reality had the compliment of
knighthood conferred on him. He lived and died _Mr._ West, as is well
known to all who have any acquaintance with pictures and painters.]
In this manner Mrs. Potts ran on till the entrance of tea, and Cheston
took that opportunity of escaping from her; while she imagined him
deeply imbued with admiration of her fluency, vivacity, and variety of
information. But in reality, he was thinking of the strange depravity of
taste that is sometimes found even in intelligent minds; for in no other
way could he account for Albina's predilection for Mrs. Washington
Potts. "And yet," thought he, "is a young and inexperienced girl more
blameable for her blindness in friendship (or what she imagines to be
friendship), than an acute, sensible, talented man for his blindness in
love? The master-spirits of the earth have almost proverbially married
women of weak intellect, and almost as proverbially the children of such
marriages resemble the mother rather than the father. A just punishment
for choosing so absurdly. Albina, I must know you better."
The party went on, much as parties generally do where there are four or
five guests that are supposed to rank all the others. The patricians
evidently despised the plebeians, and the plebeians were offended at
being despised; for in no American assemblage is any real inferiority of
rank ever felt or acknowledged. There was a general dullness, and a
general restraint. Little was done, and little was said. La Fayette
wandered about in everybody's way; having been kept wide awake all the
evening by two cups of strong coffee, which his mother allowed him to
take because he would have them.
There was always a group round the centre-table, listlessly turning
over the souvenirs, albums, &c., and picking at the flowers; and La
Fayette ate plum-cake over Cheston's beautiful drawings.
Albina played an Italian song extremely well, but the Montagues
exchanged glances at her music; and Mrs. Potts, to follow suit, hid her
face behind her fan and simpered; though in truth she did not in reality
know Italian from French, or a semibreve from a semiquaver. All this was
a great annoyance to Cheston. At Albina's request, he led Miss Montague
to the piano. She ran her fingers over the instrument as if to try it;
gave a shudder, and declared it most shockingly out of tune, and then
rose in horror from the music stool. This much surprised Mrs. Marsden,
as a musician had been brought from the city only the day before for the
express purpose of tuning this very instrument.
"No," whispered Miss Montague, as she resumed her seat beside her
mother, "I will not condescend to play before people who are incapable
of understanding my style."
At this juncture (to the great consternation of Mrs. Marsden and her
daughter) who should make her appearance but Aunt Quimby in the calico
gown which Albina now regretted having persuaded her to keep on. The old
lady was wrapped in a small shawl and two large ones, and her head was
secured from cold by a black silk handkerchief tied over her cap and
under her chin. She smiled and nodded all round to the company, and
said--"How do you do, good people; I hope you are all enjoying
yourselves. I thought I _must_ come down and have a peep at you. For
after I had seen all the ladies take off their hoods, and had my tea, I
found it pretty dull work sitting up stairs with the mantua-maker, who
had no more manners than to fall asleep while I was talking."
Mrs. Marsden, much discomfited, led Aunt Quimby to a chair between two
matrons who were among "the unavoidably invited," and whose pretensions
to refinement were not very palpable. But the old lady had no idea of
remaining stationary all the evening between Mrs. Johnson and Mrs.
Jackson. She wisely thought "she could see more of the party," if she
frequently changed her place, and being of what is called a sociable
disposition, she never hesitated to talk to any one that was near her,
however high or however low.
"Dear mother," said Albina in an under-voice, "what can be the reason
that every one, in tasting the ice-cream, immediately sets it aside as
if it was not fit to eat? I am sure there is everything in it that ought
to be."
"And something more than ought to be," replied Mrs. Marsden, after
trying a spoonful--"the salt that was laid round the freezer has got
into the cream (I suppose by Dixon's carelessness), and it is _not_ fit
to eat."
"And now," said Albina, starting, "I will show you a far worse
mortification than the failure of the ice-cream. Only look--there sits
Aunt Quimby between Mr. Montague and Mrs. Washington Potts."
"How in the world did she get there?" exclaimed Mrs. Marsden. "I dare
say she walked up, and asked them to make room for her between them.
There is nothing now to be done but to pass her off as well as we can,
and to make the best of her. I will manage to get as near as possible,
that I may hear what she is talking about, and take an opportunity of
persuading her away."
As Mrs. Marsden approached within hearing distance, Mr. Montague was
leaning across Aunt Quimby, and giving Mrs. Potts an account of
something that had been said or done during a splendid entertainment at
Devonshire House.--"Just at that moment," said he, "I was lounging into
the room with Lady Augusta Fitzhenry on my arm (unquestionably the
finest woman in England), and Mrs. Montague was a few steps in advance,
leaning on my friend the Marquis of Elvington."
"Pray, sir," said Mrs. Quimby, "as you are from England, do you know
anything of Betsey Dempsey's husband?"
"I have not the honour of being acquainted with that person," replied
Mr. Montague, after a withering stare.
"Well, that's strange," pursued Aunt Quimby, "considering that he has
been living in London at least eighteen years--or perhaps it is only
seventeen. And yet I think it must be near eighteen, if not quite. Maybe
seventeen and a half. Well it's best to be on the safe side, so I'll say
seventeen. Betsey Dempsey's mother was an old school-mate of mine. Her
father kept the Black Horse tavern. She was the only acquaintance I ever
had that married an Englishman. He was a grocer, and in very good
business; but he never liked America, and was always finding fault with
it, and so he went home, and was to send for Betsey. But he never sent
for her at all; and for a very good reason; which was that he had
another wife in England, as most of them have--no disparagement to you,
sir."
Mrs. Marsden now came up, and informed Mrs. Potts in a whisper, that the
good old lady beside her, was a distant relation or rather connexion of
_Mr._ Marsden's, and that, though a little primitive in appearance and
manner, she had considerable property in bank-stock. To Mrs. Marsden's
proposal that she should exchange her seat for a very pleasant one in
the other room next to her old friend, Mrs. Willis, Aunt Quimby replied
nothing but "Thank you, I'm doing very well here."
Mrs. and Miss Montague, apparently heeding no one else, had talked
nearly the whole evening to each other, but loudly enough to be heard by
all around them. The young lady, though dressed as a child, talked like
a woman, and she and her mother were now engaged in an argument whether
the flirtation of the Duke of Risingham with Lady Georgiana Melbury
would end seriously or not.
"To my certain knowledge," said Miss Montague, "his Grace has never yet
declared himself to Lady Georgiana, or to any one else."
"I'll lay you two to one," said Mrs. Montague, "that he is married to
her before we return to England."
"No," replied the daughter, "like all others of his sex he delights in
keeping the ladies in suspense."
"What you say, miss, is very true," said Aunt Quimby, leaning in her
turn across Mr. Montague, "and, considering how young you are, you talk
very sensibly. Men certainly have a way of keeping women in suspense,
and an unwillingness to answer questions, even when we ask them. There's
my son-in-law, Billy Fairfowl, that I live with. He married my daughter
Mary, eleven years ago the 23d of last April. He's as good a man as ever
breathed, and an excellent provider too. He always goes to market
himself; and sometimes I can't help blaming him a little for his
extravagance. But his greatest fault is his being so unsatisfactory. As
far back as last March, as I was sitting at my knitting in the little
front parlour with the door open (for it was quite warm weather for the
time of the year), Billy Fairfowl came home, carrying in his hand a good
sized shad; and I called out to him to ask what he gave for it, for it
was the very beginning of the shad season; but he made not a word of
answer; he just passed on, and left the shad in the kitchen, and then
went to his store. At dinner we had the fish, and a very nice one it
was; and I asked him again how much he gave for it, but he still
avoided answering, and began to talk of something else; so I thought I'd
let it rest awhile. A week or two after, I again asked him; so then he
actually said he had forgotten all about it. And to this day I don't
know the price of that shad."
The Montagues looked at each other--almost laughed aloud, and drew back
their chairs as far from Aunt Quimby as possible. So also did Mrs.
Potts. Mrs. Marsden came up in an agony of vexation, and reminded her
aunt in a low voice of the risk of renewing her rheumatism by staying so
long between the damp, newly-papered walls. The old lady answered
aloud--"Oh! you need not fear, I am well wrapped up on purpose. And
indeed, considering that the parlours were only papered to-day, I think
the walls have dried wonderfully (putting her hand on the paper)--I am
sure nobody could find out the damp if they were not told."
"What!" exclaimed the Montagues; "only papered to-day--(starting up and
testifying all that prudent fear of taking cold, so characteristic of
the English). How barbarous to inveigle us into such a place!"
"I thought I felt strangely chilly all the evening," said Mrs. Potts,
whose fan had scarcely been at rest five minutes.