“A proposition, Hetty!” said my husband, throwing aside his coat
and hat, and tossing a letter in my lap. “It is from a widow lady,
who desires that I should take charge of her little boy, and give him
a home in my family, while she goes to the continent, to secure some
property lately left her by a foreign relative. It will be advantageous
to us, in a pecuniary way, to have him board with us, unless it should
increase your cares too much. But, as you are so fond of children, it
may, perhaps, after all, prove a pleasant care to you. She is evidently
a superior woman. Every line in her letter shows it.”
My husband immediately answered in the affirmative, and the child
arrived a week after. He was a fine, intelligent, gentlemanly boy
of eight years, with large hazel eyes, and transparently beautiful
temples: disinclined to the usual sports of childhood, sensitive, shy,
and thoughtful beyond his years--a human dew-drop, which we look to see
exhale. He brought with him a letter from his mother, which powerfully
affected my husband. During its perusal he drew his hand repeatedly
across his eyes, and sat a long while after he had finished reading it,
with his eyes closed, in a deep reverie. By-and-by he said, handing me
the letter, “there is genius there, Hetty. I never read anything so
touchingly beautiful. Mrs. West must be a very talented and superior
woman.”
I glanced over the letter. It fully justified my husband’s encomiums.
It was a most touching appeal to him to watch with paternal care over
her only child; but while she spoke with a mother’s tenderness of his
endearing qualities, she wished him taught implicitly, that first of
all duties for the young, _obedience_. Then followed allusions to dark
days of sorrow, during which the love of that cherished child, was the
only star in her sky.
I folded the letter and sat very still, after my husband left, in my
little rocking-chair, thinking. Such a gifted woman as that my husband
should have married. One who could have sympathised with him and shared
his intellectual pursuits; who would have been something besides a toy
to amuse an idle hour, or to minister to his physical necessities.
Perhaps it was of this that my husband was thinking, as he sat there
with his eyes closed over the open letter. Perhaps he had wed me only
from a generous impulse of pity, and that letter had suddenly revealed
to him the happiness of which he was capable with a kindred spirit. I
was very miserable. I wished the letter had never reached us, or that
I had declined the care of the child. Other letters, of course, would
come, and the boy would keep alive the interest in the intervals. I
wept long and bitterly. At length I was aroused by the entrance of
little Charley. A bright flush mounted to his forehead, when he saw
my swollen eyes. He hesitated a moment, then gliding up to my side he
said, sweetly, “Are you sick? Shall I bathe your head? I used to bathe
mamma’s head when it pained her.”
I stood abashed and rebuked in the child’s angel presence, and taking
the boy, _her_ boy, in my arms, I kissed him as tenderly as if I had
been his mother; while in his own sweet way he told me with childish
confidence of his own dead papa; how much he loved mamma; how many,
many beautiful things he used to bring her, saying that they were not
half good, or half handsome enough for her; how distressed he used to
be if she were ill; how carefully he closed the shutters, and tip-toed
about the house, with his finger on his lip, telling the servants to
close the doors gently; and how he promised him little toys, if he
would not disturb mamma’s slumbers; and then, how like diamonds his
eyes shone, when she got well; and what beautiful flowers he brought
her for her vases; and what a nice, soft-cushioned carriage he brought
for her to take the air; and how tenderly he wrapped the shawls about
her, and how many charges he gave the coachman, to drive slowly and
carefully. And then, how dear papa, at last, grew sick himself; and how
mamma watched day and night beside his bed, forgetting to sleep, or
eat, or drink; and how nobody dared to tell her that the doctor said he
must die; and how papa grew fainter and weaker, and how he said, “Kiss
me, Mary, and lay your cheek to mine; I can’t see you.” And then, how
mamma fainted and was carried out, and for many, many long days didn’t
know even her own little Charley;--and how dreadful it was when she
first waked, and tried to remember what had happened; and how nobody
could comfort her but Charley; and how he used often to wake up in the
night, and find her with a lamp looking at him, because when he was
asleep he looked so much like dear, dead papa; and how bitterly she
would sob when she was sick, because papa was not there to pity her,
and bathe her aching head; and how he (Charley) meant, when he grew
up to be a man, to get a nice house for her, and put everything she
wanted in it, and make her just as happy as he could.
Well has the Saviour said, “Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” That
night I bent over little Charley’s bed, blessing the little sleeper for
his angel teachings, with a heart as calm and peaceful as the mirrored
lake, reflecting only the smile of Heaven.
Time passed on. Life became earnest; for a little heart pulsated
beneath my own, and a strange, sweet, nameless thrill sent to my
chastened lips a trembling prayer. Tiny caps and robes, with many a
hope and fear interwoven in their delicate threads, lay awaiting the
infant’s advent. I, myself should know the height, and breadth, and
depth of a mother’s undying love. What could come between me and _this_
new found treasure?
Meantime letters continued to come from Charley’s mother to her boy,
and my husband. It was impossible for me to blind myself to his growing
interest in them. On the days they were expected, (for she wrote at
regular intervals,) he would be absent and abstracted, or if any delay
occurred, almost irritable. When they were received, his eye kindled,
his step became elastic, and his whole face grew radiant with happiness.
As the time drew near for the birth of my infant, I grew timid with
sad forebodings. I was sitting, one evening at twilight, watching the
setting sun, and thinking of the quiet grave it was gilding, where my
silver-haired father slept, in the old church yard, when my husband
entered. An expression of pain flitted over his features, as he looked
at me, and taking my hand, he said, gently, _almost tenderly_, “You
are less well than usual, Hetty; you must not sit here, moping, by
yourself.”
I laid my head upon his shoulder with a happiness I had not known for
many months. “Listen to me, dear Grey,” said I; “I have a confidence to
repose in you that will ease my heart.
“It was pity, only, that drew your heart to mine; you do not love
me. I have known it a long while since. At first, the discovery gave
me a pang keener than death; but I have had a long and bitter struggle
with myself, and have conquered. It is not your fault that you cannot
love me. To the many voices of your heart, which cry, ‘Give, give,’
my response is weak and unsatisfying. Your wife should be gifted. She
should sympathise with you in your intellectual pursuits. She should
stimulate your pride, as well as your love. Such an one is Charley’s
mother. Your _heart_ has already wed her, and as God is my witness, I
have ceased to blame you. We cannot help our affections. I cannot help
loving you, though I know her mysterious power over your heart. I have
seen your struggles, your generous self-reproaches, in some sudden
outburst of kindness toward me, after the indulgence of some bright
dream, in which I had no share. Dear Grey, she is worthy of your love.
She has a heart, noble, good and true; a heart purified by suffering.
I see it in every line she writes. Should I not survive the birth of
my infant, I could give your happiness into her keeping without a
misgiving, though I have never looked upon her face.”
Little Hetty’s noble heart has long since ceased to throb with joy
or pain. To her husband’s breast is folded the babe, for whose little
life her own was yielded up. Threads of silver prematurely mingle amid
his ebon locks; for memory writes only on bereaved hearts the virtues
of the dead, while, with torturing minuteness, she pictures our own
short-comings, for which, alas! we can offer no atonement but our tears.
AUNT HEPSY.
It was a comical little old shop, “Aunt Hepsy’s,” with its
Lilliputian counter, shelves and stove, and its pigmy assortment
of old-fashioned ginghams, twilled cambrics, red flannels, factory
cotton and homespun calicoes; its miniature window, with its stock
of horn-combs and candy, tin horses and peppermint drops, skeins
of yarn and Godfrey’s Cordial, gaudy picture books, and six-penny
handkerchiefs, from whose center Lafayette and George Washington smiled
approbatively upon the big A’s and little A’s printed round the border.
“Aunt Hepsy;” so every brimless-hatted urchin in the neighborhood
called her, though it would have puzzled them worse than the
multiplication table, had you asked them why they did so. Year in and
year out, her ruddy English face glowed behind the little shop window.
Sometimes she would be knitting a pair of baby’s socks, sometimes
inventing most astonishing looking bags out of rainbow fragments
of silk or ribbon. Sometimes netting watch-guards, or raveling the
yarn from some old black stocking, to ornament the “place where the
wool ought to grow,” on the head of some Topsy doll she was making.
Sometimes comforting herself with a sly pinch of snuff, or, when
sunbeams and customers were scarce, nodding drowsily over the daily
papers.
Aunt Hepsy _had_ been a beauty, and her pretty face had won her
a thriftless husband, of whom champagne and cigars had long since
kindly relieved her. And though Time had since forced her to apply
to the perruquier, he had gallantly made atonement by leaving her in
the undisputed possession of a pair of very brilliant black eyes.
Add to this a certain air of coquetry, in the fanciful twist of her
gay-colored turban, and the disposal of the folds of her lace kerchief
over her ample English bust--and you have a faithful daguerreotype of
“Aunt Hepsy.”
From the window of her little shop she could look out upon the blue
waters of the bay, where lay moored the gallant ships, from whose
tall masts floated the stars and stripes, and whose jolly captains
might often be seen in Aunt Hepsy’s shop, exchanging compliments and
snuff, and their heavy voices heard, recounting long Neptune yarns,
and declaring to the buxom widow that nothing but the little accident
of their being already spliced for life, prevented their immediately
spreading sail with her for the port of Matrimony. Aunt Hepsy
usually frowned at this, and shook her turbaned head menacingly, but
immediately neutralized it, by offering to mend a rip in their gloves,
or replace a truant button on their overcoats.
It was very odd, how universally popular was Aunt Hepsy. She had
any number of places to “take tea,” beside a standing invitation from
half-a-dozen families, to Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners, and to
New-Year’s suppers. She had an eligible seat in church, gratis; an
inexhaustible bottle of sherry for her often infirmities; fresh pies
on family baking days, newspapers for stormy day reading; tickets to
menageries, and invitations to picnics.
She always procured lodgings at a cheaper rate than anybody else; had
the pleasantest room in the house at that, the warmest seat at table,
the strongest cup of coffee, the brownest slice of toast, the latest
arrival of buckwheats, the second joint of the turkey, and the only
surviving piece of pie. To be sure, she always praised ugly babies,
asked old maids why they _would_ be so cruel as to persist in remaining
unmarried, entreated hen-pecked husbands to use their powerful
influence over their wives to secure to her their custom; begged the
newly fledged clergyman to allow her a private perusal of his last
Sunday’s able discourse; complimented ambitious Esaus on the luxuriant
growth of their very incipient, and microscopically perceptible
whiskers; asked dilapidated, rejected widowers, when they intended
taking their choice of a wife out of a bevy of rosy girls, and declared
to Editors that she might as well try to get along without her looking
glass, as without their interesting newspapers.
One day, the little shop was shut up. Nine o’clock came--eleven
o’clock, and the shutters were still closed, and Aunt Hepsy so
punctual, too! What _could_ it mean? Old Mrs. Brown was ready to have
fits because she couldn’t get another skein of yarn to finish her old
man’s stockings. Little Pat Dolan had roared himself black in the face,
because he couldn’t spend his cent to buy some maple sugar; and the
little match girl stood shivering at the corner for a place to warm
her poor benumbed fingers, while the disappointed captains stamped
their feet on the snow, stuffed their cheeks with quids, and said it
was “deuced funny,” and an old maid, opposite, who had long prayed that
Aunt Hepsy’s reign might be shortened, laid her skinny forefinger on
her hooked nose, and rolled up the whites of her eyes like a chicken
with the pip.
It was no great enigma, (at any rate not after you found it out!)
Rich old Mr. Potts ventured into Aunt Hepsy’s shop, one day, to buy a
watch-ribbon. He was very deaf; so Aunt Hepsy had to come round the
counter to wait upon him, and the upshot of it was, that she and Cupid
together, hailed him through an ear-trumpet; and all I know about
it is, that they have now a legalized right to a mutual pillow and
snuff-box, and that the little shop window still remains unopened,
while the old maid hisses between her teeth, as Aunt Hepsy rolls by in
her carriage, “How do you suppose she did it?”
THOUGHTS AT CHURCH.
I have an old-fashioned way of entering church, before the bells
begin to chime. I enjoy the quiet, brooding stillness. I love to
think of the many words of holy cheer that have fallen there, from
heaven-missioned lips, and folded themselves like snow-white wings over
the weary heart of despair. I love to think of the sinless little ones,
whose pearly temples have here been laved at the baptismal font. I love
to think of the weak, yet strong ones, who have tearfully tasted the
consecrated cup, on which is written, “Do this in remembrance of me.” I
love to think of those self-forgetting, self-exiled, who, counting all
things naught for Gethsemane’s dear sake, are treading foreign shores,
to say to the soul-fettered Pagan, “Behold the Lamb of God.” I love to
think of the loving hearts that at yonder altar have throbbed, side by
side, while the holy man of God pronounced “the twain one.” I love to
think of the seraph smile of which death itself was powerless to rob
the dead saint, over whose upturned face, to which the sunlight lent
such mocking glow, the words, “Dust to dust,” fell upon the pained ear
of love. I love, as I sit here, to list through the half open vestry
door, to the hymning voices of happy Sabbath scholars, sweet as the
timid chirp of morn’s first peeping bird. I love to hear their tiny
feet, as they patter down the aisle, and mark the earnest gaze of
questioning childhood. I love to see the toil-hardened hand of labor
brush off the penitential tear. I love--“_our_ minister.” How very
sad he looks to-day. Are his parish unsympathetic? Does the laborer’s
“hire” come tardily and grudgingly to the overtasked, faithful servant?
Do censorious, dissatisfied spirits watch and wait for his halting?
Now he rises and says, slowly--musically, “The Lord is my shepherd,
I shall not want.” Why at such sweet, soul-resting words, do his tears
overflow? Why has his voice such a heart quiver? Ah! there is a vacant
seat in the pastor’s pew. A little golden head, that last Sabbath
gladdened our eyes like a gleam of sunlight, lies dreamlessly pillowed
beneath the coffin lid: gleeful eyes have lost their brightness:
cherry lips are wan and mute, and beneath her sable vail the lonely
mother sobs. And so the father’s lip quivers, and for a moment nature
triumphs. Then athwart the gloomy cloud flashes the bow of promise.
He wipes away the blinding tears, and with an angel smile, and upward
glance, he says, “_Though he slay me, yet will I trust in Him._”
THE BROTHERS.
Close the door. One would scarcely think, in this luxurious
atmosphere, that we had left mid-winter behind us. The warm air is
heavy with the odor of blossoming greenhouse plants, over whose
fragrant clusters a tiny fountain tosses its sparkling spray:
bright-winged, sweet-voiced canaries dart, like flashes of sunlight,
through the dark green foliage: beautiful are those sculptured infants,
cheek to cheek, over whose dimpled limbs the crimson drapery throws
such a rosy glow: beautiful is that shrinking Venus, with her pure,
chaste brow, and Eve-like grace: lovely those rare old pictures, to the
artistic eye: beautiful that recumbent statuette of the peerless, proud
“Pauline.”
Hush! tread softly; on yonder couch a gentleman lies sleeping. His
crimson velvet cap has fallen back from his broad white forehead; his
long curving lashes droop heavily upon his cheek, and his Grecian
profile is as faultless as a sculptor’s dream. Pity, that the stain of
sensuality should have left so legible an impress there.
A servant enters, bearing a note upon a silver tray. His master
languidly opens a pair of large dark eyes, and beckons him to approach.
As he breaks the seal, a contemptuous sneer disfigures his handsome
lip, and an angry flush mounts to his brow. Motioning the servant away,
he crushes the note between his fingers, muttering,--“No--no--as he
has made his bed, so let him lie in it.” Then walking once or twice
rapidly across the room, he takes up a small volume, and throws himself
again upon the velvet couch. He does not turn the leaves, and if you
peep over his shoulder, you will see that the book is upside down.
His thoughts are far away. He remembers a bright-eyed, open-browed,
guileless-hearted brother, whom early orphanage had thrown upon his
fraternal care; whose trusting nature he had perverted; whose listening
ear he had poisoned with specious sophistries and worldly maxims; whom
he had introduced to the wine party, where female virtue was held
in derision, and to the “green room,” where the foreign _danseuse_
understood well how to play her part; whom he had initiated into modern
follies and dissipations, and then launched upon the Charybdis of
fashionable society, without chart, or rudder, or compass, other than
his own headstrong passions and unbridled will.
Soon came a rumor, at first vague and undefined, and then voraciously
seized upon and circulated by Paul Pry penny-a-liners, (who recked
little, in their avidity for a paragraph, of broken-hearted mothers
or despairing gray-haired fathers,) of a true heart that had been
betrayed, of a disgraced household, of a fair brow that must henceforth
walk the earth shame-branded. Then from his avenging pursuers the rash
boy fled for refuge to him who had first turned his youthful footsteps
aside from truth and honor. He was repulsed with scorn; not because he
had wronged his own soul and hers whose star had forever set in night,
but because he had not more skilfully and secretly woven the meshes for
his victim.
Across the seas, amid the reckless debauchery of God-forgetting
Paris, the miserable boy sought oblivion; welcoming with desperate
eagerness the syren Pleasure, in every chameleon shape that could
stifle conscience or drown torturing memory. Sometimes by a lucky
throw of the dice he was enabled to shine as the Adonis of some
ball, or theatre, or gay saloon: sometimes destitute as the humblest
_chiffonier_, who suns himself in the public square, and solicits
charity of the indifferent passer-by. In the rosy glow of morning, the
bright stars paled while Harry sat at the enticing gaming table, till
even those accustomed to breathe the polluted atmosphere of those gates
of perdition, turned shuddering away, from the fiendish look of that
youthful face.
Nature revenged herself at last. Wearisome days of sickness came,
and he who was nurtured in luxury, was dependent upon the charity of
grudging strangers.
Oh! what a broad, clear beam eternity throws upon the crooked
by-paths of sin! how like swift visions pass the long forgotten
prayer at the blessed mother’s knee; the long-forgotten words of Holy
Writ; the soothing vesper hymn, of holy time; the first cautious,
retrograding step--the gradual searing of conscience, till the barrier
between right and wrong is ruthlessly trampled under foot; the broken
resolutions, the misspent years, the wasted energies; the sins against
one’s own soul, the sins against others; the powerless wish to pray,
’mid paroxysms of bodily pain; the clinging hold on life--the anxious
glance at the physician--the thrilling question, “Doctor, is it life or
death?”
Poor Harry! amid the incoherent ravings of delirium, the good little
grisette learned his sad history. Her little French heart was touched
with pity. Through her representations, on his partial restoration to
health, a sufficient sum was subscribed by the American consul, and
some of his generous countrymen, to give him the last chance for his
life, by sending him to breathe again his native air. Earnestly he
prayed that the sea might not be his sepulchre.
Tearfully he welcomed the first sight of his native shore.
Tremblingly he penned those few lines to the brother whose face he so
yearned to see--and on whose fraternal breast it would seem almost easy
to die. Anxiously he waited the result, turning restlessly from side
to side, till beaded drops of agony started from his pallid temples.
Walter would not refuse his _last_ request. No--no. The proud man would
at least, at the grave’s threshold, forget that “vulgar rumor” had
coupled his patrician name with disgrace. Oh, why had the messenger
such leaden footsteps? when life and strength like hour-glass sands,
were fleeting! A step is heard upon the stairs! A faint flush, like the
rosy tinting of a sea-shell, brightens the pallid face.
“No answer, sir,” gruffly says the messenger.
A smothered groan of anguish, and Harry turns his face to the wall,
and tears, such only as despair can shed, bedew his pillow.
“_Do_ go, dear Walter; ’tis your own brother who asks it. If he has
sinned, has he not also suffered? We all so err, so need forgiveness.
Oh, take back those hasty words; let him die on your breast, for _my_
sake, Walter,” said the sweet pleader, as her tears fell over the hand
she pressed.
“That’s my own husband,” said the happy Mary, as she saw him relent.
“Go _now_, dear Walter. Take away the sting of those cruel words, while
yet you may, and carry him these sweet flowers, he used to love, from
me. Quick, dear Walter.”
* * * * *
“This way, sir, this way. Up another flight,” said the guide, gazing
admiringly at the fine figure before him, enveloped in a velvet Spanish
cloak. “Second door to the left, sir. Maybe the gentleman’s asleep now;
he’s been very quiet for some time. Seen trouble, sir, I reckon. ’Tis
not age that has drawn those lines on his handsome face. He’s not long
for this world, God rest his soul. That’s right, sir; that’s the door.
Good day, sir.”
Walter stood with his finger on the latch. He had at all times a
nervous shrinking from sickness--a fastidious horror of what he termed
“disagreeables.” He half repented that he had suffered a woman’s tears
to unsettle his purpose. Perhaps Harry would reproach him. (His own
conscience was prompter to that thought.) There he stood, irresolutely
twirling Mary’s lovely flowers in his nervous grasp.
If Harry should reproach him!
Slowly he opened the door. The flowers fell from his hand! Was that
attenuated, stiffened form his own, warm-hearted, bright-eyed, gallant
young brother?
“Reproach?”
Oh, Walter, there is no “reproach” like that passionless upturned
face; no words so crushing as the silence of those breathless lips; no
misery like the thought that those we have injured are forever blind to
our gushing tears, and deaf to our sobs of repentance.
CURIOUS THINGS.
CURIOUS: The exaggerated anxiety of wives to see the women who
were formerly loved by their husbands.--_Exchange._
Well, yes--rather curious; there are a great many curious things
in this world. Curious, your husband always perceives that you are
“sitting in a draft,” whenever one of your old lovers approaches you
in a concert room; curious he insists upon knowing who gave you that
pretty gold ring on your little finger; curious that you can never open
a package of old letters, without having his married eyes peeping over
your shoulder; curious he never allows you to ride on horseback, though
everybody says you have just the figure for it; curious he always sends
his partner on all the little business trips of the firm; curious such
an ugly frown comes over his face when he sees certain cabalistic marks
in a masculine hand, in the margin of your favorite poet; curious that
he will not let you name your youngest boy Harry, unless you tell him
your confidential reasons; curious he is always most gracious to the
most uninteresting men who visit the house; and _very_ curious, and
decidedly disagreeable, that whenever you ask him for money, he is so
busy reading the newspaper that he can’t hear you.
THE ADVANTAGES OF A HOUSE IN A FASHIONABLE SQUARE.
“Whom did you say wished to see me, Bridget?”
The broad-faced Irish girl handed her mistress a card.
“‘Mrs. John Hunter!’ was there _ever_ anything so unfortunate? had
she called on any other day in the week, I should have been prepared to
receive her, but of a ‘washing day,’ when nothing but a calico wrapper
stands Master George’s clawings and climbings; when the nursery maid is
in the kitchen, and the baby on my hands for the day; when my ‘Honiton
collar’ is in soak, the parlor window curtains in the wash-tub, and the
dimensions of the whole family, big and little, are flapping on the
clothes-line, displaying their rents and patches in full view of the
parlor windows! Was there ever anything so unfortunate? What _could_
induce Mrs. John Hunter to call on a washing day?”
But what was “washing day” to Mrs. John Hunter, who lived in St.
John’s Square, kept four servants, and patronized a laundry? What did
she know of Mondays’ picked up dinners and littered parlors, cluttered
china closet, and untidied nurseries? Mrs. John Hunter, who came down
to breakfast every morning in a fawn-colored silk morning dress,
trimmed with cherry, over an elaborately embroidered white skirt;
in a cobweb lace cap, silk stockings, and the daintiest of Parisian
toilette slippers; how could _she_ see the necessity of going down
cellar, after breakfast, to see if the pork was under brine, the pickle
jar covered, and the preserves unfermented? What did _she_ know about
washing up breakfast-cups, polishing the silver sugar bowl, filling
the astral lamp, counting up the silver forks and spoons, or mending
that little threadbare place in the carpet, that would soon widen into
an ugly rent, if neglected? What did she know about washing children’s
faces for school, or finding their missing mittens, or seeing that
Webster’s spelling book and a big apple were safely stowed away in
their satchels? How did she (whose family broadcloth the tailor mended)
know that Monday was always the day when husbands threw their coats
into wives’ lap “for just one stitch,” (which translated, means new
sleeve-linings, new facings for the flaps, a new set of buttons down
the front, and a general resuscitation of dilapidated button-holes.)
How did she know that the baby always got up a fit of colic on
washing days, and made it a point to dispense with its usual forenoon
nap?--that all the collectors for benevolent societies, and bores in
general, preferred it to any other day in the calendar?--that school
teachers always selected it to ferule children for sneezing without
permission--that milkmen never could spare you, on that day, your usual
share of milk by two quarts--that the coal, potatoes, starch, soap,
molasses, and vinegar always gave out on Monday--that “the minister”
always selected it for his annual call, and country cousins for a
“protracted meeting?” How should the patrician, Mrs. John Hunter, know
all that?
There she sat in the parlor taking notes, after the usual fashion of
lady callers, while Mrs. John Smith hurriedly tied on her bonnet, to
hide her disheveled tresses, threw on a shawl, and made her appearance
in the parlor as if “just returned from a walk.”
How their tongues ran! how fashions and gossip were discussed; how
Mrs. Smith admired Mrs. Hunter’s new dress hat; how the latter lady
advised Mrs. Smith to “insist on her husband’s moving from such an
undesirable neighborhood into a more aristocratic locality;” and how
Mrs. Smith wondered that the idea had never struck her before; and how
Mrs. Hunter told her that of course Mr. Smith would refuse at first,
but that she must either worry him into it, or seize upon some moment
of conjugal weakness to extort a binding promise from him to that
effect; and how the little wife blushed to find herself conniving at
this feminine piece of diabolism.
Mrs. John Smith’s husband commenced life in a provision store. He was
well acquainted with cleavers, white aprons, and spare-ribs--was on
hand early and late to attend to business--trusted nobody--lived within
his income, and consequently made money.
Miss Mary Wood kept a dressmaker’s establishment just over the way.
Very industriously she sat through the long summer days, drooping her
pretty golden ringlets over that never-ending succession of dresses.
Patiently she “took in,” and “let out,” bias-ed, flounced, tucked,
gathered and plaited, at the weathercock option of her customers.
Uneasily she leaned her head against her little window at sundown,
and earnestly Mr. John Smith wished he could reprieve forever from
such drudgery those taper little fingers. Very tempting was the little
basket of early strawberries, covered with fresh green leaves, that
went across the way to her one bright summer morning--and as red as the
strawberries, and quite as tempting, looked Miss Mary’s cheek to Mr.
John Smith, as she sat at the window, reading the little billet-doux
which he slily tucked into one corner.
The milkman wondered why Mr. Smith had grown so particular about the
flowers in the bouquets his little grand-daughter plucked for sale,
and why there must _always_ be “a rose-bud in it.” Miss Rosa Violet
couldn’t imagine what ailed her dressmaker, Miss Wood, (who was always
so scrupulous in executing orders,) to make her boddice round, when she
told her so particularly to make it pointed. The little sewing girls
employed in Miss Wood’s shop were “afraid she was getting crazy,” she
smiled so often to herself, broke so many needles, and made so many
mistakes in settling up their accounts on pay day; and very great was
their astonishment one day, after finishing a pretty bridal dress, to
find that Miss Wood was to wear it herself to church the very next
Sunday!
One bright June morning found the little dressmaker in a nice, two
story brick house, furnished with every comfort, and some luxuries; for
the warm-hearted John thought nothing half good enough for his little
golden-haired bride. As time passed on, other little luxuries were
added; including two nice, fat, dimpled babies; and within the last
year John had bought the house they lived in, and at Mary’s suggestion
introduced gas, to lighten the labors of the servant, and also added a
little bathing-room to the nursery. His table was well provided--the
mother’s and children’s wardrobes ample, and not a husband in Yankee
land was prouder or happier than John Smith, when on a sunshiny Sunday,
he walked to church with his pretty wife, whose golden curls still
gleamed from beneath her little blue bonnet, followed by Katy and
Georgy with their shining rosy faces, and pretty Sunday dresses.
It was quite time the honeymoon should wane, but still it showed no
signs of decrease. Little bouquets still perfumed Mary’s room. John
still sprung to pick up her handkerchief, or aid her in putting on her
cloak or shawl. The anniversary of their wedding day always brought her
a kind little note, with some simple remembrancer. Trifles, do you call
these? Ah, a wife’s happiness is made or marred by just such “trifles.”
* * * * *
“Katy will make somebody’s heart ache one of these days”, said John
Smith to his wife. “Katy will be a beauty. Did you hear me, Mary?”
“Yes,” said Mary, drooping her bright ringlets till they swept
John’s cheek, “and I was thinking how I hoped she would marry well,
and whether it would not be better for us to move into a more genteel
neighborhood, and form a new set of acquaintances.”
“_My_ little wife getting ambitious!” said John, smoothing her
ringlets back from her white forehead; “and where would you like to
live, Mary?”
“St. John’s Square is a nice place,” said the little wife, timidly.
“Yes; but my dear Mary, rents there are enormous, and those large
houses require a greater outlay of money than you have any idea of. The
furniture which looks pretty and in good taste here, would be quite
shabby in such an elegant establishment. The pretty de laine, which
fits your little round figure so charmingly, must give place to a silk
or brocade. Katy and Georgy must doff their simple dresses, for velvet
and embroidery; broad-faced, red-fisted Bridget must make way for a
French cook. The money which I have placed in the bank for a nest-egg
for you and the children in case of my death, must be withdrawn to
meet present demands. But we will talk of this another time: good-by
Mary, dear; not even your dear face must tempt me away from business;
good-by,” and he kissed his hand to her, as he walked rapidly out the
door.
But somehow or other Mary’s words kept ringing in John’s ears. It
was very true Katy must be married some day, and then he ran over the
circle of their acquaintance; the Stubbses, and the Joneses, and the
Jenkinses--good enough in their way, but (he confessed to himself) _not
just the thing for his Katy_. John was ambitious too: Mary was right;
they ought to consider that Katy would soon be a woman.
It is not to be supposed because John Smith never sported white kids,
save on his wedding day, that he was not a man of taste; by no means.
Not an artistic touch of Mary’s feminine fingers, from the twist of a
ringlet or ribbon to the draping of a curtain, the judicious disposal
of a fine engraving, or the harmonious blending of colors in a mantel
bouquet, escaped him. It was his joy and pride to see her glide about
his home, beautifying almost unconsciously everything she touched; and
then, he remembered when she was ill, and Bridget had the oversight of
the parlors--what a different air they had; how awkwardly the chairs
looked plastered straight against the wall--how ugly the red cloth all
awry on the centre table; what a string-y look the curtains had, after
her clumsy fingers had passed over them. Yes, Mary would grace a house
in St. John’s Square, and if it would make her any happier to go there
(and here he glanced at his ledger)--why, go she should--for she was
just the prettiest, and dearest, and most loving little Mary who ever
answered to that poetical name. What would full coffers avail him, if
Mary should die?--and she might die first. His health was good--his
business was good. Mary and Katy _should_ live in St John’s Square.
Mary and Katy _did_ live in St John’s Square. The upholsterer crammed
as many hundreds as possible into the drawing rooms, in the shape of
vis-a-vis antique chairs, velvet sofas, damask curtains, mirrors,
tapestry, carpets, and a thousand other nick-nacks, too numerous to
mention: then the blinds and curtains shut out the glad sunlight,
lest the warm beams should fade out the rich tints of the carpets and
curtains, and left it as fine and as gloomy as any other fashionable
drawing room. There was a very pretty prospect from Mary’s chamber
windows, but she never allowed herself to enjoy it, after Mrs. John
Hunter told her, that it was considered “decidedly snobbish to be seen
at the front window.” The Smiths took their meals in a gloomy basement,
where gas was indispensable at mid-day. Mary was constantly in fear
that the servants would spoil the pictures and statues in the parlor,
so she concluded to sweep and dust it herself, before there was any
probability of Mrs. John Hunter’s being awake in the morning. As this
was something of a tax, she and Mr. Smith and the children kept out of
it, except on Sundays and when company called, burrowing under ground
the residue of the time in the afore-mentioned basement.
Directly opposite Mrs. Smith lived Mrs. Vivian Grey, the leader of
the aristocracy (so Mrs. Hunter informed her) in St. John’s Square.
It was a great thing to be noticed by Mrs. Vivian Grey. Mrs. Hunter
sincerely hoped she would patronise Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Hunter, after a
minute survey, pronounced Mrs. Smith’s establishment quite _comme il
faut_, but suggested that a _real_ cachemire should be added as soon as
possible to Mrs. Smith’s wardrobe, as Mrs. Grey considered that article
quite indispensable to a woman of fashion. She also suggested that
Mrs. Smith should delicately hint to her husband the propriety of his
engaging a man servant, which appendage was necessary to give a certain
_distingué_ finish to the establishment; an Irishman would do, if well
trained, but a _black_ man was more fashionable, provided he was not
_green_--and Mrs. Hunter smiled at her own wit.
The cachemire was added--so was the black servant-man. Katy no
longer skipped and jumped, but minced in corsets and whalebone. She
never _ate_ unless at a private lunch with mamma. Mr. John Smith staid
late at his counting-room, and looked anxious, and two ugly lines made
their appearance on Mrs. Mary’s fair forehead. The French cook gave
away provisions enough to feed an entire family of French emigrants.
The black man-servant pulled up his dicky and informed Mrs. Smith
that it was at the price of his reputation to live with a family who
dispensed with the use of finger bowls, and the house-maid (who had the
honor of being descended from the establishment of Mrs. Vivian Grey)
declined remaining with a family who didn’t keep a private carriage.
Mrs. Vivian Grey was _not_ baited by the real cachemire, and her
son, little Julius Grey, a precocious youth of ten, told little George
Smith that his mamma had forbidden him playing marbles with a boy whose
father had kept a provision store.
A scurrilous penny paper published a burlesque of Mrs. Smith’s first
grand party, on the coming out of Miss Katy, in which, among other
allusions to Mr. Smith’s former occupation, the ball-room was said to
be “elegantly festooned with sausages.” This added “the last ounce to
the camel’s back;” even Mrs. Hunter’s tried friendship was not proof
against such a test.
A council of war was called. Mrs. Smith begged her husband, as her
repentant arms encircled his dicky, to buy a place in the country. John
very gladly consented to turn his plebeian back forever on the scene of
their humiliation; and what with strawberries and cherries, peaches,
pic-nics, early rising and light hearts, the Smith family have once
more recovered their equanimity, and can afford to laugh when “St.
John’s Square” and Mrs. John Hunter are mentioned.
WINTER IS COMING.
Welcome his rough grip! welcome, the fleet horse with flying feet,
and arching throat, neck-laced with merry bells; welcome, bright eyes,
and rosy cheeks, and furred robes, and the fun-provoking sleigh-ride;
welcome, the swift skater who skims, bird-like, the silvery pond;
welcome, Old Santa Claus with his horn of plenty; welcome, the “Happy
New-Year,” with her many-voiced echoes, and gay old Thanksgiving, with
his groaning table, old friends and new babies; welcome, for the bright
fireside, the closed curtains, the dear, unbroken home-circle, the
light heart, the merry jest, the beaming smile, the soft “good-night,”
the downy bed, and rosy slumbers.
* * * * *
WINTER IS COMING.
Alas for his rough grip! the barrel of meal is empty, and the cruse
of oil fails. Sharp winds flutter thin rags ’round shivering limbs.
There are pinched features, and benumbed feet, and streaming eyes,
and repulsed hands, and despairing hearts; there are damp corners,
and straw pallets, and hollow coughs, and hectic cheeks; there are
dismantled roofs, through which the snow gently drops its white,
icy pall over the wasted limbs of the dying; there are babes whose
birthright is poverty, whose legacy is shame, whose baptism is tears,
_whose little life is all winter_.
“THE OTHER SEX.”
“Let cynics prattle as they may, our existence here, without
the presence of the other sex, would be only a dark and
cheerless void.”
_Which_ “other sex?” Don’t be so obscure. Dr. Beecher says, “that
a writer’s ideas should stand out like rabbits’ ears, so that the
reader can get hold of them.” If you allude to the female sex, I
don’t subscribe to it. I wish they were all “translated.” If there is
anything that gives me the sensations of a landsman on his first sea
voyage, it is the sight of a bonnet. Think of female friendship! Two
women joining the Mutual Admiration Society; emptying their budget
of love affairs; comparing bait to entrap victims; sighing over the
same rose leaf; sonnetizing the same moonbeam; patronizing the same
milliner, and _exchanging female kisses_! (Betty, hand me my fan!)
Well, let either have one bonnet or one lover more than the
other--or, if they are blue stockings, let either be one round the
higher on Fame’s ladder--bodkins and darning needles! what a tempest!
Caps and characters in such a case are of no account at all. Oh, there
never should be but one woman alive at a time. Then the fighting would
be all where it belongs--in the masculine camp. What a time there’d
be, though! Wouldn’t she be a belle? Bless her little soul! how
she would queen it. It makes me clap my hands to think of it. _The
only woman in the world!_ If it were I, shouldn’t they all leave off
smoking, and wearing those odious plaid continuations? Should they ever
wear an outside coat, with the flaps cut off; or a Kossuth hat, or a
yellow Marseilles vest?--or a mammoth bow on their neck-ties; or a
turnover dickey; or a watch-chain; or a ring on the little finger?--or
any other abomination or off-shoot of dandyism whatsoever? Shouldn’t
I politely request them all to touch their hats, instead of jerking
their heads, when they bowed? Wouldn’t I coax them to read me poetry
till they had the bronchitis? Wouldn’t they play on the flute, and sing
the soul out of me? And then if they were sick, wouldn’t I pet them,
and tell them all sorts of comicalities, and make time fly like the
mischief? Shouldn’t wonder!
SOLILOQUY OF MR. BROADBRIM.
“There’s another of Miss Fiddlestick’s articles! She’s getting
too conceited, that young woman! Just like all newly-fledged
writers--mistakes a few obscure newspaper puffs for the voice of the
crowd, and considers herself on the top round of the literary ladder.
It will take me to take the wind out of her sails. I’ll dissect her,
before I’m a day older, as sure as my name is Ezekiel Broadbrim. I
don’t approve her style; never did. It’s astonishing to me that the
editor of The Green Twig dare countenance it, when he knows a man of
my influence could annihilate her with one stroke of my pen. She has
talent of a certain inferior order, but nothing to speak of. She’s
an unsafe model to follow; will lead her tribe of imitators into
tremendous mistakes. It’s a religious duty for a conspicuous sentinel,
like myself, on Zion’s walls, to sound the blast of alarm;--can’t
answer it to my conscience to be silent any longer. It might be
misconstrued. The welfare of the world in general, and her soul in
particular, requires a very decided expression of my disapprobation.
I’m sorry to annihilate her, but when Ezekiel Broadbrim makes up his
mind what is the path of duty, a bright seraph couldn’t stop him.
Perhaps I may pour a drop of the balm of consolation afterwards,
but it depends altogether upon whether I succeed in bringing her
into a penitential frame of mind. It’s my private opinion she is an
incorrigible sinner. Hand me my pen, John. Every stroke of it will
tell.”
WILLY GREY.
A stern, unyielding, line-and-plummet, May-flower descendant, was old
Farmer Grey, of Allantown, Connecticut. Many a crop had he planted,
many a harvest had he garnered in, since he first became owner of
Glen Farm. During that time, that respected individual, “the oldest
inhabitant,” could not remember ever to have seen him smile. The
village children shied close to the stone wall, and gave him a wide
berth, when he passed. Even the cats and dogs laid their ears back, and
crept circumspectly by him, with one eye on his whip-lash.
Farmer Grey considered it acceptable to the God who painted the
rainbow, and expanded the lily, and tinted the rose, to walk the
bright earth with his head bowed like a bulrush, and his soul clad in
sackcloth. No mercy fell from the lips of _his_ imaginary Saviour; no
compassion breathed in His voice; no love beamed in His eye; His sword
of justice was never sheathed.
The old farmer’s wife was a gentle, dependent creature, a delicate
vine, springing up in a sterile soil, reaching forth its tendrils
vainly, for some object to cling to. God, in his mercy, twined them
lovingly around a human blossom. Little Willy partook of his mother’s
sensitive, poetical nature. A yearning spirit looked out from the
fathomless depths of his earnest eyes. Only eight short summers the
gentle mother soothed her boy’s childish pains, and watched his
childish slumbers. While _he_ grew in strength and beauty, _her_ eye
waxed dim, and her step grew slow and feeble.
And so sweet memories were only left to little Willy,--dear, loving
eyes, whose glance ever met his on waking; a fair, caressing hand, that
wiped away his April tears; a low, gentle voice, sweet to his childish
ear as a seraph’s hymning.
Willy’s father told him that “his mother had gone to Heaven,” John,
the plough-boy, said “she was lying in the church-yard.” Willy could
not understand this. He only knew that the house had grown dark and
empty, and that his heart ached when he stayed there; and so he
wandered out in the little garden, (his mother’s garden;) but the
flowers looked dreary, too; and her pretty rose-vine lay trailing its
broken buds and blighted blossoms in the dust.
Then Willy crept up to his father’s side, and looked up in his face,
but there was something there that made him afraid to lay his little
hand upon his knee, or climb into his lap, or in any way unburden
his little heart; so he turned away, more sorrowful than before, and
wandered into his mother’s chamber, and climbed up in her chair, and
opened her drawer, to look at her comb and hair brush; and then he went
to the closet, and passed his little hand, caressingly, over her empty
dresses, and leaning his little curly head against them, sobbed himself
to sleep.
By and by, as years passed on, and the child grew older, he learned
to wander out in the woods and fields, and unbosom his little yearning
heart to Nature. Reposing on her breast, listening to the music of her
thousand voices, his unquiet spirit was soothed as with a mother’s
lullaby. With kindling eye, he watched the vivid lightnings play; or,
saw the murky east flush, like a timid bride, into rosy day; or, beheld
the shining folds of western clouds fade softly into twilight; or,
gazed at the Queen of Night, as she cut her shining path through the
cloudy sky; or, questioned, with earnest eyes, the glittering stars.
All this but ill pleased the old farmer. He looked upon the
earth only with an eye to tillage; upon the sloping hill, with its
pine-crowned summit, only with an eye to timber; upon the changeful
skies, only as reservoirs for moistening and warming his crops; upon
the silver streams, that laced the emerald meadows, only as channels
for irrigation; upon the climbing vine, as an insidious foe to joists,
and beams, and timbers; and upon flowers, only as perfumed aristocrats,
crowding and over-topping the free-soil democracy of cabbage, onions,
and potatoes.
In vain poor Will tried to get up, “to order,” an enthusiasm for
self-acting hay-cutters, patent plows, rakes, hoes, and harrows. In
vain, when Sunday came, and he was put “on the limits,” did the old
farmer, with a face ten-fold more ascetic than the cowled monk, strive
to throw a pall of gloom over that free, glad spirit, by rehearsing, in
his ear, a creed which would forever close the gate of heaven on every
dissenter, or inculcate doctrines, which, if believed, would fill our
lunatic asylums with the frantic wailings of despair.
Restlessly did Will, with cramped limbs and fettered spirit, sit out
the tedious hours of that holy day, which should be the “most blessed
of all the seven,” and watch, with impatient eye, the last golden beam
of the Sabbath sun sink slowly down behind the western hills.
Oh, well-meaning, but mistaken, parent! let but one loving smile play
over those frigid lips: let but one tear of sympathy flood that stony
eye: let but _one drop_ from that overflowing fountain of love, that
wells up in the bosom of the Infinite, moisten the parched soil of that
youthful heart! Open those arms but once, and clasp him to the paternal
heart; for even now, his chafed spirit, like a caged bird, flutters
against its prison bars; even now, the boy’s unquiet ear catches the
far-off hum of the busy world: even now, his craving heart beats wildly
for the voice of human love!
* * * * *
Weary feet, houseless nights, the scant meal, and the oft-repulsed
request: what are _they_ to the strong nerve, and bounding pulse, and
hopeful heart of the young adventurer? Laurel wreaths, dizzy places on
Ambition’s heights, have not its aspirants reached them by just such
rugged steps?
“Will” is in the city. Will sits upon the steps of the New York City
Hall, reading a penny paper: he has begged it from a good-natured
newsboy, who has also shared with him a huge slice of gingerbread.
As Will’s eye glances over the sheet, it falls upon the following
paragraph:
“PROSPECTUS OF THE WEEKLY CHRONICLE.
“The Weekly Chronicle is a paper founded on the demands of the
age for a first-class journal. It soars above all sectional and
personal considerations, and fearlessly proffers its feeble aid, in
developing the natural resources of the country, fostering the genius
of the people, rewarding meritorious effort in every department
of art, exalting virtue, however humble, and confounding vice,
however powerful. The editor and proprietor of the Chronicle is Mr.
Philanthropas Howard; office, No. 199 Cloud-street.
“Boy wanted immediately at the above office: one from the country
would be preferred.”
* * * * *
Will threw down the paper, and started to his feet: “199
Cloud-street?” He asked orange-women; he asked image-boys; he asked
merchants; he asked clerks; he asked lawyers; he asked clients; he
investigated cellars; he explored attics; he traveled through parks,
and through alleys; till finally, he coaxed a graceless, bare-footed
urchin to shew him the way.
Mr. John Howard, editor and proprietor of the Weekly Chronicle, went
upon the principle of paying nothing where nothing would pay, and
paying as little as possible where he could get something for next to
nothing. It was a fixed principle and confirmed practice with him,
never to pay anything for contributions to the Chronicle. He considered
that the great advantage that would accrue to an author from having
his or her articles in his paper, would be ample remuneration. At
the moment Will’s eye first fell upon him, he was reposing in a huge
leathern arm chair, in the corner of his sanctum. His proportions very
much resembled an apoplectic bag of flour, surmounted by an apple.
His head was ornamented with sparse spires of fiery red hair; on his
cheeks, a pair of cream-colored whiskers were feebly struggling into
life; and sundry tufts of the same color, under his chin, shadowed
forth his editorial sympathy with the recent “Beard Movement.”
Before him was a table, of doubtful hue and architecture, laden with
manuscripts, accepted, rejected, and under consideration; letters of
all sizes, opened and unopened, prepaid and unpaid, saucy and silly,
defiant and deprecatory. There was also an inkstand, crusted with
dirt and cobwebs; a broken paper weight, pinning down some bad money,
paid by distant subscribers; a camphene lamp, with a broken pedestal,
propped up by a Directory on one side, and Walker’s Dictionary on
the other; sundry stumps of cigars; a half-eaten apple; a rind of an
orange; a lady’s glove, and a box of bilious pills.
Will stepped before him, and made known his errand. Mr. John Howard
looked at him, with a portentous scowl, inspected him very much as he
would a keg of doubtful mackerel, and then referred him to the foreman
of the office, Mr. Jack Punch. Jack had been victimized, in the way of
office boys, for an indefinite period, with precocious city urchins,
who smoked long nines, talked politics, discussed theatricals, and knew
more of city haunts than the police themselves. Of course he lost no
time in securing a boy to whose verdant feet the plow-soil was still
clinging. Will’s business was to open the office at half past six in
the morning, sweep it out, make the fires, go to the post-office for
letters and exchanges, wrap up papers for new subscribers, carry them
to the post, and see that the mail was properly “got off.” To all these
requirements, Will immediately subscribed.
On Will’s daily tramps to and from the office, he was obliged to pass
Lithe & Co.’s magnificent show window, where the choicest pictures and
engravings were constantly exposed for sale. There he might be seen
loitering, entranced and spellbound, quite oblivious of the Chronicle,
hour after hour, weaving bright visions--building air castles, with
which his overseer, Mr. Jack Punch, had little sympathy. Yes; Will had
at length found out what he was made for. He knew _now_ why he had lain
under the trees, of a bright summer day, watching the fleecy clouds go
sailing by, in such a dreamy rapture; why the whispering leaves, and
waving fields of grain, and drooping branches of graceful trees, and
the mirror-like beauty of the placid lake, reflecting a mimic heaven;
why the undulating hills, and mist-wreathed valleys, with their wealth
of leaf, and buds and blossom, filled his eyes with tears and his soul
with untold joy, and why, when slumber sealed each weary lid under the
cottage eaves, he stood alone, hushing his very breath, awestruck,
beneath the holy stars.
Poor Will, his occupation became so distasteful! Poor Will, winged
for a “bird of paradise,” and forced to be a mole, burrowing under the
earth, when he would fain try his new-found pinions! To Jack’s intense
disgust, he soon detected Will in drawing rude sketches on bits of
paper, stray wrappers, and backs of letters; even the walls were “done
in crayons,” by the same mischievous fingers. His vision was so filled
“with the curved line of beauty,” that he was constantly committing
the most egregious blunders. He misplaced the bundles of newspapers
which he carried to the post-office; placing the “north” packages
on the “south” table, the east on the north, the south on the east,
&c.; mixing them up generally and indescribably and inextricably, so
that the subscribers to the “Weekly Chronicle” did not receive their
papers with that precision and regularity which is acknowledged to be
desirable, particularly in small country places, where the blacksmith’s
shop, the engine house, and “the newspaper” form a trio not to be
despised by the simple-hearted, primitive farmers.
Jack, whose private opinion it was that he should have been
christened Job, being obliged to shoulder all the short-comings of his
assistants, and being worked up to a pitch of frenzy by letters from
incensed subscribers, which Mr. Howard constantly thrust in his face,
very unceremoniously ejected Will from the premises, one morning, by a
vigorous application of the toe of his boot.
The world was again a closed oyster to Will. How to open it? that was
the question. Our hero thought the best place to consider the matter
was at Lithe & Co.’s shop-window. Just as he reached it, a gentleman
passed out of the shop, followed by a lad bearing a small framed
landscape. Perhaps the gentleman was an artist! Perhaps he could employ
him in some way! Will resolved to follow him.
Up one street and down another, round corners and through
squares--the gentleman’s long legs seemed to be shod with the famed
seven-leagued boots. At length he stopped before the door of an
unpretending looking building, and handing the lad who accompanied him
a bit of money, he took from him the picture, and was just springing
up the steps, when he lost his balance, and the picture was jerked
violently from his hand, but only to be caught by the watchful Will,
who restored it to its owner uninjured.
“Thank you, my boy,” said the gentleman, “you have done me a greater
service than you think for;” at the same time offering him some money.
“No, I thank you,” said Will, proudly. “I do not wish to be paid for
it.”
“As you please, Master Independence,” replied the gentleman,
laughing; “but is there no other way I can serve you?”
“Are you an artist?” asked Will.
The gentleman raised his eyebrows, with a comical air, and replied,
“Well, sometimes I think I am, and then, again, I don’t know; but what
if I were?”
“I should _so_ like to be an artist,” said Will, the quick flush
mounting to his temples.
“You!” exclaimed the gentleman, taking a minute survey of Will’s
nondescript _toute ensemble_, “Do you ever draw?”
“Sometimes,” replied Will, “when I can get a bit of charcoal, and a
white wall. I was just kicked out of the Chronicle office for doing
it.”
“Follow me,” said the gentleman, tapping him familiarly on the cheek.
Will needed no second invitation. Climbing one flight of stairs, he
found himself in a small studio, lined on all sides by pictures; some
finished and framed, others in various stages of progression. Pallets,
brushes, and crayons, lay scattered round an easel; while in one corner
was an artist’s lay figure, which, in the dim light of the apartment,
Will mistook for the artist’s wife, whose presence he respectfully
acknowledged by a profound bow, to the infinite amusement of his patron.
Mr. Lester was delighted with Will’s naive criticisms on his
pictures, and his profound reverence for art. A few days found him
quite domesticated in his new quarters; and months passed by swift as a
weaver’s shuttle, and found him as happy as a crowned prince; whether
grinding colors for the artist, or watching the progress of his pencil,
or picking up stray crumbs of knowledge from the lips of connoisseurs,
who daily frequented the studio; and many a rough sketch did Will make
in his little corner, that would have made them open their critical
eyes wide with wonder.
* * * * *
“What a foolish match!” Was an engagement ever announced that did
not call forth this remark, from some dissenting lip? Perhaps it _was_
a “foolish match.” Meta had no dower but her beauty, and Will had no
capital but his pallet and easel. The gossips said she “might have
done much better.” There was old Mr. Hill, whose head was snow white,
but whose gold was as yellow and as plenty as Meta’s bright ringlets;
and Mr. Vesey, whose father made a clergyman of him, because he didn’t
know enough to be a merchant; and Lawyer Givens, with his carrotty head
and turn-up nose, and chin that might have been beat; and Falstaff-ian
Captain Reef, who brought home such pretty china shawls and grass cloth
dresses, and who had as many wives as a Grand Turk. Meta might have had
any one of these by hoisting her little finger. Foolish Meta! money and
misery in one scale, poverty and love in the other. Miserable little
Meta! And yet she does not look so _very_ miserable, as she leans over
her husband’s shoulder, and sees the landscape brighten on the canvass,
or presses her rosy lips to his forehead, or arranges the fold of a
curtain for the desired light and shade, or grinds his colors with her
own dainty little fingers; no, she looks anything but miserable with
those soft eyes so full of light, and that elastic step, and voice of
music, that are inspiration to her artist husband. No; she thinks the
“old masters” were fools to her young master, and she already sees the
day when his studio will be crowded with connoisseurs and patrons,
and his pictures bring him both fame and fortune; and then, they will
travel in foreign countries, and sleep under Italia’s soft blue skies,
and see the Swiss glaciers, and the rose-wreathed homes of England,
and the grim old chateaux of France, and perhaps beard old Haynau in
his den. Who knows? Yes; and Will should feast his eyes on beauty, and
they’d be as happy, as if care and sorrow had never dimmed a bright eye
with tears, since the seraph stood, with a flaming sword, to guard the
gate of Eden. Hopeful, happy, trusting Meta! the bird’s carol is not
sweeter than yours;--and yet the archer takes his aim, and with broken
wing it flutters to the ground.
Yes: Meta was an angel. Will said it a thousand times a day, and his
eyes repeated it when his tongue was silent. Meta’s brow, and cheek,
and lips, and tresses were multiplied indefinitely, in all his female
heads. Her dimpled hand, her round arm, her plump shoulder, her slender
foot, all served him for faultless models.
Life was so beautiful to him now! his employment so congenial, his
heart so satisfied. It _must be_ that he should succeed. The very
thought of failure--“but then, he _should not_ fail!” Poor Will! he
had yet to learn that garrets are as often the graves as the nurseries
of genius, and that native talent goes unrecognized until stamped
with _foreign_ approbation. Happily--hopefully--heroically he toiled
on; morning’s earliest beam, and day’s last lingering ray finding him
busy at his easel. But, alas! as time passed, though patrons came not,
creditors did; and one year after their marriage, Meta might have been
seen stealthily conveying little parcels back and forth to a small shop
in the neighborhood, where employment was furnished for needy fingers.
It required all her feminine tact and diplomacy to conceal from Will
her little secret, or to hide the tell-tale blush, when he noticed
the disappearance of her wedding ring, which now lay glittering in a
neighboring pawn-broker’s window; yet never for an instant, since the
little wife first slept on Will’s heart, had she one misgiving that she
had placed her happiness unalterably in his keeping.
Oh, inscrutable womanhood! Pitiful as the heart of God, when the
dark cloud of misfortune, or shame, bows the strong frame of manhood;
merciless--vindictive--implacable as the Prince of Darkness, towards
thy tempted, forsaken and sorrowing sisters!
* * * * *
The quick eye of affection was not long in discovering Meta’s secret;
and now every glance of love, every caress, every endearing tone of
Meta’s, gave Will’s heart a sorrow pang.
Meta! who had turned a deaf ear to richer lovers, to share _his_
heart and home; Meta! whose beauty might grace a court, whose life
should be all sunshine: that Meta’s bright eyes should dim, her cheek
pale, her step grow prematurely slow and faltering, for him!--the
thought was torture.
* * * * *
“To-morrow, Will--you said to-morrow,” said Meta, hiding her tears
on her husband’s shoulder; “the land of _gold_ is also the land of
_graves_,” and she gazed mournfully into his face.
“Dear Meta,” said her husband, “do not unman me with your tears; our
parting will be brief, and I shall return to you with gold--gold! Meta;
and you shall yet have a home worthy of you. Bear up, dear Meta--the
sun will surely break through the cloud rift. God bless and keep my
darling wife.”
Poor little Meta! for hours she sat stupefied with sorrow, in the
same spot where Will had left her. The sun shone cheerfully in at
the little window of her new home, but its beams brought no warmth
to Meta’s heart. The clinging clasp of Will’s arms was still about
her neck: Will’s kiss was still warm upon her lips, and yet--_she was
alone_.
She thought, with a shudder, of the treacherous sea; of the
pestilence that walketh in darkness; of a sick-bed, on a foreign shore;
of the added bitterness of the death pang, when the eye looks vainly
for the _one loved face_; and bowing her face in her hands, she wept
convulsively.
* * * * *
“Dear heart! Goodness alive!” said Meta’s landlady, peeping in
at the door. “Don’t take on so; bless me, how long have you been
married? you’re nothing better than a child _now_. Why didn’t you go
to Californy with your husband? Where’s your folks?--whose picter is
that? Ah! I see now, it is meant for you. But why didn’t you have on
a gown, dear, instead of being wrapped up in them clouds? It makes
you look like a sperit. Come now, don’t sit moping here; come down
stairs and see me work; it will amuse you like. I’m going to make some
brown bread. I dare say you never made a bit of brown bread in your
life. I put a power of Ingin in mine. I learned that in the country.
I was brought up in the country. I hate city folks; they’ve no more
heart than a sexton; much as ever they can stop frolicking long enough
to bury one another. They’ll sleep, too, like so many tops, while
the very next street is all of a blaze, and their poor destitute
fellow-creatures are turned naked into the streets. They’ll plow right
through a burying ground, if they take a notion, harrowing up dead
folks, and _live_ ones, too, _I_ guess. And as to Sunday--what with
Jews, and Frenchmen, and down Easters, and other foreigners, smoking
and driving through the streets, ’tisn’t any Sunday at all. Well, I
never knew what Sodom meant till I came to the city. Why Lot’s wife
turned round to take a second look at it, is beyond me. Well, if you
won’t come down stairs I must leave you, for I smell my bread burning;
but do cheer up--you look as lonesome as a pigeon on a spout of a rainy
day.”
A letter from the best beloved! How our eye lingers on the well-known
characters. How we torture the words to extract hidden meanings.
How tenderly we place it near the heart, and under the pillow. How
lingeringly comes the daylight, when our waiting eyes would re-peruse
what is already indelibly written on the heart!
Will’s voyage had been prosperous--his health was good--his hope
and courage unabated. Meta’s eye sparkled, and her cheek flushed like
a rose, as she pressed the letter again and again to her lips; but,
after all, it was _only_ a letter, and time dragged _so_ heavily.
Meta was weary of sewing, weary of reading, weary of watching endless
pedestrians pass and repass beneath her window, and when _twilight_
came, with its deepening shadows--that hour so sweet to the happy, so
fraught with gloom to the wretched--and Meta’s eye fell upon the little
house opposite, and saw the little parlor lamp gleam like a beacon
light for the absent husband, while the happy wife glided about with
busy hands, and lightsome step, and when, at last, _he_ came, and the
broken circle was complete, poor Meta turned away to weep.
Joy, Meta, joy! dry your tears! Will has been successful. Will is
coming home. Even now the Sea-Gull plows the waves, with its precious
living freight. Lucky Will! he _has_ “found gold,” but it was dug
from “the mine” of the artist’s brain. Magical Will! the liquid eyes
and graceful limbs of Senor Alvarez’s only daughter are reproduced on
canvas, in all their glowing beauty, by your magic touch! The Senor
is rich--the Senor is liberal--the Senor’s taste is as unimpeachable
as his credit--the Senor has pronounced Will “a genius.” Other Senors
hear it; other Senors have gold in plenty, and dark-eyed, graceful
daughters, whose charms Will perpetuates, and yet _fails to see_, for
_a sweeter face which comes between_.
Dry your tears, little Meta--smooth the neglected ringlets--don _his_
favorite robe, and listen with a flushed cheek, a beating heart and a
love-lit eye, for the long absent but well remembered footstep.
Ah! Meta, there _are_ meetings that o’erpay the pain of parting. But,
dear Reader, you and I are _de trop_.
* * * * *
You should have seen how like a little brigand Will looked, with his
bronzed face and fierce beard and mustache--so fierce that Meta was
half afraid to jump into his arms; you should have seen Meta’s new
home to know what a pretty little nest love and taste may weave for a
cherished bird; you should have seen with what a Midas touch Will’s
gold suddenly opened the eyes of people to his wonderful merit, as an
artist; how “patrons” flocked in, now that he lived in a handsome house
in Belgrave Square; how Mr. Jack Punch repented with crocodile tears,
that he had ever kicked him out of “the Chronicle office,” and how Will
immortalized him on canvas, in the very act; not forgetting to give
due prominence, in the foreground, to the figure of his philanthropic
employer, Mr. John Howard, who, in the touching language of his
Prospectus, always made it a point to “exalt virtue, however humble!”
TABITHA TOMPKINS’ SOLILOQUY.
Have I, Tabitha Tompkins, a right to my share of fresh air
uncontaminated? or have I not? I ask the question with my arms akimbo.
I might as well say what I’ve got to say, popgun fashion, as to tiptoe
round my subject, mincing and curtesying when I’m all ablaze with
indignation.
I ask again: Have I a right to my share of fresh air uncontaminated?
or have I not?
Do I go out for a walk? Every man I meet is a locomotive chimney.
Smoke--smoke--smoke--smoke:--great, long tails of it following in
their wake, while I dodge, and twist, and choke, trying to escape the
coils of the stifling anaconda, till I’m black in the face. I, Tabitha
Tompkins, whose grandfather was one of the “signers” of the Declaration
of Independence! I feel seventy-six-y! I have borne it about as long as
I can without damage to hooks and eyes.
If I try to escape it, by getting into an omnibus, there it is again!
If it does not originate inside, some “gentleman” on the box or top,
wafts it into the windows. If I take refuge in a ferry boat, I find
“gentlemen requested not to smoke,” (as usual) a dead letter,--no more
regarded than is the law against gaming, or the Sunday liquor traffic.
Do I go to a concert at Castle Garden, and step out on the balcony
between the performances for a breath of fresh air?--myriads of lighted
Havannas send me dizzy and staggering back into the concert room. Does
a gentleman call to see me of an evening?--the instant he shakes his
“ambrosial curls,” and gives “a nod,” I have to run for my vinaigrette.
Do I advertise for lodgings; and after much inspection of rooms, and
wear and tear of patience and gaiter boots, make a final selection?
Do I emigrate with big trunk, and little trunk, and a whole nest of
bandboxes? Do I get my rocking-chair, and work-table, and writing-desk,
and pretty little lamp, all safely transported and longitudinized
to my fancy? Do I, in a paradisaical state of mind, (attendant upon
said successful emigration,) go to my closet, some fine morning, and
take down a pet dress?--asafœtida and onions, what an odor! All the
“pachouli” and “new mown hay” in New York wouldn’t sweeten it. Six
young men the other side of that closet, and all smokers!!! Betty, you
may have that dress;--I wouldn’t touch it with a pair of tongs.
Do I lend a masculine friend my copy of Alexander Smith’s Poems?--can
I ever touch it again till it has been through quarantine? Does he, by
mistake, carry home my tippet in his pocket after a concert?--can I
compute the hours it must hang dangling on the clothes line, before it
can be allowed to resume its place round my neck?
Do I go to church on Sunday, with a devout desire to attend to the
sermon?--my next neighbor is a young man, apparently seated on a nettle
cushion: he groans and fidgets, and fidgets and groans; crosses his
feet and uncrosses them; kicks over the cricket; knocks down his cane;
drops the hymn-book, and finally draws from his coat pocket a little
case; takes out one segar after another, transposes them, applies them
to the end of his nose, and pats them affectionately; then he examines
his watch; then frowns at the pulpit; then, glancing at the door, draws
a sigh long enough and strong enough to inflate a pair of bellows, or
burst off a vest button.
[Illustration: “Mr. Stubbs is earnestly requested to call and settle
the above bill at his earliest convenience.”]
With a dolorous whine, this same young man deplores (in public) his
inability to indulge in the luxury of a wife, “owing to the extravagant
habits of the young ladies of the present day.” I take this occasion
to submit to public inspection a little bit of paper found in the vest
pocket of this fumigated, cork-screwed, pantalooned humbug, by his
washerwoman:
NEW YORK, October 1st, 1853.
MR. THADDEUS THEOPHILUS STUBBS,
TO JUAN FUMIGO, Dr.
To Segars for Sept., 1853
Sept. 1--To 20 Trabucos, at 5c. $1 00
“ To 12 Riohondas, at 6d. 75
“ 3--To 12 Los Tres Castillos, at 6d. 75
“ To 12 La Nicotiana, at 6d. 75
“ 4--(Sunday--for Segars for a party) 10 Palmettoes,
10 Esculapios, 12 La Sultanos, 12 El Crusados,
20 Norriegos, 16 L’Alhambros, at 4c. 3 20
“ 6--To 50 L’Ambrosias, at 4c. 2 00
“ 10--To 30 Cubanos, at 8c. 2 40
“ 12--To 50 Londres, at 4c. 2 00
“ 15--To 30 Jenny Linds, (for concert party,) at 8c. 2 40
“ 24--To 50 Figaros, (for party to see Uncle Tom, at the
National,) at 8c. 4 00
“ 26--To 100 Mencegaros, (for party of country relations
and friends,) at 2c. 2 00
“ 30--To 40 Imperial Regalias, at 1s. 5 00
--------
$26 25
_Received Payment_,
(Mr. Stubbs is earnestly requested to call and settle the above at
his earliest convenience. J. F.)
Consistent Stubbs! But, then, his segar bill is not receipted!
SOLILOQUY OF A HOUSEMAID.
Oh, dear, dear! Wonder if my mistress _ever_ thinks I am made of
flesh and blood? Five times, within half an hour, I have trotted
up stairs, to hand her things, that were only four feet from her
rocking-chair. Then, there’s her son, Mr. George,--it does seem to me,
that a great able-bodied man like him, needn’t call a poor tired woman
up four pair of stairs to ask “what’s the time of day?” Heigho!--its
“_Sally_ do this,” and “_Sally_ do that,” till I wish I never had been
baptized at all; and I might as well go farther back, while I am about
it, and wish I had never been born.
Now, instead of ordering me round so like a dray horse, if they would
only look up smiling-like, now and then; or ask me how my “rheumatiz”
did; or say good morning, Sally; or show some sort of interest in a
fellow-cretur, I could pluck up a bit of heart to work for them. A kind
word would ease the wheels of my treadmill amazingly, and wouldn’t cost
_them_ anything, either.
Look at my clothes, all at sixes and sevens. I can’t get a minute
to sew on a string or button, except at night; and then I’m so sleepy
it is as much as ever I can find the way to bed; and what a bed it
is, to be sure! Why, even the pigs are now and then allowed clean
straw to sleep on; and as to bed-clothes, the less said about them the
better; my old cloak serves for a blanket, and the sheets are as thin
as a charity school soup. Well, well; one wouldn’t think it, to see
all the fine glittering things down in the drawing-room. Master’s span
of horses, and Miss Clara’s diamond ear-rings, and mistresses rich
dresses. I _try_ to think it is all right, but it is no use.
To-morrow is Sunday--“day of _rest_” I believe they _call_ it.
H-u-m-p-h!--more cooking to be done--more company--more confusion than
on any other day in the week. If I own a soul I have not heard how to
take care of it for many a long day. Wonder if my master and mistress
calculate to pay me for _that_, if I lose it? It is a _question_ in my
mind. Land of Goshen! I aint sure I’ve got a mind--there’s the bell
again!
CRITICS.
“Bilious wretches, who abuse you because you write better than
they.”
Slander and detraction! Even I, Fanny, know better than that.
_I_ never knew an editor to nib his pen with a knife as sharp as
his temper, and write a scathing criticism on a book, because the
authoress had declined contributing to his paper. I never knew a
man who had fitted himself to a promiscuous coat, cut out in merry
mood by taper fingers, to seize his porcupine quill, under the agony
of too tight a _self-inflicted_ fit, to annihilate the offender. I
never saw the bottled-up hatred of years, concentrated in a single
venomous paragraph. I never heard of an unsuccessful masculine author,
whose books were drugs in the literary market, speak with a sneer of
successful literary feminity, and insinuate that it was by _accident_,
not _genius_, that they hit the popular favor!
By the memory of “seventy-six,” No! Do you suppose a _man’s_ opinions
are in the market--to be bought and sold to the highest bidder? Do you
suppose he would laud a vapid book, because the fashionable authoress
once laved his toadying temples with the baptism of upper-tendom? or,
do you suppose he’d lash a poor, but self-reliant wretch, who had
presumed to climb to the topmost round of Fame’s ladder, without
_his_ royal permission or assistance, and in despite of his repeated
attempts to discourage her? No--no--bless your simple soul; a man never
stoops to a meanness. There never was a criticism yet, born of envy, or
malice, or repulsed love, or disappointed ambition. No--no. Thank the
gods, _I_ have a more exalted opinion of masculinity.
FORGETFUL HUSBANDS.
“There is a man out west, so forgetful, that his wife has to put
a wafer on the end of her nose, that he may distinguish her from
the other ladies; but this does not prevent him from making
occasional mistakes.”
Take the wafer off your nose, my dear, and put it on your lips! Keep
silence and let Mr. Johnson go on “making his mistakes;”--you cannot
stop him, if you try; and if he has made up his mind to be near-sighted,
all the guide-boards that you can set up, will only drive him home the
longest way round!
So trot your babies, smooth your ringlets, digest your dinner,
and--agree to differ! Don’t call Mr. Johnson “my dear,” or he will have
good reason to think you are going to quarrel with him! Look as pretty
as a poppet; put on the dress he used to like--and help him to his
favorite bit at table, with your accustomed grace; taking care not (?)
to touch him, _accidentally_, with your little fat hand, when you are
passing it. Ten to one he is on the marrow bones of his soul to you, in
less than a week, though tortures couldn’t wring a confession out of
him. Then, if he’s worth the trouble, you are to take advantage of his
silent penitence, and go every step of the way to meet him, for he will
not approximate to _you_, the width of a straw! If he has not frittered
away all your love for him, this is easily done, my dear, and for one
whole day after it, he will feel grateful to you for sparing him the
humiliation (?) of making an acknowledgment. How many times, my dear
“Barkis,” you will be “willing” to go through all this, depends upon
several little circumstances in your history with which I am
unacquainted.
SUMMER FRIENDS.
“If every pain and care we feel
Could burn upon our brow,
How many hearts would move to heal,
That strive to crush us now.”
Don’t you believe it? They would run from you, as if you had the
plague. “Write your brow” with anything else but your “troubles,” if
you do not wish to be left solus. You have no idea how “good people”
will pity you when you tell your doleful ditty! They will “pray for
you,” give you advice by the bushel, “feel for you”--everywhere
but in their pocket-books; and wind up by telling you to “trust in
Providence;” to all of which you feel very much like replying as the
old lady did when she found herself spinning down hill in a wagon, “I
trusted in Providence till the tackling broke!”
Now, listen to me;--just go to work and hew out a path for yourself;
get your head above water, and then snap your fingers in their
pharisaical faces! Never ask a favor until you are drawing your last
breath; and never forget one. “Write your troubles on your brow?” That
man was either a knave, or, what is worse, a fool. I suppose he calls
himself a poet; if he does, all I have to say is, it’s high time the
city authorities took away his “license.”
HOW THE WIRES ARE PULLED:
OR,
WHAT PRINTER’S INK WILL DO.
“Isn’t it extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs, how Mr. Simpkins can always
be dressed in the last tip-top fashion? Don’t you and I, and all the
world know, that old Allen has a mortgage on his house, and that he
never has a dollar by him longer than five minutes at a time. Isn’t it
extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs?”
“Not at all--not at all--my dear,” said Mr. Stubbs, knocking the
ashes from his Havana; “to an editor all things are possible;” and he
unfolded the damp sheets of the Family Gazette, of which Mr. Simpkins
was editor, and commenced reading aloud the following paragraph:
“We yesterday had the gratification of visiting the celebrated
establishment of the far-famed Inman & Co., Hatters, No. 172 Wideway.
We pronounce their new style of spring hat, for lightness, beauty,
and durability, to be unrivaled; it is aptly designated the ‘Count
D’Orsay hat.’ The gentlemanly and enterprising proprietors of the
establishment, are unwearied in their endeavors to please the public.
There is a _je ne sais quoi_ about _their_ hats, which can be found
nowhere else in the city.”
“Well, I don’t see,” said Mrs. Stubbs, “I--”
“Sh--! sh--! Mrs. Stubbs; don’t interrupt the court--here’s another.”
“Every one should visit the extensive ware-rooms of Willcut & Co.,
Tailors, 59 Prince Albert street. There is science wagging in the very
tails of Mr. Willcut’s coats; in fact, he may be said to be the only
tailor in the city, who is a thorough _artist_. His pantaloons are
the _knee_-plus-ultra of shear-dom. Mr. Willcut has evidently made
the anatomy of masculinity a study--hence the admirable result. The
most casual observer, on noticing Mr. Willcut’s fine phrenological
developments, would at once negative the possibility of his making a
_faux pas_ on broadcloth.”
“Keep quiet, Mrs. Stubbs; listen:”
“The St. Lucifer Hotel is a palatial wonder; whether we consider
the number of acres it covers, the splendor of its marble exterior,
the sumptuousness of its drawing rooms, or the more than Oriental
luxuriousness of its sleeping apartments, the tapestry, mirrors and
gilding of which remind one forcibly of the far-famed Tuileries. The
host of the St. Lucifer is an Apollo in person, a Chesterfield in
manners, and a Lucullus in _taste_; while those white-armed Houris, the
female waiters, lap the soul in Elysium.”
Mr. Stubbs lifted his spectacles to his forehead, crossed his legs,
and nodded knowingly to Mrs. Stubbs.
“That’s the way it’s done, Mrs. Stubbs. That last notice paid his
six months’ hotel bill at the St. Lucifer, including wine, cigars,
and other little editorial perquisites. Do you want to know,” said
Stubbs, (resuming the paper,) “how he gets his carriages repaired and
his horses shod for nothing in the village where his country seat is
located? This, now, is a regular stroke of genius. He does it by two
words. In an account of his visit to the Sybil’s Cave, in which he
says, ‘MY FRIEND, the blacksmith, and I soon found the spot,’ &c.,
(bah!) Then here is something that will interest you, my dear, on the
other page of the Gazette. Mr. Simpkins has used up the dictionary in a
half-column announcement of Miss Taffety (the milliner’s) ‘magnificent
opening at ---- street.’ (Of course she made his wife a present of a
new Paris bonnet.”)
“Well, I never--” said the simple Mrs. Stubbs. “Goodness knows, if
I had known all this before, I would have married an editor myself.
Stubbs, why don’t _you_ set up a newspaper?”
“M-r-s. S-t-u-b-b-s!” said her husband, in an oracular tone, “to
conduct a newspaper requires a degree of tact, enterprise and ability
to which Jotham Stubbs unfortunately is a stranger. The Family
Gazette or its founder is by no means a fair sample of our honorable
newspapers, and their upright, intelligent, and respected editors.
Great Cæsar!--no!” said Stubbs, rising from his chair, and bringing his
hand down emphatically on his corduroys, “no more than you are a fair
sample of feminine beauty, Mrs. Stubbs!”
WHO WOULD BE THE LAST MAN?
“Fanny Fern says, ‘If there were but one woman in the world, the
men would have a terrible time.’ Fanny is right; but we would ask
her what kind of a time the _women_ would have if there were but
_one man_ in existence?”
What kind of a time would they have? Why, of course no grass would
grow under their slippers! The “Wars of the Roses,” the battles of
Waterloo and Bunker Hill would be a farce to it. Black eyes would be
the rage, and both caps and characters would be torn to tatters. I
imagine it would not be much of a millennium, either, to the moving
cause of the disturbance. He would be as crazy as a fly in a drum, or
as dizzy as a bee in a ten-acre lot of honeysuckles, uncertain where to
alight. He’d roll his bewildered eyes from one exquisite organization
to another, and frantically and diplomatically exclaim--“How happy
could I be with either, were t’other dear charmer away!”
“What kind of a time would the women have, were there only one man in
the world?”
What kind of a time would they have? What is that to _me_? They might
“take their own time,” every “Miss Lucy” of them, for all _I_ should
care; and so might the said man himself; for with me, the limited
supply would not increase the value of the article.
“ONLY A COUSIN.”
How the rain patters against the windows of your office! How sombre,
and gloomy, and cheerless, it looks there! Your little office-boy looks
more like an imp of darkness than anything else, as he sits crouched in
the corner, with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.
You button your overcoat tight to your chin, (cut possible clients,)
and run over to see your cousin Kitty. Ah! that is worth while! A
bright, blazing fire; sofa wheeled up to it, and Kitty sitting there,
looking so charming in her pretty _neglige_. She looks up sweetly and
tranquilly, and says: “Now that’s a good Harry; sit down by me, and be
agreeable.”
Well, you “sit down,” (just as close as you like, too!) tell her all
the down-town male gossip; consult her confidentially about trimming
your whiskers; and desire her candid, unbiased opinion about the
propriety and feasibility, with the help of some Macassar, of _coaxing
out_ a moustache! Then you make a foray into her work-basket, tangling
spools most unmercifully, and reading over all the choice bits of
poetry that women are so fond of clipping from the newspapers. Then
you both go into the china closet, and she gets you a tempting little
luncheon; and you grow suddenly merry, and have a contest which shall
make the worst pun; you earn for yourself a boxed ear, and are obliged,
in self-defence, to imprison the offending hand; your aunt comes in;
let her come! are not you and Kitty cousins?
There’s a ring at the door, and Mr. Frank ---- is announced. You say,
“Unmitigated puppy!” and begin a vehement discussion with your aunt,
about anything that comes handy; but that don’t prevent you from seeing
and hearing all that goes on at the other side of the room. Your aunt
is very oblivious, and wouldn’t mind it if you occasionally lost the
thread of your discourse. Kitty is the least bit of a coquette! and her
conversation is very provocative, racy and sparkling; you privately
determine to read her a lecture upon it, as soon as practicable.
It seems as though Mr. Frank ---- never would go. Upon his exit,
Kitty informs you that she is going to Madame ----’s concert with him.
You look serious, and tell her you “should be very sorry to see a
cousin of yours enter a concert room with such a brainless fop.” Kitty
tosses her curls, pats you on the arm, and says, “_Jealous_, hey?” You
turn on your heel, and, lighting a cigar, bid her “good-morning,” and
for a little eternity of a week you never go near her. Meantime, your
gentlemen friends tell you how “divine” your little cousin looked at
the concert.
You are in a very bad humor; cigars are no sedative--newspapers
either. You crowd your beaver down over your eyes and start for your
office. On the way you meet Kitty! Hebe! how bright and fresh she
looks! and what an unmitigated brute you’ve been to treat her so! Take
care! she knows what you are thinking about! Women are omniscient in
such matters! So she peeps archly from beneath those long eyelashes,
and says, extending the tip of her little gloved hand--“Want to make
up, Harry?”
There’s no resisting! That smile leads you, like a will-o’-the-wisp,
anywhere! So you wait upon her home; nobody comes in, not even your
respected aunt; and you never call her “cousin,” after that day; but no
man living ever won such a darling little wife, as Kitty has promised
to be to you, some bright morning.
THE CALM OF DEATH.
“The moon looks calmly down when man is dying,
The earth still holds her sway;
Flowers breathe their perfume, and the wind keeps sighing;
Naught seems to pause or stay.”
Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast--they’ve no more work to
do; close the weary eyes--they’ve no more tears to shed; part the damp
locks--there’s no more pain to bear. Closed is the ear alike to Love’s
kind voice, and Calumny’s stinging whisper.
Oh! if in that stilled heart you have ruthlessly planted a thorn;
if from that pleading eye you have carelessly turned away; if your
loving glance, and kindly word, and clasping hand, have come--_all too
late_--then God forgive you! No frown gathers on the marble brow as you
gaze--no scorn curls the chiselled lip--no flush of wounded feeling
mounts to the blue-veined temples.
God forgive you! for _your_ feet, too, must shrink appalled
from death’s cold river--your faltering tongue ask, “Can this be
death?”--your fading eye linger lovingly on the sunny earth--your
clammy hand yield its last faint pressure--your sinking pulse give its
last feeble flutter.
Oh, rapacious grave; yet another victim for thy voiceless keeping!
What! no word or greeting from all thy household sleepers? No warm
welcome from a sister’s loving lips? No throb of pleasure from the dear
maternal bosom?
_Silent all!_
Oh, if these broken links were _never_ gathered up! If beyond Death’s
swelling flood there were _no_ eternal shore! If for the struggling
bark there were no port of peace! If athwart that lowering cloud sprang
no bright bow of promise!
Alas for Love, if _this_ be all,
And _naught beyond_--oh earth!
MRS. ADOLPHUS SMITH SPORTING THE “BLUE STOCKING.”
[Illustration: “Don’t be disagreeable, Smith, I’m just getting
inspired!”]
Well, I think I’ll finish that story for the editor of the
“Dutchman.” Let me see; where did I leave off? The setting sun was just
gilding with his last ray--“Ma, I want some bread and molassess”--(yes,
dear,) gilding with his last ray the church spire--“Wife, where’s
my Sunday pants?” (_Under the bed, dear_,) the church spire of
Inverness, when a--“There’s nothing under the bed, dear, but your
lace cap”--(Perhaps they are in the coal hod in the closet,) when
a horseman was seen approaching--“Ma’am, the _pertators_ is out;
not one for dinner”--(Take some turnips,) approaching, covered with
dust, and--“Wife! the baby has swallowed a button”--(_Reverse him_,
dear--take him by the heels,) and waving in his hand a banner, on which
was written--“Ma! I’ve torn my pantaloons”--liberty or death! The
inhabitants rushed _en masse_--“Wife! WILL you leave off scribbling?”
(Don’t be disagreeable, Smith, I’m just getting inspired,) to the
public square, where De Begnis, who had been secretly--“Butcher wants
to see you, ma’am”--secretly informed of the traitors’--“Forgot _which_
you said, ma’am, sausages or mutton chop”--movements, gave orders to
fire; not less than twenty----“My gracious! Smith, you haven’t been
_reversing_ that child all this time; he’s as black as your coat; and
that boy of YOURS has torn up the first sheet of my manuscript. There!
it’s no use for a married woman to cultivate her intellect.----Smith,
hand me those twins.”
CECILE VRAY.
“Died, in ----, Cecile, wife of Mortimer Vray, artist. This lady
died in great destitution, among strangers, and was frequently
heard to say, ‘I wish I were dead!’”
A brief paragraph, to chronicle a broken heart! Poor Cecile! We
little thought of this, when conning our French tasks, your long raven
ringlets twining lovingly with mine; or, when released from school
drudgery, we sauntered through the fragrant woods, weaving rosy dreams
of a bright future, which neither you nor I were to see.
I feel again your warm breath upon my cheek--the clasp of your
clinging arms about my neck; and the whispered “Don’t forget me,
Fanny,” from that most musical of voices.
Time rolled on, and oceans rolled between: then came a rumor of an
“artist lover”--then a “bridal”--now the sad sequel!
Poor Cecile! Those dark eyes restlessly and vainly looking for some
familiar face on which to rest, ere they closed forever; that listening
ear, tortured by strange footsteps--that fluttering sigh, breathed out
on a strange bosom. Poor Cecile!
And _he_ (shame to tell) who won that loving heart but to trample it
under foot, basks under Italy’s sunny skies, bound in flowery fetters,
of a foreign syren’s weaving.
God rest thee, Cecile! Death never chilled a warmer heart; earth
never pillowed a lovelier head; Heaven ne’er welcomed a sweeter spirit.
* * * * *
On foreign shores, from broken dreams, a guilty man shall start, as
thy last sad, plaintive wail rings in his tortured ear, “_Would I were
dead?_”
SAM SMITH’S SOLILOQUY.
By the beard of the Prophet! what a thing it is to be a bachelor! I
wonder when this table was dusted last! I wonder how long since that
mattress was turned, or that carpet swept, or what was the primeval
color of that ewer and wash-basin.
Christopher Columbus! how the frost curtains the windows: how
dirge-like the wind moans: how like a great, white pall the snow covers
the ground. Five times I’ve rung that bell for coal, for this rickety
old grate, but I might as well thump for admittance at the gate of
Paradise.
And speaking of Paradise--Sam Smith, you must be married: you haven’t
a button to your shirt, nor a shirt to your buttons either.
Wonder if women are such obstinate little monkeys to manage? Wonder
if they must be bribed with a new bonnet every day, to keep the peace?
Wonder if you bring home a friend unexpectedly to dinner, if they
always take to their bed with the sick headache? Wish there was any
way of finding out, but by experience. Well, Sam, you are a Napoleonic
looking fellow: if _you_ can’t manage a woman, who can?
How I shall pet the little clipper. I’ll marry a blue-eyed woman:
they are the most affectionate. She must not be too tall: a man’s wife
shouldn’t _look down_ upon him. She must not know too much: the Furies
take your pert, catamount-y, scribbling women, with a repartee always
rolled up under their tongues. She mustn’t be over seventeen: but how
to find that out, Sam, is the question: it is about as easy as to make
an editor tell you the truth about his subscription list. She must be
handsome--no she mustn’t either. I should be as jealous as Blue Beard.
All the corkscrew, pantalooned, perfumed popinjays would be ogling
her. But then, again, there’s three hundred and sixty-five days in a
year, and three times a day I must sit opposite that connubial face, at
the table. What’s to be done? Yes; she _must_ be handsome: that is as
certain as that Louis Napoleon has a Jewish horror of _Ham_.
Wonder if wives are expensive articles? Wonder if their “little
hands were ever made to scratch out husbands’ eyes?” Wonder if Caudle
lectures are “all in your eye,” or--occasionally in your ear? Wonder if
babies invariably prefer the night-time to cry?
To marry or not to marry, Sam? Whether ’tis better to go buttonless,
and to shiver, or marry and be always in hot water?
There’s Tom Hillot. Tom’s married. I was his groomsman. I would have
given a small fortune to have been in his white satin vest--what with
the music, and the roses, and the pretty little bridesmaid! Didn’t the
bride look bewitching, with the rose-flush on her cheek and the tear
on her eyelash? And how provokingly happy Tom looked, when he whirled
off with her in the carriage to their new home; and what a pretty
little home it was, to be sure. It is just a year to-day since they
were married. I dined there yesterday. It strikes me that Tom don’t
joke as much as he used in his bachelor days; and then he has a way,
too, of leaving his sentences unfinished. And I noticed that his wife
often touched his foot with her slipper under the table. What do you
suppose she did that for? Just as I was buttoning up my coat to come
away, I asked Tom if he would go to up Tammany Hall with me. He looked
at his wife, and she said, “Oh--_go_ by all means, Mr. Hillot;” when
Tom immediately declined. I don’t understand matrimonial tactics; but
it seems to me he ought to have obliged her.
Do you know John Jones and his wife? (peculiar name that,--“Jones!”)
Well, they are _another_ happy couple. It is enough to make bachelor
eyes turn green to see them. Mrs. Jones had been four times a widow,
when she married John. She knows the value of husbands. She takes
precious good care of John. Before he goes to the office in the
morning, she pops her head out the window to see if the weathercock
indicates a surtout, spencer, cloak, or Tom and Jerry; this point
settled, she follows him to the door, and calls him back to close
his thorax button “for fear of quinsy.” Does a shower come up in the
forenoon? She sends him clogs, India-rubbers, an extra flannel shirt,
and an oilcloth overall, and prepares two quarts of boiling ginger tea
to administer on his arrival, to prevent the damp from “striking in.”
If he helps himself to a second bit of turkey, she immediately removes
it from his plate, and applying a pocket handkerchief to her eyes,
asks him “if he has the heart to make her for the fifth time a widow?”
You can see, with half an eye, that John must be the happiest dog
alive. I’d like to see the miscreant who dares to say he is not!
Certainly--matrimony is an invention of----. Well, no matter who
invented it. I’m going to try it. Where’s my blue coat with the bright,
brass buttons? The woman has yet to be born who can resist that; and my
buff vest and neck-tie, too: may I be shot if I don’t offer them both
to the little Widow Pardiggle this very night. “Pardiggle!” Phœbus!
what a name for such a rose-bud. I’ll re-christen her by the euphonious
name of Smith. She’ll _have_ me, of course. She wants a husband--I want
a wife: there’s one point already in which we perfectly agree. I hate
preliminaries. I suppose it is unnecessary for me to begin with the
amatory alphabet. With a widow, I suppose you can skip the rudiments.
Say what you’ve got to say in a fraction of a second. Women grow as
mischievous as Satan if they think you are afraid of them. Do _I_ look
as if _I_ were afraid? Just examine the growth of my whiskers. The
Bearded Lady couldn’t hold a candle to them, (though I wonder she don’t
to her own.) _Afraid?_ h-m-m! I feel as if I could conquer Asia. What
the mischief ails this cravat? It must be the cold that makes my hand
tremble so: there--that’ll do: that’s quite an inspiration. Brummel
himself couldn’t go beyond that. Now for the widow; bless her little
round face! I’m immensely obliged to old Pardiggle for giving her a
quit claim. I’ll make her as happy as a little robin. Do you think
I’d bring a tear into her lovely blue eye? Do you think I’d sit after
tea, with my back to her, and my feet upon the mantel, staring up
chimney for three hours together? Do you think I’d leave her blessed
little side, to dangle round oyster-saloons and theatres? Do I _look_
like a man to let a woman flatten her pretty little nose against the
window-pane night after night, trying to see me reel up street? _No._
Mr. and Mrs. Adam were not more beautified in their nuptial-bower, than
I shall be with the Widow Pardiggle.
* * * * *
_Re_fused by a widow! Who ever heard of such a thing? Well; there’s
one comfort: nobody’ll ever believe it. She is not so very pretty after
all: her eyes are too small, and her hands are rough and red-dy:--not
so very _ready_ either, confound the gipsy. What amazing pretty
shoulders she has! Well, who cares?
“If she be not fair for me,
What care I how fair she be?”
Ten to one, she’d have set up that wretch of a Pardiggle
for my model. Who wants to be Pardiggle 2nd? I am glad she didn’t have
me. I mean--I’m glad I didn’t have _her_!
LOVE AND DUTY.
The moon looked down upon no fairer sight than Effie May, as she
lay sleeping on her little couch, that fair summer night. So thought
her mother, as she glided gently in, to give her a silent, good-night
blessing. The bright flush of youth, and hope was on her cheek. Her
long dark hair lay in masses about her neck and shoulders; a smile
played upon the red lips, and the mother bent low to catch the
indistinct murmur. She starts, at the whispered name, as if a serpent
had stung her; and as the little snowy hand is tossed restlessly upon
the coverlid, she sees, glittering in the moonbeams, on that childish
finger, the golden signet of betrothal. Sleep sought in vain to woo
the eyes of the mother that night. Reproachfully she asked herself,
“How could I have been so blind? (but then Effie has seemed to me only
a child!) But he! oh, no; the _wine-cup_ will be my child’s rival;
it must not be.” Effie was wilful, and Mrs. May knew she must be
cautiously dealt with; but she knew, also, that no mother need despair,
who possesses the affection of her child.
Effie’s violet eyes opened to greet the first ray of the morning
sun, as he peeped into her room. She stood at the little mirror,
gathering up, with those small hands, the rich tresses so impatient of
confinement. How could she fail to know that she was fair?--she read
it in every face she met; but there was _one_ (and she was hastening
to meet him) whose eye had noted, with a lover’s pride, every shining
ringlet, and azure vein, and flitting blush; his words were soft and
low, and skillfully chosen, and sweeter than music to her ear; and so
she tied, with a careless grace, the little straw hat under her dimpled
chin; and fresh, and sweet, and guileless, as the daisy that bent
beneath her foot, she tripped lightly on to the old trysting place by
the willows.
Stay! a hand is laid lightly upon her arm, and the pleading voice of
a mother arrests that springing step.
“Effie dear, sit down with me on this old garden seat; give up your
walk for this morning; I slept but indifferently last night, and
morning finds me languid and depressed.”
A shadow passed over Effie’s face; the little cherry lips pouted,
and a rebellious feeling was busy at her heart; but one look in her
mother’s pale face decided her, and, untying the strings of her hat,
she leaned her head caressingly upon her mother’s shoulder.
“You are ill, dear mother; you are _troubled_;” and she looked
inquiringly up into her face.
“Listen to me, Effie, I have a story to tell you of myself: When I
was about your age, I formed an acquaintance with a young man, by the
name of Adolph. He had been but a short time in the village, but long
enough to win the hearts of half the young girls, from their rustic
admirers. Handsome, frank and social, he found himself everywhere a
favorite. He would sit by me for hours, reading our favorite authors;
and side by side, we rambled through all the lovely paths with which
our village abounded. My parents knew nothing to his disadvantage,
and were equally charmed as myself with his cultivated refinement of
manner, and the indefinable interest with which he invested every
topic, grave or gay, which it suited his mood to discuss. Before I knew
it, my heart was no longer in my own keeping. One afternoon, he called
to accompany me upon a little excursion, we had planned together. As he
came up the gravel walk, I noticed that his fine hair was in disorder:
a pang, keen as death, shot through my heart, when he approached
me, with reeling, unsteady step, and stammering tongue. I could not
speak. The chill of death gathered round my heart. I fainted. When I
recovered, he was gone, and my mother’s face was bending over me, moist
with tears. Her woman’s heart knew all that was passing in mine. She
pressed her lips to my forehead, and only said, ‘God strengthen you to
choose the right, my child.’
“I could not look upon her sorrowful eyes, or the pleading face of
my gray-haired father, and trust myself again to the witchery of that
voice and smile. A letter came to me; I dared not read it. (Alas! my
heart pleaded too eloquently, even then, for his return.) I returned
it unopened; my father and mother devoted themselves to lighten the
load that lay upon my heart; but the perfume of a flower, a remembered
strain of music, a struggling moonbeam, would bring back old memories,
with a crushing bitterness that swept all before it for the moment.
But my father’s aged hand lingered on my head with a blessing, and my
mother’s voice had the sweetness of an angel’s, as it fell upon my ear!
“Time passed on, and I had conquered myself. Your father saw me, and
proposed for my hand; my parents left me free to choose, and Effie
dear, _are we not happy_?”
“Oh, mother,” said Effie, (then looking sorrowfully in her face,)
“did you _never_ see Adolph again?”
“Do you remember, my child, the summer evening we sat upon the
piazza, when a dusty, travel-stained man came up the steps, and begged
for ‘a supper?’ Do you recollect his bloated, disfigured face? Effie,
_that was Adolph_!”
“Not that _wreck_ of a _man_, mother?” said Effie, (covering her eyes
with her hands, as if to shut him out from her sight.)
“Yes; that was all that remained of that glorious intellect, and that
form made after God’s own image. I looked around upon my happy home,
then upon your noble father--then--upon _him_, and,” (taking Effie’s
little hand and pointing to the _ring_ that encircled it,) “in _your_
ear, my daughter, I now breathe my mother’s prayer for me--‘_God help
you to choose the right!_’”
The bright head of Effie sank upon her mother’s breast, and with a
gush of tears she drew the golden circlet from her finger, and placed
it in her mother’s hand.
“God bless you, my child,” said the happy mother, as she led her back
to their quiet home.
A FALSE PROVERB.
I wonder who but the “father of lies,” originated this proverb, “Help
yourself and then everybody else will help you.” Is it not as true as
the book of Job that it’s just driving the nails into your own coffin,
to let anybody know you want help! Is not a “seedy” hat, a threadbare
coat, or patched dress, an effectual shower-bath on old friendships?
Have not people a mortal horror of a sad face and a pitiful story?
Don’t they on hearing it, instinctively poke their purses into the
farthest, most remote corner of their pockets? Don’t they rap their
warm garments round their well-fed persons, and advise you, in a
saintly tone, “to trust in Providence?” Are they not always “engaged”
ever after, when you call to see them? Are they not near-sighted when
you meet them in the street?--and don’t they turn short corners to get
out of your way? “Help yourself,”--of course you will, (if you have
any spirit;)--but when sickness comes, or dark days, and your wits and
nerves are both exhausted, don’t place any dependence on this lying
proverb!--or you will find yourself decidedly humbugged. And then,
when your heart is so soft that anybody could knock you down with a
feather, get into the darkest hole you can find, and cry it out! Then
crawl out, bathe your eyes till they shine again, and if you have
one nice garment left, out with it, put it on! turn your shawl on the
brightest side; put your best and prettiest foot foremost; tie on your
go-to-meetin’ bonnet, and smile under it, if it half kills you; and see
how complaisant the world will be when--you ask nothing of it!
But if (as there are exceptions to all rules,) you should chance
to stumble upon a true friend (when you can only render thanks as an
equivalent for kindness) “make a note on’t,” as “Captain Cuttle” says,
for it don’t happen but once in a life-time!
A MODEL HUSBAND.
“Mrs. Perry, a young Bloomer, has eloped from Monson,
Massachusetts, with Levins Clough. When her husband found she was
determined to go, he gave her one hundred dollars to start with.”
Magnanimous Perry! Had I been your spouse, I should have handed that
“one hundred dollar bill” to Mr. Levins Clough, as a healing plaster
for his disappointed affections--encircled your neck with my repentant
arms, and returned to your home. Then, I’d mend every rip in your coat,
gloves, vest, pants, and stockings, from that remorseful hour, till the
millennial day. I’d hand you your cigar-case and slippers, put away
your cane, hang up your coat and hat, trim your beard and whiskers, and
wink at your sherry cobblers, whisky punches, and mint juleps. I’d help
you get a “ten strike” at ninepins. I’d give you a “night key,” and be
perfectly oblivious what time in the small hours you tumbled into the
front entry. I’d pet all your stupid relatives, and help your country
friends to “beat down” the city shopkeepers. I’d frown at all offers of
“pin money.” I’d let you “smoke” in my face till I was as brown as a
herring, and my eyes looked as if they were bound with pink tape; and
I’d invite that pretty widow Delilah Wilkins to dinner, and run out to
do some shopping, and stay away till tea-time. Why! there’s nothing I
_wouldn’t_ do for you--you might have knocked me down with a feather,
after such a piece of magnanimity. That “Levins Clough” could stand no
more chance than a woodpecker tapping at an iceberg.
HOW IS IT?
“Well, Susan, what do you think of married ladies being happy?”
“Why I think there are more AIN’T than IS, than IS that AIN’T.”
Susan, I shall apply to the Legislature to have your name changed to
“Sapphira.” You are an unprincipled female.
Just imagine yourself MRS. Snip. It is a little prefix not to be
sneezed at. It is only the privileged few, who can secure a pair of
corduroys to mend, and trot by the side of; or a pair of coat-flaps
alternately to darn, and hang on to, amid the vicissitudes of this
patchwork existence.
Think of the high price of fuel, Susan, and the quantity it takes to
warm a low-spirited, single woman; and then think of having all that
found for you by your husband, and no extra charge for “_gas_.” Think
how pleasant to go to the closet and find a great boot-jack on your
best bonnet; or “to work your passage” to the looking-glass, every
morning, through a sea of dickeys, vests, coats, continuations, and
neck-ties; think of your nicely-polished toilette table spotted all
over with shaving suds; think of your “Guide to Young Women,” used for
a razor strap. Think of Mr. Snip’s lips being hermetically sealed, day
after day, except to ask you “if the coal was out, or if his coat
was mended.” Think of coming up from the kitchen, in a gasping state
of exhaustion, after making a batch of his favorite pies, and finding
five or six great dropsical bags disemboweled on your chamber floor,
from the contents of which Mr. Snip had selected the “pieces” of your
best silk gown, for “rags” to clean his gun with. Think of his taking
a watch-guard you made him out of YOUR HAIR, for a dog-collar! Think
of your promenading the floor, night after night, with your fretful,
ailing baby hushed up to your warm cheek, lest it should disturb your
husband’s slumbers; and think of his coming home the next day, and
telling you, when you were exhausted with your vigils, “that he had
just met his old love, Lilly Grey, looking as fresh as a daisy, and
that it was unaccountable how much older you looked than she, although
you were both the same age.”
Think of all that, Susan.
A MORNING RAMBLE.
What a lovely morning! It is a luxury to breathe. How blue the sky;
how soft the air; how fragrant the fresh spring grass and budding
trees; and with what a gush of melody that little bird eases his
joy-burdened heart.
“This world is very lovely. Oh my God,
I thank Thee, that I live.”
Clouds there are; but, oh, how much of sunshine! Sorrow there is;
but, in every cup is mingled a drop of balm. Over our threshold the
destroying angel passeth; yet, ere the rush of his dark wing sweepeth
past, cometh the Healer.
--Here is a poor, blind man basking in the sunshine, silently
appealing, with outstretched palm, to the passer-by. Through his thin,
gray locks the wind plays lovingly. A smile beams on his withered face;
for, though his eyes are rayless, he can _feel_ that chill Winter has
gone; and he knows that the flowers are blossoming,--for the sweet
West wind cometh, God-commissioned, to waft him their fragrance. Some
pedestrians gaze curiously at him: others, like the Levite, “pass by on
the other side.” A woman approaches. She is plainly clad, and bears a
basket on her arm. She has a good, kind, motherly face, as if she were
hastening back to some humble home, made brighter and happier by her
presence. Life is sweet to her. She catches sight of the poor old man;
her eye falls upon the label affixed to his breast: “I am blind!” Oh,
what if the brightness and beauty of this glad sunshine were all night,
to her vailed lids? What if the dear home faces were forever shrouded
from her yearning sight? What if _she_ might never walk the sunny
earth, without a guiding hand? She places her basket upon the sidewalk,
and wipes away a tear: now she explores her time-worn pocket; finds the
hardly-earned coin, and placing it in the palm of the old man, _presses
his hand lovingly_, and is gone!
Poor Bartimeus! He may never see the honest face that bent so
tenderly over him; but, to his heart’s core, he felt that kindly
pressure, and the sunshine is all the brighter, and the breeze sweeter
and fresher for that friendly grasp, and life is again bright to the
poor blind man.
“Oh God! I thank Thee, that I live!”
* * * * *
How swiftly the ferry boat plows through the wave! How gleefully that
little child claps its tiny hands, as the snowy foam parts on either
side, then dashes away like a thing of life. Here are weary business
men, going back to their quiet homes; and pleasure-loving belles,
returning from the city. Pacing up and down the deck, is a worn and
weary woman, bearing in her arms a child, so emaciated, so attenuated,
that but for the restless glance of its dark, sunken eyes, one would
think it a little corpse. The mother has left her unhealthy garret in
the noisome lane of the teeming city, and paid her last penny to the
ferryman, that the health-laden sea breeze may fan the sick child’s
temples. Tenderly she moves it from one shoulder to another. Now, she
lays its little cheek to hers; now, she kisses the little slender
fingers; but still the baby moans. The boat touches the pier. All are
leaving, but the mother and child; the ferryman tells her to “go too.”
She says timidly, “I want to return again--I live the other side--I
came on board for the baby,” (pointing to the dying child.) Poor woman,
she did not know that she could not go back without another fee, and
she has not a penny. Loathsome as is her distant home, she must go back
to it; but how?
One passenger beside herself still lingers listening. Dainty fingers
drop a coin into the gruff ferryman’s hand,--then a handful into the
weary, troubled mother’s. The sickly babe looks up and smiles at
the chinking coin--the mother smiles, because the baby has smiled
again--and then weeps because she knows not how to thank the lovely
donor.
“Homeward bound.”
Over the blue waters, the golden sunset gleams; tinting the snowy,
billowy foam with a thousand iris hues; while at the boat’s prow,
stands the happy mother, wooing the cool sunset breeze, which kisses
soothingly the sick infant’s temples.
“This earth is very lovely. Oh my God,
I thank thee that I live!”