“Each to his taste,” somebody says: so say I: so says Gotham. Look at

that splendid house, with its massive door-way, its mammoth plate-glass

windows, its tasteful conservatory, where the snowy Orange blossom,

and clustering Rose, and crimson Cactus, and regal Passion-flower,

and fragrant Heliotrope breath out their little day of sweetness. See

that Gothic stable, with its faultless span of horses, and liveried

coachman, and anti-republican carriage, whose coat of arms makes our

National Eagle droop his fearless pinions. Then cast your eye on that

tumble-down, wooden grocery adjoining, sending up its reeking fumes

of rum, onions, and salt fish, into patrician nostrils! Go where you

will in New York, you see the same strong contrasts. Feast your eyes on

beauty, and a skeleton startles you at its side. Lazarus sitteth ever

at the Gate of Dives.

Here is a primary school: what a host of little ragged urchins are

crowding in! Suppose I step in quietly among them. Now, they take their

places in seats terraced off one above another, so that each little

face is distinctly visible. What a pretty sight! and how Nature loves

to compensate! sending beauty to the hovel, deformity to the hall.

There’s a boy, now, in that ragged jacket, who is a study for an

artist. See his broad, ample forehead; mark how his dark eyes glow: and

that little girl at his side, whose chestnut curls droop so gracefully

over her soft-fringed eyes and dimpled shoulders. And that dream-child

in yonder corner, with blue-veined, transparent temples, whose

spiritual eyes even now can see that fadeless shore to which bright

angels beckon him. Deal gently with him--he is passing away!

Here comes the teacher, brisk, angular, and sharp-voiced. Heaven

pity the children! She’s a human icicle--pastboard-y and proper!

I already experience a mental shiver. Now she comes up and says,

(apologetically to my new satin cloak,) “You see, madam, these are

_only_ poor children.” The toadying creature! Lucky for her that

I’m not “a committee.” Can’t her dull eyes recognize God’s image in

linsey-woolsey? Can she see no genius written on yonder broad forehead?

No poetry slumbering in yonder sweet eyes? Did Franklin, Clay, and

Webster study _their_ alphabet in silk and velvet? She ought to be

promoted to the dignity of toe-nail polisher to Queen Victoria. Now she

hands me a book, in which visitors’ names are inscribed, and requests

me to write mine. Certainly. “Mrs. John Smith:” there it is. Hope she

likes it as well as I do.

--Speaking of names, I read on a sign yesterday, that “Richard Haas:”

to-day I saw, down street, that “John Haas.” I’m sure I’m glad of it.

I congratulate both those enterprising gentlemen. There goes a baker’s

cart, with “Ernest Flog-er” painted on the side. It is my impression

that if you do it, Ernest, “_your_ cake will be dough;” 1853 being

considered the millenium of “strong-minded women.” Here we are, most

to the Battery. “_Fanfernot_ & Dulac:” that must be a chain-lightning

firm. Wonder if “Fanfernot” is the _silent_ partner?

Here’s a man distributing tracts. Now, if he hands me one, I’ll throw

it down. See how meekly he picks it up, and hands me another. “That’s

right, friend Colporteur, I only wanted to see if you were in earnest:

glad to see you so well employed.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says, much relieved, “sinners here in New York need

waking up”--which sentiment I endorse, and advise him to call at the

_N. Y. Tribune_ office.

Down comes the rain: had I taken my umbrella, not a drop would have

fallen. “I ’spect” I was born on a Friday; but as that can’t be helped

now, I’ll step into that book-store till the shower is over. The owner

politely gives me a chair, and then hands me, for my edification, the

_last fashion prints_! F-a-n-n-y F-e-r-n! can it be possible that you

look so frivolous? Tracts and fashion prints, both offered you in one

forenoon! Wonder if there’s a second-hand drab Quaker bonnet anywhere,

that will subdue your “style?”

See that little minstrel in front of the store, staggering under

the weight of a hand-organ. What a crowd of little beggar-boys

surround him, petitioning “for _just one tune_.” Now, I wonder if

the rough school that boy has been in, has hardened his heart? Has

he grown prematurely worldly-wise and selfish? Will he turn gruffly

away from that penniless, Tom Thumb audience, or will he give them

a _gratuitous_ tune? God be thanked, his childish heart yet beats

warm and true under that tattered jacket. He smiles sweetly on the

eager group, and strikes up “Lang Syne.” Other than mortal ears are

listening! That deed, unnoticed by the hurrying Broadway throng, is

noted by the Recording Angel. “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of

the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.”

Sunshine again! dripping awnings and sloppy pavements. There’s a man

preaching an out-door temperance sermon: what a bungling piece of work

he makes of it! If he would lend me that pro tem barrel-pulpit I’d

astonish _him_, and take the feather out of “Miss Lucy Stone’s” bonnet.

Let us cross the Park. There’s an Irishman seated on the withered

grass, with his spade beside him, leaning wearily against that leafless

tree. I wonder is he ill? I must walk that way and speak to him. What a

sudden change comes over his rough face! it looks quite beautiful. Why

do his eyes kindle? Ah, I see: a woman approaches from yonder path; now

she seats herself beside him, on the grass, and drawing the cover from

a small tin kettle, she bends over the steaming contents, and says,

with a smile, that is a perfect heart-warmer, “_Dear_ Dennis!” Oh, what

a wealth of love in those two simple words; what music in that voice!

Who says human nature is _all_ depravity? Who says this earth is but a

charnel-house of withered hopes? Who says the “Heart’s Ease” springs

never from the rock cleft? Who says it is only on _patrician_ soil the

finer feelings struggle into leaf and bud and blossom? No--no--that

humble, faithful creature has traveled weary miles with needful food,

that “Dennis” may waste no unnecessary time from labor. And there

they sit, side by side, happy and blessed in each other, deaf to the

ceaseless tide of business and pleasure flowing past, blind to the

supercilious gaze of the pompous millionaire, the curious stare of

pampered beauty, the derisive laugh of “Young America,” and the little

romance they have set my brain a-weaving! What a pretty episode amid

all this Babel din! What a delicious little bit of nature midst this

fossil hearted Gotham!

How true--how beautiful the words of Holy Writ! “Better is a dinner

of herbs, _where love is_, than a stalled ox, and hatred therewith.”

* * * * *

What an immensely tall man! he looks like a barber’s pole in those

serpentine pants. Why does he make those gyrations? Why does he beckon

that short man to his side? Well, I declare! everything comical comes

to my net! He has taken out a slip of paper, and using the short

man’s head for a writing-desk, is scribbling off some directions for

a porter in waiting! The lamb-like non-resistance of the short man is

only equalled by the cool impudence of the scribe! What a picture for

Hogarth!

CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE.

NUMBER TWO.

The fashionables are yet yawning on their pillows. Nobody is abroad

but the workies. So much the better. Omnibus drivers begin to pick up

their early-breakfast customers. The dear little children, trustful

and rosy, are hurrying by to school. Apple women are arranging their

stalls, and slyly polishing their fruit with an old stocking. The

shopkeepers are placing their goods in the most tempting light, in the

store windows; and bouquet venders, with their delicious burthens, have

already taken their stand on the saloon and hotel steps.

Here come that de-socialized class, the New York business men, with

their hands thrust moodily into their coat pockets, their eyes buttoned

fixedly down to the sidewalk, and “the almighty dollar” written legibly

all over them. If the automatons would but show _some_ sign of life;

were it only by a whistle. I’m very sure the tune would be

“I know a--_Bank!_”

See that pretty little couple yonder, crouched upon the sidewalk?

What have you there, little ones? Five little, fat, roly-poly puppies,

as I live, all heads and tails, curled up in that comical old basket!

And you expect to get “a dollar apiece” for them? Bless your dear

little souls, Broadway is full of “puppies,” who never “bring” anything

but odious cigar smoke, that ever I could find out. Puppies are at a

discount, my darlings. Peanuts are a safer investment.

Here we are at Trinity Church. I doubt if human lips within those

walls ever preached as eloquently as those century grave-stones. How

the sight of them involuntarily arrests the bounding footstep, and the

half-developed plan of the scheming brain, and wakes up the slumbering

immortal in our nature. How the eye turns a questioning glance from

those moss-grown graves, inward--then upward to the soft, blue heavens

above us. How for a brief moment the callous heart grows kindly, and we

forget the mote in our brothers eye, and cease to repulse the outspread

palm of charity, and recognise the claims of a common brotherhood; and

then how the sweeping tide comes rolling over us, and the clink of

dollars and cents drowns “the still small voice,” and Eternity recedes,

and Earth only seems tangible, and Mammon, and Avarice, and Folly rule

the never returning hours.

Now glance over the church-yard yonder into the street below. Cholera

and pestilence, what a sight! flanked on one side by the charnel-house,

on the other by houses whose basements are groggeries and markets, and

at whose every pane of glass may be seen a score of dirty faces: the

middle of the street a quagmire of jelly-mud, four inches deep, on

which are strewn, ad-infinitum, decayed potatoes and cabbage stumps,

old bones and bonnets, mouldy bread, salt fish and dead kittens. That

pussy-cat New York corporation should be put on a diet of peppered

thunder and gunpowder tea, and harnessed to a comet for six months. I

doubt if even then the old poppies would wake up.

Do you see that piece of antiquity playing the bagpipe? He is as much

a fixture as your country cousin. There he sits, through heat and cold,

squeezing out those horrible sounds with his skinny elbow, and keeping

time with his nervous eye-winkers. He gets up his own programme, and is

his own orchestra, door-keeper and audience: nobody stops to listen,

nobody fees him, nobody seems to enjoy it so hugely as himself.

Who talks about wooden nutmegs in the hearing of Gotham? Does a

shower come up? Men start up as if by magic, with all-sized India

rubbers for sale, and ragged little boys nudge your elbows to

purchase “cheap cotton umbrellas.” Does the wind veer round south? A

stack of palm-leaf fans takes the place of the umbrellas. Have you

the misfortune to trip upon the sidewalk? a box of Russia salve is

immediately unlidded under your nose. Do you stop to arrange your

gaiter boot? whole strings of boot-lacings are dangled before your

astonished eyes. Do your loosened waistbands remind you of the dinner

hour? before your door stands a man brandishing “patent carving

knives,” warranted to dissever the toughest old rooster that ever

crowed over a hen harem.

Speaking of hens--see that menagerie, in one of the handsomest parts

of Broadway, defaced by that blood and murder daub of a picture,

representing every animal that ever flew or trotted into Noah’s

ark, beside a few that the good old gentleman never undertook to

perpetuate. See them lashing their tails, bristling their manes,

ploughing the air and tossing high above their incensed horns, that

distracted gory biped, whose every individual hair is made to stand on

end with horror, and his coat-tail astonishingly to perpendicularize.

Countrymen stand agape while pickpockets lighten them of their purses;

innocent little children, with saucer eyes, shy to the further edge

of the sidewalk, and hurry home with an embryo nightmare in their

frightened craniums. “Jonathan” pays his “quarter,” and is astonished

to find upon entering, a very tame collection of innocent beasts and

beastesses, guiltless of any intention to growl, unless poked by the

long pole of curiosity. Dissatisfied, he descends to the cellar, to see

the elephant, who holds a sleepy levee, for all who feel inclined to

pack his trunk with the apples and cake, which a shrewd stall-keeping

Yankee in the corner disinterestedly advises them to buy, “just to see

how the critter eats.”

Well; two-headed calves, one-eyed buffaloes, skeleton ostriches,

and miles of serpents, are every day matters; but yonder is an

announcement that “Two Wild Men from Borneo” may be seen within. Now

that interests me. “They have the faculty of speech, but are deficient

in memory.” Bless me, you don’t mean to say that those little Hop o’

my Thumbs have the temerity to call themselves “_Men?_” little humbug,

pocket editions. But what pretty little limbs they have, and how

they shiver in this cold climate, spite of the silk and India-rubber

dress they wear under those little tights. “The youngest weighs only

twenty-seven, the oldest thirty-four pounds;” so the keeper says, who,

forming a circle, lays one hand on the head of each, and commences

his stereotyped, menagerie exordium, oblivious of commas, colons,

semi-colons, periods or breath; adding at the close, that the Wild

Men will now shake hands with any child who may be present, but will

“_always bite an adult_.” Nothing like a barrier to make femininity

leap over. I’m bent upon having the first “adult” shake. The keeper

says, “Better not, Ma’am,” (showing a scar on his finger,) “they bit

that een-a-most to the bone.” Of course, snapping at masculinity, is

no proof to me of their unsusceptibility to feminine evangelization;

on the contrary. So, taking a cautious patrol around the interesting

little savages, I hold out my hand. Allah be praised! they take it, and

my five digits still remain at the service of printers and publishers!

CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE.

NUMBER THREE.

What a never-ceasing bell-jingling, what a stampede of servants,

what a continuous dumping down of big trunks; what transits, what

exits, what a miniature world is a hotel! Panorama-like, the scene

shifts each hour; your vis-a-vis at breakfast, supping, ten to one, in

the Rocky Mountains. How delightful your unconsciousness of what you

are foreordained to eat for dinner; how nonchalantly in the morning

you handle tooth-brush and head-brush, certain of a cup of hot coffee

whenever you see fit to make your advent. How scientifically your

fire is made, without any unnecessary tattooing of shovel, tongs

and poker. What a chain-lightning answer to your bell summons; how

oblivious is “No. 14” of your existence; how indifferent is “No.

25” whether you sneeze six or seven times a day; how convenient

are the newspapers and letter-stamps, obtainable at the clerk’s

office; how digestible your food; how comfortable your bed, and how

never-to-be-sufficiently-enjoyed the general let-alone-ativeness.

Avaunt, ye lynx-eyed “private boarding-houses,” with your two

slip-shod Irish servants; your leaden bread, leather pies, ancient

fowls, bad gravies, omnium gatherum bread puddings, and salt fish, and

cabbage perfumed entries; your washing-day “hashes,” your ironing-day

“stews,” and all your other “comforts of a home” (?) not _explicitly_

set forth in your advertisements.

Rat-tat, rat-tat-tat! what a fury that old gentleman seems to be

in. Whoever occupies No. 40, must either be deaf or without nerves.

Rat-tat! what an obstinate human! there he goes again! ah, now the

door opens, and a harmless-looking clergyman glides past him, down the

stairs. Too late--too late, papa--the knot is tied; no use in making a

fuss. Just see that pretty little bride, blushing, crying, and clinging

to her boy husband. Just remember the time, sir, when the “auld wife”

at home made _you_ thrill to the toes of your boots; remember how

perfectly oblivious you were of guide-boards or mile-stones, when you

went to see her; how you used to hug and kiss her little brother Jim,

though he was the ugliest, mischievous-est little snipe in Christendom;

how you used to read books for hours upside down, and how you wondered

what people meant by calling the moon “cold;” how you wound up your

watch half-a-dozen times a day, and hadn’t the slightest idea whether

you were eating geese or grindstones for dinner; how affectionately

you nodded to Mr. Brown, of whom her father bought his groceries; how

complacently you sat out the minister’s seventh-lie by her side at

church; how wolfy you felt if any other piece of broadcloth approached

her; how devoutly you wished you were that little bit of blue ribbon

round her throat; and how, one moonlight night, when she laid her head

against your vest-pattern, you----didn’t care a mint-julep whether

the tailor ever got paid for it or not! Now, just imagine her papa,

stepping in and deliberately turning all _that_ cream to vinegar;

wouldn’t _you_ have effervesced? Certainly.

See that little army of boots in the entry outside the doors. May I

need a pair of spectacles, if one of their owners has a decent foot!

No. 20 turns his toes in, No. 30 treads over at the side; No. 40 has a

pedestal like an elephant. Stay!--there’s a pair now--Jupiter! what a

high instep! what a temper that man has! wonder if those are married

boots? Heaven help _Mrs._ Boots, when her husband finds a button

missing! It strikes me that I should like to _mis-mate_ all those

boots, and view, at a respectful distance, the young tornado in the

entry, when the gong sounds!

Oh, you cunning little curly-headed, fairy-footed, dimple-limbed

pet! Who is blessed enough to own you? Did you know, you little human

blossom, that I was aunt to all the children in creation? Your eyes are

as blue as the violets, and your little pouting lip might tempt a bee

from a rose. Did mamma make you that dainty little kirtle? and papa

find you that horsewhip?

“Papa is dead, and mamma is dead, too. Mamma can’t see Charley any

more.”

God bless your sweet helplessness! creep into my arms, Charley. My

darling, you are never alone!--mamma’s sweet, tender eyes look lovingly

on Charley out of Heaven; mamma’s bright angel wings ever overshadow

little Charley’s head; mamma and the holy stars keep watch over

Charley’s slumbers. Mamma sings a sweeter song when little Charley

says a prayer. Going?--well, then, one kiss; for sure I am, the angels

will want you before long.

What is that? A sick gentleman, borne in on a litter, from

shipboard. Poor fellow! how sunken are his great dark eyes! how

emaciated his limbs! What can ail him? Nobody knows; not a word of

English can he speak; and the captain is already off, too happy to

rid himself of all responsibility. Lucky for the poor invalid that

our gallant host has a heart warm and true. How tenderly he lifts the

invalid to his room; how expeditiously he dispatches his orders for a

Spanish doctor and nurse; how imploringly the sufferer’s speaking eyes

are fastened upon his face. Ah! Death glided in at yonder door with the

sick man; his grasp is already on his heart; the doctor stands aside

and folds his hands--there’s no work for _him_ to do; dark shadows

gather round the dying stranger’s eyes; he presses feebly the hand

of his humane host, and gasps out the last fluttering breath on that

manly heart. Strange hands are busy closing his eyes; strange hands

straighten his limbs; a strange priest comes all too late to shrive

the sick man’s soul; strange eyes gaze carelessly upon the features,

one glimpse of which were worth Golconda’s mines to far-off kindred.

Now the undertaker comes with the coffin. Touch him gently, man of

business; lay those dark locks tenderly on the satin pillow; hear you

not a far-off wail from sunny Spain, as the merry song at the vintage

feast dies upon the lip of the stricken-hearted?

CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE.

NUMBER FOUR.

BARNUM’S POULTRY SHOW.

Defend my ears! Do you suppose Noah had to put up with such a

cackling and crowing as this, in his ark? I trust ear-trumpets are

cheap, for I stand a chance of becoming as deaf as a husband, when his

wife asks him for money.

I have always hated a rooster; whether from his perch, before

daylight, he shrilly, spitefully, and unnecessarily, recalled me from

rosy dreams to stupid realities; or when strolling at the head of his

hang-dog looking seraglio of hens, he stood poised on one foot, gazing

back at the meek procession with an air that said, as plain as towering

crests and tail feathers could say it--“Stir a foot if you dare, till I

give you the signal!”--at which demonstration, I looked instinctively

about, for a big stone, to take the nonsense out of him!

Save us, what a crowd! There are more onions here than patchouli,

more worsted wrappers than Brummel neck-ties, and more brogans than

patent leather. Most of the visitors gaze at the perches, through

barn-yard spectacles. For myself, I don’t care an egg-shell, whether

that old “Shanghai” knew who her grandfather was or not, or whether

those “Dorkings” were ever imprudent enough to let their young

affections rove from their native roost. Yankee eyes were made to be

used, and the first observation mine take, is, that those gentlemen

fowls seem to have reversed the order of things here in New York, being

very superior in point of beauty to the feminines. Of course they know

it. See them strut! There never was a masculine yet whom you could

enlighten on such a point.

Now, were I a hen, (which, thank the parish register, I am not,) I

would cross my claws, succumb to that tall Polander with his crested

helmet of black and white feathers, and share his demonstrative perch.

Oh, you pretty little “carrier doves!” I _could_ find a use for

_you_. Do you ever tap-tap at the wrong window, you little snow-flakes?

Have you learned the secret of soaring above the heads of your enemies?

Are you impregnable to bribes, in the shape of feed?

There’s an Eagle, fierce as a Hospodar. Bird of Jove! that _you_

should stay caged in the tantalizing vicinity of those fat little

bantams! Try the strength of your pinions, grim old fellow; call no man

jailer; turn your back on Barnum, and stare the sun out of countenance!

Observe with what aristocratic nonchalance those salmon-colored

pigeons sit their perch! See that ruffle of feathers about their

dignified Elizabethan throats. I am not at all sure that I should have

intruded into their regal presence, without being heralded by a court

page.

Do you call those two moving bales of wool, sheep? Hurrah for

“Ayrshire” farming! Fleece six inches deep, and the animals not half

grown. Comfortable looking January-defiers, may your shearing be

mercifully postponed till the dog days.

Pigs, too? petite, white and frisky; two hundred dollars a pair!

P-h-e-w! and such pretty little gaiter boots to be had in Broadway!

Disgusting little porkers, don’t wink your pink eyes at my Jewish

resolution.

Puppies for sale? long-eared and short-eared, shaggy and shaven,

bobtailed--curtailed--and to be re-tailed! Spaniel terrier and embryo

Newfoundland. Ho! ye unappropriated spinsters, with a superfluity of

long evenings--ye forlorn bachelors, weary of solitude and boot-jacks,

listen to these yelping applicants for your yearning affections, and

“down with the dust.”

“Nelly for sale, at twenty dollars.” Poor little antelope! The gods

send your soft, dark eyes an appreciative purchaser. I look into their

human-like depths, and invoke for you the velvety, flower-bestrewn

lawn, the silver lake, in which your graceful limbs are mirrored as

you stoop to drink, the leafy shade of fret-work leaves in the panting

noon-tide heat, and the watchful eye and caressing hand of some bright

young creature, to whom the earth is one glad anthem, and whose sweet

young life (like yours) is innocent and pure.

Avaunt, pretentious peacocks, flaunting your gaudy plumage before

our sated eyes. See that beautiful “Golden Pheasant,” on whose plump

little body, clad in royal crimson, the sunlight lingers so lovingly.

See the silky fall of those flossy, golden feathers about his arching

neck. Glorious pheasant! do you know that “a thing of beauty is a joy

forever?” Make your home with me, and feast my pen-weary eyes: flit

before me when the sunlight of happiness is clouded in, and the gray,

leaden clouds of sorrow overcast my sky; perch upon my finger; lay your

soft neck to my cheek; bring me visions of a happier shore, where love

is written on the rainbow’s arch, heard in the silver-tripping stream,

seen in the blossom-laden bough and bended blade, quivering under the

weight of dewy gems, and hymned by the quiet stars, whose ever-moving

harmony is unmarred by the discord of envy, hate, or soul-blasting

uncharitableness. Beautiful pheasant! come, bring thoughts of beauty

and peace to me!

--Loving Jenny Lind smiles upon us from yonder canvass. Would that

we might hear her little Swedish chicken peep! Not a semi-quaver

careth the mother-bird for the homage of the Old World or New. The

artless clapping of little Otto’s joyous hands, drowns all the ringing

plaudits, wafted across the ocean. A Dead Sea apple is fame, dear

Jenny, to a true woman’s heart. Happy to have hung thy laurel wreath on

Otto’s little cradle.

TWO PICTURES.

You will always see Mrs. Judkins in her place at the sunrise

prayer-meeting. She is secretary to the “Moral Reform,” “Abolition,”

“Branch Colporteur and Foreign Mission” Societies. She is tract

distributor, manager of an “Infant School,” cuts out all the work for

the Brown Steeple Sewing Circle; belongs to the “Select Female Prayer

Meeting;” goes to the Friday night church meeting, Tuesday evening

lecture, and Saturday night Bible Class, and attends three services on

Sunday. Every body says, “What an eminent Christian is Mrs. Judkins!”

Mrs. Judkins’ house and servants take care of themselves. Her little

boys run through the neighborhood, peeping into grocery and provision

stores, loitering at the street corners, and throwing stones at the

passers-by. Her husband comes home to a disorderly house, eats

indigestible dinners, and returns to his gloomy counting-room, sighing

that his hard earnings are wasted, and his children neglected; and

sneering at the _religion_ which brings forth such questionable fruits.

* * * * *

Mrs. Brown is a church member. Mrs. Judkins has called upon her, and

brought the tears into her mild blue eyes, by telling her that she in

particular, and the church in general, have been pained to notice Mrs.

Brown’s absence from the various religious gatherings and societies

above mentioned; that it is a matter of great grief to them, that she

is so lukewarm, and does not enjoy religion as much as they do.

Mrs. Brown has a sickly infant; her husband (owing to sad reverses)

is in but indifferent circumstances; they have but one inexperienced

servant. All the household outgoings and incomings, must be carefully

watched, and looked after. The little wailing infant is never out of

the maternal arms, save when its short slumbers give her a momentary

reprieve. Still, the little house is in perfect order. The table

tasteful and tempting, although the bill of fare is unostentatious;

the children are obedient, respectful, happy and well cared for.

Morning and evening, amid her varied and pressing cares, she bends the

knee in secret, to Him whom her maternal heart recognizes as “My Lord

and my God.” No mantle of dust shrouds the “Holy Book.” The sacred

_household_ altar flame never dies out. Little dimpled hands are

reverently folded; little lips lisping say, “Our Father.” Half a day

on each returning Sabbath, finds the patient mother in her accustomed

place in the sanctuary. At her hearth and by her board, the holy

man of God hath smiling welcome. “Her children rise up and call her

blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her;” while on high, the

recording angel hath written, “_She hath done what she could._”

FEMININE WAITERS AT HOTELS.

“Some of our leading hotel-keepers are considering the policy of

employing female waiters.”

Good news for you, poor pale-faced sempstresses! Throw your thimbles

at the heads of your penurious employers; put on your neatest and

_plainest_ dress; see that your feet and fingers are immaculate, and

then rush _en masse_ for the situation, ousting every white jacket in

Yankeedom. Stipulate with your employers, for leave to carry in the

pocket of your French apron, a pistol loaded with cranberry sauce, to

plaster up the mouth of the first coxcomb who considers it necessary to

preface his request for an omelette, with “_My dear_.” It is my opinion

that one such hint will be sufficient; if not, you can vary the order

of exercises, by anointing him with a “HASTY plate of soup” at dinner.

Always make a moustache wait twice as long as you do a man who wears

a clean, presentable lip. Should he undertake to expedite your slippers

by “a fee,” tell him that hotel bills are _generally_ settled at the

clerk’s office, except by _very_ verdant travelers.

Should you see a woman at the table, digging down to the bottom of

the salt cellar, as if the top stratum were too plebeian; or ordering

ninety-nine messes (turning aside from each with affected airs of

disgust,) or rolling up the whites of her eyes, declaring that she

never sat down to a dinner-table before minus “finger glasses,” you

may be sure that her aristocratic blood is nourished, _at home_, on

herrings and brown bread. When a masculine comes in with a white vest,

flashy neck-tie, extraordinary looking plaid trousers, several yards

of gold chain festooned over his vest, and a mammoth seal ring on his

little finger, you may be sure that his tailor and his laundress are

both on the anxious seat; and whenever you see travelers of _either_

sex peregrinating the country in their “best bib and tucker,” you can

set them down for unmitigated “snobs,” for high-bred people can’t

afford to be so extravagant!

I dare say you’ll get sick of so much pretension and humbug. Never

mind; it is better than to be stitching yourselves into a consumption

over six-penny shirts; you’ll have your fun out of it. This would be a

horridly stupid world, if every body were sensible. I thank my stars

every day, for the share of fools a kind Providence sends in my way.

LETTER TO THE EMPRESS EUGENIA.

A PARIS LETTER says:--Lady Montijo has left Paris for Spain. She

was extremely desirous of remaining and living in the reflection

of her daughter’s grandeur, but Louis Napoleon, who shares in the

general prejudice against step-mothers, gave her plainly to

understand, that because he had married Eugenia, she must not

suppose he had married her whole family. She was allowed to linger

six weeks, to have the _entree_ of the Tuileries, and to see her

movements chronicled in the _Pays_. She has at last left us, and

the telegraph mentions her arrival at Orleans, on her way to the

Peninsula.

There Teba! did not I say you would need all those two-thousand-franc

pocket-handkerchiefs before your orange wreath had begun to give signs

of wilting? Why did you let your mamma go, you little simpleton? Before

Nappy secured your neck in the matrimonial noose, you should have had

it put down, in black and white, that Madame Montijo was to live with

you till--the next revolution, if you chose to have her. Now you have

struck your colors, of course everything will “go by the board.” I tell

you Teba, that a fool is the most unmanageable of all beings. He is as

dogged and perverse as a broken-down donkey. You can neither goad nor

coax him into doing anything he should do, or prevent his doing what he

should not do. You will have to leave Nappy and come over here;--and

then everybody will nudge somebody’s elbow and say, “That is Mrs. Teba

Napoleon, who does not live with her husband.” And some will say it is

your fault; and others will say ’tis his; and all will tell you a world

more about it, than _you_ can tell _them_.

Then, Mrs. Samuel Snip (who has the next room to yours, who murders

the king’s English most ruthlessly, and is not quite certain whether

Barnum or Christopher Columbus discovered America,) will have her

Paul Pry ear to the keyhole of your door about every other minute,

(except when her husband is on duty,) to find out if you are properly

employed;--and no matter what Mrs. Snip learns, or even if she does

not learn anything, she will be pretty certain to report, that, in

her opinion, you are “no better than you should be.” If you dress

well (with your splendid form and carriage you could not but seem

well-dressed) she will “wonder how you got the means to do it”;

prefacing her remark with the self-evident truth that, “to be sure, it

is none of her business.”

If you let your little Napoleon get out of your sight a minute,

somebody will have him by the pinafore and put him through a catechism

about his mamma’s mode of living and how she spends her time. If you

go to church, it will be “to show yourself;” if you stay at home, “you

are a publican and a sinner.” Do what you will, it will all be wrong:

if you do nothing, it will be still worse. Our gentlemen (so called)

knowing that you are defenceless and taking it for granted that your

name is “Barkis,” will all stare at you; and the women will dislike

and abuse you just in proportion as the opposite sex admire you. Of

course you will sweep past them all, with that magnificent figure of

yours, and your regal chin up in the air, quietly attending to your own

business, and entirely unconscious of their pigmy existence.

MUSIC IN THE NATURAL WAY.

How often, when wedged in a heated concert room, annoyed by the

creaking of myriad fans, and tortured optically, by the glare of

gas-light, have I, with a gipsey longing, wished that the four walls

might be razed, leaving only the blue sky over my head, that the tide

of music might unfettered flow over my soul.

How often, when dumb with delight, in the midst of some scene of

surpassing natural beauty, have I silently echoed the poet’s words:

“Give me music, or I die.”

My dream was all realized at a promenade concert at Castle Garden,

last night. Shall I ever forget it? That glorious expanse of sea,

glittering in the moonbeams; the little boats gliding smoothly over

its polished surface; the cool, evening zephyr, fanning the brow

wooingly; the music--soothing--thrilling--then quickening the pulse and

stirring the blood, like the sound of a trumpet; then, that rare boon,

a companion, who had the good taste to be _dumb_, and not disturb my

trance.

There was one drawback. After the doxology, I noticed some

matter-of-fact wretches devouring ice creams. May no priest be found

to give them absolution. I include, also, in this anathema, those

ever-to-be-avoided masculines, who, then and there, puffed cigar smoke

in my face, and the moon’s.

FOR LADIES THAT “GO SHOPPING.”

Matrimony and the toothache _may_ be survived, but of all the

evils feminity is heir to, defend me from a shopping excursion. But,

alas! bonnets, shoes and hose will wear out, and shop-keepers will

chuckle over the sad necessity that places the unhappy owners within

their dry-goods clutches. Felicitous Mrs. Figleaf! why taste that

Paradisaical apple?

Some victimised females frequent the stores where soiled and damaged

goods are skillfully announced as selling at an “immense sacrifice,”

by their public-spirited and disinterested owners. Some courageously

venture into more elegant establishments, where the claim of the

applicant to notice, is measured by the costliness of her apparel, and

where the clerks poise their eye-glass at any plebeian shopperess bold

enough to inquire for silk under six dollars a yard. Others, still,

are tortured at the counter of some fussy old bachelor, who always

ties up, with distressing deliberation, every parcel he takes down for

inspection, before he can open another, and moves round to execute

your orders as if Mt. Atlas were fastened to his heels; or perhaps get

petrified at the store of some snap-dragon old maid, whose victims

serve as escape-valves for long years of bile, engendered by Cupid’s

oversights. Meanwhile, the vexed question is still unsolved, Where can

the penance of shopping be performed with the least possible wear and

tear of patience and prunella? The answer seems to me to be contained

in six letters--“Stewart’s.”

“_Stewart’s?_” I think I hear some old lady exclaim, dropping her

knitting and peering over her spectacles; “Stewart’s! yes, if you have

the mines of California to back you.” Now I have a profound respect

for old ladies, as I stand self-pledged to join that respectable

body on the advent of my very first gray hair; still, with due

deference to their catnip and pennyroyal experience, I conscientiously

repeat--“_Stewart’s_.”

You may stroll through his rooms free to gaze and admire, without

being annoyed by an impertinent clerk dogging your footsteps; you can

take up a fabric, and examine it, without being bored by a statement of

its immense superiority over every article of the kind in the market,

or without being deafened by a detailed account of the enormous sums

that the mushroom aristocracy have considered themselves but _too_

happy to expend, in order to secure a dress from that very desirable,

and altogether unsurpassed, and unsurpassable, piece of goods!

You can independently say that an article does not exactly suit you,

though your husband may not stand by you with a drawn sword. You will

encounter no ogling, no impertinent cross-questioning, no tittering

whispers, from the quiet, well-bred clerks, who attend to their own

business and allow you to attend to yours.

’Tis true that you may see at Stewart’s, cobweb laces an inch or two

wide, for fifty or one hundred dollars a yard, which many a brainless

butterfly of fashion is supremely happy in sporting: but at the very

next counter you may suit yourself, or your country cousin, to a

sixpenny calico, or a shilling de laine; and, what is better, be quite

as sure that her verdant queries will be as respectfully answered as if

liveried Pompey stood waiting at the door to hand her to her carriage.

You can go into the silk department, where, by a soft descending

light, you will see dinner dresses that remind you of a shivered

rainbow, for _passé_ married ladies who long since ceased to celebrate

their birth-days, and who keep their budding daughters carefully

immured in the nursery: or, at the same counter, you can select a

modest silk for your minister’s wife, at six shillings a yard, that

will cause no heart-burnings in the most Argus-eyed of Paul Pry

parishes.

Then if you patronise those ever-to-be-abominated and

always-to-be-shunned nuisances called parties, where fools of both

sexes gather to criticise their host and hostess, and cut up characters

and confectionary, you can step into that little room from which

day-light is excluded, and select an evening dress, _by gas-light_,

upon the effect of which you can, of course, depend, and to which

artistic arrangement many a New York belle has probably owed that much

prized possession--her “last conquest.”

Now, if you please, you can go into the upholstery-room and furnish

your nursery windows with a cheap set of plain linen curtains; or

you can expend a small fortune in regal crimson, or soft-blue damask

drapery, for your drawing-room; and without troubling yourself to

thread the never-ending streets of Gotham for an upholsteress, can

have them made by competent persons in the upper loft of the building,

who will also drape them faultlessly about your windows, should you so

desire.

Now you can peep into the cloak room, and bear away on your graceful

shoulders a six, twenty, thirty, or four hundred dollar cloak, as the

length of your husband’s purse, or your own fancy (which in these

degenerate days amounts to pretty much the same thing) may suggest.

Then there is the wholesale department, where you will see shawls,

hosiery, flannels, calicoes, and de laines, sufficient to stock all the

nondescript country stores, to say nothing of city consumption.

Now, if you are not weary, you can descend (under ground) into

the carpet department, from whence you can hear the incessant roll

of full-freighted omnibuses, the ceaseless tramp of myriad restless

feet, and all the busy train of out-door life made audible in all the

dialects of Babel. Here you can see every variety of carpet, from the

homespun, unpretending straw, oil cloth, and Kidderminster, to the

gorgeous Brussels and tapestry, (above whose traceried buds and flowers

the daintiest foot might well poise itself, loth to crush,) up to the

regal Axminster, of Scottish manufacture, woven without seam, and

warranted, in these days of late suppers and tobacco smoking, _to last

a life-time_.

Emerging from this subterranean region, you will ascend into

daylight, and reflecting first upon all this immense outlay, and then

upon the frequent and devastating conflagrations in New York, inquire

with solicitude, Are you _insured_? and regret to learn that there is

too much risk to effect an _entire_ insurance, although Argus-eyed

watchmen keep up a night-and-day patrol throughout the handsome

building.

MODERN IMPROVEMENTS.

“Modern improvements?” I wonder where they are? Perhaps it is the

fashionable cloaks, that take leave of their shivering owners at the

hips; or the long skirts, whose muddy trains every passing pedestrian

pins to the sidewalk; or the Lilliputian bonnets, that never a

string in shop-dom can keep within hailing distance of the head; or

the flowing sleeves, through which the winter wind plays around the

arm-pits; or the break-neck, high-heeled boots, which some little,

dumpy feminine has introduced to gratify her _rising_ ambition, and

render her tall sisters hideous; or the gas-lit, furnace-heated

houses, in which the owners’ eyes are extinguished, and their skins

dried to a parchment; or, perhaps, it is the churches, of such

cathedral dimness, that the clergyman must have candles at noonday,

and where the congregation are forbidden to express their devotion

by singing, and forced to listen to the trills and quavers of some

scientific stage mountebank; or perhaps ’tis the brazen irreverence

with which Young America jostles aside gray-headed Wisdom: perhaps the

comfortless, forsaken fireside of the “strong-minded woman:” perhaps,

the manly gossip, whose repetition of some baseless rumor dims the

bright eyes of defenceless innocence with tears of anguish: perhaps

the schools, where a superficial show of brilliancy on exhibition

days, is considered the ne plus ultra of teaching: perhaps it is the

time-serving clergyman, whose tongue is fettered by a monied clique:

perhaps, the lawyers who lie--under a mistake!--perhaps it is the

doctor, whom I saw yesterday at Aunt Jerusha’s sick-room, a little

thing with bits of feet, and mincing voice, and lily-white hands, and

perfumed moustache. I wanted to inquire what ailed Jerusha, so I waited

to see him. I wanted to ask him how long it would take him to cure her,

and if he preferred pills to powders, blisters to plasters, oat-meal

to barley-gruel, wine-whey to posset, arrow-root to farina, and a few

such little things, you know. He stared at me over his dicky, as if I

had been an unevangelized kangaroo; then he sidled up to Jerusha, pryed

open her mouth, and said “humph”--in Latin. Then he crossed his legs,

and rolled up the whites of his eyes at the ceiling, as if he expected

some Esculapian hand writing on the wall to enlighten him as to the

seat of Aunt Jerusha’s complaint. Then, he drew from his pocket a box

with a whole army of tiny bottles; and uncorking two of them he nipped

out a little white speck from each, which he dissolved in four quarts

of water, and told Jerusha “to take a drop of the water once in eight

hours.” Tom Thumb and Lilliput! he might as well have tried to salt the

Atlantic Ocean with a widower’s tear! He should be laid gently on a

lily leaf, and consigned to the first stray zephyr.

Ah, you should have seen our good, old-fashioned Dr. Jalap; with a

fist like a sledge-hammer, a tramp like a war-horse, and a laugh that

would puzzle an echo. He wasn’t penurious of _his_ physic: _he_ didn’t

care a pin how much he put down your throat--no, nor the apothecary

either. He pill-ed and potioned, and emetic-ed, and blistered, and

plastered, till you were so transparent, that even John Mitchell (and

he’s the shortest-sighted being alive) could have seen through you.

And then he braced you up with Iron and Quinine, till your muscles

were like whip-cords, and your hair in a bristle of kinks. He was

human-like, too; he didn’t stalk in as if Napoleon and the Duke of

Wellington were boiled down to make his grandfather. No; he’d just

as lief sit down on a butter-firkin as on a velvet lounge. He’d pick

up Aunt Esther’s knitting-needles, and talk to grandpa about Bunker

Hill, and those teetotally discomfrizzled, bragging British, and offer

grandma a pinch of snuff, and trot the baby, and stroke the cat,

and go to the closet and eat up the pickles and doughnuts, and make

himself useful generally. _He_ didn’t have to stupefy his patients

with ether, so that they needn’t find out how clumsily he operated.

No, it was quite beautiful to see him take a man’s head between his

knees, and drag his double teeth out. He didn’t write a prescription

for molasses and water, in High Dutch: he didn’t tell you that you were

booked for the river Styx, and he was the only M. D. in creation who

could annihilate the ferryman waiting to row you over. He didn’t drive

through the town with his horse and gig, at break-neck speed, just as

meeting was out, as if life and death were hanging on his profitless

chariot wheels: he didn’t stick up over his door--“_at home between

nine and ten_,” as if that consecrated hour were _all_ he could bestow

upon a clamorous public, when he was angling in vain for a patient

every hour in the twenty-four; nor did he give little boys shillings to

rush into church, and call him out in the middle of the service. No:

Dr. Jalap was not a “modern improvement.”

THE OLD MERCHANT WANTS A SITUATION.

“An elderly gentleman, formerly a well-known merchant, wishes a

situation; he will engage in any respectable employment not too

laborious.”--_New York Daily Paper._

I don’t know the old man. I never saw him on ’change, in a fine

suit of broadcloth, leaning on his gold-headed cane; while brokers,

and insurance officers, and presidents of banks raised their hats

deferentially, and the crowd respectfully made way for him. I never

kept account of the enormous taxes he annually paid the city, or saw

his gallant ships ploughing the blue ocean with their costly freight,

to foreign ports. I never saw him in his luxurious home, taking his

quiet siesta, lulled by the liquid voice of his fairy daughter. No:

nor did I hear the auctioneer’s hammer in that home, nor see the red

flag floating, like a signal of distress, before the door. I didn’t

read the letter that recalled his only boy from college, or see the

humbled family, as they passed, shrinking, over the threshold, into

poor lodgings, whose landlord coarsely stipulated for “a week’s rent in

advance.”

“Any occupation not _too laborious_.” How mournfully the old man’s

words fall upon the ear! Life to commence anew, with the silver head,

and bent form, and faltering step, and palsied hand of age! With the

first ray of morning light, that hoary head must be lifted from an

unquiet pillow, to encounter the drenching rain, and driving sleet,

and piercing cold. No reprieve from that wearisome ledger, for the

throbbing brow and dimmed eye. Beardless clerks make a jest of “the

old boy;” superciliously repeating, in his sensitive ear, their mutual

master’s orders. With them he meekly receives his weekly pittance;

sighing, as he counts it over, to think of the few comforts it will

bring to the drooping hearts at home. Foot-weary, he travels through

the crowded streets; his threadbare coat, and napless hat, and dejected

face, all unnoticed by the thriving young merchant, whom the old man

helped to his present prosperous business position. The birth-days of

his delicate daughter come and go, all unmarked by the joy-bestowing

gift. With trouble and exposure, sickness comes at last: then, the

tardy foot, and careless, professional touch of the callous-hearted

dispensary doctor: then, the poor man’s hearse stands before the door;

then winds unheeded through busy streets, to the “Potter’s field,”

while his former cotemporaries take up the daily paper, and sipping

their wine, say carelessly, as if _they_ had a quit-claim from sorrow,

“Well, Old Smith, the broken-down millionaire, is dead.”

Ah, there are tragedies of which editors and printers little dream,

woven in their daily advertising sheets: the office boy feeds the fire

with many a tear-blotted manuscript, penned by trembling fingers, all

unused to toil.

A MOVING TALE.

The Smiths have just been moving. They always move “for the last

time,” on the first of May. “Horrid custom!” exclaims Smith, wiping

the perspiration from his brow, and pulling up his depressed dickey.

“How my blood curdles and my bones ache, at the thought!” It was on

Tuesday, the third of May, that the afflicting rite was celebrated.

Cartmen--four of them--were engaged the Saturday previous, to be on

hand at six o’clock on Tuesday morning, to transport the household

goods from the habitation of ’52-3 to that of ’53-4. Smith was to pay

them three dollars each--twelve dollars in all. They would not come for

a mill less; Smith tried them thoroughly.

On Monday, Smith’s house is turned into a sort of Bedlam, minus

the beds. They are tied up, ready for the next morning’s Hegira; the

Smiths sleeping on the floor on Monday night. Smith can’t sleep on the

floor; he grows restless; he receives constant reminders from Mrs.

Smith to take his elbow out of the baby’s face; he has horrid visions

and rolls about: therefore, he is not at all surprised, on waking at

cock-crow, to find his head in the fire-place, and his hair powdered

with soot. The occasion of his waking at that time, was a dream of

an unpleasant nature. He dreamed that he had rolled off the world

backwards, and lodged in a thorn-bush. Of course, such a thing was

slightly improbable; but how could Smith be responsible for a dream?

On Tuesday morning, the Smiths are up with the dawn. The household

being mustered, it is found that the servant girl, who had often

averred that, “she lived out, just for a little exercise,” had deserted

her colors. The grocer on the corner politely informs Smith, (whom

Mrs. S. had sent on an errand of inquiry) that, on the night previous,

the servant left with him a message for her employers, to the effect

that “she didn’t consider moving the genteel thing, at all; and that a

proper regard for her character and position in society, had induced

her to get a situation in the family of a gentleman who owned the house

he lived in.”

This is severe: Smith feels it keenly; Mrs. Smith leans her head

against her husband’s vest pattern, and says “She is quite crushed,”

and “wonders how Smith can have the heart to whistle. But, it is always

so,” she remarks. “Woman is the weaker vessel, and man delights to

trample on her.” Smith indignantly denies this sweeping assertion, and

says “he tramples on nothing;” when Mrs. Smith points to a bandbox

containing her best bonnet, which he has just put his foot through.

Smith is silent.

The cartmen were to be on the premises at six o’clock. Six o’clock

comes--half-past six--seven o’clock--but no cartmen. Here is a dilemma!

The successors to the Smiths are to be on the ground at eight o’clock;

and being on the ground, they will naturally wish to get into the

house; which they cannot well do, unless the Smiths are out of it.

Smith takes a survey of his furniture, with a feeling of intense

disgust. He wishes his cumbrous goods were reduced to the capacity of a

carpet-bag, which he could pick up and walk away with. The mirrors and

pianoforte are his especial aversion. The latter is a fine instrument,

with an Eolian attachment. He wishes it had a sheriff’s attachment;

in fact, he would have been obliged to any officer who should, at

that wretched moment, have sold out the whole establishment, at the

most “ruinous sacrifice,” ever imagined by an auctioneer’s fertile

“marvelousness.”

--Half-past seven, and no cartmen yet. What is to be done? Ah! here

they come, at last. Smith is at a loss to know what excuse they will

make. Verdant Smith! _They make no excuse._ They simply tell him, with

an air which demands his congratulations, that they “picked up a nice

job by the way, and stopped to do it. You see,” says the principal,

“we goes in for all we can get, these times, and there’s no use of

anybody’s grumbling. Kase, you see, if one don’t want us, another will;

and it’s no favor for anybody to employ us a week either side the first

of May.” The rascal grins, as he says this; and Smith, perceiving the

strength of the cartman’s position, wisely makes no reply.

[Illustration:

“They met, ’twas in a crowd”--

on the stairs, and Smith

“Thought that Brown would shun him,”

--but he didn’t!]

They begin to load. Just as they get fairly at work, the Browns (the

Smiths’ successors) arrive, with an appalling display of stock. Brown

is a vulgar fellow, who has suddenly become rich, and whose ideas of

manliness all center in brutality. He is furious because the Smiths

are not “clean gone.” He “can’t wait there, all day, in the street.”

He orders his men to “carry the things into the house,” and heads the

column himself with a costly rocking-chair in his arms. As Brown comes

up with his rocking-chair, Smith, at the head of his men, descends,

with a bureau, from the second floor.

“They met, ’twas in a crowd”--

on the stairs, and Smith

“Thought that Brown would shun him,”

--but he didn’t! The consequence was, they came in collision; or,

rather, Smith’s bureau and Brown’s rocking-chair came in collision.

Now, said bureau was an old-fashioned, hardwood affair, made for

service, while Brown’s rocking-chair was a flimsy, showy fabric, of

modern make. The meeting on the stairs occasions some squeezing, and

more stumbling, and Brown suddenly finds himself and chair under the

bureau, to the great injury of his person and his furniture. (Brown

has since recovered, but the case of the rocking-chair is considered

hopeless.) This discomfiture incenses the Browns to a high degree,

and they determine to be as annoying as possible; so they persist in

bringing their furniture into the house, and up stairs, as the Smiths

are carrying theirs out of the house, and down stairs. Collisions are,

of course, the order of the day; but the Smiths do not mind this much,

as they have a great advantage, viz: _their furniture is not half so

good as Brown’s_. After a few smashes, Brown receives light on this

point, and orders his forces to remain quiet, while the foe evacuates

the premises; so the Smiths retire in peace--and much of their

furniture in pieces.

The four carts form quite a respectable procession; but there is

no disguising the fact that the furniture looks very shabby (and

whose furniture does not look shabby, piled on carts?); so the Smiths

prudently take a back street, that no one may accuse them of owning

it. Smith has to carry the baby and a large mirror, which Mrs. S. was

afraid to trust to the cartmen, there being no insurance on either. It

being a windy day, both the mirror and Smith’s hat veer to all points

of the compass, while the baby grows very red in the face at not being

able to possess himself of them. Between the wind, the mirror, his hat

and the baby, Smith has an unpleasant walk of it.

About ten o’clock, they arrive at their new residence, and find, to

their horror, that their predecessors have not begun to move. They

inquire the reason. The feminine head of the family informs them, with

tears in her eyes, that her husband, (Mr. Jonas Jenkins,) has been sick

in Washington for five weeks; that, in consequence of his affliction,

they have not been able to provide a new tenement; that she is quite

unwell, and that one of her children (she has six) is ill, also; that

she don’t know what is to become of them, &c., &c. Smith sets his

hat on the back of his head, gives a faint tug at his neck-tie and

confesses himself--quenched! His furniture looks more odious every

minute. He once felt much pride in it, but he feels none now: he feels

only disgust. The cartmen begin to growl out that they “can’t stand

here all day,” and request to be informed “where we shall drop the big

traps.” Hereupon, Smith ventures, with a ghastly attempt at a smile,

to inquire of Mrs. Jenkins why she didn’t tell him, when he called,

on Saturday, of her inability to procure a house? To which that lady

innocently replies that she didn’t wish to give him any “unnecessary

trouble!” which reply satisfies him as to Mrs. Jenkin’s claim to force

of intellect.

At this juncture, Smith falls into a profound reverie. He thinks

that, after all, Fourier is right--“that the Solidarity of the human

race is an entity;” that “nobody can be happy, until everybody is

happy.” He agrees with the great philosopher, that the “series

distributes the harmonies.” He realizes that “society is organized (or,

rather, disorganized) on a wrong basis;” that it is in an “amorphous

condition,” whereas it should be “crystalized.” With our celebrated

“down east” poet, Ethan Spike, Esq., he begins to think that,

“The etarnal bung is loose,”

and that, unless it be soon tightened, there is danger that

“All nater will be spilt.”

He comes to the conclusion, finally, that “something must be done,” and

that speedily, to “secure a home for every family.”

At this point, he is aroused by his tormenters, the cartmen, who

inform him that they are in a “Barkis” state of mind, (willin’) to

receive their twelve dollars. Smith pays the money, and turns to

examine the premises. He finds that Mrs. Jenkins has packed all her

things in the back basement and the second-floor sitting-room. Poor

thing! she has done her best, after all. She is in ill health; her

husband is sick, and away from home; and her children are not well.

God pity the unfortunate who live in cities, especially in the “moving

season.” But Smith is a kind-hearted man. With a few exceptions, the

Smiths are a kind-hearted race--and that’s probably the reason they are

so numerous.

Smith puts on a cheerful countenance, and busies himself in arranging

his furniture. Mrs. Smith, kind soul, forgets the destruction of her

bandbox and bonnet, and cares not how long or how loud Smith whistles.

Suddenly the prospect brightens! Mrs. Jenkins’ brother-in-law appears,

and announces that he has found rooms for her, a little higher up town.

Cartmen are soon at the door, and the Jenkinses are on their “winding

way” to their new residence.

--But the Smiths’ troubles are not yet over. The painters, who were

to have had the house all painted the day before, have done nothing but

leave their paint-pots in the hall, and a little Smithling, being of an

investigating turn of mind, and hungry, withal, attempts to make a late

breakfast off the contents of one of them. He succeeds in eating enough

to disgust him with his bill of fare, and frighten his mamma into

hysterics. A doctor is sent for: he soon arrives, and, after attending

to the mother, gives the young adventurer a facetious chuck under

the chin, and pronounces him perfectly safe. The parents are greatly

relieved, for Willy is a pet; and they confidently believe him destined

to be President of the United States, if they can only keep paint-pots

out of his way.

It takes the Smiths some ten days to get “to rights.” The

particulars of their further annoyances--how the carpets didn’t fit;

how the cartmen “lost the pieces;” how the sofas couldn’t be made to

look natural; how the pianoforte was too large to stand behind the

parlor door, and too small to stand between the front windows; how

the ceiling was too low, and the book-case too high; how a bottle of

indelible ink got into the bureau by mistake and “marked” all Mrs.

Smith’s best dresses--I forbear to inflict on the reader. Suffice it

to say, the Smiths are in “a settled state;” although their apartments

give signs of the recent manifestation of a strong disturbing

force--reminding one, somewhat, of a “settlement” slowly recovering

from the visitation of an earthquake. Still, they are thankful

for present peace, and are determined, _positively_, not to move

again--until next May.

THIS SIDE AND THAT.

I am weary of this hollow show and glitter--weary of fashion’s

stereotyped lay-figures--weary of smirking fops and brainless belles,

exchanging their small coin of flattery and their endless genuflexions:

let us go out of Broadway--somewhere, anywhere. Turn round the wheel,

Dame Fortune, and show up the other side.

“The Tombs!”--we never thought to be there! nevertheless, we are

not to be frightened by a grated door or a stone wall, so we pass in;

leaving behind the soft wind of this Indian summer day, to lift the

autumn leaves as gently as does a loving nurse her drooping child.

We gaze into the narrow cells, and draw a long breath. Poor

creatures, tempted and tried. How many to whom the world now pays

its homage, who sit in high places, _should_ be in their stead? God

knoweth. See them, with their pale faces pressed up against the grated

windows, or pacing up and down their stone floors, like chained beasts.

There is a little boy not more than ten years old; what has _he_ done?

“Stolen a pair of shoes!”

Poor child! he never heard of “Swartout.” How should he know that

he was put in there not for _stealing, but for doing it on so small a

scale_?

Hist! Do you see that figure seated in the farther corner of that

cell, with his hands crossed on his knees? His whole air and dress are

those of a gentleman. How came such a man as that here?

“For murder?” How sad! Ah! somewhere in the length and breadth of the

land, a mother’s heart is aching because she spared the rod to spoil

the child.

There is a coffin, untenanted as yet, but kept on hand; for Death

laughs at bolts and fetters, and many a poor wretch is borne struggling

within these gloomy walls, only to be carried to his last home, while

none but God may ever know at whose fireside stands his vacant chair.

And here is a woman’s cell. There are two or three faded dresses

hanging against the walls, and a bonnet, for which she has little use.

Her friends have brought her some bits of carpeting, which she has

spread over the stone floor, with her womanly love of order, (poor

thing,) to make the place look _home-like_. And there is a crucifix in

the corner. See, she kneels before it! May the Holy Virgin’s blessed

Son, who said to the sinning one, “Neither do I condemn thee,” send

into her stricken heart the balm of holy peace.

Who is that? No! it _cannot_ be--but, yes, it is he--and what a

wreck! See, he shrinks away, and a bright flush chases the marble

paleness from his cheek. God bless me! That R----, should come to this!

Still, Intemperance, with her thousand voices, crieth “Give! give!”

and still, alas! it is the gifted, and generous, and warm-hearted, who

oftenest answer the summons.

More cells?--but there is no bed in them; only a wooden platform,

raised over the stone floor. It is for gutter drunkards--too foul, too

loathsome to be placed upon a bed--turned in here like swine, to wallow

in the same slough. Oh, how few, who, festively sipping the rosy wine,

say “_my_ mountain stands strong,” e’er dream of such an end as this.

Look there! tread softly: angels are near us. Through the grated

window the light streams faintly upon a little pallet, where, sweet

as a dream of heaven, lies a sleeping babe! Over its cherub face a

smile is flitting. The cell has no other occupant; angels only watch

the slumbers of the prison-cradled. The place is holy. I stoop to kiss

its forehead. From the crowd of women pacing up and down the guarded

gallery, one glides gently to my side, saying, half proudly, half

sadly, “’Tis _my_ babe.”

“It is _so_ sweet, and pure, and holy,” said I.

The mother’s lip quivered; wiping away a tear with her apron, she

said, in a choking voice:

“Ah, it is little the likes of you, ma’am, know how hard it is for us

to get the honest bread!”

God be thanked, thought I, that there is one who “judgeth _not_ as

man judgeth;” who holdeth evenly the scales of justice; who weigheth

against our sins the _whirlpool_ of our temptations, who forgetteth

never the countless struggles for the victory, ere the desponding,

weary heart shuts out the light of Heaven.

MRS. ZEBEDEE SMITH’S PHILOSOPHY.

Dear me! how expensive it is to be poor. Every time I go out, my best

bib and tucker has to go on. If Zebedee were worth a cool million, I

might wear a coal-hod on my head, if I chose, with perfect impunity.

There was that old nabob’s wife at the lecture, the other night, in

a dress that might have been made for Noah’s great grandmother. She

can afford it! Now, if it rains knives and forks, I must sport a ten

dollar hat, a forty dollar dress, and a hundred dollar shawl. If I go

to a concert, I must take the highest priced seat, and ride there and

back, just to let “Tom, Dick and Harry” see that I can afford it. Then,

we must hire the most expensive pew in the broad-aisle of a tip-top

church, and give orders to the sexton not to admit any strangers into

it who look snobbish. Then my little children, Napoleon Bonaparte and

Donna Maria Smith, can’t go to a public school, because, you know, we

shouldn’t have to pay anything.

Then, if I go shopping, to buy a paper of needles, I have to get a

little chap to bring them home, because it wouldn’t answer for me to

be seen carrying a bundle through the streets. We have to keep three

servants, where one might do; and Zebedee’s coats have to be sent to

the tailor when they need a button sewed on, for the look of the thing.

Then, if I go to the sea-shore, in summer, I can’t take my comfort,

as rich people do, in gingham dresses, loose shoes and cambric

sun-bonnets. No! I have to be done up by ten o’clock in a Swiss-muslin

dress, and a French cap; and my Napoleon Bonaparte and Donna Maria

can’t go off the piazza, because the big rocks and little pebbles cut

their toes so badly through their patent kid slippers.

Then, if Zebedee goes a fishing, he dare not put on a linen coat,

for the price of his reputation. No, indeed! Why, he never goes to the

barn-yard without drawing on his white kids. Then he orders the most

ruinous wines at dinner, and fees those white jackets, till his purse

is as empty as an egg-shell. I declare, it is abominably expensive. I

don’t believe rich people have the least idea how much it costs poor

people to live!

OPENING OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

Such a crowd, such a rush, such a confusion I never expect to see

again. Equestrians and pedestrians; omnibuses and carriages; soldiers,

civilians and _uncivil_-ians; carts and curricles; city exquisites,

and country nondescripts; men on the run; women tiptoe-ing, with

all sails spread; papas in a putter; fat men sweltering; lean men,

with tempers as sharp as their bones, ruthlessly pushing through the

crowd; musicians perspiring in tuneful agony; thermometer evidently

on a spree; shirt-collars prostrate; dust everywhere; police nowhere;

everybody in somebody’s way;--whizz--buzz--rattle--bang--crash--smash;

“Oh _dear_! where’s Pa?”--“Sarah Maria, take care of your

flounces.”--“Get out of the way, can’t you?”--“Take your cane out of my

eye, will you?”--“Mr. Jones, just see the way that baby’s best bonnet

is jammed!”--“Hurry!”--“I _can’t_ hurry; somebody has trod on my skirt,

and burst off the hooks; so much for not letting me wear Bloomers!

What a figure I cut, to appear before the President, and no chance to

apologize, Mr. Jones!”

--Well; it’s eleven o’clock, and after several abortive attempts,

we succeed in arresting an omnibus, labelled “for the Hippodrome and

Crystal Palace.” Away we go--dashing through the crowd, regardless

of limbs, vehicular or human. Broadway is lined, on either side, with

a dense throng of questionable looking expectants, waiting “to see

the procession.” Short people are at a discount; no chance for the

poor wretches, strain and tiptoe it as they will. One tall man, who

evidently knew the worth of his inches, seemed to think himself too

valuable to be let out all at once; so, he elevated himself, jack-screw

fashion, letting out one link of his vertebral column after another,

until he towered above his neighbors like a pine tree among scrub oaks.

What altitude he finally reached, I am unable to say, as he was still

on his way up (like Jack’s bean-stalk) when our omnibus passed him.

“Everything comes in use once in seven years,” says the old proverb.

I had often wondered of what earthly use could be the tottering

brick-piles, which disfigure every block in Broadway. To-day, I was

enlightened; they served admirably as points of observation for

the more adventurous spectators, and each pile was covered with

eager gazers. The windows overlooking Broadway were all filled with

neatly dressed ladies, and as the eye swept through this magnificent

thoroughfare, the rushing vehicles, the swaying, motley multitudes,

the gaily dressed ladies, the waving flags and banners which floated

over the more public and prominent edifices, presented an ever varying

panorama, that was far from being the least attractive and impressive

feature of the day. I have often thought when the people come out “to

see a sight,” that they themselves are far more imposing than what they

came to see.

On entering the Palace, we (my companion and I) found that all the

most eligible seats were already occupied, and that what were left were

reserved for some man of straw and his wife. It was no use to show

one’s ticket. “You mustn’t sit here!”--“You mustn’t sit there!”--“You

can’t stand in that place!”--“You can’t go there!”--“You can’t come

here!”--and so the throng went forlornly about and around--old men

and maidens--heads of families--clergymen--elegant ladies--all sorts

of people--seeking places whereon they might rest, and finding none.

We finally resolved on action, seized a couple of boxes of workmen’s

tools, emptied the contents on the floor, and converted the boxes into

comfortable seats, in the most commanding position in the eastern

gallery, notwithstanding the impertinent expostulations of the rosetted

officers.

Above us was the lofty stained dome, a most imposing feature;--flags

of all nations waved from the latticed balconies; beneath, the jeweled

arms of ladies fair gleamed and flashed in the sunlight. Directly

below us was Marochetti’s equestrian statue of Washington, of colossal

proportions. Years ago, dear general, you rode into my young affections

on that very horse, as represented on a ninepenny printed cotton

handkerchief, given me as a “reward of merit” for correctly “declining

to love”--(I wish I had always declined it!) In the immediate

neighborhood, our eye rested on a gigantic statue of Webster. There

were his features, certainly, all correct, by line and plummet; but

_where’s the expression_? It was soulless and corpse-like--it failed to

magnetize me.

An hour has passed; our eyes are weary with gazing; still, no

President. The singers have taken their places--the organ has emitted

one or two premonitory subterranean grumbles, and the platform is

beginning to fill with lesser dignitaries. The richly-cushioned

Presidential chair, has been wheeled about in the most inviting

locality; a huge bouquet is placed under it by way of _bait_, but

still the President doesn’t nibble! So we bide our time with what

patience we may--though the thought of a glass of ice-water, or a cake,

occasionally quenches our patience and patriotism.

Another hour has passed! Even feminine curiosity cannot exist much

longer on such unsubstantial aliment as pontifical robes and empty

glitter. My companion is certainly a wizard! He has conjured up some

ice cream and cake:--now I shall have strength to cheer the President.

Here he comes, God bless him! You won’t see a sight like that out of

America. The representative of a mighty nation--one of the mightiest on

earth--receiving the homage of expectant thousands, standing without

“star” or “order,” or insignia of power, other than that with which the

Almighty has stamped him. No “body guard,” no hedging him in from the

people. It is sublime!

--Now the Bishop reads an eloquent prayer; then follows an ode, sung

to the time-honored tune of _Old Hundred_, echoing from hundreds of

voices, through those deep naves, with such thrilling majesty that you

feel as if wings were growing from out your shoulders, and you _must_

soar; and suggesting the song of the redeemed, sung by thousands and

tens of thousands, before the great White Throne.

Now the speeches commence--but as I see a whole army of reporters,

down below, I shall use their ears instead of my own, and make my

escape while an omnibus is to be had. Some day, when the President is

not present to eclipse them, I shall return and examine all the _chef

de’oeuvres_ of art here collected.

--Stay! here’s a pretty conceit I must look at, as we pass along

out--a mock garden of moss and flowers, about the size of a lady’s work

table, from the center of which plays a fountain of eau de cologne,

beneath whose drops any lady can perfume her kerchief _en passant_, a

dainty invention for a boudoir. Need I say its birth-place is Paris.

There’s the statue of the Amazonian Queen, startled by the sudden

spring of a tiger at her horse’s throat. Hartshorn and smelling salts,

_it’s alive_!--no; it is lifeless bronze, but so full of vitality and

expression, it makes me shiver to look at it.

Now my eye is arrested by an imposing group of Thorwalsden, “Christ

and his Apostles.” It is not _my_ Christ. It is not He who said,

“Suffer little children to come unto me.” It is not He who said to the

weeping Magdalen, “Neither do I condemn thee.” It is not He who raised

for the meek Mary, the dead Lazarus. It is not He who, dying, cried,

“Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.” It is a form,

stern, unbending, forbidding. My heart refuses its allegiance.

But I fear I am wearying the reader; so, let me close by saying,

that what astonished me more than anything else, was the appearance

of four of the most consummate _Knaves_ in the world. They occupied

conspicuous positions during the public exercises, and in fact, all

the time I was there. Indeed, I am informed that they have been in

regular attendance ever since the Palace was opened, notwithstanding

they are well known, not only to the police, but to the officers of

the exhibition. It is even whispered that the latter named gentlemen

connive at their attendance, unblushingly bestow many attentions upon

them, and will, undoubtedly, permit them to be present during the

entire exhibition. That the public may know and recognize them, I will

give their names: they are the North Nave, the South Nave, the East

Nave, and the West Nave!

A LANCE COUCHED FOR THE CHILDREN.

You have a pretty, attractive child; she is warm-hearted and

affectionate, but vivacious and full of life. With judicious

management, and a firm, steady rein, she is a very lovable one. You

take her with you on a visit, or to make a call. You are busy, talking

with the friend you went to see. A gentleman comes in and throws

himself indolently on the sofa. His eye falls upon little Kitty. He is

just in the mood to be amused, and makes up his mind to banter her a

little, for the sake of drawing her out. So he says--

“Jemima, dear--come here!”

The child blushes, and regards him as if uncertain whether he

intended to address her. He repeats his request, with a laugh.

She replies, “my name is Kitty, not Jemima,” which her tormentor

contradicts. Kitty looks puzzled, (just as he intended she should,)

but it is only for a moment. She sees he is quizzing her. Well, Miss

Kitty likes a frolic, if that is what he wants; so she gives him a pert

answer--he laughs uproariously, and rattles fun round her little ears

like a hail storm; Kitty has plenty of answers ready for him, and he

enjoys the sport amazingly.

By-and-by, he gets weary, and says,--“There--run away now, I’m going

to read the newspaper;” but Kitty is wide awake, and has no idea of

being cut short in that summary way; so she continues her Lilliputian

attacks, till finally he gets up and beats a despairing retreat,

muttering, “what a very _disagreeable_ child.”

Mamma sees it all from a distance; she does not interfere--no--for

she believes in “Children’s Rights.” Kitty was quiet, well behaved and

respectful--till the visitor undertook to quiz, and tease her, for his

own amusement. He wanted a frolic--and he has had it: _they who play

with children must take children’s play_.

A CHAPTER ON HOUSEKEEPING.

I never could see the reason why your smart housekeepers must, of

necessity, be Xantippes. I once had the misfortune to be domesticated

during the summer months with one of this genus.

I should like to have seen the adventurous spider that would have

dared to ply his cunning trade in Mrs. Carrot’s premises! Nobody was

allowed to sleep a wink after daylight, beneath her roof. Even her old

rooster crowed one hour earlier than any of her neighbors’. “Go ahead,”

was written on every broomstick in the establishment.

She gave her husband his breakfast, buttoned up his overcoat, and put

him out of the front door, with his face in the direction of the store,

in less time than I’ve taken to tell it. Then she snatched up the six

little Carrots; scrubbed their faces, up and down, without regard to

feelings or noses, till they shone like a row of milk pans.

“Clear the track” was her motto, washing and ironing days. She never

drew a long breath till the wash-tubs were turned bottom upwards again,

and every article of wearing apparel sprinkled, folded, ironed, and

replaced on the backs of their respective owners. It gave me a stitch

in the side to look at her!

As to her “cleaning days,” I never had courage to witness one. I used

to lie under an apple tree in the orchard, till she was through. A

whole platoon of soldiers wouldn’t have frightened me so much as that

virago and her mop.

You should have seen her in her glory on “baking days;” her sleeves

rolled up to her arm-pits, and a long, check apron swathed around her

bolster-like figure. The great oven glowing, blazing, and sparkling,

in a manner very suggestive, to a lazy sinner, like myself. The

interminable rows of greased pie-plates; the pans of rough and ready

gingerbread; the pots of pork and beans, in an edifying state of

progression; and the immense embryo loaves of brown and wheaten bread.

To my innocent inquiry, whether she thought the latter would “rise,”

she set her skinny arms akimbo, marched up within kissing distance of

my face, cocked her head on one side, and asked if I thought she looked

“like a woman to be trifled with by a loaf of bread!” The way I settled

down into my slippers, without a reply, probably convinced her that I

was no longer skeptical on that point.

Saturday evening she employed in winding up everything that was

unwound in the house--the old entry clock included. From that time till

Monday morning, she devoted to her husband and Sabbatical exercises.

All I have to say is, it is to be hoped she carried some of the fervor

of her secular employments into those halcyon hours.

BARNUM’S MUSEUM.

It is possible that every stranger may suppose, as I did, on first

approaching Barnum’s Museum, that the greater part of its curiosities

are on the outside, and have some fears that its internal will not

equal its external appearance. But, after crossing the threshold, he

will soon discover his mistake. The first idea suggested will perhaps

be that the view, from the windows, of the motley, moving throng in

Broadway--the rattling, thundering carts, carriages and omnibuses--the

confluence of the vehicular and human tides which, from so many

quarters, come pouring past the museum--is, (to adopt the language of

advertisements,) “worth double the price of admission.”

The visitor’s attention will unquestionably be next arrested by the

“Bearded Lady of Switzerland”--one of the most curious curiosities ever

presented. A card, in pleasant juxtaposition to the “lady,” conveys

the gratifying intelligence that, “Visitors are allowed to touch the

beard.” Not a man in the throng lifts an investigating finger! Your

penetration, Madame Clofullia, does you infinite credit. You knew well

enough that your permission would be as good as a handcuff to every

pair of masculine wrists in the company. For my own part, I should no

more meddle with your beard, than with Mons. Clofullia’s. I see no

feminity in it. Its shoe-brush aspect puts me on my decorum. I am glad

you raised it, however, just to show Barnum that there is something

“new under the sun,” and to convince men in general that a woman can

accomplish about anything she undertakes.

I have not come to New York to stifle my inquisitiveness. How did

you raise that beard? Who shaves first in the morning? you, or your

husband? Do you use a Woman’s Rights razor? Which of you does the

_strap_-ping? How does your baby know you from its father? What do you

think of us, smooth-faced sisters? Do you (between you and me) prefer

to patronize dress-makers, or tailors? Do you sing tenor, or alto? Are

you master, or mistress of your husband’s affections?--Well, at all

events, it has been something in your neutral pocket to have “tarried

at Jericho till your beard was grown.”

--What have we here? Canova’s Venus. She is exquisitely beautiful,

standing there, in her sculptured graces; but where’s the Apollo?

Ah, here’s a sleeping Cupid, which is better. Mischievous little

imp! I’m off before you wake!--Come we now to a petrifaction of a

horse and his rider, crushed in the prehensile embrace of a monstrous

serpent, found in a cave where it must have lain for ages, and upon

which one’s imagination might pleasantly dwell for hours.--Then, here

are deputations from China-dom, in the shape of Mandarins, ladies

of quality, servants, priests, &c., with their chalky complexions,

huckleberry eyes and shaven polls. Here, also, is a Chinese criminal,

packed into a barrel, with a hole in the lid, from which his head

protrudes, and two at the sides, from whence his helpless paws depend.

Poor Min Yung, you ought to reflect on the error of your ways, though,

I confess, you’ve not much chance to _room_-inate.

Here are snakes, insects, and reptiles of every description, corked

down and pinned up, as all such gentry should be,--most of them, I

perceive, labeled in the masculine gender! Then there’s a “bear,” the

thought of whose hug makes me utter an involuntary _pater noster_, and

cling closer to the arm of my guide. I tell you what, old Bruin, as I

hope to travel, I trust you’ve left none of your cubs behind.

--Here is a group of Suliote chiefs, and in their midst Lord Byron,

with his shirt upside down; and here is the veritable carriage that

little Victoria used to ride in, before the crown of royalty fretted

her fair, girlish temples. Poor little embryo queen! How many times

since, do you suppose, she has longed to step out of those bejeweled

robes, drop the burdens state imposes, and throw her weary limbs, with

a child’s careless _abandon_, on those silken cushions, free to laugh

or cry, to sing or sigh.

--Then, here’s a collection of stuffed birds, whose rainbow plumage

has darted through clustering foliage, fostered in other latitudes

than ours. Nearly every species of beings that crawl, or fly, or walk,

or swim, is here represented. And what hideous monsters some of them

are! A “pretty kettle of fish,” some of the representatives of the

finny tribe would make! I once thought I would like to be buried in the

ocean, but I discarded that idea before I had been in the museum an

hour. I shouldn’t want such a “scaly set” of creatures swimming in the

same pond with me.

--I had nearly forgotten to mention the “Happy Family.” Here are

animals and birds which are the natural prey of each other, living

together in such pleasant harmony as would make a quarrelsome person

blush to look upon. A sleek rat, probably overcome by the oppressive

weather, was gently dozing--a cat’s neck supporting his sleepy head in

a most pillow-ly manner. Mutual vows of friendship had evidently been

exchanged and rat-ified by these natural enemies. I have not time to

mention in detail the many striking instances of fraternization among

creatures which have been considered each other’s irreconcilable foes.

Suffice it to say that Barnum and Noah are the only men on record who

have brought about such a state of harmonic antagonisms, and that

Barnum is the only man who has ever made money by the operation.

--Heigho! time fails us to explore all the natural wonders gathered

here, from all climes, and lands, and seas, by the enterprise of

perhaps the only man who could have compassed it. We turn away, leaving

the greater portion unexamined, with an indistinct remembrance of what

we have seen, but with a most distinct impression that the “getting up”

of Creation was no ordinary affair, and wondering how it could ever

have been done in six days.

A FERN REVERIE.

Dear me, I must go shopping. Shopping is a nuisance: clerks are

impertinent: feminity is victimized. Miserable day, too: mud plastered

an inch thick on the side walk. Well, if we drop our skirts, gentlemen

cry “Ugh!” and if we lift them from the mud, they level their

eye-glasses at our ankles. The true definition of a gentleman (not

found in incomplete Webster) is--a biped, who, of a muddy day, is

perfectly oblivious of anything but the shop signs.

_Vive la France!_ Ingenious Parisians, send us over your clever

invention--a chain suspended from the girdle, at the end of which is

a gold _hand_ to clasp up the superfluous length of our promenading

robes; thus releasing our human digits, and leaving them at liberty to

wrestle with rude Boreas for the possession of the detestable little

sham bonnets, which the milliners persist in hanging on the backs of

our necks.

Well, here we are at Call & Ketchum’s dry-goods store. Now comes the

tug of war: let Job’s mantle fall on my feminine shoulders.

“Have you _blue_ silk?”

Yardstick, entirely ignorant of colors, after fifteen minutes of

snail-like research, hands me down a silk that is as _green_ as

himself.

Oh! away with these stupid masculine clerks, and give us _women_, who

know by intuition what we want, to the immense saving of our lungs and

leather.

Here’s Mr. Timothy Tape’s establishment.

“Have you lace collars, (in points,) Mr. Tape?”

Mr. Tape looks beneficent, and shows me some _rounded_ collars. I

repeat my request in the most pointed manner for _pointed_ collars. Mr.

Tape replies, with a patronizing grin:

“Points is going out, Ma’am.”

“So am I.”

Dear me, how tired my feet are! nevertheless, I must have some

merino. So I open the door of Mr. Henry Humbug’s dry-goods store, which

is about half a mile in length, and inquire for the desired article.

Young Yardstick directs me to the counter, at the _extreme_ end of

the store. I commence my travels thitherward through a file of gaping

clerks, and arrive there just ten minutes before two, by my repeater;

when I am told “they are quite out of merinos; but won’t Lyonnese cloth

do just as well?” pulling down a pile of the same. I rush out in a

high state of frenzy, and, taking refuge in the next-door neighbor’s,

inquire for some stockings. Whereupon the clerk inquires (of the wrong

customer,) “What price I wish to pay?” Of course, I am not so verdant

as to be caught in that trap; and, teetotally disgusted with the entire

institution of shopping, I drag my weary limbs into Taylor’s new

saloon, to rest.

Bless me! what a display of gilding, and girls, and gingerbread! what

a heap of mirrors! There’s more than one Fanny Fern in the world. I

found that out since I came in.

“What will you be pleased to have?” J-u-l-i-u-s C-æ-s-a-r! look at

that white-aproned waiter pulling out his snuff-box and taking a pinch

of snuff right over that bowl of white sugar, that will be handed me in

five minutes to sweeten my tea! And there’s another combing his hair

with a pocket-comb, over that dish of oysters.

“What will I have?” Starve me, if I’ll have anything, till I can find

a cleaner place than this to eat in.

Shade of old Paul Pry Boston! what do I hear? Two--(well I declare,

I am not sure whether they are ladies or women; I don’t understand

these New York feminities). At any rate, they wear bonnets, and are

telling the waiter to bring them “a bottle of Maraschino de Zara,

some sponge-cake, and some brandy drops!” See them sip the cordial

in their glasses, with the gusto of an old toper. See their eyes

sparkle and their cheeks flush, and just hear their emancipated little

tongues go. Wonder if their husbands know that they--but of course

they don’t. However, it is six of one and half a dozen of the other.

They are probably turning down sherry cobblers, and eating oysters, at

Florence’s; and their poor hungry children (while their parents are

dainty-izing) are coming home hungry from school, to eat a fragmentary

dinner, picked up at home by a lazy set of servants.

Heigho! Ladies sipping wine in a public saloon! Pilgrim rock! hide

yourself under-ground! Well, it is very shocking the number of married

women who pass their time ruining their health in these saloons,

devouring Parisian confectionary, and tainting their children’s blood

with an appetite for strong drink. Oh, what a mockery of a home must

theirs be! Heaven pity the children reared there, left to the chance

training of vicious hirelings.

APOLLO HYACINTH.

“There is no better test of moral excellence, than the keenness

of one’s sense, and the depth of one’s love, of all that is

beautiful.”--_Donohue._

I don’t endorse that sentiment. I am acquainted with Apollo Hyacinth.

I have read his prose, and I have read his poetry; and I have cried

over both, till my heart was as soft as my head, and my eyes were as

red as a rabbit’s. I have listened to him in public, when he was, by

turns, witty, sparkling, satirical, pathetic, till I could have added

a codicil to my will, and left him all my worldly possessions; and

possibly you have done the same. He has, perhaps, grasped you cordially

by the hand, and, with a beaming smile, urged you, in his musical

voice, to “call on him and Mrs. Hyacinth;” and you have called: but,

did you ever find him “in?” You have invited him to visit you, and have

received a “gratified acceptance,” in his elegant chirography; but,

_did he ever come_? He has borrowed money of you, in the most elegant

manner possible; and, as he deposited it in his beautiful purse, he has

assured you, in the choicest and most happily chosen language, that he

“should never forget your kindness;” but, _did he ever pay_?

Should you die to-morrow, Apollo would write a poetical obituary

notice of you, which would raise the price of pocket-handkerchiefs; but

should your widow call on him in the course of a month, to solicit his

patronage to open a school, she would be told “he was out of town,” and

that it was “quite uncertain when he would return.”

Apollo has a large circle of relatives; but his “keenness of

perception, and deep love, of the beautiful” are so great, that none of

them _exactly_ meet his views. His “moral excellence,” however, does

not prevent his making the most of them. He has a way of dodging them

adroitly, when they call for a reciprocation, either in a business or a

social way; or, if, at any time, there is a necessity for inviting them

to his house, he does it when he is at his _country_ residence, where

their _greenness_ will not be out of place.

Apollo never says an uncivil thing--never; he prides himself on that,

as well as on his perfect knowledge of human nature; therefore, his

sins are all sins of omission. His tastes are very exquisite, and his

nature peculiarly sensitive; consequently, he cannot bear trouble. He

will tell you, in his elegant way, that trouble “annoys” him, that it

“bores” him; in short, that it unfits him for life--for business; so,

should you hear that a friend or relative of his, even a brother or a

sister, was in distress, or persecuted in any manner, you could not do

Apollo a greater injury (in his estimation) than to inform him of the

fact. It would so grate upon his sensitive spirit,--it would so “annoy”

him; whereas, did he not hear of it until the friend, or brother, or

sister, were relieved or buried, he could manage the matter with his

usual urbanity and without the slightest draught upon his exquisitely

sensitive nature, by simply writing a pathetic and elegant note,

expressing the keenest regret at not having known “all about it” in

time to have “flown to the assistance of his dear”----&c.

Apollo prefers friends who can stand grief and annoyance, as a

rhinoceros can stand flies--friends who can bear their own troubles and

all his--friends who will stand between him and everything disagreeable

in life, and never ask anything in return. To such friends he clings

with the most touching tenacity--as long as he can use them; but

let their good name be assailed, let misfortune once overtake them,

and his “moral excellence” compels him, at once, to ignore their

existence, until they have been extricated from all their troubles, and

it has become perfectly safe and _advantageous_ for him to renew the

acquaintance.

Apollo is keenly alive to the advantages of social position, (not

having always enjoyed them;) and so, his Litany reads after this

wise: From all questionable, unfashionable, unpresentable, and vulgar

persons, Good Lord, deliver us!

SPOILED LITTLE BOY.

“Boo-hoo!--I’ve eaten so--m-much bee-eef and t-turkey, that I

can’t eat any p-p-plum p-p-pudding!”

Miserable little Pitcher! Take your fists out of your eyes, and know

that thousands of grown-up pinafore graduates, are in the same Slough

of Despond with your epicurean Lilliputian-ship. Having washed the

platter clean of every crumb of “common fixins,” they are left with

cloyed, but tantalizing desires, for the spectacle of some mocking

“plum pudding.”

“_Can’t eat your pudding!_”

Why, you precious, graceless young glutton! you have the start of me,

by many an _ache_-r. I expect to furnish an appetite for every “plum

pudding” the fates are kind enough to cook for me, from this time till

Teba Napoleon writes my epitaph.

Infatuated little Pitcher! come sit on my knee, and take a little

advice. Don’t you know you should only take a nibble out of each dish,

and be parsimonious at that; always leaving off, be the morsel ever

so dainty, before your little jacket buttons begin to tighten; while

from some of the dishes, you should not even lift the cover; taking

aunt Fanny’s word for it, that their spicy and stimulating contents

will only give you a pain under your apron. Bless your little soul,

life’s “bill of fare” can be spun out as ingeniously as a cobweb, if

you only understand it; and then you can sit in the corner, in good

digestive order, and catch your flies! But if you once get a surfeit of

a dainty, it takes the form of a pill to you, ever after, unless the

knowing _cuisinier_ disguise it under some novel process of sugaring;

and sadder still, if you exhaust yourself in the gratification of gross

appetites, you will be bereft of your faculties for enjoying the pure

and heavenly delights which “Our Father” has provided as a _dessert_

for his children.

A “BROWN STUDY”--SUGGESTED BY BROWN VAILS.

“Why _will_ ladies wear those ugly brown vails, which look like

the burnt edge of a buckwheat cake? We vote for green

ones.”--_Exchange._

Mr. Critic: Why don’t you hit upon something objectionable? Such as

the passion which stout ladies have for wearing immense plaids, and

whole stories of flounces! Such as thin, bolster-like looking females

wearing narrow stripes! Such as brunettes, gliding round like ghosts,

in pale blue! Such as blondes blowing out like dandelions in bright

yellow! Such as short ladies swathing up their little fat necks in

voluminous folds of shawls, and _shingle_ women, rejoicing in strips of

mantles!

_Then the gentlemen!_

Your stout man is sure to get into a frock coat, with baggy trowsers;

your May-pole, into a long-waisted body-coat, and “continuations”

unnecessarily compact; your dark man looks like an “east wind”

daguerreotyped, in a light blue neck-tie; while your pink-and-white

man looks as though he wanted a pitcher of water in his face, in a

salmon-colored or a black one.

Now allow _me_ to suggest. Your thin man should always close the

thorax button of his coat, and the last two at his waistband, leaving

the intermediate open, to give what he needs--more breadth of chest.

Your stout man, who has almost always a nice arm and hand, should have

his coat sleeve a _perfect fit_ from the elbow to the wrist, buttoning

_there tightly_--allowing a nice strip of a white linen wristband below

it.

I understand the architecture of a coat to a charm; know as quick as

a flash whether ’tis all right, the minute I clap my eye on it. As to

vests, I call myself a connoisseur. “_Stocks_” are only fit for Wall

Street! Get yourself some nice silk neck-ties, and ask your wife, or

somebody who knows something, to longitudinize them to your jugular.

Throw your colored, embroidered, and ruffled shirt-bosoms overboard;

leave your cane and cigar at home; wear a pair of neat, _dark_ gloves;

sport an immaculate pocket-handkerchief and dicky--don’t say naughty

words--give us ladies the _inside_ of the walk--speak of every woman as

you would wish _your_ mother or _your_ sister spoken of, and you’ll do!

INCIDENT AT THE FIVE POINTS HOUSE OF INDUSTRY.

To be able to appreciate Mr. Pease’s toils, and sacrifices, and

self-denying labors at the Five Points House of Industry, one must

visit the locality:--one must wind through those dirty streets and

alleys, and see the wrecks of humanity that meet him at every step;--he

must see children so dirty and squalid that they scarcely resemble

human beings, playing in filthy gutters, and using language that would

curdle his blood to hear from _childhood’s_ lips;--he should see men,

“made in God’s own image,” brutalised beyond his power to imagine;--he

should see women (girls of not more than twenty years) reeling about

the pavements in a state of beastly intoxication, without a trace of

feminity in their vicious faces;--he should pass the rum shops, where

men and women are quarreling and fighting and swearing, while childhood

listens and _learns_!--he should pass the second-hand clothes cellars,

where hard-featured Jewish dealers swing out faded, refuse garments,

(pawned by starving virtue for bread,) to sell to the needy, half-naked

emigrant for his last penny;--he should see decayed fruit and

vegetables which the most ravenous swine might well root twice over

before devouring, purchased as daily food by these poor creatures;--he

should see _gentlemen_ (?) threading these streets, not to make all

this misery less, God knows, but to sever the last thread of hope to

which many a tempted one is despairingly clinging.

One must see all this, before he can form a just idea of the

magnitude and importance of the work that Mr. Pease has single-handed

and nobly undertaken; remembering that men of wealth and influence have

their own reasons for using that wealth and influence to perpetuate

this modern Sodom.

One should spend an hour in Mr. Pease’s house, to see the constant

drafts upon his time and strength, in the shape of calls and messages,

and especially the applications for relief that _his_ slender purse

alas! is often not able to answer;--he should see his unwearied

patience and activity, admire the kind, sympathetic heart--unaffected

by the toil or the frowns of temporizing theorists--ever warm, ever

pitiful, giving not only “the _crumbs_ from his table,” but often his

own meals to the hungry--his own wardrobe to the naked;--he should see

_this_, and go away _ashamed_ to have lived so long and done so little

to help the maimed, and sick, and lame, to Bethesda’s Pool.

I will relate an incident which occurred, some time since, at

the House of Industry, and which serves as a fair sample of daily

occurrences there.

One morning an aged lady, of respectable appearance, called at the

Mission House and enquired for Mr. Pease. She was told that he was

engaged, and asked if some one else would not do as well. She said,

respectfully, “No; my business is with him; I will wait, if you please,

till he can see me.”

Mr. Pease immediately came in, when the old lady commenced her story:

“I came, sir,” said she, “in behalf of a poor, unfortunate woman and

three little children. She is living now”--and the tears dropped over

her wrinkled face--“in a bad place in Willet-street, in a basement.

There are rum shops all around it, and many drunken people about the

neighborhood. She has made out to pay the rent, but has had no food for

the poor little children, who have subsisted on what they could manage

to beg in the day time. The landlord promised, when she hired the

basement, to put a lock on the door, and make it comfortable, so that

‘the Croton’ need not run in; but he got his rent and then broke his

promise, and they have not seen him since.”

“Is the woman respectable?” enquired Mr. Pease.

“Yes--no--not exactly,” said the poor old lady, violently agitated.

“She was well brought up. She has a good heart, sir, but a bad head,

and then trouble has discouraged her. Poor Mary--yes sir, it _must_

have been the _trouble_--for I know her _heart_ is good, sir. I”--tears

choked the old lady’s utterance. Recovering herself; she continued:

“She had a kind husband once. He was the father of her two little

girls: six years ago he died, and--the poor thing--oh, sir, you don’t

know how dear she is to _me_!” and burying her aged face in her hands,

she sobbed aloud.

Mr. Pease’s kind heart interpreted the old lady’s emotion, without

the pain of an explanation. In the weeping woman before him he saw the

_mother_ of the lost one.

Yes, she was “Mary’s” mother. Poverty could not chill her love; shame

and the world’s scorn had only filled her with a God-like pity.

After a brief pause, she brushed away her tears and went on:

“Yes, sir; Mary was a good child to me _once_; she respected religion

and religious people, and used to love to go to church, but lately,

sir, God knows she has almost broke my heart. Last spring I took her

home, and the three dear children; but she would not listen to me, and

left without telling me where she was going. I heard that there was a

poor woman living in a basement in Willet street, with three children,

and my heart told me that that was my poor, lost Mary, and there I

found her. But, oh, sir--oh, sir”--and she sobbed as if her heart were

breaking--“_such_ a place! _My_ Mary, that I used to cradle in these

arms to sleep, that lisped her little evening prayer at _my_ knee--_my_

Mary, _drunk_ in that terrible place!”

She was getting so agitated that Mr. Pease, wishing to turn the

current of her thoughts, asked her if she herself was a member of any

church. She said yes, of the ---- street Baptist Church. She said she

was a widow, and had had one child beside Mary--a son. And her face

lighted up as she said:

“Oh sir, he was such a _fine_ lad. He did all he could to make me

happy; but he thought, that if he went to California he could make

money, and when he left he said ‘Cheer up, dear mother; I’ll come back

and give my money all to _you_, and you shall never work any more.’”

“I can see him now, sir, as he stood there, with his eye kindling.

Poor lad! poor lad! He came back, but it was only to die. His last

words were, ‘God will care for you, mother--I know it--when I’m gone to

Heaven.’ Oh! if I could have seen my poor _girl_ die as he did, before

she became so bad. Oh, sir, _won’t_ you take her _here_?--_won’t_ you

try to make her good?--_can’t_ you make her good, sir? I _can’t_ give

Mary up. Nobody cares for Mary now but me. Won’t you try, sir?”

Mr. Pease promised that he would do all he could, and sent a person

out with the old lady, to visit “Mary,” and obtain particulars: he soon

returned and corroborated all the old lady’s statements. Mr. Pease then

took a friend and started to see what could be done.

In Willet street is a rickety old wooden building, filled to

overflowing with the very refuse of humanity. The basement is lighted

with two small windows half under ground; and in this wretched hole

lived Mary and her children. As Mr. Pease descended the steps into

the room, he heard some one say, “Here he comes, grandmother! he’s

come--he’s come!”

The door was opened. On a pile of rags in the corner lay Mary, “my

Mary,” as the old lady tearfully called her.

God of mercy! what a wreck of beautiful womanhood! Her large blue

eyes glared with maniac wildness, under the influence of intoxication.

Long waves of auburn hair fell, in tangled masses, over a form wasted,

yet beautiful in its graceful outlines.

Poor, lost Mary!

“_Such_ a place!” as her mother had, weeping, said. Not a table, or

chair, or bedstead, or article of furniture in it, of any description.

On the mantle-piece stood a beer-bottle with a half burnt candle in its

nose. A few broken, dirty dishes stood upon the shelf, and a quantity

of filthy rags lay scattered round the floor.

The grandmother was holding by the hand a sweet child of eight years,

with large, bright eyes, and auburn hair (like poor Mary’s) falling

about her neck. An older girl of twelve, with a sweet, Madonna face,

that seemed to light up even _that_ wretched place with a beam of

Heaven, stood near, bearing in her arms a babe of sixteen months, which

was not so large as one of eight months should have been. Its little

hands looked like bird’s claws, and its little bones seemed almost

piercing the skin.

The old lady went up to her daughter, saying, “Mary, dear, this is

the gentleman who is willing to take you to his house, if you will try

to be good.”

“Get out of the room, you old hypocrite,” snarled the intoxicated

woman, “or I’ll----(and she clutched a hatchet beside her)--I’ll show

you! You are the worst old woman I ever knew, except the one you

brought in here the other day, and she is a fiend outright. Talk to

_me_ about being _good_!--ha--ha”--and she laughed an idiot laugh.

“Mother,” said the eldest child, sweetly laying her little hand upon

her arm,--“_dear_ mother, don’t, please don’t hurt grandmother. She is

good and kind to us; she only wants to get you out of this bad place,

where you will be treated kindly.”

“Yes, dear mother,” chimed in the younger sister, bending her little

curly head over her, “mother, you said once you _would_ go. Don’t keep

us here any longer, mother. We are cold and hungry. Please get up and

take us away; we are afraid to stay here, mother, dear.”

“Yes, Mary,” said the old lady, handing her down a faded, ragged

gown, “here is your dress; put it on, wont you!”

Mary raised herself on the pile of rags on which she was lying, and

pushing the eldest girl across the room, screamed out, “Get away, you

impudent little thing! you are just like your old grandmother. I tell

you _all_,” said she, raising herself on one elbow, and tossing back

her auburn hair from her broad, white forehead, “I tell you all, I

_never_ will go from here, _never_! I _love_ this place. So many fine

people come here, and we have such good times. There is a gentleman

who takes care of me. He brought me some candles, last night, and he

says that I shan’t want for anything, if I will only get rid of these

troublesome children--_my husband’s_ children.” And she hid her face in

her hands and laughed convulsively.

“You may have _them_,” she continued, “just as soon as you like--baby

and all! but I never will go from this place. I _love_ it. A great many

fine people come here to see me.”

The poor old lady wrung her hands and wept, while the children clung

round their grandmother, with half-averted faces, trembling and silent.

Mr. Pease said to her, “Mary, you may either go with me, or I’ll

send for an officer and have you carried to the station-house. Which

will you do?”

Mary cursed and raved, but finally put on the dress the old lady

handed her, and consented to go with them. A carriage was soon

procured, and Mary helped inside--Mr. Pease lifting in the baby and the

two little girls, and away they started for the Five Points House of

Industry.

“Oh, mother!” exclaimed the younger of the girls, “how very pleasant

it is to ride in this nice carriage, and to get away from that dirty

place; we shall be so happy now, mother; and Edith and the baby too:

see, he is laughing: he likes to ride. You will love sister Edith and

baby, and me, _now_, wont you, dear mother? and you wont frighten us

with the hatchet any more, or hurt dear grandmother, will you?”

Arriving at Mr. Pease’s house, the delight of the little creatures

was unbounded. They caught hold of their mother’s faded dress, saying,

“Didn’t we _tell_ you, mother, that you would have a pleasant home

here? Only see that nice garden! you didn’t have a garden in Willet

Street, mother!”

Reader, would you know that mother’s after history?

Another “Mary” hath “bathed the Saviour’s feet” with her tears, and

wiped them with the hairs of her head. Her name is no longer written

Mary _Magdalena_. In the virtuous home of her aged mother, she sits

clothed in her right mind, “and her children rise up and call her

_blessed_.”

NANCY PRY’S SOLILOQUY.

I wonder if that is the bride, over at that window? Poor thing,

how I pity her! Every thing in her house so bran new and fresh and

uncomfortable. Furniture smelling like a mahogany coffin; every thing

set up spick and span in its place; not a picture awry; not a chair out

of its orbit; not a finger mark on the window panes; not a thread on

the carpet; not a curtain fold disarranged; china and porcelain set up

in alphabetical order in the pantry; bureau drawers fit for a Quaker;

no stockings, to mend; no strings or buttons missing; no old rag-bags

to hunt over; no dresses to re-flounce, or re-tuck, or re-fashionize;

not even a hook or eye absent. Sauce pans, pots, and kettles, fresh

from the “furnishing house;” servants fresh; house as still as a

cat-cornered mouse. Nothing stirring, nothing to do. Land of Canaan!

I should think it would be a relief to her to hear the braying and

roaring in Driesbach’s Menagerie.

Well, there’s one consolation; in all human probability, it is a

state of things that won’t last long.

FOR LITTLE CHILDREN.

“I love God and every little child.”--_Richter._

I wonder if I have any little pinafore friends among the readers of

_Fern Leaves_? any little Nellys, or Katys, or Billys, or Johnnys,

who ever think of Fanny? Do you know that I like children much better

than grown-up people? I should so like to have a whole lap full of

your bright eyes, and rosy cheeks, and dimpled shoulders, to kiss. I

should like to have a good romp with you, this very minute. I don’t

always keep this old pen of mine scratching. If a bright cloud comes

sailing past my window, I throw down my pen, toss up the casement,

and drink in the air, like a gipsey. I feel just as you do, when you

are pent up in school, some bright summer day, when the winds are at

play, and the flowers lie languidly drooping under the blue, arching

sky;--when the little butterfly poises his bright wings on the rose,

too full of joy even to sip its sweets;--when the birds sing, because

they can’t help it, and the merry little swallow skims the ground,

dips his bright wing in the lake, circles over head, and then flies,

twittering, back to his cunning little brown nest, under the eaves.

On such a day, _I_ should like to be your school-mistress. I’d throw

open the old school-room door, and let you all out under the trees. You

should count the blades of grass for a sum in addition; you should

take an apple from a tree, to learn subtraction; you should give me

kisses, to learn multiplication. You shouldn’t go home to dinner. No:

we’d all take our dinner-baskets and go into the woods; we’d hunt for

violets; we’d lie on the moss under the trees, and look up at the bits

of blue sky, through the leafy branches; we’d hush our breath when the

little chipmunk peeped out of his hole, and watch him slily snatch the

ripe nut for his winter’s store. And we’d look for the shy rabbit; and

the little spotted toad, with its blinking eyes; and the gliding snake,

which creeps out to sun itself on the old gray rock. We’d play hide and

seek, in the hollow trunks of old trees; we’d turn away from the gaudy

flowers, flaunting their showy beauty in our faces, and search, under

the glossy leaves at our feet, for the pale-eyed blossoms which nestle

there as lovingly as a timid little fledgling under the mother-bird’s

wing; we’d go to the lake, and see the sober, staid old cows stand

cooling their legs in the water, and admiring themselves in the broad,

sheeted mirror beneath; we’d toss little pebbles in the lake, and see

the circles they made, widen and widen toward the distant shore--like

careless words, dropped and forgotten, but reaching to the far-off

shore of eternity.

And then you should nestle ’round me, telling all your little griefs;

for well I know that childhood has its griefs, which are all the

keener because great, wise, grown-up people have often neither time

nor patience, amid the bustling whirl of life, to stop and listen to

them. I know what it is for a timid little child, who has never been

away from its mother’s apron string, to be walked, some morning, into a

great big school-room, full of strange faces;--to see a little urchin

laugh, and feel a choking lump come in your little throat, for fear he

was laughing at you;--to stand up, with trembling legs, in the middle

of the floor, and be told to “find big A,” when your eyes were so full

of tears that you couldn’t see anything;--to keep looking at the ferule

on the desk, and wondering if it would ever come down on your hand;--to

have some mischievous little scholar break your nice long slate-pencil

in two, to plague you, or steal your bit of gingerbread, out of your

satchel, and eat it up, or trip you down on purpose, and feel how

little the hard-hearted young sinners cared when you sobbed out, “I’ll

tell my mother.”

I know what it is, when you have lain every night since you were

born, with your hand clasped in your mother’s, and your cheek cuddled

up to hers, to see a new baby come and take your place, without even

asking your leave;--to see papa, and grandpa, and grandma, and uncle,

and aunt, and cousins, and all the neighbors, so glad to see it, when

_your_ heart was almost broke about it. I know what it is to have

a great fat nurse (whom even mamma herself had to mind) lead you,

struggling, out of the room, and tell Sally to see that you didn’t

come into your own mamma’s room again all that day. I know what it is

to have that fat old nurse sit in mamma’s place at table, and cut up

your potato and meat all wrong;--to have her put squash on your plate,

when you _hate_ squash;--to have her forget (?) to give you a piece

of pie, and eat two pieces _herself_;--to have Sally cross, and Betty

cross, and everybody telling you to “get out of the way;”--to have your

doll’s leg get loose, and nobody there to hitch it on for you;--and

then, when it came night, to be put away in a chamber, all alone by

yourself to sleep, and have Sally tell you that “if you wasn’t good an

old black man would come and carry you off;”--and then to cuddle down

under the sheet, till you were half stifled, and tremble every time the

wind blew, as if you had an ague fit. Yes, and when, at last, mamma

came down stairs, I know how _long_ it took for you to like that new

baby;--how every time you wanted to sit in mamma’s lap, he’d be sure to

have the stomach-ache, or to want his breakfast; how he was _always_

wanting something, so that mamma couldn’t tell you pretty stories, or

build little blocks of houses for you, or make you reins to play horse

with; or do any of those nice little things, that she used to be always

doing for you.

To be sure, my little darlings, I know all about it. I have cried

tears enough to float a steamship, about all these provoking things;

and now whenever I see a little child cry, I never feel like laughing

at him: for I know that often his little heart is just ready to break,

for somebody to pet him. So I always say a kind word, or give him a pat

on the head, or a kiss; for I know that though the little insect has

but one grain to carry, he often staggers under it: and I have seen the

time when a kind word, or a beaming smile, would have been worth more

to me, than all the broad lands of merrie England.

Transcriber’s Note:

The illustrations which were plates in the book have been moved

near to the text they illustrate. The page numbers in the list of

illustrations are for the original position of the plates.

This book contains inconsistent hyphenations which have been left as

printed. Corrections to punctuation have been made without comment.

Other changes that have been made are:

Page 21 From he had whippped

To he had whipped

Page 21 From The guantlet of defiance

To The gauntlet of defiance

Page 128 From Susannna

To Susanna

Page 133 From Now take a a little advice

To Now take a little advice

Page 137 From INSIGNIFCANT LOVE

To INSIGNIFICANT LOVE

Page 141 From The more fuss the the better

To The more fuss the better

Page 263 From where-[new line]ever

To wherever

Page 279 From What on earth sent yon

To What on earth sent you

Page 356 From arrranging his furniture

To arranging his furniture

End of Project Gutenberg's Fern Leaves from Fanny's Port-folio., by Fanny Fern