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