yourself and then everybody else will help you.” Is it not as true as
the book of Job that it’s just driving the nails into your own coffin,
to let anybody know you want help! Is not a “seedy” hat, a threadbare
coat, or patched dress, an effectual shower-bath on old friendships?
Have not people a mortal horror of a sad face and a pitiful story? Don’t
they on hearing it, instinctively poke their purses into the furthest,
most remote corner of their pockets? Don’t they wrap their warm garments
round their well-fed persons, and advise you, in a saintly tone, “to
trust in Providence?” Are they not always “engaged” ever after, when you
call to see them? Are they not near-sighted when you meet them in the
street?—and don’t they turn short corners to get out of your way? “Help
yourself,”—of course you will, (if you have any spirit;)—but when
sickness comes, or dark days, and your wits and nerves are both
exhausted, don’t place any dependence on this lying proverb!—or you will
find yourself decidedly humbugged. And then, when your heart is so soft
that anybody could knock you down with a feather, get into the darkest
hole you can find, and cry it out! Then crawl out, bathe your eyes till
they shine again, and if you have one nice garment left, out with it,
put it on! turn your shawl on the brightest side; put your best and
prettiest foot foremost; tie on your go-to-meetin’ bonnet, and smile
under it, if it half kills you; and see how complaisant the world will
be when—you ask nothing of it!
But if (as there are exceptions to all rules), you should chance to
stumble upon a true friend (when you can only render thanks as an
equivalent for kindness) “make a note on’t,” as Captain Cuttle says, for
it don’t happen but once in a life-time!
A MODEL HUSBAND
Mrs. Perry, a young Bloomer, has eloped from Monson, Massachusetts,
with Levins Clough. When her husband found she was determined to go,
he gave her one hundred dollars to start with.
Magnanimous Perry! Had I been your spouse, I should have handed that
“one hundred dollar bill” to Mr. Levins Clough, as a healing plaster for
his disappointed affections—encircled your neck with my repentant arms,
and returned to your home. Then, I’d mend every rip in your coat,
gloves, vest, pants, and stockings, from that remorseful hour, till the
millennial day. I’d hand you your cigar-case and slippers, put away your
cane, hang up your coat and hat, trim your heard and whiskers, and wink
at your sherry-cobblers, whisky punches, and mint juleps. I’d help you
get a “ten strike” at ninepins. I’d give you a “night-key,” and be
perfectly oblivious what time in the small hours you tumbled into the
front entry. I’d pet all your stupid relatives, and help your country
friends to “beat down” the city shopkeepers. I’d frown at all offers of
“pin money.” I’d let you “smoke” in my face till I was as brown as a
herring, and my eyes looked as if they were bound with pink tape; and
I’d invite that pretty widow Delilah Wilkins to dinner, and run out to
do some shopping, and stay away till tea-time. Why, there’s nothing I
_wouldn’t_ do for you—you might have knocked me down with a feather
after such a piece of magnanimity. That “Levins Clough” could stand no
more chance than a woodpecker tapping at an iceberg.
HOW IS IT?
“Well, Susan, what do you think of married ladies being happy?” “Why I
think there are more AIN’T than IS, than IS that AIN’T.”
Susan, I shall apply to the Legislature to have your name changed to
“Sapphira.” You are an unprincipled female.
Just imagine yourself MRS. Snip. It is a little prefix not to be sneezed
at. It is only the privileged few who can secure a pair of corduroys to
mend, and trot by the side of; or a pair of coat-flaps alternately to
darn, and hang on to, amid the vicissitudes of this patchwork existence.
Think of the high price of fuel, Susan, and the quantity it takes to
warm a low-spirited, single woman; and then think of having all that
found for you by your husband, and no extra charge for “gas.” Think how
pleasant to go to the closet and find a great boot-jack on your best
bonnet; or “to work your passage” to the looking-glass every morning,
through a sea of dickeys, vests, coats, continuations, and neck-ties;
think of your nicely-polished toilette table spotted all over with
shaving suds; think of your “Guide to Young Women” used for a razor
strop. Think of Mr. Snip’s lips being hermetically sealed, day after
day, except to ask you “if the coal was out, or if his coat was mended.”
Think of coming up from the kitchen, in a gasping state of exhaustion,
after making a hatch of his favourite pies, and finding five or six
great dropsical bags disemboweled on your chamber floor, from the
contents of which Mr. Snip had selected the “pieces” of your best silk
gown, for “rags” to clean his gun with. Think of his taking a
watch-guard you made him out of YOUR HAIR, for a dog-collar! Think of
your promenading the floor, night after night, with your fretful, ailing
baby hushed up to your warm cheek, lest it should disturb your husband’s
slumbers; and think of his coming home the next day, and telling you,
when you were exhausted with your vigils, “that he had just met his old
love, Lilly Grey, looking as fresh as a daisy, and that it was
unaccountable how much older you looked than she, although you were both
the same age.
Think of all that, Susan.
A MORNING RAMBLE.
What a lovely morning! It is a luxury to breathe. How blue the sky; how
soft the air; how fragrant the fresh spring grass and budding trees; and
with what a gush of melody that little bird eases his joy-burdened
heart.
“This world is very lovely. Oh, my God,
I thank Thee that I live.”
Clouds there are; but, oh, how much of sunshine! Sorrow there is; but,
in every cup is mingled a drop of balm. Over our threshold the
destroying angel passeth; yet, ere the rush of his dark wing sweepeth
past, cometh the Healer.
Here is a poor, blind man basking in the sunshine, silently appealing,
with outstretched palm, to the passer-by. Through his thin, gray locks
the wind plays lovingly. A smile beams on his withered face; for, though
his eyes are rayless, he can feel that chill Winter has gone; and he
knows that the flowers are blossoming—for the sweet west wind cometh,
God-commissioned, to waft him their fragrance. Some pedestrians gaze
curiously at him; others, like the Levite, “pass by on the other side.”
A woman approaches. She is plainly clad, and bears a basket on her arm.
She has a good, kind, motherly face, as if she were hastening back to
some humble home, made brighter and happier by her presence. Life is
sweet to her. She catches sight of the poor old man; her eye falls upon
the label affixed to his breast: “I am blind!” Oh, what if the
brightness and beauty of this glad sunshine were all night to her veiled
lids? What if the dear home faces were for ever shrouded from her
yearning sight? What if she might never walk the sunny earth, without a
guiding hand? She places her basket upon the side-walk, and wipes away a
tear; now she explores her time-worn pocket; finds the hardly-earned
coin, and placing it in the palm of the old man, presses his hand
lovingly, and is gone!
Poor Bartimeus! He may never see the honest face that bent so tenderly
over him; but, to his heart’s core, he felt that kindly pressure, and
the sunshine is all the brighter, and the breeze sweeter and fresher for
that friendly grasp, and life is again bright to the poor blind man.
“Oh God! I thank Thee that I live!”
* * * * *
How swiftly the ferry-boat ploughs through the wave! How gleefully that
little child claps its tiny hands, as the snowy foam parts on either
side, then dashes away like a thing of life. Here are weary business
men, going back to their quiet homes; and pleasure-loving belles,
returning from the city. Pacing up and down the deck is a worn and weary
woman, bearing in her arms a child, so emaciated, so attenuated, that
but for the restless glance of its dark, sunken eyes, one would think it
a little corpse. The mother has left her unhealthy garret in the noisome
lane of the teeming city, and paid her last penny to the ferryman, that
the health-laden sea breeze may fan the sick child’s temples. Tenderly
she moves it from one shoulder to another. Now, she lays its little
cheek to hers; now, she kisses the little slender fingers; but still the
baby moans. The boat touches the pier. All are leaving but the mother
and child; the ferryman tells her to “go too.” She says timidly, “I want
to return again—I live the other side—I came on board for the baby,”
(pointing to the dying child). Poor woman! she did not know that she
could not go back without another fee, and she has not a penny.
Loathsome as is her distant home, she must go back to it; but how?
One passenger beside herself still lingers listening. Dainty fingers
drop a coin into the gruff ferryman’s hand—then a handful into the
weary, troubled mother’s. The sickly babe looks up and smiles at the
chinking coin—the mother smiles, because the baby has smiled again—and
then weeps, because she knows not how to thank the lovely donor.
“Homeward bound.”
Over the blue waters the golden sunset gleams, tinting the snowy,
billowy foam with a thousand iris hues; while at the boat’s prow stands
the happy mother, wooing the cool sunset breeze, which kisses soothingly
the sick infant’s temples.
“This earth is very lovely. Oh, my God,
I thank Thee that I live!”
HOUR-GLASS THOUGHTS.
The bride stands waiting at the altar; the corpse lies waiting for
burial.
Love vainly implores of Death a reprieve; Despair vainly invokes his
coming.
The starving wretch, who purloins a crust, trembles in the hall of
Justice; liveried sin, unpunished, riots in high places.
Brothers, clad “in purple and fine linen, fare sumptuously every day;”
Sisters, in linsey-woolsey, toil in garrets, and shrink, trembling, from
insults that no fraternal arm avenges.
The Village Squire sows, reaps, and garners golden harvests; the Parish
Clergyman sighs, as his casting vote cuts down his already meagre
salary.
The unpaid sempstress begems with tears the fairy festal robe; proud
beauty floats in it through the ball-room like a thing of air.
Church spires point, with tapering fingers, to the rich man’s heaven;
Penitence, in rags, tearful and altarless, meekly stays its timid foot
at the threshold.
Sneaking Vice, wrapped in the labelled cloak of Piety, finds “open
sesame;” shrinking Conscientiousness, jostled rudely aside, weeps in
secret its fancied unworthiness.
The Editor grows plethoric on the applause of the public and mammoth
subscription lists; the _unrecognized_ journalist, who, behind the
scenes, mixes so deftly the newspaporial salad, lives on the smallest
possible stipend, and looks like an undertaker’s walking advertisement.
Wives rant of their “Woman’s Rights” in public; Husbands eat bad dinners
and tend crying babies at home.
Mothers toil in kitchens; Daughters lounge in parlours.
Fathers drive the plough; Sons drive tandem.
SOBER HUSBANDS.
“If your husband looks grave, let him alone; don’t disturb or annoy
him.”
Oh, pshaw! were I married, the soberer my husband looked the more fun
I’d rattle about his ears. _Don’t disturb him!_ I guess so! I’d salt his
coffee—and pepper his tea—and sugar his beef-steak—and tread on his
toes—and hide his newspaper—and sew up his pockets—and put pins in his
slippers—and dip his cigars in water—and I wouldn’t stop for the great
Mogul, till I had shortened his long face to my liking. Certainly, he’d
“get vexed;” there wouldn’t be any fun in teasing him if he didn’t; and
that would give his melancholy blood a good, healthful start; and his
eyes would snap and sparkle, and he’d say, “Fanny, WILL you be quiet or
not?” and I should laugh, and pull his whiskers, and say decidedly,
“_Not!_” and then I should tell him he hadn’t the slightest idea how
handsome he looked when he was vexed; and then he would pretend not to
hear the compliment, but would pull up his dicky, and take a sly peep in
the glass (for all that!); and then he’d begin to grow amiable, and get
off his stilts, and be just as agreeable all the rest of the evening _as
if he wasn’t my husband_; and all because I didn’t follow that stupid
bit of advice “to let him alone.” Just as if _I_ didn’t know! Just
imagine ME, Fanny, sitting down on a cricket in the corner, with my
forefinger in my mouth, looking out the sides of my eyes, and waiting
till that man got ready to speak to me! You can see at once it would be—
be—. Well, the amount of it is, _I shouldn’t do it_!
BOARDING-HOUSE EXPERIENCE.
Mr. Relph Renoux lived by his wits: _i. e._, he kept a boarding-house;
_taking in_ any number of ladies and gentlemen who, in the philanthropic
language of his advertisement, “pined for the comforts and elegances of
a home.”
Mr. Renoux’s house was at the court-end of the city; his drawing-room
was unexceptionably furnished, and himself, when “made up,” after ten
o’clock in the morning, quite _comme il faut_. Mrs. Renoux never
appeared; being, in the pathetic words of Mr. Renoux, “in a drooping,
invalid state nevertheless, she might be seen, by the initiated,
haunting the back stairs and entries, and with flying cap-strings,
superintending kitchen-cabinet affairs.
Mrs. Renoux was the unhappy mother of three unmarried daughters, with
red hair and tempers to match: who languished over Byron, in elegant
_negligées_, of a morning, till after the last masculine had departed;
then, in curl-papers and calico long-shorts, performed for the absentees
the duty of chamber-maids—peeping into valises, trunks, bureaus,
cigar-boxes and coat pockets, and replenishing their perfumed bottles
from the gentlemen’s toilet stands with the most perfect _nonchalance_.
At dinner they emerged from their chrysalis state into the most
butterfly gorgeousness, and exchanged the cracked treble, with which
they had been ordering round the overtasked maid-of-all-work, as they
affectionately addressed “Papa.”
* * * * *
At the commencement of my story, Renoux was as happy as a kitten with
its first mouse—having entrapped, with the bait of his alluring
advertisement, a widow lady with one child. “The comforts and elegances
of a home;”—it was just what the lady was seeking: how very fortunate!
“Certainly, Madam,” said Renoux, doubling himself into the form of the
letter C. “I will serve your meals in your own room, if you prefer; but
really, madam, I trust you will sometimes grace the drawing-room with
your presence, as we have a very select little family of boarders. Do
you choose to breakfast at eight, nine, or ten, Madam? Do you incline to
Mocha, or prefer the leaves of the Celestial city? Are you fond of eggs,
Madam? Would you prefer to dine at four or five? Do you wish six
courses, or more? There is the bell-rope, Madam. I trust you will use it
unsparingly, should anything be omitted or neglected. I am on my way
down town, and if you will favour me by saying what you would fancy for
your dinner to-day (the market is full of everything—fish, flesh, fowl,
and game of all sorts), you have only to express a wish, Madam, and the
thing is here; I should be miserable, indeed, were the request of a
_lady_ to be disregarded in _my_ house, and that lady deprived of her
natural protector. Which is it; Madam—fish? flesh? or fowl? Any letters
to send to the post-office, Madam? Any commands anywhere? I shall be
_too_ happy to be of service—and bending to the tips of his patent
leather toes, Mr. Renoux, facing the lady, bowed obsequiously and
Terpsichoreally out of the apartment.
The dinner hour came. An Irish servant girl came with it, and drawing
out a table at an Irish angle upon the floor, tossed over it a tumbled
table-cloth, placed upon it a castor, minus one leg, some cracked
salt-cellars and tumblers, then laid some knives, left-handed, about the
table, then withdrew to re-appear with the result of Mr. Renoux’s
laborious research “in the market filled with everything,” viz.: a
consumptive-looking mackerel, whose skin clung tenaciously to its back
bone, and a Peter Schlemel-looking chicken, which, in its life-time,
must have had a vivid recollection of Noah and the forty days’ shower,
This was followed by a dessert of baker’s stale tarts, compounded of
lard and dried apples; and twenty-four purple grapes.
* * * * *
The next morning Mr. Renoux tip-toed in, smirking and bowing, as if the
bill of fare had been the most sumptuous in the world, and expressed the
greatest astonishment and indignation, that “the stupid servant had
neglected bringing up the other courses which he had provided;” then he
inquired “how the lady had rested;” and when she preferred a request for
another pillow (there being only six feathers in the one she had) he
assured her that it should be in her apartment in less than one hour. A
fortnight after, he expressed the most intense disgust that “the
rascally upholsterer” had not yet sent _what he had never ordered_. Each
morning Mr. Renoux presented himself, at a certain hour, behind a very
stiff dickey, and offered the lady the morning papers. Seating himself
on the sofa, he would remark that—it was a very fine day, and that
affairs in France appeared to be _in statu quo_; or, that the Czar had
ordered his generals to occupy the Principalities; that Gortschakoff was
preparing to cross the Danube; that the Sultan had dispatched Omar Pacha
to the frontiers; that the latter gentleman had presented his card to
Gortschakoff, on the point of a yatagan, which courtesy would probably
lead to——something else!
During one of these agreeable calls, the lady took occasion slightly to
object to Betty’s nibbling the tarts as she brought them up for dinner;
whereupon Mr. Renoux declared, on the honour of a Frenchman, that “she
should be pitched out of the door immediately, if not sooner, and an
efficient servant engaged to take her place.”
The next day, the “efficient servant” came in, broom in hand, whistling
“Oh, Susanna,” and passing into the little dressing-room, to “put it to
rights,” amused herself by trying on the widow’s best bonnet, and
polishing her teeth and combing her hair with that lady’s immaculate and
individual head-brush and tooth-brush. You will not be surprised to
learn that their injured and long-suffering owner took-a frantic and
“French leave” the following morning, in company with her big and little
bandboxes, taking refuge under the sheltering roof of Madame Finfillan.
* * * * *
Madame Finfillan was a California widow; petite, plump, and pretty—who
bore her cruel bereavement with feminine philosophy, and slid round the
world’s rough angles with a most eel-like dexterity. In short, she was a
Renoux in petticoats. Madame welcomed the widow with great pleasure,
because, as she said, she “wished to fill her house only with
first-class boarders;” and the widow might be assured that she had the
apartments fresh from the diplomatic hands of the Spanish Consul, who
would on no account have given them up, had not his failing health
demanded a trip to the Continent. Madame also assured the widow, that
(although she said it herself) every part of her house would bear the
closest inspection; that those vulgar horrors, cooking butter, and
diluted tea, were never seen on her Epicurean table; that they
breakfasted at ten, lunched at two, dined at six, and enjoyed themselves
in the _interim_; that her daughter, Miss Clara, was perfectly well
qualified to superintend, when business called her mother away. And that
nobody knew (wringing her little white hands) how _much_ business she
had to do, what with trotting round to those odious markets, trading for
wood and coal, and such like uninteresting things; or what _would_
become of her, had she not some of the best friends in the world to look
after her, in the absence of Mons. Finfillan.
Madame then caught up the widow’s little boy, and, half smothering him
with kisses, declared that there was nothing on earth she loved so well
as children; that there were half-a-dozen of them in the house who loved
her better than their own fathers and mothers, and that their devotion
to her was at times quite touching—(and here she drew out an embroidered
pocket-handkerchief, and indulged in an interesting little sniffle
behind its cambric folds). Recovering herself, she went on to say, that
the manner in which some boarding-house keepers treated children was
perfectly inhuman; that she had a second table for them, to be sure, but
it was loaded with delicacies, and that she always put them up a little
school lunch herself; on which occasion there was always an amiable
little quarrel among them, as to which should receive from her the
greatest number of kisses; also, that it was her frequent practice to
get up little parties and tableaux for their amusement. “But here is my
daughter, Miss Clara,” said she, introducing a fair-haired young damsel,
buttoned up in a black velvet jacket, over a flounced skirt.
“Just sixteen yesterday,” said Madame; “naughty little blossom, budding
out so fast, and pushing her poor mamma off the stage;” (and here Madame
paused for a compliment, and looking in the opposite mirror, smoothed
her jetty ringlets complacently). “Yes, every morning little blossom’s
mamma looks in the glass, expecting to find a horror of a gray hair. But
what makes my little pet so pensive to-day?—thinking of her little
lover, hey? Has the naughty little thing a thought she does not share
with mamma? But, dear me!”—and Madame drew out a little dwarf watch; “I
had quite forgotten it is the hour Mons. Guigen gives me my guitar
lesson. Adieu: dinner at six, remember—and Madame tripped, coquettishly,
out of the room.
Yes; “dinner at six.” Gold salt-cellars, black waiters, and
finger-bowls; satin chairs in the parlour, and pastilles burning on the
side-table; but the sheets on the beds all torn to ribbons; the boarders
allowed but one towel a week; every bell-rope divorced from its bell;
the locks all out of order on the chamber doors; the “dear children’s”
bill of fare at the “second table”—sour bread, watery soup, and cold
buckwheat cakes—and “dinner at six,” only an invention of the enemy, to
save the expense of one meal a day—the good, cozy, old-fashioned tea.
Well, the boarders were all “trusteed” by Madame’s butcher, baker, and
milkman; Miss Clara eloped with the widow’s diamond ring and Mons.
Peneke; and Madame, who had heard that Mons. Finfillan was “among the
things that _were_,” was just about running off with Mons. Guigen, when
her liege lord suddenly returned from California, with damaged
constitution and morals, a dilapidated wardrobe and empty coffers.
Moral.—Beware of boarding-houses; in the words of Shakspere—
“Let those keep house who ne’er kept house before,
And those who have kept house, keep house the more.”
A GRUMBLE FROM THE (H)ALTAR.
This is the second day I’ve come home to dinner, without that yard of
pink ribbon for Mrs. Pendennis. Now we shall have a _broil_ not down in
the bill of fare. Julius Cæsar! if she only knew how much I have to do;
but it would make no difference if she did. I used to think a fool was
easily managed. Mrs. Pendennis has convinced me that _that_ was a
mistake. If I try to reason with her, she talks round and round in a
circle, like a kitten chasing its tail. If I set my arms akimbo, and
look threatening, she settles into a fit of the sulks, to which a
November drizzle of a fortnight’s duration is a millenium. If I try to
get round her by petting, she is as impudent as the——. Yes, just about.
Jerusalem! what a thing it is to be married! And yet, if an inscrutable
Providence should bereave me of Mrs. Pendennis, I am not at all
sure——good gracious, here she comes! Do you know I’d rather face one of
Colt’s revolvers this minute, than that four feet of womanhood? Isn’t it
astonishing, the way they do it?
A WICK-ED PARAGRAPH.
CONNUBIAL.—Mr. Albert Wicks, of Coventry, under date of December 28th,
advertised his wife as having left his bed and board; and now, under
date of March. 26th, he appends to his former notice, the following:—
“Mrs. Wicks, if you ever intend to come back and live with me any
more, you must come now or not at all.
“I love you as I do my life, and if you will come now, I will forgive
you for all you have done and threatened to do, which I can prove by
three good witnesses: and if not, I shall attend to your case without
delay, and soon, too.”
There, now, Mrs. Wicks, what is to be done? “Three good witnesses!”
think of _that_. What the mischief have you been about? Whatever it is,
Mr. Wicks is ready to “love you like his life.” Consistent Mr. Wicks!
Now take a little advice, my dear innocent, and don’t allow yourself to
be badgered or frightened into anything. None but a coward ever
threatens a woman. Put that in your memorandum book. It’s all bluster
and braggadocio. Thread your darning needle, and tell him you are ready
for him—ready for anything except his “loving you like his life;” that
you could not possibly survive that infliction without having your
“wick” snuffed entirely out.
Sew away, just as if there were not a domestic earthquake brewing under
your connubial feet. If it sends you up in the air, it sends him
too—there’s a pair of you! Put _that_ in his Wick-ed ear! Of course he
will sputter away as if he had swallowed a “Roman candle,” and you can
take a nap till he gets through, and then offer him your smelling-bottle
to quiet his nerves.
That’s the way to quench him!
MISTAKEN PHILANTHROPY.
“Don’t moralize to a man who is on his back. Help him up, set him
firmly on his feet, and then give him advice and means.”
There’s an old-fashioned, verdant piece of wisdom, altogether unsuited
for the enlightened age we live in! Fished up, probably, from some musty
old newspaper, edited by some eccentric man troubled with that
inconvenient appendage, called a heart! Don’t pay any attention to it.
If a poor wretch (male or female) comes to you for charity, whether
allied to you by your own mother, or mother Eve, put on the most
stoical, “get thee behind me” expression you can muster. Listen to him
with the air of a man who “thanks God he is not as other men are.” If
the story carry conviction with it, and truth and sorrow go hand in
hand, button your coat tighter over your pocket-book, and give him a
piece of—good advice! If you know anything about him, try to rake up
some imprudence or mistake he may have made in the course of his life,
and bring that up as a reason why you can’t give him anything more
substantial, and tell him that his present condition is probably a
salutary discipline for those same peccadilloes! Ask him more questions
than there are in the Assembly’s Catechism, about his private history;
and when you’ve pumped him high and dry, try to teach him (on an empty
stomach) the “duty of submission.” If the tear of wounded sensibility
begin to flood the eye, and a hopeless look of discouragement settle
down upon the face, “wish him well,” and turn your back upon him as
quick as possible.
Should you at any time be seized with an unexpected spasm of generosity,
and make up your mind to bestow some worn-out old garment that will
hardly hold together till the recipient gets it home, you’ve bought him,
body and soul; of course you are entitled to the gratitude of a
life-time! If he ever presumes to think differently from you after that,
he’s an “ungrateful wretch,” and “ought to suffer.” As to the “golden
rule,” that was made in old times; everything is changed now; ‘taint
suited to our meridian.
People shouldn’t get poor; if they do, you don’t want to be bothered
with it. It’s disagreeable; it hinders your digestion. You’d rather see
Dives than Lazarus; and it’s my opinion your taste will be gratified in
that particular (in the other world, if it is not in this!)
INSIGNIFICANT LOVE.
“You, young, loving creature, who dream of your lover by night and by
day—you fancy that he does the same of you? One hour, perhaps, your
presence has captivated him, subdued him even to weakness; the next,
he will be in the world, working his way as a man among men,
forgetting, for the time being, your very existence. Possibly, if you
saw him, his outer self, so hard and stern, so different from the self
you know, would strike you with pain. Or else his inner and diviner
self, higher than you dream of, would turn coldly from _your
insignificant love_.”
“Insignificant love!” I like that. More especially when out of ten
couple you meet, nine of the wives are as far above their husbands, in
point of mind, as the stars are above the earth. For the credit of the
men I should be sorry to say how many of them would be minus coats,
hats, pantaloons, cigars, &c., were it not for their wives’ earnings; or
how many smart speeches and able sermons have been concocted by their
better halves (while rocking the cradle), to be delivered to the public
at the proper time, parrot fashion, by the lords of creation. Wisdom
will die with the men; there’s no gainsaying that!
Catch a smart, talented, energetic woman, and it will puzzle you to find
a man that will compare with her for go-a-headativeness. The more
obstacles she encounters, the harder she struggles, and the more you try
to put her down, the more you won’t do it. Children are obliged to write
under their crude drawings, “this is a dog,” or “this is a horse.” If it
were not for coats and pants, we should be obliged to label, “this is a
man,” in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred!
“Insignificant love!” Why does a man offer himself a dozen times to the
same woman? Pity to take so much pains for such a trifle! “Insignificant
love!” Who gets you on your feet again, when you fail in business, by
advancing the nice little sum settled on herself by her anxious pa? Who
cheers you up, when her nerves are all in a double-and-twisted knot, and
you come home with your face long as the moral law? Who wears her old
bonnet three winters, while you smoke, and drive, and go to the opera?
Who sits up till the small hours, to help you find the way up your own
staircase? Who darns your old coat, next morning, just as if you were a
man, instead of a brute? And who scratches any woman’s eyes out, who
dares insinuate that her husband is superior to you!
“Insignificant love!” I wish I knew the man who wrote that article! I’d
appoint his funeral to-morrow, and it should come off, too!
A MODEL MARRIED MAN.
Cobbett says that for two years after his marriage he retained his
disposition to flirt with pretty women; but at last his wife—probably
having lost all hope of his reforming himself—gently tapped him upon
the arm, and remarked—
“Don’t do that. I do not like it.”
Cobbett says:—“That was quite enough. I had never thought on the
subject before; one hair of her head was more dear to me than all
other women in the world; and this I knew that she knew; but now I saw
that this was not all that she had a right to from me. _I saw that she
had the further claim upon me that I should abstain from everything
that might induce others to believe that there was any other woman for
whom, even if I were at liberty, I had any affection._”
Now I suppose most women, on reading that, would roll up their eyes and
think unutterable things of Mr. Cobbett! But, had _I_ borne his musical
name, and had that fine speech been addressed to me, I should
immediately have dismissed the—house-maid!
It is not in any masculine to get on his knees that way, without a
motive! I tell you that man was a humbug! overshot the mark, entirely;
promised ten times as much as a sinful masculine could ever perform. If
he had said about _a quarter part_ of that, you might have believed him.
His affection for Mrs. Cobbett was skin-deep. He would have flirted with
every one of you, the minute her back was turned, to the end of the
electrical chapter!
A man who is magnetized as he ought to be, don’t waste his precious time
making such long-winded, sentimental speeches. You never need concern
yourself, when such a glib tongue makes love to you. Go on with your
knitting; _he’s convalescent_! getting better of his complaint fast. Now
mind what I tell you; that Cobbett was a humbug!
MEDITATIONS OF PAUL PRY, JUN.
Not a blessed bit of gossip have I heard for a whole week! Nobody’s run
off with anybody’s wife; not a _single_ case of “Swartwouting;” no
minister’s been to the theatre; and my friend Tom, editor of the “Sky
Rocket,” (who never cares whether a rumour be true or false, or where it
hits, so that it makes a paragraph), is quite in despair. He’s really
afraid the world is growing virtuous—says it would be a hundred dollars
in his pocket, to get hold of a bit of scandal in such a dearth of news;
and if the accused party gets obstreperous, he’d just as lief publish
one side as the other! The more fuss the better; all he’s afraid of is,
they won’t think it worth noticing!
Ah! we’ve some new neighbours in that house; pretty woman there, at the
window; glad of that! In the first place, it rests my eyes to look at
them; in the next place, when there’s a pretty woman, you may be morally
certain there’ll be mischief, sooner or later, _i. e._ if they don’t
have somebody like me to look after them; therefore I shall keep my eye
on her. That’s her husband in the room, I’m certain of it (for all the
while she is talking to him, she’s looking out of the window!) There he
goes down street to his business—a regular humdrum, hen-pecked, “ledger”
looking Lilliputian. Was not cut out for her, that’s certain! Well, my
lady’s wide awake enough! Look at her eye! No use in pursing up that
pretty mouth!—that eye tells the story! Nice little plump figure;
coquettish turn of the head, and a spring to her step. Well, well, I’ll
keep my eyes open.
Just as I expected! there’s a young man ringing at the door; “patent
leather,” “kid gloves,” white hand, ring on the little finger—hope she
won’t shut the blinds now! There! she has taken her seat on the sofa at
the back part of the room. She don’t escape _me_ that way, while I own a
spy-glass! Jupiter! if he is not twisting her curls round his fingers!
Wonder how old “Ledger” would like _that_!
Tuesday.—Boy at the door with a bouquet. Can’t ring the bell; I’ll just
step out and offer to do it for him, and learn who sent it! “Has orders
not to tell;” umph! _I’ve_ no orders “not to tell;” so here goes a note
to Ledger about it; that little gipsy is stepping RATHER too high.
Wednesday.—Here I am tied up for a month at least; scarcely a whole bone
in my body, to say nothing of the way my feelings are hurt. How did I
know that young man was “her brother?” Why couldn’t Ledger correct my
mistake in a gentlemanly way, without daguerreotyping it on my back with
a horsewhip? It’s true I am not always correct in my suspicions, but he
ought to have looked at my motives! Suppose it hadn’t been her brother,
now! It’s astonishing, the ingratitude of people. It’s enough to
discourage all my attempts at moral reform!
Well, it’s no use attacking that hornet’s nest again; but I’ve no doubt
some of the commandments are broken somewhere; and with the help of some
“opodeldoc” I’ll get out and find where it is!
SUNSHINE AND YOUNG MOTHERS.
FOLLY.—For girls to expect to be happy without marriage. Every woman
was made for a mother; consequently, babies are as necessary to their
“peace of mind,” as health. If you wish to look at melancholy and
indigestion, look at an old maid. If you would take a peep at
sunshine, look in the face of a young mother.
“Young mothers and sunshine!” They are worn to fiddle-strings before
they are twenty-five! When an old lover turns up, he thinks he sees his
grandmother, instead of the dear little Mary who used to make him feel
as if he should crawl out of the toes of his boots! Yes! my mind is
_quite_ made up about _matrimony_; it’s a _one-sided_ partnership.
“Husband” gets up in the morning, and pays his _devoirs_ to the
looking-glass; curls his fine head of hair; puts on an immaculate shirt
bosom; ties an excruciating cravat; sprinkles his handkerchief with
cologne; stows away a French roll, an egg, and a cup of coffee; gets
into the omnibus, looks at the pretty girls, and makes love between the
pauses of business during the forenoon _generally_. Wife must
“hermetically seal” the windows and exclude all the fresh air (because
the baby had “the snuffles” in the night); and sits gasping down to the
table, more dead than alive, to finish her breakfast. Tommy turns a cup
of hot coffee down his bosom; Juliana has torn off the strings of her
school bonnet; James “wants his geography covered;” Eliza can’t find her
satchel; the butcher wants to know if she’d like a joint of mutton; the
milkman would like his money; the iceman wants to speak to her “just a
minute;” the baby swallows a bean; husband sends the boy home from the
store to say _his partner_ will dine with him; the cook leaves “all
flying,” to go to her “sister’s dead baby’s wake,” and husband’s thin
coat must be ironed before noon.
“_Sunshine and young mothers!_” Where’s my smelling-bottle?
UNCLE BEN’S ATTACK OF SPRING FEVER, AND HOW HE GOT CURED.
“It is not possible that you have been insane enough to go to
housekeeping in the country, for the summer? Oh, you ought to hear my
experience,” and Uncle Ben wiped the perspiration from his forehead, at
the very thought.
Yes, I tried it once, with city habits and a city wife: got rabid with
the dog days, and nothing could cure me but a nibble of green grass.
There was Susan, you know, who never was off a brick pavement in her
life, and didn’t know the difference between a cheese and a grindstone.
Well, we ripped up our carpets, and tore down our curtains, and packed
up our crockery, and nailed down our pictures, and eat dust for a week,
and then we emigrated to Daisy Ville.
Could I throw up a window, or fasten back a blind in that house, without
sacrificing my suspenders and waistband button? No, sir! Were not the
walls full of Red Rovers? Didn’t the doors fly open at every wind gust?
Didn’t the roof leak like the mischief? Was not the chimney leased to a
pack of swallows? Was not the well half a mile from the house?
Oh, you needn’t laugh. Instead of the comfortable naps to which I had
been accustomed, I had to sleep with one eye open all night, lest I
shouldn’t get into the city in time. I had to be shaving in the morning
before a rooster in the barn-yard had stirred a feather; swallowed my
coffee and toast by steam, and then, still masticating, made for the
front door. There stood Peter with my horse and gig, for I detest your
cars and omnibuses. On the floor of the chaise was a huge basket, in
which to bring home material for the next day’s dinner. On the seat was
a dress of my wife’s to be left “without fail” at Miss Sewing Silk’s, to
have the forty-seventh hook moved one-sixth of a degree higher up on the
back. Then there was a package of shawls from Tom Fools & Co., to be
returned, and a pair of shoes to carry to Lapstone, who was to select
another pair for me to bring out at night; and a demijohn to be filled
with sherry. Well, I whipped up Bucephalus, left my sleeping wife and
babies, and started for town; cogitating over an intricate business
snarl, which bade defiance to any straightening process. I hadn’t gone
half a mile before an old maid (I hate old maids) stopped me to know if
I was going into town, and if I was, if I wouldn’t take her in, as the
omnibuses made her sick. She said she was niece to Squire Dandelion, and
“had a few chores to do a shopping.” So I took her in, or rather, she
took _me_ in (but she didn’t do it but once—for I bought a sulkey next
day!) Well, it came night, and I was hungry as a Hottentot, for I never
could dine, as your married widowers _pro tem_ do, at eating-houses,
where one gravy answers for flesh, fish, and fowl, and the pudding-sauce
is as black as the cook’s complexion. So I went round on an empty
stomach, hunting up my _expressman parcels_, and wending my way to the
stable with arms and pockets running over. When I got home, found my
wife in despair, no tacks in the house to nail down carpets, and not one
to be had at the store in the village; the cook had deserted, because
she couldn’t do without “her _city privileges_” (meaning Jonathan Jones,
the “dry dirt” man); and the chambermaid, a buxom country girl, with
fire-red hair, was spinning round the crockery (_à la_ Blitz) because
she “couldn’t eat with the family.”
Then Charley was taken with the croup in the night, and in my fright I
put my feet into my coat sleeves, and my arms into my pants, and put on
one of my wife’s ruffles instead of a dicky, and rode three miles in a
pelting rain, for some “goose grease” for his throat.
Then we never found out till cherries, and strawberries, and peaches
were ripe, how many _friends_ (?) we had. There was a horse hitched at
every rail in the fence, so long as there was anything left to eat on a
tree in the farm; but if my wife went in town shopping, and called on
any of them, they were “out, or engaged;”—or, if at home, had “just done
dinner, and were going to ride.”
Then there was no school in the neighbourhood for the children, and they
were out in the barn-yard feeding the pigs with lump sugar, and chasing
the hens off the nest to see what was the prospect for eggs, and making
little boats of their shoes, and sailing them in the pond, and milking
the cow in the middle of the day, &c.
Then if I dressed in the morning in linen coat, thin pants, and straw
hat, I’d be sure to find the wind “dead east” when I got into the city;
or if I put on broadcloth and fixins to match, it would be hotter than
Shadrach’s furnace, all day—while the dense morning fog would extract
the starch from my dicky and shirt-bosom, till they looked very like a
collapsed flapjack.
Then our meeting-house was a good two miles distant, and we had to walk,
or stay at home; because my factotum (Peter) wouldn’t stay on the farm
without he could have the horse on Sundays to go to Mill Village to see
his affianced Nancy. Then the old farmers leaned on my stone wall, and
laughed till the tears came into their eyes, to see “the city
gentleman’s” experiments in horticulture, as they passed by “to
meetin’.”
Well, sir, before summer was over, my wife and I looked as jaded as
omnibus horses—she with chance “help” and floods of city company, and I
with my arduous duties as _express man_ for my own family in particular,
and the neighbours in general.
And now here we are—“No. 9 Kossuth Square.” Can reach anything we want,
by putting our hands out the front windows. If, as the poet says, “_man
made the town_,” all I’ve got to say is—he understood his business!
THE AGED MINISTER VOTED A DISMISSION.
Your minister is “superannuated,” is he? Well, call a parish meeting,
and vote him a dismission; hint that his usefulness is gone; that he is
given to repetition; that he puts his hearers to sleep. Turn him adrift,
like a blind horse, or a lame house dog. Never mind that he has grown
gray in your thankless service—that he has smiled upon your infants at
the baptismal font, given them lovingly away in marriage to their
heart’s chosen, and wept with you when Death’s shadow darkened your
door. Never mind that he has laid aside his pen, and listened many a
time, and oft, with courteous grace, to your tedious, prosy
conversations, when his moments were like gold dust; never mind that he
has patiently and uncomplainingly accepted, at your hands the smallest
pittance that would sustain life, because “the Master” whispered in his
ear, “Tarry here till I come.” Never mind that the wife of his youth,
whom he won from a home of luxury, is broken down with privation and
fatigue, and _your_ thousand unnecessary demands upon her strength,
patience, and time. Never mind that his children, at an early age, were
exiled from the parsonage roof, because there was not “bread enough and
to spare” in their father’s house. Never mind that his library consists
only of a Bible, a Concordance, and a Dictionary; and that to the luxury
of a religious newspaper, he has long been a stranger. Never mind that
his wardrobe would be spurned by many a mechanic in our cities; never
mind that he has “risen early and sat up late,” and tilled the ground
with weary limbs, for earthly “manna,” while his glorious intellect lay
in fetters—_for you_. Never mind _that_; call a parish meeting, and vote
him “superannuated.” Dont’ spare him the starting tear of sensibility,
or the flush of wounded pride, by delicately offering to settle a
colleague, that your aged pastor may rest on his staff in grateful,
gray-haired independence. No! _turn the old patriarch out_; give him
time to go to the moss-grown churchyard, and say farewell to his
unconscious dead, and then give “the right hand of fellowship” to some
beardless, pedantic, noisy college boy, who will save your sexton the
trouble of pounding the pulpit cushions; and who will tell you and the
Almighty, in his prayers, all the political news of the week.
THE FATAL MARRIAGE.
A very pretty girl was Lucy Lee. Don’t ask me to describe her; stars,
and gems, and flowers have long since been exhausted in depicting
heroines. Suffice it to say, Lucy was as pretty a little fairy as ever
stepped foot in a slipper, or twisted a ringlet.
Of course Lucy knew she was pretty; else why did the gentlemen stare at
her so? Why did Harry Graham send her so many bouquets? Why did Mr.
Smith and Mr. Jones try to sit each other out in an evening call? Why
were picnics and fairs postponed, if she were engaged or ill? Why did so
many young men request an introduction? Why did all the serenaders come
beneath her window? Why was a pew or omnibus never full when she
appeared at the door? And last, though not least, why did all the women
imitate and hate her so?
We will do Miss Lucy the justice to say, that she bore her blushing
honours very meekly. She never flaunted her conquests in the faces of
less attractive feminines; no, Lucy was the farthest remove from a
coquette; but kind words and bright smiles were as natural to her as
fragrance to flowers, or music to birds. She never _tried_ to win
hearts; and, between you and me, I think that’s the way she did it.
Grave discussions were often held about Lucy’s future husband; the old
maids scornfully asserting that “beauties generally pick up a crooked
stick at last,” while the younger ones cared very little whom she
married, if she only _were_ married and out of _their_ way. Meanwhile,
Lucy smiled at her own happy thoughts, and sat at her little window on
pleasant, summer evenings, watching for Harry (poor Harry), who, when he
came, was at a loss to know if he had over given her little heart one
flutter, so merrily did she laugh and chat with him. Skilful little
Lucy, it was very right you shouldn’t let him peep into _your_ heart
till he had opened a window in _his own_.
Lucy’s papa didn’t approve of late hours or lovers; moonlight he
considered but another name for rheumatism. At nine o’clock, precisely,
he rang the bell each evening for family prayers; and when the Bible
came in, lovers were expected to go out. In case they were obtuse—chairs
set back against the wall, or an extra lamp blown out, or the fire taken
apart, were hints sufficiently broad to be understood; and they
generally answered the purpose. Miss Lucy’s little lamp, glowing
immediately after from her bed-room window, gave the _finale_ to the
“Mede and Persian” order of Mr. Lee’s family arrangements.
Still, Lee house was not a hermitage, by any means. More white cravats
and black coats passed over “Deacon” Lee’s threshold, than into any
hotel in Yankeedom. Little Lucy’s mother, too, was a modern Samaritan,
never weary of experimenting on their dyspeptic and bronchial
affections; while Lucy herself (bless her kind heart) knew full well
that two-thirds of them had large families, empty purses, and more
Judases and Paul Prys than “Aarons and Hurs” in their congregations.
Among the _habitués_ of Lee house, none was so acceptable to Lucy’s
father as Mr. Ezekiel Clark, a bachelor of fifty, an ex-minister, and
now an agent for some “Benevolent Society.” Ezekiel had an immensely
solemn face; and behind this convenient mask he was enabled to carry
out, undetected, various little plans, ostensibly for the “society’s”
benefit, but privately for his own personal aggrandizement. When
Ezekiel’s opinion was asked, he crossed his hands and feet, and fastened
his eyes upon the wall in an attitude of the deepest abstraction, while
his questioner stood on one leg, awaiting, with the most intense
anxiety, the decision of such an oracular Solomon. Well, not to weary
you, the long and short of it was, that Solomon was a stupid fool, who
spent his time trying to humbug the religious public in general, and
Deacon Lee in particular, into the belief that had _he_ been consulted
before this world was made, he could have suggested great and manifold
improvements. As to Deacon Lee, no cat ever tossed a poor mouse more
dexterously than he played with the deacon’s free will; all the while
very demurely pocketing the spoils in the shape of “donations” to the
“society,” with which he appeased his washerwoman and tailor, and
transported himself across the country on trips to Newport, Saratoga,
&c., &c.
His favourite plan was yet to be carried out: which was no more or less
than a modest request for the deacon’s pretty daughter, Lucy, in
marriage. Mr. Lee rubbed his chin, and said, “Lucy was nothing but a
foolish little girl;” but Ezekiel overruled it, by remarking that that
was so much the more reason she should have a husband some years her
senior, with some knowledge of the world, qualified to check and advise
her; to all of which, after an extra pinch of snuff, and another look
into Ezekiel’s oracular face, Deacon Lee assented.
Poor little Lucy! Ezekiel knew very well that her father’s word was law;
and when Mr. Lee announced him as her future husband, she knew she was
just as much Mrs. Ezekiel Clark as if the bridal ring had been already
slipped on her fairy finger. She sighed heavily, to be sure, and patted
her little foot nervously, and when she handed him his tea, thought he
looked older than ever: while Ezekiel swallowed one cup after another,
till his eyes snapped and glowed like a panther’s in ambush. That night
poor Lucy pressed her lips to a faded rose, the gift of Harry Graham;
then cried herself to sleep.
Unbounded was the indignation of Lucy’s admirers, when the sanctimonious
Ezekiel was announced as the expectant bridegroom. Harry Graham took the
first steamer for Europe, railing at “woman’s fickleness.” (Consistent
Harry! when never a word of love had passed his moustached lip.)
Shall I tell you how Ezekiel was transformed into the most ridiculous of
lovers? how his self-conceit translated Lucy’s indifference into maiden
coyness? how he looked often in the glass, and thought he was not so
_very_ old after all? how he advised Lucy to tuck away all her bright
curls, because they “looked so childish?” how he named to her papa an
“early marriage day”—not that he felt nervous about losing his prize—oh,
no (?)—but because “the society’s business required his undivided
attention.”
Well, Lucy, in obedience to her father’s orders, stood up in her
snow-white robe, and vowed “to love and cherish” a man just her father’s
age, with whom she had not the slightest congeniality of taste or
feeling. But papa had said it was an excellent match, and Lucy never
gainsaid papa; still her long lashes drooped heavily over her blue eyes,
and her hand trembled, and her cheek grew deadly pale, as Ezekiel handed
her to the carriage that whirled them rapidly away.
Shall I tell you how long months and years dragged wearily on? how Lucy
saw through her husband’s mask of hypocrisy and self-conceit? how to
indifference succeeded disgust? how Harry Graham returned from Europe,
with a fair young English bride? how Lucy grew nervous and hysterical?
how Ezekiel soon wearied of his sick wife, and left her in one of those
_tombs_ for the wretched—an insane hospital? and how she wasted, day by
day—then _died_, with only a hired nurse to close those weary blue eyes?
In a quiet corner of the old churchyard, where Lucy sleeps, a
silver-haired old man, each night at dew-fall, paces to and fro, with
remorseless tread, as if by that weary vigil he would fain atone to the
unconscious sleeper for turning her sweet young life to bitterness.
A MATRIMONIAL REVERIE.
“The love of a spirited woman is better worth having than that of any
other female individual you can start.”
I wish I had known that before! I’d have plucked up a little spirit, and
not gone trembling through creation like a plucked chicken, afraid of
every animal I ran _a-fowl_ of. I have not dared to say my soul was my
own since the day I was married; and every time Mr. Jones comes into the
entry and sets down that great cane of his, with a thump, you might hear
my teeth chatter down cellar! I always keep one eye on him, in company,
to see if I am saying the right thing; and the middle of a sentence is
the place for me to stop (I can tell you) if _his_ black eyes snap! It’s
so aggravating to find out my mistake at this time o’ day. I ought to
have carried a stiff upper lip long ago. Wonder if _little_ women _can_
look dignified? Wonder how it would do to turn straight about now? I’ll
try it!
Harry will come home presently, and thunder out, as usual, “Mary, why
the deuce isn’t dinner ready?” I’ll just set my teeth together, put my
arms akimbo, and look him right straight——oh, _mercy_! I can’t. I should
dissolve! Bless your soul, he’s a six-footer; _such_ whiskers—none of
your _sham settlements_! Such eyes! and such a nice mouth! Come to think
of it, I really believe I _love him_! Guess I’ll go along the old way!
FRANCES SARGEANT OSGOOD.
“I’m passing through the eternal gates,
Ere June’s sweet roses blow.”
So sang the dying poetess. The “eternal gates” have closed upon her.
Those dark, soul-lit eyes beam upon us no more. “June” has come again,
with its “sweet roses,” its birds, its zephyrs, its flowers and
fragrance. It is such a day as her passionate heart would have revelled
in—a day of Eden-like freshness and beauty. I will gather some fair,
sweet flowers, and visit her grave.
“Show me Mrs. Fanny Osgood’s monument, please,” said I to the rough
gardener, who was spading the turf in Mount Auburn.
“In Orange Avenue, Ma’am,” he replied, respectfully indicating, with a
wave of the hand, the path I was to pursue.
Tears started to my eyes, as I trod reverently down the quiet path. The
little birds she loved so well were skimming confidingly and joyously
along before me, and singing as merrily as if my heart echoed back their
gleeful songs.
I approached the enclosure, as the gardener had directed me. There were
five graves. _In which_ slept the poetess? for there was _not even a
headstone_! The flush of indignant feeling mounted to my temples; the
warm tears started from my eyes. _She was forgotten!_ Sweet, gifted
Fanny! _in her own family burial place she was forgotten!_ The stranger
from a distance, who had worshipped her genius, might in vain make a
pilgrimage to do her honour. I, who had personally known and loved her,
had not even the poor consolation of decking the bosom of her grave with
the flowers I had gathered; I could not kiss the turf beneath which she
is reposing; I could not drop a tear on the sod, ‘neath which her
remains are mouldering back to their native dust. I could not tell
(though I so longed to know), in which of the little graves—for there
were several—slept her “dear May,” her “pure Ellen;” the little, timid,
household doves, who folded their weary wings when the parent bird was
stricken down, by the aim of the unerring Archer.
Though allied by no tie of blood to the gifted creature, who,
_somewhere_, lay sleeping there, I felt the flush of shame mount to my
temples, to turn away and leave her dust so unhonoured. Oh, God! to be
so soon forgotten by all the world!—How can even _earth_ look so glad,
when such a warm, passionate heart lies cold and pulseless? Poor,
gifted, forgotten Fanny! She “still lives” in _my_ heart; and, Header,
glance your eye over these touching lines, “written during her last
illness,” and tell me, Shall she not also live in thine?
A MOTHER’S PRAYER IN ILLNESS.
BY MRS. OSGOOD.
Yes! take them first, my Father! Let my doves
Fold their white wings in Heaven safe on thy breast,
Ere I am called away! I dare not leave
Their young hearts here, their innocent, thoughtless hearts!
Ah! how the shadowy train of future ills
Comes sweeping down life’s vista, as I gaze.
My May! my careless, ardent-tempered May!
My frank and frolic child! in whose blue eyes
Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise;
Whose cheek, the morning in her soul illumes;
Whose little loving heart, a word, a glance,
Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play,
And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms
Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks,
With her clear, flute-like voice, “Do you love me?”
Ah! _let_ me stay! ah! let me still be by,
To answer her, and meet her warm caress!
For, I away, how oft, in this rough world,
That earnest question will be asked in vain!
How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart
Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn, at length,
The hateful, withering lesson of distrust!
Ah! let her nestle still upon this breast,
In which each shade that dims her darling face
Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects
The clouds that cross yon smiling Heaven.
And thou,
My modest Ellen! tender, thoughtful, true,
Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies;
My pure, proud, noble Ellen! with thy gifts
Of genius, grace and loveliness half-hidden
‘Neath the soft veil of innate modesty:
How will the world’s wild discord reach thy heart,
To startle and appal! Thy generous scorn
Of all things base and mean—thy quick, keen taste,
Dainty and delicate—thy instinctive fear
Of those unworthy of a soul so pure,
Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien,
All—they will all bring pain to thee, my child.
And oh! if ever their grace and goodness meet
Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all
the latent evil yet undisciplined
In their young, timid souls forgiveness find?
Forgiveness and forbearance, and soft chidings,
Which I, their mother, learn’d of love, to give.
Ah! let me stay! albeit my heart is weary,
Weary and worn, _tired of its own sad beat,
That finds no echo in this busy world
Which cannot pause to answer_—tired, alike,
Of joy and sorrow—of the day and night!
Ah! _take them_ FIRST, _my Father! and then me_;
And for their sakes—for their sweet sakes, my Father!
Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet.
A PUNCH AT “PUNCH.”
“What is the height of a woman’s ambition? Diamonds.”—_Punch._
Sagacious Punch! Do you know the reason? It is because the more
“diamonds” a woman owns, the more _precious_ she becomes in the eyes of
your discriminating sex. What pair of male eyes ever saw a “crow’s
foot,” gray hair, or wrinkle, in company with a _genuine diamond_? Don’t
you go down on your marrow bones, and vow that the owner is a Venus, a
Hebe, a Juno, a sylph, a fairy, an angel? Would you stop to look
(_connubially_) at the most bewitching woman on earth, whose only
diamonds were “_in her eye_?” Well, it is no great marvel, Mr. Punch.
The race of _men_ is about extinct. Now and then you will meet with a
specimen; but I’m sorry to inform you that the most of them are nothing
but coat tails, walking behind a moustache, destitute of sufficient
energy to earn their own cigars and “Macassar,” preferring to dangle at
the heels of a _diamond_ wife, and meekly receive their allowance, as
her mamma’s prudence and her own inclinations may suggest.
BEST THINGS.
I have a horror of “best” things, come they in the shape of shoes,
garments, bonnets, or rooms. In such a harness my soul peers restlessly
out, asking “if I be I.” I’m puzzled to find myself. I become stiff and
formal, and artificial as my surroundings.
But of all the best things, spare me the infliction of a “best room.”
Out upon a carpet too fine to tread upon, books too dainty to handle,
sofas that but mock your weary limbs, and curtains that dare not face a
ray of sunlight!
Had I a house, there should be no “best room” in it. No upholsterer
should exorcise comfort or children from my door-sill. The free, fresh
air should be welcome to play through it; the bright, glad sunshine to
lighten and warm it; while fresh mantel-flowers should woo for us visits
from humming-bird and drowsy bee.
For pictures, I’d look from out my windows upon a landscape painted by
the Great Master—ever fresh, ever varied, and never marred by envious
“cross lights;” now, wreathed in morning’s silvery mist; now, basking in
noon’s broad beam; now, flushed with sunset’s golden glow; now, sleeping
in dreamy moonlight.
For statuary, fill my house with children—rosy, dimpled, laughing
children; now, tossing their sunny ringlets from open brows; now,
veiling their merry eyes in slumbrous dreams, ‘neath snow-white lids;
now, sweetly grave, on bended knee, with clasped hands, and lisped words
of holy prayer.
Did I say I’d have nothing “best?” Pardon me. Sunday should be the best
day of all the seven—not ushered in with ascetic form, or lengthened
face, or stiff and rigid manners. Sweetly upon the still Sabbath air
should float the matin hymn of happy childhood, blending with the early
songs of birds, and wafted upward, with flowers’ incense, to Him whose
very name is LOVE. It should be no day for puzzling the half-developed
brain of childhood with gloomy creeds, to shake the simple faith that
prompts the innocent lips to say, “Our Father.” It should be no day to
sit upright on stiff-backed chairs, till the golden sun should set. No;
the birds should not be more welcome to warble, the flowers to drink in
the air and sunlight, or the trees to toss their lithe limbs, free and
fetterless.
“I’m _so sorry_ that to-morrow is Sunday!” From whence does this sad
lament issue? From under _your_ roof, oh mistaken but well-meaning
Christian parents—from the lips of _your_ child, whom you compel to
listen to two or three unintelligible sermons, sandwiched between Sunday
schools, and finished off at nightfall by tedious repetitions of creeds
and catechisms, till sleep releases your weary victim! No wonder your
child _shudders_ when the minister tells him that “Heaven is one eternal
Sabbath.”
Oh, mistaken parent! relax the over-strained bow—_prevent the fearful
rebound_, and make the Sabbath what God designed it, not a weariness,
but the “_best_” and happiest day of all the seven.
THE VESTRY MEETING.
The clock had just struck seven. The sharp-nosed old sexton of the
Steeple Street Church had arranged the lights to his mind, determined
the proper latitude and longitude of Bibles and hymn-books, peeped
curiously into the little black stove in the corner, and was now
admonishing every person who passed in of the propriety of depositing
the “free soil” on his boots upon the entry door-mat.
In they crept, one after another—pale-faced seamstresses, glad of a
reprieve; servant girls, who had turned their backs upon unwashed
dishes; mothers, whose “crying babies” were astounding the neighbours;
old maids, who had nowhere to spend their long evenings; widowers, who
felt an especial solicitude lest any of the sisters should be left to
return home unprotected; girls and boys, who came because they were bid,
and who had no very clear idea of the performances; and last, though not
least, Ma’am Spy, who thought it her duty to see that none of the
church-members were missing, and to inquire every Tuesday night, of her
friend Miss Prim, if she did n’t consider Mrs. Violet a proper subject
for church discipline, because she always had money enough to pay her
board bills, although her husband had deserted her.
Then there were the four Misses Nipper, who crawled in as if the vestry
floor were paved with live kittens, and who had never been known, for
four years, to vary one minute in their attendance or to keep awake from
the first prayer to the doxology.
Then there was Mrs. John Emmons, who sang the loudest, and prayed the
longest, and wore the most expensive bonnets, of any female member in
the church—whose name was on every committee, who instituted the _select
praying circle_ for the more _aristocratic_ portion of the parish, and
whose pertinacious determination to sit next to her husband at the
Tuesday night meeting, was regarded by the uninitiated as a beautiful
proof of conjugal devotion; but which, after patient investigation
(between you and me, dear reader), was found to be for the purpose of
arresting his coat-flaps when he popped up to make mental shipwreck of
himself by making a speech.
Then there was Mr. Nobbs, whose remarks were a re-hash of the different
religious periodicals of the day, diversified with misapplied texts of
Scripture, and delivered with an intonation and gesticulation that would
have given Demosthenes fits.
Then there was Zebedee Falstaff, who accomplished more for the
amelioration of the human race, according to his own account, than any
man of his aldermanic proportions in the nation, and who delivered (on a
hearty supper) a sleepy exhortation on the duties of self-denial and
charity, much to the edification of one of his needy relatives, to whose
tearful story he had that very day turned a deaf ear.
Then there was brother Higgins, who was always “just going” to make a
speech, “if brother Thomas hadn’t so exactly anticipated his sentiments
a minute before.”
Then there was Mr. Addison Theophilus Shakspere Milton, full of poetical
and religious inspiration, who soared so high in the realms of fancy,
that his hearers lost sight of him.
Then there was little Dr. Pillbox, who gave us every proof, in his
weekly exhortations, of his knowledge of “drugs;” not to mention young
Smith, who chased an idea round till he lost it, and then took shelter
behind a bronchial difficulty which compelled him “unwillingly (?) to
come to a close.”
Then there were some sincere, good-hearted Christians—respectable
citizens—worthy heads of families; but whose lips had never been
“touched with a live coal from off the altar.”
Where was the pastor? Oh, he was there—a slight, fragile, scholar-like
looking man, with a fine intellectual-looking face, exquisitely refined
tastes and sensibilities, and the meek spirit of “the Master.” Had those
slender shoulders no cross to bear? When chance sent some fastidious
worldling through that vestry door, did it cost him nothing to watch the
smile of contempt curl the stranger’s lip, as some uneducated, but
well-meaning layman, presented with stammering tongue, in ungrammatical
phrase, distorted, one-sided, bigoted views of great truths which _his_
eloquent tongue might have made as clear as the noonday, and as cheering
and welcome as heaven’s own blessed light, to the yearning, dissatisfied
spirit? Oh, is there _nothing_ in religion, when it can so subdue the
pride of intellect as to enable its professor to disregard the
stammering tongue, and sit meekly at the feet of the ignorant disciple
because he _is_ a disciple?
A BROADWAY SHOP REVERIE.
Forty dollars for a pocket-handkerchief! My dear woman! you need a
strait-jacket, even though you may be the fortunate owner of a dropsical
purse.
I won’t allude to the legitimate use of a pocket-handkerchief; I won’t
speak of the sad hearts _that_ “forty dollers,” in the hands of some
philanthropist, might lighten; I won’t speak of the “crows’ feet” that
will he pencilled on your fair face, when your laundress carelessly
sticks the point of her remorseless smoothing iron through the flimsy
fabric, or the constant _espionage_ you must keep over your treasure in
omnibuses, or when promenading; but I _will_ ask you how many of the
lords of creation, for whose especial benefit you array yourself, will
know whether that cobweb rag fluttering in your hand cost forty dollars
or forty cents?
Pout if you like, and toss your head, and say that you “don’t dress to
please the gentlemen.” I don’t hesitate to tell you (at this distance
from your finger nails) that is a downright——mistake! and that the
enormous sums most women expend for articles, the cost of which few,
save shopkeepers and butterfly feminines, know, is both astounding and
ridiculous.
True, you have the sublime gratification of flourishing your
forty-dollar handkerchief, of sporting your twenty-dollar “Honiton
collar,” or of flaunting your thousand-dollar shawl, before the envious
and admiring eyes of some weak sister, who has made the possible
possession of the article in question a profound and life-time study;
you may pass, too, along the crowded _pavé_, labouring under the
hallucination, that every passer-by appreciates your dry-goods value.
_Not a bit of it!_ Yonder is a group of gentlemen. You pass them in your
promenade; they glance carelessly at your _tout ensemble_, but their
eyes rest admiringly on a figure close behind you. It will chagrin you
to learn that this locomotive loadstone has on a seventy-five cent hat
of simple straw, a dress of lawn one shilling per yard, a twenty-five
cent collar, and a shawl of the most unpretending price and fabric.
All these items you take in at a glance, as you turn upon her your
aristocratic eye of feminine criticism, to extract, if possible, the
talismanic secret of her magnetism. What is it? Let me tell you. Nature,
wilful dame, has an aristocracy of her own, and in one of her
independent freaks has so daintily fashioned your rival’s limbs that the
meanest garb could not _mar_ a grace, nor the costliest fabric _add_
one. Compassionating her slender purse, nature has also added an
artistic eye, which accepts or rejects fabrics and colours with unerring
taste; hence her apparel is always well chosen and harmonious, producing
the _effect_ of a rich toilet at the cost of “a mere song;” and as she
sweeps majestically past, one understands why Dr. Johnson pronounced a
woman to be “perfectly dressed when one could never remember what she
wore.”
Now, I grant you, it is very provoking to be eclipsed by a star _without
a name_—moving out of the sphere of “upperten”-dom—a woman who never
wore a “camel’s hair shawl” or owned a diamond in her life; after the
expense you have incurred, too, and the fees you have paid to Mesdames
Pompadour and Stewart for the first choice of their Parisian fooleries.
It is harrowing to the sensibilities. I appreciate the awkwardness of
your position; still, my compassion jogs my invention vainly for a
remedy—unless, indeed, you consent to crush such democratic presumption,
by _labelling_ the astounding price of the dry-goods upon your
aristocratic back.
“THE OLD WOMAN.”
Look into yonder window! What do you see? Nothing _new_, surely; nothing
but what the angels have looked smilingly down upon since the morning
stars first sang together; nothing but a loving mother hushing upon her
faithful breast a wailing babe, whose little life hangs by a slender
thread. Mortal lips have said, “The boy must die!”
A mother’s _hope_ never dies. She clasps him closer to her breast, and
gazes upwards;—food, and sleep, and rest are forgotten, so that that
little flickering taper die not out. Gently upon her soft, warm breast
she woos for it baby slumbers; long, weary nights, up and down the
cottage floor she paces, soothing its restless moaning. Suns rise and
set—stars pale—seasons come and go;—she heeds them not, so that those
languid eyes but beam brightness. Down the meadow—by the brook—on the
hill-side—she seeks with him the health-restoring breeze.
God be praised!—health comes at last! What joy to see the rosy flush
mantle on the pallid cheek!—what joy to see the shrunken limbs grow
round with health!—what joy to see the damp, thin locks grow crisp and
glossy!
What matter though the knitting lie neglected, or the spinning-wheel be
dumb, so that the soaring kite or bouncing ball but please his boyish
fancy, and prompt the gleeful shout? What matter that the coarser fare
be _hers_, so that the daintier morsel pass _his_ rosy lips? What matter
that _her_ robe be threadbare, so that _his_ graceful limbs be clad in
Joseph’s rainbow coat? What matter that _her_ couch be hard, so that
_his_ sunny head rest nightly on a downy pillow? What matter that _her_
slender purse be empty, so that _his_ childish heart may never know
denial?
Years roll on. That loving mother’s eye grows dim; her glossy locks are
silvered; her limbs are sharp and shrunken; her footsteps slow and
tottering. And the boy?—the cherished Joseph?—he of the bold, bright
eye, and sinewy limb, and bounding step? Surely, from his kind hand
shall flowers be strewn on the dim, downward path to the dark valley;
surely will her son’s strong arm be hers to lean on; his voice of music
sweeter to her dull ear than seraphs’ singing.
No, no!—the hum of busy life has struck upon his ear, drowning the voice
of love. He has become a MAN! refined, fastidious—and to his forgetful,
unfilial heart (God forgive him), the mother who bore him is only—“_the
old woman!_”
SUNDAY MORNING AT THE DIBDINS.
“Jane,” suddenly exclaims Mrs. Dibdin, “do you know it is nearly time
for your Sabbath School to commence? I hope you have committed your
hymns and commandments to memory. Put on your little jet bracelet, and
your ruffled pantalettes. Now, say the third commandment, while I fix
your curls. It does seem to me as if your hair never curls half as well
on Sundays as on week days. Mind, you ask Letty Brown where her mother
bought that cunning little straw hat of hers—not in Sabbath School, of
course—that would be very wicked—but after it is over, as you walk along
to church.
“Jane, what’s the chief end of man? Don’t know? Well, it’s the most
astonishing thing that that Assembly’s Catechism don’t stay in your head
any better! It seems to go into one ear and out of the other. Now pay
particular attention while I tell you what the chief end of man is. The
chief end of man is—is—well—I—why don’t you hold still?—you are always
putting a body out! You had better run up stairs and get your book.
Here, stop a minute, and let me tie your sash straight. Pink is very
becoming to you, Jane; you inherit your mother’s blonde beauty. Come
away from that glass, Jane, this minute; don’t you know it is wicked to
look in the glass on Sunday? See if you can say your ‘creed’ that your
Episcopal teacher wants you to learn. Come; ‘I believe’—(In less than
one week your toes will be through those drab gaiters, Jane). Goodness,
if there isn’t the bell! Why did n’t you get your lesson Saturday
evening? Oh! I recollect; you were at dancing school. Well—you needn’t
say anything about that to your teacher; because—because there’s ‘a time
to dance,’ and a time to go to meeting, and _now_ it is meeting time;
so, come here, and let me roll that refractory ringlet over my finger
once more, and then, do you walk _solemnly_ along to church, as a
baptised child should.
“Here! stop a bit!—you may wear this coral bracelet of mine, if you
won’t lose it. There; now you look _most_ as pretty as your mother did,
when she was your age. Don’t toss your head so, Jane; people will call
you vain; and you know I have always told you that it makes very little
difference how a little girl _looks_, if she is only a little Christian.
There, good-bye;—repeat your catechism going along; and don’t let the
wind blow your hair out of curl.”
SUNDAY NOON AT THE DIBDINS.
(_Mr. Dibdin reading a pile of business letters, fresh from the
post-office; Mrs. Dibdin, in a pearl-coloured brocade and lace
ruffles, devouring “Bleak House.”_)
_Mrs. Dibdin._—“Jane, is it possible I see you on the holy Sabbath day,
with Mother Goose’s Melodies? Put it away, this minute, and get your
Bible. There’s the pretty story of Joseph building the ark, and Noah in
the lion’s den, and Isaac killing his brother Cain, and all that.”
_Jane._—“Well, but, mamma, you know I can’t spell the big words. Won’t
you read it to me?”
_Mrs. Dibdin._—“I am busy reading now, my dear; go and ask your papa.
_Jane._—“Please, papa, will you read to me in my little Bible? mamma is
busy.”
_Mr. Dibdin._—“My dear, will you be kind enough to pull that bell for
Jane’s nursery maid?—she is getting troublesome.”
* * * * *
Exit Miss Jane to the nursery, to listen to Katy’s and her friend
Bridget’s account of their successful flirtations with John O’Calligan
and Michael O’Donahue.
ITEMS OF TRAVEL.
“All the world and his wife” are travelling; and a nice day it is to
commence a journey. How neat and tasteful those ladies look in their
drab travelling dresses; how self-satisfied their cavaliers, freshly
shaved and shampooed, in their brown linen over-alls. What apoplectic
looking carpet-bags; full of newspapers, and oranges, and bon-bons, and
novels, and night-caps! Saratoga, Newport, Niagara, White Hills, Mammoth
Cave—of these, the ladies chatter.
Well, here come the cars. Band-boxes, trunks, baskets and bundles are
counted, and checks taken; a grave discussion is solemnly held, as to
which side of the cars the sun shines on; seats are chosen with due
deliberation, and the locomotive does its own “puffing” to the
bystanders, and darts off.
It is noon! How intense the heat; how annoying the dust; how crowded the
cars; how incessant the cries of that poor tired baby! The ladies’
bonnets are getting awry, their foreheads flushed, and their smooth
tresses unbecomingly _frowsed_ (_See_ Fern Dictionary). Now their little
chattering tongues have a reprieve, for Slumber has laid her leaden
finger on each drooping eyelid; even Alexander Smith’s new poem has
slided from between taper fingers. Dream not lovingly of the author,
fair sleeper: poets and butterflies lose their brilliancy when caught.
How intensely ugly men look asleep! doubled up like so many
jack-knives—sorry looking “blades”—with their mouths wide open, and
their limbs twisted into all sorts of Protean shapes. Stay; there’s one
in yonder corner who is an exception. That man knows it is becoming to
him to go to sleep. He has laid his head against the window and taken
off his hat, that the wind might lift those black curls from his broad
white brow;—he knows that his eye-lashes are long and dark, and that his
finely chiselled lips need no defect-concealing moustache;—he knows that
he can afford to turn towards us his fine profile, with its classical
outline;—he knows that his cravat is well tied, and that the hand upon
which he supports his cheek is both well-formed and daintily white.
Wonder if he knows anything else?
We halt suddenly. “Back! back!” says the conductor. The sleepers start
to their feet; the old maid in the corner gives a little hysterical
shriek; brakemen, conductor, and engineer jump off, push back their
hats, and gaze nervously down the road. “What’s the matter?” echo scores
of anxious voices. “What’s the matter?” Oh, nothing; only a mother made
childless: only a little form—five minutes ago bounding with happy
life—lying a mangled corpse upon the track. The engineer says, with an
oath, “that the child was a fool not to get out of the way,” and sends
one of the hands back to pick up the dismembered limbs and carry them to
its mother, who forbade even the winds of heaven to blow too roughly on
her boy; then he gives the “iron horse” a fresh impetus, and we dash on;
imagination paints a scene in yonder house which many a frantic parent
will recognize; and from which (even in thought) we turn shuddering
away—while the weary mother in the corner covers her fretful babe with
kisses, and thanks God, through her tears, that her loving arms are
still its sheltering fold.
NEWSPAPER-DOM.
It is beyond my comprehension how Methuselah lived nine hundred and
sixty-nine years without a newspaper; or, what the mischief Noah did,
during that “forty days” shower when he had exhausted the study of
Natural History. It makes me yawn to think of it. Or what later
generations did, the famished half-hour before meals; or, when,
travelling, when the old stage-coach crept up a steep hill, some dusty
hot summer noon. Shade of Franklin! how they must have been _ennuyed_!
How did they ever know when flour had “riz”—or what was the market price
of pork, small tooth-combs, cotton, wool, and molasses? What
christianized gouty old men and snappish old ladies? What kept the old
maids from making mince-meat of pretty young girls? What did love-sick
damsels do for “sweet bits of poetry” and “touching continued stories?”
Where did their papas find a solace when the coffee was muddy, the toast
smoked, and the beef-steak raw, or done to leather? What did cab-drivers
do, while waiting for a tardy patron? What did draymen do, when there
was “a great calm” at the dry-goods store of Go Ahead and Co? What
screen did husbands dodge behind, when their wives asked them for money?
Some people define happiness to be one thing, and some another. I define
it to be a room “carpeted and furnished” with “exchanges,” with a place
cleared in the middle for two arm-chairs—one for a clever editor, and
one for yourself. I say it is to take up those papers, one by one, and
laugh over the funny things and skip the stupid ones; to admire the
ingenuity of would-be literary lights, who pilfer one half their
original (?) ideas, and steal the remainder. I say it is to shudder a
thanksgiving that you are not in the marriage list, and to try, for the
hundredth time, to solve the riddle: How can each paper that passes
through your hands be “the best and cheapest periodical in the known
world?”
I say it is to look round an editorial sanctum, inwardly chuckling at
the forlorn appearance it makes without feminine fingers to keep it
tidy: to see the looking-glass veiled with cobwebs; the dust on the desk
thick enough to write your name in; the wash-bowl and towel mulatto
colour; the soap liquified to a jelly (editors like soft soap!); the
table covered with a heterogeneous mass of manuscripts, and paper
folders, and wafers, and stamps, and blotting-paper, and envelopes, and
tailors’ bills, and letters complimentary, belligerent, and pacific.
I say it is to hear the editor complain, with a frown, of the heat and
his headache; to conceal a smile, while you suggest the _probability_ of
relief if a window should be opened; to see him start at your superior
profundity; to hear him say, with a groan, how much “proof” he has to
read before he can leave for home; to take off your gloves and help him
to correct it; to hear him say, there is a book for review, which he has
not time to look over; to take a folder and cut the leaves, and affix
guide-boards for notice at all the fine passages; to see him kick over
an innocent chair, because he cannot get hold of the right word for an
editorial; to feel (while you help him to it) very much like the mouse
who gnawed the lion out of the net, and then to take up his paper some
days after, and find a paragraph endorsed by him, “deploring the
intellectual inferiority of women.”
That’s what I call happiness!
HAVE WE ANY MEN AMONG US?
Walking along the street the other day, my eye fell upon this placard—
┌~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~┐
∫ MEN WANTED ∫
└~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~┘
Well; they have been “wanted” for sometime; but the article is not in
the market, although there are plenty of spurious imitations. Time was,
when a lady could decline writing for a newspaper without subjecting
herself to paragraphic attacks from the editor, invading the sanctity of
her private life. Time was, when she could decline writing without the
editor’s revenging himself, by asserting falsely that “he had often
refused her offered contributions!” Time was, when, if an editor heard a
vague rumour affecting a lady’s reputation, he did not endorse it by
republication, and then meanly screen himself from responsibility by
adding, “we presume, however, that this is only an _on dit_!” Time was,
when a lady could be a successful authoress, without being obliged to
give an account to the dear public of the manner in which she
appropriated the proceeds of her honest labours. Time was, when
whiskered braggadocios in railroad cars and steamboats did not assert
(in blissful ignorance that they were looking the lady authoress
straight in the face!) that they were “on the most intimate terms of
friendship with her!” Time was, when _milk-and-water husbands and
relatives_ did not force a defamed woman to unsex herself in the manner
stated in the following paragraph.—
“MAN SHOT BY A YOUNG WOMAN.—One day last week, a young lady of good
character, daughter of Col. ——, having been calumniated by a young
man, called upon him, armed with a revolver. The slanderer could not,
or did not deny his allegations; whereupon she fired, inflicting a
dangerous, if not a fatal, wound in his throat.”
Yes; it is very true that there are “MEN wanted.” Wonder how many 1854
will furnish?
HOW TO CURE THE BLUES.
And so you have “the blues,” hey? Well, I pity you! No I don’t, either;
there’s no need of it. If one friend proves a Judas, never mind! plenty
of warm, generous, nice hearts left for the winning. If you are poor,
and have to sell your free agency for a sixpence a week to some
penurious relative, or be everlastingly thankful for the gift of an old
garment that won’t hang together till you get it home, go to work like
ten thousand evil spirits, and make yourself _independent_! then see
with what a different pair of spectacles you’ll get looked at! Nothing
like it! You can have everything on earth you want, when you don’t
_need_ anything.
Don’t the Bible say, “To him that hath shall be given?” No mistake, you
see. When the wheel turns round with you on the top (saints and angels!)
you can do anything you like—play any sort of a prank—pout or smile, be
grave or gay, saucy or courteous, it will pass muster! you never need
trouble yourself—can’t do anything wrong if you try. At the most it will
only be an “eccentricity!” But you never need be such a fool as to
expect that anybody will find out you are a _diamond_ till you get a
_showy setting_. You’ll get knocked and cuffed around, and roughly
handled, with paste and tinsel, and rubbish, till that auspicious moment
arrives. Then! won’t all the sheaves bow down to your sheaf?—not one
rebellious straggler left in the field! But stay a little.
In your adversity, found you one faithful heart that stood firmly by
your side and shared your tears, when skies were dark, and your pathway
thorny and steep, and summer friends fell off like autumn leaves? By all
that’s noble in a woman’s heart, give that one the first place in it
now. Let the world see _one_ heart proof against the sunshine of
prosperity. You can’t repay such a friend—all the mines of Golconda
couldn’t do it. But in a thousand delicate ways, prompted by a woman’s
unerring tact, let your heart come forth gratefully, generously,
lovingly. Pray heaven he be on the shady side of fortune—that your heart
and hand may have a wider field for gratitude to show itself. Extract
every thorn from his pathway, chase away every cloud of sorrow, brighten
his lonely hours, smooth his pillow of sickness, and press lovingly his
hand in death.
RAIN IN THE CITY.
Patter, patter, patter! down comes the city shower on dusty and heated
pavements; gleefully the willow trees shake out their long green
tresses, and make their toilettes in the little mirror pools beneath.
The little child runs out, with outspread palm, to catch the cool and
pearly drops. The weary labourer, drawing a long, grateful breath, bares
the flushed brow of toil; boyhood, with bare and adventurous foot, wades
through gutter rivers, forgetful of birch, and bread and butter. Ladies
skutter tiptoe, with uplifted skirts, to the shelter of some friendly
omnibus; gentlemen, in the independent consciousness of corduroys, take
their time and umbrellas, while the poor jaded horses shake their sleek
sides, but do not say neigh to their impromptu shower-bath.
The little sparrows twitter their thanks from the dripping eaves,
circling the piazza, then laving their speckled breasts at the little
lakelets in the spout. Old Towser lies with his nose to the door-mat,
sniffing “the cool,” with the philosophy of Diogenes. Petrarch sits in
the parlour with his Laura, too happy when some vivid lightning flash
gives him an excuse for closer quarters. Grandpapa puts on his
spectacles, walks to the window, and taking a look at the surrounding
clouds, says, “How this rain will make the corn grow.” The old maid
opposite sets out a single geranium, scraggy as herself, invoking some
double blossoms. Forlorn experimenter! even a spinster’s affections must
centre somewhere.
See that little pinafore mariner stealing out, with one eye on the
nursery window, to navigate his pasteboard boat in the street pools.
There’s a flash of sunshine! What a glorious rainbow! The little fellow
tosses his arms aloft, and gazes at it. Ten to one, the little Yankee,
instead of admiring its gorgeous splendour, is wishing he could invert
it for a swing, and seizing it at both ends, sweep through the stars
with it. Well, it is nothing new for a child to like “the _milky way_.”
Fair weather again! piles of heavy clouds are drifting by, leaving the
clear blue sky as serene as when “the morning stars first sang
together.” Nature’s gems sparkle lavishly on glossy leaf and swaying
branch, on bursting bud and flower; while the bow of peace melts gently
and imperceptibly away, like the dying saint into the light of heaven.
Oh, earth is gloriously fair! Alas! that the trail of the serpent should
be over it all!
MRS. WEASEL’S HUSBAND.
“A woman, a dog, and a walnut tree,
The more they are beaten the better they be.”
“Any man who believes that, had better step into my shoes,” said little
Mr. Weasel. “I suppose I’m what you call ‘the head of the family;’ but I
shouldn’t know it if somebody didn’t tell me of it. Heigho! who’d have
thought it five-and-twenty years ago? Didn’t I stifle a tremendous
strong _penchant_ for Diana Dix (never smoked, I remember, for four
hours after it), because I had my private suspicions she’d hold the
reins in spite of my teeth? And so I offered myself to little Susey Snow
(mistake in her name, by the way). You might have spanned her round the
waist, or lifted her with one hand. She never looked anybody in the face
when they spoke to her, and her voice was as soft as —— my brains! I
declare it’s unaccountable how deceitful female nature is! Never was so
taken in in my life; she’s a regular Vesuvius crater! Her will? (don’t
mention it!) Try to prize up the Alps with a cambric needle! If she’d
only fly into a passion, I think I could venture to pluck up a little
spirit; but that cool, determined, never-say-die look would turn Cayenne
pepper to oil. It wilts _me_ right down, like a cabbage leaf. I’d as
lief face a loaded cannon! I wish I could go out evenings; but she won’t
let me. Tom Jones asked me yesterday why I wasn’t at Faneuil Hall the
night before. I told him I had the bronchitis. He saw through it! Sent
me a pair of reins the next day—‘said to be a certain cure!’ Ah! it’s
very well for _him_ to laugh; but it’s no joke to me. I suppose it’s
time to feed that baby; Mrs. Weasel will be home pretty soon from the
‘Woman’s Rights Convention.’ No, I won’t, either; I’ll give it some
paregoric, and run up garret and smoke one cigar. I feel as though I
_couldn’t look a humming-bird in the eye_! Nice cigar!—_very_ nice! What
a fool I am to be ordered round by a little blue-eyed woman, three feet
high! I’m a very good-looking fellow, and I won’t stand it! Isn’t that
little Weasel as much her baby as it is mine? Certainly.”
“M-r. W-e-a-s-e-l!”
“Hem—my—dear—(oh! that eye of hers!)—you see, my dear (there, I won’t do
it again, Mrs. Weasel). How’s ‘the Convention,’ dear? Carried the day, I
hope?—made one of your smart speeches, hey? ’Tis n’t every man owns such
a chain-lightning wife; look out for your rights, dear (deuce knows _I_
dare not)!”
COUNTRY SUNDAY _v._ CITY SUNDAY.
’Tis Sunday in the city.
The sun glares murkily down, through the smoky and stench-laden
atmosphere, upon the dirty pavements; newsboys, with clamorous cries,
are vending their wares; milkmen rattle over the pavements, and startle
drowsy sleepers by their shrill whoopings; housemaids are polishing door
knobs, washing sidewalks, and receiving suspicious-looking baskets and
parcels from contiguous groceries and bakeshops.
The sun rolls on his course; purifying the air and benignly smiling upon
all the dwellers in the city, as though he would gently win them from
unholy purposes to heavenly meditations and pursuits.
And now the streets are filled with a motley show of silks, satins,
velvets, feathers, and jewels—while carriages and vehicles of every
description roll past, freighted with counter-freed youths and their
Dulcineas, bent upon a holiday. Hundreds of “drinking saloons” belch
forth their pestiferous breath, upon which is borne, to the ear of the
passer-by (perhaps a lady or tender child), the profane curse and
obscene gibe; and from their portals reel intoxicated brutes, who once
were men. Military companies march to and fro; now at slow and solemn
pace, to the mournful strains of a dead-march; now (having rid
themselves of the corpse of their dead comrade) they gaily “step out,”
blithe and merry, to the cheering strains of an enlivening quickstep,
based on an Ethiopian melody; the frivolous tones blending discordantly
with the chimes of the Sabbath bells. And stable-keepers, oyster and
ice-cream vendors, liquor sellers, _et id omne genus_, are reaping a
golden harvest, upon which the “Lord of the Sabbath” shall, sooner or
later, send “a blight and a mildew.”
* * * * *
’Tis Sunday in the country.
Serene and majestic, in the distance, lie the blue, cloud-capped hills;
while, at their base, the silver stream winds gracefully, sparkling in
the glad sunlight. Now the fragrant branches stir with feathered life;
and one clear, thrilling carol lifts the finger from the dumb lip of
Nature, heralding a full orchestra of untaught choristers, which plume
their wings, and soaring, seem to say, Praise Him! praise Him!
Obedient to the sweet summons, the silver-haired old man and rosy child,
along grassy, winding paths, his to the little village church. On the
gentle maiden’s kindly arm leans the bending form of “four score years
and ten,” gazing, with dimmed but grateful eye, on leafy stem, and
bursting bud, and full-blown flower; or, listening to the wind dallying
with the tall tree-tops, or kissing the fields of golden grain, which
wave their graceful recognition, as it sweeps by on its fragrant path.
And now, slowly the Sabbath sun sinks beneath the western hills in gold
and purple glory. Gently the dew of peace descends on closed eyes and
flowers; while holy stars creep softly out, to keep their tireless watch
o’er happy hearts and Sabbath-loving homes.
[Illustration]
OUR STREET.
Sing away, little bird! only you, the trees, and myself, are stirring;
but you have an appreciative audience. Your sweet carol and the graceful
waving of yonder tree, as the soft wind turns up its silver-lined leaves
in the sunlight, fill my heart with a quiet gladness.
Whom have we here? with ragged skirt, bare mud-begrimed feet and ankles,
tattered shawl, and tangled masses of hair fluttering round a face
ploughed deep with time and trouble. See—she stoops, and, stretching her
skeleton fingers towards the gutter, grasps some refuse rags and paper,
and thrusts them greedily into the dirty sack she bears upon her
shoulders. Good heavens! that dirty mass of rags a _woman_? How wearily
she leans against yonder tree, gazing upward into its branches! Perhaps
that little bird’s matin song has swept some chord for long years
untouched in that callous heart; telling her of the shelter of a happy
home, where Plenty sat at the board and Love kept guard at the
threshold. Oh! who can tell? One more song, my little bird, ere she
goes; not so _mockingly_ joyous, but sweet, and soft, and low—a requiem
for blighted youth and blasted hopes; for know that the blue sky to
whose arch you soar, bends over misery enough to make the bright seraphs
weep.
Bless me! what yell is that? “Yeei—ho—oe—yeei—ho.” It is only a milkman,
and that horrid cry simply means, “Milk for sale.” What a picture of
laziness is the vendor! Jump off your cart, man, thump on the kitchen
door with your milk-dipper, and rouse that sleepy cook who is keeping
you waiting her pleasure; that’s the way to do business: pshaw! your
manliness must have been diluted with your milk. One by one they emerge,
the dead-and-alive looking housemaids, dragging their brooms after them
lazily and helplessly, and bandy words with the vexed milkman, and
gossip with each other, as they rest their chins on their broom-handles,
on “kitchen-cabinet” affairs.
Here comes an Italian, balancing a shelf-load of plaster Cupids and
Venuses, and dove-circled vases. How mournfully his dark eyes look out
from beneath his tasseled cap, as he lifts his burden from his head for
a momentary reprieve. They tell of weary feet, a heavy heart, and a
light purse. They tell, with a silent reproach, that our hearts are as
cold as our clime. Oh! not _all_, good Pietro! For your sake, I’ll make
myself mistress of that sleeping child; though, truth to say, the
sculptor who moulded it has most wofully libelled Nature. Would I could
see the sunny skies upon which your dark eyes first opened, and all the
glorious forms that beauty wears in your vine-clad home beyond the seas.
How the pedestrians hurry along!—merchants to their cares and their
counting-rooms, and shop-girls and seamstresses to their prisons. Here
comes a group of pale-faced city children, on their way to school. God
bless the little unfortunates! Their little feet should be crushing the
strawberries, ripe and sweet, on some sunny hillslope, where breath of
now-mown hay and clover blossoms would give roses to their cheeks and
strength and grace to their cramped and half-developed limbs. Poor
little creatures! they never saw a patch of blue sky bigger than their
satchels, or a blade of grass that dared to grow without permission from
the mayor, aldermen, and common council. Poor little skeletons! tricked
out like the fashion-prints, and fed on diluted skim-milk and big
dictionaries—I pity you.
A hand-organ! ground by a modern Peter Schlemel, and accompanied by a
woman whose periphery it would be vain to compute by inches, singing,
“I’d be a butterfly.”
Ye gods and graces! if ye heed her prayer, grant that she alight not on
my _two-lips_! Now she is warbling,
“Home! sweet home,”
as if she wasn’t making it for me, this minute, a perfect place of
torment! Avaunt! thou libel upon feminity!—creep into corduroys, and
apply for the office of town crier.
A funeral! That is nothing uncommon in a densely populated city; so,
nobody turns to look, as it winds along, slowly, as will the sad future
to that young husband—that father of an hour. Sad legacy to him, those
piles of tiny robes, and dainty little garments, whose elaborate and
delicate embroidery was purchased at such a fearful price. Nature will
have her revenge for a reckless disregard of her laws; so, there she
lies, the young mother, with the long looked for babe upon her girlish
breast. Sad comment upon a foolish vanity.
What have we here?—A carriage at the door? Ah! I recollect; there was a
wedding at that house last night—lights flashing, music swelling—white
arms gleaming through tissue textures, and merry voices breaking in upon
my slumbers late in the small hours.
Ah, yes—and this is the bride’s leave-taking. How proud and important
that young husband looks, as he stands on the steps, with the bride’s
travelling shawl upon his arm, giving his orders to the coachman! Now he
casts an impatient glance back through the open door into the hall, half
jealous of the tear sparkling in the young wife’s eye, as the mother
presses her tenderly to her breast, as the father lays the hand of
blessing on her sunny head, and brothers and sisters, half glad, half
sad, offer their lips for a good-bye kiss.
Hurry her not away! Not even the heart she has singled out from all the
world to lean upon, can love so fondly, so truly, as those she leaves
behind. Dark days may come, when love’s sunshine shall be o’erclouded by
cares and sickness, from which young manhood, impatient, shrinks. _Let
her linger_: so shall your faith in her young wifely love be
strengthened by such strong filial yearning for these, her cradle
watchers. Let her linger: silver hairs mingle in the mother’s tresses;
the father’s dark eye grows dim with age, and insatiate Death heeds nor
prayer, nor tear, nor lifted eye of supplication. Let her linger.
New York! New York! who but thyself would have tolerated for twelve
mortal hours, with the thermometer at 90 degrees, that barrel of refuse
fish and potatoes, sour bread and damaged meat, questionable vegetables
and antique puddings, steaming on that sunny side-walk, in the forlorn
hope that some pig’s patron might be tempted, by the odoriferous hash,
to venture on its transportation. Know, then, O pestiferous Gotham, that
half a score of these gentry, after having sounded it with a long pole
to the bottom, for the benefit of my olfactories, have voted it a
nuisance to which even a pig might make a _gutter_-al remonstrance. Oh!
Marshal Tukey, if California yet holds you, in the name of the Asiatic
cholera, and _my_ “American constitution,” recross the Isthmus and
exorcise that barrel!
Look on yonder door-step. See that poor, worn creature seated there,
with a puling infant at her breast, from whence it draws no sustenance:
on either side are two little creatures, apparently asleep, with their
heads in her lap. Their faces are very pallid, and their little limbs
have nothing of childhood’s rounded symmetry and beauty. “Perhaps she is
an impostor,” says Prudence, seizing my purse-strings, “getting up that
tableau for just such impressionable dupes as yourself.” “Perhaps she is
_not_,” says Feeling; “perhaps at this moment despair whispers in her
tempted ear ‘curse God and die!’ Oh! then, how sad to have ‘passed her
by, on the other side!’” Let _me_ be “duped,” rather than that wan face
should come between my soul and Heaven.
WHEN YOU ARE ANGRY.
“When you are angry, take three breaths before you speak.”
I couldn’t do it, said Mrs. Penlimmon. Long before that time I should be
as placid as an oyster. “Three breaths!” I could double Cape Horn in
that time. I’m telegraphic,—if I had to stop to reflect, I should never
be saucy. I can’t hold anger any more than an April sky can retain
showers; the first thing I know, the sun is shining. You may laugh, but
that’s better than one of your foggy dispositions, drizzling drops of
discomfort a month on a stretch; no computing whether you’ll have
anything but gray clouds overhead the rest of your life. No: a good
heavy clap of thunder for me—a lightning flash; then a bright blue sky
and a clear atmosphere, and I am ready for the first flower that springs
up in my path.
“Three breaths!” how absurd! as if people, when they get excited, ever
_have_ any breath, or if they have, are conscious of it. I should like
to see the Solomon who got off that sage maxim. I should like better
still to give him an opportunity to test his own theory! It’s very
refreshing to see how good people can be when they have no temptation to
sin; how they can sit down and make a code of laws for the world in
general, and sinners in particular.
“Three breaths!” I wouldn’t give a three-cent piece for anybody who is
that long about anything. The days of stage coaches have gone by.
Nothing passes muster now but comets, locomotives, and telegraph wires.
Our forefathers and foremothers would have to hold the hair on their
heads if they should wake up in 1854. They’d be as crazy as a cat in a
shower-bath, at all our whizzing and rushing. Nice old snails! It’s a
question with me whether I should have crept on at their pace, had I
been a cotemporary. Christopher Columbus would have discovered the New
World much quicker than he did, had I been at his elbow.
LITTLE BESSIE;
OR,
MISS PRIM’S MODEL SCHOOL.