School is out! What stretching of limbs; what unfettering of tongues and

heels; what tossing-up of pinafores and primers; what visions of

marbles, and hoops, and dolls, and apples, and candy, and gingerbread!

How welcome the fresh air; how bright the sunshine; how tempting the

grassy play-ground! Ah, there’s a drop of rain—there’s another; there’s

a thunder clap! “Just as school is out—how provoking!” echo a score of

voices; and the pouting little prisoners huddle together in the

school-house porch, and console themselves by swapping jack-knives and

humming-tops, and telling marvellous stories of gipsies and giants;

while Miss Prim, the dyspeptic teacher, shakes her head and the ferule,

and declares that the former will “fly into fifty pieces;” upon which

some of the boys steal out of doors and amuse themselves by sounding the

puddles with their shoes, while others slily whittle the desks, or draw

caricatures on their slates of Miss Prim’s long nose.

Drip, drip—spatter, spatter! How the rain comes down, as if it couldn’t

help it; no prospect of “holding up.”

Here come messengers from anxious mothers, with India rubbers, extra

tippets, and umbrellas; and there’s a chaise at the door for Squire

Lennox’s little rosy daughter; and a waggon for the two Prince girls;

and a stout Irish girl, with a blanket shawl, to carry home little lame

Minnie May, who is as fragile as a lily, and just as sweet. And there’s

a servant man for Master Simpkins, the fat dunce with the embroidered

jacket, whose father owns “the big Hotel, and wishes his son to have a

seat all by himself.”

And now they are all gone;—all save little Bessie Bell, the new

scholar—a little four-year-older, who is doing penance over in the

corner for “a misdemeanour.”

Bessie’s mother is a widow. She has known such bright, sunny days, in

the shelter of a happy home, with a dear arm to lean upon! Now her sweet

face is sad and care-worn, and when she speaks, her voice has a

heart-quiver in it: but, somehow, when she talks to you, you do not

notice that her dress is faded, or her bonnet shabby and rusty: You

instinctively touch your hat to her, and treat her very courteously, as

if she were a fine lady.

As I said before, this is little Bessie’s first day at school; for she

is light, and warmth, and sunshine to her broken-hearted mother. But

little Bessie must have bread to eat. A shop-woman offered her mother a

small pittance to come and help her a part of every day; but she is not

to bring her child; so Bessie must go to school to be out of harm’s way,

and her mother tells Miss Prim, as she seats her on the hard bench, that

“she is very timid and tender-hearted;” and then she kisses Bessie’s

little quivering lip, and leaves her with a heavy heart.

Bessie dare not look up for a few minutes;—it is all very odd and

strange, and if she were not so frightened she would cry aloud. By and

by she gains a little courage, and peeps out from beneath her drooping

eye-lashes. Her little pinafore neighbour gives her a sweet smile—it

makes her little heart so happy, that she throws her little dimpled arms

about her neck and says (out loud), “I love you!”

Poor, affectionate little Bessie! she didn’t know that that was a

“misdemeanour;” had she ever seen that bugbear, a “School Committee.”

Miss Prim had;—and Miss Prim never wasted her lungs talking; so she

leisurely untied her black silk apron from her virgin waist, and

proceeded to make an African of little Bessie, by pinning it tightly

over her face and head—an invention which herself and “the Committee”

considered the _ne plus ultra_ of discipline. Bessie struggled, and said

she “never would kiss anybody again—never—never;” but Miss Prim was

inexorable; and as her victim continued to utter smothered cries, Miss

Prim told her “that she would keep her after the other children had gone

home.”

One class after another recited; Bessie’s sobs became less loud and

frequent, and Miss Prim flattered herself, now that they had ceased

altogether, that she was quite subdued, and congratulated herself

complacently upon her extraordinary talent for “breaking in new

beginners.”

And now, school being done, the children gone, her bonnet and India

rubbers being put on, and all her spinster “fixings” settled to her

mind, visions of hot tea and buttered toast began to float temptingly

through her brain, and suggest the propriety of Bessie’s release.

“Bessie!”—no answer. “Bessie!”—no reply. Miss Prim laid the ferule

across the little fat shoulders. Bessie didn’t wince. Miss Prim unpinned

the apron to confront the face that was bold enough to defy her and “the

Committee.” Little Bessie was _dead_!

Well; there was a pauper funeral, and a report about that a child had

been “frightened to death at school;” but Bessie’s mother was a poor

woman, consequently the righteous Committee “didn’t feel called upon to

interfere with such idle reports.”

THE DELIGHTS OF VISITING.

What is it to go away on a visit? Well, it is to take leave of the

little velvet rocking-chair, which adjusts itself so nicely to your

shoulders and spinal column; to cram, jam, squeeze, and otherwise

compress your personal effects into an infinitesimal compass; to be

shook, jolted, and tossed, by turns, in carriage, railroad and

steamboat; to be deafened with the stentorian lungs of cab-drivers,

draymen, and porters; to clutch your baggage as if every face you saw

were a highwayman (or to find yourself transported with rage, at finding

_it_ transported by steam to Greenland or Cape Horn). It is to reach

your friend’s house, travel-stained, cold and weary, with an unbecoming

crook in your bonnet; to be utterly unable to get the frost out of your

tongue, or “_the beam into your eye_,” and to have the felicity of

hearing some strange guest remark to your friend, as you say an early

good-night, “Is it possible THAT is your friend, Miss Grey?”

It is to be ushered into the “best chamber” (always a _north_ one) of a

cold January night; to unhook your dress with stiffened digits; to find

everything in your trunk _but_ your nightcap; to creep between polished

_linen_ sheets, on a congealed _mattress_, and listen to the chattering

of your own teeth until daylight.

It is to talk at a mark twelve hours on the stretch; to eat and drink

all sorts of things which disagree with you; to get up sham fits of

enthusiasm at trifles; to learn to yawn circumspectly behind your

finger-tips; to avoid all allusion to topics unsuited to your _pro tem_.

latitude; to have somebody for ever at your nervous elbow, _trying to

make you “enjoy yourself;”_ to laugh when you want to cry; to be

loquacious when you had rather be taciturn; to have mind and body in

unyielding harness, for lingering, consecutive weeks; and then to invite

your friends, with a hypocritical smile, to play the same farce over

with you, “whenever business or pleasure calls them” to Frog-town!

HELEN HAVEN’S “HAPPY NEW YEAR.”

“I’m miserable; there’s no denying it,” said Helen. “There’s nothing in

this endless fashionable routine of dressing, dancing, and visiting,

that can satisfy me. Hearts enough are laid at my feet, but I owe them

all to the accidents of wealth and position. The world seems all

emptiness to me. There _must_ be something beyond this, else why this

ceaseless reaching of the soul for some unseen good? Why do the silent

voices of nature so thrill me? Why do the holy stars with their burning

eyes utter such silent reproaches? Have I nothing to do but amuse myself

with toys like a child? Shall I live only for _myself_? Does not the sun

that rises upon my luxury, shine also upon the tear-stained face of

sorrow? Are there not slender feet stumbling wearily in rugged, lonely

paths? Why is _mine_ flower-bestrewn? How am I better? Whose sorrowful

heart have I lightened? What word of comfort has fallen from my lips on

the ear of the grief-stricken? What am I here for? What is my mission?”

* * * * *

“And you have only this wretched place to nurse that sick child in?”

said Helen; “and five lesser ones to care for? Will you trust that sick

child with me?”

“She is not long for this world, my lady; and I love her as well as

though I had but one. Sometimes I’ve thought the more care I have for

her, the closer my heart clings to her. She is very patient and sweet.”

“Yes, I know,” said Helen; “but I have it in my power to make her so

much more comfortable. It may preserve, at least lengthen, her life.”

When little Mary opened her eyes the next morning, she half believed

herself in fairy-land. Soft fleecy curtains were looped about her head,

her little emaciated hand rested upon a silken coverlet, a gilded table

stood by her bed-side, the little cup from which her lips were moistened

was of bright silver, and a sweet face was bending over her, shaded by a

cloud of golden hair, that fell like a glory about her head.

“Where am I?” said the child, crossing her little hands over her

bewildered brain.

Helen smiled. “You are _my_ little bird now, dear. How do you like your

cage?”

“It is very, _very_ pretty,” said Mary, with childish delight; “but

won’t you get tired of waiting upon a poor little sick girl? Mamma was

used to it. _You_ don’t look as if you could work.”

“Don’t I?” said Helen, with a slight blush; “for all that you’ll see how

nicely I can take care of you, little one. I’ll sing to you, I’ll read

to you, I’ll tell you pretty stories, and when you are weary of your

couch, I’ll fold you in my arms, and rock you so gently to sleep. And

when you get better and stronger, you shall have so many nice toys to

play with, and I’ll crown your little bright head with pretty flowers,

and make you nice little dresses; and now I’m going to read to you.

Betty has been out, and bought you a little fairy story about a

wonderful puss; and here’s ‘Little Timothy Pip;’ which will you have?”

“Mamma used to read to me out of the Bible,” said little Mary, as her

long lashes swept her cheek.

Helen started; a bright crimson flush passed over her face, and bending

low, she kissed the child’s forehead reverentially.

“About the crucifixion, please,” said Mary, as Helen seated herself by

her side.

That Holy Book! Helen felt as if her hands were “unclean.” She began to

read: perhaps the print might not have been clear; but she stopped

often, and drew her small hand across her eyes. Her voice grew

tremulous. Years of worldliness had come between her, and that sad,

touching story. It came upon her now with startling force and freshness.

Earth, with its puerile cares and pleasures, dwindled to a point. Oh,

what “cross” had her shoulders borne? What “crown of thorns” had pierced

her brows? How had her careless feet turned aside from the footsteps of

Calvary’s meek sufferer!

“Thank you,” said little Mary, rousing Helen from her reverie: “mamma

used to pray to God to make me patient, and take me to Heaven.”

Tears started to Helen’s eyes. How could she tell that sinless little

one she _knew not how to pray_? Ah! _she_ was the pupil, Mary the

teacher! Laying her check to hers, she said in a soft whisper, “Pray for

_us both_, dear Mary.”

With sweet, touching, simple eloquence that little silvery voice floated

on the air. The little emaciated hand upon which Helen’s face was

pressed, was wet with tears—_happy_ tears! Oh, this was what that

restless soul had craved! Here at “the cross,” that world-fettered

spirit should plume itself for an angel’s ceaseless flight. Ay, and a

little _child had led her there_!

* * * * *

Adolph Grey wandered listlessly through that brilliant ball-room. There

were sweet voices and sweeter faces, and graceful, floating forms; but

his eye rested on none of them.

“Pray where is Lady Helen?” said he, wandering up to his gay hostess

with a slight shade of embarrassment.

“Ah, you may well ask that! I’m _so_ vexed at her! Every man in the room

is as savage as a New Zealander. She has turned Methodist, that’s all.

Just imagine; our peerless Helen thumbing greasy hymn-books at vestry

meetings, listening to whining preachers, and hunting up poor dirty

beggar children. I declare I thought she had too much good sense. Well,

there it is; and you may as well hang _your_ harp on the willows. She’ll

have nothing to say to you _now_; for you know you are a sinner, Grey.”

“Very true,” said Grey, as he went into the ante-room to cloak himself

for a call upon Helen; “I _am_ a sinner; but if any woman can make a

saint of me, it is Lady Helen. I have looked upon women only as toys to

pass away the time; but under that gay exterior of Helen’s, there was

always something to which my better nature bowed in reverence. ‘A

Methodist,’ is she? Well, be it so. She has a soul above yonder

frivolity, and I respect her for it.”

* * * * *

If in after years the great moral questions of the day had more interest

for Adolph Grey than the pleasures of the turf, the billiard room, or

the wine party, who shall say that Lady Helen’s influence was not a

blessed one?

Oh, if woman’s beauty, and power, and witchery were oftener used for a

high and holy purpose, how many who now bend a careless knee at her

shrine, would hush the light laugh and irreverent jest, and almost feel,

as she passed, _that an angel’s wing had rustled by_!

DOLLARS AND DIMES.

“Dollars and dimes, dollars and dimes,

An empty pocket is the worst of crimes.”

“Yes; and don’t you presume to show yourself anywhere until you get it

filled.” “Not among good people?” No, my dear Simplicity, not among

“good people.” They will receive you with a galvanic ghost of a smile,

seared up by an indistinct recollection of the “ten commandments;” but

it will be as short-lived as their stay with you. You are not

welcome—that’s the amount of it. They are all in a perspiration lest you

should be delivered of a request for their assistance before they can

get rid of you. They are “very busy,” and, what’s more, they always will

be busy when you call, until you get to the top of fortune’s ladder.

Climb, man! climb! Get to the top of the ladder, though adverse

circumstances and false friends break every round in it! and see what a

glorious and extensive prospect of human nature you’ll get when you

arrive at the summit! Your gloves will be worn out shaking hands with

the very people who didn’t recognize your existence two months ago. “You

must come and make me a long visit;” “you must step in at any time;”

“_you’ll_ always be welcome;” it is such a _long_ time since they had

the pleasure of a visit from you, that they begin to fear you never

intended to come; and they’ll cap the climax by inquiring, with an

injured air, “if you are near-sighted, or why you have so often passed

them in the street without speaking.”

Of course, you will feel very much like laughing in their faces, and so

you can. You can’t do anything wrong, now that your “pocket is full.” At

the most, it will only be “an eccentricity.” You can use anybody’s neck

for a footstool, bridle anybody’s mouth with a silver bit, and have as

many “golden opinions” as you like. You won’t see a frown again between

this and your tombstone!

OUR NELLY.

“Who is she?” “Why, that is our Nelly, to be sure. Nobody ever passed

Nelly without asking, ‘Who is she?’ One can’t forget the glance of that

blue eye; nor the waving of those golden locks; nor the breezy grace of

that lithe figure; nor those scarlet lips; nor the bright, glad sparkle

of the whole face; and then, she is not a bit proud, although she steps

so like a queen; she would shake hands just as quick with a horny palm

as with a kid glove. The world can’t spoil ‘our Nelly;’ her heart is in

the right place.

“You should have seen her thank an old farmer, the other day, for

clearing the road, that she might pass. He shaded his eyes with his hand

when she swept by, as if he had been dazzled by a sudden flash of

sunlight, and muttered to himself, as he looked after her, ‘Won’t she

make somebody’s heart ache!’ Well, she has; but it is because from among

all her lovers she could marry but one, and (God save us!) that her

choice should have fallen upon Walter May. If he don’t quench out the

love-light in those blue eyes my name is not John Morrison. I’ve seen

his eyes flash when things didn’t suit him; I’ve seen him nurse his

wrath to keep it warm till the smouldering embers were ready for a

conflagration. He’s as vindictive as an Indian. I’d as soon mate a dove

with a tiger as give him ‘our Nelly.’ There’s a dozen noble fellows,

this hour, ready to lay down their lives for her, and yet out of the

whole crowd she must choose Walter May! Oh, I have no patience to think

of it. Well-a-day! mark my words, he will break her heart before a

twelvemonth! He’s a pocket edition of Napoleon.”

* * * * *

A year had passed by, and amid the hurry of business and the din of the

great city, I had quite forgotten Glenburn and its fairy queen. It was a

time to recall her to mind, that lovely June morning—with its soft

fleecy clouds, its glad sunlight, its song of birds, and its breath of

roses; and so I threw the reins on Romeo’s neck, that he might choose

his own pace down the sweet-briar path, to John Morrison’s cottage. And

there sat John, in the door-way, smoking his pipe, with Towser crouched

at his feet, in the same old spot, just as if the sun had never gone

down behind the hills since I parted with him.

“And ‘our Nelly?’” said I, taking up the thread of his year-old

narrative as though it had never been broken—“and ‘our Nelly?’”

“Under the sod,” said the old man, with a dark frown; “under the sod. He

broke her heart, just as I told you he would. Such a bridal as it was!

I’d as lief have gone to a funeral. And then Walter carried her off to

the city, where she was as much out of her element as a humming-bird in

a meeting-house; and tried to make a fine lady of her, with stiff city

airs, and stiff city manners. It was like trying to fetter the soft west

wind, which comes and goes at its own sweet will; and Nelly—who was only

another name for _Nature_—pined and drooped like a bird in a darkened

cage.

“One by one her old friends dropped off, wearied with repeated and rude

repulses from her moody husband, till he was left, as he desired, master

of the field. It was astonishing the ascendancy he gained over his sweet

wife, contemptible as he was. She made no objection to his most absurd

requirements; but her step lost its spring, her eye its sparkle; and one

might listen long for her merry-ringing laugh. Slowly, sadly to Nelly

came that terrible conviction from which a wife has no appeal.”

Ah! there is no law to protect woman from negative abuse!—no mention

made in the statute book (which _men frame for themselves_), of the

constant dropping of daily discomforts which wear the loving heart

away—no allusion to looks or words that are like poisoned arrows to the

sinking spirit. No! if she can show no mark of brutal fingers on her

delicate flesh he has fulfilled his legal promise to the letter—to love,

honour, and cherish her. _Out_ on such a mockery of justice!

“Well, sir; Nelly fluttered back to Glenburn, with the broken wing of

hope, to die! So wasted! so lovely! The lips that blessed _her_, could

not choose but curse _him_. ‘She leaned on a broken reed,’ said her old

gray-haired father, as he closed her blue eyes for ever. ‘May God

forgive him, for I never can,’ said an old lover, whose heart was buried

in her grave.

‘NELLY MAY, _aged 18_.’

“You’ll read it in the village churchyard, sir. Eighteen! Brief years,

sir, to drain all of happiness Life’s cup could offer!”

“STUDY MEN, NOT BOOKS.”

Oh! but books are such safe company! They keep your secrets well; _they_

never boast that they made your eyes glisten, or your cheek flush, or

your heart throb. You may take up your favourite author, and love him at

a distance just as warmly as you like, for all the sweet fancies and

glowing thoughts that have winged your lonely hours so fleetly and so

sweetly. Then you may close the book, and lean your cheek against the

cover, as if it were the face of a dear friend; shut your eyes and

soliloquise to your heart’s content, without fear of misconstruction,

even though you should exclaim in the fulness of your enthusiasm, “What

an _adorable soul that man has_!” You may put the volume under your

pillow, and let your eye and the first ray of morning light fall on it

together, and no Argus eyes shall rob you of that delicious pleasure, no

carping old maid, or strait-laced Pharisee shall cry out, “_it isn’t

proper_!” You may have a thousand petty, provoking, irritating

annoyances through the day, and you shall come back again to your dear

old book, and forget them all in _dream land_. It shall be a friend that

shall be always at hand; that shall never try you by caprice, or pain

you by forgetfulness, or wound you by distrust.

“Study _men_!”

Well, try it! I don’t believe there’s any _neutral territory_ where that

interesting study can be pursued as it should be. Before you get to the

end of the first chapter, they’ll be making love to you from the mere

force of habit—and because silks, and calicoes, and delaines, naturally

suggest it. It’s just as natural to them as it is to sneeze when a ray

of sunshine flashes suddenly in their faces. “Study men!” That’s a game,

my dear, that _two_ can play at. Do you suppose they are going to sit

quietly down and let you dissect their hearts, without returning the

compliment? No, indeed! that’s _where they differ slightly from

“books!”—they always expect an equivalent_.

Men are a curious study! Sometimes it pays to read to “the end of the

volume,” and then again, it don’t—mostly the latter!

“MURDER OF THE INNOCENTS;

OR,

HOME THE PLACE FOR MARRIED FOLKS.

Happy Mrs. Emily! Freed from the thraldom of housekeeping, and duly

installed mistress of a fine suite of rooms at —— Hotel. No more

refractory servants to oversee, no more silver or porcelain to guard, no

more cupboards, or closets, or canisters to explore; no more pickles or

preserves to make; no more bills of fare to invent—and over and above

all, mistress of a bell-wire which was not “tabooed” on washing and

ironing days.

Time to lounge on the sofa, and devour “yellow-covered literature;” time

to embroider caps, and collars, and chemisettes; time to contemplate the

pretty face where housekeeping _might_ have planted “crows-feet,” had

she not fortunately foreseen the symptoms, and turned her back on dull

Care and all his croaking crew.

Happy Mrs. Emily! No bird let loose from a cage was ever more joyous;

not even her own little children—for she had two of them, and pretty

creatures they were too, with their cherry lips, and dimpled limbs, and

flaxen ringlets; and very weary they grew of their gloomy nursery, with

its one window, commanding a view of a dingy shed and a tall,

spectral-looking distil-house chimney, emitting clouds of smoke and

suffocating vapour. Nannie, the nurse, didn’t fancy it either, so she

spent her time in the lobbies and entries, challenging compliments from

white-jacketed waiters, while the children peeped curiously into the

half open doors, taking draughts of cold air on their bare necks and

shoulders. Sometimes they balanced themselves alarmingly on the spiral

ballustrade, gazing down into the dizzy Babel below, inhaling clouds of

cigar smoke, and listening, with round-eyed wonder, to strange

conversations, which memory’s cud should chew, for riper years to

digest.

“No children allowed at the _table d’hôtel_”—so the “hotel

regulations” pompously set forth—the landlord’s tablecloths,

gentlemen’s broadcloth, and ladies’ silk dresses being sworn foes to

_little Paul Pry fingers_. Poor little exiles! they took their

sorrowful meals in the servants’ hall, with their respective nurses,

the bill of fare consisting of a re-hash of yesterday’s French dishes

(spiced for the digestion of an ostrich). This was followed by a

dessert of stale pastry and ancient raisins, each nurse _at the

outset_ propitiating her infant charge with a huge bunch, that she

might regale herself with the substantials!—mamma, meanwhile,

blissfully ignoring the whole affair, absorbed in the sublime

occupation of making German worsted dogs.

Papa, too, had _his_ male millenium. No more marketing to do; no more

coal, or wood, or kindling to buy; no cistern, or pump, or gas-pipe to

keep in repair. Such a luxury as it was to have a free pass to the

“smoking-room” (alias _bar-room_), where the atmosphere was so dense

that he couldn’t tell the latitude of his nose, and surrounded by “hale

fellows well met.” His eldest boy accompanied him, listening, on his

knee, to questionable jokes, which he repeated at bed-time to pert

Nannie, the nurse, who understood their significance much better than

his innocent little lordship.

Papa, to be sure, had _some_ drawbacks, but they were VERY trifling—for

instance, his shirts were quite buttonless, his dickeys stringless, and

his stockings had ventilator toes; but then, how could mamma be seen

patching and mending in such an aristocratic atmosphere? She might lose

caste; and as to Nannie, _her_ hands were full, what with babies and

billet-doux.

You should have seen Mrs. Emily in the evening; with sparkling eyes and

bracelets, flounced robe and daintily-shod feet, twisting her Chinese

fan, listening to moustached idlers, and recollecting, with a shudder,

the long Caudle evenings, _formerly_ divided between _her_ husband,

_his_ newspaper, and _her_ darning needle.

Then the _petite soupers_ at ten o’clock in the evening, where the

ladies were enchanting, the gentlemen _quite entirely_ irresistible;

where wit and champagne corks flew with equal celerity; and headaches,

and dyspepsia, and nightmare, lay _perdu_ amid fried oysters, venison

steaks, chicken salad, and _India-rubber, anti-temperance jellies_.

Then followed the midnight reunion in the drawing-room, where

promiscuous polkaing and waltzing (seen through champagne fumes) seemed

not only proper, but delightful.

It was midnight. There was hurrying to and fro in the entry-halls and

lobbies; a quick, sharp cry for medical help; the sobs and tears of an

agonized mother, and the low moan of a dying child; for nature had

rebelled at last at impure air, unwholesome food, and alternate heats

and chills.

“No hope,” the doctor said; “no hope,” papa mechanically repeated; “_no

hope!_” echoed inexorable Death, as he laid his icy finger on the

quivering little lips.

It was a dearly bought lesson. The Lady Emily never forgot it. Over her

remaining bud of promise she tearfully bends, finding her quiet

happiness in the healthful, sacred and safe retreat of the _home

fireside_.

AMERICAN LADIES.

“The American ladies, when promenading, cross their arms in front, and

look like trussed turkeys.”

Well, you ought to pity us, for we have no such escape-valves for our

awkwardness as you have—no dickeys to pull up—no vests to pull down—no

breast pockets, side pockets, flap pockets to explore—no cigars between

our teeth—no switch canes in our hands—no beavers to twitch, when we

meet an acquaintance. Don’t you yourselves oblige us to reef in our

rigging, and hold it down tight with our little paws over our belts,

under penalty of being dragged half a mile by one of your buttons, when

you tear past us like so many comets?

Is it any joke to us to stand _vis-a-vis_, with a strange man, before a

crowd of grinning spectators, while you are disentangling the “Gordian

knot,” instead of whipping out your penknife and sacrificing your

offending button, as you ought to do?

Is it any joke to see papa scowl, when we ask him for the “needful,” to

restore the lace or fringe you tore off our shawl or mantilla?

Do you suppose we can stop to walk _gracefully_, when our minds have to

be in a prepared state to have our pretty little toes crushed, or our

bonnets knocked off, or our skirts torn from our belts, or ourselves and

our gaiter hoots jostled into a mud-puddle?

Do you _ever_ “keep to the right, as the law directs?” Don’t you always

go with your heads hindside before, and then fetch up against us as if

we were made of cast-iron? Don’t you put your great lazy hands in your

pockets, and tramp along with a cane half a mile long sticking out from

under your arm-pits, to the imminent danger of our optics? “_Trussed

turkeys_,” indeed! No wonder, when we are run a-_fowl_ of every other

minute.

THE STRAY SHEEP.

“He’s going the wrong way—straying from the true fold; going off the

track,” said old Deacon Green, shaking his head ominously, as he saw

young Neff enter a church to hear an infidel preacher. “Can’t understand

it; he was taught his catechism and ten commandments as soon as he could

speak; he knows the right way as well as our parson; I can’t understand

it.”

Harry Neff had never seen a day pass since his earliest childhood that

was not ushered in and closed with a family prayer. He had not partaken

of a repast upon which the divine blessing was not invoked; the whole

atmosphere of the old homestead was decidedly orthodox. Novels, plays,

and Byronic poetry were all vetoed. Operas, theatres, and the like most

decidedly frowned upon; and no lighter literature was allowed upon the

table than missionary reports and theological treatises.

Most of his father’s guests being clergymen, Harry was early made

acquainted with every crook and turn of orthodoxy. He had laid up many a

clerical conversation, and pondered it in his heart, when they imagined

his thoughts on anything but the subject in debate. At his father’s

request, they had each and all taken him by the button, for the purpose

of long, private conversations—the old gentleman generally prefacing his

request by the remark that “his heart was as hard as a flint.”

Harry listened to them all with respectful attention, manifesting no

sign of impatience, no nervous shrinking from the probing process, and

they left him, impressed with a sense of his mental superiority, but

totally unable to affect his feelings in the remotest degree.

Such a pity! they all said, that he should be so impenetrable; such

wonderful argumentative powers as he had; such felicity of expression;

such an engaging exterior. Such a pity! that on all these brilliant

natural gifts should not have been written, “Holiness to the Lord.”

Yes, dear reader, it _was_ a pity. Pity, when our pulpits are so often

filled with those whose only recommendation for their office is a good

heart and a black coat. It was a pity that graceful gesticulation, that

rare felicity of expression, that keen perception of the beautiful, that

ready tact and adaptation to circumstances and individuals, should not

have been effective weapons in the _gospel armoury_. Pity, that voice of

music should not have been employed to chain the worldling’s fastidious

ear to listen to Calvary’s story.

Yet it was a pity that glorious intellect had been laid at an unholy

shrine; pity “he had strayed from the true fold.” How was it?

Ah! the solution is simple. “Line upon line, precept upon precept,” is

well—but _practice is better_! Religion _must not be all lip-service_;

the “fruits of love, meekness, gentleness, forbearance, long-suffering,”

must follow. Harry was a keen observer. He had often heard the harsh and

angry word from lips upon which the Saviour’s name had just lingered. He

had felt the unjust, quick, passionate blow from the hand which a moment

before had been raised in supplication to Heaven. He had seen the

purse-strings relax at the bidding of worldliness, and tighten at the

call of charity. He had seen principle sacrificed to policy, and duty to

interest. He had himself been misappreciated. The shrinking

sensitiveness which drew a veil over his most sacred feelings had been

harshly construed into hard-heartedness and indifference. Every duty to

which his attention was called was prefaced with the supposition that he

was averse to its performance. He was cut off from the gay pleasures

which buoyant spirits and fresh young life so eloquently plead for; and

in their stead no innocent enjoyment was substituted. He saw Heaven’s

gate shut most unceremoniously upon all who did not subscribe to the

parental creed, outraging both his own good sense and the teachings of

the Bible; and so religion (which should have been rendered so lovely)

put on to him an ascetic form. Oh, what marvel that the flowers in the

broad road were so passing fair to see? that the forbidden fruit of the

“tree of knowledge” was so tempting to the youthful touch?

Oh, Christian parent! be consistent, be judicious, be _cheerful_. If, as

historians inform us, “no smile ever played” on the lips of Jesus of

Nazareth, surely _no frown marred the beauty of that holy brow_.

Dear reader, _true_ religion is _not_ gloomy. “Her ways _are_ ways of

pleasantness, her paths _are_ peace.” No man, no woman, has chart, or

compass, or guiding star, without it.

Religion is not a _fable_. Else why, when our household gods are

shivered, do our tearful eyes seek only Heaven?

Why, when disease lays its iron grasp on bounding life, does the

startled soul so earnestly, _so_ tearfully, _so_ imploringly, call on

its forgotten Saviour?

Ah! the house “built upon the sand” may do for sunny weather; but when

the billows roll, and the tempests blow, and lightnings flash, and

thunders roar, _we need the_ “_Rock of Ages_.”

THE FASHIONABLE PREACHER.

Do you call _this_ a church? Well, I heard a prima donna here a few

nights ago: and bright eyes sparkled, and waving ringlets kept time to

moving fans; and opera glasses and ogling, and fashion and folly reigned

for the nonce triumphant. _I_ can’t forget it; I can’t get up any

devotion _here_, under these latticed balconies, with their fashionable

freight. If it were a good old country church, with a cracked bell and

unhewn rafters, a pine pulpit, with the honest sun staring in through

the windows, a pitch-pipe in the gallery, and a few hobnailed rustics

scattered round in the uncushioned seats, I should feel all right: but

my soul is in fetters here; it won’t soar—its wings are earth-clipped.

Things are all too fine! Nobody can come in at that door, whose hat and

coat and bonnet are not fashionably cut. The poor man (minus a Sunday

suit) might lean on his staff, in the porch, a long while, before he’d

dare venture in, to pick up _his_ crumb of the Bread of Life. But, thank

God, the unspoken prayer of penitence may wing its way to the Eternal

Throne, though our mocking church spires point only with _aristocratic

fingers_ to the _rich man’s heaven_.

—That hymn was beautifully read; there’s poetry in the preacher’s soul.

Now he takes his seat by the reading-desk; now he crosses the platform,

and offers his hymn-book to a female who has just entered. What right

has _he_ to know there is a woman in the house? ’Tisn’t clerical! Let

the bonnets find their own hymns.

Well, I take a listening attitude, and try to believe I am in church. I

hear a great many original, a great many _startling_ things said. I see

the gauntlet thrown at the dear old orthodox sentiments which I nursed

in with my mother’s milk, and which (please God) I’ll cling to till I

die. I see the polished blade of satire glittering in the air, followed

by curious, eager, youthful eyes, which gladly see the searching “Sword

of the Spirit” parried. Meaning glances, smothered smiles, and approving

nods follow the witty clerical sally. The orator pauses to mark the

effect, and his face says, That stroke _tells_! and so it did, for “the

Athenians” are not all dead, who “love to see and hear some new thing.”

But he has another arrow in his quiver. Now his features soften—his

voice is low and thrilling, his imagery beautiful and touching. He

speaks of human love; he touches skilfully a chord to which every heart

vibrates; and stern manhood is struggling with his tears, ere his smiles

are chased away.

Oh, there’s intellect there—there’s poetry there—there’s genius there;

but I remember Gethsemane—I forget not Calvary! I know the “rocks were

rent,” and the “heavens darkened,” and “the stone rolled away;” and a

cold chill strikes to my heart when I hear “Jesus of Nazareth” lightly

mentioned.

Oh, what are intellect, and poetry, and genius, when with Jewish voice

they cry, “_Away with_ HIM!”

With “Mary,” let me “bathe his feet with my tears, and wipe them with

the hairs of my head.”

And so, I “went away sorrowful,” that this human preacher, with such

great intellectual possessions, should yet “lack the _one thing

needful_.”

“CASH.”[1]

Don’t think I’m going to perpetrate a monetary article. No fancy that

way! I ignore anything approaching to a _stock_! I refer now to that

omnipresent, omniscient, ubiquitous, express-train little victim so

baptized in the dry-goods stores, who hears nothing but the everlasting

word cash dinned in his juvenile ears from matin to vespers; whose

dangerous duty it is to rush through a crowd of expectant and impatient

feminines, without suffering his jacket buttons to become too intimately

acquainted with the fringes of their shawls, or the laces of their

mantillas! and to dodge so dexterously as not to knock down, crush under

foot, or otherwise damage the string of juveniles that said women are

bound to place as obstructions in said “Cash’s” way!

Footnote 1:

The boy employed in stores to fetch and carry change.

See him double, and turn, and twist, like a rabbit in a wood, while that

word of command flies from one clerk’s lip to another. Poor, demented

little Cash! Where is your anxious maternal? Who finds you in patience

and shoe leather? Does your pillow ever suggest anything to your weary

brain but pillar-less quarters, and crossed sixpences, and faded bank

bills? When do you find time, you poor little victim, to comb your hair,

digest your victuals, and say your catechism? Do you ever look back with

a sigh to the days of peppermints, peanuts and pinafores? Or forward, in

the dim distance, to a vision of a long-tailed coat, a high standing

dickey, and no more “_Cash_,” save in your pantaloons’ pocket? Don’t you

ever catch yourself wishing that a certain rib of Adam’s had never been

subtracted from his paradisiacal side?

Poor, miserable little Cash! you have my everlasting sympathy! I should

go shopping twenty times, where I now go once, didn’t it harrow up my

feelings, to see you driven on so, like a locomotive! “Here’s hoping”

you may soon be made sensible of more than _one_ meaning to word CHANGE!

ONLY A CHILD.

“Who is to be buried here?” said I to the sexton. “Only a child, ma’am.”

_Only_ a child! Oh! had you ever been a mother—had you nightly pillowed

that little golden head—had you slept the sweeter for that little velvet

hand upon your breast—had you waited for the first intelligent glance

from those blue eyes—had you watched its cradle slumbers, tracing the

features of him who stole your girlish heart away—had you wept a widow’s

tears over its unconscious head—had your desolate, timid heart gained

courage from that little piping voice, to wrestle with the jostling

crowd for daily bread—had its loving smiles and prattling words been

sweet recompense for such sad exposure—had the lonely future been

brightened by the hope of that young arm to lean upon, that bright eye

for your guiding star—had you never framed a plan, or known a hope or

fear, of which that child was not a part; if there was naught else on

earth left for you to love—if disease came, and its eye grew dim; and

food, and rest, and sleep were forgotten in your anxious fears—if you

paced the floor, hour by hour, with that fragile burden, when your very

touch seemed to give comfort and healing to that little quivering

frame—had the star of hope set at last—had you hung over its dying

pillow, when the strong breast you should have wept on was in the grave,

where your child was hastening—had you caught _alone_ its last faint cry

for the “_help_” you could not give—had its last fluttering sigh been

breathed out on _your_ breast—Oh! could you have said—“’Tis _only_ a

child?”

MR. PIPKIN’S IDEAS OF FAMILY RETRENCHMENT.

Mrs. Pipkin, I am under the disagreeable necessity of informing you,

that our family expenses are getting to be enormous. I see that carpet

woman charged you a dollar for one day’s work. Why, that is positively a

man’s wages;—such presumption is intolerable. Pity you did not make it

yourself, Mrs. Pipkin; wives ought to lift their end of the yoke; that’s

my creed.

_Little Tom Pipkin._—Papa, may I have this bit of paper on the floor? it

is your tailor’s bill—says, “400 dollars for your last year’s clothes.”

_Mr. Pipkin._—Tom, go to bed, and learn never to interrupt your father

when he is talking. Yes, as I was saying, Mrs. Pipkin, wives should hold

up their end of the yoke; and it is high time there was a little

retrenchment here; superfluities must be dispensed with.

_Bridget._—Please, sir, there are three baskets of champagne just come

for you, and four boxes of cigars.

_Mr. Pipkin._—Will you please lock that door, Mrs. Pipkin, till I can

get a chance to say what I have to say to you on this subject? I was

thinking to-day, that you might dispense with your nursery maid, and

take care of baby yourself. He don’t cry much, except at nights; and

since I’ve slept alone up stairs, I don’t hear the little tempest at

all. It is really quite a relief—that child’s voice is a perfect

ear-splitter.

I think I shall get you, too, to take charge of the marketing and

providing (on a stipulated allowance from me, of course), it will give

me so much more time to —— attend to _business_, Mrs. Pipkin. I shall

take my own dinners down town at the —— House. I hear Stevens is an

excellent “caterer;” (though that’s nothing to me, of course, as my only

object in going is to meet business acquaintances from different parts

of the Union, to drive a bargain, &c., &c.)

Well—it will cost you and the children little or nothing for your

dinners. There’s nothing so disgusting to a man of refinement, like

myself, as to see a _woman_ fond of eating; and as to children, any fool

knows they ought not to be allowed to stuff their skins like little

anacondas. Yes, our family expenses are enormous. My partner sighed like

a pair of bellows at that last baby you had, Mrs. Pipkin; oh, it’s quite

ruinous—but I can’t stop to talk now, I’m going to try a splendid horse

which is offered me at a bargain—(too frisky for you to ride, my dear,

but just the thing for me).

You had better dismiss your nursery girl this afternoon; that will begin

to look like retrenchment. Good-bye; if I am not home till late, don’t

sit up for me, as I have ordered a supper at —— House for my old friend,

Tom Hillar, of New Orleans. We’ll drink this toast, my dear: “Here’s

hoping the last little Pipkin may never have his nose put out of joint.”

A CHAPTER FOR NICE OLD FARMERS.

Can anybody tell why country people so universally and pertinaciously

persist in living in the _rear of the house_? Can anybody tell why the

front door and windows are never opened, save on Fourth of July and at

Thanksgiving time? Why Zedekiah, and Timothy, and Jonathan, and the old

farmer himself, must go _round_ the house in order to get _into_ it? Why

the whole family (oblivious of six empty rooms) take their “vapour bath”

and their meals, simultaneously, in the vicinity of a red-hot cooking

range, in the dog days? Why the village artist need paint the roof, and

spout, and window frames bright crimson, and the doors the colour of a

mermaid’s tresses? Why the detestable sunflower (which I can never

forgive “Tom Moore” for noticing) must always flaunt in the garden? Why

the ungraceful prim poplar, fit emblem of a stiff old bachelor, is

preferred to the swaying elm, or drooping willow, or majestic

horse-chestnut?

I should like to pull down the green paper window curtains, and hang up

some of snowy muslin. I should like to throw wide open the hall door,

and let the south wind play through. I should like to go out into the

woods, and collect fresh, sweet wild flowers to arrange in a vase, in

place of those defunct dried grasses, and old-aid “everlastings,” I

should like to show Zedekiah how to nail together some bits of board,

for an embryo lounge; I should like to stuff it with cotton, and cover

it with a neat “patch.” I should like to cushion the chairs after the

same fashion. Then I should like, when the white-haired old farmer came

panting up the road at twelve o’clock, with his scythe hanging over his

arm, to usher him into that cool, comfortable room, set his bowl of

bread and milk before him, and after he had discussed it, coax him

(instead of tilting back on the hind legs of a hard chair) to take a

ten-minutes’ nap on my “model” sofa, while I kept my eye on the clouds,

to see that no thunder shower played the mischief with his hay.

I should like to place a few common sense, practical books on the table,

with some of our fine daily and weekly papers. You may smile; but these

inducements, and the comfortable and pleasant air of the apartment,

would bring the family oftener together after the day’s toil, and by

degrees they would lift the covers of the books, and turn over the

newspapers. Constant interchange of thought, feeling, and opinion, with

discussions of the important and engrossing questions of the day, would

of course necessarily follow.

The village tavern-keeper would probably frown upon it; but I will

venture to predict for the inmates of the farm-house a growing love for

“home,” and an added air of intelligence and refinement, of which they

themselves might possibly be unconscious.

MADAME ROUILLON’S “MOURNING SALOON.”

“You needn’t make that dress ‘deep mourning,’ Hetty; the lady who

ordered it said it was only her sister for whom she was to ‘mourn.’ A

three-quarter’s length veil will answer; and I should introduce a few

jet bugles round the bonnet trimmings. And, by the way, Hetty, Mrs. La

Fague’s husband has been dead now nearly two months, so that new dress

of hers will admit of a little alleviation in the style of trimming—a

few knots of love-ribbon on the bodice will have a softening effect; and

you must hem a thin net veil for her bonnet; it’s almost time for her to

be out of ‘mourning.’

—“And, Hetty, run down to Stewart’s, right away, and see if he has any

more of those grief-bordered pocket-handkerchiefs. Mr. Grey’s servant

said the border must be full an inch deep, as his master wished it for

his wife’s funeral, and it is the eighth time within eight years that

the poor afflicted man has suffered a similar calamity. Remember,

Hetty—an inch deep, with a tombstone and a weeping willow embroidered on

the corner, with this motto: ‘Hope never dies;’—and, Hetty, be sure you

ask him what is the latest style for ‘_half_-mourning’ for grandmothers,

mothers-in-law, country cousins, and poor relations. _Dépèchezvous_,

Hetty, for you have six ‘weepers’ (weeds) to take off the six Mr.

Smiths’ hats. Yes, I know you ‘only put them on last week;’ but they are

going to Philadelphia, where nobody knows them, and, of course, it isn’t

necessary to ‘mourn’ for their mother there!

—“What are you staring at, child? You are as primitive as your

fore-mother Eve. This ‘mourning’ is probably an invention of Satan to

divert people’s minds from solemn subjects, but that’s nothing to me,

you know; so long as it fills my pocket, I’m in league with his

Majesty.”

FASHION IN FUNERALS.

“It has become _unfashionable_ in New York for ladies to attend funerals

to the grave. _Even the mother may not accompany the little lifeless

form of her beloved child beyond the threshold, without violating the

dread laws of Fashion._”

Are there such mothers? Lives there one who, at Fashion’s bidding,

stands back, nor presses her lips to the little marble form that once

lay warm and quivering beneath her heart-strings?—who with undimmed eye

recals the trusting clasp of that tiny hand, the loving glance of that

veiled eye, the music of that merry laugh—its low, pained moan, or its

last, fluttering heart-quiver?—who would not (rather than strange hands

should touch the babe) _herself_ robe its dainty limbs for burial?—who

shrinks not, starts not, when the careless, business hand would remove

the little darling from its cradle-bed, where loving eyes so oft have

watched its rosy slumbers, to its last, cold, dreamless pillow?—who

lingers not, _when all have gone_, and vainly strives, with straining

eye, to pierce _below_ that little fresh laid mound?—who, when a merry

group go dancing by, stops not, with sudden thrill, to touch some sunny

head, or gaze into some soft blue eye, that has oped afresh the fount of

her tears, and sent to the troubled lips the murmuring heart-plaint,

“Would to God I had died for thee, my child—my child?”—who, when the

wintry blast comes eddying by, sleeps not, because she cannot fold to

her warm breast the little lonely sleeper in the cold churchyard? And

oh! is there one who, with such “treasure laid up in Heaven,” clings not

the less to earth, strives not the more to keep her spirit undefiled,

fears not the less the dim, dark valley, cheered by a cherub voice,

inaudible save to the dying _mother_? Oh, stony-eyed, stony-hearted,

relentless Fashion! turn for us day into night, if thou wilt; deform our

women; half clothe, with flimsy fabric, our victim children; wring the

last penny from the sighing, overtasked, toiling husband; _banish to the

backwoods thy country cousin_, Comfort; reign supreme in the banquet

hall; revel undisputed at the dance;—but when that grim guest, whom none

invite—whom none dare deny—strides, with defiant front across our

threshold, stand back, thou heartless harlequin, and leave us alone with

our dead: so shall we list the lessons those voiceless lips should teach

us—

“All is vanity!”

HOUSEHOLD TYRANTS.

“A HUSBAND may kill a wife gradually, and be no more questioned than the

grand seignor who drowns a slave at midnight.”—_Thackeray, on

Household Tyrants._

Oh! Mr. Thackeray! I ought to have known, from experience, that beauty

and brains never travel in company—but I _was_ disenchanted when I first

saw your nose, and I _did_ say that you were too stout to look

intellectual. But I forgive you in consideration of the above paragraph,

which, for truth and candour, ought to be appended to the four Gospels.

I’m on the marrow bones of my soul to you, Mr. Thackeray. I honour you

for “turning State’s evidence” against your own culprit-sex. If there’s

any little favour I can do for you, such as getting you naturalized (for

you are a sight too ‘cute and clever for an Englishman), I’ll fly round

and get the documents made out for you to-morrow.

I tell you, Mr. Thackeray, the laws over here allow husbands to break

their wives’ _hearts_ as much as they like, so long as they don’t break

their _heads_. So the only way we can get along, is to allow them to

scratch our faces, and then run to the police court, and show “his

Honour” that Mr. Caudle can “_make his mark_.”

Why—if we were not _cunning_, we should get circumvented all the time by

these domestic Napoleons. Yes, indeed; we sleep with one eye open, and

“get up early in the morning,” and keep our arms akimbo.

—By the way, Mr. Thackeray, what do you think of us, _as a

people_?—taking us “by and large,” as our honest farmers say.

P-r-e-t-t-y tall nation for a _growing_ one; don’t you think so? Smart

men—smarter women—good broad streets—no smoking or spitting allowed in

’em—houses all built with an eye to architectural beauty-newspapers

don’t tell how many buttons you wear on your waistcoat—Jonathan never

stares at you, as if you were an imported hyena, or stirs you up with

the long pole of criticism, to see your size and hear your roar. Our

politicians never whip each other on the floor of Congress, and grow

black in the face because their _choler_ chokes them! No mushroom

aristocracy over here—no “coats of arms” or liveried servants: nothing

of that sham sort, in our “great and glorious country,” as you have

probably noticed. If you are “round takin’ notes,” I’ll jog your English

elbow now and then. Ferns have eyes—and they are not green, either.

WOMEN AND MONEY.

“A wife shouldn’t ask her husband for money at meal-times.”—_Exchange._

By no manner of means; _nor at any other time_; because, it is to be

hoped, he will be gentlemanly enough to spare her that humiliating

necessity. Let him hand her his _porte-monnaie_ every morning, with

_carte-blanche_ to help herself. The consequence would be, she would

lose all desire for the contents, and hand it back, half the time

without abstracting a single _sou_.

It’s astonishing men have no more diplomacy about such matters. _I_

should like to be a husband! There _are_ wives whom I verily believe

might be trusted to make way with a ten dollar bill without risk to the

connubial donor. I’m not speaking of those doll-baby libels upon

womanhood, whose chief ambition is to be walking advertisements for the

dressmaker; but a rational, refined, sensible woman, who knows how to

look like a lady upon small means; who would both love and respect a man

less for requiring an account of every copper; but who, at the same

time, would willingly wear a hat or garment that is “out of date,”

rather than involve a noble, generous-hearted husband in unnecessary

expenditures.

I repeat it—“It _isn’t every man who has a call to be a husband_.” Half

the married men should have their “licences” taken away, and the same

number of judicious bachelors put in their places. I think the attention

of the representatives should be called to this. They can’t expect to

come down to town and peep under all the ladies’ bonnets the way they

do, and have all the newspapers free gratis, and two dollars a day

besides, without “paying their way!”

It’s none of _my_ business, but I question whether their wives, whom

they left at home, stringing dried apples, know how spruce they look in

their new hats and coats, or how facetious they grow with their

landlady’s daughter; or how many of them pass themselves off for

bachelors, to verdant spinsters. Nothing truer than that little couplet

of _Shakspeare’s_—

“When the cat’s away

The mice _will_ play.”

THE SICK BACHELOR.

Here I am, a doomed man—booked for a fever, in this gloomy room, up four

flights of stairs; nothing to look at but one table, two chairs, and a

cobweb; pulse racing like a locomotive; head throbbing as if it were

hooped with iron; mouth as parched as Ishmael’s in the desert; not a

bell-rope within reach; sun pouring in through those uncurtained

windows, hot enough to singe off my eye-lashes; all my confidential

letters lying loose on the table, and I couldn’t get up to them if you

held one of Colt’s revolvers to my head. All my masculine friends(?) are

parading Broadway, I suppose; peeping under the pretty girls’ bonnets,

or drinking “sherry-cobblers.” A sherry-cobbler! Bacchus! what a luxury!

I believe Satan suggested the thought to me.

Heigh-ho! I suppose the Doctor (whom they have sent for) will come

before long; some great, pompous Æsculapius, with an owl phiz, a

gold-headed cane, an oracular voice, and callous heart and hands; who

will first manipulate my wrist, and then take the latitude and longitude

of my tongue; then he will punch me in my ribs, and torment me with more

questions than there are in the Assembly’s Catechism; then he’ll bother

me for writing materials, to scratch off a hieroglyphic humbug

prescription, ordering five times as much medicine as I need; then I

shall have to pay for it; then, ten to one, the apothecary’s boy will

put up poison, by mistake! Cæsar! how my head spins round; Hippodrome

racing is nothing to it.

Hist! there’s the Doctor. No! it is that little unregenerate cub, my

landlady’s pet boy, with a bran new drum (as I’m a sinner), upon which

he is beating a crucifying tattoo. If I only had a boot-jack to throw at

him! No! that won’t do: his mother wouldn’t make my gruel. I’ll bribe

him with a sixpence, to keep the peace. The little embryo Jew! he says

_he won’t do it under a quarter_! Twitted by a little pinafore! _I_, Tom

Haliday, six feet in my stockings! I shall go frantic.

“Doctor is coming!” Well, let him come. I’m as savage as if I’d just

dined off a cold missionary. I’ll pretend to be asleep, and let old

Pillbox experiment.

How gently he treads—how soft his hand is—how cool and delicious his

touch! How tenderly he parts my hair over my throbbing temples! His

magnetic touch thrills every drop of blood in my veins: it is marvellous

how soothing it is. I feel as happy as a humming-bird in a lily cup,

drowsy with honey-dew. Now he’s moved away. I hear him writing a

prescription. I’ll just take a peep and see what he looks like. Cæsar

Aggripina! if it isn’t a _female physician_! dainty as a Peri—_and my

beard three days old_! What a bust! (Wonder how my hair looks?) What a

foot and ankle! What shoulders; what a little round waist. Fever? I’ve

got _twenty_ fevers, and the heart-complaint besides. What the mischief

sent that little witch here? She will either kill or cure me, pretty

quick.

Wonder if she has any more _masculine_ patients? Wonder if they are

handsome? Wonder if she lays that little dimpled hand on _their_

foreheads, as she did on mine? Now she has done writing, I’ll shut my

eyes and groan, and then, may be, she will _pet_ me some more; bless her

little soul!

She says, “poor fellow!” as she holds my wrist, “his pulse is too

quick.” In the name of Cupid, what does she _expect_? She says, as she

pats my forehead with her little plump fingers, “’Sh—sh! Keep cool.”

Lava and brimstone! does she take me for an iceberg?

Oh, Cupid! of all your devices, this feminine doctoring for a bachelor

is the _ne plus ultra_ of witchcraft. If I don’t have a prolonged “run

of fever,” my name is n’t Tom Haliday!

She’s gone! and—I’m gone, too!

[Illustration]

A MOTHER’S INFLUENCE.

“And so you sail to-morrow, Will? I shall miss you.”

“Yes; I’m bound to see the world. I’ve been beating my wings in

desperation against the wires of my cage these three years. I know every

stick, and stone, and stump in this odious village by heart, as well as

I do those stereotyped sermons of Parson Grey’s. They say he calls me ‘a

scapegrace’—pity I should have the name without the game,” said he,

bitterly. “I haven’t room here to run the length of my chain. I’ll show

him what I can do in a wider field of action.”

“But how did you bring your father over?”

“Oh, he’s very glad to be rid of me; quite disgusted because I’ve no

fancy for seeing corn and oats grow. The truth is, every father knows at

once too much and too little about his own son; the old gentleman never

understood me; he soured my temper, which is originally none of the

best, roused all the worst feelings in my nature, and is constantly

driving me _from_ instead of _to_ the point he would have me reach.”

“And your mother?”

“Well, there you have me; that’s the only humanized portion of my

heart—the only soft spot in it. She came to my bed-side last night,

after she thought I was asleep, gently kissed my forehead, and then

knelt by my bed-side. Harry, I’ve been wandering round the fields all

the morning, to try to get rid of that prayer. Old Parson Grey might

preach at me till the millennium, and he wouldn’t move me any more than

that stone. It makes all the difference in the world when you know a

person _feels_ what they are praying about. I’m wild, and reckless, and

wicked, I suppose; but I shall never be an infidel while I can remember

my mother. You should see the way she hears my father’s impetuous

temper; that’s _grace_, not _nature_, Harry; but don’t let us talk about

it—I only wish my parting with her was well over. Good-bye; God bless

you, Harry; you’ll hear from me, if the fishes don’t make a supper of

me;” and Will left his friend and entered the cottage.

Will’s mother was moving nervously and restlessly about, tying up all

sorts of mysterious little parcels that only mothers think of, “in case

he should be sick,” or in case he should be this, that, or the other,

interrupted occasionally by exclamations like this from the old

farmer:—“Fudge—stuff—great overgrown baby—making a fool of him—never be

out of leading strings;” and then turning short about and facing Will as

he entered, he said—

“Well sir, look in your sea-chest, and you’ll find gingerbread and

physic, darning needles and tracts, ‘bitters’ and Bibles, peppermint and

old linen rags, and opodeldoc. Pshaw! I was more of a man than you are

when I was nine years old. Your mother always made a fool of you; and

that was entirely unnecessary, too, for you were always short of what is

called _common sense_. You needn’t tell the captain you went to sea

because you didn’t know enough to be a landsman; or that you never did

anything right in your life, except by accident. You are as like that

_ne’er do well_ Jack Halpine as two pease. If there is anything in you,

I hope the salt water will fetch it out. Come, your mother has your

supper ready, I see.”

Mrs. Low’s hand trembled as she passed her boy’s cup. It was his last

meal under that roof for many a long day. She did not trust herself to

speak—her heart was too full. She heard all his father so injudiciously

said to him, and she knew too well from former experience the effect it

would have upon his impetuous, fiery spirit. She had only to oppose to

it a mother’s prayers, and tears, and all-enduring love. She never

condemned, in _Will’s hearing_, any of his father’s philippics; always

excusing him with the general remark that he didn’t understand him.

_Alone_, she mourned over it; and when with her husband, tried to place

matters on a better footing for both parties.

Will noted his mother’s swollen eyelids; he saw his favourite little

tea-cakes that she had busied herself in preparing for him, and he ate

and drank what she gave him, without tasting a morsel he swallowed,

listening for the hundredth time to his father’s account of “what _he_

did when he was a young man.”

“Just half an hour, Will,” said his father, “before you start; run up

and see if you have forgotten any of your duds.”

It was the little room he had always called his own. How many nights he

had lain there listening to the rain pattering on the low roof; how many

mornings awakened by the chirp of the robin in the apple-tree under the

window. There was the little bed with its snowy covering, and the

thousand and one little comforts prepared by his mother’s hand. He

turned his head—she was at his side, her arms about his neck. “God keep

my boy!” was all she could utter. He knelt at her feet as in the days of

childhood, and from those wayward lips came this tearful prayer—“Oh God!

spare my mother, that I may look upon her face again in this world!”

Oh, in after days, when that voice had died out from under the parental

roof, how sacred was that spot to her who gave him birth! _There was

hope for the boy! he had recognized his mother’s God._ By that invisible

silken cord she still held the wanderer, though broad seas rolled

between.

Letters came to Moss Glen—at stated intervals, then more irregularly,

picturing only the bright spots in his sailor-life (for Will was proud,

and they were to be scanned by his father’s eye). The usual temptations

of a sailor’s life when in port were not unknown to him. Of every cup

the syren Pleasure held to his lips, he drank to the dregs; but there

were moments in his maddest revels, when that angel whisper, “God keep

my boy,” palsied his daring hand, and arrested the half-uttered oath.

Disgusted with himself, he would turn aside for an instant, but only to

drown again more recklessly “that still small torturing voice.”

* * * * *

“You’re a stranger in these parts,” said a rough farmer to a sunburnt

traveller. “Look as though you’d been in foreign parts.”

“Do I?” said Will, slouching his hat over his eyes. “Who lives in that

little cottage under the hill?”

“Old Farmer Low—and a tough customer he is, too; it’s a word and a blow

with him. The old lady has had a hard time of it, good as she is, to put

up with all his kinks and quirks. She bore it very well till the lad

went away; and then she began to droop like a willow in a storm, and

lose all heart, like. Doctor’s stuff did n’t do any good, as long as she

got no news of the boy. She’s to be buried this afternoon, sir.”

Poor Will stayed to hear no more, but tottered in the direction of the

cottage. He asked no leave to enter, but passed over the threshold into

the little “best parlour,” and found himself alone with the dead. It was

too true! Dumb were the lips that should have welcomed him; and the arms

that should have enfolded him were crossed peacefully over the heart

that beat true to him to the last.

Conscience did its office. Long years of mad folly passed in swift

review before him; and over that insensible form a vow was made, and

registered in Heaven.

* * * * *

“Your mother should have lived to see this day, Will,” said a

gray-haired old man, as he leaned on the arm of the clergyman, and

passed into the village church.

“Bless God, my dear father, there is ‘_joy in Heaven_ over one sinner

that repenteth;’ and of all the angel band, there is one seraph hand

that sweeps _more rapturously_ its harp to-day, ‘for the lost that is

found.’”

MR. PUNCH MISTAKEN.

“A man will own that he is in the wrong—a woman never; she is only

_mistaken_.”—_Punch._

Mr. Punch, did you ever see an enraged American female? She is the

expressed essence of wild cats. Perhaps you didn’t know it, when you

penned that incendiary paragraph; or, perhaps, you thought that in

crossing the “big pond,” salt water might neutralize it; or, perhaps,

you flattered yourself we should not see it over here; but here it is,

in my clutches, in good strong English: I am not even “_mistaken_!”

Now, if you will bring me a live specimen of the _genus homo_ who was

ever known “to own that he was in the wrong,” I will draw in my horns

and claws, and sneak ingloriously back into my American shell. But you

can’t do it, Mr. Punch! You never saw that curiosity, either in John

Bull’s skin, or Brother Jonathan’s. ’Tis an animal which has never yet

been discovered, much less captured.

A man own he was in the wrong! I guess so! You might tear him in pieces

with red-hot pincers, and he would keep on singing out “I didn’t do it;

I didn’t do it.” No, Mr. Punch, a man never “owns up” when he is in the

wrong; especially if the matter in question be one which he considers of

no importance; for instance, the non-delivery of a letter which may have

been entombed in his pocket for six weeks.

No sir; he just settles himself down behind his dickey, folds his

belligerent hands across his stubborn diaphragm, plants his antagonistic

feet down on terra-firma as if there were a stratum of loadstone beneath

him, and thunders out—

“Come one, come all; this rock shall fly

From its firm base as soon as I.”

FERN MUSINGS.

I never was on an august school committee; but, if I _was_, I’d make a

_sine-qua-non_ that no school-marm should be inaugurated who had not

been a married mother; I don’t believe in old maids; they all know very

well that they haven’t fulfilled their female destiny, and I wouldn’t

have them wreaking their bilious vengeance on _my_ urchins (if I had

any). No woman gets the acid effectually out of her temper, till she has

taken matrimony “the natural way.”

No; I don’t believe in spinster educational teaching any more than I do

in putting dried up old bachelors on the school committee. What bowels

of mercy have either, I’d like to know, for the poor little restless

victims of narrow benches and short recesses? The children are to “hold

up their hands” (are they?) if they have a request to make? What good

does that do if the teacher won’t take any notice of the Freemason sign?

“They are not to enter complaints.” So some poor timid little girl must

be pinched black and blue by a little Napoleon in jacket and trousers,

till she is forced to shriek out with pain, when _she_ is punished by

being kept half an hour after school for “making a disturbance!” They

are “not to eat in school,” are they? Perhaps they have made an

indifferent breakfast (perhaps they are poor, and have had none at all,

and A, B, C, D, doesn’t digest well on an empty stomach); but the

spinster teacher can hear them recite with a tempting bunch of grapes in

her hand, which she leisurely devours before their longing eyes.

They “must not smile in school,” must they? Not when “Tom Hood” in a

pinafore, cuts up some sly prank that brings “down the house;” yes—and

the ferule too, on everybody’s hand but his own (for he has a way of

drawing on his “deacon face,” to order).

They may go out in recess, but they must speak in a whisper out of

doors, as if they all had the bronchitis! No matter if Queen Victoria

should ride by, no little brimless hat must go up in the air till “the

committee had set on it!”

_Oh_, fudge! I should like to keep school myself. I’d make “rag babies”

for the little girls, and “soldier caps” for the boys; and I _don’t

think_ I would make a rule that they should not sneeze till school was

dismissed; and when their little cheeks began to flush, and their little

heads droop wearily on their plump shoulders, I’d hop up and play “hunt

the slipper;” or, if we were in the country we’d race over the meadow,

and catch butterflies, or frogs, or toads or _snakes_, or anything on

earth except a “school committee.”

THE TIME TO CHOOSE.

“The best time to choose a wife is early in the morning. If a young lady

is at all inclined to sulks and slatternness it is just before

breakfast. As a general thing, a woman don’t get on her temper, till

after 10 A.M.”—_Young Man’s Guide._

Men never look slovenly before breakfast; no, indeed. They never run

round in their stocking feet, vestless, with dressing-gown inside out;

soiled handkerchief hanging out of the pocket by one corner. Minus

dickey—minus neck-tie; pantaloon straps flying; suspenders streaming

from their waistbands; chin shaved on one side, and lathered on the

other; hair like porcupine quills; face all in a snarl of wrinkles

because the fire won’t kindle, and because it snows, and because the

office boy don’t come for the keys, and because the newspaper hasn’t

arrived, and because they lost a bet the night before, and because

there’s an omelet instead of a broiled chicken for breakfast, and

because they are out of sorts and shaving soap, out of cigars and

credit, and because they can’t “get their temper on” till they get some

money and a mint julep.

Any time “before ten o’clock,” is the time to choose a

husband——_perhaps!_

SPRING IS COMING.

Tiny blades of grass are struggling between the city’s pavements.

Fathers, and husbands, sighing, look at the tempting shop windows,

dolefully counting the cost of a “spring outfit.” Muffs, and boas, and

tippets, are among the things that _were_; and shawls, and “Talmas,” and

mantles, and “_little loves of bonnets_,” reign supreme, though maiden

aunts, and sage mammas, still mutter—“East winds, east winds,” and

choose the sunnier side-walk.

Housekeepers are making a horrible but necessary Babel, stripping up

carpets, and disembowelling old closets, chests, and cupboards.

Advertisements already appear in the newspapers, setting forth the

superior advantages of this or that dog-day retreat. Mrs. Jones drives

_Mr._ Jones distracted, at a regular hour every evening, hammering about

“change of scene, and air,” and the “health of the dear children;”

which, translated, means a quantity of new bonnets and dresses, and a

trip to Saratoga, for herself and intimate friend, Miss Hob-Nob; while

Jones takes his meals at a _restaurant_—sleeps in the deserted house,

sews on his missing buttons and dickey strings, and spends his leisure

time where _Mrs._ Jones don’t visit.

_Spring is coming!_

Handsome carriages roll past, freighted with lovely women (residents of

other cities, for an afternoon ride). Dash on, ladies! You will scarcely

find the environs of Boston surpassed, wherever you may drive. A

thousand pleasant surprises await you; lovely winding paths and pretty

cottages, and more ambitious houses with groups of statuary hidden amid

the foliage. But forget not to visit our sweet Mount Auburn. Hush the

light laugh and merry jest as the gray-haired porter throws wide the

gate for your prancing horses to tread the hallowed ground. The dark old

pines throw out their protecting arms above you, and in their dense

shade sleep eyes as bright, forms as lovely, as your own—while “the

mourners go about the streets.” Rifle not, with sacrilegious hand, the

flowers which bloom at the headstone—tread lightly over the beloved

dust! Each tenanted grave entombs bleeding, _living_ hearts; each has

its history, which eternity alone shall reveal.

_Spring is coming!_

The city belle looks fresh as a new-blown rose—tossing her bright curls

in triumph, at her faultless costume and beautiful face. Her lover’s

name is Legion—for she hath also _golden charms_! Poor little butterfly!

bright, but ephemeral! You were made for something better. Shake the

dust from your earth-stained wings and—_soar!_

_Spring is coming!_

From the noisome lanes and alleys of the teeming city, swarm little

children, creeping forth like insects to bask in God’s sunshine—so _free

to all_. Squalid, forsaken, neglected; they are yet of those to whom the

Sinless said, “Suffer little children to come unto me.” The disputed

crust, the savage curse, the brutal blow, their only patrimony! One’s

heart _aches_ to call THIS _childhood_! No “spring!” no summer, to them!

Noisome sights, noisome sounds, noisome odours! and the leprosy of sin

following them like a curse! One longs to fold to the warm heart those

little forsaken ones; to smooth those matted ringlets; to throw between

them and sin the shield of virtue—to teach their little lisping lips to

say “_Our Father!_”

_Spring is coming!_

Yes, its blue skies are over us—its soft breezes shall fan us—the

fragrance of its myriad flowers be wafted to us. Its mossy carpet shall

be spread for our careless feet—our languid limbs shall be laved at its

cool fountains. Its luscious fruits shall send health through our

leaping veins—while from mountain top, and wooded hill, and

flower-wreathed valley, shall float one glad anthem of praise from

tiniest feathered throats!

_Dear_ reader! From that human heart of thine shall no burst of grateful

thanks arise to Him who _giveth all_? While nature adores—shall _man be

dumb_? God forbid!

STEAMBOAT SIGHTS AND REFLECTIONS.

I am looking, from the steamer’s deck, upon as fair a sunrise as ever

poet sang or painter sketched, or the earth ever saw. Oh, this broad

blue, rushing river! sentinelled by these grand old hills, amid which

the silvery mist wreaths playfully; half shrouding the little eyrie

homes, where love wings the uncounted hours; while looming up in the

hazy distance is the Babel city, with glittering spires and burnished

panes—one vast illumination. My greedy eye with miserly eagerness

devours it all, and hangs it up in Memory’s cabinet, a fadeless picture;

upon which dame Fortune (the jilt) shall never have a mortgage.

Do you see yonder figure leaning over the railing of the boat, gazing on

all this outspread wealth of beauty? One longs to hear his lips give

utterance to the burning thoughts which cause his eye to kindle and his

face to glow. A wiry sister (whose name should be “Martha,” so careful,

so troubled looks her spinstership) breaks the charmed spell by asking

him, in a cracked treble, “if _them_ porters on the pier can be safely

trusted with her bandbox and umberil.” My stranger eyes meet his, and we

both laugh involuntarily—(pardon us, oh ye prim ones,)—_without an

introduction!_

Close at my elbow sits a rough countryman, with so much “free soil”

adhering to his brogans they might have been used for beet-beds, and a

beard rivalled only by Nebuchadnezzar’s when he experimented on a grass

diet. He has only one word to express his overpowering emotions at the

glowing panorama before us, and that is “_pooty_”—houses, trees, sky,

rafts, railroad cars and river, all are “_pooty_;” and when, in the

fulness of a soul craving sympathy, he turned to his dairy-fed Eve to

endorse it, that matter-of-fact feminine showerbath-ed his enthusiasm,

by snarling out “pooty enough, I ’spose, but _where’s my breakfast_?”

Ah! here we are at the pier, at last. And now they emerge, our

night-travellers, from state-room and cabin, into the fresh cool air of

the morning. Venus and Apollo! what a crew. Solemn as a hearse, surly as

an Englishman, blue as an indigo-bag! There’s a poor shivering babe,

twitched from a warm bed by an ignorant young mother, to encounter the

chill air of morning, with only a flimsy covering of lace and

embroidery—there’s a languid southern belle, creeping out, _à la

tortoise_, and turning up her little aristocratic nose as if she sniffed

a pestilence—there’s an Irish bride (green as Erin) in a pearl-coloured

silk dress surmounted by a coarse blanket shawl—there’s a locomotive

hour-glass (alias a dandy), a blue-eyed, cravat-choked, pantaloon

be-striped, vest-garnished, disgusting “institution!” (give him and his

quizzing glass plenty of sea-room)—and there’s a clergyman, God bless

his care-worn face, with a valise full of salted-down sermons and the

long-coveted “leave of absence”—there’s an editor, kicking a newsboy for

bringing “coals to Newcastle” in the shape of “extras”—and there’s a

good-natured, sunshiny “family man,” carrying the baby, and the

carpet-bag, and the travelling shawl, lest his pretty little wife should

get weary—and there’s a poor bonnetless emigrant, stunned by the Babel

sounds, inquiring, despairingly, the name of some person whom nobody

knows or cares for—and last, but not least, there’s the wiry old maid

“Martha,” asking “_thim_ porters on the pier,” with tears in her faded

green eyes, to be “keerful of her bandbox and umberil.”

On they go. Oh, how much of joy—how much of sorrow, in each heart’s

unwritten history.

A GOTHAM REVERIE.

Babel, what a place!—what a dust—what a racket—what a whiz-buzz! What a

throng of human beings! “Jew and Gentile, bond and free;” every nation

the sun ever shone upon, here represented. What pampered luxury—what

squalid misery, on the same _pavé_. What unwritten histories these

myriad hearts might unfold. How much of joy, how much of sorrow, how

much of crime. Now, queenly beauty sweeps past, in sin’s gay livery.

Cursed be he who first sent her forth, to walk the earth, with her

woman’s brow shame-branded. Fair mother—pure wife—frown scornfully at

her if you can; _my_ heart aches for her. I see one who once slept sweet

and fair on a mother’s loving breast. I see one whose bitterest tear may

never wash her stain away. I see one on whom mercy’s gate is for ever

shut, by her own unrelenting, unforgiving sex. I see one who was young,

beautiful, poor and friendless. They who make long prayers, and wrap

themselves up in self-righteousness, as with a garment, turn a deaf ear,

as she pleads for the bread of honest toil. Earth looks cold, and dark,

and dreary; feeble feet stumble wearily on life’s rugged, thorny road.

Oh, judge her not harshly, pure but frigid censor; who shall say that

with her desolation—her temptation—your name too might not have been

written “Magdalen.”

SICKNESS COMES TO YOU IN THE CITY.

How unmercifully the heavy cart-wheels rattle over the stony pavements;

how unceasing the tramp of busy, restless feet; how loud and shrill the

cries of mirth and traffic. You turn heavily to your heated pillow,

murmuring, “Would God it were night!” The pulse of the great city is

stilled at last; and balmy sleep, so coveted, seems about to bless

you—when hark! a watchman’s rattle is sprung beneath your window,

evoking a score of stentorian voices, followed by a clanging bell, and a

rushing engine, announcing a conflagration. Again you turn to your

sleepless pillow; your quivering nerves and throbbing temples sending to

your pale lips this prayer, “Would to God it were morning!”

Death comes, and releases you. You are scarcely missed. Your next-door

neighbour, who has lived within three feet of you for three years, may

possibly recollect having seen the doctor’s chaise before your door, for

some weeks past; then, that the front blinds were closed; then, that a

coffin was carried in; and he remarks to his wife, as he takes up the

evening paper, over a comfortable dish of tea, that “he shouldn’t wonder

if neighbour Grey were dead,” and then they read your name and age in

the bill of mortality, and wonder “what disease you died of;” and then

the servant removes the tea-tray, and they play a game of whist, and

never think of you again, till they see the auctioneer’s flag floating

before your door.

The house is sold; and your neighbour sees your widow and little ones

pass out over the threshold in tears and sables (grim poverty keeping

them silent company); but what of that? The world is _full_ of widows

and orphans; one can’t always be thinking of a charnel-house; and so he

returns to his stocks and dividends, and counting-room, and ledger, in a

philosophical state of serenity.

Some time after, he is walking with a friend; and meets a lady in rusty

mourning, carrying a huge bundle, from which “slop work” is seen

protruding (a little child accompanies her, with its feet out at the

toes). She has a look of hopeless misery on her fine but sad features.

She is a _lady still_ (spite of her dilapidated wardrobe and her

bundle). Your neighbour’s companion touches his arm, and says, “Good

God! isn’t that Grey’s widow?” He glances at her carelessly, and

answers, “Should n’t wonder;” and invites him home to dine on trout,

cooked in claret, and hot-house peaches, at half a dollar a-piece.

SICKNESS COMES TO YOU IN THE COUNTRY.

On the fragrant breeze, through your latticed window, come the twitter

of the happy swallow, the chirp of the robin, and the drowsy hum of the

bee. From your pillow you can watch the shadows come and go, over the

clover meadow, as the clouds go drifting by. Rustic neighbours lean on

their spades at sunset at your door, and with sympathising voices “hope

you are better.” The impatient hoof of the prancing horse is checked by

the hand of pity; and the merry shout of the sunburnt child (musical

though it be) dies on the cherry lip, at the uplifted finger of

compassion. A shower of rose-leaves drifts in over your pillow, on the

soft sunset zephyr. Oh, earth _is_ passing fair; but _Heaven is fairer_!

Its portals unclose to you! Kind, neighbourly hands wipe the death-damp

from your brow; speak words of comfort to your weeping wife, caress your

unconscious children. Your fading eye takes it all in, but your tongue

is powerless to speak its thanks. They close your drooping lids, they

straighten your manly limbs, they lay your weary head on its grassy

pillow, they bedew it with sympathetic tears; they pray God, that night,

in their cottage homes, to send His kind angel down, to whisper words of

peace to the broken hearts you have left behind.

_They do something besides pray._ From unknown hands, the widow’s “cruse

of oil,” and “barrel of meal,” are oft replenished.

On your little orphans’ heads many a rough palm is laid, with tearful

blessing. Many a dainty peach, or pear, or apple is tossed them, on

their way to school. Many a ride they get “to mill,” or “hay-field,” or

“village,” while their mother shades her moistened eyes in the door-way,

quite unable to speak. The old farmer sees it; and knowing better how to

bestow a kindness than to hear such expressive thanks, cuts Dobbin in

the flanks, then starting tragically at the _premeditated rear_, asks

her, with an hysterical laugh, “_if she ever saw such an uneasy beast_!”

Wide open fly their cottage doors and hearts at “Christmas” and

“Thanksgiving,” for your stricken household. There may be little city

etiquette at the feast, there may be ungrammatical words

and infelicitous expressions—but, thank God, unchilled by

selfishness, unshrivelled by avarice, human hearts throb warmly

there—_loving_—_pitiful_—_Christ-like_!

HUNGRY HUSBANDS.

“The hand that can make a pie is a continual feast to the husband that

marries its owner.”

Well, it is a humiliating reflection, that the straightest road to a

man’s heart is through his palate. He is never so amiable as when he has

discussed a roast turkey. Then’s your time, “Esther,” for “half his

kingdom,” in the shape of a new bonnet, cap, shawl, or dress. He’s too

complacent to dispute the matter. Strike while the iron is hot; petition

for a trip to Niagara, Saratoga, the Mammoth Cave, the White Mountains,

or to London, Rome, or Paris. Should he demur about it, the next day

cook him another turkey, and pack your trunk while he is eating it.

There’s nothing on earth so savage—except a bear robbed of her cubs—as a

hungry husband. It is as much as your life is worth to sneeze till

dinner is on the table, and his knife and fork are in vigorous play.

Tommy will get his ears boxed, the ottoman will be kicked into the

corner, your work-box be turned bottom upwards, and the poker and tongs

will beat a tattoo on that grate that will be a caution to dilatory

cooks.

After the first six mouthfuls you may venture to say your soul is your

own; his eyes will lose their ferocity, his brow its furrows, and he

will very likely recollect to help you to a cold potato! Never mind—_eat

it_. You might have to swallow a worse pill—for instance, should he

offer to kiss you!

Well, learn a lesson from it—keep him well fed and languid—live yourself

on a low diet, and cultivate your thinking powers; and you’ll be as spry

as a cricket, and hop over all the objections and remonstrances that his

dead-and-alive energies can muster. Yes, feed him well, and he will stay

contentedly in his cage, like a gorged anaconda. If he was my husband,

wouldn’t I make him heaps of _pison_ things! Bless me! I’ve made a

mistake in the spelling; it should have been _pies and things_!

LIGHT AND SHADOW;

OR, WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?

It was a simple dress of snowy muslin, innocent of the magic touch of a

French _modiste_. There was not an inch of lace upon it, nor a rosette,

nor a flower; it was pure, and simple, and unpretending as its destined

wearer. A pair of white kid gloves, of fairy-like proportions, lay

beside it, also a pair of tiny satin slippers. There was no bridal

_trousseau_; no—Meta had no rich uncles, or aunts, or cousins,—no

_consistent_ god-parents who, promising at her baptism that she should

“renounce the pomp and vanities of the world,” redeemed their promise by

showering at her bridal feet diamonds enough to brighten many a starving

fellow-creature’s pathway to the tomb.

Did I say there was no bridal _trousseau_? There was _one_ gift, a

little clasp Bible, with “Meta Grey” written on the fly-leaf, in the

bridegroom’s bold, handsome hand. Perchance some gay beauty, who reads

this, may curl her rosy lip scornfully; but well Meta knew how to value

such a gift. Through long dreary years of orphanage “God’s Word” had

been to her what the star in the East was to Bethlehem’s watching

shepherds. Her lonely days of toil were over now. There was a true

heart, whose every pulsation was love for her—a brave arm to defend her

helplessness, and a quiet, sunny home where Peace, like a brooding dove,

should fold his wings, while the happy hours flew uncounted by.

Yes; Meta was looked for, every hour. She was to leave the group of

laughing hoydens (before whom she had forbidden her lover to claim her),

and thereafter confine her teachings to one pupil, whose “reward of

merit” should be the love-light in her soft, dark eyes. Still, it was

weary waiting for her; her last letter was taken, for the hundredth

time, from its hiding-place, and read, and refolded, and read again,

although he could say it all, with his eyes shut, in the darkest corner

in Christendom. But you know all about it, dear reader, if you own a

heart; and if you don’t, the sooner you drop my story the better.

Well; he paced the room up and down, looked out the window, and down the

street: then he sat down in the little rocking-chair he had provided for

her, and tried to imagine it was tenanted by _two_: then, delicious

tears sprang to his eyes, that such a sweet fount of happiness was

opened to him—that the golden morn, and busy noon, and hushed and starry

night, should find them _ever_ side by side. Care?—he didn’t know it!

Trouble?—what trouble could _he_ have, when all his heart craved on

earth was bounded by his clasping arms? And then, Meta was an orphan—he

was scarcely sorry—there would be none for her heart to go out to now

but himself; he must be brother, sister, father, mother—_all_ to her;

and his heart gave a full and joyful response to each and every claim.

—But what a little loiterer! He was half vexed; he paced the room in his

impatience, handled the little slippers affectionately, and caressed the

little gloves as if they were filled by the plump hand of Meta, instead

of his imagination. Why _didn’t_ she fly to him? Such an angel should

have wings—he was sure of that.

—Wings? God help you, widowed bridegroom! Who shall have the heart to

read you this sad paragraph?

“ONE OF THE NORWALK VICTIMS.—The body of a young lady, endowed with

extraordinary personal beauty, remains yet unrecognized. On her

countenance reposes an expression of pleasure, in striking and painful

contrast to the terrible scene amid which she breathed her last. She

was evidently about twenty years old, doubtless the glory of some

circle of admiring friends, who little dream where she is, and of her

shocking condition.”

WHAT LOVE WILL ACCOMPLISH.

“This will never do,” said little Mrs. Kitty; “how I came to be such a

simpleton as to get married before I knew how to keep house, is more and

more of an astonisher to me. I _can_ learn, and I _will_! There’s

Bridget told me yesterday there wasn’t time to make a pudding before

dinner. I had my private suspicions she was imposing upon me, though I

didn’t know enough about it to contradict her. The truth is, I’m no more

mistress of this house than I am of the Grand Seraglio. Bridget knows

it, too; and there’s Harry (how hot it makes my cheeks to think of it!)

couldn’t find an eatable thing on the dinner-table yesterday. He loves

me too well to say anything, but he had such an ugly frown on his face

when he lit his cigar and went off to his office. Oh, I see how it is:

“‘One must eat in matrimony,

And love is neither bread nor honey,

And so, you understand.’”

* * * * *

“What on earth sent you over here in this dismal rain?” said Kitty’s

neighbour, Mrs. Green. “Just look at your gaiters.”

“Oh, never mind gaiters,” said Kitty, untying her “rigolette,” and

throwing herself on the sofa. “I don’t know any more about cooking than

a six weeks’ kitten; Bridget walks over my head with the most perfect

Irish _nonchalance_; Harry looks as solemn as an ordained bishop; the

days grow short, the bills grow long, and I’m the most miserable little

Kitty that ever mewed. Do have pity on me, and initiate me into the

mysteries of broiling, baking, and roasting; take me into your kitchen

now, and let me go into it while the fit is on me. I feel as if I could

roast Chanticleer and all his hen-harem!”

“You don’t expect to take your degree in one forenoon?” said Mrs. Green,

laughing immoderately.

“Not a bit of it! I intend to come every morning, if the earth don’t

whirl off its axle. I’ve locked up my guitar, and my French and Italian

books, and that irresistible ‘Festus,’ and nerved myself like a female

martyr, to look a gridiron in the face without flinching. Come, put down

that embroidery, there’s a good Samaritan, and descend with me into the

lower regions, before my enthusiasm gets a shower-bath,” and she rolled

up her sleeves from her round white arms, took off her rings, and tucked

her curls behind her ears.

Very patiently did Mrs. Kitty keep her resolution; each day added a

little to her store of culinary wisdom. What if she did flavour her

first custards with peppermint instead of lemon? What if she did “baste”

a turkey with saleratus instead of salt? What if she did season the

stuffing with ground cinnamon instead of pepper? Rome wasn’t built in a

day;—cooks can’t be manufactured in a minute.

* * * * *

Kitty’s husband had been gone just a month. He was expected home that

very day. All the morning the little wife had been getting up a

congratulatory dinner in honour of the occasion. What with satisfaction

and the kitchen fire, her cheeks glowed like a milkmaid’s. How her eyes

sparkled, and what a pretty little triumphant toss she gave her head

when that big trunk was dumped down in the entry! It isn’t a bad thing,

sometimes, to have a secret even from one’s own husband.

“On my word, Kitty,” said Harry, holding her off at arm’s length, “you

look most provokingly ‘well-to-do’ for a widow ‘_pro tem_.’ I don’t

believe you have mourned for me the breath of a sigh. What have you been

about? who has been here? and what mine of fun is to be prophesied from

the merry twinkle in the corner of your eye? Anybody hid in the closet

or cupboard? Have you drawn a prize in the lottery?”

“Not since I married you,” said Mrs. Kitty; “and you are quite welcome

to that sugar-plum to sweeten your dinner.”

“How Bridget has improved,” said Harry, as he plied his knife and fork

industriously; “I never saw these woodcocks outdone, even at our

bachelor club-rooms at —— House. She shall have a present of a pewter

cross, as sure as her name is McFlannigan, besides absolution for all

the detestable messes she used to concoct with her Catholic fingers.”

“Let me out! let me out!” said a stifled voice from the closet; “you

can’t expect a woman to keep a secret for ever.”

“What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Green?” said Harry, gaily shaking her

hand.

“Why, you see, ‘Bridget has improved;’ _i. e._ to say, little Mrs. Kitty

there received from my hands yesterday a diploma, certifying her

Mistress of Arts, Hearts and Drumsticks, having spent every morning of

your absence in perfecting herself as a housekeeper. There now, don’t

drop on your knees to her till I have gone. I know very well when three

is a crowd, or, to speak more fashionably, when I am ‘_de trop_,’ and

I’m only going to stop long enough to remind you that there are some

_wives_ left in the world, and that Kitty is one of ’em.”

And now, dear reader, if you doubt whether Mrs. Kitty was rewarded for

all her trouble, you’d better take a peep into that parlour, and while

you are looking, let me whisper a secret in your ear confidentially. You

may be as beautiful as Venus, and as talented as Madame de Stael, but

you will never reign supreme in your liege lord’s affections till you

can roast a turkey.

MRS. GRUMBLE’S SOLILOQUY.

“There’s no calculating the difference between men and women boarders.

Here’s Mr. Jones, been in my house these six months, and no more trouble

to me than my gray kitten. If his bed is shook up once a week, and his

coats, cravats, love-letters, cigars, and patent-leather boots left

undisturbed in the middle of the floor, he is as contented as a

pedagogue in vacation time.

“Take a woman to board, and (if it is perfectly convenient) she would

like drapery instead of drop-curtains; she’d like the windows altered to

open at the top, and a wardrobe for her flounced dresses, and a few more

nails and another shelf in her closet, and a cricket to put her feet on,

and a little rocking-chair, and a big looking-glass, and a pea-green

shade for her gas-burner.

“She would like breakfast about ten minutes later than your usual hour;

tea ten minutes earlier, and the gong, which shocks her nerves _so_,

altogether dispensed with.

“She can’t drink coffee, because it is exhilarating; broma is too

insipid, and chocolate too heavy. She don’t fancy cocoa. ‘English

breakfast tea’ is the only beverage which agrees with her delicate

spinster organization.

“She can’t digest a roast or a fried dish; she might _possibly_ peck at

an egg, if it were boiled with one eye on the watch. Pastry she never

eats, unless she knows from what dairy the butter came which enters into

its composition. Every article of food prepared with butter, salt,

pepper, mustard, vinegar, or oil; or bread that is made with yeast,

soda, milk, or saleratus, she decidedly rejects.

“She is constantly washing out little duds of laces, collars,

handkerchiefs, chemisettes and stockings, which she festoons up to the

front windows, to dry; giving passers-by the impression that your house

is occupied by a _blanchesseuse_;—then jerks the bell-wire for an hour

or more, for relays of hot smoothing irons, to put the finishing stroke

to her operations.

“She is often afflicted with interesting little colds and influenzas,

requiring the immediate consolation of a dose of hot lemonade or ginger

tea; choosing her time for these complaints when the kitchen fire has

gone out and the servants are on a furlough. Oh! nobody knows, but those

who’ve tried, how immensely troublesome women are! I’d rather have a

whole regiment of men boarders. All you have to do is, to wind them up

in the morning with a powerful cup of coffee, give them _carte-blanche_

to smoke, and a night-key, and your work is done.”

HENRY WARD BEECHER.

What a warm Sunday! and what a large church! I wonder if it will be

half-filled! Empty pews are a sorry welcome to a pastor. Ah! no fear;

here come the congregation in troops and families; now the capacious

galleries are filled; every pew is crowded, and seats are being placed

in the aisles.

The preacher rises. “What a young David!” Still, the “stone and sling”

will do their execution. How simple, how child-like that prayer; and yet

how eloquent, how fervent. How eagerly, as he names the text, the eye of

each is riveted upon the preacher, as if to secure his individual

portion of the heavenly manna.

Let us look around upon the audience. Do you see yonder gray-haired

business man? Six days in the week, for many years, he has been Mammon’s

most devoted worshipper. According to time-honoured custom, he has slept

comfortably in his own pew each Sunday, lulled by the soft voice of the

shepherd who “prophesieth smooth things.” One pleasant Sabbath chance (I

would rather say an overruling Providence) led him here. He settles

himself in his accustomed Sunday attitude; but sleep comes not at his

bidding. He looks disturbed. The preacher is dwelling upon the permitted

but fraudulent tricks of business men, and exposing plainly their

turpitude in the sight of that God who holds “evenly the scales of

justice.” As he proceeds, Conscience whispers to this aged listener,

“Thou art the man!” He moves uneasily on his seat; an angry flush mounts

to his temples. What right has that boy-preacher to question the

integrity of men of such unblemished mercantile standing in the

community as himself? He is not accustomed to such a spiritual probing

knife. _His_ spiritual physician has always “healed the hurt of his

people slightly.” He don’t like such plain talking, and sits the service

out only from compulsion. But when he passes the church porch, he does

not leave the sermon there, as usual. No. He goes home perplexed and

thoughtful. Conscience sides with the preacher; self-interest tries to

stifle its voice with the sneering whisper of “priest-craft.” Monday

comes, and again he plunges into the maelstrom of business, and tries to

tell the permitted lie with his usual _nonchalance_ to some ignorant

customer, but his tongue falters, and performs its duty but awkwardly; a

slight blush is perceptible upon his countenance; and the remainder of

the week chronicles similar and repeated failures.

Again it is Sunday. He is not a church-member: he can stay at home,

therefore, without fear of a canonical committee of Paul Prys to

investigate the matter: he can look over his debt and credit list if he

likes, without excommunication: he certainly will not put himself again

in the way of that plain-spoken, stripling priest. The bells peal out,

in musical tones, seemingly this summons: “Come up with us, and we will

do you good.” By an irresistible impulse he finds himself again a

listener. “Not that he _believes_ what that boy says!” Oh, no; but,

somehow, he likes to listen to him, even though he attack that

impregnable pride in which he has wrapped himself up as in a garment.

Now, why is this? Why is this church filled with such wayside listeners?

Why, but that all men—even the most worldly and unscrupulous—pay

involuntary homage to earnestness, sincerity, independence and Christian

boldness, in the “man of God?”

Why? Because they see that he stands in that sacred desk, not that his

lips may be tamed and held in, with a silver bit and silken bridle: not

that because preaching is his “trade,” and his hearers must receive

their _quid pro quo_ once a week—no, they all see and feel that his

_heart_ is in the work—that he _loves_ it—that he comes to them fresh

from his closet, his face shining with the light of “the Mount,” as did

Moses’.

The preacher is remarkable for fertility of imagination, for rare

felicity of expression, for his keen perception of the complicated and

mysterious workings of the human heart, and for the uncompromising

boldness with which he utters his convictions. His earnestness of

manner, vehemence of gesture and rapidity of utterance, are, at times,

electrifying; impressing his hearers with the idea that language is too

poor and meagre a medium for the rushing tide of his thoughts.

Upon the lavish beauty of earth, sea, and sky he has evidently gazed

with the poet’s eye of rapture. He walks the green earth in no monk’s

cowl or cassock. The tiniest blade of grass with its “drap o’ dew,” has

thrilled him with strange delight. “God is love,” is written for him in

brilliant letters on the arch of the rainbow. Beneath that black coat,

his heart leaps like a happy child’s to the song of the birds and the

tripping of the silver-footed stream, and goes up, in the dim old woods,

with the fragrance of their myriad flowers, in grateful incense of

praise, to Heaven.

God be thanked, that upon all these rich and rare natural gifts,

“Holiness to the Lord” has been written. Would that the number of such

gospel soldiers was “legion,” and that they might stand in the forefront

of the hottest battle, wielding thus skilfully and unflinchingly the

“Sword of the Spirit.”

AN OLD MAID’S DECISION.

“I can bear misfortune and poverty, and all the other ills of life, but

to be an _old maid_—to droop and wither, and wilt and die, like a

single pink—I can’t _endure_ it; and _what’s more, I won’t_!”

Now there’s an appeal that ought to touch some bachelor’s heart. There

she is, a poor, lone spinster, in a nicely furnished room—sofa big

enough for _two_; _two_ arm-chairs, _two_ bureaus, _two_

looking-glasses—everything hunting in couples except herself! I don’t

wonder she’s frantic! She read in her childhood that “matches were made

in Heaven,” and although she’s well aware there are some _Lucifer

matches_, yet she has never had a chance to try either sort. She has

heard that there “never was a soul created, but its twin was made

somewhere,” and she’s a melancholy proof that ’tis a mocking lie. She

gets tired of sewing—she can’t knit for ever on that eternal

stocking—(besides, _that_ has a _fellow_ to it, and is only an

aggravation to her feelings). She has read till her eyes are half

blind—there’s nobody to agree with her if she likes the book, or argue

the point with her if she don’t. If she goes out to walk, every woman

she meets has her husband’s arm. To be sure, they are half of ’em ready

to scratch each other’s eyes out; but that’s a little business matter

between themselves. Suppose she feels devotional, and goes to evening

lectures?—some ruffianly coward is sure to scare her to death on the

way. If she takes a journey, she gets hustled and boxed round among

cab-drivers, and porters, and baggage-masters; her bandbox gets knocked

in, her trunk gets knocked off, and she’s landed at the wrong

stopping-place. If she wants a load of wood, she has to pay twice as

much as a man would, and then she gets cheated by the man that saws and

splits it. She has to put her own money into the bank and get it out,

hire her own pew, and wait upon herself into it. People tell her

“husbands are often great plagues,” but she knows there are times when

they are indispensable. She is very good looking, black hair and eyes,

fine figure, sings and plays beautifully; but she “can’t be an old maid,

and _what’s more_—SHE WON’T.”