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diff --git a/old/69784-0.txt b/old/69784-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b233df6..0000000 --- a/old/69784-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11254 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shadows and sunbeams, by Fanny Fern - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Shadows and sunbeams - Being a second series of Fern leaves from Fanny’s portfolio - -Author: Fanny Fern - -Illustrator: George Thomas - -Release Date: January 14, 2023 [eBook #69784] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from - images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHADOWS AND SUNBEAMS *** - - -[Illustration: AUNT HEPSY’S COURTSHIP.] - -[Illustration: FERN LEAVES FROM FANNY’S PORTFOLIO SECOND SERIES] - - - - - SHADOWS AND SUNBEAMS: - Being a Second Series - OF - FERN LEAVES FROM FANNY’S PORTFOLIO. - - - ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE THOMAS. - - - LONDON: - WM. S. ORR AND CO., AMEN CORNER, - PATERNOSTER ROW; - SAMPSON LOW, SON, AND CO., - LUDGATE HILL. - - MDCCCLIV. - - - - - Published first in England by International Arrangement with the - American Proprietors, and Entered at Stationers’ Hall. - - - - - PREFACE. - - -The author addresses her readers in these words, by way of Preface to -the Second Volume of FERN LEAVES:— - -“Six months since, I was in a deplorable state of ignorance as to the -most felicitous style in which I could address my readers; at this lapse -of time I find myself not a whit wiser. You will permit me, therefore, -in pressing again your kindly hands, simply to say, that I hope my -second offering of FERN LEAVES will be more worthy of your acceptance -than the first.” - -To this the Publishers of the English edition need only add, that the -great popularity which this and the preceding series of FERN LEAVES have -attained, both in England and America, has induced them to enter into -arrangements with the proprietors of the copyright, whereby the present -edition of this work might obtain the benefit of the author’s sanction -and revision. To say anything by way of recommending so well-known a -writer as the sister of N. P. Willis is quite unnecessary—the acute -knowledge of the world, the womanly pathos and sympathy for the poor and -neglected, the genial, almost masculine, sense of humour and force of -language, the fearless expression of opinion, and the true wit and -genius displayed in these Leaves from Fanny’s Portfolio, cannot fail to -ensure for them a large and sympathising audience among the British -public. - - AMEN CORNER, PATERNOSTER ROW, - _August, 1854_. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - Shadows and Sunbeams 1 - Aunt Hepsy 18 - Thoughts at Church 21 - The Brothers 23 - Curious Things 28 - The Advantage of a House in a Fashionable Square 29 - Winter is Coming 36 - The other Sex 38 - Soliloquy of Mr. Broadbrim 40 - Willy Grey 41 - Tabitha Tompkins’ Soliloquy 54 - Soliloquy of a Housemaid 57 - Critics 59 - Forgetful Husbands 60 - Summer Friends 61 - How the Wires are Pulled 62 - Who would be the Last Man? 65 - Only a Cousin 66 - The Calm of Death 68 - Mrs. Adolphus Smith sporting the Blue Stocking 69 - Cecile Vray 70 - Sam Smith’s Soliloquy 71 - Love and Duty 75 - A False Proverb 79 - A Model Husband 80 - How is it? 81 - A Morning Ramble 83 - Hour-Glass Thoughts 86 - Sober Husbands 87 - Boarding-House Experience 88 - A Grumble from the (H) altar 93 - A Wick-ed Paragraph 94 - Mistaken Philanthropy 95 - Insignificant Love 97 - A Model Married Man 99 - Meditations of Paul Pry, jun. 100 - Sunshine and Young Mothers 102 - Uncle Ben’s attack of Spring Fever, and How Cured 103 - The Aged Minister voted a Dismission 106 - The Fatal Marriage 108 - A Matrimonial Reverie 112 - Frances Sargeant Osgood 113 - A Punch at “Punch” 116 - Best Things 117 - The Vestry Meeting 119 - A Broadway Shop Reverie 122 - The Old Woman 124 - Sunday Morning at the Dibdins 126 - Items of Travel 128 - Newspaper-dom 130 - Have we any Men among us? 132 - How to cure the Blues 134 - Rain in the City 136 - Mrs. Weasel’s Husband 138 - Country Sunday _v._ City Sunday 140 - Our Street 142 - When you are Angry 147 - Little Bessie 148 - The Delights of Visiting 151 - Helen Haven’s Happy New Year 153 - Dollars and Dimes 157 - Our Nelly 158 - Study Men, not Books 161 - Murder of the Innocents 163 - American Ladies 166 - The Stray Sheep 167 - The Fashionable Preacher 170 - Cash 172 - Only a Child 174 - Mr. Pipkin’s idea of Family Retrenchment 175 - A Chapter for Nice Old Farmers 177 - Madame Rouillon’s Mourning Saloon 179 - Fashion in Funerals 180 - Household Tyrants 182 - Women and Money 184 - The Sick Bachelor 186 - A Mother’s Influence 188 - Mr. Punch mistaken 193 - Fern Musings 194 - The Time to Choose 196 - Spring is Coming 197 - Steamboat Sights and Reflections 199 - A Gotham Reverie 201 - Sickness in the City and Country 202 - Hungry Husbands 205 - Light and Shadow 207 - What Love will Accomplish 209 - Mrs. Grumble’s Soliloquy 212 - Henry Ward Beecher 214 - An Old Maid’s Decision 217 - Father Taylor, the Sailor’s Preacher 219 - Signs of the Times 222 - Whom does it concern? 225 - Who Loves a Rainy Day? 230 - A Conscientious Young Man 233 - City Scenes and City Life, No. 1 234 - Do. do. 2 238 - Do. do. 3 242 - Do do. 4 245 - Two Pictures 248 - Feminine Waiters at Hotels 250 - Letter to the Empress Eugenia 252 - Music in the Natural Way 254 - For Ladies that go Shopping 255 - The Old Merchant wants a Situation 259 - A Moving Tale 261 - This Side and That 267 - Mrs. Zebedee Smith’s Philosophy 270 - A Lance Couched for the Children 272 - A Chapter on Housekeeping 273 - A Fern Reverie 275 - A Brown Study 278 - Incidents at the Five Points House of Industry 280 - Apollo Hyacinth 286 - Spoiled Little Boy 288 - Barnum’s Museum 289 - Nancy Pry’s Soliloquy 292 - For Little Children 293 - -[Illustration] - - - - - SHADOWS AND SUNBEAMS; - Being a Second Series of “Fern Leaves.” - - - - - CHAPTER I. - - -I can see it now: the little brown house, with its sloping roof, its -clumsy old chimneys, and its vine-clad porch; where the brown bee hummed -his drowsy song, and my silver-haired old father sat dozing the sultry -summer noons away, with shaggy Bruno at his feet. The bright earth had -no blight or mildew then for me. The song of the little birds, resting -beneath the eaves, filled my heart with a quiet joy. It was sweet, when -toil was over, to sit in the low door-way, and watch the golden sun go -down, and see the many-tinted clouds fade softly away (like a dying -saint) into the light of heaven, and evening’s glittering star glow, -like a seraph’s eye, above them. ’Twas sweet, when Autumn touched the -hill-side foliage with rainbow dyes, to see the gorgeous leaves come -circling down on the soft Indian summer breeze. ’Twas sweet, when the -tripping, silver stream lay still and cold in Winter’s icy clasp, and -the flowers fainted beneath his chilly breath, and the leafless trees -stretched out their imploring arms, and shook off, impatiently, their -snowy burthen, and the heavy waggon-wheels went creaking past, and the -ruddy farmer struck his brawny arms across his ample chest, for warmth, -and goaded the lazy, round-eyed oxen up the icy hill. Even then it was -sunshine still in the little brown house: in the ample chimney glowed -and crackled the blazing faggots; rows of shining pans glittered upon -the shelves; the fragrant loaf steamed in the little oven; the friendly -tea-kettle, smoking, sang in the chimney corner, and by its side still -sat the dear old father, with the faithful newspaper, that weekly -brought us news from the busy world, from which our giant forest-trees -had shut us out. - -Ah! those were happy days: few wants and no cares! the patriarch’s head -was white with grave blossoms, yet his heart was fresh and green. Alas! -that, under the lowliest door-way, as through the loftiest portal, the -Guest unbidden cometh. The morning sun rose fair, but it shone upon -silver locks that stirred with no breath of life; upon loving lips for -ever mute; upon a palsied, kindly hand that gave no returning pressure. -Soon, over the heart so warm and true, the snow lay white and cold; the -winter wind sang its mournful requiem, and from out the little brown -house the orphan passed with tearful gaze and lingering footstep. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - - -Oh, the bitter, bitter bread of dependence! No welcome by the -hearth-stone: no welcome at the board: the mocking tone, the cutting -taunt, the grudged morsel. Weary days, and sleepless, memory-torturing -nights. - -“Well, Josiah’s dead and gone,” said my uncle, taking down his -spectacles from the mantel, to survey me, as I sank on the settle, in -the chimney corner. “Take off your bonnet, Hetty. I suppose we must give -you house-room. Josiah never had the knack of saving anything—more’s the -pity for _you_. That farm of his was awfully mismanaged. I could have -had twice the produce he did off that land. Sheer nonsense, that shallow -ploughing of his, tiring the land all out; he should have used the -sub-soil plough. Then he had no idea of the proper rotation of crops, or -how to house his cattle in winter, or to keep his tools where they -wouldn’t rust and rot. That new barn, too, was a useless extravagance. -He might have roofed the old one. It’s astonishing what a difference -there is in brothers, about getting beforehand in the world. Now, I’ve a -cool thousand in the bank, all for taking care of little things. (There, -Jonathan! Jonathan! you’ve taken the meal out of the wrong barrel: it -was the damaged meal I told you to carry to Widow Folger.) - -“Well, as I was saying, Hetty, in the first place, your father didn’t -know how to manage; then he didn’t know how to say No. He’d lend money -to anybody who wanted it, and pay his workmen just what they took it -into their heads it was right to ask. Now, there’s Jonathan, yonder; a -day or two since, he struck for higher wages. Well, I _let_ him strike, -and got an Irishman in his place. This morning he came whining back, -saying that his wife was sick, and his youngest child lay dead in the -house, and that he was willing to work on at the old wages. That’s the -way to do, Hetty. If Jonathan chose to saddle himself with a wife and -babies before he was able to feed them, I don’t see the justice of my -paying for it! But it’s time for family prayers; that will be something -new to you, I suppose. I don’t want to judge _any_ body; I hope your -father has gone to Heaven, but I’m afraid he didn’t let his light shine. -Don’t whimper, child; as the tree falls, so it must lie. You must see -that you do _your_ duty: make yourself useful here in my house, and try -to pay your way. Young people of your age consume a great deal in the -way of food and clothes.” - -Oh, the monotony of those weary days! how memory lingered over the sunny -past: how thought shrank back affrighted from the gloomy future: how -untiringly and thanklessly I strove to cancel the debt for daily bread, -and how despairingly I prayed for relief from such bitter thraldom. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - - -“Make up the bed in the north room, Hetty,” said my aunt; “it’s our turn -to board the schoolmaster this week. You needn’t put on the best sheets: -these book-learning folks are always wool-gathering. He never’ll know -the difference. What a hungry set these schoolmasters are, to be sure: -it keeps a body all the time cooking. A bushel of doughnuts is a mere -circumstance. When the last master was here, our winter barrel of cider -went off like snow in April. I hope Jonathan learned enough at school to -pay for it, but I have my doubts; he trips in the multiplication table -yet. Your uncle and I think that this boarding schoolmasters is a poor -business—a losing bargain. He says I must put less on the table, but it -is no use to try that game with George Grey. He’s as independent as Adam -in Eden, before the serpent and his wife got in. He’d just as lief call -for anything he wanted as not; and somehow or other, when he does, I -always feel as if I had no choice about bringing it. That eye of his -always makes me think of forked lightning; and yet he’s kindly spoken, -too. He is as much of a riddle to unravel, as one of Parson Jones’ -doctrinal sermons. But, go make his bed, Hetty, and mind you stuff a few -rags in that broken pane of glass over it. I spoke to your uncle about -getting it mended, but he said warm weather would be along in three -months, and that’s very true, Hetty. Hist! your uncle is calling you. He -says he is going out in the barn to thresh, and if Peter Tay comes up -the road, and stops in here again, for him to subscribe towards the -minister’s new cloak, you must say that he has gone to Jifftown, and -will not be home for a week at least. Now don’t forget, Hetty; people -seem to think one earns money now-a-days on purpose to give away. A new -cloak! humph! I wonder if the Apostle Paul’s hearers ever gave him a new -cloak? I wonder if John the Baptist ever had a donation party? Don’t the -minister have his salary, two hundred dollars a year—part in produce, -part in money; paid regularly, when the times ain’t too hard? Go make -the schoolmaster’s bed now, Hetty. One pillow will do for him. Goodness -knows he carries his head high enough when he is awake. I shouldn’t -wonder if he had been captain or colonel, or something, some muster -day.” - -The schoolmaster! Should I be permitted to go to school? or should I be -kept drudging at home? Would this Mr. Grey think me very ignorant? I -began to feel as if his forked-lightning eyes were already on me. My -cheeks grew hot at the idea of making a blunder in his awful presence. -What a miserable room my aunt had provided for him! If I could but put -up some nice white curtains at the window, or get him a cushioned chair, -or put in a bureau, or chest of drawers. It looked so comfortless—so -different from the welcome my dear old father was wont to give to “the -stranger within the gates;” and now memory pictured him, as he sat in -the old arm-chair, and I knelt again at the low footstool at his feet, -and his hand strayed caressingly over my temples, and I listened to old -continental stories, till the candle burned low in the socket, and only -the fire-light flickered dimly on the old portrait of General -Washington, and on my father’s time-worn face. - -My aunt’s shrill voice soon roused me from my reverie. Dinnertime had -come, and with it Mr. Grey—a gentlemanly young man, of about two and -twenty, with a bright, keen, blue eye, and a frank, decided, off-hand -manner, that seemed to me admirably in keeping with his erect, imposing -figure and firm step. Even my uncle reefed in a sail or two in his -presence, and my aunt involuntarily qualified her usual bluntness of -manner. I uttered a heartfelt thanksgiving when dinner was over. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - - -“Hetty,” said my uncle, as the door closed upon Mr. Grey, “I suppose you -must go to school, or the neighbours will say we don’t treat you well. -You ought to be very thankful for such a home as this, Hetty; women are -poor, miserable creatures, left without money. I wish it had pleased -Providence to have made you a boy. You might then have done Jonathan’s -work just as well as not, and saved me his wages and board. There’s a -piece of stone wall waiting to be laid, and the barn wants shingling. -Josiah, now, would be at the extravagance of hiring a mason and a -carpenter to do it. - -“Crying? I wonder what’s the matter now? Well, it’s beyond me to keep -track of anything in the shape of a woman. One moment they are up in the -attic of ecstasy; the next, down in the cellar of despondency, as the -almanac says; and it is as true as if it had been written in the -Apocrypha. I only said that it is a thousand pities that you were not a -boy; then you could graft my trees for me, and hoe, and dig, and plant, -and plough, and all that sort of thing. This puttering round, washing -dishes a little, and mopping floors a little, and wringing out a few -clothes, don’t amount to much toward supporting yourself. Let me see: -you have had, since you came here”—and my uncle put on his spectacles, -and pulled out a well-thumbed pocket memorandum—“You’ve had t-w-o -p-a-i-r-s of shoes, at t-h-r-e-e s-h-i-l-l-i-n-g-s a pair, and nine -yards of calico, for a dress, at s-i-x c-e-n-t-s a yard. That ’mounts -up, Hetty, ’mounts up. You see it costs something to keep you. I earned -_my_ money, and if you ever expect to have any, you must earn yours”—and -my uncle took out his snuff-box, helped himself to a pinch, and, with -the timely aid of a stray sunbeam, achieved a succession of very -satisfactory sneezes. - -The following day, under the overwhelming consciousness of my feminity -and consequent good-for-nothingness, I made my debut at Master Grey’s -school. - -It was a huge barn of a room, ill-lighted, ill-warmed, and worse -ventilated, crowded with pupils of both sexes, from the little, chubby A -B C D-arian, to the gaunt Jonathan of thirty, who had begun to feel the -need of a little ciphering and geography, in making out his accounts, or -superscribing a business letter. There were rows of awkward, mop-headed, -freckled, red-fisted boys; and rosy-cheeked, buxom lasses, bursting out -of their dresses, half-shy, half-saucy, who were much more conversant -with “apple bees,” and “husking frolics,” than with grammar or -philosophy. There was the parson’s son, and the squire’s and the -blacksmith’s son, besides a few who hadn’t the remotest idea whose sons -they were, having originally been indentured to their farming masters by -the overseers of the county alms-house. - -Amid these discordant elements Master Grey moved as serenely as the -August moon of a cloudless night; now patting some little curly head, -cruelly perplexed by “crooked S;” now demonstrating to some slow, older -brain, a stumbling-block in Euclid; now closing the creaking door after -an ill-mannered urchin; now overlooking the pot-hooks and hangers of an -unsophisticated scribe, who clutched the pen as if it were a hoe-handle; -now feeding the great, draftless Behemoth of a stove with green hickory -knots, and vainly attempting to thaw out his own congealed fingers. - -In a remote corner of the school-room sat Zeb Smith, the village -blacksmith’s son, who came into the world with his fists doubled up, and -had been pugilist-ing ever since. It was Zeb’s proud boast that “he had -whipped every schoolmaster who had ever appeared in Frog-town,” and in -his peaceful retreat from under his bent brows, he was now mentally -taking the measure of Master Grey, ending his little reverie with a -loud, protracted whistle. - -Master Grey turned quickly round, and facing his overgrown pupil of -thirty, said, in a voice clear as the click of a pistol, “You will be -pleased not to repeat that annoyance, Mr. Smith.” Zeb bent his -gooseberry eyes full upon the master, and gave him a blast of “Yankee -Doodle.” - -All eyes were bent on Master Grey. The gauntlet of defiance was thrown -in his very teeth. Zeb had a frame like an ox, and a fist like a -sledge-hammer, and he knew it. Master Grey was slight, but panther-y; to -their unscientific eyes he was already victimized. - -Not a bit of it! See! Master Grey’s delicately white fingers are on -Zeb’s check shirt-collar; there is a momentary struggle; lips grow -white; teeth are set; limbs twist, and writhe, and mingle, and now Zeb -lies on the floor, with Master Grey’s handsome foot on his brawny chest. -Ah, Master Grey! science is sometimes a match for bone and muscle. Your -boxing-master, Monsieur Punchmellow, would have been proud of his pupil. - -Peace restored, Master Grey shakes back from his broad forehead his -curly locks, and summons the first class in geography. A row of country -girls, round as little barrels and red as peonies, stand before him, -their respect and admiration for “the master” having been increased ten -per cent. by his victory over Zeb. Feminity pardons anything in a man -sooner than lack of courage. The recitation goes off very well, with the -exception of Miss Betsey Jones, who persists in not reciting at all. -Master Grey looks at her: he has conquered a _man_, but that’s no reason -why he should suppose he can conquer a _woman_. He sees that written in -very legible characters in Miss Bessie’s saucy black eye. Miss Bessie is -sent to her seat, and warned to stay after school, till her lesson is -learned and recited perfectly. With admirable nonchalance, she takes her -own time to obey, and commences drawing little caricatures of the -master, which she places in her shoe, and passes round under the desk, -to her more demure petticoat neighbours. - -School is dismissed: the last little straggler is kicking up his heels -in the snow drifts, and Master Grey and Miss Bessie are left alone. -Master Grey inquires if the lesson is learned, and is told by Miss -Bessie, with a toss of her ringlets, that she has no intention of -learning it. Master Grey again reminds her that the lesson must be -recited before she can go home. Bessie looks mischievously at the -setting sun, and plays with the master’s commands and her apron strings. -An hour passes, and Bessie has not opened the book. Master Grey consults -his watch, and reminds her “that it is growing dark.” Bessie smiles till -the dimples play hide-and-seek on her cheek, but she says nothing. -Another hour: Master Grey bites his lip, and, replacing his watch in his -pocket, says, “I see your intention, Miss Betsey. It is quite -impossible, as you know, for us to remain here after dark. To-morrow -morning, if your lesson is not earned, I shall punish you in the -presence of the whole school. You can go.” - -“Thank you, sir,” says Bessie, with mock humility, as she crushes her -straw hat down over her bright ringlets. - -“Mischief take these women,” Master Grey was heard to utter, as he went -through the snow by starlight to a cold supper. “Shall I conquer Zeb, to -strike my colours to a girl of sixteen?” - -There was plenty to talk about over the brown bread and milk at the -farmers’ tea-tables that night; the youngsters all made up their minds -that if there was “a time to play,” it was not in Master Grey’s -school-room; and the old farmers said they were glad the District had a -schoolmaster at last that was good for something, and that they should -think better of city chaps in future for his sake. Even Zeb himself -acknowledged, over his father’s forge, as he mended his broken -suspenders, that Master Grey was a “trump.” - -The nine o’clock bell summoned again the Frog-town pupils to the -District School. Master Grey in vain looked in Bessie’s face for any -sign of submission. She had evidently made up her mind to brave him. -After the usual preliminary exercises, she was called up to recite. -Fixing her saucy black eyes upon him, she said, “I told you I would -_not_ learn that lesson, and I have not learned it.” “And I told _you_,” -said Master Grey (a slight flush passing over his forehead), “that I -should punish you if you did not learn it. Did I not?” Bessie’s red lip -quivered, but she deigned him no reply. - -“You will hold out your hand, Betsey,” said Mr. Grey, taking up a large -ferule that lay beside him. The colour left Bessie’s cheek, but the -little hand was extended with martyr-like determination; and amid a -silence that might be felt, the ferule came down upon it, with justice -as unflinching as if it were not owned by a woman. Betsey was not proof -against this humiliation; she burst into tears, and the answering tear -in Master Grey’s eye showed how difficult and repugnant had been the -task. - -From that day, Master Grey was “monarch of all he surveyed;” and truth -compels me to own, by none better loved or more implicitly obeyed than -by Miss Bessie. - -Master Grey’s “boarding week” at my uncle’s had now expired. What a -change had it effected in me! Life was no longer aimless: the old, glad -sparkle had come back to my heavy eye; I no longer dreaded the solitude -of my own thoughts. The dull rain dropping on my chamber roof had its -music for my ears; the stars wore a new and a glittering brightness, and -Winter, with his snowy mantle, frosty breath, and icicle diadem, seemed -lovelier to me than violet-slippered Spring, with roses in her hair. I -still saw Master Grey each day at school. How patiently he bore with my -multiplied deficiencies, and with what a delicate and womanly -appreciation of my extreme sensitiveness he soothed my wounded pride. No -pale-eyed flower fainting beneath the garish noonday heat, ever so -thirsted for the cool dews of twilight, as did my desolate heart for his -soothing tones and kindly words. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - - -“Hetty,” said my uncle, “we shall want you at home now. It will be -impossible for me to get along without you, unless I hire a hand, and -times are too hard for that: so you must leave school. You’ve a good -home here, for which you ought to be thankful, as I’ve told you before; -but you must work, girl, work! Some how or other the money goes” (and he -pulled out the old pocket-book). “Here’s my grocer’s bill—two shillings -for tea, and three shillings for sugar; can’t you do without sugar, -Hetty? And here’s a dollar charged for a pair of India rubbers. A dollar -is a great deal of money, Hetty; more than you could earn in a month. -And here’s a shilling for a comb; now that’s useless; you might cut your -hair off. It won’t do—won’t do. I had no idea of the additional expense -when I took you in. Josiah ought to have left you something; no man has -a right to leave his children for other people to support; ’tis n’t -Christian. I’ve been a professor these twenty years, and I ought to -know. I don’t know as you have any legal claim on me because you are my -niece. Josiah was thriftless and extravagant. I suppose ’tis in your -blood, too, for I can’t find out that you have begun to pay your way by -any chores you have done here. If you must live on us (and I can’t say -that I see the necessity), I repeat, I wish you had been born a boy.” - -“But as I am not a boy, uncle, and as I do not wish to be a burthen to -you, will you tell me how to support myself?” - -“Don’t ask me. I’m sure I don’t know. That is your business. I have my -hands full to attend to my own affairs. I am deacon of the church, -beside being trustee of the Sandwich Island Fund. I don’t get a copper -for the office of deacon; nobody pays _me_ for handing round the -contribution box; not a cent of the money that passes through my hands -goes into my till; not a _mill_ do I have, by way of perquisite, for -doling it out to bed-ridden Widow Hall, or asthmatic Mr. Price. Not a -penny the richer was I, for that twenty dollars I collected in the -contribution box at last communion: no, I am a poor man, comparatively -speaking. I may die yet in the alms-house; who knows? You must work, -girl, work; can’t have any drones in my hive.” - -A shadow just then passed the window. I should know that retreating -footstep! Could it be that Master Grey had come to the door with the -intention of calling, and overheard my uncle? At least, then, I was -spared the humiliation of exposing his parsimony. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - - -It was the night for the weekly vestry lecture. I was left quite alone -in the old kitchen. My uncle had extinguished the lamp in leaving, -saying that it was “a waste to burn out oil for me.” The fire, also, had -been carefully taken apart, and the brands laid at an incombustible -distance from each other. The old clock kept up a sepulchral, -death-watch tick, and I could hear the falling snow drifting gloomily -against the windows. - -I drew the old wooden settle closer between the tall andirons, and sat -sorrowfully gazing into the dying embers. What was to become of me? for -it seemed impossible to bear longer the intolerable galling of my yoke. -Even the charity of strangers seemed to me preferable to the grudging, -insulting tolerance of my kindred. But, with my sixteen years’ -experience of quiet valley-life, where should I turn my untried -footsteps? To Him who guideth the little bird through the pathless air, -would I look. - -Weeping, I prayed. - -“My poor child,” said a voice at my side; and Master Grey removed my -hands gently from my tear-stained face, and held them in his own. “My -poor Hetty, life looks very dark to you, does it not? I know all you -suffer. Don’t pain yourself to tell me about it. I overheard your -uncle’s crushing words. I know there are none to love you—none to care -for you—none on whom you can lean. It is a bitter feeling, my poor -child. I, too, have passed through it. You would go from hence, but -where? Life is full of snares, and you are too young and too -inexperienced to brave them. - -“Hetty,” and Master Grey drew me gently towards him,—“Hetty, could you -be happy with me?” - -Is the shipwrecked mariner happy, who opens his despairing eyes at -length in the long looked for, long prayed for, home? - -Is the little bird happy, who folds her weary wings safe from the -pursuer’s talons, in her own fleece-lined nest? - -Is the little child happy, who wakes, sobbing, in the gloomy night, from -troubled dreams, to find his golden head still safely pillowed on the -dear, maternal bosom? - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - - -It was very odd and strange to me, my new home in the great busy city; -with its huge rows of stores and houses, its myriad restless feet, and -anxious, care-worn faces; its glittering wealth, its squalid poverty; -the slow-moving hearse, and the laughing harlequin crowd; its noisy -Sabbaths, and its gorgeous churches, with its jewelled worshippers, and -its sleepy priests; its little children, worldly-wise and old; and its -never-ceasing, busy hum, late into the day’s pale light. I had no -acquaintances: I needed none; for I moved about my pretty little home as -in a glad dream. My husband was still “Master Grey,” but over a private -school of his own, bounded by no “District,” subject to the despotic -dictation of no “Committee.” In his necessary absence, I busied myself -in arranging and re-arranging his books, papers and wardrobe, thinking -the while such _glad_ thoughts! And when the little mantel clock chimed -the hour of return, my cheek flushed, my heart beat quick, and my eyes -grew moist with happy tears, at the sound of the dear, loved footstep. - -How very nice it seemed to sit at the head of that cheerful little -table—to make, with my own hands, the fragrant cup of tea—to grow merry -with my husband, over crest-fallen Zeb, and poor, stubborn little -Bessie, and my uncle’s time-worn bugbear of a memorandum book! - -And how proud I was of him, as he sat there correcting some school-boy’s -Greek exercise, while I leaned over his shoulder, looking attentively at -his fine face, and at those unintelligible hieroglyphics, and blushing -that he was so much wiser than his little Hetty. - -This thought sometimes troubled me. I asked myself, will my husband -never weary of me? I even grew jealous of his favourite authors, of whom -he was so fond. Then I pondered the feasibility of pursuing a course of -reading unknown to him, and astonishing him some day with my profound -erudition. In pursuance of my plan, I would sit demurely down to some -great, wise book; but I saw only my husband’s face looking out at me -from every page, and my self-inflicted task was sure to end in some -blissful dreamy reverie, with which Cupid had much more to do than -Minerva. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - - -“A proposition, Hetty!” said my husband, throwing aside his coat and -hat, and tossing a letter in my lap. “It is from a widow lady, who -desires that I should take charge of her little boy, and give him a home -in my family, while she goes to the continent, to secure some property -lately left her by a foreign relative. It will be advantageous to us, in -a pecuniary way, to have him board with us, unless it should increase -your cares too much. But, as you are so fond of children, it may, -perhaps, after all, prove a pleasant care to you. She is evidently a -superior woman. Every line in her letter shows it.” - -My husband immediately answered in the affirmative, and the child -arrived a week after. He was a fine, intelligent, gentlemanly boy of -eight years, with large hazel eyes, and transparently beautiful temples: -disinclined to the usual sports of childhood, sensitive, shy, and -thoughtful beyond his years—a human dew-drop, which we look to see -exhale. He brought with him a letter from his mother, which powerfully -affected my husband. During its perusal he drew his hand repeatedly -across his eyes, and sat a long while after he had finished reading it, -with his eyes closed, in a deep reverie. By-and-by he said, handing me -the letter, “There is genius there, Hetty. I never read anything so -touchingly beautiful. Mrs. West must be a very talented and superior -woman.” - -I glanced over the letter. It fully justified my husband’s encomiums. It -was a most touching appeal to him to watch with paternal care over her -only child; but while she spoke with a mother’s tenderness of his -endearing qualities, she wished him taught implicitly, that first of all -duties for the young, _obedience_. Then followed allusions to dark days -of sorrow, during which the love of that cherished child was the only -star in her sky. - -I folded the letter and sat very still, after my husband left, in my -little rocking-chair, thinking. Such a gifted woman as that my husband -should have married. One who could have sympathised with him and shared -his intellectual pursuits; who would have been something besides a toy -to amuse an idle hour, or to minister to his physical necessities. -Perhaps it was of this that my husband was thinking, as he sat there -with his eyes closed over the open letter. Perhaps he had wed me only -from a generous impulse of pity, and that letter had suddenly revealed -to him the happiness of which he was capable with a kindred spirit. I -was very miserable. I wished the letter had never reached us, or that I -had declined the care of the child. Other letters, of course, would -come, and the boy would keep alive the interest in the intervals. I wept -long and bitterly. At length I was aroused by the entrance of little -Charley. A bright flush mounted to his forehead, when he saw my swollen -eyes. He hesitated a moment, then gliding up to my side he said, -sweetly, “Are you sick? Shall I bathe your head? I used to bathe mamma’s -head when it pained her.” - -I stood abashed and rebuked in the child’s angel presence, and taking -the boy, _her_ boy, in my arms, I kissed him as tenderly as if I had -been his mother; while in his own sweet way he told me with childish -confidence of his own dead papa; how much he loved mamma; how many, many -beautiful things he used to bring her, saying that they were not half -good, or half handsome enough for her; how distressed he used to be if -she were ill; how carefully he closed the shutters, and tip-toed about -the house, with his finger on his lip, telling the servants to close the -doors gently; and how he promised him little toys, if he would not -disturb mamma’s slumbers; and then, how like diamonds his eyes shone, -when she got well; and what beautiful flowers he brought her for her -vases; and what a nice, soft-cushioned carriage he brought for her to -take the air; and how tenderly he wrapped the shawls about her, and how -many charges he gave the coachman, to drive slowly and carefully. And -then, how dear papa, at last, grew sick himself; and how mamma watched -day and night beside his bed, forgetting to sleep, or eat, or drink; and -how nobody dared to tell her that the doctor said he must die; and how -papa grew fainter and weaker, and how he said, “Kiss me, Mary, and lay -your cheek to mine; I can’t see you.” And then how mamma fainted and was -carried out, and for many, many long days didn’t know even her own -little Charley;—and how dreadful it was when she first waked, and tried -to remember what had happened; and how nobody could comfort her but -Charley; and how he used often to wake up in the night, and find her -with a lamp looking at him, because when he was asleep he looked so much -like dear, dead papa; and how bitterly she would sob when she was sick, -because papa was not there to pity her, and bathe her aching head; and -how he (Charley) meant, when he grew up to be a man, to get a nice house -for her, and put everything she wanted in it, and make her just as happy -as he could. - -Well has the Saviour said, “Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” That -night I bent over little Charley’s bed, blessing the little sleeper for -his angel teachings, with a heart as calm and peaceful as the mirrored -lake, reflecting only the smile of Heaven. - -Time passed on. Life became earnest; for a little heart pulsated beneath -my own, and a strange, sweet, nameless thrill sent to my chastened lips -a trembling prayer. Tiny caps and robes, with many a hope and fear -interwoven in their delicate threads, lay awaiting the infant’s advent. -I, myself, should know the height, and breadth, and depth of a mother’s -undying love. What could come between me and _this_ new-found treasure? - -Meantime, letters continued to come from Charley’s mother to her boy, -and my husband. It was impossible for me to blind myself to his growing -interest in them. On the days they were expected (for she wrote at -regular intervals), he would be absent and abstracted, or if any delay -occurred, almost irritable. When they were received, his eye kindled, -his step became elastic, and his whole face grew radiant with happiness. - -As the time drew near for the birth of my infant, I grew timid with sad -forebodings. I was sitting, one evening at twilight, watching the -setting sun, and thinking of the quiet grave it was gilding, where my -silver-haired father slept, in the old churchyard, when my husband -entered. An expression of pain flitted over his features, as he looked -at me; and taking my hand, he said, gently, _almost tenderly_, “You are -less well than usual, Hetty; you must not sit here, moping, by -yourself.” - -I laid my head upon his shoulder with a happiness I had not known for -many months. “Listen to me, dear Grey,” said I; “I have a confidence to -repose in you that will ease my heart. - -“It was pity, only, that drew your heart to mine; you do not love me. I -have known it a long while since. At first, the discovery gave me a pang -keener than death; but I have had a long and bitter struggle with -myself, and have conquered. It is not your fault that you cannot love -me. To the many voices of your heart, which cry, ‘Give, give,’ my -response is weak and unsatisfying. Your wife should be gifted. She -should sympathise with you in your intellectual pursuits. She should -stimulate your pride, as well as your love. Such a one is Charley’s -mother. Your _heart_ has already wed her, and as God is my witness, I -have ceased to blame you. We cannot help our affections. I cannot help -loving you, though I know her mysterious power over your heart. I have -seen your struggles, your generous self-reproaches, in some sudden -outburst of kindness toward me, after the indulgence of some bright -dream, in which I had no share. Dear Grey, she is worthy of your love. -She has a heart, noble, good and true; a heart purified by suffering. I -see it in every line she writes. Should I not survive the birth of my -infant, I could give your happiness into her keeping without a -misgiving, though I have never looked upon her face.” - - -Little Hetty’s noble heart has long since ceased to throb with joy or -pain. To her husband’s breast is folded the babe, for whose little life -her own was yielded up. Threads of silver prematurely mingle amid his -ebon locks; for memory writes only on bereaved hearts the virtues of the -dead, while, with torturing minuteness, she pictures our own -short-comings, for which, alas! we can offer no atonement but our tears. - - - - - AUNT HEPSY. - - -It was a comical little old shop, “Aunt Hepsy’s,” with its Lilliputian -counter, shelves and stove, and its pigmy assortment of old-fashioned -ginghams, twilled cambrics, red flannels, factory cotton and homespun -calicoes; its miniature window, with its stock of horn-combs and candy, -tin horses and peppermint drops, skeins of yarn and Godfrey’s Cordial, -gaudy picture books, and sixpenny handkerchiefs, from whose centre -Lafayette and George Washington smiled approbatively upon the big A’s -and little A’s printed round the border. - -“Aunt Hepsy;” so every brimless-hatted urchin in the neighbourhood -called her, though it would have puzzled them worse than the -multiplication table, had you asked them why they did so. Year in and -year out, her ruddy English face glowed behind the little shop window. -Sometimes she would be knitting a pair of baby’s socks, sometimes -inventing most astonishing looking bags out of rainbow fragments of silk -or ribbon. Sometimes netting watch-guards, or unravelling the yarn from -some old black stocking, to ornament the “place where the wool ought to -grow,” on the head of some Topsy doll she was making. Sometimes -comforting herself with a sly pinch of snuff, or, when sunbeams and -customers were scarce, nodding drowsily over the daily papers. - -Aunt Hepsy _had_ been a beauty, and her pretty face had won her a -thriftless husband, of whom champagne and cigars had long since kindly -relieved her. And though Time had since forced her to apply to the -perruquier, he had gallantly made atonement by leaving her in the -undisputed possession of a pair of very brilliant black eyes. Add to -this a certain air of coquetry, in the fanciful twist of her -gay-coloured turban, and the disposal of the folds of her lace kerchief -over her ample English bust—and you have a faithful daguerreotype of -“Aunt Hepsy.” - -From the window of her little shop she could look out upon the blue -waters of the bay, where lay moored the gallant ships, from whose tall -masts floated the stars and stripes, and whose jolly captains might -often be seen in Aunt Hepsy’s shop, exchanging compliments and snuff, -and their heavy voices heard, recounting long Neptune yarns, and -declaring to the buxom widow that nothing but the little accident of -their being already spliced for life, prevented their immediately -spreading sail with her for the port of Matrimony. Aunt Hepsy usually -frowned at this, and shook her turbaned head menacingly, but immediately -neutralized it by offering to mend a rip in their gloves, or replace a -truant button on their overcoats. - -It was very odd, how universally popular was Aunt Hepsy. She had any -number of places to “take tea,” beside a standing invitation from -half-a-dozen families, to Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners, and to -New-Year’s suppers. She had an eligible seat in church, gratis; an -inexhaustible bottle of sherry for her often infirmities, fresh pies on -family baking days, newspapers for stormy day reading; tickets to -menageries, and invitations to picnics. - -She always procured lodgings at a cheaper rate than anybody else; had -the pleasantest room in the house at that, the warmest seat at table, -the strongest cup of coffee, the brownest slice of toast, the latest -arrival of buckwheats, the second joint of the turkey, and the only -surviving piece of pie. To be sure, she always praised ugly babies, -asked old maids why they _would_ be so cruel as to persist in remaining -unmarried, entreated hen-pecked husbands to use their powerful influence -over their wives to secure to her their custom, begged the newly-fledged -clergyman to allow her a private perusal of his last Sunday’s able -discourse; complimented ambitious Esaus on the luxuriant growth of their -very incipient and microscopically perceptible whiskers; asked -dilapidated, rejected widowers, when they intended taking their choice -of a wife out of a bevy of rosy girls; and declared to editors that she -might as well try to get along without her looking-glass, as without -their interesting newspapers. - -One day the little shop was shut up. Nine o’clock came—eleven o’clock, -and the shutters were still closed, and Aunt Hepsy so punctual, too! -What _could_ it mean? Old Mrs. Brown was ready to have fits because she -couldn’t get another skein of yarn to finish her old man’s stockings. -Little Pat Dolan had roared himself black in the face, because he -couldn’t spend his cent to buy some maple sugar; and the little match -girl stood shivering at the corner for a place to warm her poor benumbed -fingers, while the disappointed captains stamped their feet on the snow, -stuffed their cheeks with quids, and said it was “deuced funny;” and an -old maid opposite, who had long prayed that Aunt Hepsy’s reign might be -shortened, laid her skinny forefinger on her hooked nose, and rolled up -the whites of her eyes like a chicken with the pip. - -It was no great enigma (at any rate, not after you found it out!). Rich -old Mr. Potts ventured into Aunt Hepsy’s shop one day to buy a -watch-ribbon. He was very deaf; so Aunt Hepsy had to come round the -counter to wait upon him, and the upshot of it was, that she and Cupid -together hailed him through an ear-trumpet; and all I know about it is, -that they have now a legalized right to a mutual pillow and snuff-box, -and that the little shop window still remains unopened, while the old -maid hisses between her teeth, as Aunt Hepsy rolls by in her carriage, -“How do you suppose she did it?” - - - - - THOUGHTS AT CHURCH. - - -I have an old-fashioned way of entering church before the bells begin to -chime. I enjoy the quiet, brooding stillness. I love to think of the -many words of holy cheer that have fallen there, from heaven-missioned -lips, and folded themselves like snow-white wings over the weary heart -of despair. I love to think of the sinless little ones, whose pearly -temples have here been laved at the baptismal font. I love to think of -the weak, yet strong ones, who have tearfully tasted the consecrated -cup, on which is written, “Do this in remembrance of me.” I love to -think of those self-forgetting, self-exiled, who, counting all things -naught for Gethsemane’s dear sake, are treading foreign shores, to say -to the soul-fettered Pagan, “Behold the Lamb of God.” I love to think of -the loving hearts that at yonder altar have throbbed, side by side, -while the holy man of God pronounced “the twain one.” I love to think of -the seraph smile of which death itself was powerless to rob the dead -saint, over whose upturned face, to which the sunlight lent such mocking -glow, the words, “Dust to dust,” fell upon the pained ear of love. I -love, as I sit here, to list, through the half open vestry door, to the -hymning voices of happy Sabbath scholars, sweet as the timid chirp of -morn’s first peeping bird. I love to hear their tiny feet, as they -patter down the aisle, and mark the earnest gaze of questioning -childhood. I love to see the toil-hardened hand of labour brush off the -penitential tear. I love—“_our_ minister.” How very sad he looks to-day. -Are his parishioners unsympathetic? Does the labourer’s “hire” come -tardily and grudgingly to the overtasked faithful servant? Do -censorious, dissatisfied spirits watch and wait for his halting? - -Now he rises and says, slowly—musically, “The Lord is my shepherd, I -shall not want.” Why at such sweet, soul-resting words, do his tears -overflow? Why has his voice such a heart-quiver? Ah! there is a vacant -seat in the pastor’s pew. A little golden head, that last Sabbath -gladdened our eyes like a gleam of sunlight, lies dreamlessly pillowed -beneath the coffin lid; gleeful eyes have lost their brightness; cherry -lips are wan and mute, and beneath her sable veil the lonely mother -sobs. And so the father’s lip quivers, and for a moment nature triumphs. -Then athwart the gloomy cloud flashes the bow of promise. He wipes away -the blinding tears, and with an angel smile, and upward glance, he says, -“_Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him._” - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE BROTHERS. - - -Close the door. One would scarcely think, in this luxurious atmosphere, -that we had left mid-winter behind us. The warm air is heavy with the -odour of blossoming greenhouse plants, over whose fragrant clusters a -tiny fountain tosses its sparkling spray: bright-winged, sweet-voiced -canaries dart, like flashes of sunlight, through the dark green foliage: -beautiful are those sculptured infants, cheek to cheek, over whose -dimpled limbs the crimson drapery throws such a rosy glow: beautiful is -that shrinking Venus, with her pure, chaste brow, and Eve-like grace: -lovely those rare old pictures to the artistic eye: beautiful that -recumbent statuette of the peerless, proud “Pauline.” - -Hush! tread softly; on yonder couch a gentleman lies sleeping. His -crimson velvet cap has fallen back from his broad white forehead, his -long curving lashes droop heavily upon his cheek, and his Grecian -profile is as faultless as a sculptor’s dream. Pity that the stain of -sensuality should have left so legible an impress there. - -A servant enters, hearing a note upon a silver tray. His master -languidly opens a pair of large dark eyes, and beckons him to approach. -As he breaks the seal, a contemptuous sneer disfigures his handsome lip, -and an angry flush mounts to his brow. Motioning the servant away, he -crushes the note between his fingers, muttering, “No—no; as he has made -his bed, so let him lie in it.” Then walking once or twice rapidly -across the room, he takes up a small volume, and throws himself again -upon the velvet couch. He does not turn the leaves; and if you peep over -his shoulder, you will see that the book is upside down. His thoughts -are far away. He remembers a bright-eyed, open-browed, guileless-hearted -brother, whom early orphanage had thrown upon his fraternal care; whose -trusting nature he had perverted; whose listening ear he had poisoned -with specious sophistries and worldly maxims; whom he had introduced to -the wine party, where female virtue was held in derision, and to the -“green room,” where the foreign _danseuse_ understood well how to play -her part; whom he had initiated into modern follies and dissipations, -and then launched upon the Charybdis of fashionable society, without -chart, or rudder, or compass, other than his own headstrong passions and -unbridled will. - -Soon came a rumour—at first vague and undefined, and then voraciously -seized upon and circulated by Paul Pry penny-a-liners (who recked -little, in their avidity for a paragraph, of broken-hearted mothers or -despairing gray-haired fathers), of a true heart that had been betrayed, -of a disgraced household, of a fair brow that must henceforth walk the -earth shame-branded. Then from his avenging pursuers the rash boy fled -for refuge to him who had first turned his youthful steps aside from -truth and honour. He was repulsed with scorn; not because he had wronged -his own soul and hers whose star had for ever set in night, but because -he had not more skilfully and secretly woven the meshes for his victim. - -Across the seas, amid the reckless debauchery of God-forgetting Paris, -the miserable boy sought oblivion; welcoming with desperate eagerness -the syren Pleasure, in every chameleon shape that could stifle -conscience or drown torturing memory. Sometimes by a lucky throw of the -dice he was enabled to shine as the Adonis of some ball, or theatre, or -gay saloon: sometimes destitute as the humblest chiffonier, who suns -himself in the public square, to solicit charity of the indifferent -passer-by. In the rosy glow of morning, the bright stars paled while -Harry sat at the enticing gaming table, till even those accustomed to -breathe the polluted atmosphere of those gates of perdition, turned -shuddering away from the fiendish look of that youthful face. - -Nature revenged herself at last. Wearisome days of sickness came, and he -who was nurtured in luxury was dependent upon the charity of grudging -strangers. - -Oh! what a broad, clear beam eternity throws upon the crooked by-paths -of sin! how like swift visions pass the long-forgotten prayer at the -blessed mother’s knee; the long-forgotten words of Holy Writ; the -soothing vesper hymn of holy time; the first cautious, retrograding -step—the gradual searing of conscience, till the barrier between right -and wrong is ruthlessly trampled under foot; the broken resolutions, the -mis-spent years, the wasted energies; the sins against one’s own soul, -the sins against others; the powerless wish to pray, ‘mid paroxysms of -bodily pain; the clinging hold on life—the anxious glance at the -physician—the thrilling question, “Doctor, is it life or death?” - -Poor Harry! amid the incoherent ravings of delirium, the good little -grisette learned his sad history. Her little French heart was touched -with pity. Through her representations, on his partial restoration to -health, a sufficient sum was subscribed by the American consul, and some -of his generous countrymen, to give him the last chance for his life, by -sending him to breathe again his native air. Earnestly he prayed that -the sea might not be his sepulchre. - -Tearfully he welcomed the first sight of his native shore. Tremblingly -he penned those few lines to the brother whose face he so yearned to -see—and on whose fraternal breast it would seem almost easy to die. -Anxiously he waited the result, turning restlessly from side to side, -till beaded drops of agony started from his pallid temples. Walter would -not refuse his _last_ request. No—no, The proud man would at least, at -the grave’s threshold, forget that “vulgar rumour” had coupled his -patrician name with disgrace. Oh, why had the messenger such leaden -footsteps? when life and strength, like hour-glass sands, were fleeting! -A step is heard upon the stairs! A faint flush, like the rosy tinting of -a sea-shell, brightens the pallid face. - -“No answer, sir,” gruffly says the messenger. - -A smothered groan of anguish, and Harry turns his face to the wall, and -tears, such only as despair can shed, bedew his pillow. - -“_Do_ go, dear Walter; ’tis your own brother who asks it. If he has -sinned, has he not also suffered? We all so err, so need forgiveness. -Oh, take back those hasty words; let him die on your breast, for _my_ -sake, Walter,” said the sweet pleader, as her tears fell over the hand -she pressed. - -“That’s my own husband,” said the happy Mary, as she saw him relent. “Go -_now_, dear Walter. Take away the sting of those cruel words, while yet -you may, and carry him these sweet flowers, he used to love, from me. -Quick, dear Walter.” - - * * * * * - -“This way, sir, this way. Up another flight,” said the guide, gazing -admiringly at the fine figure before him, enveloped in a velvet Spanish -cloak. “Second door to the left, sir. Maybe the gentleman’s asleep now; -he’s been very quiet for some time. Seen trouble, sir, I reckon. ’Tis -not age that has drawn those lines on his handsome face. He’s not long -for this world, God rest his soul. That’s right, sir; that’s the door. -Good day, sir.” - -Walter stood with his finger on the latch. He had at all times a nervous -shrinking from sickness—a fastidious horror of what he termed -“disagreeables.” He half repented that he had suffered a woman’s tears -to unsettle his purpose. Perhaps Harry would reproach him. (His own -conscience was prompter to that thought.) There he stood, irresolutely -twirling Mary’s lovely flowers in his nervous grasp. - -If Harry should reproach him! - -Slowly he opened the door. The flowers fell from his hand! Was that -attenuated, stiffened form, his own, warm-hearted, bright-eyed, gallant -young brother? - -“Reproach?” - -Oh, Walter, there is no “reproach” like that passionless upturned face; -no words so crushing as the silence of those breathless lips; no misery -like the thought that those we have injured are for ever blind to our -gushing tears, and deaf to our sobs of repentance. - - - - - CURIOUS THINGS. - - CURIOUS: The exaggerated anxiety of wives to see the women who were - formerly loved by their husbands.—_Exchange._ - - -Well, yes—rather curious; there are a great many curious things in this -world. Curious, your husband always perceives that you are “sitting in a -draft,” whenever one of your old lovers approaches you in a concert -room; curious he insists upon knowing who gave you that pretty gold ring -on your little finger; curious that you can never open a package of old -letters, without having his married eyes peeping over your shoulder; -curious he never allows you to ride on horseback, though everybody says -you have just the figure for it; curious he always sends his partner on -all the little business trips of the firm; curious such an ugly frown -comes over his face when he sees certain cabalistic marks, in a -masculine hand, in the margin of your favourite poet; curious that he -will not let you name your youngest boy Harry, unless you tell him your -confidential reasons; curious he is almost most gracious to the most -uninteresting men who visit the house; and _very_ curious, and decidedly -disagreeable, that whenever you ask him for money, he is so busy reading -the newspaper that he can’t hear you. - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE ADVANTAGES OF A HOUSE IN A FASHIONABLE SQUARE. - - -“Whom did you say wished to see me, Bridget?” - -The broad-faced Irish girl handed her mistress a card. - -“‘Mrs. John Hunter!’ Was there _ever_ anything so unfortunate? Had she -called on any other day in the week, I should have been prepared to -receive her, but on a ‘washing day,’ when nothing but a calico wrapper -stands Master George’s clawings and climbings; when the nursery maid is -in the kitchen, and the baby on my hands for the day; when my ‘Honiton -collar’ is in soak, the parlour-window curtains in the wash-tub, and the -dimensions of the whole family, big and little, are flapping on the -clothes line, displaying their rents and patches in full view of the -parlour windows! Was there ever anything so unfortunate? What _could_ -induce Mrs. John Hunter to call on a washing day?” - -But what was a “washing day” to Mrs. John Hunter, who lived in St. -John’s Square, kept four servants, and patronized a laundry? What did -she know of Monday’s picked up dinners and littered parlours, cluttered -china closet, and untidied nurseries? Mrs. John Hunter, who came down to -breakfast every morning in a fawn-coloured silk morning dress, trimmed -with cherry, over an elaborately embroidered white skirt; in a cobweb -lace cap, silk stockings, and the daintiest of Parisian toilette -slippers; how could _she_ see the necessity of going down into the -cellar, after breakfast, to see if the pork was under brine, the pickle -jar covered, and the preserves unfermented? What did _she_ know about -washing up breakfast-cups, polishing the silver sugar-bowl, filling the -astral lamp, counting up the silver forks and spoons, or mending that -little threadbare place in the carpet, that would soon widen into an -ugly rent, if neglected? What did she know about washing children’s -faces for school, or finding their missing mittens, or seeing that -Webster’s spelling-book and a big apple were safely stowed away in their -satchels? How did she (whose family broadcloth the tailor mended) know -that Monday was always the day when husbands threw their coats into -wives’ lap “for just one stitch,” which, translated, means new -sleeve-linings, new facings for the flaps, a new set of buttons down the -front, and a general resuscitation of dilapidated button-holes? How did -she know that the baby always got up a fit of colic on washing days, and -made it a point to dispense with its usual forenoon nap?—that all the -collectors for benevolent societies, and bores in general, preferred it -to any other day in the calendar?—that school teachers always selected -it to ferule children for sneezing without permission—that milkmen never -could spare you, on that day, your usual share of milk by two -quarts—that the coal, potatoes, starch, soap, molasses, and vinegar -always gave out on Monday—that “the minister” always selected it for his -annual call, and country cousins for a “protracted meeting?” How should -the patrician, Mrs. John Hunter, know all that? - -There she sat in the parlour taking notes, after the usual fashion of -lady-callers, while Mrs. John Smith hurriedly tied on her bonnet, to -hide her dishevelled tresses, threw on a shawl, and made her appearance -in the parlour as if “just returned from a long walk.” - -How their tongues ran! how fashions and gossip were discussed; how Mrs. -Smith admired Mrs. Hunter’s new dress hat; how the latter lady advised -Mrs. Smith to “insist on her husband’s moving from such an undesirable -neighbourhood into a more aristocratic locality;” and how Mrs. Smith -wondered that the idea had never struck her before; and how Mrs. Hunter -told her that of course Mr. Smith would refuse at first, but that she -must either worry him into it, or seize upon some moment of conjugal -weakness to extort a binding promise from him to that effect; and how -the little wife blushed to find herself conniving at this feminine piece -of diabolism. - -Mrs. John Smith’s husband commenced life in a provision store. He was -well acquainted with cleavers, white aprons, and spare-ribs—was on hand -early and late to attend to business—trusted nobody—lived within his -income, and consequently made money. - -Miss Mary Wood kept a dressmaker’s establishment just over the way. Very -industriously she sat through the long summer days, drooping her pretty -golden ringlets over that never-ending succession of dresses. Patiently -she “took in,” and “let out,” bias-ed, flounced, tucked, gathered, -plaited, at the weathercock option of her customers. Uneasily she leaned -her head against her little window at sun-down, and earnestly Mr. John -Smith wished he could reprieve for ever from such drudgery those taper -little fingers. Very tempting was the little basket of early -strawberries, covered with fresh green leaves, that went over the way to -her one bright summer morning—and as red as the strawberries, and quite -as tempting, looked Miss Mary’s cheek to Mr. John Smith, as she sat at -the window, reading the little billet-doux which he slily tucked into -one corner. - -The milkman wondered why Mr. Smith had grown so particular about the -flowers in the bouquets his little grand-daughter plucked for sale, and -why there must _always_ be “a rose-bud in it.” Miss Rosa Violet couldn’t -imagine what ailed her dressmaker, Miss Wood (who was always so -scrupulous in executing orders), to make her bodice round, when she told -her so particularly to make it pointed. The little sewing-girls employed -in Miss Wood’s shop were “afraid she was getting crazy,” she smiled so -often to herself, broke so many needles, and made so many mistakes in -settling up their accounts on pay-day; and very great was their -astonishment one day, after finishing a pretty bridal dress, to find -that Miss Wood was to wear it herself to church the very next Sunday! - -One bright June morning found the little dressmaker in a nice, two-story -brick house, furnished with every comfort, and some luxuries; for the -warm-hearted John thought nothing half good enough for his little -golden-haired bride. As time passed on, other little luxuries were -added; including two nice, fat, dimpled babies; and within the last year -John had bought the house they lived in, and at Mary’s suggestion -introduced gas, to lighten the labours of the servant, and also added a -little bathing-room to the nursery. His table was well provided—the -mother’s and children’s wardrobes ample, and not a husband in -Yankee-land was prouder or happier than John Smith, when on a sunshiny -Sunday, he walked to church with his pretty wife, whose golden curls -still gleamed from beneath her little blue bonnet, followed by Katy and -Georgy with their shining rosy faces, and pretty Sunday dresses. - -It was quite time the honeymoon should wane, but still it showed no -signs of decrease. Little bouquets still perfumed Mary’s room. John -still sprung to pick up her handkerchief, or aid her in putting on her -cloak or shawl. The anniversary of their wedding day always brought her -a kind little note, with some simple remembrancer. Trifles, do you call -these? Ah, a wife’s happiness is made or marred by just such “trifles.” - - * * * * * - -“Katy will make somebody’s heart ache one of these days,” said John -Smith to his wife. “Katy will be a beauty. Did you hear me, Mary?” - -“Yes,” said Mary, drooping her bright ringlets till they swept John’s -cheek, “and I was thinking how I hoped she would marry well, and whether -it would not be better for us to move into a more genteel neighbourhood, -and form a new set of acquaintances.” - -“_My_ little wife getting ambitious!” said John, smoothing her ringlets -back from her white forehead; and “where would you like to live, Mary?” - -“St. John’s Square is a nice place,” said the little wife, timidly. - -“Yes; but, my dear Mary, rents there are enormous, and those large -houses require a greater outlay of money than you have any idea of. The -furniture which looks pretty and in good taste here, would be quite -shabby in such an elegant establishment. The pretty de laine, which fits -your little round figure so charmingly, must give place to a silk or -brocade. Katy and Georgy must doff their simple dresses, for velvet and -embroidery; broad-faced, red-fisted Bridget must make way for a French -cook. The money which I have placed in the bank for a nest-egg for you -and the children in case of my death must be withdrawn to meet present -demands. But we will talk of this another time: good-by, Mary dear; not -even your dear face must tempt me away from business; good-by,” and he -kissed his hand to her, as he walked rapidly out the door. - -But somehow or other Mary’s words kept ringing in John’s ears. It was -very true Katy must be married some day, and then he ran over the circle -of their acquaintance; the Stubbses, and the Joneses, and the -Jenkinses—good enough in their way, but (he confessed to himself) _not -just the thing for his Katy_. John was ambitious too: Mary was right; -they ought to consider that Katy would soon be a woman. - -It is not to be supposed because John Smith never sported white kids, -save on his wedding day, that he was not a man of taste; by no means. -Not an artistic touch of Mary’s feminine fingers, from the twist of a -ringlet or ribbon to the draping of a curtain, the judicious disposal of -a fine engraving, or the harmonious blending of colours in a mantel -bouquet, escaped him. It was his joy and pride to see her glide about -his home, beautifying almost unconsciously everything she touched; and -then, he remembered when she was ill, and Bridget had the oversight of -the parlours—what a different air they had; how awkwardly the chairs -looked plastered straight against the wall—how ugly the red cloth all -awry on the centre table; what a string-y look the curtains had, after -her clumsy fingers had passed over them Yes, Mary would grace a house in -St. John’s Square; and if it would make her any happier to go there (and -here he glanced at his ledger) —why, go she should—for she was just the -prettiest, and dearest, and most loving little Mary who ever answered to -that poetical name. What would full coffers avail him, if Mary should -die?—and she might die first. His health was good—his business was good. -Mary and Katy _should_ live in St. John’s Square. - -Mary and Katy _did_ live in St. John’s Square. The upholsterer crammed -as many hundreds as possible into the drawing-rooms, in the shape of -_vis-a-vis_ antique chairs, velvet sofas, damask curtains, mirrors, -tapestry, carpets, and a thousand other nick-nacks, too numerous to -mention: then the blinds and curtains shut out the glad sunlight, lest -the warm beams should fade out the rich tints of the carpets and -curtains, and left it us fine and as gloomy as any other fashionable -drawing room. There was a very pretty prospect from Mary’s chamber -windows, but she never allowed herself to enjoy it after Mrs. John -Hunter told her that it was considered “decidedly snobbish to be seen at -the front window.” The Smiths took their meals in a gloomy basement, -where gas was indispensable at mid-day. Mary was constantly in fear that -the servants would spoil the pictures and statues in the parlour, so she -concluded to sweep and dust it herself, before there was any probability -of Mrs. John Hunter’s being awake in the morning. As this was something -of a tax, she and Mr. Smith and the children kept out of it, except on -Sundays and when company called, burrowing under ground the residue of -the time in the afore-mentioned basement. - -Directly opposite Mrs. Smith lived Mrs. Vivian Grey, the leader of the -aristocracy (so Mrs. Hunter informed her) in St. John’s Square. It was a -great thing to be noticed by Mrs. Vivian Grey. Mrs. Hunter sincerely -hoped she would patronise Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Hunter, after a minute -survey, pronounced Mrs. Smith’s establishment quite _comme il faut_, but -suggested that a _real_ cachemire should be added as soon as possible to -Mrs. Smith’s wardrobe, as Mrs. Grey considered that article quite -indispensable to a woman of fashion. She also suggested that Mrs. Smith -should delicately hint to her husband the propriety of his engaging a -man servant, which appendage was necessary to give a certain _distingué_ -finish to the establishment; an Irishman would do, if well trained, but -a _black_ man was more fashionable, provided he was not _green_—and Mrs. -Hunter smiled at her own wit. - -The cachemire was added—so was the black servant man. Katy no longer -skipped and jumped, but minced in corsets and whalebone. She never _ate_ -unless at a private lunch with mamma. Mr. John Smith staid late at his -counting-room, and looked anxious, and two ugly lines made their -appearance on Mrs. Mary’s fair forehead. The French cook gave away -provisions enough to feed an entire family of French emigrants. The -black man-servant pulled up his dicky and informed Mrs. Smith that it -was at the price of his reputation to live with a family who dispensed -with the use of finger-bowls; and the house-maid (who had the honour of -being descended from the establishment of Mrs. Vivian Grey) declined -remaining with a family who didn’t keep a private carriage. - -Mrs. Vivian Grey was _not_ baited by the real cachemire, and her son, -little Julius Grey, a precocious youth of ten, told little George Smith -that his mamma had forbidden him playing marbles with a boy whose father -had kept a provision store. - -A scurrilous penny paper published a burlesque of Mrs. Smith’s first -grand party, on the coming out of Miss Katy, in which, among other -allusions to Mr. Smith’s former occupation, the ball-room was said to be -“elegantly festooned with sausages.” This added “the last ounce to the -camel’s back;” even Mrs. Hunter’s tried friendship was not proof against -such a test. - -A council of war was called. Mrs. Smith begged her husband, as her -repentant arms encircled his waistcoat, to buy a place in the country. -John very gladly consented to turn his plebeian back for ever on the -scene of their humiliation; and, what with strawberries and cherries, -peaches, picnics, early rising and light hearts, the Smith family have -once more recovered their equanimity, and can afford to laugh when “St. -John’s Square” and Mrs. John Hunter are mentioned. - -[Illustration] - - - - - WINTER IS COMING. - - -Welcome his rough grip! welcome, the fleet horse with flying feet, and -arching throat, neck-laced with merry bells! welcome, bright eyes, and -rosy cheeks, and furred robes, and the fun-provoking sleigh-ride; -welcome, the swift skater who skims, bird-like, the silvery pond; -welcome, Old Santa Claus with his horn of plenty; welcome, the “Happy -New Year,” with her many-voiced echoes, and gay old Thanksgiving, with -his groaning table, old friends and new babies; welcome, for the bright -fireside, the closed curtains, the dear, unbroken home-circle, the light -heart, the merry jest, the beaming smile, the soft “good-night,” the -downy-bed, and rosy slumbers. - -Alas for his rough grip! the barrel of meal is empty, and the cruse of -oil fails. Sharp winds flutter thin rags ‘round shivering limbs. There -are pinched features, and benumbed feet, and streaming eyes, and -repulsed hands, and despairing hearts; there are damp corners, and straw -pallets, and hollow coughs, and hectic cheeks! there are dismantled -roofs, through which the snow gently drops its white, icy pall over the -wasted limbs of the dying; there are babes whose birthright is poverty, -whose legacy is shame, whose baptism is tears, _whose little life is all -winter_. - - - - - “THE OTHER SEX.” - - “Let cynics prattle as they may, our existence here, without the - presence of the other sex, would be only a dark and cheerless void.” - - -_Which_ “other sex?” Don’t be so obscure. Dr. Beecher says, “that a -writer’s ideas should stand out like rabbits’ ears, so that the reader -can get hold of them.” If you allude to the female sex, I don’t -subscribe to it. I wish they were all “translated.” If there is anything -that gives me the sensations of a landsman on his first sea voyage, it -is the sight of a bonnet. Think of female friendship! Two women joining -the Mutual Admiration Society; emptying their budget of love affairs; -comparing baits to entrap victims; sighing over the same rose leaf; -sonnetizing the same moonbeam; patronizing the same milliner, and -_exchanging female kisses_! (Betty, hand me my fan!) - -Well, let either have one bonnet or one lover more than the other—or, if -they are blue stockings, let either be one round the higher on Fame’s -ladder—bodkins and darning needles! what a tempest! Caps and characters -in such a case are of no account at all. Oh, there never should be but -one woman alive at a time. Then the fighting would be all where it -belongs—in the masculine camp. What a time there’d be, though! Wouldn’t -she be a belle? Bless her little soul! how she would queen it. It makes -me clap my hands to think of it! _The only woman in the world!_ If it -were I, shouldn’t they all leave off smoking, and wearing those odious -plaid continuations? Should they ever wear an outside coat, with the -flaps cut off, or a Kossuth hat, or a yellow Marseilles vest?—or a -mammoth bow on their neck-ties; or a turnover dickey; or a watch-chain; -or a ring on the little finger?—or any other abomination or off-shoot of -dandyism whatsoever? Shouldn’t I politely request them all to touch -their hats, instead of jerking their heads, when they bowed? Wouldn’t I -coax them to read me poetry till they had the bronchitis? Wouldn’t they -play on the flute, and sing the soul out of me? And then if they were -sick, wouldn’t I pet them, and tell them all sorts of comicalities, and -make time fly like the mischief? Shouldn’t wonder! - - - - - SOLILOQUY OF MR. BROADBRIM. - - -“There’s another of Miss Fiddlestick’s articles! She’s getting too -conceited, that young woman! Just like all newly-fledged -writers—mistakes a few obscure newspaper puffs for the voice of the -crowd, and considers herself on the top round of the literary ladder. It -will take _me_ to take the wind out of her sails. I’ll dissect her, -before I’m a day older, as sure as my name is Ezekiel Broadbrim. I don’t -approve her style; never did. It’s astonishing to me that the editor of -the Green Twig dare countenance it, when he knows a man of my influence -could annihilate her with one stroke of my pen. She has talent of a -certain inferior order, but nothing to speak of. She’s an unsafe model -to follow; will lead her tribe of imitators into tremendous mistakes. -It’s a religious duty for a conspicuous sentinel, like myself, on Zion’s -walls, to sound the blast of alarm;—can’t answer it to my conscience to -be silent any longer. It might be misconstrued, The welfare of the world -in general, and her soul in particular, requires a very decided -expression of my disapprobation. I’m sorry to annihilate her, but when -Ezekiel Broadbrim makes up his mind what is the path of duty, a bright -seraph couldn’t stop him. Perhaps I may pour a drop of the balm of -consolation afterwards, but it depends altogether upon whether I succeed -in bringing her into a penitential frame of mind. It is my private -opinion she is an incorrigible sinner. Hand me my pen, John. Every -stroke of it will tell.” - -[Illustration] - - - - - WILLY GREY. - - -A stern, unyielding, line-and-plummet, May-flower descendant, was old -Farmer Grey, of Allantown, Connecticut. Many a crop had he planted, many -a harvest had he garnered in, since he first became owner of Glen Farm. -During that time, that respected individual, “the oldest inhabitant,” -could not remember ever to have seen him smile. The village children -crept close to the stone wall, and gave him a wide berth when he passed. -Even the cats and dogs laid their ears back, and crept circumspectly by -him, with one eye on his whip-lash. - -Farmer Grey considered it acceptable to the God who painted the rainbow, -and expanded the lily, and tinted the rose, to walk the bright earth -with his head bowed like a bulrush, and his soul clad in sackcloth. No -mercy fell from the lips of _his_ imaginary Saviour; no compassion -breathed in His voice; no love beamed in His eye; His sword of justice -was never sheathed. - -The old farmer’s wife was a gentle, dependent creature, a delicate vine, -springing up in a sterile soil, reaching forth its tendrils vainly for -some object to cling to. God, in his mercy, twined them lovingly around -a human blossom. Little Willy partook of his mother’s sensitive, -poetical nature: A yearning spirit looked out from the fathomless depths -of his earnest eyes. Only eight short summers the gentle mother soothed -her boy’s childish pains, and watched his childish slumbers. While _he_ -grew in strength and beauty, _her_ eye waxed dim, and her step grew slow -and feeble. - -And so sweet memories were only left to little Willy,—dear, loving eyes, -whose glance ever met his on waking; a fair, caressing hand, that wiped -away his April tears; a low, gentle voice, sweet to his childish ear as -a seraph’s hymning. - -Willy’s father told him that “his mother had gone to Heaven;” John, the -plough-boy, said, “she was lying in the churchyard.” Willy could not -understand this. He only knew that the house had grown dark and empty, -and that his heart ached when he stayed there; and so he wandered out in -the little garden (his mother’s garden); but the flowers looked dreary, -too; and her pretty rose-vine lay trailing its broken buds and blighted -blossoms in the dust. - -Then Willy crept up to his father’s side, and looked up in his face, but -there was something there that made him afraid to lay his little hand -upon his knee, or climb into his lap, or in any way unburden his little -heart; so he turned away, more sorrowful than before, and wandered into -his mother’s chamber, and climbed up in her chair, and opened her -drawer, to look at her comb and hair brush; and then he went to the -closet, and passed his little hand, caressingly, over her empty dresses, -and leaning his little curly head against them, sobbed himself to sleep. - -By and by, as years passed on, and the child grew older, he learned to -wander out in the woods and fields, and unbosom his little yearning -heart to Nature. Reposing on her breast, listening to the music of her -thousand voices, his unquiet spirit was soothed as with a mother’s -lullaby. With kindling eye, he watched the vivid lightnings play; or saw -the murky east flush, like a timid bride, into rosy day; or beheld the -shining folds of western clouds fade softly into twilight; or gazed at -the Queen of Night, as she cut her shining path through the cloudy sky; -or questioned with earnest eyes the glittering stars. - -All this but ill pleased the old farmer. He looked upon the earth only -with an eye to tillage; upon the sloping hill, with its pine-crowned -summit, only with an eye to timber; upon the changeful skies, only as -reservoirs for moistening and warming his crops; upon the silvery -streams, that laced the emerald meadows, only as channels for -irrigation; upon the climbing vine, as an insidious foe to joists, and -beams, and timbers; and upon flowers only as perfumed aristocrats, -crowding and over-topping the free-soil democracy of cabbage, onions, -and potatoes. - -In vain poor Will tried to get up, “to order,” an enthusiasm for -self-acting hay-cutters, patent ploughs, rakes, hoes, and harrows. In -vain, when Sunday came, and he was put “on the limits,” did the old -farmer, with a face ten-fold more ascetic than the cowled monk, strive -to throw a pall of gloom over that free, glad spirit, by rehearsing in -his ear a creed which would for ever close the gate of heaven on every -dissenter, or inculcate doctrines, which, if believed, would fill our -lunatic asylums with the frantic wailings of despair. - -Restlessly did Will, with cramped limbs and fettered spirit, sit out the -tedious hours of that holy day, which should be the “most blessed of all -the seven,” and watch, with impatient eye, the last golden beam of the -Sabbath sun sink slowly down behind the western hills. - -Oh, well-meaning, but mistaken parent! let but one loving smile play -over those frigid lips; let but one tear of sympathy flood that stony -eye: let but _one drop_ from that overflowing fountain of love that -wells up in the bosom of the Infinite, moisten the parched soil of that -youthful heart! Open those arms but once, and clasp him to the paternal -heart; for even now, his chafed spirit, like a caged bird, flutters -against its prison bars; even now, the boy’s unquiet ear catches the -far-off hum of the busy world: even now, his craving heart beats wildly -for the voice of human love! - - * * * * * - -Weary feet, houseless nights, the scant meal, and the oft-repulsed -request: what are _they_ to the strong nerve, and bounding pulse, and -hopeful heart of the young adventurer? Laurel wreaths, dizzy places on -Ambition’s heights—have not its aspirants reached them by just such -rugged steps? - -“Will” is in the city. Will sits upon the steps of the New York City -Hall, reading a penny paper: he has begged it from a good-natured -newsboy, who has also shared with him a huge slice of gingerbread. As -Will’s eye glances over the sheet, it falls upon the following -paragraph:— - - “PROSPECTUS OF THE WEEKLY CHRONICLE. - - “The Weekly Chronicle is a paper founded on the demands of the age for - a first-class journal. It soars above all sectional and personal - considerations, and fearlessly proffers its feeble aid, in developing - the natural resources of the country, fostering the genius of the - people, rewarding meritorious effort in every department of art, - exalting virtue, however humble, and confounding vice, however - powerful, The editor and proprietor of the Chronicle is Mr. - Philanthropas Howard; office, No. 199 Cloud Street. - - “Boy wanted immediately at the above office: one from the country - would be preferred.” - -Will threw down the paper, and started to his feet: “199 Cloud Street?” -He asked orange-women; he asked image-boys; he asked merchants; he asked -clerks; he asked lawyers; he asked clients; he investigated cellars; he -explored attics; he travelled through parks and through alleys; till, -finally, he coaxed a graceless, bare-footed urchin to show him the way. - -Mr. John Howard, editor and proprietor of the Weekly Chronicle, went -upon the principle of paying nothing where nothing would pay, and paying -as little as possible where he could get something for next to nothing. -It was a fixed principle and confirmed practice with him, never to pay -anything for contributions to the Chronicle. He considered that the -great advantage that would accrue to an author from having his or her -articles in his paper, would be ample remuneration. At the moment Will’s -eye first fell upon him, he was reposing in a huge leathern arm-chair, -in the corner of his sanctum. His proportions very much resembled an -apoplectic bag of flour, surmounted by an apple. His head was ornamented -with sparse spires of fiery red hair; on his cheeks, a pair of -cream-coloured whiskers were feebly struggling into life; and sundry -tufts of the same colour, under his chin, shadowed forth his editorial -sympathy with the recent “Beard Movement.” Before him was a table of -doubtful hue and architecture, laden with manuscripts, accepted, -rejected, and under consideration; letters of all sizes, opened and -unopened, prepaid and unpaid, saucy and silly, defiant and deprecatory. -There was also an inkstand, crusted with dirt and cobwebs; a broken -paper weight, pinning down some had money paid by distant subscribers, a -camphine lamp with a broken pedestal, propped up by a directory on one -side, and Walker’s Dictionary on the other; sundry stumps of cigars; a -half eaten apple; a rind of an orange; a lady’s glove; and a box of -bilious pills. - -Will stepped before him, and made known his errand. Mr. John Howard -looked at him with a portentious scowl, inspected him very much as he -would a keg of doubtful mackerel, and then referred him to the foreman -of the office, Mr. Jack Punch. Jack had been victimized, in the way of -office boys, for an indefinite period with precocious city urchins, who -smoked long nines, talked politics, discussed theatricals, and knew more -of city haunts than the police themselves. Of course he lost no time in -securing a boy to whose verdant feet the plough-soil was still clinging. -Will’s business was to open the office at half-past six in the morning, -sweep it out, make the fires, go to the post-office for letters and -exchanges, wrap up papers for new subscribers, carry them to the post, -and see that the mail was properly “got off.” To all these requirements, -Will immediately subscribed. - -On Will’s daily tramps to and from the office, he was obliged to pass -Lithe and Co’s magnificent show window, where the choicest pictures and -engravings were constantly exposed for sale. There he might be seen -loitering, entranced and spell-bound, quite oblivious of the Chronicle, -hour after hour, weaving bright visions—building air castles, with which -his overseer, Mr. Jack Punch, had little sympathy. Yes; Will had at -length found out what he was made for. He knew _now_ why he had lain -under the trees, of a bright summer day, watching the fleecy clouds go -sailing by, in such a dreamy rapture; why the whispering leaves, and -waving fields of grain, and drooping branches of graceful trees, and the -mirror-like beauty of the placid lake, reflecting a mimic heaven; why -the undulating hills, and mist-wreathed valleys, with their wealth of -leaf, and bud and blossom, filled his eyes with tears and his soul with -untold joy, and why, when slumber sealed each weary lid under the -cottage eaves, he stood alone, hushing his very breath, awe-struck, -beneath the holy stars. - -Poor Will, his occupation became so distasteful! Poor Will, winged for a -“bird of paradise,” and forced to be a mole, burrowing under the earth, -when he would fain try his new-found pinions! To Jack’s intense disgust, -he soon detected Will drawing rude sketches on bits of paper, stray -wrappers, and backs of letters; even the walls were “done in crayons,” -by the same mischievous fingers. His vision was so filled “with the -curved line of beauty,” that he was constantly committing the most -egregious blunders. He misplaced the bundles of newspapers which he -carried to the post-office; placing the “north” packages on the “south” -table, the east on the north, the south on the east, &c.; mixing them up -generally and indescribably and inextricably, so that the subscribers to -the “Weekly Chronicle” did not receive their papers with that precision -and regularity which is acknowledged to be desirable, particularly in -small country places, where the blacksmith’s shop, the engine house, and -“the newspaper” form a trio not to be despised by the simple-hearted -primitive farmers. - -Jack, whose private opinion it was that he should have been christened -Job, being obliged to shoulder all the short-comings of his assistants, -and being worked up to a pitch of frenzy by letters from incensed -subscribers, which Mr. Howard constantly thrust in his face, very -unceremoniously ejected Will from the premises, one morning, by a -vigorous application of the toe of his boot. - -The world was again a closed oyster to Will. How to open it? that was -the question. Our hero thought the best place to consider the matter was -at “Lithe & Co’s.” shop window. Just as he reached it, a gentleman -passed out of the shop, followed by a lad bearing a small framed -landscape. Perhaps the gentleman was an artist! Perhaps he could employ -him in some way! Will resolved to follow him. - -Up one street and down another, round corners and through squares—the -gentleman’s long legs seemed to be shod with the famed seven-leagued -boots. At length he stopped before the door of an unpretending looking -building, and handing the lad who accompanied him a bit of money, he -took from him the picture, and was just springing up the steps, when he -lost his balance, and the picture was jerked violently from his hand, -but only to be caught by the watchful Will, who restored it to its owner -uninjured. - -“Thank you, my boy,” said the gentleman, “you have done me a greater -service than you think for;” at the same time offering him some money. - -“No, I thank you,” said Will proudly. “I do not wish to be paid for it.” - -“As you please, Master Independence,” replied the gentleman, laughing; -“but is there no other way I can serve you?” - -“Are you an artist?” asked Will. - -The gentleman raised his eyebrows, with a comical air, and replied, -“Well, sometimes I think I am; and then, again, I don’t know; but what -if I were?” - -“I should _so_ like to be an artist,” said Will, the quick flush -mounting to his temples. - -“You!” exclaimed the gentleman, taking a minute survey of Will’s -nondescript _toute ensemble_. “Do you ever draw?” - -“Sometimes,” replied Will, “when I can get a bit of charcoal, and a -white wall. I was just kicked out of the Chronicle office for doing it.” - -“Follow me,” said the gentleman, tapping him familiarly on the cheek. - -Will needed no second invitation. Climbing one flight of stairs, he -found himself in a small studio, lined on all sides by pictures; some -finished and framed, others in various stages of progression. Pallets, -brushes, and crayons, lay scattered round an easel; while in one corner -was an artist’s lay figure, which, in the dim light of the apartment, -Will mistook for the artist’s wife, whose presence he respectfully -acknowledged by a profound bow, to the infinite amusement of his patron. - -Mr. Lester was delighted with Will’s _naive_ criticisms on his pictures, -and his profound reverence for art. A few days found him quite -domesticated in his new quarters; and months passed by swift as a -weaver’s shuttle, and found him as happy as a crowned prince; whether -grinding colours for the artist, or watching the progress of his pencil, -or picking up stray crumbs of knowledge from the lips of connoisseurs, -who daily frequented the studio; and many a rough sketch did Will make -in his little corner, that would have made them open their critical eyes -wide with wonder. - - * * * * * - -“What a foolish match!” Was an engagement ever announced that did not -call forth this remark, from some dissenting lip? Perhaps it _was_ a -“foolish match.” Meta had no dower but her beauty, and Will had no -capital but his pallet and easel. The gossips said she “might have done -much better.” There was old Mr. Hill, whose head was snow white, but -whose gold was as yellow and as plentiful as Meta’s bright ringlets; and -Mr. Vesey, whose father made a clergyman of him, because he didn’t know -enough to be a merchant; and Lawyer Givens, with his carrotty head and -turn-up nose, and chin that might have been beat; and Falstaff-ian -Captain Reef, who brought home such pretty China shawls and grass cloth -dresses, and who had as many wives as a Grand Turk. Meta might have had -any one of these by hoisting her little finger. Foolish Meta! money and -misery in one scale, poverty and love in the other. Miserable little -Meta! And yet she does not look so _very_ miserable, as she leans over -her husband’s shoulder, and sees the landscape brighten on the canvas, -or presses her rosy lips to his forehead, or arranges the fold of a -curtain for the desired light and shade, or grinds his colours with her -own dainty little fingers; no, she looks anything but miserable with -those soft eyes so full of light, and that elastic step, and voice of -music, that are inspiration to her artist husband. No; she thinks the -“old masters” were fools to her young master, and she already sees the -day when his studio will be crowded with connoisseurs and patrons, and -his pictures bring him both fame and fortune; and then they will travel -in foreign countries, and sleep under Italia’s soft blue skies, and see -the Swiss glaciers, and the rose-wreathed homes of England, and the grim -old chateaux of France, and perhaps even the Emperor himself. Who knows? -Yes; and Will should feast his eyes on beauty, and they’d be as happy as -if care and sorrow had never dimmed a bright eye with tears, since the -seraph stood, with flaming sword, to guard the gate of Eden. Hopeful, -happy, trusting Meta! the bird’s carol is not sweeter than yours;—and -yet the archer takes his aim, and with broken wing it flutters to the -ground. - -Yes: Meta was an angel. Will said it a thousand times a day, and his -eyes repeated it when his tongue was silent. Meta’s brow, and cheek, and -lips, and tresses were multiplied indefinitely, in all his female heads. -Her dimpled hand, he rounded arm, her plump shoulder, her slender foot, -all served him for faultless models. - -Life was so beautiful to him now; his employment so congenial, his heart -so satisfied. It _must be_ that he should succeed. The very thought of -failure—“but then, he _should not_ fail!” Poor Will! he had yet to learn -that garrets are as often the graves as the nurseries of genius, and -that native talent goes unrecognized until stamped with _foreign_ -approbation. Happily—hopefully—heroically he toiled on; morning’s -earliest beam, and day’s last lingering ray finding him busy at his -easel. But, alas! as time passed, though patrons came not, creditors -did; and one year after their marriage, Meta might have been seen -stealthily conveying little parcels back and forth to a small shop in -the neighbourhood, where employment was furnished for needy fingers. It -required all her feminine tact and diplomacy to conceal from Will her -little secret, or to hide the tell-tale blush, when he noticed the -disappearance of her wedding ring, which now lay glittering in a -neighbouring pawnbroker’s window; yet never for an instant, since the -little wife first slept on Will’s heart, had she one misgiving that she -had placed her happiness unalterably in his keeping. - -Oh, inscrutable womanhood’! Pitiful as the heart of God, when the dark -cloud of misfortune, or shame, bows the strong frame of manhood; -merciless—vindictive—implacable as the Prince of Darkness, towards thy -tempted, forsaken, and sorrowing sisters! - - * * * * * - -The quick eye of affection was not long in discovering Meta’s secret; -and now every glance of love, every caress, every endearing tone of -Meta’s, gave Will’s heart a sorrow-pang. - -Meta! who had turned a deaf ear to richer lovers, to share _his_ heart -and home; Meta! whoso beauty might grace a court, whoso life should be -all sunshine: that Meta’s bright eyes should dim, her cheek pale, her -step grow prematurely slow and faltering, for him!—the thought was -torture. - - * * * * * - -“To-morrow, Will—you said to-morrow,” said Meta, hiding her tears on her -husband’s shoulder; “the land of _gold_ is also the land of _graves_,” -and she gazed mournfully into his face. - -“Dear Meta,” said her husband, “do dot unman me with your tears; our -parting will be brief, and I shall return to you with gold—gold! Meta; -and you shall yet have a home worthy of you. Bear up, dear Meta—the sun -will surely break through the cloud-rift. God bless and keep my darling -wife.” - -Poor little Meta! for hours she sat stupefied with sorrow, in the same -spot where Will had left her. The sun shone cheerfully in at the little -window of her new home, but its beams brought no warmth to Meta’s heart. -The clinging clasp of Will’s arms was still about her neck: Will’s kiss -was still warm upon her lips, and yet—_she was alone_. - -She thought, with a shudder, of the treacherous sea; of the pestilence -that walketh in darkness; of a sick-bed, on a foreign shore; of the -added bitterness of the death pang, when the eye looks vainly for the -_one loved face_; and bowing her face in her hands, she wept -convulsively. - - * * * * * - -“Dear heart! Goodness alive!” said Meta’s landlady, peeping in at the -door. “Don’t take on so; bless me, how long have you been married? -you’re nothing better than a child _now_. Why didn’t you go to Californy -with your husband? Where’s your folks?—whose picter is that? Ah! I see -now, it is meant for you. But why didn’t you have on a gown, dear, -instead of being wrapped up in them clouds? It makes you look like a -spirit. Come now, don’t sit moping here; come down stairs and see me -work; it will amuse you like. I’m going to make some brown bread. I dare -say you never made a bit of brown bread in your life. I put a power of -ingin in mine. I learned that in the country. I was brought up in the -country. I hate city folks; they’ve no more heart than a sexton; much as -ever they can stop frolicking long enough to bury one another. They’ll -sleep, too, like so many tops, while the very next street is all of a -blaze, and their poor destitute fellow-creatures are turned naked into -the streets. They’ll plough right through a burying ground, if they take -a notion, harrowing up dead folks, and _live_ ones, too, _I_ guess. And -as to Sunday—what with Jews, and Frenchmen, and down Easters, and other -foreigners, smoking and driving through the streets, ’tisn’t any Sunday -at all. Well, I never knew what Sodom meant till I came to the city. Why -Lot’s wife turned round to take a second look at it, is beyond me. Well, -if you won’t come downstairs I must leave you, for I smell my bread -burning; but do cheer up—you look as lonesome as a pigeon on a spout of -a rainy day.” - -A letter from the best beloved! How our eye lingers on the well-known -characters. How we torture the words to extract hidden meanings. How -tenderly we place it near the heart, and under the pillow. How -lingeringly comes the daylight, when our waiting eyes would re-peruse -what is already indelibly written on the heart! - -Will’s voyage had been prosperous—his health was good—his hope and -courage unabated. Meta’s eye sparkled, and her cheek flushed like a -rose, as she pressed the letter again and again to her lips; but, after -all, it was _only_ a letter, and time dragged _so_ heavily. Meta was -weary of sewing, weary of reading, weary of watching endless pedestrians -pass and repass beneath her window, and when _twilight_ came, with its -deepening shadows—that hour so sweet to the happy, so fraught with gloom -to the wretched—and Meta’s eye fell upon the little house opposite, and -saw the little parlour lamp gleam like a beacon light for the absent -husband, while the happy wife glided about with busy hands, and -lightsome step, and when, at last, _he_ came, and the broken circle was -complete, poor Meta turned away to weep. - -Joy, Meta, joy! dry your tears! Will has been successful. Will is coming -home. Even now the “Sea-Gull” ploughs the waves, with its precious -living freight. Lucky Will! he _has_ “found gold,” but it was dug from -“the mine” of the artist’s brain. Magical Will! the liquid eyes and -graceful limbs of Senor Alvarez’s only daughter are reproduced on -canvas, in all their glowing beauty, by your magic touch! The Senor is -rich—the Senor is liberal—the Senor’s taste is as unimpeachable as his -credit—the Senor has pronounced Will “a genius.” Other Senors hear it; -other Senors have gold in plenty, and dark-eyed, graceful daughters, -whose charms Will perpetuates, and yet _fails to see_, for _a sweeter -face which comes between_. - -Dry your tears, little Meta—smooth the neglected ringlets—don _his_ -favourite robe, and listen with a flushed cheek, a beating heart, and a -love-lit eye, for the long absent but well remembered footstep. - -Ah! Meta, there _are_ meetings that o’erpay the pain of parting. But, -dear Reader, you and I are _de trop_. - - * * * * * - -You should have seen how like a little brigand Will looked, with his -bronzed face and fierce beard and moustache—so fierce that Meta was half -afraid to jump into his arms; you should have seen Meta’s new home to -know what a pretty little nest love and taste may weave for a cherished -bird; you should have seen with what a Midas touch Will’s gold suddenly -opened the eyes of people to his wonderful merit, as an artist; how -“patrons” flocked in, now that he lived in a handsome house in Belgrave -Square; how Mr. Jack Punch repented, with crocodile tears, that he had -ever kicked him out of “the Chronicle office,” and how Will immortalized -him on canvas, in the very act; not forgetting to give due prominence, -in the foreground, to the figure of his philanthropic employer, Mr. John -Howard, who, in the touching language of his Prospectus, always made it -a point to “exalt virtue, however humble!” - - - - - TABITHA TOMPKINS’ SOLILOQUY. - - -Have I, Tabitha Tompkins, a right, to my share of fresh air -uncontaminated? or have I not? I ask the question with my arms akimbo. I -might as well say what I’ve got to say, pop-gun fashion, as to tiptoe -round my subject, mincing and curtsying when I’m all ablaze with -indignation. - -I ask again: Have I a right to my share of fresh air uncontaminated? or -have I not? - -Do I go out for a walk? Every man I meet is a locomotive chimney. -Smoke—smoke—smoke—smoke:—great, long tails of it following in their -wake, while I dodge, and twist, and choke, trying to escape the coils of -the stifling anaconda, till I’m black in the face. I, Tabitha Tompkins, -whose grandfather was one of the “signers” of the Declaration of -Independence! I feel seventy-six-y! I have borne it about as long as I -can without damage to hooks and eyes. - -If I try to escape it, by getting into an omnibus, there it is again! If -it does not originate inside, some “gentleman” on the box or top wafts -it into the windows. If I take refuge in a ferry-boat, I find “gentlemen -requested not to smoke” (as usual) a dead letter,—no more regarded than -is the law against gaming, or the Sunday liquor traffic. Do I go to a -concert at Castle Garden, and step out on the balcony between the -performances for a breath of fresh air?—myriads of lighted Havannas send -me dizzy and staggering back into the concert room. Does a gentleman -call to see me of an evening?—the instant he shakes his “ambrosial -curls,” and gives “a nod,” I have to run for my vinaigrette. - -Do I advertise for lodgings; and after much inspection of rooms and wear -and tear of patience and gaiter boots, make a final selection? Do I -emigrate with big trunk, and little trunk, and a whole nest of -bandboxes? Do I get my rocking-chair, and work-table, and writing-desk, -and pretty little lamp, all safely transported and longitudinized to my -fancy? Do I, in a paradisaical state of mind (attendant upon said -successful emigration) go to my closet some fine morning, and take down -a pet dress?—asafœtida and onions! what an odour! All the “pachouli” and -“new mown hay” in New York wouldn’t sweeten it. Six young men the other -side of that closet, and all smokers!!! Betty, you may have that -dress;—I wouldn’t touch it with a pair of tongs. - -Do I lend a masculine friend my copy of Alexander Smith’s Poems?—can I -ever touch it again till it has been through quarantine? Does he, by -mistake, carry home my tippet in his pocket after a concert?—can I -compute the hours it must hang dangling on the clothes line before it -can be allowed to resume its place round my neck? - -Do I go to church on Sunday, with a devout desire to attend to the -sermon?—my next neighbour is a young man, apparently seated on a nettle -cushion: he groans and fidgets, and fidgets and groans; crosses his feet -and uncrosses them; kicks over the hassock; knocks down his cane; drops -the hymn-book; and finally draws from his coat pocket a little case, -takes out one cigar after another, transposes them, applies them to the -end of his nose, and pats them affectionately; then he examines his -watch; then frowns at the pulpit; then glancing at the door, draws a -sigh long enough and strong enough to inflate a pair of bellows, or -burst off a vest button. - -With a dolorous whine this same young man deplores (in public) his -inability to indulge in the luxury of a wife, “owing to the extravagant -habits of the young ladies of the present day.” I take this occasion to -submit to public inspection a little bit of paper found in the vest -pocket of this fumigated, cork-screwed, pantalooned humbug, by his -washerwoman:— - - NEW YORK, October 1st, 1853. - - MR. THADDEUS THEOPHILUS STUBBS, - - TO JUAN FUMIGO, Dr. - - To Cigars for Sept., 1853. Dols. - Cents. - - Sept. 1—To 20 Trabucos, at 5c. 1 00 - - „ To 12 Riohondas, at 6d. 75 - - „ 3—To 12 Los Tres Castillos, at 6d. 75 - - „ To 12 La Nicotiana, at 6d. 75 - - „ 4—(Sunday—for Cigars for a party) 10 Palmettoes, 10 - Esculapios, 12 La Sultanos, 12 El Crusados, 20 Norriegos, - 16 L’Alhambros, at 4c. 3 20 - - „ 6—To 50 L’Ambrosias, at 4c. 2 00 - - „ 10—To 30 Cubanos, at 8c. 2 40 - - „ 12—To 50 Londres, at 4c. 2 00 - - „ 15—To 30 Jenny Linds (for concert party), at 8c. 2 40 - - „ 24—To 50 Figaros (for party to see Uncle Tom, at the - National), at 8c. 4 00 - - „ 26—To 100 Mencegaros (for party of country relations and - friends), at 2c. 2 00 - - „ 30—To 40 Imperial Regalias, at 1s. 5 00 - - ————— - - 26 25 - - _Received Payment_—— - (Mr. Stubbs is earnestly requested to call and settle the above at his - earliest convenience. J. F.) - -Consistent Stubbs! But, then, his cigar bill is not receipted! - - - - - SOLILOQUY OF A HOUSEMAID. - - -Oh, dear, dear! Wonder if my mistress _ever_ thinks I am made of flesh -and blood? Five times, within half an hour, I have trotted up stairs, to -hand her things, that were only four feet from her rocking-chair. Then, -there’s her son, Mr. George—it does seem to me, that a great able-bodied -man like him, need n’t call a poor tired woman up four pair of stairs to -ask “what’s the time of day?” Heigho!—its “_Sally_ do this,” and -“_Sally_ do that,” till I wish I never had been baptized at all; and I -might as well go farther back, while I am about it, and wish I had never -been born. - -Now, instead of ordering me round so like a dray horse, if they would -only look up smiling-like, now and then; or ask me how my “rheumatiz” -did; or say “Good morning, Sally;” or show some sort of interest in a -fellow-cretur, I could pluck up a hit of heart to work for them. A kind -word would ease the wheels of my treadmill amazingly, and would n’t cost -_them_ anything, either. - -Look at my clothes, all at sixes and sevens. I can’t get a minute to sew -on a string or button, except at night; and then I’m so sleepy it is as -much as ever I can find the way to bed; and what a bed it is, to be -sure! Why, even the pigs are now and then allowed clean straw to sleep -on; and as to bed-clothes, the less said about them the better; my old -cloak serves for a blanket, and the sheets are as thin as a charity -school soup, Well, well; one would n’t think it, to see all the fine -glittering things down in the drawing-room. Master’s stud of horses, and -Miss Clara’s diamond ear-rings, and mistresses rich dresses. I _try_ to -think it is all right, but it is no use. - -To-morrow is Sunday—“day of _rest_,” I believe they _call_ it. -H-u-m-p-h!—more cooking to be done—more company—more confusion than on -any other day in the week. If I own a soul I have not heard how to take -care of it for many a long day. Wonder if my master and mistress -calculate to pay me for _that_, if I lose it? It is a _question_ in my -mind. Land of Goshen! I aint sure I’ve got a mind—there’s the bell -again! - - - - - CRITICS. - - “Bilious wretches, who abuse you because you write better than they.” - - -Slander and detraction! Even I, Fanny, know better than that. _I_ never -knew an editor to nib his pen with a knife as sharp as his temper, and -write a scathing criticism on a book, because the authoress had declined -contributing to his paper. I never knew a man who had fitted himself to -a promiscuous coat, cut out in merry mood by taper fingers, to seize his -porcupine quill, under the agony of too tight a _self-inflicted_ fit, to -annihilate the offender. I never saw the bottled-up hatred of years -concentrated in a single venomous paragraph. I never heard of an -unsuccessful masculine author, whose books were drugs in the literary -market, speak with a sneer of successful literary feminity, and -insinuate that it was by _accident_, not _genius_, that they hit the -popular favour! - -By the memory of “seventy-six,” No! Do you suppose a _man’s_ opinions -are in the market—to be bought and sold to the highest bidder? Do you -suppose he would laud a vapid book, because the fashionable authoress -once laved his toadying temples with the baptism of upper-tendom? or, do -you suppose he’d lash a poor, but self-reliant wretch, who had presumed -to climb to the topmost round of Fame’s ladder, without _his_ royal -permission or assistance, and in despite of his repeated attempts to -discourage her? No—no—bless your simple soul; a man never stoops to do a -mean thing. There never was a criticism yet, born of envy, or malice, or -repulsed love, or disappointed ambition. No—no. Thank the gods, _I_ have -a more exalted opinion of masculinity. - - - - - FORGETFUL HUSBANDS. - - “There is a man out west so forgetful, that his wife has to put a - wafer on the end of her nose, that he may distinguish her from the - other ladies; but this does not prevent him from making occasional - mistakes.” - - -Take the wafer off your nose, my dear, and put it on your lips! Keep -silence, and let Mr. Johnson go on “making his mistakes;” you cannot -stop him, if you try; and if he has made up his mind to be near-sighted, -all the guide-boards that you can set up will only drive him home the -longest way round! - -So trot your babies, smooth your ringlets, digest your dinner, and—agree -to differ! Don’t call Mr. Johnson “my dear,” or he will have good reason -to think you are going to quarrel with him! Look as pretty as a poppet; -put on the dress he used to like, and help him to his favourite bit at -table, with your accustomed grace, taking care not (?) to touch him -_accidentally_ with your little fat hand when you are passing it. Ten to -one he is on the marrow bones of his soul to you in less than a week, -though tortures couldn’t wring a confession out of him. Then, if he’s -worth the trouble, you are to take advantage of his silent penitence, -and go every step of the way to meet him, for he will not approximate to -you the width of a straw! If he has not frittered away all your love for -him, this is easily done, my dear, and for one whole day after it he -will feel grateful to you for sparing him the humiliation (?) of making -an acknowledgment. How many times, my dear “Barkis,” you will be -“willing” to go through all this depends upon several little -circumstances in your history with which I am unacquainted. - - - - - SUMMER FRIENDS. - - “If every pain and care we feel - Could burn upon our brow, - How many hearts would move to heal - That strive to crush us now.” - - -Don’t you believe it! They would run from you as if you had the plague. -“Write your brow” with anything else but your “troubles,” if you do not -wish to be left solus. You have no idea how “good people” will pity you -when you tell your doleful ditty! They will “pray for you,” give you -advice by the bushel, “feel for you”—everywhere but in their -pocket-books; and wind up by telling you to “trust in Providence;” all -of which you feel very much like replying, as the old lady did when she -found herself spinning down hill in a wagon,—“I trusted in Providence -till the tackling broke!” Now, listen to me. Just go to work, and hew -out a path for yourself; get your head above water, and then snap your -fingers in their pharisaical faces! Never ask a favour until you are -drawing your last breath; and never forget one. “Write your troubles on -your brow?” That man was either a knave, or, what is worse, a fool. I -suppose he calls himself a poet; if he does, all I have to say is, it’s -high time the city authorities took away his “license.” - - - - - HOW THE WIRES ARE PULLED: - OR, - WHAT PRINTER’S INK WILL DO. - - -“Isn’t it extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs, how Mr. Simpkins can always be -dressed in the last tip-top fashion? Don’t you and I, and all the world -know, that old Allen has a mortgage on his house, and that he never has -a dollar by him longer than five minutes at a time. Isn’t it -extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs?” - -“Not at all—not at all—my dear,” said Mr. Stubbs, knocking the ashes -from his Havana; “to an editor all things are possible;” and he unfolded -the damp sheets of the _Family Gazette_, of which Mr. Simpkins was -editor, and commenced reading aloud the following paragraph:— - -“‘We yesterday had the gratification of visiting the celebrated -establishment of the far-famed Inman & Co., Hatters, No. 172 Wideway. We -pronounce their new style of spring hat, for lightness beauty, and -durability, to be unrivalled; it is aptly designated the ‘Count D’Orsay -hat.’ The gentlemanly and enterprising proprietors of the establishment -are unwearied in their endeavours to please the public. There is a _je -ne sais quoi_ about _their_ hats which can be found nowhere else in the -city.’” - -“Well, I don’t see,” said Mrs. Stubbs, “I——” - -“Sh—! sh—! Mrs. Stubbs; don’t interrupt the court—here’s another: - -“‘Every one should visit the extensive ware-rooms of Willcut and Co., -Tailors, 59 Prince Albert Street. There is science wagging in the very -tails of Mr. Willcut’s coats; in fact, he may be said to be the only -tailor in the city who is a thorough _artist_. His pantaloons are the -_knee_-plus ultra of shear-dom. Mr. Willcut has evidently made the -anatomy of masculinity a study—hence the admirable result. The most -casual observer, on noticing Mr. Willcut’s fine phrenological -developments, would at once negative the possibility of his making a -_faux pas_ on broadcloth.’ - -“Keep quiet, Mrs. Stubbs; listen:” - -“‘The St. Lucifer Hotel is a palatial wonder; whether we consider the -number of acres it covers, the splendour of its marble exterior, the -sumptuousness of its drawing-rooms, or the more than Oriental -luxuriousness of its sleeping apartments, the tapestry, mirrors and -gilding of which remind one forcibly of the far-famed Tuileries. The -host of the St. Lucifer is an Apollo in person, a Chesterfield in -manners, and a Lucullus in _taste_; while those white-armed Houris, the -female waiters, lap the soul in Elysium.’” - -Mr. Stubbs lifted his spectacles to his forehead, crossed his legs, and -nodded knowingly to Mrs. Stubbs. - -“That’s the way it’s done, Mrs. Stubbs. That last notice paid his six -months’ hotel bill at the St. Lucifer, including wine, cigars, and other -little editorial perquisites. Do you want to know,” said Stubbs -(resuming the paper), “how he gets his carriages repaired, and his -horses shod for nothing, in the village where his country seat is -located? This, now, is a regular stroke of genius. He does it by two -words. In an account of his visit to the Sybil’s Cave, in which he says, -‘MY FRIEND, the blacksmith, and I soon found the spot,’ &c., (bah!). -Then here is something that will interest you, my dear, on the other -page of the Gazette. Mr. Simpkins has used up the dictionary in a -half-column announcement of Miss Taffety (the milliner’s) ‘magnificent -opening at —— street.’ Of course she made his wife a present of a new -Paris bonnet.” - -“Well, I never—” said the simple Mrs. Stubbs. “Goodness knows, if I had -known all this before, I would have married an editor myself. Stubbs, -why don’t _you_ set up a newspaper?” - -“M-r-s. S-t-u-b-b-s!” said her husband, in an oracular tone, “to conduct -a newspaper requires a degree of tact, enterprise, and ability to which -Jotham Stubbs unfortunately is a stranger. The _Family Gazette_ or its -founder is by no means a fair sample of our honourable newspapers, and -their upright, intelligent, and respected editors. Great Cæsar!—no!” -said Stubbs, rising from his chair, and bringing his hand down -emphatically on his corduroys, “no more than you are a fair sample of -feminine beauty, Mrs. Stubbs!” - - - - - WHO WOULD BE THE LAST MAN? - - “Fanny Fern says, ‘If there were but one woman in the world, the men - would have a terrible time.’ Fanny is right; but we would ask her what - kind of a time the _women_ would have if there were but _one man_ in - existence?” - - -What kind of time would they have? Why, of course no grass would grow -under their slippers! The “Wars of the Roses,” the battles of Waterloo -and Bunker Hill would be a farce to it. Black eyes would be the rage, -and both caps and characters would be torn to tatters. I imagine it -would not be much of a millenium, either to the moving cause of the -disturbance. He would be as crazy as a fly in a drum, or as dizzy as a -bee in a ten-acre lot of honeysuckles, uncertain where to alight. He’d -roll his bewildered eyes from one exquisite organization to another, and -frantically and diplomatically exclaim—“How happy could I be with -either, were t’ other dear charmer away!” - -“What kind of time would the women have, were there only one man in the -world?” - -What kind of time would they have? What is that to _me_? They might -“take their own time,” every “Miss Lucy” of them, for all _I_ should -care; and so might the said man himself; for with me, the limited supply -would not increase the value of the article. - - - - - “ONLY A COUSIN.” - - -How the rain patters against the windows of your office! How sombre, and -gloomy, and cheerless it looks there! Your little office-boy looks more -like an imp of darkness than anything else, as he sits crouched in the -corner, with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands. - -You button your overcoat tight to your chin, cut possible clients, and -run over to see your cousin Kitty. Ah! that is worth while! A bright, -blazing fire; sofa wheeled up to it, and Kitty sitting there, looking so -charming in her pretty _negligé_. She looks up sweetly and tranquilly, -and says: “Now, that’s a good Harry; sit down by me and be agreeable.” - -Well, you “sit down,” (just as close as you like, too!) tell her all the -down-town male gossip; consult her confidentially about trimming your -whiskers; and desire her candid, unbiased opinion about the propriety -and feasibility, with the help of some Macassar, of _coaxing out_ a -moustache! Then you make a foray into her work-basket, tangling spools -most unmercifully, and reading over all the choice hits of poetry that -women are so fond of clipping from the newspapers. Then you both go into -the china closet, and she gets you a tempting little luncheon; and you -grow suddenly merry, and have a contest which shall make the worst pun; -you earn for yourself a boxed ear, and are obliged, in self-defence, to -imprison the offending hand. Your aunt comes in; let her come! are not -you and Kitty cousins? - -There’s a ring at the door, and Mr. Frank —— is announced. You say, -“Unmitigated puppy!” and begin a vehement discussion with your aunt, -about anything that comes handy; but that don’t prevent you from seeing -and hearing all that goes on at the other side of the room. Your aunt is -very oblivious, and wouldn’t mind it if you occasionally lost the thread -of your discourse. Kitty is the least bit of a coquette! and her -conversation is very provocative, racy and sparkling. You privately -determine to read her a lecture upon it, as soon as practicable. - -It seems as though Mr. Frank —— never would go. Upon his exit, Kitty -informs you that she is going to Madame ——’s concert with him. You look -serious, and tell her you “should be very sorry to see a cousin of yours -enter a concert room with such a brainless fop.” Kitty tosses her curls, -pats you on the arm, and says, “_Jealous_, hey?” You turn on your heel, -and, lighting a cigar, bid her “good morning,” and for a little eternity -of a week you never go near her. Meantime, your gentleman-friends tell -you how “divine” your little cousin looked at the concert. - -You are in a very bad humour; cigars are no sedative—newspapers neither. -You crowd your beaver down over your eyes and start for your office. On -the way you meet Kitty! Hebe! how bright and fresh she looks! and what -an unmitigated brute you’ve been to treat her so! Take care! she knows -what you are thinking about! Women are omniscient in such matters! So -she peeps archly from beneath those long eye-lashes, and says, extending -the tip of her little gloved hand—“Want to make up, Harry?” - -There’s no resisting! That smile leads you, like a will-o’-the-wisp, -anywhere! So you wait upon her home; nobody comes in, not even your -respected aunt; and you never call her “cousin,” after that day; but no -man living ever won such a darling little wife, as Kitty has promised to -be to you, some bright morning. - - - - - THE CALM OF DEATH. - - “The moon looks calmly down when man is dying, - The earth still holds her sway; - Flowers breathe their perfume, and the wind keeps sighing; - Naught seems to pause or stay.” - - -Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast—they’ve no more work to do; -close the weary eyes—they’ve no more tears to shed; part the damp -locks—there’s no more pain to bear. Closed is the ear alike to Love’s -kind voice, and Calumny’s stinging whisper. - -Oh! if in that stilled heart you have ruthlessly planted a thorn; if -from that pleading eye you have carelessly turned away; if your loving -glance, and kindly word, and clasping hand, have come—_all too -late_—then God forgive you! No frown gathers on the marble brow as you -gaze—no scorn curls the chiselled lip—no flush of wounded feeling mounts -to the blue-vein temples. - -God forgive you! for _your_ feet, too, must shrink appalled from death’s -cold river—your faltering tongue ask, “Can this be death?”—your fading -eye linger lovingly on the sunny earth—your clammy hand yield its last -faint pressure—your sinking pulse give its last feeble flutter. - -Oh, rapacious grave; yet another victim for thy voiceless keeping! What! -no word or greeting from all thy household sleepers? No warm welcome -from a sister’s loving lips? No throb of pleasure from the dear maternal -bosom? - -_Silent all!_ - -Oh, if these broken links were _never_ gathered up! If beyond Death’s -swelling flood there were _no_ eternal shore! If for the struggling bark -there were no port of peace! If athwart that lowering cloud sprang no -bright bow of promise! - - Alas for Love, if _this_ be all, - And _naught beyond_—oh earth! - - - - - MRS. ADOLPHUS SMITH SPORTING THE “BLUE STOCKING.” - - -Well, I think I’ll finish that story for the editor of the “Dutchman.” -Let me see; where did I leave off? The setting sun was just gilding with -his last ray—“Ma, I want some bread and molasses”—(yes, dear) gilding -with his last ray the church spire—“Wife, where’s my Sunday pants?” -(_Under the bed, dear_,) the church spire of Inverness, when a—“There’s -nothing under the bed, dear, but your lace cap”—(Perhaps they are in the -coal hod in the closet) when a horseman was seen approaching—“Ma’am, the -_pertators_ is out; not one for dinner” (Take some turnips) approaching, -covered with dust, and—“Wife! the baby has swallowed a button”—(_Reverse -him_, dear—take him by the heels) and waving in his hand a banner, on -which was written—“Ma! I’ve torn my pantaloons”—liberty or death! The -inhabitants rushed _en masse_—“Wife! WILL you leave off scribbling?” -(Don’t be disagreeable, Smith, I’m just getting inspired) to the public -square, where De Begnis, who had been secretly—“Butcher wants to see -you, ma’am”—secretly informed of the traitors’—“Forgot _which_ you said, -ma’am, sausages or mutton chop”—movements, gave orders to fire; not less -than twenty—My gracious! Smith, you haven’t been _reversing_ that child -all this time? He’s as black as your coat; and that boy of YOURS has -torn up the first sheet of my manuscript. There! it’s no use for a -married woman to cultivate her intellect.—Smith, hand me those twins. - - - - - CECILE VRAY. - - “Died, in ——, Cecile, wife of Mortimer Vray, artist. This lady died in - great destitution among strangers, and was frequently heard to say, ‘I - wish I were dead!’” - - -A brief paragraph, to chronicle a broken heart! Poor Cecile! We little -thought of this, when conning our French tasks, your long raven ringlets -twining lovingly with mine; or, when released from school drudgery, we -sauntered through the fragrant woods, weaving rosy dreams of a bright -future, which neither you nor I were to see. - -I feel again your warm breath upon my cheek—the clasp of your clinging -arms about my neck; and the whispered “Don’t forget me, Fanny,” from -that most musical of voices. - -Time rolled on, and oceans rolled between; then came a rumour of an -“artist lover”—then a “bridal”—now the sad sequel! - -Poor Cecile! Those dark eyes restlessly and vainly looking for some -familiar face on which to rest, ere they closed for ever; that listening -ear, tortured by strange footsteps—that fluttering sigh, breathed out on -a strange bosom. Poor Cecile! - -And _he_ (shame to tell) who won that loving heart but to trample it -under foot, basks under Italy’s sunny skies, bound in flowery fetters, -of a foreign syren’s weaving. - -God rest thee, Cecile! Death never chilled a warmer heart; earth never -pillowed a lovelier head; Heaven ne’er welcomed a sweeter spirit. - - * * * * * - -On foreign shores, from broken dreams, a guilty man shall start, as thy -last sad, plaintive wail rings in his tortured ear, “_Would I were -dead!_” - - - - - SAM SMITH’S SOLILOQUY. - - -By the beard of the Prophet! what a thing it is to be a bachelor! I -wonder when this table was dusted last! I wonder how long since that -mattress was turned, or that carpet swept, or what was the primeval -colour of that ewer and wash-basin. - -Christopher Columbus! how the frost curtains the windows; how dirge-like -the wind moans; how like a great, white pall the snow covers the ground. -Five times I’ve rung that bell for coal for this rickety old grate; but -I might as well thump for admittance at the gate of Paradise. - -And speaking of Paradise—Sam Smith, you must be married: you haven’t a -button to your shirt, nor a shirt to your buttons either. - -Wonder if women are such obstinate little monkeys to manage? Wonder if -they must be bribed with a new bonnet every day to keep the peace? -Wonder if you bring home a friend unexpectedly to dinner, if they always -take to their bed with the sick headache? Wish there was any way of -finding out but by experience. Well, Sam, you are a Napoleonic looking -fellow: if _you_ can’t manage a woman, who can? - -How I shall pet the little clipper. I’ll marry a blue-eyed woman; they -are the most affectionate. She must not be too tall: a man’s wife -shouldn’t _look down_ upon him. She must not know too much: the Furies -take your pert, catamount-y, scribbling women, with a repartee always -rolled up under their tongues. She mustn’t be over seventeen; but how to -find that out, Sam, is the question: it is about as easy as to make an -editor tell you the truth about his subscription list. She must be -handsome—no, she mustn’t either. I should be as jealous as Blue Beard. -All the corkscrew, pantalooned, perfumed popinjays would be ogling her. -But then, again, there’s three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, -and three times a day I must sit opposite that connubial face at the -table. What’s to be done? Yes; she _must_ be handsome; that is as -certain as that Louis Napoleon has a Jewish horror of _Ham_. - -Wonder if wives are expensive articles? Wonder if their “little hands -were ever made to scratch out husbands’ eyes?” Wonder if Caudle lectures -are “all in your eye,” or—occasionally in your ear? Wonder if babies -invariably prefer the night-time to cry? - -To marry or not to marry, Sam? Whether ’tis better to go buttonless, and -to shiver; or marry, and be always in hot water? - -There’s Tom Hillot. Tom’s married. I was his groomsman. I would have -given a small fortune to have been in his white satin vest—what with the -music, and the roses, and the pretty little bridesmaid! Didn’t the bride -look bewitching, with the rose-flush on her cheek and the tear on her -eyelash? And how provokingly happy Tom looked, when he whirled off with -her in the carriage to their new home; and what a pretty little home it -was, to be sure. It is just a year to-day since they were married. I -dined there yesterday. It strikes me that Tom don’t joke as much as he -used in his bachelor days; and then he has a way, too, of leaving his -sentences unfinished. And I noticed that his wife often touched his foot -with her slipper under the table. What do you suppose she did that for? -Just as I was buttoning up my coat to come away, I asked Tom if he would -go up to Tammany Hall with me. He looked at his wife, and she said, “Oh, -_go_ by all means, Mr. Hillot;” when Tom immediately declined. I don’t -understand matrimonial tactics; but it seems to me he ought to have -obliged her. - -Do you know John Jones and his wife? (peculiar name that—“Jones!”) Well, -they are _another_ happy couple. It is enough to make bachelor eyes turn -green to see them. Mrs. Jones had been four times a widow when she -married John. She knows the value of husbands. She takes precious good -care of John. Before he goes to the office in the morning, she pops her -head out the window to see if the weathercock indicates a surtout, -spencer, cloak, or Tom and Jerry; this point settled, she follows him to -the door, and calls him back to close his thorax button “for fear of -quinsy.” Does a shower come up in the forenoon? She sends him clogs, -India rubbers, an extra flannel shirt, and an oilcloth overall, and -prepares two quarts of boiling ginger tea to administer on his arrival, -to prevent the damp from “striking in.” If he helps himself to a second -bit of turkey, she immediately removes it from his plate, and applying a -handkerchief to her eyes, asks him “if he has the heart to make her for -the fifth time a widow?” You can see, with half an eye, that John must -be the happiest dog alive. I’d like to see the miscreant who dares to -say he is not! - -Certainly—matrimony is an invention of ——. Well, no matter who invented -it. I’m going to try it. Where’s my blue coat with the bright brass -buttons? The woman has yet to be born who can resist that; and my buff -vest and neck-tie, too: may I be shot if I don’t offer them both to the -little Widow Pardiggle this very night. “Pardiggle!” Phœbus! what a name -for such a rose-bud. I’ll re-christen her by the euphonious name of -Smith. She’ll _have_ me, of course. She wants a husband—I want a wife: -there’s one point already on which we perfectly agree. I hate -preliminaries. I suppose it is unnecessary for me to begin with the -amatory alphabet. With a widow, I suppose you can skip the rudiments. -Say what you’ve got to say in a fraction of a second. Women grow as -mischievous as Satan if they think you are afraid of them. Do _I_ look -as if _I_ were afraid? Just examine the growth of my whiskers. The -Bearded Lady could n’t hold a candle to them (though I wonder she don’t -to her own). _Afraid?_ h-m-m! I feel as if I could conquer Asia. What -the mischief ails this cravat? It must be the cold that makes my hand -tremble so. There—that’ll do: that’s quite an inspiration. Brummel -himself couldn’t go beyond that. Now for the widow; bless her little -round face! I’m immensely obliged to old Pardiggle for giving her a quit -claim. I’ll make her as happy as a little robin. Do you think I’d bring -a tear into her lovely blue eye? Do you think I’d sit after tea, with my -back to her, and my feet upon the mantel, staring up the chimney for -three hours together? Do you think I’d leave her blessed little side to -dangle about oyster-saloons and theatres? Do I _look_ like a man to let -a woman flatten her pretty little nose against the window-pane night -after night, trying to see me reel up the street. - - * * * * * - -_Re_fused by a widow! Who ever heard of such a thing? Well; there’s one -comfort: nobody’ll ever believe it. She is not so very pretty after all; -her eyes are too small, and her hands are rough and red-dy:—not so very -_ready_ either, confound the gipsy. What amazing pretty shoulders she -has! Well, who cares? - - “If she be not fair for me, - What care I how fair she be?” - -Ten to one she’d have set up that wretch of a Pardiggle for my model. -Who wants to be Pardiggle second? I am glad she didn’t have me. I -mean—I’m glad I didn’t have _her_! - -[Illustration] - - - - - LOVE AND DUTY. - - -The moon looked down upon no fairer sight than Effie May, as she lay -sleeping on her little couch that fair summer night. So thought her -mother, as she glided gently in, to give her a silent, good-night -blessing. The bright flush of youth and hope was on her cheek. Her long -dark hair lay in masses about her neck and shoulders; a smile played -upon the red lips, and the mother bent low to catch the indistinct -murmur. She starts at the whispered name, as if a serpent had stung her; -and as the little snowy hand is tossed restlessly upon the coverlet, she -sees, glittering in the moonbeams, on that childish finger, the golden -signet of betrothal. Sleep sought in vain to woo the eyes of the mother -that night. Reproachfully she asked herself “How could I have been so -blind? (but then Effie has seemed to me only a child!) But he! Oh, no; -the _wine-cup_ will be my child’s rival; it must not be.” Effie was -wilful, and Mrs. May knew she must be cautiously dealt with; but she -knew, also, that no mother need despair who possesses the affection of -her child. - -Effie’s violet eyes opened to greet the first ray of the morning sun as -he peeped into her room. She stood at the little mirror, gathering up, -with those small hands, the rich tresses so impatient of confinement. -How could she fail to know that she was fair?—she read it in every face -she met; but there was _one_ (and she was hastening to meet him) whose -eye had noted, with a lover’s pride, every shining ringlet, and azure -vein, and flitting blush. His words were soft and low, and skilfully -chosen, and sweeter than music to her ear; and so she tied, with a -careless grace, the little straw hat under her dimpled chin; and fresh, -and sweet, and guileless, as the daisy that bent beneath her foot, she -tripped lightly on to the old trysting place by the willows. - -Stay! a hand is laid lightly upon her arm, and the pleading voice of a a -mother arrests that springing step. - -“Effie, dear, sit down with me on this old garden seat; give up your -walk for this morning; I slept but indifferently last night, and morning -finds me languid and depressed.” - -A shadow passed over Effie’s face; the little cherry lips pouted, and a -rebellious feeling was busy at her heart; but one look in her mother’s -pale face decided her, and, untying the strings of her hat, she leaned -her head caressingly upon her mother’s shoulder. - -“You are ill, dear mother; you are _troubled_;” and she looked -inquiringly up into her face. - -“Listen to me, Effie, I have a story to tell you of myself:—When I was -about your age, I formed an acquaintance with a young man, by the name -of Adolph. He had been but a short time in the village, but long enough -to win the hearts of half the young girls from their rustic admirers. -Handsome, frank, and social, he found himself everywhere a favourite. He -would sit by me for hours, reading our favourite authors; and, side by -side, we rambled through all the lovely paths with which our village -abounded. My parents knew nothing to his disadvantage, and were equally -charmed as myself with his cultivated refinement of manner, and the -indefinable interest with which he invested every topic, grave or gay, -which it suited his mood to discuss. Before I knew it, my heart was no -longer in my own keeping. One afternoon he called to accompany me upon a -little excursion we had planned together. As he came up the gravel walk, -I noticed that his fine hair was in disorder; a pang, keen as death, -shot through my heart, when he approached me, with reeling, unsteady -step, and stammering tongue. I could not speak. The chill of death -gathered around my heart. I fainted. When I recovered, he was gone, and -my mother’s face was bending over me, moist with tears. Her woman’s -heart knew all that was passing in mine. She pressed her lips to my -forehead, and only said, ‘God strengthen you to choose the right, my -child.’ - -“I could not look upon her sorrowful eyes, or the pleading face of my -gray-haired father, and trust myself again to the witchery of that voice -and smile. A letter came to me; I dared not read it. (Alas my heart -pleaded too eloquently, even then, for his return.) I returned it -unopened: my father and mother devoted themselves to lighten the load -that lay upon my heart; but the perfume of a flower, a remembered strain -of music, a straggling moonbeam, would bring back old memories, with a -crushing bitterness that swept all before it for the moment. But my -father’s aged hand lingered on my head with a blessing, and my mother’s -voice had the sweetness of an angel’s, as it fell upon my ear! - -“Time passed on, and I had conquered myself. Your father saw me, and -proposed for my hand; my parents left me free to choose—and Effie, dear, -_are we not happy_?” - -“Oh, mother,” said Effie (then looking sorrowfully in her face), “did -you _never_ see Adolph again?” - -“Do you remember, my child, the summer evening we sat under the piazza, -when a dusty, travel-stained man came up the steps, and begged for ‘a -supper?’ Do you recollect his bloated, disfigured face? Effie, _that was -Adolph_!” - -“Not that _wreck_ of a _man_, mother?” said Effie (covering her eyes -with her hands, as if to shut him out from her sight). - -“Yes; that was all that remained of that glorious intellect, and that -form made after God’s own image. I looked around upon my happy home, -then upon your noble father—then—upon _him_, and,” (taking Effie’s -little hand and pointing to the _ring_ that encircled it), “in _your_ -ear, my daughter, I now breathe my mother’s prayer for me—‘_God help you -to choose the right!_’” - -The bright head of Effie sank upon her mother’s breast, and with a gush -of tears she drew the golden circlet from her finger, and placed it in -her mother’s hand. - -“God bless you, my child,” said the happy mother, as she led her back to -their quiet home. - - - - - A FALSE PROVERB - - -I wonder who but the “father of lies,” originated this proverb, “Help -yourself and then everybody else will help you.” Is it not as true as -the book of Job that it’s just driving the nails into your own coffin, -to let anybody know you want help! Is not a “seedy” hat, a threadbare -coat, or patched dress, an effectual shower-bath on old friendships? -Have not people a mortal horror of a sad face and a pitiful story? Don’t -they on hearing it, instinctively poke their purses into the furthest, -most remote corner of their pockets? Don’t they wrap their warm garments -round their well-fed persons, and advise you, in a saintly tone, “to -trust in Providence?” Are they not always “engaged” ever after, when you -call to see them? Are they not near-sighted when you meet them in the -street?—and don’t they turn short corners to get out of your way? “Help -yourself,”—of course you will, (if you have any spirit;)—but when -sickness comes, or dark days, and your wits and nerves are both -exhausted, don’t place any dependence on this lying proverb!—or you will -find yourself decidedly humbugged. And then, when your heart is so soft -that anybody could knock you down with a feather, get into the darkest -hole you can find, and cry it out! Then crawl out, bathe your eyes till -they shine again, and if you have one nice garment left, out with it, -put it on! turn your shawl on the brightest side; put your best and -prettiest foot foremost; tie on your go-to-meetin’ bonnet, and smile -under it, if it half kills you; and see how complaisant the world will -be when—you ask nothing of it! - -But if (as there are exceptions to all rules), you should chance to -stumble upon a true friend (when you can only render thanks as an -equivalent for kindness) “make a note on’t,” as Captain Cuttle says, for -it don’t happen but once in a life-time! - - - - - A MODEL HUSBAND - - Mrs. Perry, a young Bloomer, has eloped from Monson, Massachusetts, - with Levins Clough. When her husband found she was determined to go, - he gave her one hundred dollars to start with. - - -Magnanimous Perry! Had I been your spouse, I should have handed that -“one hundred dollar bill” to Mr. Levins Clough, as a healing plaster for -his disappointed affections—encircled your neck with my repentant arms, -and returned to your home. Then, I’d mend every rip in your coat, -gloves, vest, pants, and stockings, from that remorseful hour, till the -millennial day. I’d hand you your cigar-case and slippers, put away your -cane, hang up your coat and hat, trim your heard and whiskers, and wink -at your sherry-cobblers, whisky punches, and mint juleps. I’d help you -get a “ten strike” at ninepins. I’d give you a “night-key,” and be -perfectly oblivious what time in the small hours you tumbled into the -front entry. I’d pet all your stupid relatives, and help your country -friends to “beat down” the city shopkeepers. I’d frown at all offers of -“pin money.” I’d let you “smoke” in my face till I was as brown as a -herring, and my eyes looked as if they were bound with pink tape; and -I’d invite that pretty widow Delilah Wilkins to dinner, and run out to -do some shopping, and stay away till tea-time. Why, there’s nothing I -_wouldn’t_ do for you—you might have knocked me down with a feather -after such a piece of magnanimity. That “Levins Clough” could stand no -more chance than a woodpecker tapping at an iceberg. - - - - - HOW IS IT? - - “Well, Susan, what do you think of married ladies being happy?” “Why I - think there are more AIN’T than IS, than IS that AIN’T.” - - -Susan, I shall apply to the Legislature to have your name changed to -“Sapphira.” You are an unprincipled female. - -Just imagine yourself MRS. Snip. It is a little prefix not to be sneezed -at. It is only the privileged few who can secure a pair of corduroys to -mend, and trot by the side of; or a pair of coat-flaps alternately to -darn, and hang on to, amid the vicissitudes of this patchwork existence. - -Think of the high price of fuel, Susan, and the quantity it takes to -warm a low-spirited, single woman; and then think of having all that -found for you by your husband, and no extra charge for “gas.” Think how -pleasant to go to the closet and find a great boot-jack on your best -bonnet; or “to work your passage” to the looking-glass every morning, -through a sea of dickeys, vests, coats, continuations, and neck-ties; -think of your nicely-polished toilette table spotted all over with -shaving suds; think of your “Guide to Young Women” used for a razor -strop. Think of Mr. Snip’s lips being hermetically sealed, day after -day, except to ask you “if the coal was out, or if his coat was mended.” -Think of coming up from the kitchen, in a gasping state of exhaustion, -after making a hatch of his favourite pies, and finding five or six -great dropsical bags disemboweled on your chamber floor, from the -contents of which Mr. Snip had selected the “pieces” of your best silk -gown, for “rags” to clean his gun with. Think of his taking a -watch-guard you made him out of YOUR HAIR, for a dog-collar! Think of -your promenading the floor, night after night, with your fretful, ailing -baby hushed up to your warm cheek, lest it should disturb your husband’s -slumbers; and think of his coming home the next day, and telling you, -when you were exhausted with your vigils, “that he had just met his old -love, Lilly Grey, looking as fresh as a daisy, and that it was -unaccountable how much older you looked than she, although you were both -the same age. - -Think of all that, Susan. - - - - - A MORNING RAMBLE. - - -What a lovely morning! It is a luxury to breathe. How blue the sky; how -soft the air; how fragrant the fresh spring grass and budding trees; and -with what a gush of melody that little bird eases his joy-burdened -heart. - - “This world is very lovely. Oh, my God, - I thank Thee that I live.” - -Clouds there are; but, oh, how much of sunshine! Sorrow there is; but, -in every cup is mingled a drop of balm. Over our threshold the -destroying angel passeth; yet, ere the rush of his dark wing sweepeth -past, cometh the Healer. - -Here is a poor, blind man basking in the sunshine, silently appealing, -with outstretched palm, to the passer-by. Through his thin, gray locks -the wind plays lovingly. A smile beams on his withered face; for, though -his eyes are rayless, he can feel that chill Winter has gone; and he -knows that the flowers are blossoming—for the sweet west wind cometh, -God-commissioned, to waft him their fragrance. Some pedestrians gaze -curiously at him; others, like the Levite, “pass by on the other side.” -A woman approaches. She is plainly clad, and bears a basket on her arm. -She has a good, kind, motherly face, as if she were hastening back to -some humble home, made brighter and happier by her presence. Life is -sweet to her. She catches sight of the poor old man; her eye falls upon -the label affixed to his breast: “I am blind!” Oh, what if the -brightness and beauty of this glad sunshine were all night to her veiled -lids? What if the dear home faces were for ever shrouded from her -yearning sight? What if she might never walk the sunny earth, without a -guiding hand? She places her basket upon the side-walk, and wipes away a -tear; now she explores her time-worn pocket; finds the hardly-earned -coin, and placing it in the palm of the old man, presses his hand -lovingly, and is gone! - -Poor Bartimeus! He may never see the honest face that bent so tenderly -over him; but, to his heart’s core, he felt that kindly pressure, and -the sunshine is all the brighter, and the breeze sweeter and fresher for -that friendly grasp, and life is again bright to the poor blind man. - - “Oh God! I thank Thee that I live!” - - * * * * * - -How swiftly the ferry-boat ploughs through the wave! How gleefully that -little child claps its tiny hands, as the snowy foam parts on either -side, then dashes away like a thing of life. Here are weary business -men, going back to their quiet homes; and pleasure-loving belles, -returning from the city. Pacing up and down the deck is a worn and weary -woman, bearing in her arms a child, so emaciated, so attenuated, that -but for the restless glance of its dark, sunken eyes, one would think it -a little corpse. The mother has left her unhealthy garret in the noisome -lane of the teeming city, and paid her last penny to the ferryman, that -the health-laden sea breeze may fan the sick child’s temples. Tenderly -she moves it from one shoulder to another. Now, she lays its little -cheek to hers; now, she kisses the little slender fingers; but still the -baby moans. The boat touches the pier. All are leaving but the mother -and child; the ferryman tells her to “go too.” She says timidly, “I want -to return again—I live the other side—I came on board for the baby,” -(pointing to the dying child). Poor woman! she did not know that she -could not go back without another fee, and she has not a penny. -Loathsome as is her distant home, she must go back to it; but how? - -One passenger beside herself still lingers listening. Dainty fingers -drop a coin into the gruff ferryman’s hand—then a handful into the -weary, troubled mother’s. The sickly babe looks up and smiles at the -chinking coin—the mother smiles, because the baby has smiled again—and -then weeps, because she knows not how to thank the lovely donor. - -“Homeward bound.” - -Over the blue waters the golden sunset gleams, tinting the snowy, -billowy foam with a thousand iris hues; while at the boat’s prow stands -the happy mother, wooing the cool sunset breeze, which kisses soothingly -the sick infant’s temples. - - “This earth is very lovely. Oh, my God, - I thank Thee that I live!” - - - - - HOUR-GLASS THOUGHTS. - - -The bride stands waiting at the altar; the corpse lies waiting for -burial. - -Love vainly implores of Death a reprieve; Despair vainly invokes his -coming. - -The starving wretch, who purloins a crust, trembles in the hall of -Justice; liveried sin, unpunished, riots in high places. - -Brothers, clad “in purple and fine linen, fare sumptuously every day;” -Sisters, in linsey-woolsey, toil in garrets, and shrink, trembling, from -insults that no fraternal arm avenges. - -The Village Squire sows, reaps, and garners golden harvests; the Parish -Clergyman sighs, as his casting vote cuts down his already meagre -salary. - -The unpaid sempstress begems with tears the fairy festal robe; proud -beauty floats in it through the ball-room like a thing of air. - -Church spires point, with tapering fingers, to the rich man’s heaven; -Penitence, in rags, tearful and altarless, meekly stays its timid foot -at the threshold. - -Sneaking Vice, wrapped in the labelled cloak of Piety, finds “open -sesame;” shrinking Conscientiousness, jostled rudely aside, weeps in -secret its fancied unworthiness. - -The Editor grows plethoric on the applause of the public and mammoth -subscription lists; the _unrecognized_ journalist, who, behind the -scenes, mixes so deftly the newspaporial salad, lives on the smallest -possible stipend, and looks like an undertaker’s walking advertisement. - -Wives rant of their “Woman’s Rights” in public; Husbands eat bad dinners -and tend crying babies at home. - -Mothers toil in kitchens; Daughters lounge in parlours. - -Fathers drive the plough; Sons drive tandem. - - - - - SOBER HUSBANDS. - - “If your husband looks grave, let him alone; don’t disturb or annoy - him.” - - -Oh, pshaw! were I married, the soberer my husband looked the more fun -I’d rattle about his ears. _Don’t disturb him!_ I guess so! I’d salt his -coffee—and pepper his tea—and sugar his beef-steak—and tread on his -toes—and hide his newspaper—and sew up his pockets—and put pins in his -slippers—and dip his cigars in water—and I wouldn’t stop for the great -Mogul, till I had shortened his long face to my liking. Certainly, he’d -“get vexed;” there wouldn’t be any fun in teasing him if he didn’t; and -that would give his melancholy blood a good, healthful start; and his -eyes would snap and sparkle, and he’d say, “Fanny, WILL you be quiet or -not?” and I should laugh, and pull his whiskers, and say decidedly, -“_Not!_” and then I should tell him he hadn’t the slightest idea how -handsome he looked when he was vexed; and then he would pretend not to -hear the compliment, but would pull up his dicky, and take a sly peep in -the glass (for all that!); and then he’d begin to grow amiable, and get -off his stilts, and be just as agreeable all the rest of the evening _as -if he wasn’t my husband_; and all because I didn’t follow that stupid -bit of advice “to let him alone.” Just as if _I_ didn’t know! Just -imagine ME, Fanny, sitting down on a cricket in the corner, with my -forefinger in my mouth, looking out the sides of my eyes, and waiting -till that man got ready to speak to me! You can see at once it would be— -be—. Well, the amount of it is, _I shouldn’t do it_! - - - - - BOARDING-HOUSE EXPERIENCE. - - -Mr. Relph Renoux lived by his wits: _i. e._, he kept a boarding-house; -_taking in_ any number of ladies and gentlemen who, in the philanthropic -language of his advertisement, “pined for the comforts and elegances of -a home.” - -Mr. Renoux’s house was at the court-end of the city; his drawing-room -was unexceptionably furnished, and himself, when “made up,” after ten -o’clock in the morning, quite _comme il faut_. Mrs. Renoux never -appeared; being, in the pathetic words of Mr. Renoux, “in a drooping, -invalid state nevertheless, she might be seen, by the initiated, -haunting the back stairs and entries, and with flying cap-strings, -superintending kitchen-cabinet affairs. - -Mrs. Renoux was the unhappy mother of three unmarried daughters, with -red hair and tempers to match: who languished over Byron, in elegant -_negligées_, of a morning, till after the last masculine had departed; -then, in curl-papers and calico long-shorts, performed for the absentees -the duty of chamber-maids—peeping into valises, trunks, bureaus, -cigar-boxes and coat pockets, and replenishing their perfumed bottles -from the gentlemen’s toilet stands with the most perfect _nonchalance_. -At dinner they emerged from their chrysalis state into the most -butterfly gorgeousness, and exchanged the cracked treble, with which -they had been ordering round the overtasked maid-of-all-work, as they -affectionately addressed “Papa.” - - * * * * * - -At the commencement of my story, Renoux was as happy as a kitten with -its first mouse—having entrapped, with the bait of his alluring -advertisement, a widow lady with one child. “The comforts and elegances -of a home;”—it was just what the lady was seeking: how very fortunate! - -“Certainly, Madam,” said Renoux, doubling himself into the form of the -letter C. “I will serve your meals in your own room, if you prefer; but -really, madam, I trust you will sometimes grace the drawing-room with -your presence, as we have a very select little family of boarders. Do -you choose to breakfast at eight, nine, or ten, Madam? Do you incline to -Mocha, or prefer the leaves of the Celestial city? Are you fond of eggs, -Madam? Would you prefer to dine at four or five? Do you wish six -courses, or more? There is the bell-rope, Madam. I trust you will use it -unsparingly, should anything be omitted or neglected. I am on my way -down town, and if you will favour me by saying what you would fancy for -your dinner to-day (the market is full of everything—fish, flesh, fowl, -and game of all sorts), you have only to express a wish, Madam, and the -thing is here; I should be miserable, indeed, were the request of a -_lady_ to be disregarded in _my_ house, and that lady deprived of her -natural protector. Which is it; Madam—fish? flesh? or fowl? Any letters -to send to the post-office, Madam? Any commands anywhere? I shall be -_too_ happy to be of service—and bending to the tips of his patent -leather toes, Mr. Renoux, facing the lady, bowed obsequiously and -Terpsichoreally out of the apartment. - -The dinner hour came. An Irish servant girl came with it, and drawing -out a table at an Irish angle upon the floor, tossed over it a tumbled -table-cloth, placed upon it a castor, minus one leg, some cracked -salt-cellars and tumblers, then laid some knives, left-handed, about the -table, then withdrew to re-appear with the result of Mr. Renoux’s -laborious research “in the market filled with everything,” viz.: a -consumptive-looking mackerel, whose skin clung tenaciously to its back -bone, and a Peter Schlemel-looking chicken, which, in its life-time, -must have had a vivid recollection of Noah and the forty days’ shower, -This was followed by a dessert of baker’s stale tarts, compounded of -lard and dried apples; and twenty-four purple grapes. - - * * * * * - -The next morning Mr. Renoux tip-toed in, smirking and bowing, as if the -bill of fare had been the most sumptuous in the world, and expressed the -greatest astonishment and indignation, that “the stupid servant had -neglected bringing up the other courses which he had provided;” then he -inquired “how the lady had rested;” and when she preferred a request for -another pillow (there being only six feathers in the one she had) he -assured her that it should be in her apartment in less than one hour. A -fortnight after, he expressed the most intense disgust that “the -rascally upholsterer” had not yet sent _what he had never ordered_. Each -morning Mr. Renoux presented himself, at a certain hour, behind a very -stiff dickey, and offered the lady the morning papers. Seating himself -on the sofa, he would remark that—it was a very fine day, and that -affairs in France appeared to be _in statu quo_; or, that the Czar had -ordered his generals to occupy the Principalities; that Gortschakoff was -preparing to cross the Danube; that the Sultan had dispatched Omar Pacha -to the frontiers; that the latter gentleman had presented his card to -Gortschakoff, on the point of a yatagan, which courtesy would probably -lead to——something else! - -During one of these agreeable calls, the lady took occasion slightly to -object to Betty’s nibbling the tarts as she brought them up for dinner; -whereupon Mr. Renoux declared, on the honour of a Frenchman, that “she -should be pitched out of the door immediately, if not sooner, and an -efficient servant engaged to take her place.” - -The next day, the “efficient servant” came in, broom in hand, whistling -“Oh, Susanna,” and passing into the little dressing-room, to “put it to -rights,” amused herself by trying on the widow’s best bonnet, and -polishing her teeth and combing her hair with that lady’s immaculate and -individual head-brush and tooth-brush. You will not be surprised to -learn that their injured and long-suffering owner took-a frantic and -“French leave” the following morning, in company with her big and little -bandboxes, taking refuge under the sheltering roof of Madame Finfillan. - - * * * * * - -Madame Finfillan was a California widow; petite, plump, and pretty—who -bore her cruel bereavement with feminine philosophy, and slid round the -world’s rough angles with a most eel-like dexterity. In short, she was a -Renoux in petticoats. Madame welcomed the widow with great pleasure, -because, as she said, she “wished to fill her house only with -first-class boarders;” and the widow might be assured that she had the -apartments fresh from the diplomatic hands of the Spanish Consul, who -would on no account have given them up, had not his failing health -demanded a trip to the Continent. Madame also assured the widow, that -(although she said it herself) every part of her house would bear the -closest inspection; that those vulgar horrors, cooking butter, and -diluted tea, were never seen on her Epicurean table; that they -breakfasted at ten, lunched at two, dined at six, and enjoyed themselves -in the _interim_; that her daughter, Miss Clara, was perfectly well -qualified to superintend, when business called her mother away. And that -nobody knew (wringing her little white hands) how _much_ business she -had to do, what with trotting round to those odious markets, trading for -wood and coal, and such like uninteresting things; or what _would_ -become of her, had she not some of the best friends in the world to look -after her, in the absence of Mons. Finfillan. - -Madame then caught up the widow’s little boy, and, half smothering him -with kisses, declared that there was nothing on earth she loved so well -as children; that there were half-a-dozen of them in the house who loved -her better than their own fathers and mothers, and that their devotion -to her was at times quite touching—(and here she drew out an embroidered -pocket-handkerchief, and indulged in an interesting little sniffle -behind its cambric folds). Recovering herself, she went on to say, that -the manner in which some boarding-house keepers treated children was -perfectly inhuman; that she had a second table for them, to be sure, but -it was loaded with delicacies, and that she always put them up a little -school lunch herself; on which occasion there was always an amiable -little quarrel among them, as to which should receive from her the -greatest number of kisses; also, that it was her frequent practice to -get up little parties and tableaux for their amusement. “But here is my -daughter, Miss Clara,” said she, introducing a fair-haired young damsel, -buttoned up in a black velvet jacket, over a flounced skirt. - -“Just sixteen yesterday,” said Madame; “naughty little blossom, budding -out so fast, and pushing her poor mamma off the stage;” (and here Madame -paused for a compliment, and looking in the opposite mirror, smoothed -her jetty ringlets complacently). “Yes, every morning little blossom’s -mamma looks in the glass, expecting to find a horror of a gray hair. But -what makes my little pet so pensive to-day?—thinking of her little -lover, hey? Has the naughty little thing a thought she does not share -with mamma? But, dear me!”—and Madame drew out a little dwarf watch; “I -had quite forgotten it is the hour Mons. Guigen gives me my guitar -lesson. Adieu: dinner at six, remember—and Madame tripped, coquettishly, -out of the room. - -Yes; “dinner at six.” Gold salt-cellars, black waiters, and -finger-bowls; satin chairs in the parlour, and pastilles burning on the -side-table; but the sheets on the beds all torn to ribbons; the boarders -allowed but one towel a week; every bell-rope divorced from its bell; -the locks all out of order on the chamber doors; the “dear children’s” -bill of fare at the “second table”—sour bread, watery soup, and cold -buckwheat cakes—and “dinner at six,” only an invention of the enemy, to -save the expense of one meal a day—the good, cozy, old-fashioned tea. - -Well, the boarders were all “trusteed” by Madame’s butcher, baker, and -milkman; Miss Clara eloped with the widow’s diamond ring and Mons. -Peneke; and Madame, who had heard that Mons. Finfillan was “among the -things that _were_,” was just about running off with Mons. Guigen, when -her liege lord suddenly returned from California, with damaged -constitution and morals, a dilapidated wardrobe and empty coffers. - -Moral.—Beware of boarding-houses; in the words of Shakspere— - - “Let those keep house who ne’er kept house before, - And those who have kept house, keep house the more.” - - - - - A GRUMBLE FROM THE (H)ALTAR. - - -This is the second day I’ve come home to dinner, without that yard of -pink ribbon for Mrs. Pendennis. Now we shall have a _broil_ not down in -the bill of fare. Julius Cæsar! if she only knew how much I have to do; -but it would make no difference if she did. I used to think a fool was -easily managed. Mrs. Pendennis has convinced me that _that_ was a -mistake. If I try to reason with her, she talks round and round in a -circle, like a kitten chasing its tail. If I set my arms akimbo, and -look threatening, she settles into a fit of the sulks, to which a -November drizzle of a fortnight’s duration is a millenium. If I try to -get round her by petting, she is as impudent as the——. Yes, just about. -Jerusalem! what a thing it is to be married! And yet, if an inscrutable -Providence should bereave me of Mrs. Pendennis, I am not at all -sure——good gracious, here she comes! Do you know I’d rather face one of -Colt’s revolvers this minute, than that four feet of womanhood? Isn’t it -astonishing, the way they do it? - - - - - A WICK-ED PARAGRAPH. - - CONNUBIAL.—Mr. Albert Wicks, of Coventry, under date of December 28th, - advertised his wife as having left his bed and board; and now, under - date of March. 26th, he appends to his former notice, the following:— - - “Mrs. Wicks, if you ever intend to come back and live with me any - more, you must come now or not at all. - - “I love you as I do my life, and if you will come now, I will forgive - you for all you have done and threatened to do, which I can prove by - three good witnesses: and if not, I shall attend to your case without - delay, and soon, too.” - - -There, now, Mrs. Wicks, what is to be done? “Three good witnesses!” -think of _that_. What the mischief have you been about? Whatever it is, -Mr. Wicks is ready to “love you like his life.” Consistent Mr. Wicks! - -Now take a little advice, my dear innocent, and don’t allow yourself to -be badgered or frightened into anything. None but a coward ever -threatens a woman. Put that in your memorandum book. It’s all bluster -and braggadocio. Thread your darning needle, and tell him you are ready -for him—ready for anything except his “loving you like his life;” that -you could not possibly survive that infliction without having your -“wick” snuffed entirely out. - -Sew away, just as if there were not a domestic earthquake brewing under -your connubial feet. If it sends you up in the air, it sends him -too—there’s a pair of you! Put _that_ in his Wick-ed ear! Of course he -will sputter away as if he had swallowed a “Roman candle,” and you can -take a nap till he gets through, and then offer him your smelling-bottle -to quiet his nerves. - -That’s the way to quench him! - - - - - MISTAKEN PHILANTHROPY. - - “Don’t moralize to a man who is on his back. Help him up, set him - firmly on his feet, and then give him advice and means.” - - -There’s an old-fashioned, verdant piece of wisdom, altogether unsuited -for the enlightened age we live in! Fished up, probably, from some musty -old newspaper, edited by some eccentric man troubled with that -inconvenient appendage, called a heart! Don’t pay any attention to it. -If a poor wretch (male or female) comes to you for charity, whether -allied to you by your own mother, or mother Eve, put on the most -stoical, “get thee behind me” expression you can muster. Listen to him -with the air of a man who “thanks God he is not as other men are.” If -the story carry conviction with it, and truth and sorrow go hand in -hand, button your coat tighter over your pocket-book, and give him a -piece of—good advice! If you know anything about him, try to rake up -some imprudence or mistake he may have made in the course of his life, -and bring that up as a reason why you can’t give him anything more -substantial, and tell him that his present condition is probably a -salutary discipline for those same peccadilloes! Ask him more questions -than there are in the Assembly’s Catechism, about his private history; -and when you’ve pumped him high and dry, try to teach him (on an empty -stomach) the “duty of submission.” If the tear of wounded sensibility -begin to flood the eye, and a hopeless look of discouragement settle -down upon the face, “wish him well,” and turn your back upon him as -quick as possible. - -Should you at any time be seized with an unexpected spasm of generosity, -and make up your mind to bestow some worn-out old garment that will -hardly hold together till the recipient gets it home, you’ve bought him, -body and soul; of course you are entitled to the gratitude of a -life-time! If he ever presumes to think differently from you after that, -he’s an “ungrateful wretch,” and “ought to suffer.” As to the “golden -rule,” that was made in old times; everything is changed now; ‘taint -suited to our meridian. - -People shouldn’t get poor; if they do, you don’t want to be bothered -with it. It’s disagreeable; it hinders your digestion. You’d rather see -Dives than Lazarus; and it’s my opinion your taste will be gratified in -that particular (in the other world, if it is not in this!) - - - - - INSIGNIFICANT LOVE. - - “You, young, loving creature, who dream of your lover by night and by - day—you fancy that he does the same of you? One hour, perhaps, your - presence has captivated him, subdued him even to weakness; the next, - he will be in the world, working his way as a man among men, - forgetting, for the time being, your very existence. Possibly, if you - saw him, his outer self, so hard and stern, so different from the self - you know, would strike you with pain. Or else his inner and diviner - self, higher than you dream of, would turn coldly from _your - insignificant love_.” - - -“Insignificant love!” I like that. More especially when out of ten -couple you meet, nine of the wives are as far above their husbands, in -point of mind, as the stars are above the earth. For the credit of the -men I should be sorry to say how many of them would be minus coats, -hats, pantaloons, cigars, &c., were it not for their wives’ earnings; or -how many smart speeches and able sermons have been concocted by their -better halves (while rocking the cradle), to be delivered to the public -at the proper time, parrot fashion, by the lords of creation. Wisdom -will die with the men; there’s no gainsaying that! - -Catch a smart, talented, energetic woman, and it will puzzle you to find -a man that will compare with her for go-a-headativeness. The more -obstacles she encounters, the harder she struggles, and the more you try -to put her down, the more you won’t do it. Children are obliged to write -under their crude drawings, “this is a dog,” or “this is a horse.” If it -were not for coats and pants, we should be obliged to label, “this is a -man,” in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred! - -“Insignificant love!” Why does a man offer himself a dozen times to the -same woman? Pity to take so much pains for such a trifle! “Insignificant -love!” Who gets you on your feet again, when you fail in business, by -advancing the nice little sum settled on herself by her anxious pa? Who -cheers you up, when her nerves are all in a double-and-twisted knot, and -you come home with your face long as the moral law? Who wears her old -bonnet three winters, while you smoke, and drive, and go to the opera? -Who sits up till the small hours, to help you find the way up your own -staircase? Who darns your old coat, next morning, just as if you were a -man, instead of a brute? And who scratches any woman’s eyes out, who -dares insinuate that her husband is superior to you! - -“Insignificant love!” I wish I knew the man who wrote that article! I’d -appoint his funeral to-morrow, and it should come off, too! - - - - - A MODEL MARRIED MAN. - - Cobbett says that for two years after his marriage he retained his - disposition to flirt with pretty women; but at last his wife—probably - having lost all hope of his reforming himself—gently tapped him upon - the arm, and remarked— - - “Don’t do that. I do not like it.” - - Cobbett says:—“That was quite enough. I had never thought on the - subject before; one hair of her head was more dear to me than all - other women in the world; and this I knew that she knew; but now I saw - that this was not all that she had a right to from me. _I saw that she - had the further claim upon me that I should abstain from everything - that might induce others to believe that there was any other woman for - whom, even if I were at liberty, I had any affection._” - - -Now I suppose most women, on reading that, would roll up their eyes and -think unutterable things of Mr. Cobbett! But, had _I_ borne his musical -name, and had that fine speech been addressed to me, I should -immediately have dismissed the—house-maid! - -It is not in any masculine to get on his knees that way, without a -motive! I tell you that man was a humbug! overshot the mark, entirely; -promised ten times as much as a sinful masculine could ever perform. If -he had said about _a quarter part_ of that, you might have believed him. -His affection for Mrs. Cobbett was skin-deep. He would have flirted with -every one of you, the minute her back was turned, to the end of the -electrical chapter! - -A man who is magnetized as he ought to be, don’t waste his precious time -making such long-winded, sentimental speeches. You never need concern -yourself, when such a glib tongue makes love to you. Go on with your -knitting; _he’s convalescent_! getting better of his complaint fast. Now -mind what I tell you; that Cobbett was a humbug! - - - - - MEDITATIONS OF PAUL PRY, JUN. - - -Not a blessed bit of gossip have I heard for a whole week! Nobody’s run -off with anybody’s wife; not a _single_ case of “Swartwouting;” no -minister’s been to the theatre; and my friend Tom, editor of the “Sky -Rocket,” (who never cares whether a rumour be true or false, or where it -hits, so that it makes a paragraph), is quite in despair. He’s really -afraid the world is growing virtuous—says it would be a hundred dollars -in his pocket, to get hold of a bit of scandal in such a dearth of news; -and if the accused party gets obstreperous, he’d just as lief publish -one side as the other! The more fuss the better; all he’s afraid of is, -they won’t think it worth noticing! - -Ah! we’ve some new neighbours in that house; pretty woman there, at the -window; glad of that! In the first place, it rests my eyes to look at -them; in the next place, when there’s a pretty woman, you may be morally -certain there’ll be mischief, sooner or later, _i. e._ if they don’t -have somebody like me to look after them; therefore I shall keep my eye -on her. That’s her husband in the room, I’m certain of it (for all the -while she is talking to him, she’s looking out of the window!) There he -goes down street to his business—a regular humdrum, hen-pecked, “ledger” -looking Lilliputian. Was not cut out for her, that’s certain! Well, my -lady’s wide awake enough! Look at her eye! No use in pursing up that -pretty mouth!—that eye tells the story! Nice little plump figure; -coquettish turn of the head, and a spring to her step. Well, well, I’ll -keep my eyes open. - -Just as I expected! there’s a young man ringing at the door; “patent -leather,” “kid gloves,” white hand, ring on the little finger—hope she -won’t shut the blinds now! There! she has taken her seat on the sofa at -the back part of the room. She don’t escape _me_ that way, while I own a -spy-glass! Jupiter! if he is not twisting her curls round his fingers! -Wonder how old “Ledger” would like _that_! - -Tuesday.—Boy at the door with a bouquet. Can’t ring the bell; I’ll just -step out and offer to do it for him, and learn who sent it! “Has orders -not to tell;” umph! _I’ve_ no orders “not to tell;” so here goes a note -to Ledger about it; that little gipsy is stepping RATHER too high. - -Wednesday.—Here I am tied up for a month at least; scarcely a whole bone -in my body, to say nothing of the way my feelings are hurt. How did I -know that young man was “her brother?” Why couldn’t Ledger correct my -mistake in a gentlemanly way, without daguerreotyping it on my back with -a horsewhip? It’s true I am not always correct in my suspicions, but he -ought to have looked at my motives! Suppose it hadn’t been her brother, -now! It’s astonishing, the ingratitude of people. It’s enough to -discourage all my attempts at moral reform! - -Well, it’s no use attacking that hornet’s nest again; but I’ve no doubt -some of the commandments are broken somewhere; and with the help of some -“opodeldoc” I’ll get out and find where it is! - - - - - SUNSHINE AND YOUNG MOTHERS. - - FOLLY.—For girls to expect to be happy without marriage. Every woman - was made for a mother; consequently, babies are as necessary to their - “peace of mind,” as health. If you wish to look at melancholy and - indigestion, look at an old maid. If you would take a peep at - sunshine, look in the face of a young mother. - - -“Young mothers and sunshine!” They are worn to fiddle-strings before -they are twenty-five! When an old lover turns up, he thinks he sees his -grandmother, instead of the dear little Mary who used to make him feel -as if he should crawl out of the toes of his boots! Yes! my mind is -_quite_ made up about _matrimony_; it’s a _one-sided_ partnership. - -“Husband” gets up in the morning, and pays his _devoirs_ to the -looking-glass; curls his fine head of hair; puts on an immaculate shirt -bosom; ties an excruciating cravat; sprinkles his handkerchief with -cologne; stows away a French roll, an egg, and a cup of coffee; gets -into the omnibus, looks at the pretty girls, and makes love between the -pauses of business during the forenoon _generally_. Wife must -“hermetically seal” the windows and exclude all the fresh air (because -the baby had “the snuffles” in the night); and sits gasping down to the -table, more dead than alive, to finish her breakfast. Tommy turns a cup -of hot coffee down his bosom; Juliana has torn off the strings of her -school bonnet; James “wants his geography covered;” Eliza can’t find her -satchel; the butcher wants to know if she’d like a joint of mutton; the -milkman would like his money; the iceman wants to speak to her “just a -minute;” the baby swallows a bean; husband sends the boy home from the -store to say _his partner_ will dine with him; the cook leaves “all -flying,” to go to her “sister’s dead baby’s wake,” and husband’s thin -coat must be ironed before noon. - -“_Sunshine and young mothers!_” Where’s my smelling-bottle? - - - - - UNCLE BEN’S ATTACK OF SPRING FEVER, AND HOW HE GOT CURED. - - -“It is not possible that you have been insane enough to go to -housekeeping in the country, for the summer? Oh, you ought to hear my -experience,” and Uncle Ben wiped the perspiration from his forehead, at -the very thought. - -Yes, I tried it once, with city habits and a city wife: got rabid with -the dog days, and nothing could cure me but a nibble of green grass. -There was Susan, you know, who never was off a brick pavement in her -life, and didn’t know the difference between a cheese and a grindstone. - -Well, we ripped up our carpets, and tore down our curtains, and packed -up our crockery, and nailed down our pictures, and eat dust for a week, -and then we emigrated to Daisy Ville. - -Could I throw up a window, or fasten back a blind in that house, without -sacrificing my suspenders and waistband button? No, sir! Were not the -walls full of Red Rovers? Didn’t the doors fly open at every wind gust? -Didn’t the roof leak like the mischief? Was not the chimney leased to a -pack of swallows? Was not the well half a mile from the house? - -Oh, you needn’t laugh. Instead of the comfortable naps to which I had -been accustomed, I had to sleep with one eye open all night, lest I -shouldn’t get into the city in time. I had to be shaving in the morning -before a rooster in the barn-yard had stirred a feather; swallowed my -coffee and toast by steam, and then, still masticating, made for the -front door. There stood Peter with my horse and gig, for I detest your -cars and omnibuses. On the floor of the chaise was a huge basket, in -which to bring home material for the next day’s dinner. On the seat was -a dress of my wife’s to be left “without fail” at Miss Sewing Silk’s, to -have the forty-seventh hook moved one-sixth of a degree higher up on the -back. Then there was a package of shawls from Tom Fools & Co., to be -returned, and a pair of shoes to carry to Lapstone, who was to select -another pair for me to bring out at night; and a demijohn to be filled -with sherry. Well, I whipped up Bucephalus, left my sleeping wife and -babies, and started for town; cogitating over an intricate business -snarl, which bade defiance to any straightening process. I hadn’t gone -half a mile before an old maid (I hate old maids) stopped me to know if -I was going into town, and if I was, if I wouldn’t take her in, as the -omnibuses made her sick. She said she was niece to Squire Dandelion, and -“had a few chores to do a shopping.” So I took her in, or rather, she -took _me_ in (but she didn’t do it but once—for I bought a sulkey next -day!) Well, it came night, and I was hungry as a Hottentot, for I never -could dine, as your married widowers _pro tem_ do, at eating-houses, -where one gravy answers for flesh, fish, and fowl, and the pudding-sauce -is as black as the cook’s complexion. So I went round on an empty -stomach, hunting up my _expressman parcels_, and wending my way to the -stable with arms and pockets running over. When I got home, found my -wife in despair, no tacks in the house to nail down carpets, and not one -to be had at the store in the village; the cook had deserted, because -she couldn’t do without “her _city privileges_” (meaning Jonathan Jones, -the “dry dirt” man); and the chambermaid, a buxom country girl, with -fire-red hair, was spinning round the crockery (_à la_ Blitz) because -she “couldn’t eat with the family.” - -Then Charley was taken with the croup in the night, and in my fright I -put my feet into my coat sleeves, and my arms into my pants, and put on -one of my wife’s ruffles instead of a dicky, and rode three miles in a -pelting rain, for some “goose grease” for his throat. - -Then we never found out till cherries, and strawberries, and peaches -were ripe, how many _friends_ (?) we had. There was a horse hitched at -every rail in the fence, so long as there was anything left to eat on a -tree in the farm; but if my wife went in town shopping, and called on -any of them, they were “out, or engaged;”—or, if at home, had “just done -dinner, and were going to ride.” - -Then there was no school in the neighbourhood for the children, and they -were out in the barn-yard feeding the pigs with lump sugar, and chasing -the hens off the nest to see what was the prospect for eggs, and making -little boats of their shoes, and sailing them in the pond, and milking -the cow in the middle of the day, &c. - -Then if I dressed in the morning in linen coat, thin pants, and straw -hat, I’d be sure to find the wind “dead east” when I got into the city; -or if I put on broadcloth and fixins to match, it would be hotter than -Shadrach’s furnace, all day—while the dense morning fog would extract -the starch from my dicky and shirt-bosom, till they looked very like a -collapsed flapjack. - -Then our meeting-house was a good two miles distant, and we had to walk, -or stay at home; because my factotum (Peter) wouldn’t stay on the farm -without he could have the horse on Sundays to go to Mill Village to see -his affianced Nancy. Then the old farmers leaned on my stone wall, and -laughed till the tears came into their eyes, to see “the city -gentleman’s” experiments in horticulture, as they passed by “to -meetin’.” - -Well, sir, before summer was over, my wife and I looked as jaded as -omnibus horses—she with chance “help” and floods of city company, and I -with my arduous duties as _express man_ for my own family in particular, -and the neighbours in general. - -And now here we are—“No. 9 Kossuth Square.” Can reach anything we want, -by putting our hands out the front windows. If, as the poet says, “_man -made the town_,” all I’ve got to say is—he understood his business! - - - - - THE AGED MINISTER VOTED A DISMISSION. - - -Your minister is “superannuated,” is he? Well, call a parish meeting, -and vote him a dismission; hint that his usefulness is gone; that he is -given to repetition; that he puts his hearers to sleep. Turn him adrift, -like a blind horse, or a lame house dog. Never mind that he has grown -gray in your thankless service—that he has smiled upon your infants at -the baptismal font, given them lovingly away in marriage to their -heart’s chosen, and wept with you when Death’s shadow darkened your -door. Never mind that he has laid aside his pen, and listened many a -time, and oft, with courteous grace, to your tedious, prosy -conversations, when his moments were like gold dust; never mind that he -has patiently and uncomplainingly accepted, at your hands the smallest -pittance that would sustain life, because “the Master” whispered in his -ear, “Tarry here till I come.” Never mind that the wife of his youth, -whom he won from a home of luxury, is broken down with privation and -fatigue, and _your_ thousand unnecessary demands upon her strength, -patience, and time. Never mind that his children, at an early age, were -exiled from the parsonage roof, because there was not “bread enough and -to spare” in their father’s house. Never mind that his library consists -only of a Bible, a Concordance, and a Dictionary; and that to the luxury -of a religious newspaper, he has long been a stranger. Never mind that -his wardrobe would be spurned by many a mechanic in our cities; never -mind that he has “risen early and sat up late,” and tilled the ground -with weary limbs, for earthly “manna,” while his glorious intellect lay -in fetters—_for you_. Never mind _that_; call a parish meeting, and vote -him “superannuated.” Dont’ spare him the starting tear of sensibility, -or the flush of wounded pride, by delicately offering to settle a -colleague, that your aged pastor may rest on his staff in grateful, -gray-haired independence. No! _turn the old patriarch out_; give him -time to go to the moss-grown churchyard, and say farewell to his -unconscious dead, and then give “the right hand of fellowship” to some -beardless, pedantic, noisy college boy, who will save your sexton the -trouble of pounding the pulpit cushions; and who will tell you and the -Almighty, in his prayers, all the political news of the week. - - - - - THE FATAL MARRIAGE. - - -A very pretty girl was Lucy Lee. Don’t ask me to describe her; stars, -and gems, and flowers have long since been exhausted in depicting -heroines. Suffice it to say, Lucy was as pretty a little fairy as ever -stepped foot in a slipper, or twisted a ringlet. - -Of course Lucy knew she was pretty; else why did the gentlemen stare at -her so? Why did Harry Graham send her so many bouquets? Why did Mr. -Smith and Mr. Jones try to sit each other out in an evening call? Why -were picnics and fairs postponed, if she were engaged or ill? Why did so -many young men request an introduction? Why did all the serenaders come -beneath her window? Why was a pew or omnibus never full when she -appeared at the door? And last, though not least, why did all the women -imitate and hate her so? - -We will do Miss Lucy the justice to say, that she bore her blushing -honours very meekly. She never flaunted her conquests in the faces of -less attractive feminines; no, Lucy was the farthest remove from a -coquette; but kind words and bright smiles were as natural to her as -fragrance to flowers, or music to birds. She never _tried_ to win -hearts; and, between you and me, I think that’s the way she did it. - -Grave discussions were often held about Lucy’s future husband; the old -maids scornfully asserting that “beauties generally pick up a crooked -stick at last,” while the younger ones cared very little whom she -married, if she only _were_ married and out of _their_ way. Meanwhile, -Lucy smiled at her own happy thoughts, and sat at her little window on -pleasant, summer evenings, watching for Harry (poor Harry), who, when he -came, was at a loss to know if he had over given her little heart one -flutter, so merrily did she laugh and chat with him. Skilful little -Lucy, it was very right you shouldn’t let him peep into _your_ heart -till he had opened a window in _his own_. - -Lucy’s papa didn’t approve of late hours or lovers; moonlight he -considered but another name for rheumatism. At nine o’clock, precisely, -he rang the bell each evening for family prayers; and when the Bible -came in, lovers were expected to go out. In case they were obtuse—chairs -set back against the wall, or an extra lamp blown out, or the fire taken -apart, were hints sufficiently broad to be understood; and they -generally answered the purpose. Miss Lucy’s little lamp, glowing -immediately after from her bed-room window, gave the _finale_ to the -“Mede and Persian” order of Mr. Lee’s family arrangements. - -Still, Lee house was not a hermitage, by any means. More white cravats -and black coats passed over “Deacon” Lee’s threshold, than into any -hotel in Yankeedom. Little Lucy’s mother, too, was a modern Samaritan, -never weary of experimenting on their dyspeptic and bronchial -affections; while Lucy herself (bless her kind heart) knew full well -that two-thirds of them had large families, empty purses, and more -Judases and Paul Prys than “Aarons and Hurs” in their congregations. - -Among the _habitués_ of Lee house, none was so acceptable to Lucy’s -father as Mr. Ezekiel Clark, a bachelor of fifty, an ex-minister, and -now an agent for some “Benevolent Society.” Ezekiel had an immensely -solemn face; and behind this convenient mask he was enabled to carry -out, undetected, various little plans, ostensibly for the “society’s” -benefit, but privately for his own personal aggrandizement. When -Ezekiel’s opinion was asked, he crossed his hands and feet, and fastened -his eyes upon the wall in an attitude of the deepest abstraction, while -his questioner stood on one leg, awaiting, with the most intense -anxiety, the decision of such an oracular Solomon. Well, not to weary -you, the long and short of it was, that Solomon was a stupid fool, who -spent his time trying to humbug the religious public in general, and -Deacon Lee in particular, into the belief that had _he_ been consulted -before this world was made, he could have suggested great and manifold -improvements. As to Deacon Lee, no cat ever tossed a poor mouse more -dexterously than he played with the deacon’s free will; all the while -very demurely pocketing the spoils in the shape of “donations” to the -“society,” with which he appeased his washerwoman and tailor, and -transported himself across the country on trips to Newport, Saratoga, -&c., &c. - -His favourite plan was yet to be carried out: which was no more or less -than a modest request for the deacon’s pretty daughter, Lucy, in -marriage. Mr. Lee rubbed his chin, and said, “Lucy was nothing but a -foolish little girl;” but Ezekiel overruled it, by remarking that that -was so much the more reason she should have a husband some years her -senior, with some knowledge of the world, qualified to check and advise -her; to all of which, after an extra pinch of snuff, and another look -into Ezekiel’s oracular face, Deacon Lee assented. - -Poor little Lucy! Ezekiel knew very well that her father’s word was law; -and when Mr. Lee announced him as her future husband, she knew she was -just as much Mrs. Ezekiel Clark as if the bridal ring had been already -slipped on her fairy finger. She sighed heavily, to be sure, and patted -her little foot nervously, and when she handed him his tea, thought he -looked older than ever: while Ezekiel swallowed one cup after another, -till his eyes snapped and glowed like a panther’s in ambush. That night -poor Lucy pressed her lips to a faded rose, the gift of Harry Graham; -then cried herself to sleep. - -Unbounded was the indignation of Lucy’s admirers, when the sanctimonious -Ezekiel was announced as the expectant bridegroom. Harry Graham took the -first steamer for Europe, railing at “woman’s fickleness.” (Consistent -Harry! when never a word of love had passed his moustached lip.) - -Shall I tell you how Ezekiel was transformed into the most ridiculous of -lovers? how his self-conceit translated Lucy’s indifference into maiden -coyness? how he looked often in the glass, and thought he was not so -_very_ old after all? how he advised Lucy to tuck away all her bright -curls, because they “looked so childish?” how he named to her papa an -“early marriage day”—not that he felt nervous about losing his prize—oh, -no (?)—but because “the society’s business required his undivided -attention.” - -Well, Lucy, in obedience to her father’s orders, stood up in her -snow-white robe, and vowed “to love and cherish” a man just her father’s -age, with whom she had not the slightest congeniality of taste or -feeling. But papa had said it was an excellent match, and Lucy never -gainsaid papa; still her long lashes drooped heavily over her blue eyes, -and her hand trembled, and her cheek grew deadly pale, as Ezekiel handed -her to the carriage that whirled them rapidly away. - -Shall I tell you how long months and years dragged wearily on? how Lucy -saw through her husband’s mask of hypocrisy and self-conceit? how to -indifference succeeded disgust? how Harry Graham returned from Europe, -with a fair young English bride? how Lucy grew nervous and hysterical? -how Ezekiel soon wearied of his sick wife, and left her in one of those -_tombs_ for the wretched—an insane hospital? and how she wasted, day by -day—then _died_, with only a hired nurse to close those weary blue eyes? - -In a quiet corner of the old churchyard, where Lucy sleeps, a -silver-haired old man, each night at dew-fall, paces to and fro, with -remorseless tread, as if by that weary vigil he would fain atone to the -unconscious sleeper for turning her sweet young life to bitterness. - - - - - A MATRIMONIAL REVERIE. - - “The love of a spirited woman is better worth having than that of any - other female individual you can start.” - - -I wish I had known that before! I’d have plucked up a little spirit, and -not gone trembling through creation like a plucked chicken, afraid of -every animal I ran _a-fowl_ of. I have not dared to say my soul was my -own since the day I was married; and every time Mr. Jones comes into the -entry and sets down that great cane of his, with a thump, you might hear -my teeth chatter down cellar! I always keep one eye on him, in company, -to see if I am saying the right thing; and the middle of a sentence is -the place for me to stop (I can tell you) if _his_ black eyes snap! It’s -so aggravating to find out my mistake at this time o’ day. I ought to -have carried a stiff upper lip long ago. Wonder if _little_ women _can_ -look dignified? Wonder how it would do to turn straight about now? I’ll -try it! - -Harry will come home presently, and thunder out, as usual, “Mary, why -the deuce isn’t dinner ready?” I’ll just set my teeth together, put my -arms akimbo, and look him right straight——oh, _mercy_! I can’t. I should -dissolve! Bless your soul, he’s a six-footer; _such_ whiskers—none of -your _sham settlements_! Such eyes! and such a nice mouth! Come to think -of it, I really believe I _love him_! Guess I’ll go along the old way! - - - - - FRANCES SARGEANT OSGOOD. - - “I’m passing through the eternal gates, - Ere June’s sweet roses blow.” - - -So sang the dying poetess. The “eternal gates” have closed upon her. -Those dark, soul-lit eyes beam upon us no more. “June” has come again, -with its “sweet roses,” its birds, its zephyrs, its flowers and -fragrance. It is such a day as her passionate heart would have revelled -in—a day of Eden-like freshness and beauty. I will gather some fair, -sweet flowers, and visit her grave. - -“Show me Mrs. Fanny Osgood’s monument, please,” said I to the rough -gardener, who was spading the turf in Mount Auburn. - -“In Orange Avenue, Ma’am,” he replied, respectfully indicating, with a -wave of the hand, the path I was to pursue. - -Tears started to my eyes, as I trod reverently down the quiet path. The -little birds she loved so well were skimming confidingly and joyously -along before me, and singing as merrily as if my heart echoed back their -gleeful songs. - -I approached the enclosure, as the gardener had directed me. There were -five graves. _In which_ slept the poetess? for there was _not even a -headstone_! The flush of indignant feeling mounted to my temples; the -warm tears started from my eyes. _She was forgotten!_ Sweet, gifted -Fanny! _in her own family burial place she was forgotten!_ The stranger -from a distance, who had worshipped her genius, might in vain make a -pilgrimage to do her honour. I, who had personally known and loved her, -had not even the poor consolation of decking the bosom of her grave with -the flowers I had gathered; I could not kiss the turf beneath which she -is reposing; I could not drop a tear on the sod, ‘neath which her -remains are mouldering back to their native dust. I could not tell -(though I so longed to know), in which of the little graves—for there -were several—slept her “dear May,” her “pure Ellen;” the little, timid, -household doves, who folded their weary wings when the parent bird was -stricken down, by the aim of the unerring Archer. - -Though allied by no tie of blood to the gifted creature, who, -_somewhere_, lay sleeping there, I felt the flush of shame mount to my -temples, to turn away and leave her dust so unhonoured. Oh, God! to be -so soon forgotten by all the world!—How can even _earth_ look so glad, -when such a warm, passionate heart lies cold and pulseless? Poor, -gifted, forgotten Fanny! She “still lives” in _my_ heart; and, Header, -glance your eye over these touching lines, “written during her last -illness,” and tell me, Shall she not also live in thine? - - - A MOTHER’S PRAYER IN ILLNESS. - - BY MRS. OSGOOD. - - Yes! take them first, my Father! Let my doves - Fold their white wings in Heaven safe on thy breast, - Ere I am called away! I dare not leave - Their young hearts here, their innocent, thoughtless hearts! - Ah! how the shadowy train of future ills - Comes sweeping down life’s vista, as I gaze. - My May! my careless, ardent-tempered May! - My frank and frolic child! in whose blue eyes - Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise; - Whose cheek, the morning in her soul illumes; - Whose little loving heart, a word, a glance, - Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play, - And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms - Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks, - With her clear, flute-like voice, “Do you love me?” - Ah! _let_ me stay! ah! let me still be by, - To answer her, and meet her warm caress! - For, I away, how oft, in this rough world, - That earnest question will be asked in vain! - How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart - Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn, at length, - The hateful, withering lesson of distrust! - Ah! let her nestle still upon this breast, - In which each shade that dims her darling face - Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects - The clouds that cross yon smiling Heaven. - - And thou, - My modest Ellen! tender, thoughtful, true, - Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies; - My pure, proud, noble Ellen! with thy gifts - Of genius, grace and loveliness half-hidden - ‘Neath the soft veil of innate modesty: - How will the world’s wild discord reach thy heart, - To startle and appal! Thy generous scorn - Of all things base and mean—thy quick, keen taste, - Dainty and delicate—thy instinctive fear - Of those unworthy of a soul so pure, - Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien, - All—they will all bring pain to thee, my child. - - And oh! if ever their grace and goodness meet - Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all - the latent evil yet undisciplined - In their young, timid souls forgiveness find? - Forgiveness and forbearance, and soft chidings, - Which I, their mother, learn’d of love, to give. - Ah! let me stay! albeit my heart is weary, - Weary and worn, _tired of its own sad beat, - That finds no echo in this busy world - Which cannot pause to answer_—tired, alike, - Of joy and sorrow—of the day and night! - Ah! _take them_ FIRST, _my Father! and then me_; - And for their sakes—for their sweet sakes, my Father! - Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet. - - - - - A PUNCH AT “PUNCH.” - - -“What is the height of a woman’s ambition? Diamonds.”—_Punch._ - -Sagacious Punch! Do you know the reason? It is because the more -“diamonds” a woman owns, the more _precious_ she becomes in the eyes of -your discriminating sex. What pair of male eyes ever saw a “crow’s -foot,” gray hair, or wrinkle, in company with a _genuine diamond_? Don’t -you go down on your marrow bones, and vow that the owner is a Venus, a -Hebe, a Juno, a sylph, a fairy, an angel? Would you stop to look -(_connubially_) at the most bewitching woman on earth, whose only -diamonds were “_in her eye_?” Well, it is no great marvel, Mr. Punch. -The race of _men_ is about extinct. Now and then you will meet with a -specimen; but I’m sorry to inform you that the most of them are nothing -but coat tails, walking behind a moustache, destitute of sufficient -energy to earn their own cigars and “Macassar,” preferring to dangle at -the heels of a _diamond_ wife, and meekly receive their allowance, as -her mamma’s prudence and her own inclinations may suggest. - - - - - BEST THINGS. - - -I have a horror of “best” things, come they in the shape of shoes, -garments, bonnets, or rooms. In such a harness my soul peers restlessly -out, asking “if I be I.” I’m puzzled to find myself. I become stiff and -formal, and artificial as my surroundings. - -But of all the best things, spare me the infliction of a “best room.” -Out upon a carpet too fine to tread upon, books too dainty to handle, -sofas that but mock your weary limbs, and curtains that dare not face a -ray of sunlight! - -Had I a house, there should be no “best room” in it. No upholsterer -should exorcise comfort or children from my door-sill. The free, fresh -air should be welcome to play through it; the bright, glad sunshine to -lighten and warm it; while fresh mantel-flowers should woo for us visits -from humming-bird and drowsy bee. - -For pictures, I’d look from out my windows upon a landscape painted by -the Great Master—ever fresh, ever varied, and never marred by envious -“cross lights;” now, wreathed in morning’s silvery mist; now, basking in -noon’s broad beam; now, flushed with sunset’s golden glow; now, sleeping -in dreamy moonlight. - -For statuary, fill my house with children—rosy, dimpled, laughing -children; now, tossing their sunny ringlets from open brows; now, -veiling their merry eyes in slumbrous dreams, ‘neath snow-white lids; -now, sweetly grave, on bended knee, with clasped hands, and lisped words -of holy prayer. - -Did I say I’d have nothing “best?” Pardon me. Sunday should be the best -day of all the seven—not ushered in with ascetic form, or lengthened -face, or stiff and rigid manners. Sweetly upon the still Sabbath air -should float the matin hymn of happy childhood, blending with the early -songs of birds, and wafted upward, with flowers’ incense, to Him whose -very name is LOVE. It should be no day for puzzling the half-developed -brain of childhood with gloomy creeds, to shake the simple faith that -prompts the innocent lips to say, “Our Father.” It should be no day to -sit upright on stiff-backed chairs, till the golden sun should set. No; -the birds should not be more welcome to warble, the flowers to drink in -the air and sunlight, or the trees to toss their lithe limbs, free and -fetterless. - -“I’m _so sorry_ that to-morrow is Sunday!” From whence does this sad -lament issue? From under _your_ roof, oh mistaken but well-meaning -Christian parents—from the lips of _your_ child, whom you compel to -listen to two or three unintelligible sermons, sandwiched between Sunday -schools, and finished off at nightfall by tedious repetitions of creeds -and catechisms, till sleep releases your weary victim! No wonder your -child _shudders_ when the minister tells him that “Heaven is one eternal -Sabbath.” - -Oh, mistaken parent! relax the over-strained bow—_prevent the fearful -rebound_, and make the Sabbath what God designed it, not a weariness, -but the “_best_” and happiest day of all the seven. - - - - - THE VESTRY MEETING. - - -The clock had just struck seven. The sharp-nosed old sexton of the -Steeple Street Church had arranged the lights to his mind, determined -the proper latitude and longitude of Bibles and hymn-books, peeped -curiously into the little black stove in the corner, and was now -admonishing every person who passed in of the propriety of depositing -the “free soil” on his boots upon the entry door-mat. - -In they crept, one after another—pale-faced seamstresses, glad of a -reprieve; servant girls, who had turned their backs upon unwashed -dishes; mothers, whose “crying babies” were astounding the neighbours; -old maids, who had nowhere to spend their long evenings; widowers, who -felt an especial solicitude lest any of the sisters should be left to -return home unprotected; girls and boys, who came because they were bid, -and who had no very clear idea of the performances; and last, though not -least, Ma’am Spy, who thought it her duty to see that none of the -church-members were missing, and to inquire every Tuesday night, of her -friend Miss Prim, if she did n’t consider Mrs. Violet a proper subject -for church discipline, because she always had money enough to pay her -board bills, although her husband had deserted her. - -Then there were the four Misses Nipper, who crawled in as if the vestry -floor were paved with live kittens, and who had never been known, for -four years, to vary one minute in their attendance or to keep awake from -the first prayer to the doxology. - -Then there was Mrs. John Emmons, who sang the loudest, and prayed the -longest, and wore the most expensive bonnets, of any female member in -the church—whose name was on every committee, who instituted the _select -praying circle_ for the more _aristocratic_ portion of the parish, and -whose pertinacious determination to sit next to her husband at the -Tuesday night meeting, was regarded by the uninitiated as a beautiful -proof of conjugal devotion; but which, after patient investigation -(between you and me, dear reader), was found to be for the purpose of -arresting his coat-flaps when he popped up to make mental shipwreck of -himself by making a speech. - -Then there was Mr. Nobbs, whose remarks were a re-hash of the different -religious periodicals of the day, diversified with misapplied texts of -Scripture, and delivered with an intonation and gesticulation that would -have given Demosthenes fits. - -Then there was Zebedee Falstaff, who accomplished more for the -amelioration of the human race, according to his own account, than any -man of his aldermanic proportions in the nation, and who delivered (on a -hearty supper) a sleepy exhortation on the duties of self-denial and -charity, much to the edification of one of his needy relatives, to whose -tearful story he had that very day turned a deaf ear. - -Then there was brother Higgins, who was always “just going” to make a -speech, “if brother Thomas hadn’t so exactly anticipated his sentiments -a minute before.” - -Then there was Mr. Addison Theophilus Shakspere Milton, full of poetical -and religious inspiration, who soared so high in the realms of fancy, -that his hearers lost sight of him. - -Then there was little Dr. Pillbox, who gave us every proof, in his -weekly exhortations, of his knowledge of “drugs;” not to mention young -Smith, who chased an idea round till he lost it, and then took shelter -behind a bronchial difficulty which compelled him “unwillingly (?) to -come to a close.” - -Then there were some sincere, good-hearted Christians—respectable -citizens—worthy heads of families; but whose lips had never been -“touched with a live coal from off the altar.” - -Where was the pastor? Oh, he was there—a slight, fragile, scholar-like -looking man, with a fine intellectual-looking face, exquisitely refined -tastes and sensibilities, and the meek spirit of “the Master.” Had those -slender shoulders no cross to bear? When chance sent some fastidious -worldling through that vestry door, did it cost him nothing to watch the -smile of contempt curl the stranger’s lip, as some uneducated, but -well-meaning layman, presented with stammering tongue, in ungrammatical -phrase, distorted, one-sided, bigoted views of great truths which _his_ -eloquent tongue might have made as clear as the noonday, and as cheering -and welcome as heaven’s own blessed light, to the yearning, dissatisfied -spirit? Oh, is there _nothing_ in religion, when it can so subdue the -pride of intellect as to enable its professor to disregard the -stammering tongue, and sit meekly at the feet of the ignorant disciple -because he _is_ a disciple? - - - - - A BROADWAY SHOP REVERIE. - - -Forty dollars for a pocket-handkerchief! My dear woman! you need a -strait-jacket, even though you may be the fortunate owner of a dropsical -purse. - -I won’t allude to the legitimate use of a pocket-handkerchief; I won’t -speak of the sad hearts _that_ “forty dollers,” in the hands of some -philanthropist, might lighten; I won’t speak of the “crows’ feet” that -will he pencilled on your fair face, when your laundress carelessly -sticks the point of her remorseless smoothing iron through the flimsy -fabric, or the constant _espionage_ you must keep over your treasure in -omnibuses, or when promenading; but I _will_ ask you how many of the -lords of creation, for whose especial benefit you array yourself, will -know whether that cobweb rag fluttering in your hand cost forty dollars -or forty cents? - -Pout if you like, and toss your head, and say that you “don’t dress to -please the gentlemen.” I don’t hesitate to tell you (at this distance -from your finger nails) that is a downright——mistake! and that the -enormous sums most women expend for articles, the cost of which few, -save shopkeepers and butterfly feminines, know, is both astounding and -ridiculous. - -True, you have the sublime gratification of flourishing your -forty-dollar handkerchief, of sporting your twenty-dollar “Honiton -collar,” or of flaunting your thousand-dollar shawl, before the envious -and admiring eyes of some weak sister, who has made the possible -possession of the article in question a profound and life-time study; -you may pass, too, along the crowded _pavé_, labouring under the -hallucination, that every passer-by appreciates your dry-goods value. -_Not a bit of it!_ Yonder is a group of gentlemen. You pass them in your -promenade; they glance carelessly at your _tout ensemble_, but their -eyes rest admiringly on a figure close behind you. It will chagrin you -to learn that this locomotive loadstone has on a seventy-five cent hat -of simple straw, a dress of lawn one shilling per yard, a twenty-five -cent collar, and a shawl of the most unpretending price and fabric. - -All these items you take in at a glance, as you turn upon her your -aristocratic eye of feminine criticism, to extract, if possible, the -talismanic secret of her magnetism. What is it? Let me tell you. Nature, -wilful dame, has an aristocracy of her own, and in one of her -independent freaks has so daintily fashioned your rival’s limbs that the -meanest garb could not _mar_ a grace, nor the costliest fabric _add_ -one. Compassionating her slender purse, nature has also added an -artistic eye, which accepts or rejects fabrics and colours with unerring -taste; hence her apparel is always well chosen and harmonious, producing -the _effect_ of a rich toilet at the cost of “a mere song;” and as she -sweeps majestically past, one understands why Dr. Johnson pronounced a -woman to be “perfectly dressed when one could never remember what she -wore.” - -Now, I grant you, it is very provoking to be eclipsed by a star _without -a name_—moving out of the sphere of “upperten”-dom—a woman who never -wore a “camel’s hair shawl” or owned a diamond in her life; after the -expense you have incurred, too, and the fees you have paid to Mesdames -Pompadour and Stewart for the first choice of their Parisian fooleries. -It is harrowing to the sensibilities. I appreciate the awkwardness of -your position; still, my compassion jogs my invention vainly for a -remedy—unless, indeed, you consent to crush such democratic presumption, -by _labelling_ the astounding price of the dry-goods upon your -aristocratic back. - - - - - “THE OLD WOMAN.” - - -Look into yonder window! What do you see? Nothing _new_, surely; nothing -but what the angels have looked smilingly down upon since the morning -stars first sang together; nothing but a loving mother hushing upon her -faithful breast a wailing babe, whose little life hangs by a slender -thread. Mortal lips have said, “The boy must die!” - -A mother’s _hope_ never dies. She clasps him closer to her breast, and -gazes upwards;—food, and sleep, and rest are forgotten, so that that -little flickering taper die not out. Gently upon her soft, warm breast -she woos for it baby slumbers; long, weary nights, up and down the -cottage floor she paces, soothing its restless moaning. Suns rise and -set—stars pale—seasons come and go;—she heeds them not, so that those -languid eyes but beam brightness. Down the meadow—by the brook—on the -hill-side—she seeks with him the health-restoring breeze. - -God be praised!—health comes at last! What joy to see the rosy flush -mantle on the pallid cheek!—what joy to see the shrunken limbs grow -round with health!—what joy to see the damp, thin locks grow crisp and -glossy! - -What matter though the knitting lie neglected, or the spinning-wheel be -dumb, so that the soaring kite or bouncing ball but please his boyish -fancy, and prompt the gleeful shout? What matter that the coarser fare -be _hers_, so that the daintier morsel pass _his_ rosy lips? What matter -that _her_ robe be threadbare, so that _his_ graceful limbs be clad in -Joseph’s rainbow coat? What matter that _her_ couch be hard, so that -_his_ sunny head rest nightly on a downy pillow? What matter that _her_ -slender purse be empty, so that _his_ childish heart may never know -denial? - -Years roll on. That loving mother’s eye grows dim; her glossy locks are -silvered; her limbs are sharp and shrunken; her footsteps slow and -tottering. And the boy?—the cherished Joseph?—he of the bold, bright -eye, and sinewy limb, and bounding step? Surely, from his kind hand -shall flowers be strewn on the dim, downward path to the dark valley; -surely will her son’s strong arm be hers to lean on; his voice of music -sweeter to her dull ear than seraphs’ singing. - -No, no!—the hum of busy life has struck upon his ear, drowning the voice -of love. He has become a MAN! refined, fastidious—and to his forgetful, -unfilial heart (God forgive him), the mother who bore him is only—“_the -old woman!_” - - - - - SUNDAY MORNING AT THE DIBDINS. - - -“Jane,” suddenly exclaims Mrs. Dibdin, “do you know it is nearly time -for your Sabbath School to commence? I hope you have committed your -hymns and commandments to memory. Put on your little jet bracelet, and -your ruffled pantalettes. Now, say the third commandment, while I fix -your curls. It does seem to me as if your hair never curls half as well -on Sundays as on week days. Mind, you ask Letty Brown where her mother -bought that cunning little straw hat of hers—not in Sabbath School, of -course—that would be very wicked—but after it is over, as you walk along -to church. - -“Jane, what’s the chief end of man? Don’t know? Well, it’s the most -astonishing thing that that Assembly’s Catechism don’t stay in your head -any better! It seems to go into one ear and out of the other. Now pay -particular attention while I tell you what the chief end of man is. The -chief end of man is—is—well—I—why don’t you hold still?—you are always -putting a body out! You had better run up stairs and get your book. -Here, stop a minute, and let me tie your sash straight. Pink is very -becoming to you, Jane; you inherit your mother’s blonde beauty. Come -away from that glass, Jane, this minute; don’t you know it is wicked to -look in the glass on Sunday? See if you can say your ‘creed’ that your -Episcopal teacher wants you to learn. Come; ‘I believe’—(In less than -one week your toes will be through those drab gaiters, Jane). Goodness, -if there isn’t the bell! Why did n’t you get your lesson Saturday -evening? Oh! I recollect; you were at dancing school. Well—you needn’t -say anything about that to your teacher; because—because there’s ‘a time -to dance,’ and a time to go to meeting, and _now_ it is meeting time; -so, come here, and let me roll that refractory ringlet over my finger -once more, and then, do you walk _solemnly_ along to church, as a -baptised child should. - -“Here! stop a bit!—you may wear this coral bracelet of mine, if you -won’t lose it. There; now you look _most_ as pretty as your mother did, -when she was your age. Don’t toss your head so, Jane; people will call -you vain; and you know I have always told you that it makes very little -difference how a little girl _looks_, if she is only a little Christian. -There, good-bye;—repeat your catechism going along; and don’t let the -wind blow your hair out of curl.” - - - SUNDAY NOON AT THE DIBDINS. - - (_Mr. Dibdin reading a pile of business letters, fresh from the - post-office; Mrs. Dibdin, in a pearl-coloured brocade and lace - ruffles, devouring “Bleak House.”_) - -_Mrs. Dibdin._—“Jane, is it possible I see you on the holy Sabbath day, -with Mother Goose’s Melodies? Put it away, this minute, and get your -Bible. There’s the pretty story of Joseph building the ark, and Noah in -the lion’s den, and Isaac killing his brother Cain, and all that.” - -_Jane._—“Well, but, mamma, you know I can’t spell the big words. Won’t -you read it to me?” - -_Mrs. Dibdin._—“I am busy reading now, my dear; go and ask your papa. - -_Jane._—“Please, papa, will you read to me in my little Bible? mamma is -busy.” - -_Mr. Dibdin._—“My dear, will you be kind enough to pull that bell for -Jane’s nursery maid?—she is getting troublesome.” - - * * * * * - -Exit Miss Jane to the nursery, to listen to Katy’s and her friend -Bridget’s account of their successful flirtations with John O’Calligan -and Michael O’Donahue. - - - - - ITEMS OF TRAVEL. - - -“All the world and his wife” are travelling; and a nice day it is to -commence a journey. How neat and tasteful those ladies look in their -drab travelling dresses; how self-satisfied their cavaliers, freshly -shaved and shampooed, in their brown linen over-alls. What apoplectic -looking carpet-bags; full of newspapers, and oranges, and bon-bons, and -novels, and night-caps! Saratoga, Newport, Niagara, White Hills, Mammoth -Cave—of these, the ladies chatter. - -Well, here come the cars. Band-boxes, trunks, baskets and bundles are -counted, and checks taken; a grave discussion is solemnly held, as to -which side of the cars the sun shines on; seats are chosen with due -deliberation, and the locomotive does its own “puffing” to the -bystanders, and darts off. - -It is noon! How intense the heat; how annoying the dust; how crowded the -cars; how incessant the cries of that poor tired baby! The ladies’ -bonnets are getting awry, their foreheads flushed, and their smooth -tresses unbecomingly _frowsed_ (_See_ Fern Dictionary). Now their little -chattering tongues have a reprieve, for Slumber has laid her leaden -finger on each drooping eyelid; even Alexander Smith’s new poem has -slided from between taper fingers. Dream not lovingly of the author, -fair sleeper: poets and butterflies lose their brilliancy when caught. - -How intensely ugly men look asleep! doubled up like so many -jack-knives—sorry looking “blades”—with their mouths wide open, and -their limbs twisted into all sorts of Protean shapes. Stay; there’s one -in yonder corner who is an exception. That man knows it is becoming to -him to go to sleep. He has laid his head against the window and taken -off his hat, that the wind might lift those black curls from his broad -white brow;—he knows that his eye-lashes are long and dark, and that his -finely chiselled lips need no defect-concealing moustache;—he knows that -he can afford to turn towards us his fine profile, with its classical -outline;—he knows that his cravat is well tied, and that the hand upon -which he supports his cheek is both well-formed and daintily white. -Wonder if he knows anything else? - -We halt suddenly. “Back! back!” says the conductor. The sleepers start -to their feet; the old maid in the corner gives a little hysterical -shriek; brakemen, conductor, and engineer jump off, push back their -hats, and gaze nervously down the road. “What’s the matter?” echo scores -of anxious voices. “What’s the matter?” Oh, nothing; only a mother made -childless: only a little form—five minutes ago bounding with happy -life—lying a mangled corpse upon the track. The engineer says, with an -oath, “that the child was a fool not to get out of the way,” and sends -one of the hands back to pick up the dismembered limbs and carry them to -its mother, who forbade even the winds of heaven to blow too roughly on -her boy; then he gives the “iron horse” a fresh impetus, and we dash on; -imagination paints a scene in yonder house which many a frantic parent -will recognize; and from which (even in thought) we turn shuddering -away—while the weary mother in the corner covers her fretful babe with -kisses, and thanks God, through her tears, that her loving arms are -still its sheltering fold. - - - - - NEWSPAPER-DOM. - - -It is beyond my comprehension how Methuselah lived nine hundred and -sixty-nine years without a newspaper; or, what the mischief Noah did, -during that “forty days” shower when he had exhausted the study of -Natural History. It makes me yawn to think of it. Or what later -generations did, the famished half-hour before meals; or, when, -travelling, when the old stage-coach crept up a steep hill, some dusty -hot summer noon. Shade of Franklin! how they must have been _ennuyed_! - -How did they ever know when flour had “riz”—or what was the market price -of pork, small tooth-combs, cotton, wool, and molasses? What -christianized gouty old men and snappish old ladies? What kept the old -maids from making mince-meat of pretty young girls? What did love-sick -damsels do for “sweet bits of poetry” and “touching continued stories?” -Where did their papas find a solace when the coffee was muddy, the toast -smoked, and the beef-steak raw, or done to leather? What did cab-drivers -do, while waiting for a tardy patron? What did draymen do, when there -was “a great calm” at the dry-goods store of Go Ahead and Co? What -screen did husbands dodge behind, when their wives asked them for money? - -Some people define happiness to be one thing, and some another. I define -it to be a room “carpeted and furnished” with “exchanges,” with a place -cleared in the middle for two arm-chairs—one for a clever editor, and -one for yourself. I say it is to take up those papers, one by one, and -laugh over the funny things and skip the stupid ones; to admire the -ingenuity of would-be literary lights, who pilfer one half their -original (?) ideas, and steal the remainder. I say it is to shudder a -thanksgiving that you are not in the marriage list, and to try, for the -hundredth time, to solve the riddle: How can each paper that passes -through your hands be “the best and cheapest periodical in the known -world?” - -I say it is to look round an editorial sanctum, inwardly chuckling at -the forlorn appearance it makes without feminine fingers to keep it -tidy: to see the looking-glass veiled with cobwebs; the dust on the desk -thick enough to write your name in; the wash-bowl and towel mulatto -colour; the soap liquified to a jelly (editors like soft soap!); the -table covered with a heterogeneous mass of manuscripts, and paper -folders, and wafers, and stamps, and blotting-paper, and envelopes, and -tailors’ bills, and letters complimentary, belligerent, and pacific. - -I say it is to hear the editor complain, with a frown, of the heat and -his headache; to conceal a smile, while you suggest the _probability_ of -relief if a window should be opened; to see him start at your superior -profundity; to hear him say, with a groan, how much “proof” he has to -read before he can leave for home; to take off your gloves and help him -to correct it; to hear him say, there is a book for review, which he has -not time to look over; to take a folder and cut the leaves, and affix -guide-boards for notice at all the fine passages; to see him kick over -an innocent chair, because he cannot get hold of the right word for an -editorial; to feel (while you help him to it) very much like the mouse -who gnawed the lion out of the net, and then to take up his paper some -days after, and find a paragraph endorsed by him, “deploring the -intellectual inferiority of women.” - -That’s what I call happiness! - - - - - HAVE WE ANY MEN AMONG US? - - -Walking along the street the other day, my eye fell upon this placard— - - ┌~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~┐ - ∫ MEN WANTED ∫ - └~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~┘ - -Well; they have been “wanted” for sometime; but the article is not in -the market, although there are plenty of spurious imitations. Time was, -when a lady could decline writing for a newspaper without subjecting -herself to paragraphic attacks from the editor, invading the sanctity of -her private life. Time was, when she could decline writing without the -editor’s revenging himself, by asserting falsely that “he had often -refused her offered contributions!” Time was, when, if an editor heard a -vague rumour affecting a lady’s reputation, he did not endorse it by -republication, and then meanly screen himself from responsibility by -adding, “we presume, however, that this is only an _on dit_!” Time was, -when a lady could be a successful authoress, without being obliged to -give an account to the dear public of the manner in which she -appropriated the proceeds of her honest labours. Time was, when -whiskered braggadocios in railroad cars and steamboats did not assert -(in blissful ignorance that they were looking the lady authoress -straight in the face!) that they were “on the most intimate terms of -friendship with her!” Time was, when _milk-and-water husbands and -relatives_ did not force a defamed woman to unsex herself in the manner -stated in the following paragraph.— - - “MAN SHOT BY A YOUNG WOMAN.—One day last week, a young lady of good - character, daughter of Col. ——, having been calumniated by a young - man, called upon him, armed with a revolver. The slanderer could not, - or did not deny his allegations; whereupon she fired, inflicting a - dangerous, if not a fatal, wound in his throat.” - -Yes; it is very true that there are “MEN wanted.” Wonder how many 1854 -will furnish? - - - - - HOW TO CURE THE BLUES. - - -And so you have “the blues,” hey? Well, I pity you! No I don’t, either; -there’s no need of it. If one friend proves a Judas, never mind! plenty -of warm, generous, nice hearts left for the winning. If you are poor, -and have to sell your free agency for a sixpence a week to some -penurious relative, or be everlastingly thankful for the gift of an old -garment that won’t hang together till you get it home, go to work like -ten thousand evil spirits, and make yourself _independent_! then see -with what a different pair of spectacles you’ll get looked at! Nothing -like it! You can have everything on earth you want, when you don’t -_need_ anything. - -Don’t the Bible say, “To him that hath shall be given?” No mistake, you -see. When the wheel turns round with you on the top (saints and angels!) -you can do anything you like—play any sort of a prank—pout or smile, be -grave or gay, saucy or courteous, it will pass muster! you never need -trouble yourself—can’t do anything wrong if you try. At the most it will -only be an “eccentricity!” But you never need be such a fool as to -expect that anybody will find out you are a _diamond_ till you get a -_showy setting_. You’ll get knocked and cuffed around, and roughly -handled, with paste and tinsel, and rubbish, till that auspicious moment -arrives. Then! won’t all the sheaves bow down to your sheaf?—not one -rebellious straggler left in the field! But stay a little. - -In your adversity, found you one faithful heart that stood firmly by -your side and shared your tears, when skies were dark, and your pathway -thorny and steep, and summer friends fell off like autumn leaves? By all -that’s noble in a woman’s heart, give that one the first place in it -now. Let the world see _one_ heart proof against the sunshine of -prosperity. You can’t repay such a friend—all the mines of Golconda -couldn’t do it. But in a thousand delicate ways, prompted by a woman’s -unerring tact, let your heart come forth gratefully, generously, -lovingly. Pray heaven he be on the shady side of fortune—that your heart -and hand may have a wider field for gratitude to show itself. Extract -every thorn from his pathway, chase away every cloud of sorrow, brighten -his lonely hours, smooth his pillow of sickness, and press lovingly his -hand in death. - - - - - RAIN IN THE CITY. - - -Patter, patter, patter! down comes the city shower on dusty and heated -pavements; gleefully the willow trees shake out their long green -tresses, and make their toilettes in the little mirror pools beneath. -The little child runs out, with outspread palm, to catch the cool and -pearly drops. The weary labourer, drawing a long, grateful breath, bares -the flushed brow of toil; boyhood, with bare and adventurous foot, wades -through gutter rivers, forgetful of birch, and bread and butter. Ladies -skutter tiptoe, with uplifted skirts, to the shelter of some friendly -omnibus; gentlemen, in the independent consciousness of corduroys, take -their time and umbrellas, while the poor jaded horses shake their sleek -sides, but do not say neigh to their impromptu shower-bath. - -The little sparrows twitter their thanks from the dripping eaves, -circling the piazza, then laving their speckled breasts at the little -lakelets in the spout. Old Towser lies with his nose to the door-mat, -sniffing “the cool,” with the philosophy of Diogenes. Petrarch sits in -the parlour with his Laura, too happy when some vivid lightning flash -gives him an excuse for closer quarters. Grandpapa puts on his -spectacles, walks to the window, and taking a look at the surrounding -clouds, says, “How this rain will make the corn grow.” The old maid -opposite sets out a single geranium, scraggy as herself, invoking some -double blossoms. Forlorn experimenter! even a spinster’s affections must -centre somewhere. - -See that little pinafore mariner stealing out, with one eye on the -nursery window, to navigate his pasteboard boat in the street pools. -There’s a flash of sunshine! What a glorious rainbow! The little fellow -tosses his arms aloft, and gazes at it. Ten to one, the little Yankee, -instead of admiring its gorgeous splendour, is wishing he could invert -it for a swing, and seizing it at both ends, sweep through the stars -with it. Well, it is nothing new for a child to like “the _milky way_.” - -Fair weather again! piles of heavy clouds are drifting by, leaving the -clear blue sky as serene as when “the morning stars first sang -together.” Nature’s gems sparkle lavishly on glossy leaf and swaying -branch, on bursting bud and flower; while the bow of peace melts gently -and imperceptibly away, like the dying saint into the light of heaven. - -Oh, earth is gloriously fair! Alas! that the trail of the serpent should -be over it all! - - - - - MRS. WEASEL’S HUSBAND. - - “A woman, a dog, and a walnut tree, - The more they are beaten the better they be.” - - -“Any man who believes that, had better step into my shoes,” said little -Mr. Weasel. “I suppose I’m what you call ‘the head of the family;’ but I -shouldn’t know it if somebody didn’t tell me of it. Heigho! who’d have -thought it five-and-twenty years ago? Didn’t I stifle a tremendous -strong _penchant_ for Diana Dix (never smoked, I remember, for four -hours after it), because I had my private suspicions she’d hold the -reins in spite of my teeth? And so I offered myself to little Susey Snow -(mistake in her name, by the way). You might have spanned her round the -waist, or lifted her with one hand. She never looked anybody in the face -when they spoke to her, and her voice was as soft as —— my brains! I -declare it’s unaccountable how deceitful female nature is! Never was so -taken in in my life; she’s a regular Vesuvius crater! Her will? (don’t -mention it!) Try to prize up the Alps with a cambric needle! If she’d -only fly into a passion, I think I could venture to pluck up a little -spirit; but that cool, determined, never-say-die look would turn Cayenne -pepper to oil. It wilts _me_ right down, like a cabbage leaf. I’d as -lief face a loaded cannon! I wish I could go out evenings; but she won’t -let me. Tom Jones asked me yesterday why I wasn’t at Faneuil Hall the -night before. I told him I had the bronchitis. He saw through it! Sent -me a pair of reins the next day—‘said to be a certain cure!’ Ah! it’s -very well for _him_ to laugh; but it’s no joke to me. I suppose it’s -time to feed that baby; Mrs. Weasel will be home pretty soon from the -‘Woman’s Rights Convention.’ No, I won’t, either; I’ll give it some -paregoric, and run up garret and smoke one cigar. I feel as though I -_couldn’t look a humming-bird in the eye_! Nice cigar!—_very_ nice! What -a fool I am to be ordered round by a little blue-eyed woman, three feet -high! I’m a very good-looking fellow, and I won’t stand it! Isn’t that -little Weasel as much her baby as it is mine? Certainly.” - -“M-r. W-e-a-s-e-l!” - -“Hem—my—dear—(oh! that eye of hers!)—you see, my dear (there, I won’t do -it again, Mrs. Weasel). How’s ‘the Convention,’ dear? Carried the day, I -hope?—made one of your smart speeches, hey? ’Tis n’t every man owns such -a chain-lightning wife; look out for your rights, dear (deuce knows _I_ -dare not)!” - - - - - COUNTRY SUNDAY _v._ CITY SUNDAY. - - -’Tis Sunday in the city. - -The sun glares murkily down, through the smoky and stench-laden -atmosphere, upon the dirty pavements; newsboys, with clamorous cries, -are vending their wares; milkmen rattle over the pavements, and startle -drowsy sleepers by their shrill whoopings; housemaids are polishing door -knobs, washing sidewalks, and receiving suspicious-looking baskets and -parcels from contiguous groceries and bakeshops. - -The sun rolls on his course; purifying the air and benignly smiling upon -all the dwellers in the city, as though he would gently win them from -unholy purposes to heavenly meditations and pursuits. - -And now the streets are filled with a motley show of silks, satins, -velvets, feathers, and jewels—while carriages and vehicles of every -description roll past, freighted with counter-freed youths and their -Dulcineas, bent upon a holiday. Hundreds of “drinking saloons” belch -forth their pestiferous breath, upon which is borne, to the ear of the -passer-by (perhaps a lady or tender child), the profane curse and -obscene gibe; and from their portals reel intoxicated brutes, who once -were men. Military companies march to and fro; now at slow and solemn -pace, to the mournful strains of a dead-march; now (having rid -themselves of the corpse of their dead comrade) they gaily “step out,” -blithe and merry, to the cheering strains of an enlivening quickstep, -based on an Ethiopian melody; the frivolous tones blending discordantly -with the chimes of the Sabbath bells. And stable-keepers, oyster and -ice-cream vendors, liquor sellers, _et id omne genus_, are reaping a -golden harvest, upon which the “Lord of the Sabbath” shall, sooner or -later, send “a blight and a mildew.” - - * * * * * - -’Tis Sunday in the country. - -Serene and majestic, in the distance, lie the blue, cloud-capped hills; -while, at their base, the silver stream winds gracefully, sparkling in -the glad sunlight. Now the fragrant branches stir with feathered life; -and one clear, thrilling carol lifts the finger from the dumb lip of -Nature, heralding a full orchestra of untaught choristers, which plume -their wings, and soaring, seem to say, Praise Him! praise Him! - -Obedient to the sweet summons, the silver-haired old man and rosy child, -along grassy, winding paths, his to the little village church. On the -gentle maiden’s kindly arm leans the bending form of “four score years -and ten,” gazing, with dimmed but grateful eye, on leafy stem, and -bursting bud, and full-blown flower; or, listening to the wind dallying -with the tall tree-tops, or kissing the fields of golden grain, which -wave their graceful recognition, as it sweeps by on its fragrant path. - -And now, slowly the Sabbath sun sinks beneath the western hills in gold -and purple glory. Gently the dew of peace descends on closed eyes and -flowers; while holy stars creep softly out, to keep their tireless watch -o’er happy hearts and Sabbath-loving homes. - -[Illustration] - - - - - OUR STREET. - - -Sing away, little bird! only you, the trees, and myself, are stirring; -but you have an appreciative audience. Your sweet carol and the graceful -waving of yonder tree, as the soft wind turns up its silver-lined leaves -in the sunlight, fill my heart with a quiet gladness. - -Whom have we here? with ragged skirt, bare mud-begrimed feet and ankles, -tattered shawl, and tangled masses of hair fluttering round a face -ploughed deep with time and trouble. See—she stoops, and, stretching her -skeleton fingers towards the gutter, grasps some refuse rags and paper, -and thrusts them greedily into the dirty sack she bears upon her -shoulders. Good heavens! that dirty mass of rags a _woman_? How wearily -she leans against yonder tree, gazing upward into its branches! Perhaps -that little bird’s matin song has swept some chord for long years -untouched in that callous heart; telling her of the shelter of a happy -home, where Plenty sat at the board and Love kept guard at the -threshold. Oh! who can tell? One more song, my little bird, ere she -goes; not so _mockingly_ joyous, but sweet, and soft, and low—a requiem -for blighted youth and blasted hopes; for know that the blue sky to -whose arch you soar, bends over misery enough to make the bright seraphs -weep. - -Bless me! what yell is that? “Yeei—ho—oe—yeei—ho.” It is only a milkman, -and that horrid cry simply means, “Milk for sale.” What a picture of -laziness is the vendor! Jump off your cart, man, thump on the kitchen -door with your milk-dipper, and rouse that sleepy cook who is keeping -you waiting her pleasure; that’s the way to do business: pshaw! your -manliness must have been diluted with your milk. One by one they emerge, -the dead-and-alive looking housemaids, dragging their brooms after them -lazily and helplessly, and bandy words with the vexed milkman, and -gossip with each other, as they rest their chins on their broom-handles, -on “kitchen-cabinet” affairs. - -Here comes an Italian, balancing a shelf-load of plaster Cupids and -Venuses, and dove-circled vases. How mournfully his dark eyes look out -from beneath his tasseled cap, as he lifts his burden from his head for -a momentary reprieve. They tell of weary feet, a heavy heart, and a -light purse. They tell, with a silent reproach, that our hearts are as -cold as our clime. Oh! not _all_, good Pietro! For your sake, I’ll make -myself mistress of that sleeping child; though, truth to say, the -sculptor who moulded it has most wofully libelled Nature. Would I could -see the sunny skies upon which your dark eyes first opened, and all the -glorious forms that beauty wears in your vine-clad home beyond the seas. - -How the pedestrians hurry along!—merchants to their cares and their -counting-rooms, and shop-girls and seamstresses to their prisons. Here -comes a group of pale-faced city children, on their way to school. God -bless the little unfortunates! Their little feet should be crushing the -strawberries, ripe and sweet, on some sunny hillslope, where breath of -now-mown hay and clover blossoms would give roses to their cheeks and -strength and grace to their cramped and half-developed limbs. Poor -little creatures! they never saw a patch of blue sky bigger than their -satchels, or a blade of grass that dared to grow without permission from -the mayor, aldermen, and common council. Poor little skeletons! tricked -out like the fashion-prints, and fed on diluted skim-milk and big -dictionaries—I pity you. - -A hand-organ! ground by a modern Peter Schlemel, and accompanied by a -woman whose periphery it would be vain to compute by inches, singing, - - “I’d be a butterfly.” - -Ye gods and graces! if ye heed her prayer, grant that she alight not on -my _two-lips_! Now she is warbling, - - “Home! sweet home,” - -as if she wasn’t making it for me, this minute, a perfect place of -torment! Avaunt! thou libel upon feminity!—creep into corduroys, and -apply for the office of town crier. - -A funeral! That is nothing uncommon in a densely populated city; so, -nobody turns to look, as it winds along, slowly, as will the sad future -to that young husband—that father of an hour. Sad legacy to him, those -piles of tiny robes, and dainty little garments, whose elaborate and -delicate embroidery was purchased at such a fearful price. Nature will -have her revenge for a reckless disregard of her laws; so, there she -lies, the young mother, with the long looked for babe upon her girlish -breast. Sad comment upon a foolish vanity. - -What have we here?—A carriage at the door? Ah! I recollect; there was a -wedding at that house last night—lights flashing, music swelling—white -arms gleaming through tissue textures, and merry voices breaking in upon -my slumbers late in the small hours. - -Ah, yes—and this is the bride’s leave-taking. How proud and important -that young husband looks, as he stands on the steps, with the bride’s -travelling shawl upon his arm, giving his orders to the coachman! Now he -casts an impatient glance back through the open door into the hall, half -jealous of the tear sparkling in the young wife’s eye, as the mother -presses her tenderly to her breast, as the father lays the hand of -blessing on her sunny head, and brothers and sisters, half glad, half -sad, offer their lips for a good-bye kiss. - -Hurry her not away! Not even the heart she has singled out from all the -world to lean upon, can love so fondly, so truly, as those she leaves -behind. Dark days may come, when love’s sunshine shall be o’erclouded by -cares and sickness, from which young manhood, impatient, shrinks. _Let -her linger_: so shall your faith in her young wifely love be -strengthened by such strong filial yearning for these, her cradle -watchers. Let her linger: silver hairs mingle in the mother’s tresses; -the father’s dark eye grows dim with age, and insatiate Death heeds nor -prayer, nor tear, nor lifted eye of supplication. Let her linger. - -New York! New York! who but thyself would have tolerated for twelve -mortal hours, with the thermometer at 90 degrees, that barrel of refuse -fish and potatoes, sour bread and damaged meat, questionable vegetables -and antique puddings, steaming on that sunny side-walk, in the forlorn -hope that some pig’s patron might be tempted, by the odoriferous hash, -to venture on its transportation. Know, then, O pestiferous Gotham, that -half a score of these gentry, after having sounded it with a long pole -to the bottom, for the benefit of my olfactories, have voted it a -nuisance to which even a pig might make a _gutter_-al remonstrance. Oh! -Marshal Tukey, if California yet holds you, in the name of the Asiatic -cholera, and _my_ “American constitution,” recross the Isthmus and -exorcise that barrel! - -Look on yonder door-step. See that poor, worn creature seated there, -with a puling infant at her breast, from whence it draws no sustenance: -on either side are two little creatures, apparently asleep, with their -heads in her lap. Their faces are very pallid, and their little limbs -have nothing of childhood’s rounded symmetry and beauty. “Perhaps she is -an impostor,” says Prudence, seizing my purse-strings, “getting up that -tableau for just such impressionable dupes as yourself.” “Perhaps she is -_not_,” says Feeling; “perhaps at this moment despair whispers in her -tempted ear ‘curse God and die!’ Oh! then, how sad to have ‘passed her -by, on the other side!’” Let _me_ be “duped,” rather than that wan face -should come between my soul and Heaven. - - - - - WHEN YOU ARE ANGRY. - - -“When you are angry, take three breaths before you speak.” - -I couldn’t do it, said Mrs. Penlimmon. Long before that time I should be -as placid as an oyster. “Three breaths!” I could double Cape Horn in -that time. I’m telegraphic,—if I had to stop to reflect, I should never -be saucy. I can’t hold anger any more than an April sky can retain -showers; the first thing I know, the sun is shining. You may laugh, but -that’s better than one of your foggy dispositions, drizzling drops of -discomfort a month on a stretch; no computing whether you’ll have -anything but gray clouds overhead the rest of your life. No: a good -heavy clap of thunder for me—a lightning flash; then a bright blue sky -and a clear atmosphere, and I am ready for the first flower that springs -up in my path. - -“Three breaths!” how absurd! as if people, when they get excited, ever -_have_ any breath, or if they have, are conscious of it. I should like -to see the Solomon who got off that sage maxim. I should like better -still to give him an opportunity to test his own theory! It’s very -refreshing to see how good people can be when they have no temptation to -sin; how they can sit down and make a code of laws for the world in -general, and sinners in particular. - -“Three breaths!” I wouldn’t give a three-cent piece for anybody who is -that long about anything. The days of stage coaches have gone by. -Nothing passes muster now but comets, locomotives, and telegraph wires. -Our forefathers and foremothers would have to hold the hair on their -heads if they should wake up in 1854. They’d be as crazy as a cat in a -shower-bath, at all our whizzing and rushing. Nice old snails! It’s a -question with me whether I should have crept on at their pace, had I -been a cotemporary. Christopher Columbus would have discovered the New -World much quicker than he did, had I been at his elbow. - - - - - LITTLE BESSIE; - OR, - MISS PRIM’S MODEL SCHOOL. - - -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.” - - - - - FATHER TAYLOR, THE SAILOR’S PREACHER. - - -You have never heard FATHER TAYLOR, the Boston Seaman’s preacher? -Well—you should go down to his church some Sunday. It is not at the -court-end of the town. The urchins in the neighbourhood are guiltless of -shoes or bonnets. You will see quite a sprinkling of “Police” at the -corners. Green Erin, too, is well represented: with a dash of -Africa—checked off with “dough faces.” - -Let us go into the church: there are no stained-glass windows—no richly -draperied pulpit—no luxurious seats to suggest a nap to your sleepy -conscience. No odour of patchouli, or _nonpareil_, or _bouquet de -violet_ will be wafted across your patrician nose. Your satin and -broadcloth will fail to procure you the highest seat in the -synagogue—they being properly reserved for the “old salts.” - -Here they come! one after another, with horny palms and bronzed faces. -It stirs my blood, like the sound of a trumpet, to see them. The seas -they have crossed! the surging billows they have breasted! the lonely, -dismal, weary nights they have kept watch!—the harpies in port who have -assailed their generous sympathies! the sullen plash of the sheeted -dead, in its vast ocean sepulchre!—what stirring thoughts and emotions -do their weather-beaten faces call into play! God bless the sailor! Here -they come; sure of a welcome—conscious that they are no intruders on -aristocratic landsmen’s soil—sure that each added face will send a -thrill of pleasure to the heart of the good old man, who folds them all, -as one family, to his patriarchal bosom. - -There he is! How reverently he drops on his knee, and utters that silent -prayer. Now he is on his feet. With a quick motion he adjusts his -spectacles, and says to the tardy tar doubtful of a berth, “Room here, -brother;” pointing to a seat _in the pulpit_. Jack don’t know about -_that_! He can climb the rigging when Boreas whistles his fiercest -blast; he can swing into the long boat with a stout heart, when creaking -timbers are parting beneath him: but to mount the _pulpit_!—Jack doubts -his qualifications, and blushes through his mask of bronze. “Room enough -brother!” again reassures him; and, with a little extra fumbling at his -tarpaulin, and hitching at his waistband, he is soon as much at home as -though he were on his vessel’s deck. - -The hymn is read with a _heart-tone_. There is no mistaking either the -poet’s meaning or the reader’s devotion. And now, if you have a -“scientific musical ear” (which, thank heaven, I have not), you may -criticise the singing, while I am not ashamed of the tears that steal -down my face, as I mark the effect of good _Old Hundred_ (minus trills -and flourishes) on Neptune’s honest, hearty, whole-souled sons. - -—The text is announced. There follows no arrangement of dickeys, or -bracelets, or eye-glasses. You forget your ledger and the fashions, the -last prima donna, and that your neighbour is not one of the “upper ten,” -as you fix your eye on that good old man, and are swept away from -worldly moorings by the flowing tide of his simple, earnest eloquence. -You marvel that these uttered truths of his never struck your -thoughtless mind before. My pen fails to convey to you the play of -expression on that earnest face—those emphatic gestures—the starting -tear or the thrilling voice—but they all _tell_ on “Jack.” - -And now an infant is presented for baptism. The pastor takes it on one -arm. Oh, surely he is himself a father, else it would not be poised so -gently. Now he holds it up, that all may view its dimpled beauty, and -says, “Is there one here who doubts, should this child die to-day, its -right among the blessed?” One murmured, spontaneous _No!_ bursts from -Jacks’ lips, as the baptismal drops lave its sinless temples. Lovingly -the little lamb is folded, with a kiss and a blessing, to the heart of -the earthly shepherd, ere the maternal arms receive it. - -Jack looks on and weeps! And how can he help weeping? _He_ was once as -pure as that blessed innocent! His _mother_—the sod now covers her—often -invoked heaven’s blessing on _her_ son; and well he remembers the touch -of her gentle hand and the sound of her loving voice, as she murmured -the imploring prayer for him: and how has her sailor boy redeemed his -youthful promise? He dashes away his scalding tears, with his horny -palm; but, please God, that Sabbath—that scene—shall be a talisman upon -which memory shall ineffaceably inscribe, - - “Go, and sin no more.” - - - - - SIGNS OF THE TIMES. - - -E-Q-U-I—equi, D-O-M-E—dome, “Equidome.” Betty, hand me my dictionary. - -Well, now, who would have believed that I, Fanny Fern, would have -tripped over a “stable?” That all comes of being “raised” where people -persist in calling things by their right names. I’m very certain that it -is useless for me to try to circumnavigate the globe on stilts. There’s -the “Hippodrome!” I had but just digested that humbug: my tongue kinked -all up trying to pronounce it; and then I couldn’t find out the meaning -of it; for Webster didn’t inform me that it was a place where vicious -horses broke the necks of vicious young girls for the amusement of -vicious spectators. - -“Jim Brown!” What a relief. I can understand that. I never saw Jim, but -I’m positively certain that he’s a monosyllable on legs—crisp as a -cucumber. Ah! here are some more suggestive signs. - -“Robert Link—Bird Fancier.” I suggest that it be changed to Bob-o’ Link; -in which opinion I shall probably be backed up by all musical people. - -Here we are in Broadway junior, alias the “Bowery.” I don’t see but the -silks, and satins, and dry-goods generally, are quite equal to those in -Broadway; but, of course, Fashion turns her back upon them, for they are -only half the price. - -What have we here, in this shop window? What are all those silks, and -delaines, and calicoes, ticketed up that way for?—“Superb,” “Tasty,” -“Beautiful,” “Desirable,” “Cheap for 1_s._,” “Modest,” “Unique,” -“Genteel,” “Grand,” “Gay!” It is very evident that Mr. Yardstick takes -all women for fools, or else he has had a narrow escape from being one -himself. There’s a poor, distracted gentleman in a milliner’s shop, -trying to select a bonnet for his spouse. What a _non compos_! See him -poise the airy nothings on his great clumsy hands! He is about as good a -judge of bonnets as I am of patent ploughs. See him turn, in despairing -bewilderment, from blue to pink, from pink to green, from green to -crimson, from crimson to yellow. The little witch of a milliner sees his -indecision, and resolves to make a _coup d’état_; so, perching one of -the bonnets (blue as her eyes) on her rosy little face, she walks up -sufficiently near to give him a magnetic shiver, and holding the strings -coquettishly under her pretty little chin, says: - -“Now, I’m sure, you can’t say _that_ isn’t pretty!” - -Of course he can’t! - -So, the bonnet is bought and band-boxed, and Jonathan (who is sold with -the bonnet) takes it home to his wife, whose black face looks in it like -an overcharged thunder-cloud set in a silver lining. - -Saturday evening is a busy time in the Bowery. So many little things -wanted at the close of the week. A pair of new shoes for Robert, a -tippet for Sally, a pair of gloves for Johnny, and a stick of candy to -bribe the baby to keep the peace while mamma goes to “meetin’” on -Sunday. What a heap of people! What a job it must be to take the census -in New York. Servant girls and their beaux, country folks and city -folks, big boys and little boys, ladies and women, puppies and men! -There’s a poor labouring man, with his market basket on one arm and his -wife on the other. He knows that he can get his Sunday dinner cheaper by -purchasing it late on Saturday night, when the butchers are not quite -sure that their stock will “keep” till Monday. And then it is quite a -treat for his wife, when little Johnny is asleep, to get out to catch a -bit of fresh air, and a sight of the pretty things in the shop windows, -even if she cannot have them; but the little feminine diplomatist knows -that husbands always feel clever of a Saturday night, and that then’s -the time “_just to stop and look_” at a new ribbon or collar. - -See that party of country folks, going to the “National” to see “Uncle -Tom.” Those pests, the bouquet sellers, are offering them their -stereotyped, cabbage-looking bunches of flowers with, - -“Please buy one for your lady, sir.” - -Jonathan don’t understand dodging such appeals; beside, he would scorn -to begrudge a “quarter” for _his lady_! So he buys the nuisance, and -scraping out his hind foot, presents it, with a bow, to Araminta, who -“walks on thrones” the remainder of the evening. - -There’s a hand-organ, and a poor, tired little girl, sleepily playing -the tambourine. All the little ragged urchins in the neighbourhood are -grouped on that door-step, listening. The connoisseur might criticise -the performance, but no Cathedral _Te Deum_ could be grander to that -unsophisticated little audience. There is one little girl who, spite of -her rags, is beautiful enough for a seraph. _Poor and beautiful!_ God -help her. - -[Illustration] - - - - - WHOM DOES IT CONCERN? - - -“Stitch—stitch—stitch! Will this _never_ end?” said a young girl, -leaning her head wearily against the casement, and dropping her small -hands hopelessly in her lap. “Stitch—stitch—stitch! from dawn till dark, -and yet I scarce keep soul and body together;” and she drew her thin -shawl more closely over her shivering shoulders. - -Her eye fell upon the great house opposite. There was comfort there, and -luxury, too; for the rich satin curtains were looped gracefully away -from the large windows; a black servant opens the hall door: see, there -are statues and vases and pictures there: now two young girls trip -lightly out upon the pavement, their lustrous silks, and nodding plumes, -and jewelled bracelets glistening, and quivering, and sparkling in the -bright sunlight. Now poising their silver-netted purses upon their -daintily gloved fingers, they leap lightly into the carriage in waiting, -and are whirled rapidly away. - -That little seamstress is as fair as they: her eyes are as soft and -blue; her limbs as lithe and graceful; her rich, brown hair folds as -softly away over as fair a brow; her heart leaps, like theirs, to all -that is bright and joyous; it craves love and sympathy, and -companionship as much, and yet she must stitch—stitch—stitch—and droop -under summer’s heat, and shiver under winter’s cold, and walk the earth -with the skeleton starvation ever at her side, that costly pictures, and -velvet carpets, and massive chandeliers, and gay tapestry, and gold and -silver vessels may fill the house of her employer—that _his_ flaunting -equipage may roll admired along the highway, and India’s fairest fabrics -deck his purse-proud wife and daughters. - - * * * * * - -It was a busy scene, the ware-room of Simon Skinflint & Co. Garments of -every hue, size, and pattern, were there exposed for sale. Piles of -coarse clothing lay upon the counter, ready to be given out to the -destitute, brow-beaten applicant who would make them for the smallest -possible remuneration; piles of garments lay there, which such victims -had already toiled into the long night to finish, ticketed to bring -enormous profits into the pocket of their employer: groups of dapper -clerks stood behind the counter, discussing, in a whisper, the pedestals -of the last new _danseuse_—ogling the half-starved young girls who were -crowding in for employment, and raising a blush on the cheek of humble -innocence by the coarse joke, and free, libidinous gaze; while their -master, Mr. Simon Skinflint, sat, rosy and rotund, before a bright -Lehigh fire, rubbing his fat hands, building imaginary houses, and -felicitating himself generally, on his far-reaching financial foresight. - -“If you could but allow me a trifle more for my labour,” murmured a low -voice at his side; “I have toiled hard all the week, and yet—” - -“Young woman,” said Mr. Skinflint, pushing his chair several feet back, -elevating his spectacles to his forehead, and drawing his satin vest -down over his aldermanic proportions, “young woman, do you observe that -crowd of persons besieging my door for employment? Perhaps you are not -aware that we turn away scores of them every day, perhaps you don’t know -that the farmers’ daughters, who are at a loss what to do long winter -evenings, and want to earn a little dowry, will do our work for less -than we pay you? But you feminine operatives don’t seem to have the -least idea of trade. Competition is the soul of business, you see,” said -Mr. Skinflint, rubbing his hands in a congratulatory manner. -“Tut—tut—young woman; don’t quarrel with your bread and butter; however, -it is a thing that don’t concern me at all; if you _won’t_ work, there -are plenty who _will_,” and Mr. Skinflint drew out his gold repeater, -and glanced at the door. - -A look of hopeless misery settled over the young girl’s face, as she -turned slowly away in the direction of home. _Home_ did I say? The word -was a bitter mockery to poor Mary. She had a home once, where she and -the little birds sang the live-long day: where flowers blossomed, and -tall trees waved, and merry voices floated out on the fragrant air, and -the golden sun went gorgeously down behind the far-off hills; where a -mother’s loving breast was her pillow, and a father’s good-night -blessing wooed her rosy slumbers. It was past now. They were all -gone—father, mother, brother, sister. Some with the blue sea for a -shifting monument; some sleeping dreamlessly in the little churchyard, -where her infant footsteps strayed, Rank grass had o’ergrown the cottage -gravel walks; weeds choked the flowers which dust-crumbled hands had -planted; the brown moss had thatched over the cottage eaves, and still -the little birds sang on as blithely as if Mary’s household gods had not -been shivered. - -Poor Mary! The world was dark and weary to her: the very stars, with -their serene beauty, seemed to mock her misery. She reached her little -room. Its narrow walls seemed to close about her like a tomb. She leaned -her head wearily against the little window, and looked again at the -great house opposite. How brightly, how cheerfully the lights glanced -from the windows! How like fairies glided the young girls over the -softly carpeted floors! How swiftly the carriages whirled to the door, -with their gay visitors! Life was such a rosy dream to _them_—such a -brooding nightmare to _her_! Despair laid its icy hand on her heart. -Must she _always_ drink, unmixed, the cup of sorrow? Must she weep and -sigh her youth away, while griping Avarice trampled on her -heart-strings? She could not weep—nay, worse—she could not pray. Dark -shadows came between her soul and heaven. - - * * * * * - -The little room is empty now. Mary toils there no longer. You will find -her in the great house opposite: her dainty limbs clad in flowing silk; -her slender fingers and dimpled arms glittering with gems: and among all -that merry group, Mary’s laugh rings out the merriest. Surely—surely, -this is better than to toil, weeping, through the long weary days in the -little darkened room. - -Is it, Mary? - - * * * * * - -There is a ring at the door of the great house. A woman glides modestly -in; by her dress, she is a widow. She has opened a small school in the -neighbourhood, and in the search for scholars has wandered in here. She -looks about her. Her quick, womanly instinct sounds the alarm. She is -not among the good and pure of her sex. But she does not scorn them. No; -she looks upon their blighted beauty with a Christ-like pity; she says -to herself, haply some word of mine may touch their hearts. So she says -gently, “Pardon me, ladies, but I had hoped to find scholars here; you -will forgive the intrusion, I know; for, though you are not mothers, you -have all _had_ mothers.” - -Why is Mary’s lip so ashen white? Why does she tremble from head to -foot, as if smitten by the hand of God? Why do the hot tears stream -through her jewelled fingers? Ah! Mary. That little dark room, with its -toil, its gloom, its _innocence_, were Heaven’s own brightness now to -your tortured spirit. - - * * * * * - -Pitilessly the slant rain rattled against the window panes: awnings -creaked and flapped, and the street lamps flickered in the strong blast: -full-freighted omnibuses rolled over the muddy pavements: stray -pedestrians turned up their coat-collars, grasped their umbrellas more -tightly, and made for the nearest port. A woman, half-blinded by the -long hair which the fury of the wind had driven across her face, -drenched to the skin with the pouring rain—shoeless, bonnetless, -_homeless_, leans unsteadily against a lamp-post, and in the maudlin -accents of intoxication curses the passers-by. A policeman’s strong -grasp is laid upon her arm, and she is hurried, struggling, through the -dripping streets, and pushed into the nearest “station-house.” Morning -dawns upon the wretched, forsaken outcast. She sees it not. Upon those -weary eyes only the resurrection morn shall dawn. - -No more shall the stony-hearted shut, in her imploring face, the door of -hope; no more shall gilded sin, with Judas smile, say, “Eat, drink, and -be merry;” no more shall the professed followers of Him who said, -“Neither do I condemn thee,” say to the guilt-stricken one, “Stand -aside—for I am holier than thou.” No, none may tempt, none may scorn, -none may taunt her more. A pauper’s grave shall hide poor Mary and her -shame. - -God speed the day when the Juggernaut wheels of Avarice shall no longer -roll over woman’s dearest hopes; when thousands of doors, now closed, -shall be opened for starving Virtue to earn her honest bread; when he -who would coin her tears and groans to rear his palaces, shall become a -hissing and a bye-word, wherever the sacred name of Mother shall be -honoured. - - - - - “WHO LOVES A RAINY DAY?” - - -The bored editor; who, for one millennial day, in slippered feet, -controls his arm-chair, exchanges, stove, and inkstand; who has time to -hunt up delinquent subscribers; time to decipher hieroglyphical -manuscripts; time to make a bonfire of bad poetry; time to kick out -lozenge boys and image vendors; time to settle the long-standing quarrel -between Nancy the type-setter, and Bill the foreman, and time to write -complimentary letters to himself for publication in his own paper, and -to get up a new humbug prospectus for the dear, confiding public. - -Who loves a rainy day? - -The little child of active limb, reprieved from bench, and book, and -ferule; between whom and the wire-drawn phiz of grim propriety, those -friendly drops have drawn a misty veil; who is now free to laugh, and -jump, and shout, and ask the puzzling question—free to bask in the sunny -smile of her, to whom no sorrow can be trivial that brings a cloud over -that sunny face, or dims the brightness of that merry eye. - -Who loves a rainy day? - -The crazed clergyman, who can face a sheet of paper, uninterrupted by -dyspeptic Deacon Jones, or fault-finding brother Grimes; or cautious Mr. -Smith; or the afflicted Miss Zelia Zephyr, who, for several long years, -has been “unable to find out the path of duty or the zealous old Lady -Bunce, who hopes her pastor will throw light on the precise locality -fixed upon in the future state for idiots, and those heathen who have -never seen a missionary. - -Who loves a rainy day? - -The disgusted clerk, who, lost in the pages of some care-beguiling -volume, forgets the petticoat destiny which relentlessly forces him to -unfurl endless yards of tinsel lace and ribbon, for lounging dames, with -empty brains and purses, whose “chief end” it seems to be to put him -through an endless catechism. - -Who loves a rainy day? - -The tidy little housewife, who, in neat little breakfast-cap and -dressing-gown, overlooks the short-comings of careless cook and -house-maid; explores cupboards, cellars, pantries, and closets; -disembowels old bags, old boxes, old barrels, old kegs, old firkins; -who, with her own dainty hand, prepares the favourite morsel for the -dear, absent, toiling husband, or, by the cheerful nursery fire, sews on -the missing string or button, or sings to soothing slumbers a pair of -violet eyes, whose witching counterpart once stole her girlish heart -away. - -Who loves a rainy day? - -_I do!_ Let the rain fall; let the wind moan; let the leafless trees -reach out their long attenuated fingers and tap against my casement; -pile on the coal; wheel up the arm-chair; all hail loose ringlets and -loose dressing-robe. Not a blessed son or daughter of Adam can get here -to-day! Unlock the old writing-desk; overlook the old letters. There is -a bunch tied with a ribbon blue as the eyes of the writer. Matrimony -quenched their brightness long time ago. - - Irish _help_ (!) and crying babies, - I grieve to say, are ’mong the may-be’s! - -And here is a package written by a despairing Cœlebs—once intensely -interested in the price of hemp and prussic acid; now the rotund and -jolly owner of a princely house, a queenly wife, and six rollicksome -responsibilities. Query; whether the faculty ever dissected a _man_ who -had died of a “broken heart?” - -Here is another package. Let the fire purify them; never say you _know_ -your friend till his tombstone is over him. - -What Solomon says, “handwriting is an index of character?” Give him the -cap and bells, and show him those bold pen-marks. They were traced by no -Di Vernon! Let me sketch the writer:—A blushing, smiling, timid, loving -little fairy, as ever nestled near a true heart; with a step like the -fall of a snow-flake, and a voice like the murmur of a brook in June. -Poor little Katie! she lays her cheek now to a little cradle sleeper’s, -and starts at the distant footstep, and trembles at the muttered curse, -and reels under the brutal blow, and, woman-like—loves on! - -And what have we here? A sixpence with a ribbon in it! Oh, those -Saturday and Wednesday afternoons, with their hoarded store of nuts and -candy—the broad, green meadow, with its fine old trees—the crazy old -swing, and the fragrant tumble in the grass—the wreath of oak leaves, -the bunch of wild violets, the fairy story book, the little blue jacket, -the snowy shirt-collar, the curly, black head, with its soft, blue eyes. -Oh, first love, sugar-candy, torn aprons, and kisses! where have ye -flown? - -What is this? Only a pressed flower; but it tells me of a shadowy -wood—of a rippling brook—of a bird’s song—of a mossy seat—of whispered -leaf-music—of dark, soul-lit eyes—of a voice sweet, and low, and -thrilling—of a vow never broken till death chilled the lips that made -it. Little need to look at the pictured face that lies beside me. It -haunts me sleeping or waking. I shall see it again—life’s trials passed. - - - - - A CONSCIENTIOUS YOUNG MAN. - - “There is no object in nature so beautiful as a conscientious young - man.”—_Exchange._ - - -Well; I’ve seen the “Sea-Dog,” and Thackeray; and Tom Thumb and Kossuth; -the “Bearded Lady,” and Father Matthew; the whistling Canary, and -Camille Urso; the “white negro,” and Mrs. Stowe; “Chang and Eng,” and -Jenny Lind; and Miss Bremer and Madame Sontag. I have been to the top of -the State House, made the tour of the “Public Garden,” and crossed the -“Frog Pond.” I’ve seen Theodore Parker, and a locomotive. I’ve ridden in -an omnibus, heard a Fourth-of-July oration, and I once saw the sun rise; -but I never, never never saw “a conscientious young man.” - -If there is such an “organization” on the periphery of this globe, I -should like to see him. If he _is_, _where_ is he? Who owns him? Where -did they raise him? What does he feed on? For whom does he vote? On what -political platform do his conscientious toes rest? Does he know the -difference between a Whig and a Democrat? between a “Hunker” and a -“Barn-burner?” between a “hard-shell” and a “soft-shell?” between a -“uniform national currency” and a “sound constitutional currency?” Does -he have chills or a fever when he sees a bonnet? Does he look at it out -of the sides of his eyes, like a bashful, barn-yard bantam, or dare he -not look at all? Does he show the “white feather,” or crow defiance? -Does he “go to roost” at sun-down? and does he rest on an aristocratic -perch? I’m all alive to see the specimen. My opera-glass is poised. Will -he be at the World’s Fair? Might I be permitted to shake hands with, and -congratulate him? I pause for a reply. - - - - - CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE. - NUMBER ONE. - - -“Each to his taste,” somebody says: so say I: so says Gotham. Look at -that splendid house, with its massive door-way, its mammoth plate-glass -windows, its tasteful conservatory, where the snowy Orange-blossom, and -clustering Rose, and crimson Cactus, and regal Passion-flower, and -fragrant Heliotrope breathe out their little day of sweetness. See that -Gothic stable, with its faultless span of horses, and liveried coachman, -and anti-republican carriage, whose coat of arms makes our National -Eagle droop his fearless pinions. Then cast your eye on that tumble-down -wooden grocery adjoining, sending up its reeking fumes of rum, onions, -and salt fish, into patrician nostrils! Go where you will in New York, -you see the same strong contrasts. Feast your eyes on beauty, and a -skeleton startles you at its side. Lazarus sitteth ever at the Gate of -Dives. - -Here is a primary school: what a host of little ragged urchins are -crowding in! Suppose I step in quietly among them. Now, they take their -places in seats terraced off one above another, so that each little face -is distinctly visible. What a pretty sight! and how Nature loves to -compensate! sending beauty to the hovel, deformity to the hall. There’s -a boy, now, in that ragged jacket, who is a study for an artist. See his -broad, ample forehead; mark how his dark eyes glow: and that little girl -at his side, whose chestnut curls droop so gracefully over her -soft-fringed eyes and dimpled shoulders. And that dream-child in yonder -corner, with blue-veined transparent temples, whose spiritual eyes even -now can see that fadeless shore to which bright angels beckon him. Deal -gently with him—he is passing away! - -Here comes the teacher, brisk, angular, and sharp-voiced. Heaven pity -the children! She’s a human icicle—pasteboard-y and proper! I already -experience a mental shiver. Now she comes up and says (apologetically to -my new satin cloak), “You see, madam, these are _only_ poor children.” -The toadying creature! Lucky for her that I’m not “a committee.” Can’t -her dull eyes recognise God’s image in lindsey-woolsey? Can she see no -genius written on yonder broad forehead? No poetry slumbering in yonder -sweet eyes? Did Franklin, Clay, and Webster study _their_ alphabet in -silk and velvet? Now she hands me a book in which visitors’ names are -inscribed, and requests me to write mine. Certainly. “Mrs. John Smith -there it is. Hope she likes it as well as I do. - -Speaking of names, I read on a sign yesterday that “Richard Haas:” -to-day I saw, down street, that “John Haas.” I’m sure I’m glad of it. I -congratulate both those enterprising gentlemen. There goes a baker’s -cart, with “Ernest Flog-er” painted on the side. It is my impression -that if you do it, Ernest, “_your_ cake will be dough;” 1854 being -considered the millennium of “strong-minded women.” Here we are, almost -to the Battery. “_Fanfernot_ & Dulac:” that must be a chain-lightening -firm. Wonder if “Fanfernot” is the _silent_ partner? - -Here’s a man distributing tracts. Now, if he hands me one, I’ll throw it -down. See how meekly he picks it up, and hands me another. “That’s -right, friend Colporteur. I only wanted to see if you were in earnest: -glad to see you so well employed.” - -“Yes Ma’am,” he says, much relieved; “sinners here in New York need -waking up”—which sentiment I endorse, and advise him to call at the _N. -Y. Tribune_ office. - -Down comes the rain: had I taken my umbrella not a drop would have -fallen. “I ’spect” I was born on a Friday; but as that can’t be helped -now, I’ll step into that book-store till the shower is over. The owner -politely gives me a chair, and then hands me, for my edification, the -_last fashion-prints_! F-a-n-n-y F-e-r-n! can it be possible that you -look so frivolous? Tracts and fashion-prints, both offered you in one -forenoon: Wonder if there’s a second-hand drab Quaker bonnet anywhere -that will subdue your “style?” - -See that little minstrel in front of the store, staggering under the -weight of a hand-organ. What a crowd of little beggar-boys surround him, -petitioning “for _just one tune_.” Now, I wonder if the rough school -that boy has been in, has hardened his heart? Has he grown prematurely -worldly-wise and selfish? Will he turn, gruffly away from that -penniless, Tom Thumb audience, or will he give them a _gratuitous_ tune? -God be thanked, his childish heart yet beats warm and true under that -tattered jacket. He smiles sweetly on the eager group, and strikes up -“Lang Syne.” Other than mortal ears are listening! That deed, unnoticed -by the hurrying Broadway throng, is noted by the Recording Angel. -“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have -done it unto Me.” - -Sunshine again! dripping awnings and sloppy pavements. There’s a man -preaching an out-door temperance sermon: what a bungling piece of work -he makes of it! If he would lend me that _pro tem_ barrel-pulpit, I’d -astonish _him_, and take the feather out of “Miss Lucy Stone’s” bonnet. - -Let us cross the Park. There’s an Irishman seated on the withered grass, -with his spade beside him, leaning wearily against that leafless tree. I -wonder is he ill? I must walk that way and speak to him. What a sudden -change comes over his rough face! it looks quite beautiful. Why do his -eyes kindle? Ah, I see: a woman approaches from yonder path; now she -seats herself beside him on the grass, and drawing the cover from a -small tin kettle, she bends over the steaming contents, and says with a -smile that is a perfect heart-warmer, “_Dear_ Dennis!” Oh, what a wealth -of love in those two simple words; what music in that voice! Who says -human nature is _all_ depravity? Who says this earth is but a -charnel-house of withered hopes? Who says the “Heart’s Ease” springs -never from the rock cleft? Who says it is only on _patrician_ soil the -finer feelings struggle into leaf, and bud and blossom? No—no—that -humble, faithful creature has travelled weary miles with needful food, -that “Dennis” may waste no unnecessary time from labour. And there they -sit, side by side, happy and blessed in each other, deaf to the -ceaseless tide of business and pleasure flowing past, blind to the -supercilious gaze of the pompous _millionaire_, the curious stare of -pampered beauty, the derisive laugh of “Young America,” and the little -romances they have set my brain a-weaving! What a pretty episode amid -all this Babel din! What a delicious little bit of nature amidst this -fossil-hearted Gotham! - -How true—how beautiful the words of Holy Writ! “Better is a dinner of -herbs _where love is_, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.” - - * * * * * - -What an immensely tall man! he looks like a barber’s pole in those -serpentine pants. Why does he make those gyrations? Why does he beckon -that short man to his side? Well, I declare! everything comical comes to -my net! He has taken out a slip of paper, and using the short man’s head -for a writing-desk, is scribbling off some directions for a porter in -waiting! The lamb-like non-resistance of the short man is only equalled -by the cool impudence of the scribe! What a picture for Hogarth! - - - - - CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE. - NUMBER TWO. - - -The fashionables are yet yawning on their pillows. Nobody is abroad but -the workies. So much the better. Omnibus drivers begin to pick up their -early-breakfast customers. The dear little children, trustful and rosy, -are hurrying by to school. Apple women are arranging their stalls, and -slily polishing their fruit with an old stocking. The shopkeepers are -placing their goods in the most tempting light, in the store windows; -and bouquet vendors, with their delicious burdens, have already taken -their stand on the saloon and hotel steps. - -Here come that de-socialized class, the New York business men, with -their hands thrust moodily into their coat pockets, their eyes buttoned -fixedly down to the side-walk, and “the almighty dollar” written legibly -all over them. If the automatons would but show _some_ sign of life; -were it only by a whistle. I’m very sure the tune would be - - “I know a—_Bank_!” - -See that pretty little couple yonder, crouched upon the side-walk? What -have you there, little ones? Five little, fat, roly-poly puppies, as I -live, all heads and tails, curled up in that comical old basket! And you -expect to get “a dollar a-piece” for them? Bless your dear little souls, -Broadway is full of “puppies,” who never “bring” anything but odious -cigar smoke, that ever I could find out. Puppies are at a discount, my -darlings. Peanuts are a safer investment. - -Here we are at Trinity Church. I doubt if human lips within those walls -ever preached as eloquently as those century gravestones. How the sight -of them involuntarily arrests the bounding footstep, and the -half-developed plan of the scheming brain, and wakes up the slumbering -immortal in our nature. How the eye turns a questioning glance from -those moss-grown graves, inward—then upward to the soft, blue heavens -above us. How for a brief moment the callous heart grows kindly, and we -forget the mote in our brother’s eye, and cease to repulse the outspread -palm of charity, and recognise the claims of a common brotherhood; and -then how the sweeping tide comes rolling over us, and the clink of -dollars and cents drowns “the still small voice;” and Eternity recedes, -and Earth only seems tangible, and Mammon, and Avarice, and Folly rule -the never returning hours. - -Now glance over the churchyard yonder into the street below. Cholera and -pestilence, what a sight! flanked on one side by the charnel-house, on -the other by houses whose basements are groggeries and markets, and at -whose every pane of glass may be seen a score of dirty faces; the middle -of the street a quagmire of jelly-mud, four inches deep, on which are -strewn, _ad infinitum_, decayed potatoes and cabbage stumps, old bones -and bonnets, mouldy bread, salt fish, and dead kittens. That pussy-cat -New York corporation should be put on a diet of peppered thunder and -gunpowder tea, and harnessed to a comet for six months. I doubt if even -then the old poppies would wake up. - -Do you see that piece of antiquity playing the bagpipe? He is as much a -fixture as your country cousin. There he sits, through heat and cold, -squeezing out those horrible sounds with his skinny elbow, and keeping -time with his nervous eyewinkers. He gets up his own programme, and is -his own orchestra, door-keeper, and audience; nobody stops to listen, -nobody fees him, nobody seems to enjoy it so hugely as himself. - -Who talks about wooden nutmegs in the hearing of Gotham? Does a shower -come up? Men start up as if by magic, with all-sized India rubbers for -sale, and ragged little boys nudge your elbows to purchase “cheap cotton -umbrellas.” Does the wind veer round south? A stack of palm-leaf fans -takes the place of the umbrellas. Have you the misfortune to trip upon -the side-walk? a box of Russia salve is immediately unlidded under your -nose. Do you stop to arrange your gaiter boot? whole strings of -boot-lacings are dangled before your astonished eyes. Do your loosened -waistbands remind you of the dinner hour? before your door stands a man -brandishing “patent carving knives,” warranted to dissever the toughest -old rooster that ever crowed over a hen-harem. - -Speaking of hens—see that menagerie, in one of the handsomest parts of -Broadway, defaced by that blood and murder daub of a picture, -representing every animal that ever flew or trotted into Noah’s ark, -beside a few that the good old gentleman never undertook to perpetuate. -See them lashing their tails, bristling their manes, ploughing the air -and tossing high above their incensed horns, that distracted gory biped, -whose every individual hair is made to stand on end with horror, and his -coat-tail astonishingly to perpendicularize. Countrymen stand agape -while pickpockets lighten them of their purses; innocent little -children, with saucer eyes, shy to the further edge of the side-walk, -and hurry home with an embryo nightmare in their frightened craniums. -“Jonathan” pays his “quarter,” and is astonished to find upon entering a -very tame collection of innocent beasts and beastesses, guiltless of any -intention to growl, unless poked by the long pole of curiosity. -Dissatisfied, he descends to the cellar, to see the elephant, who holds -a sleepy levee, for all who feel inclined to pack his trunk with the -apples and cakes, which a shrewd stall-keeping Yankee in the corner -disinterestedly advises them to buy, “just to see how the critter eats.” - -Well; two-headed calves, one-eyed buffaloes, skeleton ostriches, and -miles of serpents, are every day matters; but yonder is an announcement -that “Two Wild Men from Borneo” may be seen within. Now that interests -me. “They have the faculty of speech, but are deficient in memory.” -Bless me, you don’t mean to say that those little Hop-o’-my-Thumbs have -the temerity to call themselves “_Men_?” little humbugs, pocket -editions. But what pretty little limbs they have, and how they shiver in -this cold climate, spite of the silk and India-rubber dress they wear -under those little tights. “The youngest weighs only twenty-seven, the -oldest thirty-four pounds;” so the keeper says, who, forming a circle, -lays one hand on the head of each, and commences his stereotyped, -menagerie exordium, oblivious of commas, colons, semicolons, periods, or -breath; adding at the close, that the Wild Men will now shake hands with -any child who may be present, but will _always bite an adult_. Nothing -like a barrier to make femininity leap over. I’m bent upon having the -first “adult” shake. The keeper says, “Better not, Ma’am” (showing a -scar on his finger), “they bit that een-a-most to the bone.” Of course, -snapping at masculinity is no proof to me of their unsusceptibility to -feminine evangelization; on the contrary. So, taking a cautious patrol -around the interesting little savages, I hold out my hand. Allah be -praised! they take it, and my five digits still remain at the service of -printers and publishers! - - - - - CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE. - NUMBER THREE. - - -What a never-ceasing bell-jingling, what a stampede of servants, what a -continuous dumping down of big trunks; what transits, what exits, what a -miniature world is a hotel! Panorama-like, the scene shifts each hour; -your _vis-a-vis_ at breakfast, supping, ten to one, in the Rocky -Mountains. How delightful your unconsciousness of what you are -fore-ordained to eat for dinner; how _nonchalantly_ in the morning you -handle tooth-brush and head-brush, certain of a cup of hot coffee -whenever you see fit to make your advent. How scientifically your fire -is made, without any unnecessary tattooing of shovel, tongs and poker. -What a chain-lightning answer to your bell summons; how oblivious is -“No. 14” of your existence; how indifferent is “No. 25” whether you -sneeze six or seven times a day; how convenient are the newspapers and -letter-stamps, obtainable at the clerk’s office; how digestible your -food; how comfortable your bed, and how never-to-be-sufficiently-enjoyed -the general let-aloneativeness. - -Avaunt, ye lynx-eyed “private boarding-houses,” with your two slip-shod -Irish servants; your leaden bread, leather pies, ancient fowls, bad -gravies, omnium gatherum bread puddings, and salt fish, and -cabbage-perfumed entries; your washing-day “hashes,” your ironing-day -“stews,” and all your other “comforts of a home” (?) not _explicitly_ -set forth in your advertisements. - -Rat-tat, rat-tat-tat! what a fury that old gentleman seems to be in. -Whoever occupies No. 40, must either be deaf or without nerves. Rat-tat! -what an obstinate human; there he goes again! ah, now the door opens, -and a harmless-looking clergyman glides past him, down the stairs. Too -late—too late, papa,—the knot is tied; no use in making a fuss. Just see -that pretty little bride, blushing, crying, and clinging to her -boy-husband. Just remember the time, sir, when the “auld wife” at home -made _you_ thrill to the toes of your boots; remember how perfectly -oblivious you were of guide-boards or milestones, when you went to see -her; you how you used to hug and kiss her little brother Jim, though he -was the ugliest, mischievous est little snipe in Christendom; how you -used to read books for hours upside down, and how you wondered what -people meant by calling the moon “cold;” how you wound up your watch -half-a-dozen times a-day, and hadn’t the slightest idea whether you were -eating geese or grindstones for dinner; how affectionately you nodded to -Mr. Brown, of whom her father bought his groceries; how complacently you -sat out the minister’s seventh-lie by her side at church; how wolfy you -felt if any other piece of broadcloth approached her; how devoutly you -wished you were that little bit of blue ribbon round her throat; and -how, one moonlight night, when she laid her head against your vest -pattern, you——didn’t care a mint julep whether the tailor ever got paid -for it or not! Now, just imagine her papa, stepping in and deliberately -turning all _that_ cream to vinegar; wouldn’t _you_ have effervesced? -Certainly. - -See that little army of boots in the entry outside the doors. May I need -a pair of spectacles, if one of their owners has a neat foot! No. 20 -turns his toes in, No. 30 treads over at the side; No. 40 has a pedestal -like an elephant. Stay!—there’s a pair now—Jupiter what a high instep! -what a temper that man has! wonder if those! are married boots? Heaven -help _Mrs._ Boots, when her husband finds a button missing! It strikes -me that I should like to _mis-mate_ all those boots, and view, at a -respectful distance, the young tornado in the entry, when the gong -sounds! - -Oh, you cunning little curly-headed, fairy-footed, dimple-limbed pet! -Who is blessed enough to own you? Did you know, you little human -blossom, that I was aunt to all the children in creation? Your eyes are -as blue as the violets, and your little pouting lip might tempt a bee -from a rose. Did mamma make you that dainty little kirtle? and papa find -you that horsewhip? - -“Papa is dead, and mamma is dead, too. Mamma can’t see Charley any -more.” - -God bless your sweet helplessness! creep into my arms, Charley. My -darling, you are never alone!—mamma’s sweet, tender eyes look lovingly -on Charley out of Heaven; mamma’s bright angel wings ever overshadow -little Charley’s head; mamma and the holy stars keep watch over -Charley’s slumbers. Mamma sings a sweeter song when little Charley says -a prayer. Going?—well, then, one kiss; for sure I am, the angels will -want you before long. - -What is that? A sick gentleman, borne in on a litter, from shipboard. -Poor fellow! how sunken are his great dark eyes! how emaciated his -limbs! What can ail him? Nobody knows; not a word of English can he -speak; and the captain is already off, too happy to rid himself of all -responsibility. Lucky for the poor invalid that our gallant host has a -heart warm and true. How tenderly he lifts the invalid to his room; how -expeditiously he despatches his orders for a Spanish doctor and nurse; -how imploringly the sufferer’s speaking eyes are fastened upon his face. -Ah! Death glides in at yonder door with the sick man; his grasp is -already on his heart; the doctor stands aside and folds his -hands—there’s no work for _him_ to do; dark shadows gather round the -dying stranger’s eyes; he presses feebly the hand of his humane host, -and gasps out the last fluttering breath on that manly heart. Strange -hands are busy closing his eyes; strange hands straighten his limbs; a -strange priest comes all too late to shrive the sick man’s soul; strange -eyes gaze carelessly upon the features, one glimpse of which were worth -Golconda’s mines to far-off kindred. Now the undertaker comes with the -coffin. Touch him gently, man of business; lay those dark locks tenderly -on the satin pillow; hear you not a far-off wail from sunny Spain, as -the merry song at the vintage feast dies upon the lip of the -stricken-hearted? - - - - - CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE. - NUMBER FOUR—BARNUM’S POULTRY SHOW. - - -Defend my ears! Do you suppose Noah had to put up with such a cackling -and crowing as this in his ark? I trust ear-trumpets are cheap, for I -stand a chance of becoming as deaf as a husband, when his wife asks him -for money. - -I have always hated a rooster; whether from his perch, before daylight, -he shrilly, spitefully, and unnecessarily, recalled me from rosy dreams -to stupid realities; or when strolling at the head of his hang-dog -looking seraglio of hens, he stood poised on one foot, gazing back at -the meek procession with an air that said, as plain as towering crests -and tail feathers could say it, “Stir a foot if you dare, till I give -you the signal!”—at which demonstration I looked instinctively about, -for a big stone, to take the nonsense out of him! - -Save us, what a crowd! There are more onions here than patchouli, more -worsted wrappers than Brummel neck-ties, and more brogans than patent -leather. Most of the visitors gaze at the perches through barn-yard -spectacles. For myself, I don’t care an egg-shell, whether that old -“Shanghai” knew who her grandfather was or not, or whether those -“Dorkings” were ever imprudent enough to let their young affections rove -from their native roost. Yankee eyes were made to be used, and the first -observation mine take is, that those gentlemen fowls seem to have -reversed the order of things here in New York, being very superior in -point of beauty to the feminines. Of course they know it. See them -strut! There never was a masculine yet whom you could enlighten on such -a point. - -Now, were I a hen (which, thank the parish register, I am not), I would -cross my claws, succumb to that tall Polander, with his crested helmet -of black and white feathers, and share his demonstrative perch. - -Oh, you pretty little “carrier doves!” I _could_ find a use for _you_. -Do you ever tap-tap at the wrong window, you little snow-flakes? Have -you learned the secret of soaring above the heads of your enemies? Are -you impregnable to bribes, in the shape of food? - -There’s an eagle, fierce as a Hospodar. Bird of Jove! that _you_ should -stay caged in the tantalizing vicinity of those little fat bantams! Try -the strength of your pinions, grim old fellow; call no man jailer; turn -your back on Barnum, and stare the sun out of countenance! - -Observe with what aristocratic _nonchalance_ those salmon-coloured -pigeons sit their perch! See that ruffle of feathers about their -dignified Elizabethan throats. I am not at all sure that I should have -intruded into their regal presence, without being heralded by a court -page. - -Do you call those two moving bales of wool, sheep? Hurrah for “Ayrshire” -farming! Fleece six inches deep, and the animals not half grown. -Comfortable looking January-defiers, may your shearing be mercifully -postponed till the dog days. - -Pigs, too? petite, white and frisky; two hundred dollars a pair! -P-h-e-w! and such pretty little gaiter boots to be had in Broadway! -Disgusting little porkers, don’t wink your pink eyes at my Jewish -resolution. - -Puppies for sale? long-eared and short-eared, shaggy and shaven, -bobtailed—curtailed—and to be re-tailed! Spaniel terrier and embryo -Newfoundland. Ho! ye unappropriated spinsters, with a superfluity of -long evenings—ye forlorn bachelors, weary of solitude and boot-jacks, -listen to these yelping applicants for your yearning affections, and -“down with the dust.” - -“Nelly for sale, at twenty dollars.” Poor little antelope! The gods send -your soft, dark eyes an appreciative purchaser. I look into their -human-like depths, and invoke for you the velvety, flower-bestrewn lawn, -the silver lake, in which your graceful limbs are mirrored as you stoop -to drink, the leafy shade of fret-work leaves in the panting none-tide -heat, and the watchful eye and caressing hand of some bright young -creature, to whom the earth is one glad anthem, and whose sweet young -life (like yours) is innocent and pure. - -Avaunt, pretentious peacocks, flaunting your gaudy plumage before our -sated eyes. See that beautiful “Golden Pheasant,” on whose plump little -body, clad in royal crimson, the sunlight lingers so lovingly. See the -silky fall of those flossy, golden feathers about his arching neck. -Glorious pheasant! do you know that “a thing of beauty is a joy for -ever?” Make your home with me, and feast my pen-weary eyes: flit before -me when the sunlight of happiness is clouded in, and the gray, leaden -clouds of sorrow overcast my sky; perch upon my finger; lay your soft -neck to my cheek; bring me visions of a happier shore, where love is -written on the rainbow’s arch, heard in the silver-tripping stream, seen -in the blossom-laden bough and bended blade, quivering under the weight -of dewy gems, and hymned by the quiet stars, whose ever-moving harmony -is unmarred by the discord of envy, hate, or soul-blasting -uncharitableness. Beautiful pheasant! come, bring thoughts of beauty and -peace to me! - -—Loving Jenny Lind smiles upon us from yonder canvas. Would that we -might hear her little Swedish chicken-peep! Not a semiquaver careth the -mother-bird for the homage of the Old World or New. The artless clapping -of little Otto’s joyous hands drowns all the ringing plaudits wafted -across the ocean. A Dead Sea apple is fame, dear Jenny, to a true -woman’s heart. Happy to have hung thy laurel wreath on Otto’s little -cradle. - - - - - TWO PICTURES. - - -You will always see Mrs. Judkins in her place at the sunrise -prayer-meeting. She is secretary to the “Moral Reform,” “Abolition,” -“Branch Colporteur and Foreign Mission” Societies. She is tract -distributor, manager of an “Infant School,” cuts out all the work for -the Brown Steeple Sewing Circle; belongs to the “Select Female Prayer -Meeting!” goes to the Friday night church meeting, Tuesday evening -lecture, and the Saturday night Bible Class, and attends three services -on Sunday, Everybody says, “What an eminent Christian is Mrs. Judkins!” - -Mrs. Judkins’ house and servants take care of themselves. Her little -boys run through the neighbourhood, peeping into grocery and provision -stores, loitering at the street corners, and throwing stones at the -passers-by. Her husband comes home to a disorderly house, eats -indigestible dinners, and returns to his gloomy counting-room, sighing -that his hard earnings are wasted, and his children neglected; and -sneering at the _religion_ which brings forth such questionable fruits. - - * * * * * - -Mrs. Brown is a church-member. Mrs. Judkins has called upon her, and -brought the tears into her mild blue eyes, by telling her that she in -particular, and the church in general, have been pained to notice Mrs. -Brown’s absence from the various religious gatherings and societies -above mentioned; that it is a matter of great grief to them that she is -so lukewarm; and does not enjoy religion as much as they do. - -Mrs. Brown has a sickly infant; her husband (owing to sad reverses) is -in but indifferent circumstances; they have but one inexperienced -servant. All the household outgoings and incomings must be carefully -watched and looked after. The little wailing infant is never out of the -maternal arms, save when its short slumbers give her a momentary -reprieve. Still, the little house is in perfect order. The table -tasteful and tempting, although the bill of fare is unostententatious; -the children are obedient, respectful, happy and well cared for. Morning -and evening, amid her varied and pressing cares, she bends the knee in -secret, to Him whom her maternal heart recognizes as “My Lord and my -God.” No mantle of dust shrouds the “Holy Book.” The sacred _household_ -altar flame never dies out. Little dimpled hands are reverently folded; -little lips lisping say, “Our Father.” Half a day on each returning -Sabbath finds the patient mother in her accustomed place in the -sanctuary. At her hearth and by her board the holy man of God hath -smiling welcome. “Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband -also, and he praiseth her;” while on high, the recording angel hath -written, “_She hath done what she could_.” - - - - - FEMININE WAITERS AT HOTELS. - - “Some of our leading hotel-keepers are considering the policy of - employing female waiters.” - - -Good news for you, poor pale-faced seamstresses! Throw your thimbles at -the heads of your penurious employers; put on your neatest and -_plainest_ dress; see that your feet and fingers are immaculate, and -then rush _en masse_ for the situation, ousting every white jacket in -Yankeedom. Stipulate with your employers for leave to carry in the -pocket of your French apron a pistol loaded with cranberry sauce, to -plaster up the mouth of the first coxcomb who considers it necessary to -preface his request for an omelette with “_My dear_.” It is my opinion -that one such hint will be sufficient; if not, you can vary the order of -exercises, by anointing him with a “HASTY plate of soup” at dinner. - -Always make a moustache wait twice as long as you do a man who wears a -clean, presentable lip. Should he undertake to expedite your slippers by -“a fee,” tell him that hotel bills are _generally_ settled at the -clerk’s office, except by _very_ verdant travellers. - -Should you see a woman at the table, digging down to the bottom of the -salt cellar, as if the top stratum were two plebeian; or ordering -ninety-nine messes (turning aside from each with affected airs of -disgust), or rolling up the whites of her eyes, declaring that she never -sat down to a dinner-table before minus “finger glasses,” you may be -sure that her aristocratic blood is nourished, _at home_, on herrings -and brown bread. When a masculine comes in with a white vest, flashy -neck-tie, extraordinary looking plaid trousers, several yards of gold -chain festooned over his vest, and a mammoth seal ring on his little -finger, you may be sure that his tailor and his laundress are both on -the anxious seat; and whenever you see travellers of _either_ sex -peregrinating the country in their “best bib and tucker,” you can set -them down for unmitigated’ “snobs,” for high-bred people can’t afford to -be so extravagant! - -I dare say you’ll get sick of so much pretension and humbug. Never mind; -it is better than to be stitching yourselves into a consumption over -sixpenny shirts; you’ll have your fun out of it. This would be a -horribly stupid world if everybody were sensible. I thank my stars every -day for the share of fools a kind Providence sends in my way. - - - - - LETTER TO THE EMPRESS EUGENIA. - - A PARIS LETTER says:—Lady Montijo has left Paris for Spain. She was - extremely desirous of remaining and living in the reflection of her - daughter’s grandeur, but Louis Napoleon, who shares in the general - prejudice against step-mothers, gave her plainly to understand, that - because he had married Eugenia, she must not suppose he had married - her whole family. She was allowed to linger six weeks, to have the - _entrée_ of the Tuileries, and to see her movements chronicled in the - _Pays_. She has at last left us, and the telegraph mentions her - arrival at Orleans, on her way to the Peninsula. - - -There Teba! did not I say you would need all those two-thousand-franc -pocket-handkerchiefs before your orange wreath had begun to give signs -of wilting? Why did you let your mamma go, you little simpleton? Before -Nappy secured your neck in the matrimonial noose, you should have had it -put down, in black and white, that Madame Montijo was to live with you -till—the next revolution, if you chose to have her. Now you have struck -your colours, of course everything will “go by the board.” I tell you, -Teba, that a fool is the most unmanageable of all beings. He is as -dogged and perverse as a broken-down donkey. You can neither goad nor -coax him into doing anything he should do, or prevent his doing what he -should not do. You will have to leave Nappy and come over here;—and then -everybody will nudge somebody’s elbow and say, “That is Mrs. Teba -Napoleon, who does not live with her husband.” And some will say it is -your fault; and others will say ’tis his; and all will tell you a world -more about it, than _you_ can tell _them_. - -Then, Mrs. Samuel Snip (who has the next room to yours, who murders the -queen’s English most ruthlessly, and is not quite certain whether Barnum -or Christopher Columbus discovered America) will have her Paul Pry ear -to the key-hole of your door about every other minute (except when her -husband is on duty) to find out if you are properly employed;—and no -matter what Mrs. Snip learns, or even if she does not learn anything, -she will be pretty certain to report, that, in her opinion, you are “no -better than you should be.” If you dress well (with your splendid form -and carriage you could not but seem well-dressed) she will “wonder how -you got the means to do it;” prefacing her remark with the self-evident -truth that, “to be sure, it is none of her business.” - -If you let your little Napoleon get out of your sight a minute, somebody -will have him by the pinafore and put him through a catechism about his -mamma’s mode of living, and how she spends her time. If you go to -church, it will be “to show yourself;” if you stay at home, “you are a -publican and a sinner.” Do what you will, it will all be wrong: if you -do nothing, it will be still worse. Our gentlemen (so called) knowing -that you are defenceless, and taking it for granted that your name is -“Barkis,” will all stare at you; and the women will dislike and abuse -you just in proportion as the opposite sex admire you. Of course you -will sweep past them all, with that magnificent figure of yours, and -your regal chin up in the air, quietly attending to your own business, -and entirely unconscious of their pigmy existence. - - - - - MUSIC IN THE NATURAL WAY. - - -How often, when wedged in a heated concert room, annoyed by the creaking -of myriad fans, and tortured optically by the glare of gas-light, have -I, with a gipsy longing, wished that the four walls might be razed, -leaving only the blue sky over my head, that the tide of music might -unfettered flow over my soul. - -How often, when dumb with delight, in the midst of some scene of -surpassing natural beauty, have I silently echoed the poet’s words:— - - “Give me music, or I die.” - -My dream was all realized at a promenade concert at Castle Garden last -night. Shall I ever forget it? That glorious expanse of sea, glittering -in the moonbeams; the little boats gliding smoothly over its polished -surface; the cool, evening zephyr, fanning the brow wooingly; the -music—soothing—thrilling—then quickening the pulse and stirring the -blood, like the sound of a trumpet; then, that rare boon, a companion, -who had the good taste to be _dumb_, and not disturb my trance. - -There was one drawback. After the doxology, I noticed some -matter-of-fact wretches devouring ice-creams. May no priests be found to -give them absolution. I include, also, in this anathema, those -ever-to-be-avoided masculines, who, then and there, puffed cigar smoke -in my face, and the moon’s. - - - - - FOR LADIES THAT “GO SHOPPING.” - - -Matrimony and the toothache _may_ be survived, but of all the evils -feminity is heir to, defend me from a shopping excursion. But, alas! -bonnets, shoes and hose will wear out, and shopkeepers will chuckle over -the sad necessity that places the unhappy owners within their dry-goods -clutches. Felicitous Mrs. Figleaf! why taste that paradisaical apple? - -Some victimised females frequent the stores where soiled and damaged -goods are skilfully announced as selling at an “immense sacrifice,” by -their public-spirited and disinterested owners. Some courageously -venture into more elegant establishments, where the claim of the -applicant to notice is measured by the costliness of her apparel, and -where clerks poise their eye-glass at any plebeian shopperess bold -enough to inquire for silk under six dollars a yard. Others, still, are -tortured at the counter of some fussy old bachelor, who always ties up, -with distressing deliberation, every parcel he takes down for -inspection, before he can open another, and moves round to execute your -orders as if Mount Atlas were fastened to his heels; or perhaps get -petrified at the store of some snap-dragon old maid, whose victims serve -as escape-valves for long years of bile, engendered by Cupid’s -oversights. Meanwhile, the vexed question is still unsolved, Where can -the penance of shopping be performed with the least possible wear and -tear of patience and prunella? The answer seems to me to be contained in -six letters—“Stewart’s.” - -“_Stewart’s?_” I think I hear some old lady exclaim, dropping her -knitting and peering over her spectacles; “Stewart’s! Yes, if you have -the mines of California to back you.” Now I have a profound respect -for old ladies, as I stand self-pledged to join that respectable body -on the advent of my very first gray hair; still, with due deference to -their catnip and pennyroyal experience, I conscientiously -repeat—“_Stewart’s_.” - -You may stroll through his rooms free to gaze and admire, without being -annoyed by an impertinent clerk dogging your footsteps; you can take up -a fabric and examine it, without being bored by a statement of its -immense superiority over every article of the kind in the market, or -without being deafened by a detailed account of the enormous sums that -the mushroom aristocracy have considered themselves but _too_ happy to -expend, in order to secure a dress from that very desirable, and -altogether unsurpassed, and unsurpassable, piece of goods! - -You can independently say that an article does not exactly suit you, -though your husband may not stand by you with a drawn sword. You will -encounter no ogling, no impertinent cross-questioning, no tittering -whispers from the quiet, well-bred clerks, who attend to their own -business, and allow you to attend to yours. - -’Tis true that you may see at Stewart’s cobweb laces an inch or two -wide, for fifty or one hundred dollars a yard, which many a brainless -butterfly of fashion is supremely happy in sporting: but at the very -next counter you may suit yourself, or your country cousin, to a -sixpenny calico or a shilling delaine; and, what is better, be quite as -sure that her verdant queries will be as respectfully answered as if a -liveried Pompey stood waiting at the door to hand her to her carriage. - -You can go into the silk department, where, by a soft descending light -you will see dinner dresses that remind you of a shivered rainbow, for -_passé_ married ladies who long since ceased to celebrate their -birth-days, and who keep their budding daughters carefully immured in -the nursery; or, at the same counter, you can select a modest silk for -your minister’s wife at six shillings a yard, that will cause no -heart-burnings in the most Argus-eyed of Paul Pry parishes. - -Then if you patronise those ever-to-be-abominated and -always-to-be-shunned nuisances called Parties, where fools of both sexes -gather to criticise their host and hostess, and cut up characters and -confectionery, you can step into that little room from which daylight is -excluded, and select an evening dress, _by gas-light_, upon the effect -of which you can, of course, depend, and to which artistic arrangement -many a New York belle has probably owed that much prized possession—her -“last conquest.” - -Now, if you please, you can go into the upholstery-room, and furnish -your nursery windows with a cheap set of plain linen curtains; or you -can expend a small fortune in regal crimson, or soft blue damask -drapery, for your drawing-room; and without troubling yourself to thread -the never-ending streets of Gotham for an upholsteress, can have them -made by competent persons in the upper loft of the building, who will -also drape them faultlessly about your windows, should you so desire. - -Now you can peep into the cloak room, and bear away on your graceful -shoulders a six, twenty, thirty, or four hundred dollar cloak, as the -length of your husband’s purse, or your own fancy (which in these -degenerate days amounts to pretty much the same thing) may suggest. - -Then there is the wholesale department, where you will see shawls, -hosiery, flannels, calicoes, and delaines, sufficient to stock all the -nondescript country stores, to say nothing of city consumption. - -Now, if you are not weary, you can descend (under ground) into the -carpet department, from whence you can hear the incessant roll of -full-freighted omnibuses, the ceaseless tramp of myriad restless feet, -and all the busy train of out-door life made audible in all the dialects -of Babel. Here you can see every variety of carpet, from the homespun, -unpretending straw, oil cloth, and Kidderminster, to the gorgeous -Brussels and tapestry (above whose traceried buds and flowers the -daintiest foot might well poise itself, loth to crush), up to the regal -Axminster, of Scottish manufacture, woven without seam, and warranted, -in these days of late suppers and tobacco smoking, to _last a -life-time_. - -Emerging from this subterranean region, you will ascend into daylight; -and reflecting first upon all this immense outlay, and then upon the -frequent and devastating conflagrations in New York, inquire with -solicitude, Are you _insured_? and regret to learn that there is too -much risk to effect an _entire_ insurance, although Argus-eyed watchmen -keep up a night-and-day patrol throughout the handsome building. - - - - - THE OLD MERCHANT WANTS A SITUATION. - - “An elderly gentleman, formerly a well-known merchant, wishes a - situation; he will engage in any respectable employment not too - laborious.”—_New York Daily Paper._ - - -I don’t know the old man. I never saw him on ‘change, in a fine suit of -broadcloth, leaning on his gold-headed cane; while brokers, and -insurance officers, and presidents of banks raised their hats -deferentially, and the crowd respectfully made way for him. I never kept -account of the enormous taxes he annually paid the city, or saw his -gallant ships ploughing the blue ocean with their costly freight, to -foreign ports. I never saw him in his luxurious home, taking his quiet -siesta, lulled by the liquid voice of his fairy daughter. No: nor did I -hear the auctioneer’s hammer in that home, nor see the red flag -floating, like a signal of distress, before the door. I didn’t read the -letter that recalled his only boy from college, or see the humbled -family, as they passed, shrinking, over the threshold into poor -lodgings, whose landlord coarsely stipulated for “a week’s rent in -advance.” - -“Any occupation not _too laborious_.” How mournfully the old man’s words -fall upon the ear! Life to commence anew, with the silver head, and bent -form, and faltering step, and palsied hand of age! With the first ray of -morning light, that hoary head must be lifted from an unquiet pillow, to -encounter the drenching rain, and driving sleet, and piercing cold. No -reprieve from that wearisome ledger, for the throbbing brow and dimmed -eye. Beardless clerks make a jest of “the old boy;” superciliously -repeating, in his sensitive ear, their mutual master’s orders. With them -he meekly receives his weekly pittance; sighing, as he counts it over, -to think of the few comforts it will bring to the drooping hearts at -home. Foot-weary, he travels through the crowded streets; his threadbare -coat, and napless hat, and dejected face, all unnoticed by the thriving -young merchant, whom the old man helped to his present prosperous -business position. The birth-days of his delicate daughter come and go, -all unmarked by the joy-bestowing gift. With trouble and exposure, -sickness comes at last; then the tardy foot, and careless, professional -touch of the callous-hearted dispensary doctor; then the poor man’s -hearse stands before the door; then winds unheeded through busy streets, -to the “Potter’s field,” while his former cotemporaries take up the -daily paper, and sipping their wine, say carelessly, as if _they_ had a -quit-claim from sorrow, “Well, Old Smith, the broken-down millionaire, -is dead.” - -Ah, there are tragedies of which editors and printers little dream, -woven in their daily advertising sheets; the office boy feeds the fire -with many a tear-blotted manuscript, penned by trembling fingers, all -unused to toil. - - - - - A MOVING TALE. - - -The Smiths have just been moving. They always move “for the last time,” -on the first of May. “Horrid custom!” exclaims Smith, wiping the -perspiration from his brow, and pulling up his depressed dickey. “How my -blood curdles and my bones ache at the thought!” It was on Tuesday, the -third of May, that the afflicting rite was celebrated. Cartmen—four of -them—were engaged the Saturday previous, to be on hand at six o’clock on -Tuesday morning, to transport the household goods from the habitation of -’52–3 to that of ’53–4. Smith was to pay them three dollars each—twelve -dollars in all. They would not come for a mill less; Smith tried them -thoroughly. - -On Monday, Smith’s house is turned into a sort of bedlam, minus the -beds. They are tied up, ready for the next morning’s Hegira; the Smiths -sleeping on the floor on Monday night. Smith can’t sleep on the floor; -he grows restless; he receives constant reminders from Mrs. Smith to -take his elbow out of the baby’s face; he has horrid visions, and rolls -about; therefore, he is not at all surprised, on waking at cock-crow, to -find his head in the fire-place, and his hair powdered with soot. The -occasion of his waking at that time, was a dream of an unpleasant -nature. He dreamed that he had rolled off the world backwards, and -lodged in a thorn-bush. Of course, such a thing was slightly improbable; -but how could Smith be responsible for a dream? - -On Tuesday morning the Smiths are up with the dawn. The household being -mustered, it is found that the servant girl, who had often averred that, -“she lived out just for a little exercise,” had deserted her colours. -The grocer at the corner politely informs Smith (whom Mrs. S. had sent -on an errand of inquiry), that, on the night previous, the servant left -with him a message for her employers, to the effect that “she didn’t -consider moving the genteel thing at all; and that a proper regard for -her character and position in society had induced her to get a situation -in the family of a gentleman who owned the house he lived in.” - -This is severe: Smith feels it keenly; Mrs. Smith leans her head against -her husband’s vest pattern, and says “She is quite crushed,” and -“wonders how Smith can have the heart to whistle. But it is always so,” -she remarks. “Woman is the weaker vessel, and man delights to trample on -her.” Smith indignantly denies this sweeping assertion, and says “he -tramples on nothing;” when Mrs. Smith points to a bandbox containing her -best bonnet, which he has just put his foot through. Smith is silent. - -The cartmen were to be on the premises at six o’clock. Six o’clock -comes—half-past six—seven o’clock—but no cartmen. Here is a dilemma! The -successors to the Smiths are to be on the ground at eight o’clock; and -being on the ground, they will naturally wish to get into the house; -which they cannot well do, unless the Smiths are out of it. - -Smith takes a survey of his furniture, with a feeling of intense -disgust. He wishes his cumbrous goods were reduced to the capacity of a -carpet-bag, which he could pick up and walk away with. The mirrors and -pianoforte are his especial aversion. The latter is a fine instrument, -with an Eolian attachment. He wishes it had a sheriff’s attachment; in -fact, he would have been obliged to any officer who should, at that -wretched moment, have sold out the whole establishment, at the most -“ruinous sacrifice” ever imagined by an auctioneer’s fertile -“marvellousness.” - -—Half-past seven, and no cartmen yet. What is to be done? Ah! here they -come, at last. Smith is at a loss to know what excuse they will make. -Verdant Smith! _They make no excuse._ They simply tell him, with an air -which demands his congratulations, that they “picked up a nice job by -the way, and stopped to do it.” “You see,” says the principal, “we goes -in for all we can get, these times, and there’s no use of anybody’s -grumbling. Kase, you see, if one don’t want us, another will; and it’s -no favour for anybody to employ us a week either side the first of May.” -The rascal grins as he says this; and Smith, perceiving the strength of -the cartman’s position, wisely makes no reply. - -They begin to load. Just as they get fairly at work, the Browns (the -Smiths’ successors) arrive, with an appalling display of stock. Brown is -a vulgar fellow, who has suddenly become rich, and whose ideas of -manliness all centre in brutality. He is furious because the Smiths are -not “clean gone.” He “can’t wait there, all day, in the street.” He -orders his men to “carry the things into the house,” and heads the -column himself with a costly rocking-chair in his arms. As Brown comes -up with his rocking-chair, Smith, at the head of his men, descends, with -a bureau, from the second floor. - - “They met, ’twas in a crowd”— - -on the stairs, and Smith - - “Thought that Brown would shun him,” - -—but he didn’t! The consequence was, they came in collision: or, rather, -Smith’s bureau and Brown’s rocking-chair came in collision. Now, said -bureau was an old-fashioned, hardwood affair, made for service, while -Brown’s rocking-chair was a flimsy, showy fabric, of modern make. The -meeting on the stairs occasions some squeezing, and more stumbling, and -Brown suddenly finds himself and chair under the bureau, to the great -injury of his person and his furniture. (Brown has since recovered, but -the case of the rocking-chair is considered hopeless.) This discomfiture -incenses the Browns to a high degree, and they determine to be as -annoying as possible; so they persist in bringing their furniture into -the house, and upstairs, as the Smiths are carrying theirs out of the -house, and down stairs. Collisions are, of course, the order of the day; -but the Smiths do not mind this much, as they have a great advantage, -_viz.: their furniture is not half so good as Brown’s_. After a few -smashes, Brown receives light on this point, and orders his forces to -remain quiet, while the foe evacuates the premises; so the Smiths retire -in peace—and much of their furniture in pieces. - -The four carts form quite a respectable procession; but there is no -disguising the fact that the furniture looks very shabby (and whose -furniture does not look shabby, piled on carts?); so the Smiths -prudently take a back street, that no one may accuse them of owning it. -Smith has to carry the baby and a large mirror, which Mrs. S. was afraid -to trust to the cartmen, there being no insurance on either. It being a -windy day, both the mirror and Smith’s hat veer to all points of the -compass, while the baby grows very red in the face at not being able to -possess himself of them. Between the wind, the mirror, his hat and the -baby, Smith has an unpleasant walk of it. - -About ten o’clock, they arrive at their new residence, and find, to -their horror, that their predecessors have not begun to move. They -inquire the reason. The feminine head of the family informs them, with -tears in her eyes, that her husband (Mr. Jonas Jenkins) has been sick in -Washington for five weeks; that, in consequence of his affliction, they -have not been able to provide a new tenement; that she is quite unwell, -and that one of her children (she has six) is ill, also; that she don’t -know what is to become of them, &c., &c. Smith sets his hat on the back -of his head, gives a faint tug at his neck-tie, and confesses -himself—quenched! His furniture looks more odious every minute. He once -felt much pride it, but he feels none now: he feels only disgust. The -cartmen begin to growl out that they “can’t stand here all day,” and -request to be informed “where we shall drop the big traps.” Hereupon, -Smith ventures, with a ghastly attempt at a smile, to inquire of Mrs. -Jenkins why she didn’t tell him, when he called, on Saturday, of her -inability to procure a house? To which that lady innocently replies that -she “didn’t wish to give him any unnecessary trouble!” which reply -satisfies him as to Mrs. Jenkins’ claim to force of intellect. - -At this juncture Smith falls into a profound reverie. He thinks that, -after all, Fourier is right—“that the Solidarity of the human race is an -entity;” that “nobody can be happy until everybody is happy.” He agrees -with the great philosopher, that the “series distributes the harmonies.” -He realizes that “society is organized (or rather disorganized) on a -wrong basis;” that it is an “amorphous condition,” whereas it should be -“crystallized.” With our celebrated “down east” poet, Ethan Spike, Esq., -he begins to think that, - - “The etarnal bung is loose,” - -and that, unless it be soon tightened, there is danger that - - “All natur’ will be spilt.” - -He comes to the conclusion, finally, that “something must be done,” and -that speedily, to “secure a home for every family.” - -At this point he is aroused by his tormentors, the cartmen, who inform -him that they are in a “Barkis” state of mind (willin’) to receive their -twelve dollars. Smith pays the money, and turns to examine the premises. -He finds that Mrs. Jenkins has packed all her things in the back -basement and the second-floor sitting-room. Poor thing! she has done her -best, after all. She is in ill health; her husband is sick, and away -from home; and her children are not well. God pity the unfortunate who -live in cities, especially in the “moving season.” But Smith is a -kind-hearted man. With a few exceptions, the Smiths are a kind-hearted -race—and that’s probably the reason they are so numerous. - -Smith puts on a cheerful countenance, and busies himself in arranging -his furniture. Mrs. Smith, kind soul, forgets the destruction of her -bandbox and bonnet, and cares not how long or how loud Smith whistles. -Suddenly the prospect brightens! Mrs. Jenkins’ brother-in-law appears, -and announces that he has found rooms for her, a little higher up town. -Cartmen are soon at the door, and the Jenkinses are on their “winding -way” to their new residence. - -—But the Smiths’ troubles are not yet over. The painters, who were to -have had the house all painted the day before, have done nothing but -leave their paint-pots in the hall, and a little Smithling, being of an -investigating turn of mind, and hungry withal, attempts to make a late -breakfast off the contents of one of them. He succeeds in eating enough -to disgust him with his bill of fare, and frighten his mamma into -hysterics. A doctor is sent for: he soon arrives, and, after attending -to the mother, gives the young adventurer a facetious chuck under the -chin, and pronounces him perfectly safe. The parents are greatly -relieved, for Willy is a pet; and they confidently believe him destined -to be President of the United States, if they can only keep paint-pots -out of his way. - -It takes the Smiths some ten days to get “to rights.” The particulars of -their further annoyances—how the carpets didn’t fit; how the cartmen -“lost the pieces;” how the sofas couldn’t be made to look natural; how -the pianoforte was too large to stand behind the parlour door, and too -small to stand between the front windows; how the ceiling was too low, -and the book-case too high; how a bottle of indelible ink got into the -bureau by mistake and “marked” all Mrs. Smith’s best dresses—I forbear -to inflict on the reader. Suffice it to say, the Smiths are in “a -settled state;” although their apartments give signs of the recent -manifestation of a strong disturbing force—reminding one, somewhat, of a -“settlement” slowly recovering from the visitation of an earthquake. -Still, they are thankful for present peace, and are determined, -_positively_, not to move again—until next May. - - - - - THIS SIDE AND THAT. - - -I am weary of this hollow show and glitter—weary of fashion’s -stereotyped lay-figures—weary of smirking fops and brainless belles, -exchanging their small coin of flattery and their endless genuflexions: -let us go out of Broadway—somewhere, anywhere. Turn round the wheel, -Dame Fortune, and show up the other side. - -“The Tombs!”—we never thought to be there! nevertheless, we are not to -be frightened by a grated door or a stone wall, so we pass in; leaving -behind the soft wind of this Indian summer day, to lift the autumn -leaves as gently as does a loving nurse her drooping child. - -We gaze into the narrow cells, and draw a long breath. Poor creatures, -tempted and tried. How many to whom the world now pays its homage, who -sit in high places, _should_ be in their stead? God knoweth. See them, -with their pale faces pressed up against the grated windows, or pacing -up and down their stone floors, like chained beasts. There is a little -boy not more than ten years old; what has _he_ done? - -“Stolen a pair of shoes!” - -Poor child! he never heard of “Swartout.” How should he know that he was -put in there not for _stealing, but for doing it on so small a scale_? - -Hist! Do you see that figure seated in the further corner of that cell, -with his hands crossed on his knees? His whole air and dress are those -of a gentleman. How came such a man as that here? - -“For murder?” How sad! Ah! somewhere in the length and breadth of the -land a mother’s heart is aching because she spared the rod to spoil the -child. - -There is a coffin, untenanted as yet, but kept on hand; for Death laughs -at bolts and fetters, and many a poor wretch is borne struggling within -these gloomy walls, only to be carried to his last home, while none but -God may ever know at whose fireside stands his vacant chair. - -And here is a woman’s cell. There are two or three faded dresses hanging -against the walls, and a bonnet, for which she has little use. Her -friends have brought her some bits of carpeting, which she has spread -over the stone floor, with her womanly love of order (poor thing), to -make the place look _home-like_. And there is a crucifix in the corner. -See, she kneels before it! May the Holy Virgin’s blessed Son, who said -to the sinning one, “Neither do I condemn thee,” send into her stricken -heart the balm of holy peace. - -Who is that? No! it _cannot_ be—but, yes, it is he—and what a wreck! -See, he shrinks away, and a bright flush chases the marble paleness from -his check. God bless me! That R—— should come to this! Still, -Intemperance, with her thousand voices, crieth. “Give! give!” and still, -alas! it is the gifted, and generous, and warm-hearted, who oftenest -answer the summons. - -More cells?—but there is no bed in them; only a wooden platform, raised -over the stone floor. It is for gutter drunkards—too foul, too loathsome -to be placed upon a bed—turned in here like swine, to wallow in the same -slough. Oh, how few, who, festively sipping the rosy wine, say “_my_ -mountain stands strong,” e’er dream of such an end as this. - -Look there! tread softly: angels are near us. Through the grated window -the light streams faintly upon a little pallet, where, sweet as a dream -of heaven, lies a sleeping babe! Over its cherub face a smile is -flitting. The cell has no other occupant; angels only watch the slumbers -of the prison-cradled. The place is holy. I stoop to kiss its forehead. -From the crowd of women pacing up and down the guarded gallery, one -slides gently to my side, saying, half proudly, half sadly, “’Tis _my_ -babe.” - -“It is _so_ sweet, and pure, and holy,” said I. - -The mother’s lip quivers; wiping away a tear with her apron, she says in -a choking voice: - -“Ah, it is little the likes of you, ma’am, know how hard it is for us to -get the honest bread!” - -God be thanked, thought I, that there is one who “judgeth _not_ as man -judgeth;” who holdeth evenly the scales of justice; who weigheth against -our sins the _whirlpool_ of our temptations; who forgetteth never the -countless struggles for the victory, ere the desponding, weary heart -shuts out the light of Heaven. - - - - - MRS. ZEBEDEE SMITH’S PHILOSOPHY. - - -Dear me! how expensive it is to be poor. Every time I go out, my best -bib and tucker has to go on. If Zebedee were worth a cool million, I -might wear a coal-hod on my head, if I chose, with perfect impunity. -There was that old nabob’s wife at the lecture, the other night, in a -dress that might have been made for Noah’s great grandmother. She can -afford it! Now, if it rains knives and forks, I must sport a ten dollar -hat, a forty-dollar dress, and a hundred dollar shawl. If I go to a -concert, I must take the highest priced seat, and ride there and back, -just to let “Tom, Dick, and Harry” see that I can afford it. Then we -must hire the most expensive pew in the broad-aisle of a tip-top church, -and give orders to the sexton not to admit any strangers into it who -look snobbish! Then my little children, Napoleon Bonaparte and Donna -Maria Smith, can’t go to a public school, because, you know, we -shouldn’t have to pay anything. - -Then if I go shopping, to buy a paper of needles, I have to get a little -chap to bring them home, because it wouldn’t answer for me to be seen -carrying a bundle through the streets. We have to keep three servants -where one might do; and Zebedee’s coats have to be sent to the tailor -when they want a button sewed on, for the look of the thing. - -Then if I go to the sea-shore in summer, I can’t take my comfort, as -rich people do, in gingham dresses, loose shoes, and cambric -sun-bonnets. No! I have to be done up by ten o’clock in a Swiss-muslin -dress and a French cap; and my Napoleon Bonaparte and Donna Maria can’t -go off the piazza, because the big rocks and little pebbles cut their -toes so badly through their patent kid slippers. - -Then if Zebedee goes a fishing, he dare not put on a linen coat for the -price of his reputation. No, indeed! Why, he never goes to the barn-yard -without drawing on his white kids. Then he orders the most ruinous wines -at dinner, and fees those white jackets till his purse is as empty as an -egg-shell. I declare it is abominably expensive. I don’t believe rich -people have the least idea how much it costs poor people to live! - - - - - A LANCE COUCHED FOR THE CHILDREN. - - -You have a pretty, attractive child; she is warm-hearted and -affectionate, but vivacious and full of life. With judicious management, -and a firm, steady rein, she is a very loveable one. You take her with -you on a visit, or to make a call. You are busy, talking with the friend -you went to see. A gentleman comes in and throws himself indolently on -the sofa. His eye falls upon little Kitty. He is just in the mood to be -amused, and makes up his mind to banter her a little, for the sake of -drawing her out. So he says— - -“Jemima, dear—come here!” - -The child blushes, and regards him as if uncertain whether he intended -to address her. He repeats his request, with a laugh. She replies, “My -name is Kitty, not Jemima,” which her tormentor contradicts. Kitty looks -puzzled (just as he intended she should), but it is only for a moment. -She sees he is quizzing her. Well, Miss Kitty likes a frolic, if that is -what he wants; so she gives him a pert answer—he laughs uproariously, -and rattles fun round her little ears like a hail storm; Kitty has -plenty of answers ready for him, and he enjoys the sport amazingly. - -By-and-by, he gets weary, and says,—“There—run away now, I’m going to -read the newspaper;” but Kitty is wide awake, and has no idea of being -cut short in that summary way; so she continues her Lilliputian attacks, -till finally he gets up and beats a despairing retreat, muttering, “what -a very _disagreeable_ child.” - -Mamma sees it all from a distance; she does not interfere—no—for she -believes in “Children’s Rights.” Kitty was quiet, well behaved and -respectful—till the visitor undertook to quiz, and teaze her, for his -own amusement. He wanted a frolic—and he has had it: they _who play with -children must take children’s play_. - - - - - A CHAPTER ON HOUSEKEEPING. - - -I never could see the reason why your smart housekeepers must, of -necessity, be Xantippes. I once had the misfortune to be domesticated -during the summer months with one of this genus. - -I should like to have seen the adventurous spider that would have dared -to ply his cunning trade in Mrs. Carrot’s premises! Nobody was allowed -to sleep a wink after daylight, beneath her roof. Even her old rooster -crowed one hour earlier than any of her neighbours’. “Go ahead,” was -written on every broomstick in the establishment. - -She gave her husband his breakfast, buttoned up his overcoat, and put -him out of the front door, with his face in the direction of the store, -in less time than I have taken to tell it. Then she snatched up the six -little Carrots; scrubbed their faces, up and down, without regard to -feelings or noses, till they shone like a row of milk pans. - -“Clear the track,” was her motto, on washing and ironing days. She never -drew a long breath till the wash-tubs were turned bottom upwards again, -and every article of wearing apparel sprinkled, folded, ironed, and -replaced on the backs of their respective owners. It gave me a stitch in -the side to look at her! - -As to her “cleaning days,” I never had courage to witness one. I used to -lie under an apple-tree in the orchard, till she was through. A whole -platoon of soldiers wouldn’t have frightened me so much as that virago -and her mop. - -You should have seen her in her glory on “baking days;” her sleeves -rolled up to her arm-pits, and a long, check apron swathed around her -bolster-like figure. The great oven glowing, blazing, and sparkling, in -a manner very suggestive, to a lazy sinner like myself. The interminable -rows of greased pie-plates; the pans of rough and ready gingerbread; the -pots of pork and beans, in an edifying state of progression; and the -immense embryo loaves of brown and wheaten bread. To my innocent -inquiry, whether she thought the latter would “rise,” she set her skinny -arms akimbo, marched up within kissing distance of my face, cocked her -head on one side, and asked “if I thought she looked like a woman to be -trifled with by a loaf of bread!” The way I settled down into my -slippers, without a reply, probably convinced her that I was no longer -sceptical on that point. - -Saturday evening she employed in winding up everything that was unwound -in the house—the old entry clock included. From that time till Monday -morning, she devoted to her husband and Sabbatical exercises. All I have -to say is, it is to be hoped she carried some of the fervour of her -secular employment into those halcyon hours. - -[Illustration] - - - - - A FERN REVERIE. - - -Dear me, I must go shopping. Shopping is a nuisance; clerks are -impertinent; feminity is victimized. Miserable day, too; mud plastered -an inch thick on the side-walk. Well, if we drop our skirts, gentlemen -cry “Ugh!” and if we lift them from the mud, they level their -eye-glasses at our ankles. The true definition of a gentleman (not found -in incomplete Webster) is—a biped, who, of a muddy day is perfectly -oblivious of anything but the shop signs. - -_Vive la France!_ Ingenious Parisians, send us over your clever -invention—a chain suspended from the girdle, at the end of which is a -gold _hand_ to clasp up the superfluous length of our promenading robes; -thus releasing our human digits, and leaving them at liberty to wrestle -with rude Boreas for the possession of the detestable little sham -bonnets, which the milliners persist in hanging on the backs of our -necks. - -Well, here we are at Call and Ketchum’s dry-goods store. Now comes the -tug of war; let Job’s mantle fall on my feminine shoulders. - -“Have you _blue_ silk?” - -Yardstick, entirely ignorant of colours, after fifteen minutes of -snail-like research, hands me down a silk that is as _green_ as himself. - -Oh! away with these stupid masculine clerks, and give us _women_, who -know by intuition what we want, to the immense saving of our lungs and -leather. - -Here’s Mr. Timothy Tape’s establishment. - -“Have you lace collars (in points), Mr. Tape?” - -Mr. Tape looks beneficent, and shows me some _rounded_ collars. I repeat -my request in the most pointed manner for _pointed_ collars. Mr. Tape -replies, with a patronizing grin:— - -“Points is going out, Ma’am.” - -“So am I.” - -Dear me, how tired my feet are! nevertheless, I must have some merino. -So I open the door of Mr. Henry Humbug’s dry-goods store, which is about -half a mile in length, and inquire for the desired article. Young -Yardstick directs me to the counter at the _extreme_ end of the store. I -commence my travels thither-ward through a file of gaping clerks, and -arrive there just ten minutes before two by my repeater; when I am told -“they are quite out of merinos; but won’t Lyonnese cloth do just as -well?” pulling down a pile of the same. I rush out in a high state of -frenzy, and, taking refuge in the next-door neighbour’s, inquire for -some stockings. Whereupon the clerk inquires (of the wrong customer), -“What price I wish to pay?” Of course, I am not so verdant as to be -caught in that trap; and, teetotally disgusted with the entire -institution of shopping, I drag my weary limbs into Taylor’s new saloon -to rest. - -Bless me! what a display of gilding, and girls, and gingerbread! what a -heap of mirrors! There’s more than one FANNY FERN in the world. I found -that out since I came in. - -“What will you be pleased to have?” J-u-l-i-u-s C-æ-s-a-r! look at that -white aproned waiter pulling out his snuff-box and taking a pinch of -snuff right over that bowl of white sugar, that will be handed me in -five minutes to sweeten my tea! And there’s another combing his hair -with a pocket-comb over that dish of oysters. - -“What will I have?” Starve me if I’ll have anything till I can find a -cleaner place than this to eat in. - -Shade of old Paul Pry Boston! what do I hear? Two—well I declare, I am -not sure whether they are ladies or women; I don’t understand these New -York femininities. At any rate, they wear bonnets, and are telling the -waiter to bring them “a bottle of Maraschino de Zara, some sponge-cake, -and some brandy drops!” See them sip the cordial in their glasses, with -the gusto of old topers. See their eyes sparkle and their cheeks flush, -and just hear their emancipated little tongues go. Wonder if their -husbands know that they—but of course they don’t. However, it is six of -one and half-a-dozen of the other. They are probably turning down -sherry-cobblers, and eating oysters, at Florence’s; and their poor -hungry children (while their parents are dainty-izing) are coming home -hungry from school, to eat a fragmentary dinner picked up at home by a -lazy set of servants. - -Heigho! Ladies sipping wine in a public saloon! Pilgrim rock! hide -yourself underground! Well, it is very shocking the number of married -women who pass their time ruining their health in these saloons, -devouring Parisian confectionery, and tainting their children’s blood -with an appetite for strong drink. Oh, what a mockery of a home must -theirs be! Heaven pity the children reared there, left to the chance -training of vicious hirelings. - - - - - A “BROWN STUDY”—SUGGESTED BY BROWN VAILS. - - “Why _will_ ladies wear those ugly brown veils, which look like the - burnt edge of a buckwheat cake? We vote for green ones.”—_Exchange._ - - -MR. CRITIC: Why don’t you hit upon something objectionable? Such as the -passion which stout ladies have for wearing immense plaids, and whole -stories of flounces! Such as thin, bolster-like looking females-wearing -narrow’ stripes! Such as brunettes, gliding round like ghosts, in pale -blue! Such as blondes blowing out like dandelions in bright yellow! Such -as short ladies swathing up their little fat necks in voluminous folds -of shawls, and _shingle_ women rejoicing in strips of mantles! - -_Then the gentlemen!_ - -Your stout man is sure to get into a frock coat, with baggy trousers; -your May-pole, into a long-waisted body-coat, and “continuations” -unnecessarily compact; your dark man looks like an “east wind” -daguerreotyped, in a light blue neck-tie; while your pink-and-white man -looks as though he wanted a pitcher of water in his face. - -Now allow _me_ to suggest. Your thin man should always close the thorax -button of his coat, and the last two at his waistband, leaving the -intermediate open, to give what he needs—more breadth of chest. Your -stout man, who has almost always a nice arm and hand, should have his -coat sleeve a _perfect fit_ from the elbow to the wrist, buttoning -_there tightly_—allowing a nice strip of a white linen wristband below -it. - -I understand the architecture of a coat to a charm; know as quick as a -flash whether ’tis all right, the minute I clap my eye on it. As to -vests, I call myself a connoisseur. “_Stocks_” are only fit for Wall -Street! Get yourself some nice silk neck-ties, and ask your wife, or -somebody who knows something, to longitudinize them to your jugular. -Throw your coloured, embroidered, and ruffled shirt-bosoms overboard; -leave your cane and cigar at home; wear a pair of neat, _dark_ gloves; -sport an immaculate pocket-handkerchief and dickey—don’t say naughty -words—give us ladies the _inside_ of the walk—speak of every woman as -you would wish _your_ mother or _your_ sister spoken of, and you’ll do! - - - - - INCIDENT AT THE FIVE POINTS HOUSE OF INDUSTRY. - - -To be able to appreciate Mr. Pease’s toils, and sacrifices, and -self-denying labours at the Five Points House of Industry, one must -visit the locality—one must wind through those dirty streets and alleys, -and see the wrecks of humanity that meet him at every step—he must see -children so dirty and squalid that they scarcely resemble human beings, -playing in filthy gutters, and using language that would curdle his -blood to hear from _childhood’s_ lips—he should see men, “made in God’s -own image,” brutalised beyond his power to imagine—he should see women -(girls of not more than twenty years) reeling about the pavements in a -state of beastly intoxication, without a trace of feminity in their -vicious faces—he should pass the rum shops, where men and women are -quarrelling, and fighting, and swearing, while childhood listens and -_learns_!—he should pass the second-hand clothes cellars, where -hard-featured Jewish dealers swing out faded, refuse garments (pawned by -starving virtue for bread), to sell to the needy, half-naked emigrant -for his last penny—he should see decayed fruit and vegetables which the -most ravenous swine might well root twice over before devouring, -purchased as daily food by these poor creatures—he should see _gentlemen -(?)_ threading these streets, not to make all this misery less, God -knows, but to sever the last thread of hope to which many a tempted one -is despairingly clinging. - -One must see all this before he can form a just idea of the magnitude -and importance of the work that Mr. Pease has single-handed and nobly -undertaken; remembering that men of wealth and influence have their own -reasons for using that wealth and influence to perpetuate this modern -Sodom. - -One should spend an hour in Mr. Pease’s house, to see the constant -draughts upon his time and strength, in the shape of calls and messages, -and especially the applications for relief that _his_ slender purse, -alas! is often not able to answer;—he should see his unwearied patience -and activity, admire the kind, sympathetic heart—unaffected by the toil -or the frowns of temporizing theorists—ever warm, ever pitiful, giving -not only “the _crumbs_ from his table,” but often his own meals to the -hungry—his own wardrobe to the naked;—he should see _this_, and go away -_ashamed_ to have lived so long and done so little to help the maimed, -and sick, and lame, to Bethesda’s Pool. - -I will relate an incident which occurred, some time since, at the House -of Industry, and which serves as a fair sample of daily occurrences -there. - -One morning an aged lady, of respectable appearance, called at the -Mission House and inquired for Mr. Pease. She was told that he was -engaged, and asked if some one else would not do as well. She said, -respectfully, “No; my business is with him; I will wait, if you please, -till he can see me.” - -Mr. Pease immediately came in, when the old lady commenced her story:— - -“I come, sir,” said she, “in behalf of a poor, unfortunate woman and -three children. She is living now”—and the tears dropped over her -wrinkled face—“in a bad place in Willet Street, in a basement. There are -rum shops all around it, and many drunken people about the -neighbourhood. She has made out to pay the rent, but has had no food for -the poor little children, who have subsisted on what they could manage -to beg in the daytime. The landlord promised, when she hired the -basement, to put a lock on the door, and make it comfortable, so that -‘the Croton’ need not run in; but he got his rent and then broke his -promise, and they have not seen him since.” - -“Is the woman respectable?” inquired Mr. Pease. - -“Yes—no—not exactly,” said the poor old lady, violently agitated. “She -was well brought up. She has a good heart, sir, but a bad head, and then -trouble has discouraged her. Poor Mary—yes, sir, it _must_ have been the -_trouble_—for I know her _heart_ is good, sir. I,”—tears choked the old -lady’s utterance. Recovering herself, she continued:— - -“She had a kind husband once. He was the father of her two little girls: -six years ago he died, and—the poor thing—oh, sir, you don’t know how -dear she is to _me_!”—and burying her aged face in her hands, she sobbed -aloud. - -Mr. Pease’s kind heart interpreted the old lady’s emotion, without the -pain of an explanation. In the weeping woman before him he saw the -_mother_ of the lost one. - -Yes, she was “Mary’s” mother. Poverty could not chill her love; shame -and the world’s scorn had only filled her with a God-like pity. - -After a brief pause, she brushed away her tears and went on:— - -“Yes, sir; Mary was a good child to me _once_; she respected religion -and religious people, and used to love to go to church; but lately, sir, -God knows she has almost broken my heart. Last spring I took her home, -and the three dear children; but she would not listen to me, and left -without telling me where she was going. I heard that there was a poor -woman living in a basement in Willet Street, with three children, and my -heart told me that that was my poor, lost Mary, and there I found her. -But, oh, sir—oh, sir”—and she sobbed as if her heart were -breaking—“_such_ a place! _My_ Mary, that I used to cradle in these arms -to sleep, that lisped her little evening prayer at _my_ knee—_my_ Mary, -_drunk_ in that terrible place!” - -She was getting so agitated that Mr. Pease, wishing to turn the current -of her thoughts, asked her if she herself was a member of any church. -She said yes, of the —— Street Baptist Church. She said she was a widow, -and had had one child beside Mary—a son. And her face lighted up as she -said:— - -“Oh, sir, he was such a _fine_ lad. He did all he could to make me -happy; but he thought, that if he went to California he could make -money, and when he left he said, ‘Cheer up, dear mother; I’ll come back -and give my money all to _you_, and you shall never work any more.’ - -“I can see him now, sir, as he stood there, with his eye kindling. Poor -lad! poor lad! He came back, but it was only to die. His last words -were, ‘God will care for you, mother—I know it—when I’m gone to Heaven.’ -Oh! if I could have seen my poor _girl_ die as he did, before she became -so bad. Oh, sir, _won’t_ you take her _here_?—_won’t_ you try to make -her good?—_can’t_ you make her good, sir? I _can’t_ give Mary up. Nobody -cares for Mary now but me. Won’t you try, sir?” - -Mr. Pease promised that he would do all he could, and sent a person out -with the old lady, to visit “Mary,” and obtain particulars; he soon -returned and corroborated all the old lady’s statements. Mr. Pease then -took a friend and started to see what could be done. - -In Willet Street is a rickety old wooden building, filled to overflowing -with the very refuse of humanity. The basement is lighted with two small -windows half under ground; and in this wretched hole lived Mary and her -children. As Mr. Pease descended the steps into the room, he heard some -one say, “Here he comes, grandmother; he’s come—he’s come!” - -The door was opened. On a pile of rags in the corner lay Mary, “my -Mary,” as the old lady tearfully called her. - -God of mercy! what a wreck of beautiful womanhood! Her large blue eyes -glared with maniac wildness, under the influence of intoxication. Long -waves of auburn hair fell, in tangled masses, over a form wasted, yet -beautiful in its graceful outlines. - -Poor, lost Mary! - -“_Such_ a place!” as her mother had, weeping, said. Not a table or -chair, or bedstead, or article of furniture in it of any description. On -the mantel-piece stood a beer-bottle, with a half-burnt candle in its -neck. A few broken, dirty dishes stood upon the shelf, and a quantity of -filthy rags lay scattered round the floor. - -The grandmother was holding by the hand a sweet child of eight years, -with large, bright eyes, and auburn hair (like poor Mary’s) falling -about her neck. An older girl of twelve, with a sweet Madonna face, that -seemed to light up even _that_ wretched place with a beam of Heaven, -stood near, bearing in her arms a babe of sixteen months, which was not -so large as one of eight months should have been. Its little hands -looked like birds’ claws, and its little bones seemed almost piercing -the skin. - -The old lady went up to her daughter, saying, “Mary, dear, this is the -gentleman who is willing to take you to his house if you will try to be -good.” - -“Get out of the room, you old hypocrite,” snarled the intoxicated woman, -“or I’ll——(and she clutched a hatchet beside her)—I’ll show you! You are -the worst old woman I ever knew, except the one you brought in here the -other day, and she is a fiend outright. Talk to _me_ about being -_good_!—ha—ha!”—and she laughed an idiotic laugh. - -“Mother,” said the eldest child, sweetly laying her little hand upon her -arm,—“_dear_ mother, don’t, please don’t hurt grandmother. She is good -and kind to us: she only wants to get you out of this bad place, to -where you will be treated kindly.” - -“Yes, dear mother,” chimed in the younger sister, bending her little -curly head over her, “mother, you said once you _would_ go. Don’t keep -us here any longer, mother. We are cold and hungry. Please get up and -take us away; we are afraid to stay here, mother dear.” - -“Yes, Mary,” said the old lady, handing her down a faded, ragged gown, -“here is your dress; put it on, won’t you?” - -Mary raised herself on the pile of rags on which she was lying, and -pushing the eldest child across the room, screamed out, “Get away, you -impudent little thing! you are just like your old grandmother. I tell -you _all_,” said she, raising herself on one elbow, and tossing back her -auburn hair from her broad white forehead, “I tell you all, I _never_ -will go from here, _never_! I _love_ this place. So many fine people -come here, and we have such good times. There is a gentleman who takes -care of me. He brought me some candles last night, and he says that I -shan’t want for anything, if I will only get rid of these troublesome -children—_my husband’s_ children.” And she hid her face in her hands and -laughed convulsively. - -“You may have _them_,” she continued, “just as soon as you like—baby and -all! but I never will go from this place. I _love_ it. A great many fine -people come here to see me.” - -The poor old lady wrung her hands and wept, while the children clung -round their grandmother, with half-averted faces, trembling and silent. - -Mr. Pease said to her, “Mary, you may either go with me, or I’ll send -for an officer, and have you carried to the station-house. Which will -you do?” - -Mary cursed and raved, but finally put on the dress the old lady handed -her, and consented to go with them. A carriage was soon procured, and -Mary helped inside—Mr. Pease lifting in the baby and the two little -girls; and away they started for the Five Points House of Industry. - -“Oh, mother!” exclaimed the younger of the girls, “how very pleasant it -is to ride in this nice carriage, and to get away from that dirty place; -we shall be so happy now, mother; and Edith and the baby too: see, he is -laughing: he likes to ride. You will love sister Edith and baby, and me, -_now_, won’t you, dear mother? and you won’t frighten us with the -hatchet any more, or hurt dear grandmother, will you?” - -Arriving at Mr. Pease’s house, the delight of the little creatures was -unbounded. They caught hold of their mother’s faded dress, saying, -“Didn’t we _tell_ you, mother, that you would have a pleasant home here? -Only see that nice garden! You didn’t have a garden in Willet Street, -mother!” - -Reader, would you know that mother’s after history? - -Another “Mary” hath “bathed the Saviour’s feet” with her tears, and -wiped them with the hairs of her head. Her name is no longer written -Mary _Magdalena_. In the virtuous home of her aged mother, she sits -clothed in her right mind, “and her children rise up and call her -_blessed_.” - - - - - APOLLO HYACINTH. - - “There is no better test of moral excellence than the keenness of - one’s sense, and the depth of one’s love, of all that is - beautiful.”—_Donohue._ - - -I don’t endorse that sentiment. I am acquainted with Apollo Hyacinth. I -have read his prose, and I have read his poetry; and I have cried over -both, till my heart was as soft as my head, and my eyes were as red as a -rabbit’s. I have listened to him in public, when he was, by turns, -witty, sparkling, satirical, pathetic, till I could have added a codicil -to my will, and left him all my worldly possessions; and possibly you -have done the same. He has, perhaps, grasped you cordially by the hand, -and, with a beaming smile, urged you, in his musical voice, to “call on -him and Mrs. Hyacinth;” and you have called: but, did you ever find him -“in?” You have invited him to visit you, and have received a “gratified -acceptance,” in his elegant chirography; but, _did he ever come_? He has -borrowed money of you, in the most elegant manner possible; and, as he -deposited it in his beautiful purse, he has assured you, in the choicest -and most happily chosen language, that he “should never forget your -kindness;” but, _did he ever pay_? - -Should you die to-morrow, Apollo would write a poetical obituary notice -of you, which would raise the price of pocket-handkerchiefs; but should -your widow call on him in the course of a month, to solicit his -patronage to open a school, she would be told “he was out of town,” and -that it was “quite uncertain when he would return.” - -Apollo has a large circle of relatives; but his “keenness of perception, -and deep love of the beautiful,” are so great, that none of them -_exactly_ meet his views. His “moral excellence,” however, does not -prevent his making the most of them. He has a way of dodging them -adroitly, when they call for a reciprocation, either in a business or a -social way; or if, at any time, there is a necessity for inviting them -to his house, he does it when he is at his _country_ residence, where -their _greenness_ will not be out of place. - -Apollo never says an uncivil thing—never; he prides himself on that, as -well as on his perfect knowledge of human nature; therefore, his sins -are all sins of omission. His tastes are very exquisite, and his nature -peculiarly sensitive; consequently, he cannot bear trouble. He will tell -you, in his elegant way, that trouble “annoys” him, that it “bores” him; -in short, that it unfits him for life—for business; so, should you hear -that a friend or relative of his, even a brother or a sister, was in -distress, or persecuted in any manner, you could not do Apollo a greater -injury (in his estimation) than to inform him of the fact. It would so -grate upon his sensitive spirit—it would so “annoy” him; whereas, did he -not hear of it until the friend, or brother, or sister, were relieved or -buried, he could manage the matter with his usual urbanity, and without -the slightest draught upon his exquisitely sensitive nature, by simply -writing a pathetic and elegant note, expressing the keenest regret at -not having known “all about it” in time to have “flown to the assistance -of his dear” —— &c. - -Apollo prefers friends who can stand grief and annoyance, as a -rhinoceros can stand flies—friends who can bear their own troubles and -all his—friends who will stand between him and everything disagreeable -in life, and never ask anything in return. To such friends he clings -with the most touching tenacity—as long as he can use them; but let -their good name be assailed, let misfortune once overtake them, and his -“moral excellence” compels him, at once, to ignore their existence, -until they have been extricated from all their troubles, and it has -become perfectly safe and _advantageous_ for him to renew the -acquaintance. - -Apollo is keenly alive to the advantages of social position (not having -always enjoyed them); and so, his Litany reads after this wise: From all -questionable, unfashionable, unpresentable, and vulgar persons, Good -Lord deliver us! - - - - - SPOILED LITTLE BOY. - - “Boo-hoo!—I’ve eaten so—m-much bee-eef and t-turkey, that I can’t eat - any p-p-plum p-p-pudding!” - - -Miserable little Pitcher! Take your fists out of your eyes, and know -that thousands of grown-up pinafore graduates are in the same Slough of -Despond with your epicurean Lilliputian-ship. Having washed the platter -clean of every crumb of “common fixins,” they are left with cloyed, but -tantalizing desires, for the spectacle of some mocking “plum pudding.” - -“_Can’t eat your pudding!_” - -Why, you precious, graceless young glutton! you have the start of me, by -many an _ache_-r. I expect to furnish an appetite for every “plum -pudding” the fates are kind enough to cook for me, from this time till -Teba Napoleon writes my epitaph. - -Infatuated little Pitcher! come sit on my knee, and take a little -advice. Don’t you know you should only take a nibble out of each dish, -and be parsimonious at that; always leaving off, be the morsel ever so -dainty, before your little jacket buttons begin to tighten; while from -some of the dishes you should not even lift the cover; taking aunt -Fanny’s word for it, that their spicy and stimulating contents will only -give you a pain under your apron. Bless your little soul, life’s “bill -of fare” can be spun out as ingeniously as a cobweb, if you only -understand it; and then you can sit in the corner, in good digestive -order, and catch your flies! But if you once get a surfeit of a dainty, -it takes the form of a pill to you ever after, unless the knowing -_cuisinier_ disguise it under some novel process of sugaring; and sadder -still, if you exhaust yourself in the gratification of gross appetites, -you will be bereft of your faculties for enjoying the pure and heavenly -delights which “Our Father” has provided as a _dessert_ for his -children. - - - - - BARNUM’S MUSEUM. - - -It is possible that every stranger may suppose, as I did, on first -approaching Barnum’s Museum, that the greater part of its curiosities -are on the outside, and have some fears that its internal will not equal -its external appearance. But, after crossing the threshold, he will soon -discover his mistake. The first idea suggested will perhaps be that the -view, from the windows, of the motley, moving throng in Broadway—the -rattling, thundering carts, carriages and omnibuses—the confluence of -the vehicular and human tides which, from so many quarters, come pouring -past the museum—is (to adopt the language of advertisements), “worth -double the price of admission.” - -The visitor’s attention will unquestionably be next arrested by the -“Bearded Lady of Switzerland”—one of the most curious curiosities ever -presented. A card, in pleasant juxta-position to the “lady,” conveys the -gratifying intelligence that, “Visitors are allowed to touch the beard.” -Not a man in the throng lifts an investigating finger! Your penetration, -Madame Clofullia, does you infinite credit. You knew well enough that -your permission would be as good as a handcuff to every pair of -masculine wrists in the company. For my own part, I should no more -meddle with your beard, than with Mons. Clofullia’s. I see no feminity -in it. Its shoe-brush aspect puts me on my decorum. I am glad you raised -it, however, just to show Barnum that there is something “new under the -sun,” and to convince men in general that a woman can accomplish about -anything she undertakes. - -I have not come to New York to stifle my inquisitiveness. How did you -raise that beard? Who shaves first in the morning—you, or your husband? -Do you use a Woman’s Rights razor? Which of you does the _strap_-ping? -How does your baby know you from its father? What do you think of us, -smooth-faced sisters? Do you (between you and me) prefer to patronize -dress-makers, or tailors? Do you sing tenor, or alto? Are you master or -mistress of your husband’s affections?—Well, at all events, it has been -something in your neutral pocket to have “tarried at Jericho till your -beard was grown.” - -—What have we here? Canova’s Venus. She is exquisitely beautiful, -standing there, in her sculptured graces; but where’s the Apollo? Ah, -here’s a sleeping Cupid, which is better. Mischievous little imp! I’m -off, before you wake!—Come we now to a petrifaction of a horse and his -rider, crushed in the prehensile embrace of a monstrous serpent, found -in a cave where it must have lain for ages, and upon which one’s -imagination might pleasantly dwell for hours.—Then, here are deputations -from China-dom, in the shape of Mandarins, ladies of quality, servants, -priests, &c., with their chalky complexions, huckleberry eyes and shaven -polls. Here, also, is a Chinese criminal, packed into a barrel, with a -hole in the lid, from which his head protrudes, and two at the sides, -from whence his helpless paws depend. Poor Min Yung, you ought to -reflect on the error of your ways, though, I confess, you’ve not much -chance to _room_-inate. - -Here are snakes, insects, and reptiles of every description, corked down -and pinned up, as all such gentry should be—most of them, I perceive, -labelled in the masculine gender! Then there’s a “bear,” the thought of -whose hug makes me utter an involuntary _pater noster_, and cling closer -to the arm of my guide. I tell you what, old Bruin, as I hope to travel, -I trust you’ve left none of your cubs behind. - -—Here is a group of Suliote chiefs, and in their midst Lord Byron, with -his shirt upside down; and here is the veritable carriage that little -Victoria used to ride in before the crown of royalty fretted her fair, -girlish temples. Poor little embryo queen! How many times since, do you -suppose, she has longed to step out of those bejewelled robes, drop the -burdens state imposes, and throw her weary limbs, with a child’s -careless _abandon_, on those silken cushions, free to laugh or cry, to -sing or sigh. - -—Then here’s a collection of stuffed birds, whose rainbow plumage has -darted through clustering foliage, fostered in other latitudes than -ours. Nearly every species of beings that crawl, or fly, or walk, or -swim, is here represented. And what hideous monsters some of them are! A -“pretty kettle of fish” some of the representatives of the finny tribe -would make! I once thought I would like to be buried in the ocean, but I -discarded that idea before I had been in the museum an hour. I shouldn’t -want such a “scaly set” of creatures swimming in the same pond with me. - -—I had nearly forgotten to mention the “Happy Family.” Here are animals -and birds which are the natural prey of each other, living together in -such pleasant harmony, as would make a quarrelsome person blush to look -upon. A sleek rat, probably overcome by the oppressive weather, was -gently dozing—a cat’s neck supporting his sleepy head in a most -pillow-ly manner. Mutual vows of friendship had evidently been exchanged -and rat-ified by these natural enemies. I have not time to mention in -detail the many striking instances of fraternization among creatures -which have been considered each other’s irreconcileable foes. Suffice it -to say that Barnum and Noah are the only men on record who have brought -about such a state of harmonic antagonisms, and that Barnum is the only -man who has ever made money by the operation. - -—Heigho! time fails us to explore all the natural wonders gathered here, -from all climes, and lands, and seas, by the enterprise of, perhaps, the -only man who could have compassed it. We turn away, leaving the greater -portion unexamined, with an indistinct remembrance of what we have seen, -but with a most distinct impression that the “getting up” of Creation -was no ordinary affair, and wondering how it could ever have been done -in six days. - - - - - NANCY PRY’S SOLILOQUY. - - -I wonder if that is the bride over at that window? Poor thing, how I -pity her! Every thing in her house so bran new and fresh and -uncomfortable. Furniture smelling like a mahogany coffin; every thing -set up spick and span in its place; not a picture awry; not a chair out -of its orbit; not a finger mark on the window panes; not a thread on the -carpet; not a curtain fold disarranged; china and porcelain set up in -alphabetical order in the pantry; bureau drawers fit for a Quaker; no -stockings to mend; no strings or buttons missing; no old rag-bags to -hunt over; no dresses to re-flounce, or re-tuck, or re-fashionize; not -even a hook or eye absent. Saucepans, pots, and kettles, fresh from the -“furnishing house;” servants fresh; house as still as a cat-cornered -mouse. Nothing stirring, nothing to do. Land of Canaan! I should think -it would be a relief to her to hear the braying and roaring in -Driesbach’s Menagerie. - -Well, there’s one consolation; in all human probability, it is a state -of things that won’t last long. - - - - - FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. - - -“I love God and every little child.”—_Richter._ - -I wonder if I have any little pinafore friends among the readers of -_Fern Leaves_? any little Nellys, or Katys, or Billys, or Johnnys, who -ever think of Fanny? Do you know that I like children much better than -grown-up people? I should so like to have a whole lapful of your bright -eyes, and rosy cheeks, and dimpled shoulders, to kiss. I should like to -have a good romp with you, this very minute. I don’t always keep this -old pen of mine scratching. If a bright cloud comes sailing past my -window, I throw down my pen, toss up the casement, and drink in the air, -like a gipsy. I feel just as you do, when you are pent up in school, -some bright summer day, when the winds are at play, and the flowers lie -languidly drooping under the blue, arching sky;—when the little -butterfly poises his bright wings on the rose, too full of joy even to -sip its sweets;—when the birds sing, because they can’t help it, and the -merry little swallow skims the ground, dips his bright wing in the lake, -circles over head, and then flies, twittering, back to his cunning -little brown nest, under the eaves. On such a day, _I_ should like to be -your school-mistress. I’d thrown open the old school-room door, and let -you all out under the trees. You should count the blades of grass for a -sum in addition; you should take an apple from a tree, to learn -subtraction; you should give me kisses, to learn multiplication. You -shouldn’t go home to dinner. No; we’d all take our dinner-baskets and go -into the woods; we’d hunt for violets; we’d lie on the moss under the -trees, and look up at the bits of blue sky, through the leafy branches; -we’d hush our breath when the little chipmunk peeped out of his hole, -and watch him slily snatch the ripe nut for his winter’s store. And we’d -look for the shy rabbit; and the little spotted toad, with its blinking -eyes; and the gliding snake, which creeps out to sun itself on the old -gray rock. We’d play hide-and-seek, in the hollow trunks of old trees; -we’d turn away from the gaudy flowers, flaunting their showy beauty in -our faces, and search, under the glossy leaves at our feet, for the -pale-eyed blossoms which nestle there as lovingly as a timid little -fledgling under the mother-bird’s wing; we’d go to the lake, and see the -sober, staid old cows stand cooling their legs in the water, and -admiring themselves in the broad, sheeted mirror beneath; we’d toss -little pebbles in the lake, and see the circles they made, widen and -widen toward the distant shore—like careless words, dropped and -forgotten, but reaching to the far-off shore of eternity. - -And then you should nestle ‘round me, telling all your little griefs; -for well I know that childhood has its griefs, which are all the keener -because great, wise, grown-up people have often neither time nor -patience, amid the bustling whirl of life, to stop and listen to them. I -know what it is for a timid little child, who has never been away from -its mother’s apron string, to be walked, some morning, into a great big -school-room, full of strange faces;—to see a little urchin laugh, and -feel a choking lump come in your little throat, for fear he was laughing -at you;—to stand up, with trembling legs, in the middle of the floor, -and be told to “find big A,” when your eyes were so full of tears that -you couldn’t see anything;—to keep looking at the ferule on the desk, -and wondering if it would ever come down on your hand;—to have some -mischievous little scholar break your nice long slate-pencil in two, to -plague you, or steal your bit of gingerbread out of your satchel, and -eat it up, or trip you down on purpose, and feel how little the -hard-hearted young sinners cared when you sobbed out, “I’ll tell my -mother.” - -I know what it is, when you have lain every night since you were born, -with your hand clasped in your mother’s, and your cheek cuddled up to -hers, to see a new baby come and take your place, without even asking -your leave;—to see papa, and grandpa, and grandma, and uncle, and aunt, -and cousins, and all the neighbours, so glad to see it, when _your_ -heart was almost broken about it. I know what it is to have a great fat -nurse (whom even mamma herself had to mind) lead you, struggling, out of -the room, and tell Sally to see that you didn’t come into your own -mamma’s room again all that day. I know what it is to have that fat old -nurse sit in mamma’s place at table, and cut up your potato and meat all -wrong;—to have her put squash on your plate, when you _hate_ squash;—to -have her forget (?) to give you a piece of pie, and eat two -_herself_;—to have Sally cross, and Betty cross, and everybody telling -you to “get out of the way;”—to have your doll’s leg get loose, and -nobody there to hitch it on for you;—and then, when it came night, to be -put away in a chamber, all alone by yourself to sleep, and have Sally -tell you that “if you wasn’t good an old black man would come and carry -you off;”—and then to cuddle down under the sheet, till you were half -stifled, and tremble every time the wind blew, as if you had an ague -fit. Yes, and when, at last, mamma came down stairs, I know how _long_ -it took for you to like that new baby;—how every time you wanted to sit -in mamma’s lap, he’d be sure to have the stomach-ache, or to want his -breakfast; how he was _always_ wanting something, so that mamma couldn’t -tell you pretty stories, or build little blocks of houses for you, or -make you reins to play horses with; or do any of those nice little -things that she used to be always doing for you. - -To be sure, my little darlings, I know all about it. I have cried tears -enough to float a steamship, about all these provoking things; and now -whenever I see a little child cry, I never feel like laughing at him; -for I know that often his little heart is just ready to break for -somebody to pet him. So I always say a kind word, or give him a pat on -the head, or a kiss; for I know that though the little insect has but -one grain to carry, he often staggers under it; and I have seen the time -when a kind word, or a beaming smile, would have been worth more to me -than all the broad lands of merrie England. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - A CATALOGUE - - OF - - NEW WORKS AND NEW EDITIONS - - PUBLISHED BY - - WM. S. ORR AND CO., - - AMEN CORNER, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON. - - - Historical and Geographical. - - - THE GALLERY OF NATURE: - - A Historical and Descriptive Tour through Creation, illustrative - of the Wonders of Astronomy, Physical Geography, and Geology. By - the Rev. THOMAS MILNER, M.A., F.R.G.S. - - This volume is intended to furnish a general view of the leading - appearances of Physical Nature, the economy of the heavens and the - earth, with incidental notices of the progress, discovery, and - pictorial representations of the more remarkable phenomena and - interesting localities. Regarding it as one of the happy - tendencies of the age to be more in favour of intellectual - occupations than of the recreations formerly courted, the writer - has endeavoured to supply a digest of the knowledge respecting the - “wondrous whole,” of which we and our world form a part. - - The work comprises a History of Astronomical Discovery,—a rapid - glance at the Scenery of the Heavens, and its more remarkable - phenomena. In describing the Physical Aspect of our own and other - countries, the more striking subjects only have, of necessity, - been given. - - Under subsequent heads are described the Distribution of Animals, - Plants, and of the Human Race, and the Geological Structure of our - Globe. - - The work contains Four Maps of the Sidereal Heavens, Planispheres - of the orbit of the Earth and of the Moon. Nine Line Engravings, - and Two Hundred and Fifty Vignettes on Wood, illustrating - remarkable Natural Phenomena; with several hundred Diagrams and - Sections on Wood, and 800 pages of closely printed letter-press. - Price 18_s._ cloth lettered; and morocco, 31_s._ 6_d._ - - - GREECE: PICTORIAL, DESCRIPTIVE, AND HISTORICAL. - - By CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH, D.D. A new edition, carefully revised; - with numerous Engravings on Wood and Steel, illustrative of the - Scenery, Architecture, Costume, and Fine Arts of that country. By - Copley Fielding, F. Creswick, D. Cox, jun., Harvey, Paul Huet, - Meissonier, Sargent, Daubigny, Jaques, and other Artists; and a - History of the Characteristics of Greek Arts illustrated by George - Scharf, jun., Esq. Super royal 8vo, cloth, 31_s._ 6_d._; morocco - antique, £2 7_s._ 6_d._; morocco elegant, £2 10_s._ - - “Translated into French and Italian, and now in its fourth English - edition, Dr. Wordsworth’s ‘Greece’ may be considered to have - passed through the probational stage of literary life, and to have - become established among that select class of books which combine - the interest of personal reminiscences of travel, the feelings and - copious information of a scholar, the manner of a man of letters, - and the solid usefulness of an excellent book of reference. These - advantages, great in themselves, are enhanced by the illustrations - scattered in lavish profusion on almost every page, and which - realize to the eye the scenes brought before the mental perception - by the writer. 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In - Forty Monthly Shilling Parts, in small folio, profusely - Illustrated with Woodcuts, Drawn and Engraved expressly for this - Work by the most Eminent Artists; and with upwards of Thirty - splendid Line Engravings on Steel, forming two superb volumes. - Published at £2 10_s._; now reduced to 30_s._ - - “The Land We Live In,” as its title imports, is “A Sketch Book.” - It does not aim at being a complete description of the British - Empire. It seizes _the most prominent characteristics_ of our - country—Monuments of the Past—Creations of the Present—Natural - Scenery—Marts of Commerce and Manufactures. - - Every Number has been the result of actual visits and careful - observation. As far as it goes—and it embraces a very wide - circuit—the Tourist cannot have a more accurate companion; nor, as - we trust, can the general reader find a more varied and agreeable - work of typography. - - - A DESCRIPTIVE ATLAS OF ASTRONOMY, AND OF PHYSICAL AND POLITICAL - GEOGRAPHY, - - The descriptive letter-press by the Rev. THOMAS MILNER, M.A., - F.R.G.S., Author of the “Gallery of Nature,” etc. - - The design of this work is to furnish the reader with a guide to - the general principles of Geographical and Astronomical Science, - conveying information copious and trustworthy, both as respects - the Maps of the Terrestrial and Celestial World, and the - Explanatory Text by which they are accompanied. - - I. _Astronomical Maps._—Seven Maps and Planispheres illustrating - this branch of the subject. The descriptive Letter-press presents - a clear epitome of Astronomy, under the several divisions - of—Historical Notices—the Solar System—Celestial and Terrestrial - Phenomena—the Sidereal Heavens;—the whole illustrated and - exemplified by numerous Engravings and Diagrams. - - II. _Physical Maps._—These are constructed by AUGUSTUS PETERMANN, - F.R.G.S. 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The entire Work, consisting of - Seventy-five Maps, full coloured, handsomely bound in cloth, - 31_s._ 6_d._, or half-bound russia or morocco, 35_s._ - - - THE PORTRAIT GALLERY - - Of Distinguished Poets, Philosophers, Statesmen, Divines, - Painters, Architects, Physicians, and Lawyers, since the Revival - of Art; with their Biographies, arranged in chronological order. - Originally published by the Society for the Diffusion of Useful - Knowledge. In three imperial 8vo volumes, cloth, £3 3_s._, half - morocco, £3 10_s._ - - “The public are indebted for the unrivalled collection of - Portraits contained in this work to a Society numbering among its - members the most eminent dignitaries of the Church and the most - illustrious men of the land. 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The SMITH-AND-DOLIER SYSTEM, which has been found so - conducive to the acquirement of writing, it is presumed will be - found equally so in conveying instruction in elementary drawing. - - THE SMITH-AND-DOLIER DURABLE WRITING LEAF, for such preparatory uses - of the pen as are too imperfect for record in proper exercise-books, - and to supersede the necessity of resorting to the black slate, - which is objectionable for writing—slatemanship being one thing, - penmanship another; and the latter being in requisition through - life. Price 1_s._ 6_d._ single; and 3_s._ double-sized. - - THE SMITH-AND-DOLIER PATENT DELIBLE INK, or Children’s Ink, - principally adapted to the Patent Durable Leaf above named, but also - important for general purposes in a family, as it will not stain - dresses or furniture, and may be erased several times, even from the - System Copy-Books, or any good writing paper. 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The - Title-pages adorned by Copies of the various Portraits of - Shakspere; and each Play embellished by an elegant Illustrative - Engraving. In Twelve volumes, royal 32mo. Price 12_s._ cloth; or - elegantly bound in blue cloth, gilt edges, 25_s._ - - “A most beautifully printed portable edition of Shakspere, edited - by Mr. Knight, to whom the admirers of England’s dramatic bard are - already indebted for one of the most elaborate and complete - editions of his works ever published. The merit of the ‘Cabinet - Edition’ consists in the correctness of the text, the beauty of - its typography, and the convenience of its size, which renders it - suitable for the pocket.”—_The Globe._ - - - THE POULTRY BOOK; - - Comprising the Characteristics, Management, Breeding, and Medical - Treatment of Poultry; being the results of Personal Observation - and the Practices of the best Breeders. By the Rev. W. WINGFIELD - and G. W. JOHNSON, Esq. 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Being a Collection of Fireside Games, - Puzzles, Conundrums, Charades, Enigmas, etc., etc. Three volumes, - 1_s._ each (sold separately). - - - WORLD IN ITS WORKSHOPS. - - By JAMES WARD. Small 8vo, cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._ A Practical - Examination of British and Foreign Processes of Manufacture, with - a Critical Comparison of the Fabrics, Machinery, and Works of Art - contained in the Great Exhibition. - - - WALKS ABROAD AND EVENINGS AT HOME; - - A Volume of Varieties, with numerous Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, - gilt edges, 2_s._ 6_d._ - - - Richardson’s Rural Handbooks. - - _Price 1s. each. New editions, improved and enlarged._ - - - THE SHEEP AND SHEPHERDING; - - Embracing the History, Varieties, Rearing, Feeding, and General - Management of Sheep; with Treatises on Australian Sheep-Farming, - the Spanish and Saxon Merinos, etc. etc. By M. M. MILBURN, Author - of “The Cow,” and of various Agricultural Prize Essays. - - - HORSES; - - Their Varieties, Breeding, and Management in Health and Disease. - - - PIGS; - - Their Origin, Natural History, Varieties, Management with a view - to Profit, and Treatment in Health and Disease. - - - PESTS OF THE FARM, - - Animal and Vegetable; with Instructions for their Extirpation. A - new and much enlarged edition. - - - SOILS AND MANURES: - - The Improvement of Soils and the Rotation of Crops. By JOHN - DONALDSON, Government Land Drainage Surveyor. - - - DOGS; - - Their Origin, Natural History, and Varieties; with Directions for - Management and Treatment under Disease. - - - BEES; - - The Hive and the Honey Bee. The General Management of the Insects, - and their Treatment in Health and Disease. - - - DOMESTIC FOWL; - - Their Natural History, Breeding, Rearing, and General Management. - A new Edition, with an additional Chapter (with Illustrations) on - the Cochin-China Fowl. - - - THE FLOWER GARDEN; - - Its Arrangement, Cultivation, and General Management. By GEORGE - GLENNY, F.H.S. - - - COWS & DAIRY HUSBANDRY, & CATTLE BREEDING & FEEDING. - - By M. M. MILBURN. - - - LAND DRAINAGE, EMBANKMENT, AND IRRIGATION, - - By JAMES DONALD, C.E. - - - RURAL ARCHITECTURE; - - A Series of Designs for Cottages, Farms, Small Villas, etc. - - “RICHARDSON’S RURAL HANDBOOKS contain a great quantity of useful - information with regard to the breeds, management, food, and - diseases of the useful animals of which they treat. They are all - illustrated with wood engravings, and are published at the very - low price of one shilling. 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