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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78710 ***




 IN DOORS AND OUT;

 OR,

 VIEWS FROM THE CHIMNEY CORNER.


 BY

 OLIVER OPTIC.


 BOSTON:
 LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.

 NEW YORK:
 CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.




 Copyright,
 William T. Adams,
 A. D. 1875.




               TO

         MY OLD FRIEND

  _THE HON. CHARLES KIMBALL,_

     SHERIFF OF MIDDLESEX,

          This Volume

 IS RESPECTFULLY RE-DEDICATED.




PREFACE.


Some of the sketches contained in this volume have appeared in the
Boston True Flag, the American Union, and, one of them--“The New
Minister”--in Gleason’s Pictorial; the remainder have not been
published before.

A great variety of sketches has been introduced, nearly all of them
practical in their application, and illustrative of the social and
domestic duties of life. No attempt at “fine writing” has been made in
them; they are simply _home_ thrusts at the follies of the parlor and
the kitchen; of the shop and the counting-room; in short, of life “in
doors and out.”

The author is encouraged to collect these simple stories in a volume,
by the advice of partial friends, and by a desire to redeem them of
a kind of literary orphanage to which the unscrupulousness of some
reckless man of paste and scissors has reduced them. Many of them are
now travelling over the country, like a dog without a collar; but
unlike that highly respectable puppy which isn’t any body’s dog, they
have an anxious friend at home, who takes this method of calling them
back to the fold again.

                                                            W. T. A.

DORCHESTER, Sept. 12, 1854.




PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION.


This volume, originally issued twenty-one years ago, is reprinted and
republished at the request of many partial friends. One sketch, which
was simply a love story, has been omitted in this edition, and new
illustrations have been made for it; but the contents of the book are
otherwise the same as in the original volume. As most of the sketches
were written a quarter of a century ago, rents, the salaries of clerks
and others, and the prices of various kinds of goods do not agree with
the standards of the present day. The author hopes the book will be as
kindly received to-day as it was twenty-one years ago.

                                                   WILLIAM T. ADAMS.

DORCHESTER, OCTOBER 26, 1875.


  “Mr. Wm. T. Adams, who seems by the dedication to be the _deus ex
  machina_, has done himself credit. *** It contains twenty or thirty
  very sprightly and pointed stories, each sharply hitting some
  social absurdity or social vice. The conversations are remarkably
  _conversational_; just such questions, answers, and remarks as real
  people make. This gives a pleasant freshness to the narratives and
  dialogues, although not calculated to render the book a model of
  classical English style.”--_Putnam’s Monthly, Feb. 1855._




CONTENTS.


                                   PAGE.

GETTING AN INDORSER,                  11

GOOD FOR NOTHINGS,                    22

TWO DAGUERREOTYPES,                   31

SIX HUNDRED A YEAR,                   41

THE NEW MINISTER,                     50

OUT NIGHTS,                           64

BRING FLOWERS,                        75

THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT,                 86

BANG UP,                              97

THE NEW CLOAK,                       108

EVERY THING COMFORTABLE,             119

FAMILY JARS,                         132

LIFE INSURANCE,                      148

LAST DAY OF GRACE,                   158

MONTAGUE AND LADY,                   169

TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS,               183

CIGARS FOR TWO,                      193

OUT OF BUSINESS,                     203

SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE,               215

WORLD OF TROUBLE,                    226

SEND FOR THE DOCTOR,                 240

FOUR KINDS OF CAKE,                  253

EXTREMES MEET,                       263

THE MERCANTILE ANGEL,                274

CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN,      285

THE BACHELOR BEAU,                   295

THE GRAND RECEPTION BALL,            306

MARRYING A BEGGAR,                   321




IN DOORS AND OUT.




GETTING AN INDORSER.


_CHAPTER I._

My friend, Frank Howard, was a dry goods dealer on Washington Street.
When I made his acquaintance, he was one of the most active and
successful salesmen in the trade, and being a prudent man, had saved
a small sum of money, with which and the credit he might be able to
obtain, he proposed to commence business on his own account.

Among his acquaintances he had the good fortune to include a wealthy
merchant, whose judgment had led him to form a lofty estimate of the
business capacity of my friend.

To him the young aspirant for mercantile honors stated his case, and
the conference ended in a voluntary proposition on the part of the
merchant to supply the goods necessary to stock his store, taking his
notes, the first of which would fall due in one year, in payment.

The arrangement was completed, and in a few days Frank found himself
installed in a convenient store, on the best part of the street, ready
to strike for his fortune.

The notes had not been signed, and one evening, on some business
connected with them, Frank called, by appointment, at the princely
mansion of his worthy benefactor. He was ushered into the sitting room,
where the merchant was reading the evening paper. By his side sat a
beautiful young lady, to whom his patron politely introduced him.

My friend belonged to that anomalous class of beings styled “handsome
men;” at least the ladies all said he was handsome, though for the life
of me I never could tell wherein his beauty consisted. But as I have no
particular fancy for masculine beauty, it may have escaped my notice,
or the natural selfishness of mankind may have prejudiced my judgment.

My friend was acknowledged by all the ladies to be a remarkably
handsome man; and, probably, this was the secret of his immense success
as a salesman. Whether he reckoned his beauty as one of the items of
his stock in trade, when he went into business, I am unable to say; but
I have not the least doubt he based his hopes of success, to a great
extent, upon the influence of his prepossessing personal appearance.

Frank fixed his eyes on the young lady, as the merchant, who had, when
he entered, half read a money article in his paper, turned to finish
it. Miss Allen--such was the name by which she had been presented to
him--was busily engaged in crocheting a little silk purse, and as she
bent over the work, Frank was perfectly satisfied that he had never
seen so pretty a face in his life.

And then the neatest, most graceful little foot in the world,
protruded from beneath a light silk dress--a foot which completely
turned Frank’s head, so that he forgot all about the notes and the
merchant.

Without the least regard to etiquette, politeness, good breeding, and
all that sort of thing, he stared mercilessly at her, and never, for
even the fraction of a moment, removed his gaze, not even allowing
himself the luxury of winking, lest the time so employed should be lost.

Frank was perfectly sure that he had never before felt exactly as he
did at that halcyon moment. It seemed as though all the divinities of
paradise were concentrated in the fair form before him, as though he
had been transplanted to an Elysium of love.

And the maiden was not altogether unmoved. The embryo merchant several
times detected her in the act of stealing a glance at him through the
long, fringing eyelashes that adorned her peerless brow. He plainly saw
her blush; saw her bosom heave with a flutter as she caught his earnest
gaze.

Frank Howard was a handsome man; and somehow or other, men and women
who are favored in this respect always contrive to find it out. Frank
knew that he was a handsome man, and never in his life did he more
devoutly thank his stars, which had given him personal beauty, than at
this particular moment.

The lady had already found out that he was handsome, and if the stupid
fellow had not stared so furiously at her, she would no doubt have done
the same thing he was doing.

Mr. Allen finished the money article, and laid down the paper. Frank
has owned to me that he wished it had been twice, or even four times as
long.

The details of the business were discussed, and the papers drawn. While
it was in progress, Frank more than once detected the beautiful fairy
in the act of looking at him; several times detected her in the very
act of blushing, when their eyes met.

The business was finished at last, much to the regret of my handsome
friend, who, when he got into the street, went straightway into a fit
of abstraction, and had walked half way across Charlestown bridge, on
his way home, before he happened to think that he lived at the South
End.

It was all up with poor Frank; he had fallen in love--was stark,
staring mad in love--with whom he knew not, for it was well known that
Mr. Allen had no daughter. She was a relative, however, for she bore
his name.

But if Frank was in love, there was some consolation in the fact, that
the fair creature who had stolen his heart was in the same predicament.

The next day, she came a shopping at his store, and the next, and the
next; indeed, almost every day. No conversation had passed between
them; and, though he had been introduced on the evening of his visit,
he had been too much overwhelmed to use words.

My friend, however, did not lack that necessary attribute of a
successful wooer, somewhat vulgarly termed “spunk.” He had no further
business with the merchant; but then his case was a desperate one, and
he made an errand.

Miss Allen blushed as he entered, but she was social and agreeable to
the last degree, so much so that Frank staid till the bells rung for
nine o’clock before he knew it. The ice was broken, and my friend was
in for it.

The lady was a niece of the merchant, twenty-one years of age, and an
heiress. In the course of a few months, Frank’s energy won the victory,
and it was understood that they were engaged.

The merchant did not like it. Being somewhat exclusive in his ideas of
social intercourse, the prospective marriage of his wealthy niece to
a poor retailer was repugnant to the last degree, and he resolved to
thwart the purpose of the loving couple.

At first, he appealed to the lady; but she only laughed at him; told
him bluntly that she loved Mr. Howard, and _would_ have him. Then he
reasoned with Frank, on his ingratitude to him, his benefactor. The
young man was touched, and promised to consider it.

He did consider it, and his loving _inamorata_ helped him consider it.
After a hasty deliberation, it was unanimously agreed to lay the whole
matter “on the table.”

Mr. Allen was informed of the decision, and as old fogies always do
when they cannot do any thing else, bit his lip and swallowed his
words, fully resolved to do something dreadful, whenever an opportunity
occurred.


_CHAPTER II._

A year after my friend went into business, as I passed his store one
morning, I was not a little surprised to find it closed. Before the
window was that ominous white cloth, denoting that the occupant had
failed.

I entered the store. Frank stood at his desk, glancing with a most
woe-begone aspect at the pages of his ledger.

“How’s this, Frank?” I asked; and I never was more surprised in my life.

“Bu’st up! don’t you see?” replied he, rather petulantly.

“But what does it mean?”

“Mean! Why, that I had a note of a thousand dollars, due yesterday,
which I could not pay; and this morning early, my amiable friend, Mr.
Allen, put in a keeper--that’s all.”

“How does it happen? I thought you were doing a rushing business.”

“So I was. I had the money to pay this note six weeks ago, and let
Smith have it at two per cent. a month,” replied he, with a ghastly
smile.

“And Smith has failed?”

“Not exactly. He has stopped; but every body says he is good, if he has
time to turn himself.”

“And you must make a fail of it in the mean time?”

“If I could only stave off Mr. Allen a couple of months, I could get
out of the scrape with flying colors.”

“Won’t he wait?”

Frank shook his head; he had mortally offended the proud merchant, and
there was no prospect that he would be lenient in the slightest degree.

“Can’t you raise the money?”

“No; times haven’t been so hard for four years. Every body is failing,
and the money men won’t trust their own fathers.”

At this moment Mr. Allen entered the store. He looked stern and severe,
like one who has the power in his own hands, and is disposed to use it.
I seated myself near the desk, as he approached.

The merchant politely saluted the unfortunate dealer, smiling as
blandly as though nothing had happened; as though he had no niece, and
Frank were a Stoic.

“Mr. Howard, this is unfortunate; but in the midst of so much
commercial disaster, you perceive that it was my only course,” said the
merchant, soothingly.

“I suppose it was; but you know the cause of my inability to pay the
note,” returned Frank, with a doleful expression.

“Ah, young man, you ought not to have lent the money to Smith; if you
had asked my advice, I could have told you better.”

“Smith was always supposed to be good.”

The merchant shook his head.

“But, Mr. Allen, give me a short time, and I can pay the note. Smith
assures me he shall recover himself.”

“Mr. Howard, I certainly wish you well; I have done all I could to give
you a fair start.”

“So you have, sir, and I am very grateful to you.”

“Are you?” and the merchant fixed a keen glance upon the young man.

“I assure you that I am.”

“How have you manifested it?” continued the merchant, sternly. “But no
matter; we meet now as business men.”

“Well, what shall be done? You have stopped me; I can do no more.”

“I don’t wish to be hard. I would wait if prudence would justify it,”
said Mr. Allen, who was keenly sensitive in regard to his reputation
for generosity and fairness.

In fact, he was a man of good feelings, and only that he meant to
punish Frank for falling in love with his wealthy niece, would not have
disturbed him.

“You will be just as secure two months hence as now,” pleaded Frank.

“I have not that confidence in you, Mr. Howard,--I say it
frankly,--which I had once. You have lost a thousand dollars. I doubt
if your stock, under the hammer, would pay my notes.”

Frank looked savage, for though he was crestfallen, he was Frank Howard
yet, and felt keenly the unjust imputation of the merchant.

“I wish to be fair, and even indulgent,” continued Mr. Allen, before
Frank had time to utter the ungracious sentiment that rose to his lips.
“Here is the note; give me one good indorser, and I will wait two
months.”

Frank looked up, and smiled in contempt at the miserable subterfuge of
the merchant, who meant to crush him, and still preserve an appearance
of fairness. He knew it would be impossible for the young man, with his
stock encumbered, to procure the security.

“Will you take Smith?” asked Frank, hurriedly.

“Of course not,” replied Mr. Allen, with a bland smile.

“I will see what can be done; but I think the case is hopeless.”

The merchant withdrew, assured in his own mind that his revenge was
sure, and his reputation safe, at the same time.

Frank and myself canvassed the matter, but we could think of no person
whose milk of human kindness was sufficiently abundant to prompt him to
do such an insane act. While we were debating the matter, Frank was
struck up by the entrance of Miss Allen.

“How gloomy you look here to-day, Frank,” said she, laughing, and
showing in the act the prettiest row of pearly teeth I ever saw.

“We are gloomy, indeed,” replied Frank, mustering a sickly smile. “But
you know the reason?”

“Why, what reason?” asked she, her merry expression relapsing into a
serious one.

“You see that man?”

“Yes.”

“He is a keeper!” replied Frank, with tragic effect.

“A keeper! of what? Are you insane?” responded the lady, playfully; for
it must be confessed she was not acquainted with the technicalities of
business.

Frank laughed, and explained the disaster which had overtaken him.

“Poh!” exclaimed she, with an appearance of relief; and I really
believe, if the keeper and myself had not been in the way, she would
have thrown her arms around his neck, and kissed away his mortification.

I had before been introduced to the lady, and at this moment advanced
to join in the conversation.

“And my uncle is the wretch?” continued she, merrily. “But what can you
do? How can you get out of it?”

Frank explained the proposition to procure an indorser for the note.
The light-hearted maiden appeared to have but little sympathy for
the misfortunes of her lover, and asked all sorts of questions about
indorsers, notes, and business forms.

“Where is the note you are to have indorsed?” asked she.

“Mr. Allen has it.”

“How can you have it indorsed, then?”

“I can write another,” replied Frank, smiling at the innocence of his
betrothed.

“Then write one,” said she, promptly.

[Illustration: GETTING AN ENDORSER. Page 20.]

Frank looked at her a moment, to ascertain what mischief was lurking in
her mind. She smiled, apparently without the power to prevent it.

The lover, impelled by curiosity as much as any other motive, wrote the
note and signed it.

“Now how do you indorse it?” asked she.

“By writing the name across the back.”

The lady approached the desk, and turning the note, wrote, with two
dashes of the pen, “Isabel Allen,” across it.

“It is indorsed,” said she, with a smile, which told Frank all she
meant.

“But, Isabel----”

“Good morning, Frank,” interrupted she, and hastened out of the store.

“Bravo, Frank!” exclaimed I.

He smiled doubtfully. His pride was a little touched.

“Would you use it?” said he, after a long pause.

“Use it? to be sure!” and he did use it.

In the afternoon Mr. Allen called, satisfied in his own mind that he
should witness the complete humiliation of the young man, who had had
the audacity to fall in love with an heiress. Knowing at what hour he
would call, I was careful to be present.

“Well, Mr. Howard, how have you succeeded? I have really been in hopes
you will be able to secure the paper,” said the merchant; and I could
plainly discern the malicious chuckle on his face as he spoke.

“I _have_ succeeded, Mr. Allen; and I am infinitely obliged to you for
your good will.”

The merchant was completely staggered at the reply. It was wholly
unexpected, and wholly unwelcome also.

“I trust you have procured a good one,” said he, painfully.

“A wealthy one, but a name unknown on State Street.”

“Can’t take it, then,” answered the merchant, promptly, and with
renewed hope.

“But a name well known to you!” and Frank handed him the note.

Mr. Allen started back in surprise and anger, as he read the name of
the fair indorser.

“Very well, sir; when a man of any delicacy can resort to such a trick
as this, I have nothing more to do with him.” And the crestfallen
merchant, after throwing the old note on the counter, hastened
indignantly from the store.

The keeper was withdrawn, and Frank heard no more from Mr. Allen. A
week after, Smith paid the money, and Frank took up his note.

Before another of the notes came due, Isabel Allen had become Mrs.
Frank Howard. The stock and stand were sold out, the debts paid, and my
handsome friend is as happy as a beautiful wife, with a heart full of
love, can make him.




“GOOD FOR NOTHINGS.”


_CHAPTER I._

“Your girl is a prize, Mrs. Bagley,” said Mrs. Veazie, a lady whose
physiognomy was rather indicative of a sour temper.

“Bridget is a good girl,” responded the lady addressed; “and she has
been with me over a year now.”

“Indeed! Over a year! Well, I am astonished! For my part, if I _get_ a
good girl, I can’t keep her.”

“I have been very fortunate in that respect.”

“You have indeed. O dear! it is really terrible to think how much
one is dependent upon these Irish servant girls. They are such lazy,
impudent, good-for-nothing creatures, that it is enough to weary out
one’s life.”

“Some of them are. If I had been so unfortunate as to get such a one
as you describe, I should instantly discharge her. But very few are of
that description.”

“Very few! Let me tell you that your girl is one in a thousand, Mrs.
Bagley. Where you find one who is honest, faithful, and respectful, you
will find nine hundred and ninety-nine who are just the reverse.”

“I can hardly believe it,” replied the good-natured Mrs. Bagley, with a
smile of incredulity upon her pleasant features.

“It is as true as the gospel! Why, I have had no less than ten
different girls within a year.”

“Ten! Is it possible?”

“And my family is no larger and the work is no harder than yours. Isn’t
it singular?”

Politeness compelled Mrs. Bagley to answer that it was singular; but,
at the same time, she knew that it was not so very singular, after all.
If she had felt at liberty to do so, she could have given her friend a
solution of the mystery.

“And the girl I have now I shall be compelled to discharge. She is
discontented, impudent, and overbearing.”

“I am sorry for you.”

“She is a capital girl in every other respect, and I am sorry to
part with her. She is a good cook, and--what you don’t find in many
girls--understands pastry, cake, and puddings.”

“Too bad to lose her, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Bagley, with a greater
appearance of sympathy in her speech than found a place in her heart.

“It is; but one cannot put up with impudence, you know. I would send
off the best girl in the world, before I would submit to it.”

“Certainly; impudence cannot be tolerated. Can’t you teach her better?”

“No; she won’t hear to any thing. It was only the other day, when I saw
her washing the potatoes in the wash-hands basin, that I merely called
her a nasty, good-for-nothing hussy; and, don’t you think, the impudent
jade told me to mind my own business, and not to be sticking my nose
into her affairs! Did any one ever hear the like?”

Mrs. Bagley only smiled. If she had lived in a less civilized era,
perhaps she would have been blunt enough to say that the fault was
partly with the mistress, and not wholly with the servant.

“And then she is so ugly,” continued Mrs. Veazie, “that I dare not
trust my children with her.”

“I leave the baby with Bridget for half a day sometimes, and feel
perfectly safe.”

“My girl don’t like children; I know she hates them. Why, only
yesterday I told her she might leave the washing for an hour or so, and
take Charley out in the little wagon; and, don’t you think, she had the
impudence to tell me that, if I wanted Charley taken out, I might take
him out myself! I never was so provoked in my life.”

Mrs. Bagley’s good nature was all exhausted; and, at the risk of being
deemed uncivil, she had the hardihood to say she never took Bridget
away from her washing, unless in a case of absolute necessity.

“Wasn’t this a case of absolute necessity?” asked Mrs. Veazie, with a
rather uncompromising look upon her sharp features.

Poor Mrs. Bagley! She was in for it, and must needs defend the policy
at which she had incautiously hinted.

“I should say not,” replied she, not a little fearful that she was
about to “stir up strife.”

“What would you do? Charley ought to have the fresh air every day.”

“I should have taken him out myself; for it is very annoying for a girl
to be called away from the wash tub. She has to change her dress, which
is a great deal of trouble, and leave her clothes in the water or on
the fire.”

“Yes, girls are desperate ’fraid of a little trouble.”

“If they feel any pride about their work, they like to have it done up
in good season, you know.”

“And she insists upon being absent every fourth Sunday.”

“I let Bridget go every third Sunday.”

“You do?”

“I think it very reasonable.”

“Who gets your dinner Sundays?”

“What little we get I attend to myself. But we always have baked beans
Sunday, so that I don’t have to stay at home from meeting.”

“And you wash the dishes yourself!” exclaimed Mrs. Veazie, in utter
astonishment.

“Certainly. The fact is, these Irish girls are human beings, after all,
and need a little recreation as well as the rest of us.”

“But they take advantage.”

“If you give them no advantages, they will take them. I have found
out that, the better you use _good_ girls, the more faithfully they
will serve you. I make it a point to treat my girl well; and, having
secured her good will, I feel a reasonable assurance that she will do
the best she can for me.”

“You don’t mean to say that _I_ don’t treat my girl well?” said Mrs.
Veazie, her features coloring under the insinuation she believed was
aimed at her.

“Certainly not. My remark was intended to be very general.”

Mrs. Veazie went home; and, though she was a little angry with her
neighbor, she “set to thinking” upon what she had heard.


_CHAPTER II._

Mrs. Bagley’s girl, Bridget, had a beau, and, in the course of events,
was married. Her mistress, though exceedingly sorry to part with her,
could of course make no objections to her working out her woman’s
destiny. She was a good-hearted person, and did all she could to see
the faithful girl, who had been almost a mother to her children,
comfortably situated in her new relation.

Her first attempt to procure another good girl proved to be
unsuccessful; for the new servant was, beyond the hope of remedy,
slovenly and dirty. She was compelled to discharge her.

About this time Mrs. Veazie’s girl was discharged. The lady, profiting
by the lesson she had received of her neighbor, had for a few months
treated Margaret with kindness and consideration. The change was
appreciated by the girl. She was ignorant and headstrong; but neither
so ignorant nor headstrong as not to be able to understand the meaning
of kind words and considerate actions.

Mrs. Veazie was astonished at the change in the temper of the girl;
and, for a time, she persevered in maintaining the new order of things.
But it is useless for any one to attempt to be gentle and kind in their
speech and action, when there is neither gentleness nor kindness in the
heart. A “change of heart,” in the language of the Scriptures, is as
necessary to make an ill-tempered person amiable towards others, as it
is in the working out of the more technical “profession” of religion. A
“profession” of good nature is the first step towards piety.

When Mrs. Veazie relapsed, Margaret relapsed, and there was strife
again. No sooner did the servant observe the unreasonableness of the
mistress, than she was in open rebellion again, as saucy as ever.

“I am determined to send her off, Mrs. Bagley,” said she, as she was
seated with her neighbor one afternoon.

“Send her off! Why, I thought she was doing nicely now.”

“So she was; but this morning a couple of tons of coal came, and, as
I had no one to get it in, I told her she might do it. I am sure I
spoke very pleasantly to her,” said Mrs. Veazie, with an abundance of
self-complacency.

Mrs. Bagley held up both hands in astonishment.

“What did she say?”

“She told me very coolly that she had rather not do it. But I was
angry then; I thought it was about time to be angry, too, when
a girl answered me in that way; so I told her she was a lazy,
good-for-nothing minx.”

“Did you?”

“Indeed I did.”

“Well, what did she say then?”

“‘The same to yourself, ma’am,’ says she. She has not been saucy before
for a good while.”

“Didn’t it occur to you that your request was slightly unreasonable?”

“I’m sure it didn’t. Why, these girls are used to working in the fields
in Ireland, digging turf and pounding stones. I don’t see why they
should be so stuck up, when they come to America.”

“Well, I suppose, when they come to a country where even the rights of
the poor are respected, they think better of themselves--very naturally
too, I think. But, Mrs. Veazie, if you are going to discharge Margaret,
I should like to take her.”

“You?”

“If you have no objection.”

“Of course not; but she never will suit you, I know.”

And Margaret went to live with Mrs. Bagley. She was an able, capable,
and industrious girl, and her mistress immediately took a great liking
to her. Margaret had her faults, the most prominent of which was a
quick temper, that often prompted her to give a saucy or a spiteful
answer before she was aware.

She had not been a week with Mrs. Bagley, before, without a reasonable
provocation, she gave her mistress a short and crusty answer. No notice
was taken of it, though the point was insisted upon and carried. A few
days after, when she got a little perplexed, she was saucy; but Mrs.
Bagley was as firm as she was even in her temper, and calmly rebuked
the uncivil words. Margaret was abashed by the gentleness and decision
of the rebuke, and readily understood with what manner of person she
had to deal. She was conquered, and made as good a girl as the most
obdurate of servant hunters could possibly desire.

In the course of the year Bridget’s husband was killed on the railroad,
and the poor girl found herself again compelled to go out to service.
Mrs. Bagley was well suited with Margaret, and did not feel at liberty
to discharge her, especially as both parties were satisfied.

Mrs. Veazie had tried half a dozen girls since Margaret had left her,
and, as usual, had been unable to retain them. It was with a thrill of
satisfaction she heard that Bridget, “the prize of a girl,” wanted a
place again, and she lost not a moment in making an engagement with her.

About a week after this important event, Mrs. Veazie came in hot haste
over to Mrs. Bagley’s.

“Don’t you think,” exclaimed she, out of breath, “that Bridget has
given me notice of her intention to leave.”

“To leave?”

“Yes; I don’t believe she meant to stay when she came.”

“I think she did. Bridget wouldn’t do a mean action, if she is an Irish
girl.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“But how did it happen?”

“Why, she was as saucy as ever Margaret was in the world.”

“Bridget? Impossible!”

“I asked her as politely as though she had been a lady, if she wouldn’t
be so kind as to black Mr. Veazie’s boots.”

“And she refused?”

“No; she did it. She said she would do it this time, but she had rather
not have it as part of her work.”

“You couldn’t blame her, could you?”

“Of course I could; and I told her she was a lazy, good-for-nothing
vixen, and that she’d have to do it every day, if she staid with me.
Why, Irish girls at home have to black their masters’ boots.”

“But it is not the custom here.”

“It ought to be; and I told her, up and down, that she was not what she
used to be when she lived with you. Upon that she told me she would
leave. Did you ever see such luck as I have?” and Mrs. Veazie puffed
with excitement. She really believed she was the most unfortunate woman
in the world.

“To be plain with you, Mrs. Veazie, I don’t think Bridget was in the
least to blame.”

“Not to blame?”

“No. When you set your girls to getting in coal and cleaning boots, you
must expect them to be rebellious, especially when you follow it up
with such hard words.”

Mrs. Veazie went out, and slammed the door after her. She has never
crossed the threshold of her friend’s door since; but it was a small
loss.

The moral of our sketch is sufficiently apparent. When we hear ladies
complaining that they can’t keep a servant, we are a little disposed to
doubt whether the fault is not in part upon their side.




[Illustration]




THE TWO DAGUERREOTYPES.

A TEMPERANCE TALE.


_CHAPTER I._

Jim Scroggins, though in the main an honest, peaceable, quiet,
harmless, fellow, had a beastly habit of getting drunk whenever a fit
opportunity presented itself; and, unfortunately, because “where there
is a will there is a way,” the opportunities were both fit and frequent.

Jim owned a little farm in the country, which, by his own industry and
economy, he had almost paid for. Mrs. Scroggins was a “real worker,”
and, no doubt, did her full part in buying the homestead. She was
endowed with a great deal of energy and good judgment, and people were
so malicious as to say that she was the smartest man of the twain.
Be this as it may, Mrs. Scroggins was an industrious woman, and took
a great deal of pride in the little place, which had been bought
by their united industry and economy, and the thought of having it
wrested from them by a cold-hearted creditor, was in the highest degree
disagreeable; but to such a calamity her husband’s infirmity, as the
good minister of the village called it, seemed to point.

The habit grew upon him, as it almost always does upon those who once
get into the way of imbibing too freely. The miseries of the drunkard’s
wife had been too often presented to the good woman’s understanding,
to be regarded as simply creations of the imagination, and she looked
forward with alarm to the prospect of enduring them and losing the
little place.

But what could be done? She had exhausted all her eloquence upon the
infatuated man, without producing any thing more than a temporary
effect. She pointed out to him, kindly, the inevitable consequences of
his indulgence, and Jim promised to amend; but--alas, for the vanity of
human expectations!--he got tipsy the very next day.

Then she appealed to his love of money--to his sense of satisfaction
in being the owner of a cottage and ten acres of land. She assured him
that he would certainly lose it all, and warming up with the importance
of the subject, declared that she would not slave herself any longer to
buy the place, and then have it taken from them to pay a rum bill.

Jim listened patiently and without speaking a word to the indignant
dame’s eloquence, and, as usual, promised to do better; but, also, as
usual, he came into the house the next day tight as a fiddlestring.

Mrs. Scroggins was in despair; “what to do she didn’t know,” as she
expressed it to Parson Allwise, who was a sincere sympathizer with
her in her distress. She had entreated, she had scolded, she had
threatened, and all to no purpose. “What could a body do?”

Parson Allwise himself, though he made it a point never to interfere in
the domestic affairs of his parishioners, was at last moved to try his
powers of persuasion on the poor fellow. But Jim, unfortunately for the
success of the appeal, had but a poor opinion of ministers in general,
and of Parson Allwise in particular, and as good as told the worthy
pastor that he had better mind his own business.

Mrs. Scroggins was shocked at the boldness of her spouse in answering a
minister of the gospel in such a pointed manner, and was led to believe
that the case was now hopeless, indeed.

But woman’s wits are equal to almost any emergency; and, though she
had professedly given Jim over to the tender mercies of the devil, she
could not help thinking it would be a good thing if he could only be
saved from himself.

One day circumstances seemed to conspire in favor of an experiment,
which had suggested itself to her fertile brain, and she immediately
carried it into effect with the most happy success, as the sequel will
show.


_CHAPTER II._

Jim had been cleaning out the pig pen, and as the operation was a
rather disagreeable one, he had fortified his olfactories by drinking
an inordinate quantity of vile New England rum.

The filthy stuff happily did not take effect on his brains till the job
was done. The pig pen was cleaned out, but Jim was in a condition which
better fitted him to occupy it, than the neat white-floored kitchen of
his cottage. But Jim did not realize this unpleasant truth, and leaving
his shovel and hoe in the sty, staggered into the house.

“He was a sight to behold,” as Mrs. Scroggins told the minister. The
job he had just completed was eminently a nasty one, and Jim, as we
have before remarked, being a prudent man, had prepared himself to
perform it, without any detriment to the neat garments he ordinarily
wore.

He was dressed in a suit of ragged clothes, and on his head rested a
“shocking bad hat,” with the crown stove in, and the brim half torn
off. As the liquor began to fuddle him, he had moved it over from its
perpendicular position, so that it rested jauntily on one side of his
head.

Jim settled himself heavily in a chair by the cooking stove, looked
silly, and seemed disposed to address himself to slumber, his usual
resort when inebriated.

Mrs. Scroggins was mad at first; for it was only the day before that
Jim, for the hundred and first time, had promised never to drink
another drop, not even in case of sickness.

But what was the use of being mad with such a poor, silly, imbecile
being as he was at that moment? He was not in a condition to appreciate
a regular matrimonial “blow up,” and she wisely resolved to reserve the
vials of her wrath to be poured out at a more convenient season.

She looked at him, and thought of losing the little place, of penury,
degradation, misery, and the poorhouse. A lucky thought rose, like the
phœnix from the flames, out of the contemplation of the dark picture;
and after a few minutes deliberation, she put on her bonnet and cloak,
and hurried over to the village, not half a mile distant.

During the previous week, a young daguerreotypist, with a portable
saloon--a kind of overgrown omnibus--had been delighting the villagers
by giving them the semblance of their faces at prices varying from nine
shillings to three dollars a head, depending upon the value of the case.

All the people in town had been daguerreotyped, and the omnibus man
was the most popular person in the village. All the dames and maidens
were taken, and every Jonathan and Jehiel who could boast of a Susan,
a Ruth, or a Sally, was taken, with her by his side in the picture,
his arm thrown lovingly round her neck, and both looking unutterably
affectionate.

But Mrs. Scroggins was not sentimental; she had gotten over all that,
long before Jim took to drinking. She proposed to put the skill of the
daguerreotypist to a more practical use than that of propitiating a
lover.

She entered the saloon, and though her heart did beat a little at the
degradation of exposing her domestic matters to an entire stranger,
she demeaned herself with all the firmness necessary for the trying
occasion.

Fortunately for her, all the people in town “had been taken,” and it
was a dry time with the artist. In as few words as possible, she stated
the case to him, and the young man readily promised his coöperation.

Taking his apparatus under his arm, he accompanied Mrs. Scroggins to
the cottage, where Jim was sleeping off the effects of the villainous
“New England.”

The inebriate sat in precisely the same position in which his wife had
left him. He was asleep in a high back chair, which kept his head up so
that every thing was favorable for the sitting.

In a trice Jim Scroggins, old hat, ragged clothes, long beard, dozy,
drunken expression and all, were transferred to the plate.

But the picture did not suit the artist; he thought one taken when the
sitter was awake would be a more correct representation. Mrs. Scroggins
thought so too, and after the daguerreotypist had put in a new plate,
she waked him up.

“What d’ye want?” growled Jim.

“Wake up!” and the lady gave him a smart pinch, which opened his eyes,
thus completing the expression of the drunkard.

The artist was prompt, and in an instant the second edition of Jim
Scroggins was on the plate.

The original, not being required for further use, was suffered to sink
away and complete his nap.

The pictures were put in a frame, and Mrs. Scroggins produced her money.

“Nothing, ma’am; I shall not charge you any thing.”

“But, sir, I am able to pay.”

The artist shook his head, and resolutely refused to touch her money.

Of course Mrs. Scroggins was grateful, and gave the young artist an
invitation to take tea with her, which he accepted. In the course
of the meal--the table being laid in the little front room--the
daguerreotypist told the story of his own life; how he had been brought
up in the midst of intemperance, and knew all about it. His father
had died a drunkard, leaving his mother penniless, and he supported
her by the profits of his portable saloon. Mrs. Scroggins, of course,
sympathized with the young man, and readily understood why he would
not take pay for the pictures, but what was better than all, the young
artist took quite a fancy to Jim’s only daughter, a pretty little girl
of eighteen, and after tea insisted upon taking her daguerreotype.
And the sly rogue pretended that the first was not a good one, and
took another, which he carried away with him, professedly for a show
specimen, though, to my certain knowledge, he never exhibited it.

The tea things were cleared away, and still the young gentleman
lingered, and talked a great deal with the pretty little Susan. But
when he did go, the poor girl’s heart followed him, and half the night
she lay awake to think of him.


_CHAPTER III._

Jim Scroggins recovered from his debauch; but the first thing he saw
when he came into the kitchen, in the morning, was the case containing
the two daguerreotypes, which lay open on the table.

He picked it up, and started back in confusion, when he recognized his
own distorted features in one of the pictures.

He examined the other. It was the counterpart of the first, with the
eyes open, and looking ten times more hideous than the sleeping picture.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed he; “did I ever look so infarnal homely as
that?” and he proceeded to scrutinize the pictures a second time.

“Hang me! if I thought I ever looked so cussed mean as that, I’d go
down and jump into the river.”

“I’ve seen men though, that looked just like that ’ere,” continued he;
“but them was drunkards. Now, I an’t a drunkard, though I sometimes git
a little sizzled. I never lit my pipe at the pump, though. Howsomever,
them was took for me, though when or where I’ve no kind o’ notion.
There’s the old hat, and that’s the old coat--no mistake.”

The footsteps of his wife caused him to drop the pictures, and he
hastened out of the house to avoid the tempest which he thought his
wickedness would call down upon his head.

It is a notable fact that he omitted his morning dram on this occasion,
and his wife took courage. Like a prudent woman, as she was, she did
not say a word about the occurrences of yesterday, and permitted him to
eat his breakfast in peace.

He got through that day without drinking a drop; but on the following
day the old appetite clamored for the usual dram, and in the afternoon,
while his wife was in the sitting room, he went to the closet where he
kept the bottle.

But the first thing that met his gaze was the two daguerreotypes
resting against the black bottle. There was Jim Scroggins drunk asleep,
and Jim Scroggins drunk awake.

“Them cussed dogerytypes!” muttered he, starting back in confusion, at
the miserable-looking object they so faithfully shadowed to him.

Jim stopped to think. He fully resolved never again to be the loathsome
being they represented him to be. Taking the black bottle, he went to
the door with it, and with right good will hurled it on the door stone,
where it was smashed into a thousand fragments, and the delectable
stuff irretrievably lost.

“Halloo! what are you about?” said a young man, entering the yard.

“Smashing my rum bottle,” replied Jim, with admirable coolness.

“Bravo! I commend your resolution,” replied the young man.

“You are the dogerytype man, an’t you?” said Jim.

“I am.”

“Walk in, if you please;” and Jim ushered Mr. Shadow into the sitting
room, where his wife and daughter were.

“Wife,” said he, “you had them picters taken?”

“I did, James.”

“I’ve broke the bottle; and as to looking like them creturs, I never
will again.”

“Thank God, James; I hope you never will.”

“Here is the pledge,” said Mr. Shadow, who was a temperance man in
theory as well as practice.

“I’ll sign it, by mighty!” and Jim did sign it.

“Now, wife, will you rub them things out?”

“Certainly, James,” and Mrs. Scroggins went for the pictures.

“And now, Mr. Scroggins, if you will walk over to my saloon, I shall be
happy to take the real man as God made him.”

“I’ll do it; and, Betsey, you shall come, too; and Susey.”

Susey went with her father and mother, though her picture had been
taken. On the way Mr. Shadow walked by her side, and said a great many
silly things, with which I will not trouble the reader.

The daguerreotypes were taken, and Jim was surprised at the difference
between the picture of a drunken man and that of a sober man.

He drank no more liquor; and though this incident happened three years
ago, he is still a sober and reputable man in the village. The little
place is all paid for, and Mrs. Scroggins is superlatively happy.

Susan, in less than a year, became the wife of Mr. Shadow, who,
notwithstanding his name, is a man of substance, and loves his wife all
the more because he was instrumental in saving her from the degradation
of being a drunkard’s daughter.




SIX HUNDRED A YEAR.


_CHAPTER I._

“Well, Dixon, what is it?” asked Mr. Phogie of his assistant
bookkeeper, who had been patiently waiting for half an hour in the
private counting room of the merchant for an opportunity to speak with
his employer.

“My second year in your service will begin to-morrow, sir; and I have
taken the liberty to request your attention to a matter which, though
of little consequence to you, perhaps, is of considerable moment to me.”

The young man paused as if to note the effect of his words upon his
employer.

“Indeed!” ejaculated the merchant, not half liking the cool and
dignified way the young gentleman had of introducing himself.

To his mind there was a lack of that cringing, subservient tone and
manner which his old-fashioned notions had taught him to believe was a
dangerous deficiency in a clerk.

“I refer to my salary, sir.”

“Well?”

There was a gathering frown upon the brow of the merchant.

“I have endeavored to serve you faithfully,” continued the clerk,
rather discouraged by the coldness with which he was received.

There was an awkward pause. Mr. Phogie’s philosophy did not permit him
to speak; and the young man was too much embarrassed to proceed with
his application.

“My salary for the past year has been five hundred dollars,” stammered
Dixon, when he found his employer was bent on holding his peace.

“Well?” said Mr. Phogie, who still provokingly refused to take a hint.

“The object of my present visit is respectfully to request you to
raise it to six hundred,” continued Dixon, more boldly, as he began to
appreciate the humor of his employer.

Mr. Phogie stared, aghast with astonishment and horror, at the
supplicant. Cruikshank or Johnston would have accounted the scene quite
equal to that in the workhouse, where Oliver Twist, in a less important
matter, had the unheard-of presumption and impudence to “ask for more.”

Dixon lost all hope.

“I trust, sir, I am not unreasonable,” said he, excusing his boldness.

“Forty years ago, Dixon, when I was of your age,” began Mr. Phogie,
with solemn deliberateness, “I should have been glad to have received
one half of your present salary.”

The merchant looked complacently at the clerk, to note the effect of
this astounding declaration.

Dixon ventured to suggest that the times had changed.

Mr. Phogie admitted it, but was quite sure the change had been for the
worse.

“That is a matter of opinion, sir.”

“Humph!”

“It costs much more to live now than it did then.”

“Young men didn’t drive fast horses then, nor go to the opera, nor
board at fashionable hotels,” sneered Mr. Phogie.

“I am guilty of none of these follies, sir,” replied Dixon, a little
indignant at the coarseness of the implication.

“Perhaps not; but five hundred dollars a year is a good salary for a
prudent, careful young man.”

“For one who can do no better, it is very well.”

“Clerks are vain nowadays, and over-estimate themselves,” said Mr.
Phogie, rebuking the complacence of his servant.

“I do not ask an increase of salary, sir, because I cannot _live_ on
five hundred dollars, but because I wish to advance myself, and, if you
will pardon my vanity, because I think my services are worth more.”

“Very well, sir; when young men get above their business, there is no
knowing where they will stop. I cannot accede to your demand;” and Mr.
Phogie, to show his indifference, busied himself in arranging some
papers on the desk before him.

“Then, sir, I shall be obliged to give you notice of my intention to
leave your service,” returned Dixon, evidently relieved by the fact
that the interview was concluded, even in this unsatisfactory manner.

Mr. Phogie paused in his occupation and looked with surprise upon the
clerk. It was doubtful whether Dixon meant so.

“Got another situation?” asked he.

“No, sir.”

“Nothing in view?”

“Nothing, sir. Of course I could not make an arrangement till I had
consulted you.”

Mr. Phogie was not pleased with the result of the interview. Dixon
was an honest, faithful, and devoted clerk, and the idea of parting
with him was not agreeable. But to retract what he had hastily said,
would be an indication of weakness; besides, he knew that any quantity
of clerks could be obtained for four, or even three hundred dollars
a year; and he reasoned with himself that he should be a fool to pay
Dixon six when he could get one for three.

Accordingly Dixon gave formal notice of his intention to “quit;” but,
having already earned a reputation for integrity and fidelity, he could
easily obtain a situation at the salary he had demanded of Mr. Phogie.


_CHAPTER II._

“Good morning, Mr. Phogie,” said Mr. Wyman, a liberal-minded merchant,
as he entered the counting room of the former.

“Good morning, sir. Any thing new stirring?”

“No; I called to see you about a young man who has been in your employ;
I mean Dixon.”

Phogie was all attention.

“I want a bookkeeper, and he has applied for the situation. How is he?”

Phogie did not very well like to say he was a competent man, honest,
faithful, and zealous; he did not dare say he was any thing else; so he
was compelled to compromise the matter for the moment by saying nothing.

“I was very much surprised to hear from him that he had left your
service. Any thing unpleasant?”

“No.”

“Blot the books?”

“No.”

“Inaccurate?”

“No.”

“Off too much?”

“No; nothing of the kind.”

“But he was always considered one of the most promising young men on
the street.”

“Yes.”

Wyman was perplexed by the taciturnity of the other.

“I don’t ask from idle curiosity; I want a bookkeeper.”

Phogie was dumb.

“Has the young man any fault?” and there were visible evidences of
impatience in the tones and manner of the matter-of-fact merchant.

“Not that I know of.”

“O, you didn’t want him?”

“No--that is--yes--but----”

“Exactly so!” exclaimed Wyman, laughing.

Phogie laughed too; he could not help laughing when he saw what a
figure he was making; besides, a laugh is sometimes a great relief to a
man in a quandary.

“If you must know, Wyman, I’ll tell you. I gave him five hundred for
the last year; he wants six for the next. I won’t give it.”

“No?”

“Yes; that is the whole story.”

“Wait a minute till I have secured him, and then I will talk with you;”
and Wyman moved towards the door.

“Give him six hundred?” asked Phogie, not a little astonished to find
his neighbor so eager to complete the engagement.

“Yes; seven if he demands it.”

“I can send you half a dozen in an hour who will engage for three.”

“Will you give bonds for their integrity and fidelity?” asked Wyman
with a sneer.

“Pooh!”

“Pooh? The fact is, I have suffered enough from cheap clerks. Assure me
that a young man is honest and true to my interest, and I never will
let him leave me on account of any reasonable difference about salary.
All that Solomon said about a virtuous woman I believe in, with regard
to an honest and faithful clerk.”

“I can’t afford to pay these big salaries; and a young man gets above
his business when you pay him too much.”

“Nonsense! He will respect himself, which every man must do in order to
keep himself honest.”

“You are a transcendentalist.”

“I’m common sense. You say you cannot afford to pay high salaries. Can
you afford to have a semi-annual deficit in your cash account of three
hundred dollars, botched up with false entries, lying balances, and
the like?”

Mr. Phogie had never been troubled in this way, and there was no
probability that he ever should be; he looked out for his business
himself, and he should like to see the clerk that could “bamboozle” him.

Mr. Wyman thought otherwise, and took his leave, wondering at the
stupidity of his friend. It occurred to him, as he left the counting
room, that it was not so very strange, after all, that clerks on three
hundred a year can drive 2:40 horses and go to the opera three nights
in a week; not very strange, either, that petty defalcations were
discovered occasionally, and that young men on small salaries got ahead
amazingly fast.


_CHAPTER III._

Wyman engaged Dixon, and Phogie procured the services of an ill-looking
fellow for three hundred dollars. The next time he saw Wyman, he
indulged in a little innocent raillery over the fact that he paid his
new clerk but just half the salary Dixon received; and Phogie thought
he was even a better bookkeeper than Dixon, wrote a plainer hand, and
could run up a column of figures rather quicker. As to the new clerk’s
honesty, he had a bundle of testimonials as big as the invoice book;
and his maternal uncle was president of the Soap and Candle Makers’
Bank. Of course he was honest!

Things went on swimmingly for six months. The new assistant was a
jewel; and when Mr. Quilldriver, the head bookkeeper, was taken down
with rheumatism, which proved to be chronic, Mr. Phogie had so much
confidence in this notable nephew of a notable uncle, that he gave
him the entire charge of the books, and, in the liberality of his big
heart, advanced his salary voluntarily to four hundred dollars a year.

On the first of January, however, when Mr. Phogie called for the
balance sheet, it was not ready. The trial balance didn’t come out
right, and the profit and loss account looked “thundering strange,” as
Mr. Phogie classically expressed it. Three days were hopelessly used up
in “taking stock;” but the thing couldn’t be figured out.

Mr. Phogie began to be alarmed. The general--a noted expert in
unsnarling complicated and difficult accounts--was called in to examine
into affairs; but no sooner did the smart nephew of the president of
the Soap and Candle Makers’ Bank, see the well-known gray locks of the
expert bent over the obstinate folios, than he stepped out to lunch,
and, by some singular oversight, forgot to return.

The upshot of the whole matter was, that the general discovered an
“absquatulation” of some fifteen hundred dollars--just enough to keep
the dapper little bookkeeper in opera tickets and 2:40’s during the
past season.

Of course the thing went up and down the street; and the little ragged
news boys in State Street bellowed it at the top of their lungs into
the ears of the passer by.

“Why, Phogie, how’s this?” said Mr. Wyman, meeting the supporter of the
cheap clerk system.

Mr. Phogie used a very hard word, which only the ministers are
permitted to use in stirring sermons.

“Pay ’em well, Phogie, and they won’t steal; and when you get a
faithful servant, don’t part with him.”

Phogie scowled and edged off.

“By the way, Dixon has brought every thing out as square as a
brick. Trial balance, balance sheet, every thing foots up without
the variation of a penny,” continued Wyman, maliciously, as Phogie
increased his speed.

Poor penny-wise, pound-foolish merchant! He learned better after that.

For the satisfaction of the reader, I may as well add, that Dixon got a
thousand for his next year’s service, and that he is now engaged to his
employer’s pretty daughter, with the prospect of immediately becoming a
partner in the concern.




THE NEW MINISTER;

OR,

“CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME.”


_CHAPTER I._

“It is abominable hypocrisy for you to talk so, Susan; you don’t care
any more about the missionaries than you do about the fifth wheel of
a coach,” exclaimed Louise Percy, the village schoolmistress, to her
friend, Susan Maylie, at whose father’s house she boarded.

“Why, Louise, how rude you are! You wouldn’t like it if I should talk
so about you,” replied Susan, an angry flush gathering upon her cheek.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t; but if it were true, I don’t know that I could
blame you for it.”

“It is not true, Louise.”

“Why, it is only two months since you refused to put any thing
into the contribution box for the missions. You said you thought
the missionaries were a set of lazy vagabonds, who had a good deal
rather preach than work for a living. Now, since the new minister
has come, all of a sudden you are a strenuous friend of missions and
missionaries.”

“Can’t a body change her opinions, when they are found to be wrong?”
replied Susan, petulantly.

“Certainly you can; but is your opinion really changed?”

“How strange you talk, Louise!”

“May be I do; truth is stranger than fiction.”

“You must confess that our new minister’s eloquence has been quite
enough to convince any reasonable person that the propagation of the
gospel among the heathen is a holy and beautiful work.”

“Undoubtedly, it is a good work; and if you really feel called upon to
labor so earnestly in the cause, I am sure I should be the last one to
reprove you for it.”

“You don’t believe I am sincere, then?”

“I think you are very fond of the new minister. If an old man, with a
wife and half a dozen children, had preached those missionary sermons,
I hardly believe you would have felt so much interest in the work.”

“Why, Louise, you astonish me! I really believe you hate the
missionaries.”

“On the contrary, I have the highest respect for them. I have always
contributed my mite to sustain them. I think I was quite as strongly
attached to the cause before this young and handsome Mr. Rogers made
his appearance among us, as I am now;” and Louise laughed merrily.

“He _is_ handsome, isn’t he,” said Susan, catching the playful spirit
of her companion and confidant.

“I grant that with the greatest pleasure: but if you expect to catch
him, you had better moderate your missionary ardor, and act yourself.”

“Nay, Louise, I really feel an interest in the cause;” and Susan looked
as sober as though she had been a missionary herself, just on the point
of starting for the interior of Africa.

Louise laughed merrily again, as she looked doubtfully into the face of
her friend.

A knock at the door started them from the revery into which both had
fallen.

“Mr. Rogers, as I live!” exclaimed Louise, catching a glance at the new
minister as he stood on the door stone.

“Pray, don’t be rude, Louise,” said Susan, as she adjusted her dress
before the glass.

“Be rude! of course not; but I shall say just what I think.”

“Don’t Louise. Be a friend of missions, for my sake.”

Susan opened the door, and Mr. Rogers entered the house.

“I have called, Miss Maylie, to propose a plan for a tea party in aid
of the missions,” said he, after the common place introductories had
been disposed of. “I look to you, who have been first and foremost in
this good cause, for sympathy and coöperation.”

“I shall be very glad, indeed, to do all I can to forward the good
work,” said Susan, demurely, “and so will Miss Percy.”

“You must excuse me; my time is so much occupied that I do not think I
shall be able to render any essential aid,” interposed Louise, scarcely
able to restrain a laugh at the prompt tender Susan had made of her
services.

“Perhaps you are not interested in the missions,” suggested Mr. Rogers.

“To some extent, I am, sir.”

“I trust, then, we shall be able to enlist your sympathies. Certainly
the heathen, perishing in their sins, demand a noble effort on the part
of the Christian world.”

“I do not question the lofty character of the missionary enterprise,
but I do think charity ought to begin at home.”

“Why, Louise, how strange you talk!” exclaimed Susan.

“True, Miss Percy, but it ought not to end there. I see you favor the
home missions.”

“I do. I favor a mission nearer home than any society has been formed
to advance, in our village at least--the mission to the poor and
destitute.”

“The gospel is preached for all,” said the minister.

“_For_ all, but not _to_ all. There is poor Mrs. Weston, who cannot
afford to buy clothes to send her children to meeting.”

“Indeed!” ejaculated the minister.

“Her husband is a poor, miserable drunkard,” added Susan. “You don’t
think her a worthier object of charity than the poor, suffering, dying
heathen, who are perishing in their ignorance and sin?”

“Indeed, I do!” returned Louise.

“Her case ought to be attended to immediately,” said Mr. Rogers.

“She ought to go to the poorhouse; the overseers offered to take her,”
continued Susan.

“The poorhouse! Mrs. Weston has seen better days, and, I doubt not,
would rather die than be subjected to such a bitter humiliation.”

“Her own fault, then; if she won’t let the town help her, what more can
be done?”

“She went to Deacon Hapgood, who owns the hovel in which she lives, to
get him to take off ten dollars a year from her rent. But the Deacon
didn’t see how he could afford it, and the poor woman left him, to
continue alone her struggle with the demon of poverty as best she
might. Yet the Deacon can afford to give a hundred dollars a year to
the missions, and says he never feels the sacrifice.”

“I will see Deacon Hapgood,” said the minister, musingly.

“I hope you will teach him that ‘charity begins at home.’”

“The hungry can be fed, the naked clothed, the houseless sheltered,
and still there will be means left to carry on the missions. We are
commanded to ‘preach the gospel to all nations.’”

“And reminded that the poor are always with us. There is Farmer Jones:
he can’t afford to buy a spelling book for his daughter, but he gives
large sums of money to the missionary society.”

Mr. Rogers, who was an earnest seeker after truth, and who nobly
endeavored to do his duty, began to feel that there was a great deal of
practical wisdom in the remarks of the schoolmistress.

After a little more conversation, in relation to the proposed tea
party, he took his leave.


_CHAPTER II._

Louise Percy, without being very beautiful or very bewitching, was
a very sensible, earnest, straightforward girl. With a warm heart
and generous disposition, she was free, open, and sincere in her
intercourse with the world.

Just the opposite was her friend and confidant, Susan Maylie, though,
as the world goes, she passed for a good-hearted person. She lacked
that transparency of motive which was so eminently the characteristic
of Louise’s temperament. Where no strong prejudice actuated her, she
was generally prompt in her choice of the good from the evil, though
sometimes the most intimate friend was involuntarily led to suspect her
motive.

Six months before we introduce them to the reader, the village in
which they resided was thrown into commotion by the arrival of the new
minister, who had been called to officiate in the parish church.

He was young, handsome, and, more than all, unmarried. Straightway,
one half of the eligible maidens in town became interested in “serious
things.” The prayer meetings and the conference meetings were all
at once found to be seasons of special interest. All the charitable
societies connected with the church suddenly become prosperous. The
missionary society, which was composed of ladies, who met once a month
at the sewing circle, received a new impetus from the arrival of Mr.
Rogers.

The young clergyman made it a point to attend these meetings, for he
was particularly interested in the enterprise of sending the gospel to
the heathen. He had preached several sermons on his favorite topic, and
his exertions were rewarded by the creation of a strong and unusual
feeling on the subject.

Susan, all at once, found her mind intently engaged in the engrossing
subject. It is true she had learned from her father to ridicule
and despise the missions; but then her heart was hard, and the
ministrations of the handsome young clergyman had turned her mind
from the vanities and vexations of life, to the lofty and substantial
realities of “serious things.”

Louise could not help noticing the sudden and remarkable change; but
then Susan so constantly spoke of the minister’s handsome face; so
often sneered at the thought of sundry village belles, whom she was
malicious enough to accuse of attempting to “catch” him, that she
readily fathomed the occasion of the singular transformation.

Louise got out of patience with her friend’s duplicity, but suspecting
that it might be involuntary, or the consequence of a want of
consideration, she had plainly pointed out the inconsistency. Susan
could hardly deny the fact, and feeling that Louise was a true friend,
one who would not proclaim her infirmity to the world, she suffered the
charge to pass unrefuted.

“I am going to set up an opposition to the missionary society,” said
Louise, after Mr. Rogers had gone.

“Pray, what mad scheme have you got in your brain now?” asked Susan.

“I am going to do something for the relief of Mrs. Weston.”

“How foolish you are!”

“Am I?”

“You are, very foolish. It is the town’s business to look out for
paupers.”

“It is my business, too, and yours, Susan.”

“I am sure _I_ shall not meddle with it.”

“We have each of us reserved five dollars for charitable purposes, you
know.”

“Well?”

“I shall give mine to Mrs. Weston.”

“And I shall give mine to the missions. I thought you were going to do
the same.”

“I have altered my mind. I cannot send my money across the ocean, when
there is an abundance of heathen growing up in ignorance around us.
Now, if you will put your five dollars with mine, it will just make up
the amount the poor woman asked the deacon to abate her rent.”

“I shall do no such thing, I assure you. I am too much interested in
the missions to throw my money away upon the town’s paupers.”

“Very well; I will not urge you.”

“What do you suppose Mr. Rogers would say, if I should give nothing to
the missions?”

“Are you beholden to him to render an account of your stewardship? For
my part, I shouldn’t care what he thought. Do your duty, Susan, let
folks think as they may. If I had money enough, I would contribute
handsomely towards having the gospel preached to such heathen as Deacon
Hapgood, Farmer Jones, and some others who support missions, while they
starve their own souls and those of their families.”

Susan, knowing how obstinate Louise was when excited, refrained from
opposing the purpose she had announced, and Louise retired to her room.

“Five dollars,” said she, musingly; “it is more than a week’s pay; but
she shall have it; yes, and more too. Since Susan has refused to join
me in this work of charity, I will give another five dollars; and then
how happy the poor creature will be!”

The face of the gentle-hearted girl lighted up with an involuntary
smile, as she opened her drawer and took therefrom the ten dollars. It
was a large sum for her; but she cheerfully resigned the pleasures it
would purchase, and looked forward to the joy she was about to carry
to the cottage of the drunkard’s wife.

With a light heart she tripped down the road to execute her charitable
mission. As she entered the hovel, she shrank back at the scene of
wretchedness presented to her view. The poor woman, pale and haggard
with care, apparently with one foot in the grave, was surrounded by
half a dozen ragged children, whom her utmost exertions could hardly
feed with the coarsest fare, and clothe even with the miserable
garments that only half covered their nakedness.

Stating the object of her visit, Louise handed to her the ten dollars.

Mrs. Weston started back in amazement. Such unheard of liberality
overwhelmed her with confusion. If Deacon Hapgood could not afford
to take off ten dollars from her rent, how could a poor girl
afford to give her that sum outright? Before she could recover her
self-possession sufficiently to express her gratitude, the young
minister entered the house.

Mr. Rogers was almost as much astonished at the generosity of Louise as
Mrs. Weston had been; and when he took his leave, he gladdened the poor
creature’s heart by adding another ten dollars to the gift.

[Illustration: THE NEW MINISTER. Page 58.]


_CHAPTER III._

After their departure from Mrs. Weston’s, Mr. Rogers walked by the side
of Louise towards her residence. The conversation was earnest, and at
times warm, for Louise had opinions of her own, and was not diffident
in maintaining them, even against the eloquence of the parson.

Mr. Rogers was not less pleased with the spirit and independence of his
companion than he was with her warm heart and charitable disposition.
And when he bade adieu to her at the door of Mr. Maylie’s house, he
could not banish her from his mind.

The following day was Sunday. Oddly enough for him, the minister had
not a word to say about missions or the heathen. His text was, “The
poor ye have always with you.”

It was a noble sermon, showing that the poor, by being continually
before the eye, came to be regarded with indifference and neglect,
while objects of charity far removed by distance, excited the liveliest
sympathy and commiseration. He demonstrated that the first duty of all
was to relieve distress in their midst; in fine, that “charity begins
at home.” It was shown, very much to the edification of Deacon Hapgood,
who sat in the broad aisle, wondering “what the minister was driving
at,” that a rich man could not blind the eye of his Maker by giving
large sums to the missions, while he oppressed the poor, and turned a
deaf ear to their prayer for help.

Louise was deeply interested in the sermon, while a majority of the
congregation arrived at the conclusion that Mr. Rogers had gone crazy.
It was a reflection of her views, and a feeling of proud satisfaction
pervaded her mind, as she reflected that she had been instrumental in
calling the minister’s attention to the subject.

The effect of the sermon was immediate and substantial. Every one of
the “eligible young ladies” straightway emptied the contents of their
purses into Mrs. Weston’s lap. A society was proposed for ameliorating
the condition of the poor, whom they always had with them. But Mr.
Rogers cruelly vetoed the measure, not thinking an organized effort
necessary to complete the work, especially as Mrs. Weston, who was,
perhaps, the only destitute person in town, had money enough to pay a
year’s rent and three months’ provision in her cellar.

In the mean time, Mr. Rogers manifested a laudable interest in the
welfare of the village school, and even preached a sermon on the duty
of parents to their children. He visited the school three times in one
week, besides conferring four distinct and separate times with the
schoolmistress at her boarding place in the evening.

Well, every body--except the eligible young ladies--said it was the
minister’s duty to look after the school, and see that the mistress did
her duty; so every body, with the exception mentioned, agreed that Mr.
Rogers was particularly faithful in the discharge of _his_ duty.

Susan was intensely astonished at the course of events, and more
especially was she pained at the comparative neglect with which the
missions had come to be regarded. Other charities, nearer home, shared
the sympathies of the young and handsome pastor, and she suddenly
realized that her extraordinary exertions in spreading the gospel among
the heathen had failed to accomplish the purpose she had in view. But
hope had not yet deserted her. Her eyes were not as wide open as they
might have been, and she did not yet fully understand the “signs of the
times.”

“What a blessed field of usefulness is open to the teacher of the
district school!” exclaimed she, one day, to her confidant, the
schoolmistress.

Louise looked up from the book she was reading, astonished at the
remark--not at the important truth involved in it, but that it should
proceed from such a source.

“It is, indeed, an interesting field of labor to those who can
appreciate it,” replied she, a smile of intelligence crossing her
good-natured countenance.

“I have been thinking, Louise, that _I_ might be useful in that
capacity.”

“I do not doubt it.”

“And I understand that the school in the south district will be vacant
in a few weeks; don’t you think I could procure the appointment?”

“Why, Susan, you do not really intend to become a teacher, do you?”

“I certainly do. I feel that I have suffered too many years of my life
to pass away in idleness. I intend to redeem the time.”

“You cannot mean it.”

“I am in earnest. Do you think I could get the appointment?”

“I can point you to a place nearer home, if you are really desirous of
becoming a teacher.”

“What place?”

“You may have mine in the course of a month or two.”

“Yours, Louise!”

“I shall send in my resignation next week.”

“Why, Louise, I had no idea that you intended to abandon teaching,”
said Susan, with undisguised astonishment; and, as she had regarded the
attentions her friend received from the handsome young minister with
a jealous eye, perhaps the announcement was received with some small
degree of satisfaction.

“I had no such intention a few days ago. But if you wish for my place,
you can have the opportunity of making the first application.”

“I shall be delighted to get it.”

“I will mention the subject when I send in my resignation.”

“But, Louise, you have never told us anything about this. Pray, what is
going to happen?”

“I suppose I must tell you the secret. Of course you will not betray my
confidence?”

“Certainly not.”

“I am going to be married this fall;” and Louise blushed up to her eyes.

“Going to be married! My goodness! And we never even found out that you
had a beau.”

“It has been rather sudden.”

“I should think it had. Who is the fortunate gentleman?”

“Mr. Rogers.”

“Mr. Rogers!” exclaimed Susan, starting back in blank amazement, while
the color deserted her cheeks, and her heart fluttered with emotion.

“Just so. From the time we met at Mrs. Weston’s, when I gave the poor
woman my money, he has been very attentive--and, in short, the matter
is now settled.”

“Well, I _am_ astonished!”

Susan _was_ astonished.

“I cannot wonder; I am astonished myself. But, Susan, I think I shall
carry in my resignation to-morrow, and you had better have a written
application ready.”

Susan bit her lips with vexation, and even wondered that she had not
been fool enough to give her money to Mrs. Weston, instead of the
missionary society.

“I think on the whole, Louise, that I shall not become a teacher at
present,” said she, as she turned, and abruptly left the room.

In the fall Mr. Rogers and Louise were married. The parsonage is the
home of peace, love, and charity. Mrs. Rogers is a model minister’s
wife, and though the missionary cause receives an earnest support, she
still believes, and acts upon the belief, that “CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME.”




“OUT NIGHTS;”

OR,

BELONGING TO THE “SONS.”


_CHAPTER I._

“Don’t go out to-night, Charles,” said Mrs. Prescott, a pretty,
sweet-smiling lady, who had been married just six months, to her
husband.

“Really, Carrie, I am very sorry; but I do not see how I can be absent
from the meeting to-night,” replied the young husband, as he brought
his great-coat from the entry.

“You always say so. I wish you did not belong to the ‘Sons.’ Can’t you
leave them?”

“I could, my dear, if I desired; I have no wish to do so.”

“Wouldn’t you do it to please me?” said the lady smiling so sweetly
that one could have found it in his heart to do almost any thing for
her.

“You do not seriously wish me to do so.”

“Nay, I do.”

“Think, Carrie.”

“I am jealous of that society.”

“Fie!”

“You leave me here all alone, and you can’t think how lonesome I am.”

“I am very sorry to leave you; but, really, I feel it to be my duty to
sustain so good an association as the ‘Sons of Temperance.’”

“There are enough without you.”

“All might, with equal propriety, say so.”

“They do not all leave a wife alone at home.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Can’t you belong to them without going to the meetings every night?”

“I should not wish to do that. To be a merely nominal member of the
Order, is to be nothing at all.”

“You would be giving your name and influence to the cause of temperance
just as much as you do by attending the meetings.”

“What is the cause of temperance, Carrie? I fear you give it a very
vague construction, like many others in the community.”

“Why, preventing and curing intemperance.”

“Preventing and curing it in whom?”

“Every body, I suppose--all your friends and neighbors.”

“But not yourself.”

“There is no danger of you, Charles.”

“But I joined the Sons quite as much for my own sake, as for that of
others.”

“You don’t think you are in any danger of becoming a drunkard, do you?”
asked Mrs. Prescott, with a smile of incredulity.

“Not while I am as strongly fortified against the vice of drinking as I
am now.”

“Pooh! I would risk you, even if you did not belong to the Sons.”

“Suppose I should abandon them, and permit myself to be influenced by
the example of those around me--of your brother Frank, for example?
Suppose I should shake off my allegiance to the principle of total
abstinence, how long would it take me to get rid of all my scruples
against drinking a glass of wine?”

“Can’t you adhere to the principle without belonging to a society?”

“Association strengthens principle.”

“You don’t steal, Charles; but is it necessary that you should belong
to an anti thieving society?” and the pretty young wife’s features wore
an expression of triumph.

“Drinking is a fashionable vice; stealing is not. When the community
regards the fashionable wine bibber as it does the thief, there will be
no occasion for associated effort to restrain it. Popular opinion will
do the work which the Sons are now doing.”

“But I don’t think there is any need of going so constantly,” replied
the wife. “_Do_ stay with me to-night; I feel so lonesome.”

“The Order acts upon some particular business to-night, and----”

“Particular business again!” exclaimed Mrs. Prescott, with a
good-natured laugh.

“It does indeed.”

“Always so.”

“Besides, I am W. P., you know.”

“W. T., you mean.”

“What’s that?”

“Wife tormentor.”

“Nay, Carrie----”

“Go along; I will excuse you to-night; but don’t stay late.”

“No, dear.”

“It was eleven o’clock before you got home last Saturday night.”

“I will be home by ten to-night;” and Charles Prescott kissed his
pretty, smiling wife--we beg the reader to remember that they had been
married but six months--and left the house.


_CHAPTER II._

Mrs. Prescott did not appear to be half so lonesome as she had
pretended she was; for, as her little white hand delicately and
daintily grasped the needle, the same involuntary smile played on her
pretty lips that had been there while her husband was present.

Her thoughts must have been very pleasant, or she could not have worn
that bewitching smile. Her soft, gazelle-like eye, too, beamed forth
the language of a pure and beautiful soul--a soul at rest among the
flowers of its own tender rearing.

She was thinking, and her thoughts were full of joy. What a happy wife
she was! But perhaps her view of matrimony was mingled with something
of sentiment--a few grains of that amiable moonshine which strews
flowers and perfumes in the pathway of the young wife.

Alas that the blight of coldness should ever come to wither those
flowers which the young and loving wife scatters in her pathway! Alas
that the cares and trials of life should ever come and cast a great,
broad shadow over that moon of her dreams.

Mrs. Prescott was happy, and she was _thinking_ how happy she was.
Charles was all love and devotion. He was industrious, frugal, and
temperate; and, though they lived in a humble house and in a humble
street, she sighed not for the fine things her neighbors had.

They lived comfortably; and, while her husband loved her, she cared not
for tapestry carpets and velvet-covered lounges.

Charles had only one failing; and that was, an earnest devotion to the
Order of the Sons of Temperance, which drew him away from her side
every Saturday night. He never left the house any other evening without
her; and undoubtedly he would have insisted on her joining the order,
only that it was a _secret_ society; consequently no women could be
tolerated within its pale.

Mrs. Prescott could not see why her husband should be a “Son;” he was
strictly temperate in his habits. Poor wife! She neglected to inquire
into the reason of his being so.

She plied her needle, and smiled forth the joy that was in her heart.
She was so happy and contented that there was only one thing left her
to wish for--that her husband was with her.

About half an hour after Charles had gone, her brother Frank, who had
been married nearly a year, called with his wife.

“I have got to go down to the store and post up the books, Carrie, and
I have brought Lucy to stay with you; she was afraid to stay alone,”
said Frank Winslow, after the two wives had kissed each other, and said
sundry pretty things about the weather and the walking.

“I am glad you did; I am all alone myself.”

“Where’s Charley?”

“Gone to the lodge.”

“What lodge?”

“I don’t mean the lodge--the meeting of the ‘Sons.’”

“Bah!”

“He goes every Saturday night.”

“What a pity! Charley is a good fellow, and it is a great shame that he
should herd with those fanatics,” said Frank Winslow.

“Don’t you talk so about my husband, Frank,” interposed the loving
wife. “He is not half so much of a fanatic on temperance, as you are on
cognac and sherry.”

“Fie, sis! I believe in all sorts of good things; and being a Son is,
in my opinion, the next thing to being a fool.”

“Why don’t you tell him so?”

“I would if he were here. You don’t think I am afraid of him, do you?”

“No; but the last time you argued the question with him----”

“Bah!” exclaimed Frank, impatiently.

Promising to call for his wife by ten o’clock, he left the house.

“I hope our husbands won’t quarrel over this temperance question,” said
Mrs. Winslow.

“I hope not.”

“But this ‘Sons’ business does seem so silly to me that I cannot wonder
Frank laughs at him.”

“Well, I don’t care any thing about it, only that Charles is out so
late every night at the meetings.”

“And leaves you all alone?” asked Mrs. Winslow.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t let him! It is a shame! Why, I should go into fits if
my husband left me alone till eleven o’clock!” and Mrs. Winslow was
horrified at the very thought.

“I have said a good deal about it.”

“Said! Why, I would tip the house over before I would submit to it.”

“He is so deeply interested in it.”

“He ought to be deeply interested in his wife, too.”

“Nay, nay, Lucy, you wrong him. He loves me with all his soul.”

“And leaves you alone till eleven o’clock?”

“I’m not afraid to stay alone.”

“Why, it’s almost as bad as having a drunken husband to sit up for.”

“O, no, I’m sure it is not.”

Charles Prescott was warmly condemned by the visitor, and warmly
defended by the wife, who, poor thing, though she wished he would stay
at home, could not bear to hear a word said against him.


_CHAPTER III._

Before ten o’clock, the two ladies had settled the question of
Charles’s defection, and passed naturally enough into mousse de laines,
laces, and the newest fashions. Mrs. Winslow did not like to say that
he was a monster in the hearing of his wife; but she fully believed it;
and Mrs. Prescott, moved by the arguments of her friend, concluded that
she was used much more hardly than she had ever suspected.

Punctual to his appointed hour, Charles came home. Mrs. Winslow
playfully upbraided him for his want of constancy in leaving his wife
to spend the evening alone; but the husband made a “moral question” of
it, and proceeded to discuss the topic at length.

An hour was used up in the unprofitable argument, and the clock struck
eleven.

Mrs. Winslow yawned, and wondered why Frank did not come--began to
think the books must have gotten into a snarl to keep him so late.

It was half past eleven before he came.

“How are ye, old boy?” said he, grasping the hand of Prescott. “How are
the Sons to-night?”

“As usual--thriving.”

“What makes you so late, Frank?” asked Mrs. Winslow. “You promised to
come at ten o’clock.”

“The books got a little twisted. But sit down, Suke; I want to talk
with Charley;” and Frank threw himself into a rocking chair before the
fire.

“No, no, Frank; it is almost twelve o’clock.”

“Never mind; sit down. They say there is more liquor drank since the
Maine law was made than ever before,” said Frank, turning to Charles
Prescott.

“And there is more cheating, killing, and stealing since the ten
commandments were made than ever before. What does that prove?”

“Bah!”

“You refer to the golden calf?”

“Seriously, Charley, in my opinion, the fanatics, who made that law
ought to be held responsible for half the drunkenness in the community.”

“And Paul, Peter, and John for half the sins the gospel was intended to
prevent.”

“You talk like one of the fanatics,” said Frank, his cheek reddening
with anger.

“I merely change the application of the principles which your remarks
cover.”

“You distort them. A fanatic can’t argue the question fairly. Come,
Suke, let’s go home.”

Frank Winslow rose from his chair, but instantly sank back again.

“What is the matter, Frank?” asked his wife.

“Nothing; don’t you see?” and he attempted to rise again, but without
success.

“What ails you? How strange you act!”

“Your Sons and your Maine laws are a humbug, Charley; there’s no
rubbing that out. Tell me about your--hic--Maine law!”

“O Heavens!” groaned the poor wife.

“What the deuse’s the--hic--matter now?”

It was too plain to be longer concealed; Frank Winslow was drunk!
The heat of the room was revealing the terrible truth to the poor
wife, to the fond sister, that the husband and brother was helplessly
intoxicated!

Charles Prescott was shocked; Carrie’s cheek was pale, and her frame
trembled; that smile was gone, for the loving brother was a drunkard!

It was an agonizing moment to the fond wife. Mountains of sombre clouds
came rolling down before her bewildered senses, and the future was dark
with poverty, woe, disgrace, and death. The drunkard’s grave yawned
like a cavern of hell in the path of her husband.

“O, Frank, Frank!” exclaimed she, throwing herself into his arms, and
bathing his brow with her woman’s tears.

“What in ---- ails you all?” said Frank, gazing round him with a
drunken leer.

Charles attempted to get him upon his feet; but he was utterly helpless.

“Let me--hic--alone. I am none of your cussed--hic--fanatics, that
can’t go alone;” and he fell at full length upon the floor.

Mrs. Winslow threw herself into a chair, and sobbed in bitterness of
spirit. Carrie wept upon her bosom. It was a sad sight, that group of
weepers over the drunken body of a noble-hearted, generous young man.
Angels weep over such pitiable objects.

With much difficulty Charles Prescott succeeded in putting him to bed;
but, to all save the besotted inebriate, it was a sleepless night.
Tears stained the pillow of the wife and sister, and silent prayers
rose to heaven for the preservation of the erring young man.

Morning came, and Frank had slept off his debauch. He was conscious of
his position, and with shame and humiliation he presented himself in
the breakfast room of his friend. The pale, anxious faces, the red and
swollen eyes of his wife and sister, told him what they had suffered.

Like a true man, he acknowledged his fault, and promised to amend.
Charles pointed out the necessity of making a principle of abstinence,
to which he assented, and promised to connect himself with the Sons. He
kept his promise, and in a few weeks was initiated.

Mrs. Prescott, after the impressive lesson she had received from the
experience of her brother, was convinced that active membership in a
temperance society, or at least a cherished _principle_ of abstinence,
was necessary in these degenerate days for the salvation of the young
man.

Her husband had resisted temptation through the salutary influence of
the “Sons;” and she could not but reflect how unreasonable she had been
in attempting to lure him away from the fountain of his principle.

Even Mrs. Winslow has so far overcome her timidity as to be content to
stay alone every Saturday night, while her husband attends the meetings
of the Order. It is a blessed thing for the wife to be assured that,
while he is away from her in those hours which properly belong to her,
he is fortifying his soul against the temptations that every where
beset him.




[Illustration]




BRING FLOWERS;

OR,

GOING INTO MOURNING.


_CHAPTER I._

“I am sure they cannot care much for their sister, for not one of
them had even a black ribbon on her bonnet,” said Mabel Grant, to her
invalid sister.

“Nay, Mabel, you must not judge them harshly.”

“But only think of it! Even her mother did not so much as change her
bonnet.”

“Probably they have views and opinions of their own upon the subject,”
replied Mary Grant, feebly, for she was in the last stage of
consumption,--that dreadful scourge of our northern clime,--and even
the exertion of speaking a few words was exceedingly tiresome.

“And poor Ellen Lawson, our dear friend and schoolmate, one of the
fairest and truest girls in the village--to think that she should go
down to her early grave without even a show of mourning in her own
family. It looks like sacrilege to me.”

“Nay, Mabel, your respect for a mere custom causes you to disregard the
plainest dictates of charity.”

“I do not mean to be uncharitable.”

“I know it, Mabel; but you must remember that the practice of putting
on mourning is only a custom; and there is no sacrifice of love or
principle in disregarding the custom.”

“Well, I don’t know; I cannot think they loved poor Ellen as she
deserved to be loved.”

“Why not?”

“Because, if they had, they would at least have shown a decent respect
for her while they stood around her bier.”

“Did they seem to be cold, indifferent?” asked the invalid, with a
great deal of interest.

“No; Mrs. Lawson was very much affected while in the cemetery. She
sobbed as though her heart would break.”

“Indeed!”

“But it did not seem to be real, her dress was so inappropriate.”

“You wrong her, Mabel.”

“I hope I do.”

“You cannot see into the heart.”

“And her sisters, too, if they had not worn white bonnets, would have
seemed like real mourners.”

“The heart weeps, Mabel, not the dress, nor even the tearful eye. Many
a one in sable weeds has felt no sorrow for the loss of a parent or a
friend.”

“That may be; but don’t you think yourself that white bonnets and blue
dresses are very improper at the funeral of a near friend?”

“It would not be my taste, Mabel,” replied Mary with a faint smile.
“But I wish to accord to every one the privilege of doing as they
please in a matter of this kind.”

“So do I; of course they have the right to wear what they please.”

“You censure them, though.”

“Not censure them, Mary; I only say that it looks as though they did
not care much for poor Ellen.”

“You impugn their motives; you ought to be charitable to them, however
strange they may seem to act.”

“I will, sister; but if I had lost a friend, I should feel as though I
was deficient in respect to the memory of that friend, if I did not put
on mourning.”

Mary sighed; she knew not how soon that dear sister would be called
upon to put on mourning for her. Even another day of existence might
not be permitted her. She was calmly waiting the hour that would bear
her from the scenes of earth to that brighter realm beyond the dark
grave. Already she heard the music of the angel’s fluttering wing, and
was ready to lay her head upon the lap of earth.

Mabel penetrated her sister’s thoughts, and turned away to hide a tear,
which sprung unbidden to her eye.

“There are many things to be considered, Mabel, in relation to the
custom of wearing mourning. For my part I think it would be far better
if the practice was entirely discontinued.”

“Why, Mary! how strange you talk!”

“You can conceive how very disagreeable it must be for those who are
waiting to consign the remains of a dear friend to the tomb, to be
compelled to attend upon mantuamakers and milliners.”

Mabel had never thought of that before.

“No sooner has the spirit taken its flight, than the house of death
is made the scene of commotion and confusion, by the preparations to
appear in black. That holy sorrow, which craves solitude, is broken in
upon by the cares of business--by the necessity of conforming to a mere
fashion which requires the mourner to make a vain show.”

“Perhaps you are right, Mary; pray, do not talk any more. You are quite
exhausted.”

Mary said no more. A shade of deep thought rested upon her pallid
features. She was thinking how much more soothing it would be, when her
redeemed spirit sped its flight, if her friends could only think of her
while her lifeless clay remained with them, without the intrusion of
milliners and dressmakers.


_CHAPTER II._

It was spring time, and the joyous birds sung their cheerful notes upon
the blossoming trees. The flowers were blooming upon the hill side, and
Nature was assuming her verdant robes.

Under the influence of the mild, balmy air of the spring, Mary Grant
seemed to revive. Her strength appeared to return with the opening
buds, and her friends dared to hope that she might be spared to behold
the profusion of another summer, the glories of another autumn. But the
disease was deceptive. While hope smiles, the destroyer comes.

The physician, after giving the parents of Mary all the encouragement
he could, directed his patient to ride out as often as the weather
would permit.

The invalid was happy in the privilege of once more inhaling the balmy
breezes, of once again visiting the cherished scenes, where, in the
full vigor of health and joy, she had gayly and thoughtlessly roamed.

The village cemetery had always been a hallowed and beautiful spot to
her, and she expressed a desire to visit it again, ere her inanimate
form should be laid away to slumber beneath its peaceful bosom.

With Mabel for her companion, the carriage was slowly driven through
the garden of graves. Mary was silent and thoughtful; and more than
once a tear rose to the eye of Mabel, when she thought how soon she
might be called upon to follow the cold form of the loved one to her
resting-place.

The invalid was thoughtful, but not gloomy. Already the spirit had
reached forward to the glories of that better world where there is no
death, no sorrow. The grave had no terrors to her; it was a place of
rest. Death was not a hideous, quaking skeleton to her imagination, but
a white-winged angel, who would fold her upon his bosom, and bear her
across the dark valley to the “house with many mansions, eternal in the
heavens.”

With introverted thoughts she gazed upon the memorials of the
slumbering dead. The funereal fir, the pendent willow that swept over
the green graves, diffused a heavenly calm in her heart, and she felt
ready to join the great company that slept beneath them.

“There is a new-made grave,” said she, as the carriage turned the angle
of one of the avenues.

“It is the grave of poor Ellen Lawson,” replied Mabel.

Mary requested the driver to stop.

On the grave, over which no marble had yet been reared, were several
bouquets of fresh flowers. Some little white blossoms, which had been
transplanted near the head, were opening their tiny buds.

“Still remembered, Mabel,” said Mary, as she pointed to the flowers.

“They place fresh flowers upon her grave every day.”

“And do you think they did not love her, Mabel?”

“O, sister, I know they did.”

“And wore no black at her funeral?”

“I was wrong, Mary.”

“These are meet emblems of the heart’s remembrance. When I go hence,
may the flowers of spring blossom upon my grave. May some loving hand
place flowers upon the sod that hides me from those I loved on earth.”

“You are sad, sister; do not speak so gloomily.”

“Nay, Mabel, I am not sad; I am happy.”

Mabel shed a flood of tears upon the bosom of her sister.

“Do not weep, Mabel; we shall meet in heaven, and be happy there
forever.”

“You are better, dear sister; do not speak so hopelessly.”

“Only a little while longer, and I shall rest beneath this sod. But do
not be sad; I am happy: I am not afraid to die. I feel as though the
angels were with me now, waiting to bear me to my home in the skies.”

Mabel cast another glance at the flower-decked grave of Ellen Lawson,
as the carriage drove on, and she felt that the heart could more
eloquently express its remembrance of the loved and lost, than by a
display of the sable weeds of the mourner.


_CHAPTER III._

Mary Grant went out of the house no more. In another week her waiting
spirit bade farewell to earth, and winged its way to its native
skies. Calmly and trustingly, while a heavenly smile played upon her
irradiated features, she breathed her last in the arms of Mabel.

She was gone! Her wasted form, from which the undying soul had just
taken its flight, lay in rigid silence before her. She was beautiful
in death--so beautiful that Mabel could hardly believe she was dead;
that those lips, parted in a placid smile, could no more speak gentle
counsel to her; that those eyes, now motionless and sealed, could no
more reflect the love of that affectionate heart upon her.

But a moment before, she had bidden her farewell. Could she be dead?
Was it indeed true that those smiling lips were forever sealed; that
another note of sisterly love could not proceed from them?

Kind friends were waiting to prepare the body for the sepulchre, and
a gentle hand led her away from the inanimate form. Then, then she
realized that her sister was indeed dead, and a torrent of woe swept
wildly into her heart.

Flying to her chamber, she gave free vent to her grief.

“She is gone! She is gone!” sobbed she, as she buried her face beneath
her hands, and trembled in the agony of her emotion.

Mary died as the sun was sinking behind the western hills. Her pure
spirit had fled with the day; but the change bore her to an endless
day, where there is no night and the sun never sets.

Mabel passed a sleepless night. Her pillow was wet with her tears. She
rose in the morning, and hastened to gaze again upon the form of Mary.
She was arrayed for the grave, and as Mabel bent over her, and printed
a kiss upon the pallid, cold lips, the memories of the past rushed
vividly into her heart. Her eyes rained tears upon the marble beauty of
the corpse.

And there she stood for an hour, communing with the days which were now
no more; which could never be again, because the heart that made them
glad was now still in death.

The formality of the morning meal was disposed of,--it was nothing
more than a form to the weeping household,--and Mabel returned to the
side of her departed sister. She kissed the cold lips again, and gave
herself up to the flood of irresistible grief which faithful memory
forced upon her.

“Excuse me, Miss Grant,” said one of the neighbors, who had come in to
assist the family, “but Miss Barnes, the dressmaker, is waiting to fit
your dress.”

Her dress! There was something heartless, cruelly repulsive in the
word. Her dress at such a time as that! Must she leave the bier of her
dead sister to converse upon the details of a garment? Must her mind
abandon the thought of the dead to dwell upon the fashion of a dress?

Without a word she went to the sitting room. It was a busy scene for
the house of mourning, and she learned that the mantuamaker had been
there all night, for the weather was warm, and the funeral must take
place on the following day.

The conversation of the apartment sounded loathsome to her. It was not
of her dead sister, it was of the latest fashions, of the propriety of
this and that; the fitness of one article and the unfitness of another.

They asked her how she would have her dress cut; but her thoughts were
with Mary, and she answered not. As soon as she could be spared, she
left the dressmakers, and returned to the chamber of the dead.

Again she wandered back with Mary to the scenes of their happy
childhood. Again the tears flowed freely down her cheeks, and the
spirit of the loved one seemed to speak to her from the heaven to which
she had ascended.

“The milliner has come, and wants to try on your bonnet,” said the
servant girl.

Mabel attended the summons and returned. Her grief was too deep to
permit her to participate in the occupations of the sitting room,
though her mother was compelled to be there, and had been there all
night.

“Please ma’am, the shopkeeper has come over with some gloves, and they
want you to pick out a pair,” said the girl again.

She had scarcely disposed of this matter before another demanded her
attention; and thus it was all day long. The house was full of bustle
and confusion. The tailor, the hatter, the hosier, and a score of
female artisans were constantly coming and going.

The solitude which her weeping heart craved was denied her. On the
morrow that loved form was to be borne away and placed in the ground.
They could never behold it again; but from the hour that Mary had
breathed her last, to the arrival of the funeral guests, she heard more
of business, of the repulsive details of dress and fashion, than of
those more appropriate words which solace the mourner in the hour of
trial.

The mourning garments were completed; but when Mabel was arrayed in
them, they carried no comfort to the heart. She could not even feel
that the wearing of them was a token of respect to her dead sister; for
they had robbed her of the blessed privilege of weeping over her bier.

More than once she recalled the uncharitable judgment she had
passed upon the Lawsons; but they had been privileged to mourn
without interruption over their dead. The course they had chosen was
reasonable; and she could not but feel that if the heart alone were
consulted, it would not weep in nodding plumes and sable weeds.

Around the grave of Mary the devoted sister planted the flowers she had
loved so well, and every evening, as the sun sank away, she placed a
fresh bouquet upon the green sod above her.

And close by, the hand of affection strewed flowers upon the grave of
Ellen Lawson; and all summer long, and when the chill winds of autumn
swept the cemetery, these floral offerings told the passer by that the
dead were remembered every day.

Bring flowers! Scatter them upon the graves of the dead; for they are a
far more grateful tribute to the memory of the departed, than all the
trappings of fashionable woe!




THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT.


_CHAPTER I._

“Julia has been to the public schools long enough,” said Mrs. Mason to
her husband. “She is fifteen years old, and I am sure she can learn
nothing more till she is sent to a boarding school.”

[Illustration]

“Nonsense!”

“Besides, Mrs. Benson’s daughter has left, and Julia don’t want to go
any longer.”

“Let her stay at home then.”

“Stay at home! Don’t you mean she shall have any polish?”

“Can’t you polish her, my dear?” asked the easy husband, with a
good-natured smile.

“How absurdly you talk!”

“Why, my dear, you have got quite polish enough for the wife of a small
merchant. I would not give a copper to have you any more of a lady than
you are.”

“But Julia may be the wife of a rich man; what would she be then
without music, French, and painting?”

“And she may be the wife of a poor mechanic, and these accomplishments
be useless and burdensome.”

“She never shall be the wife of a mechanic if I can help it,” retorted
Mrs. Mason, smartly.

“Fie, Mary; you are unreasonable. Why should she look higher than a
mechanic, especially as some of our best and most reputable men are
mechanics?”

“She shall not be the wife of a mechanic if I can help it,” repeated
the lady.

“Why not?”

“She shall do better, and that is the reason why I want her better
educated.”

“She may do worse. What are we, my dear, that we need look among the
nabobs for a husband for our daughter?”

“Are you not a merchant?”

“Only a small shopkeeper.”

“Well, that’s a merchant; and I mean Julia shall marry a merchant.”

Mr. Mason yielded the point, and agreed that Julia should marry
whomsoever she and her mother might choose.

“But she must be educated for her future station.”

“True, she must.”

“She must go to a boarding school, and learn French, music, painting
and German.”

“And Chinese,” interposed Mr. Mason.

“She must learn all the fashionable things.”

“I believe English grammar, writing, and arithmetic are not in fashion.”

“Pooh! she knows all about these things.”

“I asked her to tell me how many bushels of potatoes a wagon seven feet
long by four wide and three high would contain, and she could not make
the first figure towards it.”

“I suppose there was no such question in her book.”

“Perhaps not; and she could not tell me where Sevastopol was--whether
it was in China or the Sandwich Islands.”

“How foolish you are! I think likely she never happened to see the
place on the map.”

“And that letter she wrote to her uncle was such horrible grammar that
I was ashamed to send it.”

“No matter for that; she understands grammar very well.”

“May be she does; but she has an awkward way of showing it. I suppose
washing, cooking, and baking are not fashionable either.”

“There it is again.”

“I think you would do better by her if you took her into the kitchen,
and taught her these things. If she happens to marry a poor man, they
will be of some service to her.”

“Time enough for these things.”

“Well, well, do as you please; but I am opposed to boarding schools; I
think they do more harm than good.”

“That’s just like you! Opposed to boarding schools! Who ever heard of
such a thing?”

“They spoil more young ladies than they ever benefit.”

“How in the world can it spoil them?”

“Home is the place for girls. The first thing they should be taught to
love is the fireside; they ought never to be weaned from it by sending
them away to undergo monastic discipline in a boarding school.”

“How foolish!”

“It gives them bad habits--makes them romantic--fills their silly heads
with moonshine; and if you send Julia, ten to one she will run away
with some bearded puppy.”

But it was no kind of use for Mr. Mason to argue with his wife on such
a topic as this; she was bent on sending Julia to the boarding school.
He was a man of peace, and, rather than make a tempest, he withdrew
from the combat.


_CHAPTER II._

Julia Mason did not possess a very brilliant intellect. Nature had
never intended her for a “blue stocking,” and, live as long as she
might, there was no probability that she would ever become even a
“strong minded woman.” She had for many years attended one of the
public schools, but had never risen above the second class, and the
master did not believe she ever would.

Yet, for all this, Julia was a good-hearted, generous, whole souled
girl. What Nature had neglected to place in her head, she had
beneficently put in her heart. She had a nice, womanly, domestic
temperament, was quiet and unobtrusive in her manners, and, without
doubt, if no pains had been taken to spoil her, would have made
somebody a very loving, if not a very brilliant wife.

She was a little disposed to be romantic and sentimental--would have
fed well and thriven on moonshine--a temperament which requires a great
deal of prudent management on the part of the parent or guardian.

Julia went to the boarding school; but she had not been there three
weeks before she wrote to her mother, begging her to take her away, or
she declared she should certainly die.

The poor girl was homesick. Monastic discipline was an outrage upon her
affectionate, domestic nature. She had been accustomed to spend her
evenings by the fireside at home, with her parents and younger brother
and sisters; and it was a sad deprivation to her to be driven, at the
stroke of a bell, into her chamber at seven o’clock, there to sit in
painful silence with her roommate, and study her lesson. She was not a
genius, and she hated study; it was uncongenial in the highest degree.

At nine o’clock, at the stroke of the bell, she must retire, and in
fifteen minutes her light must be put out, or a black mark was made
against her name on the following day; and so it was all day long, week
in and week out. Her existence was odiously mechanical. Her life was
regulated by that everlasting stroke of the bell. She was obliged to
do every thing by rule--eat, drink, sleep, study, play, walk, by rule.

It was unnatural, and her soul cried out within her against such
monstrous formality. She could not learn, her heart grieved so under
the repulsive mechanism of her existence. Even the music lesson,
which she had anticipated with the liveliest pleasure, was gloomy and
distasteful. She was conscientious, and, though her companions laughed
at her for it, she at first paid the most implicit obedience to the
rules of the institution. Her roommate devised various happy expedients
for relieving the tedium of their lives; but she refused to avail
herself of them.

Her mother begged her to persevere for a time, assuring her that she
was only homesick--a disease which a few weeks would effectually cure.
She did persevere; but her “chum” finally succeeded in overcoming her
conscientious scruples, and the evenings, instead of being passed in
study, were devoted to a “good time generally.” It is true, Julia
got innumerable black marks for failures in her recitations; but the
horrible bugbears soon became so familiar that they ceased to have
any terrors. Before the first term had expired, she had so completely
weaned herself from her domestic memories that home had lost all its
charms.

She had learned a great many “new tricks.” Indeed, the preceptor, in
his report to her parents at the close of her first term, felt it his
duty to say that her conduct had not been altogether satisfactory. She
had gone to the boarding school the quietest person in the world; she
returned a romp, her head full of strange notions about lovers, and her
heart as washy as the moonshine in her head.

On the first evening after her return home she insisted on going to the
opera; the second to a concert; the third to the theatre; the fourth to
a lecture; the fifth to a party; the sixth to a conference meeting; and
so on every evening.

“What in the world has got into you, Julia? You did not use to be fond
of ‘kiting’ round in this manner,” said the astonished Mrs. Mason.

“O mother, it is so insufferably dull at home! Besides, it is not
fashionable to stay at home in the evening,” drawled Julia.

“What _has_ got into you?”

“Boarding schools,” said Mr. Mason.

“I should die of _ennui_ to stay at home an evening,” continued the
daughter, with a languishing sigh.

“You had better give her a lesson on the pots and kettles now,”
interrupted Mr. Mason.

“O papa, how cruel you are! Pray go to the opera with me.”

Mr. Mason was an indulgent papa, and he was obliged to go; but he
could not help wondering what Julia would finally come to, if she was
permitted to go on in this manner.


_CHAPTER III._

Julia returned to the boarding school, and in spite of the weak efforts
of her father to avert the fashionable fate that awaited her, she
continued there for nearly two years. In music and painting she made
rapid progress; but in literature and science she failed to make even a
decent proficiency.

She was an altered creature. She was vain, affected, romantic, and
transcendental, cherishing all sorts of visionary notions about life,
and especially about lovers and husbands, who filled a long space in
her daily meditations. She had lost her domestic nature, and that was
the saddest loss of all. Her heart was not actually corrupted; but it
was so buried up in the weeds of vanity and folly, that its gentle
influence was almost entirely lost upon her life and character. If not
unsexed, she had lost that hold upon woman’s sphere which confers her
chief charm in society. She was a creature for the ball room and the
opera, and not for the quiet shades of home.

Perhaps a boarding school does not always make such sad havoc in the
mind and heart of the young female; but such is the tendency of its
artificial manner of existence. Monastic discipline spoils woman; it
removes her from, and unfits her for, her social, domestic position.

When the two years had nearly expired, Mr. Mason one day received a
letter from the principal of the seminary, containing the astounding
intelligence that Julia had eloped with a young gentleman who had come
from the city on a visit in the neighborhood.

“The grand _finale_ of the drama,” said Mr. Mason, throwing the letter
to his wife.

“Good Heaven! who is this Mr. Winchel?” exclaimed Mrs. Mason, when she
had read the letter.

“A son of Winchel, the merchant in ---- Street.”

“Rich?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God it is no worse!” replied Mrs. Mason, so far relieved that a
pleasant smile played upon her lips.

A few days after, Julia and her husband presented themselves at the
home of her father. They were received with open arms. Mrs. Mason was
too much pleased with the match to make a fuss about it, and Mr. Mason
followed his wife’s “lead.”

A few weeks after, they were comfortably settled in a pleasant house;
for Mr. Winchel, who had some very clearly defined aspirations for
the quiet joys of a fireside of his own, insisted upon going to
housekeeping instead of boarding.

This kind of life was novel to Julia, and for the first six months,
while her husband consented to take her every evening to the opera, a
ball, party, or concert, she was tolerably contented.

But Mr. Winchel got sick of such an incessant round of amusement, and
sighed for that paradise of home which his imagination had years ago
painted. He reasoned with his giddy wife; but she hated home, and
reproached him for attempting to imprison her in the house, and thus
make her life miserable.

Mr. Winchel was firm, and positively refused to go to any more operas,
balls, parties, or concerts.

Julia was forced to accede to his reasonable desires; but home, even in
the presence of her husband, had become an intolerable place. Indeed,
the romance of a husband had worn itself away. He had fallen in love
with her in the most natural way in the world, and had proposed to wait
upon her father, and arrange the preliminaries for their marriage; but
Julia was not content to be united to him in such a tame manner as
that, and insisted upon an elopement. Her lover gratified her--to his
sorrow, he now discovered.

Julia was unhappy. Her husband, disgusted at her folly, returned to the
club he had abandoned when he married her, leaving her to comfort or
amuse herself as best she might. And she found comfort and amusement
in the society of a gay and dashing Lothario, who consoled her for her
husband’s absence by making love to her. It was not long before the
world was again astonished by the publication of an elopement--not a
harmless, sentimental affair, but a criminal elopement.

Julia was too romantic to consider the moral turpitude of the act. The
pious preaching and praying of the boarding school, had been lost upon
her in the variety of more congenial topics that were there presented
to her. The elopement was romance; she thought not of the crime.

Mr. Mason and his wife were in the deepest distress. Mr. Winchel called
at her father’s store, and stated the particulars of their domestic
experience. It was plain to both that the distaste for home was
traceable to the loss of the domestic element of the misguided wife.

Julia and her seducer--we wrong him--both were guilty--were heard from
in New Orleans; but the villain soon became tired of her whims, and
left her, and she died a few years later, a ruined, abandoned, off-cast
creature, the victim of a false education.

Mr. Mason’s remaining daughters were not sent to the boarding school.
They received the best education to be had in the city, and there are
noted institutions of learning there. They were thus kept constantly
under the watchful care of their parents, and the domestic element in
their natures was not unsettled by absence from home, while the plastic
mind was being moulded into its shape for life.




“BANG UP!”

OR,

THE RESULTS OF ADVERTISING.


_CHAPTER I._

“Any thing over, Ben?”

“Not a dollar; I just paid the Journal’s bill for advertising, which
has pretty much cleaned me out.”

“How much?”

“Forty-two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

“Ben, I don’t like to tell you that you are the biggest fool on the
street; but you are.”

“Wait, Joe, and see,” returned the other, with a confident smile.

“Forty-two dollars for advertising!”

“Just so, and for three months’ advertising.”

The applicant for “any thing over” gave a peculiar whistle to define
the length, breadth, and depth of his astonishment.

This conversation occurred in the store of Benjamin Weston, a young
and enterprising merchant, who had just commenced business on his own
account. The other person, who to use his own classic expression, was
“bang up,” and wanted to borrow fifty dollars to make up the amount of
a note due that day, was Joseph Weston, a cousin of the other. They had
been playmates in youth and stanch friends in maturity. Though there
was a great diversity of opinion on many topics, a strong sympathy
existed between them.

They had commenced business at about the same time, and under nearly
the same circumstances, both being obliged for the want of sufficient
capital to mortgage the stock in their respective stores.

Thus far they had done well, and the prospect was that both would
become wealthy and distinguished merchants.

They had married sisters, and occupied tenements in the same block.
Their houses were furnished in substantially the same style, and with
no material difference of expenditure. Both had been brought up to
business habits, and educated into the principles of a rigid economy.

“Forty-two dollars for advertising,” repeated Joe.

“And if I had the money to spare, I would spend double that sum,”
replied Benjamin.

“What benefit do you expect to realize from it?”

“You are behind the times, Joe. Benefit! What a question! I expect to
make my fortune by it.”

“Humbug!”

“Look at Brandeth and Swaim.”

“Both humbugs.”

“No matter for that; if these fellows have been able to make princely
fortunes by advertising humbugs, how much more so will he who deals in
substantial realities!”

“All gammon!”

“We differ; time will tell who is in the right.”

“Seriously, Ben, you will ruin yourself if you go on in this manner.
Forty-two dollars a quarter for advertising!”

“I shall spend a hundred the next quarter.”

“Don’t do it, Ben.”

“How does it happen, Joe, that you are in the street borrowing money? I
never did such a thing since I commenced business.”

“How does it happen, Ben, that you haven’t got any money to lend?”
asked Joe, with a smile.

“Because I spent it in advertising.”

“Better have spent it for opera and 2:40’s.”

“Wait, Joe, wait.”

“I spent nothing for advertising; but I will bet you the oysters my
sales for the last quarter are as large as yours.”

“I will take you up on the next quarter.”

“Why not the last.”

“Advertising is somewhat like planting potatoes; you must wait for the
crops.”

“Don’t believe in it, Ben. When I have a fifty spot that I don’t know
what to do with, I shall put it into my family. Buy a library, a new
sofa, or something of that sort. I should rather go to the White
Mountains with it, than throw it away upon newspapers.”

“You don’t know your own interest, Joe.”

“Don’t I? Some kinds of business might thrive on advertising; but
ours, never. Do you believe the women look in the newspapers before
they go shopping?”

“Well, there was a lady in here just now, who said she saw such and
such goods advertised by me.”

“Pshaw! and on the strength of that you intend to spend fifty dollars
more in advertising! Ben, you are crazy;” and Joseph Weston turned his
heel and left the store, assured in his own mind that his friend was
going to ruin.

In his estimation such loose principles would eventually bring him to
bankruptcy. But Ben was his friend, and he deeply commiserated him
because he clung to such weak and pernicious doctrines.


_CHAPTER II._

Business prospered with the young men. By prudent and careful
management, each had not only made a living, but had been able to pay
a small portion of the mortgage on the stock, at the end of the first
year.

Joseph had the advantage of his friend in possessing a better location,
and though his rent was somewhat higher, the difference was more than
compensated by the increased facilities it afforded him. The prospect
was decidedly bright to him. If his business increased as it had done,
he would be enabled to clear himself of debt in another year.

Under this encouraging aspect he ventured to expend a hundred
dollars in additions to his furniture, which his wife insisted was
absolutely necessary for their comfort and happiness. The house had
been furnished altogether too plain for this progressive age in her
estimation. She was behind some of her friends who, she was sure, were
doing no better than her husband.

Joseph was a little obstinate at first; but then there was something
so decidedly comfortable in a set of stuffed chairs and a lounge, that
he did not hold out in his opposition. He was doing well, and the
expenditure would not seriously embarrass him.

With a nice new Brussels carpet and the new furniture, Mrs. Weston’s
little parlor looked exceedingly pleasant and comfortable. Besides, it
looked as though her husband was prospering in his business.

It was so very nice that the young wife could not bear the idea of
having the parlor shut up, so that no one should see it till the
furniture had grown rusty; consequently she made up her mind that they
must have a party.

Their friends had parties; why shouldn’t they? It looked stingy not to
have one. Mrs. Weston was an eloquent debater, and she gained the day
in this matter. It is true the party was not a very extravagant affair;
but it cost Joe some fifty dollars. In the meantime Benjamin had paid
quite as much for advertising as his friend had for new furniture and
the party. Joseph laughed at him, and finally came to believe that he
was insane, and would certainly come to ruin in another year.

Mrs. Ben Weston, too, felt decidedly unpleasant about the improvements
which had been going on in her sister’s house.

“Why can’t we have a rosewood table and a set of stuffed chairs,
Benjamin?” asked she, pouting her pretty lips into a very unamiable
position.

“Simply, my dear, because I cannot afford it,” replied the
philosophical merchant.

“How can Joe afford it?”

“I presume he knows his business best.”

“He has put over a hundred dollars into his house.”

Ben whistled “T’other side of Jordan,” and made no reply.

“Do, Ben, buy some new chairs.”

“Can’t afford it.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t.”

“_You_ can afford it as well as Joe.”

“Perhaps I can.”

“Do buy some.”

“I should be very glad to gratify you, but I cannot take the money from
my business. A year hence, if business prospers with me, you shall have
them.”

“A year hence,” pouted the wife.

“I must spend a hundred dollars in advertising the next quarter.”

“How foolish!”

“Very foolish, my dear; but it must be done.”

“That’s the way you throw your money away. You don’t catch Joe to do
such a trick as that.”

“True; but though he has the advantage of having a corner store, I paid
three hundred dollars more on my mortgage note than he did.”

“Then you can afford the table and chairs.”

“Nay, my dear, I will not spend a dollar for superfluities while I am
in debt.”

Mrs. Ben Weston felt very bad about it, but her husband was firm, and
she was forced to content herself with the plain furniture.

Mrs. Joe Weston enjoyed her nice parlor till the novelty wore away,
and then she discovered that there were a great many other articles
wanted to make things look uniform. The two windows must have drapery
curtains, a pier glass was needed, and some pictures were wanted to
relieve the walls. Her husband, who had once exceeded the limits of his
means, found no great difficulty in doing so again, and the things were
bought.

But Joe had some scruples about it. His notes began to be troublesome,
and every day he was in the street borrowing money. His business, too,
had not met his expectations. Instead of increasing in the ratio of his
first year’s experience, it hardly held its own, and the poor fellow
began to have some serious misgivings about the future.

Before the year had half expired, he was obliged to introduce a rigid
system of retrenchment into his family and business affairs, in order
to keep his expenses within his means.


_CHAPTER III._

Another year had passed away in the business experience of the young
merchants. The books had been balanced, and the results stood in black
and white before them.

Ben had followed up his system of advertising through the year. He
had expended large sums, but had made the outlay with judgment and
discretion.

The result exceeded his most sanguine expectations. His store was
crowded with customers; with genuine, _bona fide_ customers, and
with but a small proportion of gadders and fancy shoppers. The
newspapers had borne to the best families in the city and country full
descriptions of his stock. His name was as familiar as “household
words” in the dwellings of the rich and poor, of the farmer, the
mechanic, and the laborer.

Truly, the harvest was abundant, and Ben rubbed his hands with delight
as he cast his eyes over the figures which conveyed to him the pleasing
results of his year’s operations. He had the means, not only of
clearing himself of debt, but also of gratifying his wife by giving her
all the new furniture she required, besides a handsome surplus with
which to increase his business.

The new furniture was bought and set up; every debt was discharged, and
the importers and jobbers were eager to give him unlimited credit.

One day, while he was ruminating upon this pleasant state of things,
Joe Weston entered the store. For some months past, the intercourse
between the young merchants had not been as cordial as formerly.
Joe’s nice things had rather “set him up;” some of the upper ten had
condescended to visit him; and he had attended the “Almack” parties
with his wife.

He was getting ahead fast in his own estimation, and cherished a
supreme contempt for the slow motion of his friend. But when, in the
middle of the year, he found himself running down hill, and discovered
that Ben’s store was crowded with shoppers, while his own was empty, a
feeling of envy took possession of him. Ben must be underselling, he
concluded, and sooner or latter the consequences would appear.

The prosperous merchant could not but notice the sad and dejected mien
of his friend, as he entered the store.

“How are you, Joe? You are almost a stranger, lately. Where do you keep
yourself?” said Ben.

“Business, Ben; business!” replied Joe, demurely.

“Good! Business before pleasure.”

“Any thing over to-day?” asked Joe; but the query was not put in that
buoyant, elastic tone, which had distinguished him in former times.

“A trifle; how much do you want?” returned Ben, promptly.

“To tell the truth, I am ‘bang up.’ I have got a note of four hundred
to pay, and I have not yet raised the first dollar towards it.”

“You are late; it is half past one now,” replied Ben, consulting his
watch.

“Ben, I am in a tight place,” said Joe, in a low, solemn tone.

“Indeed! I am sorry to hear it,” and Ben’s face wore an expression of
sincere sympathy. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“I am afraid so.”

“What can I do for you?” and the young merchant took down his check
book, and examined the state of his bank account.

“I can give you a check for three hundred, if that will do you any
good,” continued he, taking up the pen to fill out the blank.

“Thank you, Ben; you are very kind; but I don’t know as I ought to take
it.”

“Not take it! Why not?”

“If I should pay this note, there is hardly a possibility that I could
get through the month.”

“So bad as that? ’Pon my soul, I am sorry to hear it.”

“Smith and Jones advise me to make an assignment.”

“How does it happen? I thought you were doing well?”

“Business has been very dull for the last six months. Haven’t you found
it so?”

“Well, no; it has been driving with me.”

Joe knew it had; indeed, his present visit was not to borrow money, but
to prepare his friend for the “smash,” which was now unavoidable.

“My sales have been light,” continued he; “I can’t account for it.”

“I can; look here, Joe.”

Ben took down his ledger, and pointed to the account “Charges,” where
the sums paid for advertising had been entered. On a slip of paper he
had footed them up.

“Five hundred and sixty-five dollars for advertising, Joe! That’s what
did the business.”

Joe was astonished. It was quite as much as he had paid for fine things
for his house, and for parties, and the opera; but the investment had
been vastly more profitable, inasmuch as, taken in connection with his
careful management of his business and his economical manner of living
it had laid the foundation of his future fortune. It had given him a
good start in business, and a good beginning is half the battle.

Joe Weston failed, and paid only twenty cents on a dollar. His fine
furniture was all sold, and he was obliged to board out. But in his
extremity Ben was his true friend. He received him into his house, and
when his business was settled up, took him into partnership.

The firm is now one of the most respectable and prosperous in the city.
Joe, ever since he was “bang up,” believes in advertising, and any one
who opens the Journal, or, indeed, any of the daily papers, cannot fail
to notice the conspicuous advertisement of “Weston & Co.”




THE NEW CLOAK;

OR,

“MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.”


_CHAPTER I._

“There! I declare, if Mrs. Burton hasn’t got a new cloak!” exclaimed
Mrs. Waxwell to her intimate friend, Miss Viney, as they came out of
church one Sunday.

“I see she has,” replied Miss Viney, very quietly.

“I know her husband can’t afford it; she will be the ruin of him yet.”

“I suppose they know their own business best. At any rate, it is a
blessing that you and I are not accountable for her misdeeds,” said
Miss Viney, who, though what is technically termed an “old maid,”
was not of that class who have been slanderously styled gossips and
busybodies; and we have purposely introduced her to refute the foul
calumny that “old maids” are all meddlers, and we are sure that all
spinsters will be grateful to us for the service.

“I don’t know about that,” returned Mrs. Waxwell, with a dubious shake
of the head. “Mr. Burton owes my husband three hundred dollars, and I
don’t believe he will ever get his pay if things go on in this way.
That cloak couldn’t have cost less than thirty dollars.”

“I presume they could afford it, or they would not have bought it. At
any rate, they ought to know best.”

“Mrs. Burton is a vain, conceited, proud woman, and pride will have a
fall one of these days.”

“I hope not.”

“I hope she will have a fall; she would drop some of those airs then.”

“I never thought she was what might be termed a vain woman.”

“She is; she is an impudent minx, and the sooner she is brought down to
a level with her circumstances, the better for her and the world.”

“She has the reputation of being a very kind-hearted person and an
excellent neighbor.”

“I don’t care if she has; she likes to ‘lord’ it through the village,
and for one I won’t be ruled by her.”

“Really, I do not understand you; she is as amiable and humble as any
one need be.”

“Amiable and humble indeed! What did she buy that new cloak for except
to excite the envy of half the town, and make them think she is
somebody?”

“I hope there is no one so silly as to envy her;” and Miss Viney cast a
significant glance full into the face of her companion.

“I don’t, for one; but I should like to teach her that she is no better
than the rest of the world.”

“She don’t profess to be; she visits the neighborhood; and I’m sure
there is no better person in sickness than she is.”

“All that may be.”

“When you had the erysipelas, you remember she watched with you when no
one else would.”

“I know it; but is one to be tyrannized over forever because she
watched a few nights with me?”

“How strange you talk!”

“Do I? Didn’t she buy that cloak on purpose to cut a figure through the
town, and make every body feel cheap?”

“No, I am sure she did not; she had no such motive,” replied Miss
Viney, smartly.

“I don’t believe it, there!”

“She is not such a woman as that.”

“Yes, she is, just such a woman as that.”

“I have seen no one but you who feels bad about it.”

“But me! Lor’ sake! I wouldn’t have you think _I_ feel bad about it.
She can wear what she’s a mind to for all me; only I hope she can
afford it--that’s all.”

“I think she can; she has the reputation of being a pretty careful
woman.”

“I don’t care; but I feel it my duty to warn my husband to look out
about his debt. When folks get to be so awful extravagant, there’s no
knowing what may happen.”

“Mr. Burton is doing a very good business, people say.”

“Nobody knows any thing about what he is doing. All I know is, that
when Squire Smith sold him two cords of wood last week, and carried
in the bill, he couldn’t pay it. He actually put the squire off till
next week. That looks as though they could afford thirty dollar cloaks,
don’t it?”

With these sage reflections, Mrs. Waxwell turned down the lane that
led to her home, leaving Miss Viney to pursue her way and ponder the
extravagance of “some folks.”


_CHAPTER II._

Mrs. Waxwell loved fine clothes quite as much as any other woman of
the nineteenth century, and this is saying a great deal; but then her
husband was parsimonious, and she was parsimonious; and, though she
loved “nice things” very much, she loved money more, which, we take it,
amounts to nothing more nor less than meanness.

Mr. Waxwell was a farmer, and well off in the world. The advent of the
railroad into his native town had turned things topsy-turvy in general,
and “put the devil into the women” in particular, to use Mr. Waxwell’s
classic language. Time was when they were content to wear a straw
bonnet and a calico gown to meeting; but now they had to rig out in
silks and satins, with flounces and furbelows, and all sorts of rigging
hitched to ’em, for all the world just like a clown in the circus. Such
were Mr. Waxwell’s views of the social influence of the railroad.

Society began to be a little “select;” folks put on airs, and were so
“stuck up” that you couldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole.

Farmer Waxwell did not much like this state of things; it cost money
on the one hand, and he did not like to be thrown into the shade on
the other. He was about the richest man in the place; but ten dollar
bonnets and thirty dollar cloaks were abominations that he could not
tolerate. Mrs. Waxwell didn’t like to be outdone in the matter of
dress, and when she bought a new merino cloak the previous season, she
had not a doubt but it would be unsurpassed for two seasons at least.
When Mrs. Burton came out with the thirty dollar velvet, she found the
wind was taken entirely out of her sail, and she was as indignant as
the case demanded.

In the rise and progress of the village since the advent of the
railroad, two new stores had gone into operation, one of which was
conducted by Mr. Burton, an enterprising young man from the metropolis,
who had brought a city wife and a great many city notions into the
place with him.

As with a great many who go from the city to the country, he was
exceedingly annoyed by that disinterested, charitable attention to
other people’s business which so extensively prevails in many rural
districts. He kept his affairs to himself, and this bothered and
perplexed the gossips. His wife had a way of attending to her own
concerns; she had been brought up where people do not even know their
next door neighbors. If she wanted a new dress or a new bonnet, she
never deemed it necessary to consult the neighbors in regard to her
ability to afford it, or about the style and material.

But, in spite of these peculiarities, she was a popular person in the
village. She was amiable and kind to all, a friend and a comforter to
the sick, and quite a useful person in the society of the place. She
understood matters and things, had a larger experience of the world
than those who had seen nothing of it; and the consequence was, that
when a party was to be given, a picnic projected, or a ball got up,
she was consulted, and her advice followed. She understood all these
things, and was happy to explain the “fashion” in regard to them to all
who asked her counsel.

Poor Mrs. Waxwell! Her star began to decline when Mrs. Burton came
to the village. She was no longer the leader of the _ton_, and her
heart was bursting with envy. Though she had often received the kind
offices of the storekeeper’s wife, both in sickness and in health, she
would willingly have crushed her. That new cloak was the capsheaf of
the indignities which she fancied had been heaped upon her, and she
determined that her unconscious rival should suffer the consequences of
her temerity.

Her first demonstration was upon her husband, whom she found no
difficulty in convincing that Mr. Burton must be ruined by the
extravagance of his wife, and that, unless he immediately collected his
debt, he would certainly lose it.

As soon as she had done her washing on Monday, she “made some calls,”
and embraced the opportunity of commenting freely upon that new cloak.
The women told their husbands that Mr. Burton would certainly fail; and
before three days had elapsed there was quite a ferment in the place.

Nobody knew any thing about Mr. Burton’s affairs; he seemed to be
doing a good business, though no one knew of his having any money.
He did not even own the house in which he lived; he had no property,
apparently, but his stock. The careful old farmers, to whom in the
course of trade he had become indebted for produce which he sent to
Boston, began to be alarmed by these rumors.

It was in the State of New Hampshire; and at the time of which I write,
the “grab law” was in force, and is still, for aught I know.

One morning, as Mr. Burton returned from a journey to a neighboring
town, he found his stock attached on the claim of Farmer Waxwell, and
all on account of that new cloak which his wife had worn to meeting on
the preceding Sunday.

He had not the means to pay the note at that moment, and while he was
considering a plan to extricate himself from the dilemma, the news
that his goods had been attached spread all over the place. All the
creditors were in hot haste to follow the track of Farmer Waxwell; for
it was “first come, first served,” and in less than two hours a dozen
had fastened upon the stock of his store.

This was a tremendous result to follow in the train of a thirty dollar
cloak and a gossiping old woman.


_CHAPTER III._

“What do you think now, Miss Viney?” asked Mrs. Waxwell, as they met,
soon after the storekeeper’s disaster had been made public.

“I hope Mr. Burton will be able to pay his debts.”

“But he won’t--I know he won’t.”

“Probably, if they had given him any notice of their intention to
demand the payment of their claims, he would have been prepared to meet
them.”

“I guess Mrs. Burton will not feel quite so stuck up after this.”

“I hope _you_ have done nothing to bring about this sad result.”

“But I have; I made my husband sue his note, and when he put on, the
others did. Thirty dollar cloak indeed!”

“I am sorry you have done this; you may ruin Mr. Burton by it.”

“That’s just what I mean to do!” and Mrs. Waxwell’s malignant
expression betrayed the jealousy she had so long harbored.

“You did? It was very unkind and ungrateful in you to do so,” replied
Miss Viney, indignantly.

“Humph!”

“Any trader would be likely to come out badly to have all his creditors
pounce upon him without giving him a chance to collect his debts.”

“I don’t believe he has any to collect.”

“Even your husband, as well off as he is, might be embarrassed
if suddenly called upon to pay his debts;” and Miss Viney looked
significantly at her angry companion.

“I doubt it.”

“He may have a trial,” said the maiden lady, as she moved towards the
store.

“What can she mean by that?” thought Mrs. Waxwell.

Miss Viney had some property of her own, and it was all in the hands of
Farmer Waxwell, who had, on his own account, invested the greater part
of it in railroad stock.

This is what she meant. She would claim the three thousand dollars
her husband owed her, and a cold chill passed through her veins as
the thought struck her. Farmer Waxwell was rich in houses, lands, and
stocks, all of which yielded him a good income; but he had not three
thousand dollars in money, and it might cost him some trouble to raise
it.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Don’t cry, my dear; I have enough due me in Boston to pay these debts
ten times over,” said Mr. Burton to his wife, who was much alarmed by
the storm which threatened them.

“What will people think?”

“What will they think when I pay them all? The whole amount is not
above nine hundred dollars.”

Just then Miss Viney entered the house. In a few words, she explained
the circumstances which had led to the sudden “strike” among the
creditors.

Mrs. Burton, kind soul, shed a flood of tears when she heard how cruel
Mrs. Waxwell had been--she whom she had nursed with all the tenderness
of a mother, when her frightened neighbors fled from the contagious
disease.

“Never mind it, my dear. We may expect any thing from a meddler, a
gossip, a slanderer,” said Mr. Burton. “I must start for Boston in the
noon train.”

“Allow me, Mr. Burton, to offer you the money to discharge these
liabilities. I have three thousand dollars in the hands of Mr. Waxwell.”

“You are very kind, and I accept your offer,” replied Mr. Burton, “and
next week I shall have the means of repaying you. I assure you I am
worth at least five thousand dollars.”

In proof of his assertion, he showed her various notes, mortgages, and
certificates of stock.

“I presume, if the people here knew that I was not a bankrupt, they
would not have molested me. In spite of all my amiable neighbor, Mrs.
Waxwell, may say, I think I am abundantly able to give my wife a thirty
dollar cloak.”

“I never doubted it,” replied Miss Viney, as she hastened to the
village lawyer to put her note in course of collection.

Farmer Waxwell was at dinner when the lawyer, who was a personal
friend, called upon him.

“Sorry to trouble you, but I am instructed to collect this note,” said
he.

“The devil!” exclaimed Farmer Waxwell.

“The ugly hussy!” added Mrs. Waxwell, as she perceived that Miss
Viney’s prophetic words had been burdened with a meaning.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” said the lawyer; “but if I understand it
rightly, you have publicly boasted that you brought about all this
difficulty.”

“I?”

“Yes, madam: that new cloak did the business. You set your husband on,
and all the rest followed him; so Miss Viney tells me.”

“My gracious!”

“And now she wants the money to assist Mr. Burton out of the difficulty
into which you have plunged him.”

“That’s plain speech, squire,” said the farmer.

“But true.”

“I can’t raise the money.”

“Then I must sue.”

“Can’t we compromise?”

“Burton is worth at least five thousand dollars, and when he gets a
remittance from Boston, will pay all.”

“I will dissolve my attachment, and be bound for the payment of the
others. Will that do it?”

“Yes, if Miss Viney will consent.”

Miss Viney did consent,--she was a kind-hearted lady--and the matter
was compromised.

“Now, wife,” said Farmer Waxwell, on the following week, as he put the
three hundred dollars in his pocket which Burton had paid, minus thirty
which he held in his hand, “here’s thirty dollars, and I think you’d
better go and buy one of them ’ere cloaks. Your foolish envy like to
have got me into the cu’sedest scrape I ever got into in my life.”

She would not take it; she was too mean to dress well herself, and
too envious to permit others who were able to do so in peace. But she
gathered from the events of our story a healthy experience of the
wisdom of that excellent maxim.--“MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.”




“EVERY THING COMFORTABLE.”


_CHAPTER I._

“You have every thing comfortable, Maria,” said Mrs. Belladonna
Buttercup, to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Sparrow, at whose house she was
making a visit; “every thing _comfortable_.”

The speaker placed a very significant emphasis upon the last word,
which, in connection with her peculiar tone of voice, and the half
apparent sneer on her lips, was equivalent to saying, “You have all
that is absolutely necessary to make your house habitable; you have
beds, and chairs, and tables, but your furniture is of the most
ordinary description--plain, cheap, and old-fashioned. It would not
suit me.”

Mrs. Belladonna Buttercup was a New York lady; that is to say, she had
formerly been a shop girl in Boston, and, having considerable talent
at diplomacy, had captivated the senses of a dry goods clerk on four
hundred dollars salary, become Mrs. Buttercup, and moved to New York.
She was an ambitious person, and though she had been brought up in a
ten footer in an obscure street, she earnestly desired to become what
is technically called a “lady.” Fashion was her god. To dress well, to
live in a fine house, furnished _a la mode_, and to move in fashionable
society constituted her highest ideal of human happiness.

Mr. Buttercup entertained similar views. It is true, he was only a
poor clerk when he married,--he had married to redeem his wife from
the drudgery of her occupation,--and when he went to New York he had
a hard struggle to support her, even in a five dollar boarding house.
At the end of a year, circumstances so favored him that he was enabled
to go into business on his own account. In a small shop, which his
former employer stocked for him, taking a mortgage with interest at the
rate of twenty per cent. per annum, he rushed boldly into the stream,
assured it would bear him to opulence and an influential position in
society.

Fortune favored him, and the first year showed a gain of a thousand
dollars. The young man was elated, and having lived within his means,
he had a considerable surplus on his hands. Taking a larger store
and employing two additional clerks, he commenced his second year.
He was the biggest man on Broadway; talked magnificently about his
business operations, and innocently magnified his last year’s profits
to five thousand dollars. Things looked so promising with him that the
importers and jobbers gave him all the credit he desired. Mr. Buttercup
was perfectly satisfied that he was on the high road to fortune. As
Richelieu says in the play, there was no such word as “fail” in his
vocabulary.

Of course, a five dollar boarding house could no longer be tolerated,
and to Mrs. Buttercup’s inexpressible satisfaction, her husband engaged
a room in a fashionable establishment “up town.” It was only one
room, and Mr. B. had contracted to pay twenty dollars a week for it,
washing and “sundries” extra. The ambitious lady went a shopping a
few days after, and contrived to get rid of a hundred dollars, which
the complacent shopkeeper in an impulsive moment had placed in her
hands. Milliners and dressmakers were in demand for a time, and Mrs.
Buttercup’s present ambition was fully satisfied. It is true, she could
see in the distance an establishment of her own, with imported carpets
and mirrors, with a train of liveried servants, a carriage with the
Buttercup arms blazoned on its panels; and a faint whisper from the
admiring crowd, “There goes the elegant Mrs. Buttercup!” reached her
ears. The future was full of glorious visions, full of royal splendors,
full of every thing that the heart of vanity could conceive. But for
the present, she was satisfied.

Things went on swimmingly at the new store, and when Mrs. Buttercup
proposed a tour to the east, her husband readily assented. Our lady
of magnificent aspirations had considerable difficulty in deciding
whether she should propose Saratoga or home for the summer excursion.
On the one hand, Saratoga was fashionable, and she would have abundant
opportunity to make the acquaintance of the exclusives. But on the
other hand, if she went home, she could create a tremendous sensation
among her own and her husband’s friends and relatives. She could carry
the New York fashions among them; could astonish them with a display of
her elegant silk, made by Madam Hippolyta Hyfalutin, from Paris, and
her splendid new bonnet from the celebrated rooms of Madam Hesperiana
Blomereaux, also from Paris. These things would scarcely be noticed by
the fashionable of Saratoga--the absence of them alone would make a
noise there.

And then her husband’s glorious prospects in the dry goods line, as
well as the immense business he at present transacted--it would be so
delightful to hear Tim tell them all about it! How his old father’s
eyes would stick out when he heard his son talk about a hundred
thousand dollars so beautifully and so indifferently; how he would
open his mouth with wonder, when Tim should tell him that the firm of
Funk, Hunk, and Co.--the most extensive dry goods establishment in New
York--had offered him three thousand dollars salary to superintend
their retail department, and how indignantly he had rejected the offer.
Tim had such a graceful way of telling these things; indeed, she knew
that he could make the most out of a very small matter.

They could create a sensation at home, and the prospect of being the
“bright particular star” of a circle of admiring and wondering friends,
enabled her to decide between Saratoga and the east. The preparations
were completed, and in due time they reached the “village of Boston,”
as Tim facetiously termed it.

Father and mother were duly astonished when the magnificent Mr.
Buttercup spread himself. The old gentleman’s eyes stuck out, and his
mouth was all agape with wonder. He “couldn’t exactly see how Broadway,
if ’twan’t more’n a hund’ed foot wide, could hold all the carriages Tim
telled on stoppin’ afore his door.”

In the course of events, Tim and his accomplished lady called on his
sister, Mrs. Sparrow, whose husband was the secretary of an insurance
company. Mr. Sparrow lived in his own house--a small, but neat and
convenient structure. It was plainly furnished; but reasonable people
said they were prettily situated, while those who knew them best were
sure they were contented and happy.

Mrs. Belladonna Buttercup looked over the house, and turned up her nose
at it. Tim’s mother was with them, and the simple-minded old lady was
so indiscrete as to ask her magnificent daughter-in-law how she would
like just such an establishment. She should not like it; it would not
suit her. When she went to housekeeping, not less than six thousand
dollars would furnish her house. At present, she preferred boarding.

“Then you don’t like my house, Belladonna?” asked Mrs. Swallow, with
the slightest appearance of disappointment on her smiling face.

“Well, I can’t say that I do, Maria,” replied Mrs. Buttercup, languidly.

“It is as good as any body need have,” added Mrs. Buttercup, Senior.
“If I ever see Tim as comfortably settled as Charles is, I shall be
perfectly satisfied.”

“Dear me! Tim wouldn’t look at such an establishment.”

“He may be glad to yet.”

“I am sure I always liked my house very much indeed,” said Mrs. Swallow.

“You have everything comfortable, Maria; every thing _comfortable_.”

“It is as good as my husband can afford; and housekeeping is so much
preferable to boarding.”

“Do you think so? I would not go to housekeeping for all the world.”

Mrs. Swallow shook her head.

“But then it depends, of course, upon whether you get a good boarding
house,” continued Mrs. Buttercup. “We are delightfully situated. Some
of the first families in the city board there. Besides, there is so
much society in New York, I really don’t think I could find time to
keep house. Why, there is the Hon. Mr. Flunkey--he is a member of
Congress, you know--invited us to go out to his country seat on the
Hudson and spend the summer. Mrs. Flunkey pressed and insisted, and
would not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Did you go?” asked Mrs. Buttercup, Senior.

“Why, no; we couldn’t go. Tim’s business drove him so, that the poor
fellow couldn’t sleep nights. And there are the Smallheads--they live
next door to N. P. Willis, out to Lazywild----”

“Idlewild,” suggested Mrs. Swallow.

“So it was; well, they would have us come and spend a month with them.
They are very fine folks. General Smallhead was an aide-de-camp with
General Washington at Braddock’s defeat, you remember.”

“Indeed! then he must be a very old man,” added Mrs. Swallow.

“About fifty.”

“Why, Braddock’s defeat occurred a hundred years ago!”

“O, no; you are mistaken,” replied Mrs. Buttercup, blushing a little.
“But no matter; he insisted on a visit. What could I do with a house?”

“Very true,” answered Mrs. Swallow, politely.

“And then Tim has a season ticket at the opera. He paid two hundred
dollars for a choice of seats last season.”

“Did he?” said the mother-in-law, with a frown.

“And it is so pleasant when you are away so much, to be rid of the
responsibility of keeping house.”

Mrs. Swallow did not think so. But Mrs. Buttercup had others in view
whom it was her purpose to astonish, and she took her leave soon after.


_CHAPTER II._

For the first time in her housekeeping experience, Mrs. Sparrow felt
a little discontented, after her sister-in-law had gone. Her pleasant
little house looked smaller than ever before; its plain, substantial
furniture looked coarse and common. Why couldn’t her husband have some
of the fine things that other people had? Why couldn’t she have a
carved rosewood table, antique chairs, a tapestry carpet, and velvet
draperies at the windows? Her husband owned the house in which they
lived, and had over a thousand dollars in the bank. Mrs. Walbend, in
the next house, had all these fine things, and her husband got but a
thousand dollars a year, while Mr. Swallow got fifteen hundred.

“Charles,” said she, when her husband came home to tea that evening, “I
have been thinking of something.”

“Have you, indeed! That is rather remarkable,” replied Mr. Swallow,
with a smile.

“You don’t want to know what, I suppose.”

“I do! I am ‘dying with curiosity,’ as the ladies say.”

“Well, then, I will tell you; but don’t be cross about it.”

Mr. Swallow promised not to be cross about it.

“I have been thinking about having some new furniture.”

The husband stuffed a tea roll into his mouth. Evidently the subject
was not a very inviting one to him.

“I want you to entirely refurnish the house.”

Mr. Swallow upset his tea.

“You can afford it, can’t you?”

“I think not, my dear.”

“Yes, you can, Charles.”

“What has got into you, Maria?” asked her husband, very seriously.

“You promised not to be cross.”

“I won’t be; but I am very much surprised. I thought you were perfectly
satisfied with your house and furniture.”

“We have everything comfortable, but----” Mrs. Swallow paused.

“What more do you want?”

“Our furniture is not in fashion.”

“The d--euce it isn’t!”

“No; and I want some antique chairs, a carved centre table, a tapestry
carpet, and velvet draperies, for the windows----”

“What else?”

“And a mirror seven feet high to go between the windows.”

“Call it twelve, my dear.”

“If you could only hear Belladonna tell of the houses in New York. Why,
she says the Hon. Mrs. Chopstick has a mirror in her parlor which is
twenty feet high by fifteen wide.”

“Did she tell you how big the doors of that house were?”

“And the carpet which General Smallhead bought last winter cost
nineteen dollars and a half a yard.”

“And a half?”

“Yes; they asked twenty, but the General bought so much that they took
off half a dollar.”

“Our rooms are so small that we should have to pay twenty, then,” added
Mr. Swallow, with a laugh.

“Other folks live so fine, why can’t we?”

“Other folks have money.”

“So have you.”

“A little; but I mean to keep it in preference to buying this trumpery
with it.”

“Since Belladonna has been here, I feel quite discontented.”

“Belladonna is a silly creature, and I thank my stars that my wife is
not like her,” replied Mr. Swallow, chucking the pretty little pouting
wife under the chin.

“But she knows what the fashions are.”

“And that is all she does know.”

“She says we have ‘everything comfortable.’”

“Which is very true.”

“But we are not in style.”

“Pshaw!”

“Won’t you buy some more stylish furniture, Charles?”

“No, my dear; I cannot afford it.”

“If you could only hear Belladonna talk!”

“Probably she makes things appear full as bright as they are.”

“Tim is doing a great business; making thousands and thousands of
dollars.”

“I _hope_ he is.”

“Why, Charles! he has taken a great store in Broadway, and keeps, I
don’t know how many clerks he said--fifty or a hundred.”

Mr. Swallow’s cough troubled him.

“Maria, you used to be very contented and happy. Don’t let this silly
idea get possession of you. Our house is furnished very well. If I had
twenty thousand dollars, I would not furnish it any better--that is,
not to please myself. If Tim can afford to live in better shape than I
do, let him; it will not disturb me. Don’t think any thing more about
it.”

“I won’t, Charles; but I felt so cheap when Belladonna talked so
familiarly of all those fine things, and of her acquaintances among the
_élite_; I felt as though I was nobody.”

“Wait, my dear, wait a while. Time will show what all these great
pretensions amount to. I hope Tim will do well; but with such loose
ideas of economy as he appears to have, and, more than all with such a
silly, extravagant wife, there is much to fear.”

Mrs. Swallow was satisfied. The words of her more experienced
husband banished the feelings of chagrin and discontentment she had
permitted herself to harbor. A careful reconsideration of Belladonna’s
extravagant stories convinced her that some of them, if not made out of
“whole cloth,” were greatly exaggerated, and she came to the conclusion
that her sister-in-law was no more of a lady in reality than she was
herself.


_CHAPTER III._

About six months after the events we have detailed, as Mr. and Mrs.
Swallow were sitting down to breakfast, they were surprised by the
abrupt appearance of Tim and his wife.

“This is unexpected,” said Mr. Swallow.

“Rather sudden,” replied Tim, more seriously than he was wont to speak.

“I am glad to see you. Breakfast is all ready.”

“We have left New York for good,” interposed Belladonna, after she
had kissed and hugged her sister-in-law twenty times--an exhibition of
affection which she had not before manifested since she became Mrs.
Buttercup.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Charles and Maria together.

“Fact!” said Tim, with a melancholy laugh.

“And I am so glad to get away from there! I always hated New York!”
added Belladonna.

“Why, I thought you liked New York. Pray how are your friends the
Smallheads, the Flunkeys, and the Chopsticks?”

“I hate them all!”

“Going into business in Boston, Tim?” asked Mr. Swallow.

“Is it possible you have not heard of it?” said Tim, looking his
brother-in-law hard in the face.

“Heard of what?”

“My misfortunes.”

“What?”

“Bu’st up.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“Sad, but true;” and Tim essayed a stroke of humor. “Yes, _sir!_ bu’st
up; not a sixpence left--poor as a church mouse--borrowed the money to
come on with.”

“Tim makes the best of it, you see,” added Belladonna, with a laugh.
“For my part, I was almost glad he failed, I was so rejoiced to get
away from New York. But, Maria, how have you been since I saw you?”

“Very well indeed.”

“And how is little Charley? the dear little fellow!” continued Mr.
Buttercup, tenderly kissing the little boy, who sat in the high chair
at the table, and who had contrived to daub his mouth pretty thoroughly
with the molasses on his buckwheat cakes.

“How long since this affair happened?” asked Mr. Swallow, when the
party had seated themselves at the table.

“Three weeks,” replied Tim. “Took every thing I had--tried to get a
situation--couldn’t find one.”

“But where were Funks, Hunks, and Co.? Didn’t they want you?” asked
Maria.

Tim looked at her--looked queer.

“No; they have a man now,” replied he.

“What are you going to do?” inquired Mr. Swallow.

“I happened to meet White in New York, and told him how I
was situated--offered me five hundred a year to come on as
salesman--accepted his offer.”

Maria looked at Belladonna, and thought of furnishing a house at an
expense of six thousand dollars.

After breakfast, when Tim and Charles had gone out, Mrs. Buttercup
introduced another topic.

“How pleasant it would be if we could board with you!” said she
abruptly.

Mrs. Swallow did not think it would be so pleasant; but of course she
could not say so, and, being too honest to belie her own heart, she
remarked that they did not live in very good style.

“Good enough for any body, Maria.”

“But if your friends, the Smallheads or the Flunkeys, should happen to
visit you----”

“O, there is no fear of that; if they did, I should not care.”

“But we live so plainly compared with your fashionable boarding houses.”

“You live well enough; and your house is so nice and convenient.--O, I
should be so happy!”

“We have every thing comfortable,” added Maria, slyly.

Mrs. Belladonna Buttercup stopped to think. That remark sounded
familiar to her ears.

“Very comfortable, and nice, and pretty! I wish Tim had just such a
house!”

“You have altered your mind.”

“And just such furniture--I should be so happy!”

At dinner time the matter was still further discussed. Though Mr.
Swallow liked Tim very well, he did not like his wife; but in
consideration of their unfortunate condition, he consented to receive
them as boarders.

Mrs. Buttercup never says a word now about an establishment, and Tim
has a more serious and respectful way of speaking of a hundred thousand
dollars. The Smallheads are never mentioned, and Tim thinks he missed
it when he moved into a larger store. Belladonna declares she never
heard of such a thing as a mirror twenty feet long by fifteen high, and
is quite sure the Smallhead carpet did not cost above three dollars a
yard.

Mrs. Swallow is satisfied that fine furniture does not make a happy
wife. She regards the New York experience of her brother and his wife
as an excellent commentary on the vanity of magnificent pretensions.
And though her husband has been elected cashier of the Bay State Bank,
with a salary of twenty-five hundred dollars per annum, she is still
content with having “EVERY THING COMFORTABLE.”




FAMILY JARS.

A LESSON FOR WIVES.


_CHAPTER I._

“He’s real ugly, there! He treats his wife shamefully!” exclaimed Mrs.
Benson, a pretty little woman, who had been a wife just eleven months
and twelve days.

“Perhaps not, my dear,” replied the young husband, quietly crossing his
legs over the top of the fire frame, and puffing out a long wreath of
smoke from his mouth as he removed the fragrant regalia.

“Perhaps not! Why, haven’t I seen it myself?”

“You are not acquainted with all the circumstances.”

“Pshaw! A man that can treat his wife so rudely is a perfect brute; I
don’t care what the circumstances are.”

“Brown always was a good-hearted fellow, and if he is changed at all,
matrimony has done it.”

“Thank you, Charles; you are very complimentary. I wonder if matrimony
has changed you.”

“Why, Julia, we have not been married quite a year yet,” replied the
husband, smiling.

“Indeed!”

“Brown has been married five years,” replied Mr. Benson, with admirable
self-possession.

“Then you think _I_ have not shown out what I am yet?”

“Bah! My dear, you are making quite a personal matter of it. We were
speaking of Brown.”

“Brown is a brute--a hog!” said the lady, in a pet.

“What has Brown done?”

“Done? Why, good gracious! He is enough to wear out a woman’s patience.”

“I dare say, my dear; but what has he done?”

“Every thing. He is wearing his poor, patient wife out; she will
die--poor, weak, sensitive thing--under such treatment.”

“No doubt of it; but you do not tell me what he has done.”

“I don’t mean to say that he beats her.”

“No.”

“Nor starves her.”

“Does he scold at her?”

“No; if he would only scold, it would be a relief to her.”

“Poor Mrs. Brown!”

“He is so cold and distant; I am sure he married her for her money.”

“Quite likely; but how is it with Mrs. Brown? Is _she_ an angel?”

“I don’t know as she is an angel; but she bears her sorrows _like_ an
angel. The poor thing had been crying, I know, when I called there this
afternoon.”

“Did she tell you what the matter was?”

“Yes; you know we were children together, and never had any secrets,”
replied the young wife, with a troubled expression; for she had some
doubts as to the propriety of what she had done.

“Don’t meddle with a quarrel between man and wife, Julia,” said Mr.
Benson, shaking his head.

“I could not bear to see her suffering; so I asked her what the matter
was.”

“I am sorry you did.”

“I could not help it, Charles; I pitied her so, and I was pretty well
satisfied as to the cause of her grief.”

“And her husband illtreats her?”

“He does not love her. She says he has been two or three days without
speaking to her.”

“That is bad; but who is to blame?”

“Who is to blame? Why, _he_, of course;” and the pretty little
Mrs. Benson looked up in astonishment from the little cap she was
embroidering.

“Why ‘_of course_’?”

“He don’t consult her tastes in regard to his dress. If she asks him to
bring her home any thing from down town, ten chances to one he forgets
it. He don’t seem to care for her feelings. The poor thing says she has
cried for an hour in his presence, and he has sat like a log, perfectly
unmoved--so different from _you_, Charles.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Brown is not in every respect like _you_, my dear.”

The young wife looked up with a smile of gratified pride. She was yet
young and beautiful, and, what was far better than youth and beauty,
she was good tempered, kind, and reasonable. Mrs. Brown’s case excited
all her sympathies, and she proceeded to detail to her husband a list
of the poor lady’s trials. But, as the reader will be better able to
appreciate them by being present during the scene described, we will
introduce the injured lady and her unfeeling husband.


_CHAPTER II._

Mrs. Brown sat by the fire in the parlor, turning over the pages of the
last new novel. Occasionally she sighed, as though the world had used
her badly, and she had not the means of paying off the world for its
ill treatment.

Mr. Brown kept a dry goods store, and, being a prudent, industrious
man, he substituted his own services for those of an extra clerk, which
kept him busily occupied from an early hour in the morning till late in
the evening.

He had been married five years, and, for some reason unknown beyond
the pale of his own home, his matrimonial experience, without being
decidedly stormy, was very far from being pleasant and profitable to
either party. Brown was a good-hearted fellow, and always looked on the
bright side of things. If the world would only move along smoothly, he
was perfectly satisfied, and never felt disposed to quarrel with any
body.

Mrs. Brown’s disposition was not particularly objectionable; she was
kind-hearted, clever, and amiable, as the world goes; but somehow
nothing ever went right with her. It seemed as though every body took a
malicious pride in tormenting her--Brown in particular. If Brown bought
sausages for dinner, she was sure to want mutton, and if mutton, she
was sure to want sausages.

Brown could not understand it. Whatever he did was sure to be exactly
wrong. But Brown was a philosopher; and, though he sometimes got so
disgusted that he held his tongue for several days, he maintained a
very tolerable degree of good nature.

Brown treated himself to a new overcoat. Being reasonably independent
in such matters, he had assumed the responsibility of purchasing the
garment without consulting his wife.

Imprudent Brown, thus to expend the sum of eighteen dollars without
consulting Mrs. B! Reckless Brown, thus to buy that brown coat, when
all the experience of the past pointed to the appalling consequences!
Did you not remember the last time you purchased a pair of pants, that
neither the hue nor the texture suited your amiable partner? Did you
not call to mind the last curtain lecture on this very topic, when you
audaciously ordered the tailor to make you a coat off that piece? Knew
you not that Mrs. B. likes not black, drab, green, brown, olive, blue,
nor any thing of the fancy order?

But Brown recklessly ordered the coat, and when it was done, he
recklessly put it on. What made the offence a hundred fold more
horrible, he coolly marched, with the coat on, into the parlor where
Mrs. B. sat by the fire, turning over the pages of the last new novel.

The lady was thunderstruck; but she was not one of your spitfires, who
make a tremendous tempest in your presence when anything does not suit
them. She was meek, patient, suffering, under any indignity, even one
so pointed and wicked as in the present case.

The lady looked up from her book, and bestowed a languid smile upon the
partner of her joys, and, alas! of her sorrows too.

Brown smiled in return; he could not do less than smile. He even looked
innocent, as though he had done nothing wrong--as though he had not
aimed a blow at the peace of his amiable lady.

“What have you got on, Jonas?” asked she, mildly.

“An overcoat,” replied Brown, sententiously.

“A new one?” sighed the lady.

“Just from the tailor’s shop,” answered Brown, screwing up his courage
to meet the onslaught.

“You know I don’t like brown, Jonas.”

“_I_ do,” replied Brown, valorously.

“You know I _never_ like brown.”

Brown had half a mind to construe the remark into a pun; but he was
forbearing, thought no evil, and so kept silence.

“It’s a sack too; you know I _never_ liked a sack.”

“I always did.”

“A surtout would become you much better.”

“I like a sack.”

“It is a horrid-looking coat,” sighed Mrs. Brown.

“Muddle says it is the best looking coat I ever had on.”

“Muddle! Of course _he_ would say so.”

“Temple said so too.”

“Temple has no taste.”

“I agree with Temple.”

“You never _will_ wear a coat that suits me.”

Brown thought this was strictly true, but, being a prudent man, he held
his peace.

“You still persist in letting Muddle make your clothes, though he
charges you more than any one else would.”

“His prices are reasonable.”

“I wish you would let some other tailor make your coat; Muddle’s
clothes _never_ set well.”

“Fit me to a T.”

“If it had only been black!”

“But, my dear, you forget that my last coat was black, and you did not
like that.”

“It suits your figure better than brown.”

Just at that moment the door bell rang, and the servant brought in a
pair of pants.

“What is that?” asked the lady.

“Pants.”

Mrs. B eagerly opened the bundle. The garment was black.

“Black pants!” exclaimed the lady, holding them up before her; “you
_know_ I don’t like black pants.”

“Indeed, my dear, you just now said you did like black.”

“Not black _pants_; you know I never _did_ like them; besides, they
won’t wear well.”

“But, Mrs. B., I do not wish _you_ to wear them.”

The lady thought this was exceedingly cruel of Mr. Brown; for she, poor
woman, had no more idea of “wearing the breeches” than she had of going
to Congress.

“They suit me, my dear. _I_ never interfere with your taste in regard
to bonnets and dresses.”

“I wish you would tell me what you like best; I am sure I desire to
conform to your taste.”

“Don’t wish to. I cannot tell what is good taste in furbelows and
flounces, any more than a woman can in coats and pants.”

“But you might be a little more attentive to my wishes. You used to
_once_.”

This was a hard hit, and Mr. Brown was silent.

“You don’t seem to care whether I am suited or not, now.”

Brown still was silent; the story had been repeated so often that he
knew precisely what to expect.

Mrs. Brown continued to rehearse her grievances, believing herself the
most miserable woman in the world. Finally, the tears gathered in her
eyes, and she sobbed bitterly. Brown was a monster; he never tried to
please her, even in the slightest things; and the thought that her
husband’s affections were alienated was perfectly overwhelming.

Brown had picked up the last new novel, which had fallen from Mrs.
B.’s lap, and sat turning over the leaves with the most stoical
indifference. How could Brown sit and see his beloved wife, the partner
of his joys and sorrows, weeping as though her heart would break, and
not offer her a word of consolation? Brown was a philosopher.


_CHAPTER III._

It was after such a scene as we have described that Mrs. Benson called
upon the friend of her early years, and found her in tears. She
believed that poor Mrs. Brown was cruelly treated by her hard-hearted
husband.

Several months elapsed, and the difficulty between Brown and his wife
increased. The lady was an habitual grumbler; she grumbled for the
sake of grumbling, because it seemed to be a “fixed fact” with her
that grumbling was one of the essentials of her existence--one of the
luxuries of life.

Though Brown _was_ a philosopher, there is a point beyond which even
philosophy cannot go to defend its votaries. The lady’s unamiable
peculiarity grew upon her, and Brown’s disgust threatened to produce
a fatal rupture. Several times after the lady had given him a lesson
on the duty of consulting a wife’s taste,--after she had cried her
eyes out with vexation because she could not grumble any more,--her
unfeeling spouse had deserted the house, remaining out till midnight.
Some flying rumors were in circulation, too, that he had been seen
“lingering long at the bowl,” and even that he frequented gambling
houses.

Then people felt sorry for poor Brown, an honest, hardworking,
economical man as he was; it was a great pity that he should go to
destruction.

Mrs. Benson felt keenly for her friend. Brown was a monster; and the
injured lady told her she should certainly die if a drunken husband
were added to her other miseries. She even wished Mrs. Benson to
request her husband to talk to Brown about his vicious propensities.

Mr. Benson had done so. Brown was a little “stuck up” at first, but
quietly informed the obliging remonstrant that since home had become a
hell to him, he had been obliged to seek comfort in a grog shop, and
concluded his cold-blooded remark by suggesting that people had better
mind their own business.

Benson thought so too, and fully resolved not to meddle with the matter
again. But, although Brown had resisted his well-meaning neighbor’s
interference, it was not without its effect, and the injured lady had
the satisfaction of informing her sympathizing friend that he did much
better, that his breath did not smell half so strong of rum, and that
he was at home every evening by nine o’clock.

Mrs. Benson was encouraged, and a few days after accepted an invitation
to tea at the Browns’.

That day, the reckless, obstinate husband had worn home to dinner a new
plaid vest--a pattern in fashion at that time.

The lady did not like plaid--she _never_ liked plaid; and poor Brown
went to the store leaving his wife in tears at his perverse taste. She
had exhausted all her rhetoric in grumbling at the offending garment,
and her hard-hearted husband had maintained his usual indifference to
sighs and tears. Brown was disgusted; and, though we heartily approve
of husbands pleasing their wives in these matters, some how we cannot
find it in our heart to blame him. She always grumbled at him, and,
poor fellow, what could he do?

Mrs. Benson did not arrive in season to hear the lady’s story about
the vest before Brown himself came. He was in high glee, apparently,
notwithstanding the recent tempest. The visitor thought him a “very
nice man,” and she sighed when she thought of his vicious propensities.

Brown was polite, very polite, and the pretty little Mrs. Benson felt
no reserve in his presence.

“What a pretty vest you have got on, Mr. Brown!” said she, smiling
sweetly upon the horrible husband.

“Do you think so?” exclaimed Brown, rubbing his hands with excitement.

“Certainly, I do; it’s a perfect love of a vest. I shall persuade
Charles to have one just like it.”

“How strange you talk, Julia!” said Mrs. Brown.

“Strange! why?”

“To call _that_ vest pretty.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“It’s a perfect fright. My husband has no taste in his dress.”

“Why, now, I think he dresses with admirable taste,” replied Mrs.
Benson, surveying the apparel of Brown, who stood like a show image in
the middle of the room. “I admire his taste.”

“It is not _my_ taste,” sighed Mrs. Brown.

The pretty little sympathizing woman was seized with a doubt whether
Brown was such a monster, after all.

Just then Bridget popped her head in at the door to say that the baker
had not sent the tea cakes.

“The tea cakes, Jonas,” said Mrs. Brown.

“There! by all that is sweet and pleasant to the taste, I forgot all
about them,” exclaimed Brown, seizing his hat.

“Just the way always,” groaned the suffering wife. “You never will do
the little errands I ask you to.”

“Why, my dear, I _intended_ to do the errand, but I forgot it,” pleaded
Brown, with abundant good humor.

“You always forget what _I_ want you to do.”

“But, my love, I did not forget it on purpose.”

“It’s always the way;” and Mrs. Brown threw herself into a chair with
an exhibition of despondency which would have answered very well for
the concentrated miseries of a whole lifetime.

“There’s no harm done; it is only half past five, and I will have the
tea cakes here in ten minutes.”

“You might just as well have brought them before.”

Brown looked cross, threw down his hat in a pet, and settled himself
upon the sofa.

Mrs. Benson was silent with astonishment. Brown rose fifty degrees in
her estimation.

“Are you not going to get the tea cakes, Jonas?” asked Mrs. Brown,
meekly, after the lapse of a few minutes.

Brown was silent.

“You will not get back in season if you don’t go soon.”

Brown picked up the evening paper but said nothing.

“I must go myself then,” said the suffering lady, rising from her chair.

Brown knew this was only a part of his wife’s tactics; but the pretty
little Mrs. Benson, for whose good opinion he entertained some anxiety,
was present, and he concluded to go himself.

When he had gone, Mrs. Brown fixed a melancholy gaze upon her visitor.

“Now you have seen just how he behaves,” said she, with a deep sigh.

“I have,” replied Mrs. Benson, who for the first time perceived that
poor Brown was not the greatest sinner in the world.

“And so he wears my life out.”

“Perhaps your husband is not wholly to blame,” suggested Mrs. Benson.

“Why, Julia!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown, with languid emphasis. “I am sure I
bear and suffer every thing. I had nearly cried my eyes out once before
to-day.”

“Mr. Brown seems disposed to be very good natured.”

“Good natured, Julia! Didn’t you see how angry he got? He went out
without speaking a word.”

“But you do not reflect how cruelly you provoked him by needlessly
finding fault with him. If I should say half as much to my husband as
you said to Mr. Brown, he would turn me out of the house,” answered
Mrs. Benson, who, as she found herself implicated in the quarrel, was
disposed to be very candid.

“I was not conscious of doing any thing to provoke him.”

“You found fault with his vest.”

“But such a horrid looking vest!”

“There you and he differ; you say he never complains of your dress.”

“No.”

“He respects your tastes, then. You know how bad you feel when any
person says any thing disparaging of your clothes; everybody does.”

“But he always dresses so shamefully out of taste.”

“Other people do not think so; but even if he did, you should not find
fault with him.”

“I don’t find fault,” sighed Mrs. Brown; “I only mention what I like
best.”

“And the tea cakes,--you ought not to have said a word.”

“Why, he is so careless----”

“All men are of things about the house; but you must consider that
their minds are full of business. My husband is just so; but then
he has so many things to think of, I wonder that he does not forget
_every_ little commission I give him.”

“But your husband is different from mine. He _tries_ to remember.”

“Ah, Mary, I see now what has caused the rupture between you and Mr.
Brown.”

“Then you think _I_ am altogether to blame?”

“Perhaps not entirely; but I am satisfied, from what I know of your
husband, that, if you cease to find fault with him, he will be all that
a husband should be.”

Mrs. Brown bit her lip, and was silent. The truth had forced itself
home to her understanding. She was, as we have before remarked,
an amiable, good-hearted body; but the fact that she had actually
_grumbled_ away the peace of her once happy fireside had never before
occurred to her. Her eyes were opened, and she saw that even so little
a thing as habitual fault finding can alienate the affections of man
and wife, and transform home--the temple of love and peace--into a
hell. Her resolution was formed, and fortified by all the strength of
her nature.

Brown returned with the tea cakes. He was cold, sullen, and
reserved; but a smile from his wife--albeit a boon seldom vouchsafed
him--restored him to his former equanimity.

“Jonas, did you think to order some more coal to-day? Bridget says
there is not enough to get breakfast with,” observed Mrs. Brown, as she
handed her husband his second cup of tea.

Brown confessed that he had forgotten it, and braced up his nerves to
meet the storm.

“Never mind, Jonas; we will contrive to get along with wood.”

Brown dropped his knife and fork in wonder, and looked aghast at his
wife.

It was no illusion; his wife was as gentle in her thoughts as in her
actions. She found no fault; and, for the first time in many months,
Brown felt sorry that he had forgotten to execute her commission.

After tea, Mr. Benson came to spend the evening, and it was one of the
happiest evenings ever known beneath the roof of the Browns. Nobody
but the two ladies could tell why, but, some how, every thing went
different from the ordinary course of events in the family circle.
Brown was bewildered--didn’t know what to make of it, that his wife
found no fault.

And she never found fault to any immoderate degree again. Peace was
restored. Brown went no more to the drinking saloons, never staid out
late at night, and never let his wife cry without wiping away her tears.

He never knew what had produced the wonderful change in his wife’s
temperament, but he always laid it to the visit of the pretty little
woman who admired his plaid vest.

We never see a married man enter a drinking shop to spend an evening
without thinking that, perhaps he has been driven from his fireside by
a snarling, petulant, discontented, fault-finding wife.




LIFE INSURANCE;

OR,

THE POOR MAN’S LEGACY.


_CHAPTER I._

“Got his life insured! Then he will certainly die!” exclaimed Mrs.
Jones, the mother of a family of three children, to her intimate friend
Mrs. Brown, also rejoicing in the maternity of a promising brood of
little ones. “For my part, I would no more let my husband get his life
insured than I would let him cut his head off. He will certainly die.”

“That is the lot of all mortals, Mrs. Jones, and I presume my husband
does not consider himself exempt from the common lot,” replied Mrs.
Brown.

“You know what I mean; he will die before his time comes.”

“His time will have come when he dies.”

“How captious you are!”

“I do not understand you. The good book says that ‘no man knoweth the
day nor the hour.’”

“But I never knew any man to get his life insured without dying very
soon after.”

“Do you mean to say that getting a life insured is likely to hasten the
end of the assured?” asked Mrs. Brown, with a pleasant smile at the
superstition of her friend.

“Well, no, not exactly that; only it is a bad sign.”

“Pshaw! Do you think your husband’s barn is any more likely to be
burned down because he has taken the precaution to have it insured?”

“But that is not like getting one’s life insured; it really seems to me
just like trifling with serious things.”

“How absurd!”

“But it does. Only think of attempting to thwart the will of God.
Insuring a life!”

“You take the wrong view of it.”

“Our minister takes the same view of it,” returned Mrs. Jones, with
triumphant assurance.

“He does not understand the subject then.”

“Our minister don’t?”

“I am sure he does not.”

Mrs. Jones permitted a sneer to play upon her lips, as she paused in
her sewing, and gazed at her friend.

“You don’t mean to say that you know more than the Rev. Mr. Schism,
a regularly educated minister of the gospel, in good and regular
standing?” continued she, scarcely able to restrain her indignation
within a reasonable limit.

“I presume the Rev. Mr. Schism has confined his attention mostly to the
study of theology, and knows much more about that than he does about
the practical affairs of every-day life,” rejoined Mrs. Brown, somewhat
warmly.

“He says that it is trifling with death to get one’s life insured;
and I am sure, if my husband got his life insured, I should certainly
expect he would die the very next day after he did the sacrilegious
thing.”

“I think you told me the other day that Mr. Jones had put some money in
the Savings Bank.”

“Only twenty dollars--all he could spare.”

“What did he put it there for?”

“What for? Why, to keep, of course.”

“Why does he wish to keep it?”

“What a fool you pretend to be!”

“Pray answer me.”

“Against a rainy day.”

“Has he no definite purpose in laying up money?”

“To be sure he has. He means to have something for his family, in case
he should be taken away.”

“But isn’t this trifling with serious things? What does your minister
say about it?”

“How silly you are!”

“But you are providing against such a calamity as the death of your
husband.”

“It is not like life insurance.”

“Just like it, only less efficient.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Suppose your husband should die this year.”

“Don’t talk so.”

“Nay, Mrs. Jones, it is well to look these things in the face,
especially when you have used your influence to prevent your husband
from making a provision for you in the event of his death.”

“He is opposed to the whole thing himself.”

“Only think, if he should die this year, what would become of you and
your three children?”

“Well, I suppose we should get along just as a thousand others have
done under the same circumstances.”

“Think what a struggle you would have!”

“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” replied Mrs. Jones,
coldly. “But here is my husband; he can speak for himself.”


_CHAPTER II._

The two ladies, with whose conversation we have prefaced our simple
story, had been intimate friends for many years. About the same time
they had married men in humble circumstances, and taken houses near
each other.

Their husbands were journeymen mechanics, honest, industrious, and
frugal men, fair specimens of the bone and sinew of New England.
Their families had increased in about the same ratio, and though they
received good wages, they found it required the most rigid system of
domestic economy to enable them to keep along, and save a trifling sum
against a “rainy day.”

Brown was a thoughtful man, whose domestic and affectional nature was
fully developed. He loved his wife and children with a devotion worthy
a reasonable being. His happiest hours were spent by the cheerful
fireside of home. He was a conscientious parent, and his care for his
dependent loved ones reached beyond the day of their present prosperity.

In the future might be clouds and storms. The whirlwind of adversity
might burst upon him, and then what would become of his wife--of
Charley, and Joey, and Emma?

It was a question with which few would have troubled themselves; but it
was a question of momentous importance. It was not borrowing trouble;
it was prudent forethought. But Brown was strong in his bone and
muscle, and while he had an arm, and there was bread in the land, he
could procure it. All he could do was to save a scanty pittance from
his wages to meet the hour of trial, if it should ever come.

Death is no respecter of persons. It takes not only those who leave
houses, and lands, and money, and stocks behind them, but it snatches
the poor man away from his dependent family. It robs the toiling wife
and the helpless little ones of the protecting arm which had been
bread, raiment, and shelter to them.

Brown hoped to live many years, to bring up his family, and when, by
and by, business prospered with him, to be enabled to make a decent
provision for them when he should go hence.

Every man hopes thus much; many more than hope--they feel sure of it.

Brown was reasonable. A falling timber, a fever, a thousand calamities,
might carry him off before the year expired. And what would become
of his family then? What more could his wife do, with three helpless
children, than take care of them? He could leave them no legacy. He was
a poor man.

The reflection was startling. The fear of death took possession of
him--not the fear of passing through the dark valley, for Brown was
an honest man, and trembled not in view of judgment and retribution,
but the fear of leaving his wife and children to hunger for food, to
tremble with cold, to starve for intellectual sustenance. For several
weeks he was gloomy and sad, and more than once he questioned the
wisdom of his getting married before he had the means to support his
family in case of his decease.

While thus depressed in spirits, his eye was attracted by the
advertisement of a Life Insurance Company. His countenance brightened
up with a smile, as he read the notice. The remedy was before him, and
it seemed worse than folly not to embrace it.

Before another week had passed away, he had thoroughly investigated
the whole subject, and insured his life in the sum of three thousand
dollars.

Like a true apostle of a good cause, he was not content to enjoy
the blessing alone; and more than once he had called the attention
of his fellow-workmen to the subject. Many of them had followed his
example; many of them were obstinate, and among them Jones was the most
obstinate of all.

Brown was always pleased to discuss his favorite topic. Life insurance
had been a boon of happiness to him; it had dispelled the dark clouds
which lowered over the future; it had done more to calm his mind in
relation to that great change which must come to all, than the sermons
of a hundred years could have done; and he was eager to confer these
blessings upon others.

Mrs. Brown was quite as enthusiastic as her husband; and when Jones
entered the room where we left the ladies, a strong hope that she might
yet convert him to her faith pervaded her mind.

But Jones was more than usually obstinate.

“It’s all a humbug, Mrs. Brown, you may depend upon it,” said he.
“These fellows mean to get your money, and keep it. You never will
catch them paying the policies.”

Mrs. Brown pointed him to the recorded experience of the past.

“I put my money in the bank, and feel that it is safe.”

“How much can you save in a year?”

“Well, about a hundred dollars, as wages are now.”

“Which is just my husband’s estimate.”

“But he pays nearly as much as that to keep insured.”

“Very true. He is insured for three thousand dollars. If he should die
to-day--which God forbid!--his family would realize that sum.”

“_Perhaps_ they would.”

“But, by putting one hundred dollars a year into the bank, even if you
got six per cent., compound interest, your money would amount to only
about six hundred dollars in five years.”

“Call it twenty years--how then?”

“If you could be sure of living twenty years, perhaps the money would
amount to more than the policy. But only think of your family if you
should die within one, or even five years!”

“You are a shrewd one!” said Jones, evasively.

“In twenty years your children will be able to take care of themselves.”

“It’s all a humbug, you may depend upon it, Mrs. Brown; got up to
support lazy fellows in idleness--nothing more, I candidly believe,”
replied Jones; and there the conversation ended, much to the regret of
Mrs. Brown, that she had been unable to win a convert to the faith.


_CHAPTER III._

Some six months after, while Jones was engaged in raising a house, he
fell from the plate to the ground, striking upon a rock in his fall. He
was conveyed to his home, and a council of physicians pronounced it a
hopeless case. His spine was injured, and there was no possibility of
recovery.

He lingered along for a month in the most excruciating agony, and then
died. The expenses of his sickness and of the funeral absorbed all
his little savings; and when his disconsolate wife, followed by her
three fatherless children, returned from the grave of her husband, she
realized that she was not only alone in the world, but that she was
penniless--literally penniless.

It was a sad thought for the poor woman. Not even a short season of
mourning, which her widowed heart craved, could be allowed her. Her
children must not starve, and there was no bread in the house.

Her neighbors, suspecting her situation, were kind to her, and sent
in provisions in abundance; but instinctively she shrunk from the
mortifying alternative of accepting charity.

Poor woman! what could she do? How could she support her fatherless
children? She had no wealthy relatives--she was from the house of
poverty herself. But she could not live on charity.

The village in which she resided was a large place, and though she was
too proud to accept a gift, she was not too proud to solicit work. With
her eyes yet red with weeping over her husband’s bier, she called upon
several wealthy families to ask for their washing.

It was given her, and she began to feel a certain sense of independence
again, as she returned with her bundles of clothes to her desolate home.

All she could do was given her; and with a severe struggle, she was
able to support herself and children, and refused any overtures of aid
which were made her by her neighbors. Mrs. Brown attempted to assist
her friend, in a delicate way, but without success. Mrs. Jones toiled
on with all her strength and energy, preferring independence to every
other consideration.

But it soon became evident to her neighbors that her health was
suffering severely from this unremitting toil. Remonstrances were
in vain; and ere another six months had rolled away, Mrs. Brown was
watching over the dying bed of her friend. Little children, not old
enough to understand their lonely condition, were gathered around it to
receive the parting kiss of a dying mother.

Poor orphans! God will take care of you, though all the world be cold
and cruel! Ye shall not find another mother, but the Father of the
fatherless shall watch over and protect you.

She died, and they placed her by the side of her husband, over whose
grave the grass had not yet grown. The hard lot of poverty had hurried
her into that early grave. The want of a few of those dollars which
the gay and heartless thoughtlessly squander by the thousand, had
carried her down to that bourn where there is no sorrow, and the weary
are at rest.

The orphans were carried to the poorhouse. Life was a desert to them.
Home was no more. Love was in the cold grave.

Was Jones right, or was he wrong? Would not that boon of our
progressive age, life insurance, have averted some part of this long
list of calamities? Would it not have saved a mother’s life? Would it
not have redeemed those lonely orphans from the degradation and neglect
of the poorhouse?

It could not have saved Jones’s life, but it could have been a blessing
to his family--a blessing that would have reached down to distant
generations. It might have saved a home, and more, far more than all
beside, a devoted mother, to those fatherless little ones.

Brown, too, has gone to his rest. But his death entailed none of the
miseries upon his family, which were the lot of Jones’s. His widow is
a frugal and industrious woman; but labor is her helpmate--her husband
now: she is not the slave of toil. Brown left her the POOR MAN’S LEGACY.




LAST DAY OF GRACE;

OR,

MR. LAWTON’S MOTHER-IN-LAW.


_CHAPTER I._

“I can’t stand it any longer, Lottie; I won’t have her in the house!”
exclaimed Samuel Lawton to his wife.

“But what are you going to do about it, Samuel? You surely wouldn’t
have me turn my own mother into the street.”

“No, no--not exactly that; but can’t you give her a hint that she has
staid long enough?”

“I’m sure I can’t, Samuel,” replied the young wife, with a sad and
troubled look on her pretty face. “I don’t see why you should be so
prejudiced against her.”

“Don’t you, my dear? Do you think it is pleasant for me to have one
continually telling me I am extravagant, or something of that sort? She
told me just now that I could not afford to buy turkeys for our Sunday
dinner, when she saw me bring one home.”

“She meant right, Samuel.”

“But it is none of her business, Lottie.”

“She is older and more experienced in these matters than we are.”

“Fudge! Do you believe, Lottie, that I don’t know my own business
a great deal better than she or any one else can teach me?” and
the young husband put on a look of dignity which showed how deeply
conscious he was of his own ability.

“I hope you do, Samuel,” replied Lottie, who, as can easily be
supposed, was sorely perplexed by the difficulties of her unfortunate
position.

Poor thing! She was a gentle-hearted, kind, and tender woman, and loved
her mother as truly as becomes a married daughter. She was conscious
that her mother had her peculiarities--as who has not?--and it was
a source of continued regret to her that her husband could neither
understand nor bear with them.

They had been married about a year and a half. Samuel Lawton was a
merchant on a small scale. His employer had set him up in business
about a year before his marriage, and he had done well; that is, above
his expenses he had cleared some eight hundred or a thousand dollars,
which was considered a very fair income for a young man.

The young merchant was elated with his success, and, like very many
others in his situation, felt that he was an enterprising young man,
and a thorough financier. The road to wealth was before him, and
already he had formed a very clear idea of being at the head of a
large importing house, with clerks and lumpers by the dozen at his
command. His fancy also gilded the picture with a very costly mansion
on Pemberton Hill, with a carriage and two sleek horses, a footman, and
opera, concerts, and great parties to match.

Samuel Lawton formerly belonged to a “debating society,” in which the
question of “early marriages” had been thoroughly discussed. The
chairman had appointed him to sustain the affirmative; and either on
account of the skill and eloquence with which he argued the point, or
because the members were in favor of matrimony at the earliest possible
day, it was decided that early marriages _were_ eminently conducive to
the morality and happiness of mankind in general.

One of the strongest arguments which our hero could offer in support
of his cause was, that matrimony would save the young man from early
dissipation. He even went so far in his zeal as to declare that a young
man, even if he had not a penny in the world, had better be married
than wait till he had the means. I will not trouble the reader with the
facts and statistics by which he made it appear that it was cheaper to
support man and wife than to support man alone. But the best evidence
he could give of his devotion to his philosophy was to get married
himself; and accordingly, though he had not the means of furnishing his
house, and though he was still deeply in debt for his stock, he took
a wife in the person of the youngest and last remaining daughter of a
widow lady, possessing a little property in her own right.

Of course the young man had to run in debt for all the appurtenances
of housekeeping; but this was nothing; he was doing well. It made no
difference how much a man owed, provided he had the means to pay. He
was very sanguine of his future success. His profits would be at least
a thousand dollars a year; but, reckless follow, he had no more idea
how far a thousand dollars would go than a baby. It seemed to him a
very large sum, and he gauged his domestic expenditures on a pretty
high scale.

When he married Mrs. Harding’s last remaining daughter, the widow was
left alone. Lottie said it would be so nice to have her “dear mother”
with her, and accordingly Samuel had invited her to make his house her
home.

The good lady was in the main a very clever sort of person, who
probably talked quite as bad, possibly a little worse, than she meant.
She saw that her son-in-law was going too fast, and, in her own
way, she made such comments as she deemed it the duty of a faithful
mother-in-law to make.

Mr. Lawton did not relish what he deemed her interference. He was very
clear in his own way, and to have a woman dictate to him, and croak
about the possible result of his lavish expenditure, was intolerable;
and when his patience was thoroughly exhausted, he spoke to his wife
upon the subject, as we have written.

Truth has been compared to a two-edged sword, though it is generally
believed that one edge to the sinner is sufficiently uncomfortable.
Samuel Lawton had listened to his mother-in-law’s good advice, to her
suggestions on the economy of the household, for more than a year, and
Mrs. Lawton could not but wonder what it was that made her husband so
“touchy” about it just now. He had always turned off the point of her
rebuke with a jest; but now he looked sour, and actually wanted to get
her mother out of the house.

The fact was, the young merchant had just begun to find out that a
thousand dollars a year would not “keep house” like a nabob. Certain
notes were about to fall due, and little debts without number had been
contracted. The unpleasant truth began to dawn upon him that he was
going faster than his means would permit.

In view of the consequences, he could already hear Mrs. Harding’s
triumphant “I told you so.” He had resolved to reduce his expenses,
to give over roast turkeys for his Sunday dinner, and come down to
plain, old-fashioned pork and beans; but the idea of giving in that the
odious mother-in-law was in the right was not to be harbored. He had
postponed the contemplated retrenchment till those said certain notes
began to cast ominous shadows in his pathway. It must be done, and Mrs.
Harding’s presence became doubly troublesome.


_CHAPTER II._

The poor, despised mother-in-law was so unfortunate as to overhear some
portion of the conversation which so nearly concerned her; and the
consequence was, that in less than a week after, she left the house,
bag and baggage, for the home of another daughter, who had repeatedly
pressed her to come and live with her.

Mrs. Harding might have been provoked with her son-in-law, but she
prudently held her tongue, and made no mention of the reason for her
sudden departure.

Samuel felt quite a relief the very hour she left, and in the evening,
while they were seated in the little parlor, the baby sleeping in
the crib between them, he was so ungenerous and unkind as to express
himself to this effect.

“But, Samuel, you can’t think how lonesome I shall be; you are in town
all day,” said the poor wife.

“Well, perhaps you will be for a few days; but you will get used to it.”

Mrs. Lawton sighed.

“And then,” continued Mr. Lawton, “you have the baby to occupy the
time.”

Just then there came from the cradle a single rough, ringing
cough--that peculiar, metallic-sounding cough which is like the knell
of death to the ear of the loving mother.

“O mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Lawton, in tremulous tones, as she sprang to
the side of the cradle.

“What’s the matter Lottie?” asked Samuel.

“Didn’t you hear that cough?” and the poor mother’s frame trembled, and
her teeth chattered with alarm.

“I suppose Sammy has got a little cold.”

“It’s the croup, Samuel! Do run for the doctor as quick as you can.”

“To-night?”

“O Samuel, he may be dead before morning!” and the tears coursed freely
down the cheek of the anxious mother.

“Nay, Lottie, you are nervous.”

“I know it; but do go for the doctor.”

“I will go if there is any need of it; but, really, I do not see that
there is;” and Samuel bent over the cradle to discover what had so
alarmed his wife.

But the child still slept, and apparently breathed as freely as ever.

“Nay, Samuel, go; you know what the croup is.”

“Certainly, I will go if you wish;” and the young husband put on his
overcoat and left the house.

The residence of the young merchant was in D----, a town adjoining
Boston, and the physician’s house was full half a mile distant. He
could hardly restrain a smile at the idea of going for a doctor when
the baby had only coughed once.

Dr. F---- was fortunately at home, and the two proceeded on their
return together. The physician considered the case much more serious
than the inexperienced father had deemed it.

On their arrival, they found the child awake. The little patient was
breathing laboriously, and occasionally that brazen cough rang from his
throat.

“Croup!” said the doctor, the moment he entered the room.

“O, doctor, do you think he will die?” exclaimed the agonized mother.

“No, no, no!” replied Dr. F----, confidently.

The physician was a good-natured, good-hearted German, who was
thoroughly master of his profession. He had been eminently successful
in his practice, especially with children, and his words were like oil
upon the troubled waters to the anxious mother.

“I am so frightened, doctor!”

“There is nothing to fear; we have the case in season, and there is no
danger. Suppose you wait till to-morrow morning before you call me? I
shrug my shoulders, and tell you the child must die.”

“O Samuel!” exclaimed Lottie, looking at her husband.

Mr. Lawton was appalled by the significant words. His frame shook with
terror. The child was his idol. He knew nothing of the symptoms of the
insidious and terrible disease that menaced the life of his darling
little one; he was nervous and uneasy. Death seemed to cast a broad
shadow upon his home.

The doctor gave the child a little white powder, and placed some
bandages wet in cold water upon its throat and chest. The effect
was instantaneous; the child instantly breathed easier. Leaving the
necessary medicines, Dr. F---- took his leave, assuring the anxious
parents that the little one would be nearly well by morning.

But Mr. Lawton was uneasy, and Lottie was uneasy. An undefinable dread
had taken possession of their hearts. Samuel was troubled. The child
breathed with a sad, groaning sound, which shook every fibre in the
nervous system of the father and mother. He was conscious of their
inexperience; the child might relapse, and symptoms which they did not
understand might appear.

“How I wish mother was here, Samuel!” said poor Lottie, awed by the
fearful responsibility that rested upon her.

Mr. Lawton had wished so before, and thought if he once more had her in
the house, he would give the world to keep her there--mothers-in-law
are so exceedingly useful at times!

Samuel made no reply. Even in his terrible anxiety for the life of his
child, pride had not entirely deserted him.

Lottie shed a flood of tears. For the first time in her life, her
husband seemed cold and unfeeling, and it was cruel in him not to
second her wish in such an hour of trial.

“If he should grow worse, Samuel!” continued the poor wife. “O, I am so
fearful!”

“I will go for your mother if you wish,” replied Mr. Lawton, the
anguish of his wife getting the mastery of his feelings.

“She has got cold; I don’t know as she would dare to come out in the
night air.”

“I will try, at least.”

Mr. Lawton left the house. Mrs. Harding’s new home was not far off. He
succeeded in rousing her, and, in spite of her cold, she was ready in
five minutes to accompany him.

His heart smote him as he thought how hard he had been upon her--how
he had almost attempted to drive her from his roof; and in his soul he
thanked God that she did not know how mean he had been.

Her advice had been good. She had spoken to him for his interest, not
for her own; and if she had not spoken it exactly as he wished, why, it
was only because she was human, and had infirmities, like all the rest
of mankind.

In the moment of peril and trial, he felt what a blessing it was to
have a mother-in-law.

Mrs. Harding soon comforted Lottie. She understood the case, and
perceived that the danger was past. Her presence was like that of an
angel. It restored the drooping spirits of the devoted parents, and by
midnight, worn out with anxiety, they went to sleep by the side of the
child, whose slumbers, though troubled, were deep and sound.

The next morning, as Dr. F---- had predicted, Sammy was nearly well,
and Mr. Lawton went to his business as usual; but there was trouble
brewing around him. He spent nearly all the forenoon in vain attempts
to raise the money to meet one of his notes which came due that day. He
was unsuccessful, and, worn out and dispirited by his anxiety on the
previous night, he gave up in despair, and went home, resolved to let
the note be protested.

“You come home early, Samuel,” said his wife.

The young merchant made no reply, but threw himself, with a heavy sigh,
into a chair.

“Why, what’s the matter, Samuel?”

“I am ruined, Lottie!” replied he, gloomily. “I must fail. This is the
last day of grace, and I have left a note to be protested.”

Lottie was appalled by this intelligence. Mrs. Harding, who sat by the
fire, holding little Sammy, merely glanced at him. She did not use
those awful words, “I knew it would be so.”

“Mother, you were right; I have been too fast,” said Mr. Lawton, gazing
sheepishly at her. “I thought very hard of you for telling me I lived
better than I could afford; but you were right; I may as well own it.”

“I am sorry for you, Samuel. How much is the note?” said Mrs. Harding,
with a gentle look--a look so kind and forgiving that it wrung his soul.

“Eight hundred dollars,” replied Lawton.

“Will you take the baby a moment, Lottie?” continued Mrs. Harding, who,
giving Sammy into the hands of his mother, went to the secretary, and
wrote a check on her bank for the amount.

“Why, mother, you wrong yourself,” exclaimed the astonished Lawton, as
she handed him the check.

“Take it, Samuel; pay your note, and live and learn,” replied she, with
a benignant smile.

Lawton took the money, and hastened back to the city to pay his note.
His credit was saved, and hope again smiled upon him.

In the course of conversation that evening, Lawton was so far
humiliated as to make this remark,--

“Mother, you will come and live with us again, won’t you?”

“What! after you have wished me out of the house?” replied Mrs.
Harding, with a smile. “I heard your conversation the other day.”

“Forgive me, mother.”

“Perhaps, Samuel, I am not always just as I ought to be; but we all
have our weaknesses. I mean to do right.”

“I know you do; I understand you now. Last night and to-day have taught
me your value; and if I had heeded your counsel, I need not have been
pressed for money to-day. Forgive me, mother.”

“Freely, Samuel. I live only to make my children happy.”

Mrs. Harding resumed her residence at Lottie’s, and from that time to
this she has been appreciated. Mr. Lawton learned a lesson. The long
proposed retrenchment was executed, and the prospect now is that he
will die a rich man, if he don’t die too soon.

       *       *       *       *       *

We were provoked to write this sketch by that contemptible squib
from Punch, to the effect that Adam was a happy man because he had
no mother-in-law. If Cain or Abel, in their babyhood, had the croup,
measles, whooping cough, or any thing of that sort, we warrant
he sighed for that squib-ridden, conundrum-defamed commodity--a
MOTHER-IN-LAW.




MONTAGUE AND LADY.

A LESSON FOR HUSBANDS.


_CHAPTER I._

“Another new dress!” exclaimed Mr. Simeon Montague to his wife. “It
does not seem to be more than three weeks since you had one.”

“Just two months, Simeon.”

“And you need another?”

“I should not ask for the money if I did not. And Franky must have a
new jacket, and Nellie a new cloak.”

Mr. Montague sighed.

“I gave you fifteen dollars only a week ago.”

“What is fifteen dollars? Do you think it will clothe me and the
children a year?” replied Mrs. Montague indignantly.

“Money comes hard,” suggested Mr. Montague.

“I suppose it does; but if you wish me and the children to go half
clothed, why, only say so.”

“Of course, I wish nothing of the kind; I only want you to be as
prudent as possible.”

“I intend to be so.”

“These are dreadful tight times.”

“I should think they were,” replied the lady, with a palpable sneer
on her lip. “They have been just so, though, ever since we have been
married.”

“Won’t next week do?”

“I engaged a dressmaker for next Friday.”

“I don’t see how I can spare fifteen dollars to-day,” said Mr.
Montague, musing, apparently, upon his financial affairs. “I have a
note to pay to-day.”

“You have had a note to pay every time I have asked you for money since
we were married.”

“I will try and have it for you to-morrow.”

“I want to go out shopping to-day; I can’t go to-morrow.”

“I cannot possibly spare it to-day. Won’t ten dollars answer your
purpose?”

“Perhaps I can make it do.”

“If you can, I wish you would,” replied the husband, as he took out his
pocket book and handed her that amount.

“I can only get a calico for myself.”

“Well, won’t that answer?”

“Are you willing to go to church with me with a calico dress on?”

“Certainly, my dear. Why not?”

“I thought you had some pride.”

“I have, but no foolish pride.”

“A twenty-five dollar coat is hardly good enough for you to wear to
church.”

“But I don’t have one every month.”

“You have two every year.”

Mr. Montague did not think it was prudent to say any more; and putting
on his hat, which he had just been brushing with the most scrupulous
care, he surveyed his person before the looking glass. His collar
needed a little elevating, his cravat had to be re-adjusted, and he
discovered a speck of dirt on his black coat, which was carefully
removed. His lady looked at him with a smile as he stood before the
glass.

“Calico dress, indeed,” thought she. “There is not a prouder man walks
Washington Street, than my husband.”

Mr. Montague smoothed down his whiskers, and was leaving the room, when
a gentleman wishing to see him was announced.

“Ah, Butler,” said he, as the gentleman entered the room.

“I called at your store yesterday, but did not find you,” said Butler,
handing him a little paper.

“Just so,” said he, opening it.

Mrs. Montague was impertinent enough to look over his shoulder as he
read the paper. It ran as follows:--

  “Mr. Simeon Montague

                 To Apollo Club Rooms, Dr.

  To your Quarterly Assessment,       $25,00
    “1 Basket Heidsick Champagne,      16,00
    “100 Concha Cigars,                 4,00
                                      ------
                                      $45,00

              Received Payment,
                         B. BUTLER, Steward.”

“Just so,” repeated Mr. Montague, throwing the bill on the table, and
taking out his pocket book. “Sorry to trouble you; meant to have paid
it last night.”

“No trouble at all,” replied Butler.

“Forty-five, is it?” continued Montague, as he counted out the money.

“Forty-five.”

The steward of the “Apollo Club Rooms” put the money in his pocket, and
bade his liberal patron good morning.

“It was too bad to make him call twice for that money, wasn’t it,
Simeon?” asked Mrs. Montague, when the steward had gone.

“Of course I was sorry to give him any unnecessary trouble,” replied
Mr. Montague.

“I thought you had a note to pay to-day?”

“So I have.”

“But can’t you spare me the other five dollars for which I asked you?”

“Can’t, possibly.”

“I think your family ought to receive as much consideration as the Club
House, at least.”

“I must go to the store, my dear; I am in a great hurry.”

“Sixteen dollars for champagne,” said the wife, reading from the bill,
which she had picked up from the table. “I only asked for fifteen.”

“You would not have me niggardly at the Club Rooms, would you?”

“I would not have you go there at all. I suppose it is nothing to be
niggardly in your family?”

“Am I niggardly?” asked Mr. Montague, rather sternly.

The lady was silent.

“One would think that I was made of money, by the way you ask me for
it,” continued Mr. Montague.

“One would think you were, to see you paying forty-five dollars a
quarter at the Club House,” replied Mrs. Montague, meekly. “A married
man too.”

“I wasn’t born to be tied to a woman’s apron-string,” added Mr.
Montague, rushing from the house.

The lady looked at the door which had just closed upon him. Her heart
was sad, and she burst into tears.


_CHAPTER II._

Mr. Simeon Montague thought the money he bestowed upon his family was
as good as wasted. He was not a domestic man. He had married his wife,
with a reasonable show of affection, because her father was rich, and
she was an only daughter. Of course, he would not even confess to his
own heart that he was so selfish and cruel as to marry for sordid
motives--that he had prostituted the holy altar of Hymen by sacrificing
to Plutus upon it; but it was none the less true because he denied it
to himself and every body else.

Mrs. Montague’s father at her marriage was only about forty-five years
of age; yet his health was so feeble that there was not one chance in
ten of his living another year. But the old gentleman had revived,
and now, after twelve years had expired, seemed to be completely
rejuvenated. He was hale and hearty, and gave the promise of living
twenty years more. Of course the sordid son-in-law was disappointed. He
had thrown himself into the sea of matrimony with an unworthy motive,
and if he had been drowned there it would have served him just right.

Poor Mrs. Montague! Her bright hopes were all wrecked. Instead of the
world of affection she had anticipated in the connubial relation, she
found nothing but coldness and sordid selfishness. Her husband still
frequented the Club House; and when at home, he seemed to have no
sympathy with her. His business seemed to engross all his attention,
and he had no time to think of his wife, none to devote to his children.

Yet Mr. Montague was not a morose or an ill-natured man. He loved the
good opinion of the world, and would have made almost any sacrifice
rather than have had an imputation cast upon his domestic character. He
paid the most scrupulous attention to all the forms of life, walked to
church every Sunday with his wife on his arm, always found the place
in the hymn book for her, and never failed abroad to manifest the most
lively interest in his family. He always called his wife “my dear,” and
spoke affectionately to the children in the presence of company.

The eye of affection could penetrate all this mass of conventionalism,
and the poor wife, in less than a year after her marriage, realized
that she had thrown herself away upon a hollow-hearted man--one who,
without loving her, would keep the peace at almost any sacrifice--one
who would compel the world to believe that he was the most tender and
devoted husband, even while his heart was petrified and cold. His
devotion was mere mechanism; it was a kind of habit, acquired by an
active desire to secure the good will of all his friends.

Perhaps, even if there had been none to see him, Mr. Montague would
not have been harsh; it was not his nature. He was a smooth-tongued,
plausible man under all circumstances. He could appear to love when
his heart was perfectly indifferent. He could avoid the most palpable
of his domestic duties even while he professed the most earnest
devotion to the welfare of his family.

Twelve years had in a measure reconciled the disappointed wife to her
lot. She was contented with it because her maiden visions of connubial
bliss had evaporated, and she knew no other existence than that to
which she had been so long accustomed. Her air castles, reared in the
sunny years of her girlhood, had long since tumbled to the ground,
and left her in a world of reality, cold and repulsive at first, but
rendered tolerable by long endurance.

Her husband was sordid and selfish. He never felt a hundred dollars
expended in champagne suppers at the Club House; but half that sum
given to his wife wrung his soul. Though he was in a good business,
lived in good style, and always had money at his command, his brow
always darkened when his wife asked him for any sum to be expended upon
herself or her children. He was absolutely unwilling to give it, though
he could not possibly have endured the mortification of seeing them
shabbily dressed.

Mr. Montague is not an anomaly among men. There are thousands as sordid
and inconsistent as he was--thousands who wish to have their wives and
children appear well in the world, and at the same time deny them the
means of doing so.

Mrs. Montague was in tears. She was both grieved and provoked at the
conduct of her husband. The promptness with which he had paid his Club
House bill, while he denied her the trifling sum she had asked, was a
sad commentary on his devotion. For more than an hour she thought the
matter over, and became fully assured that she was a much injured wife.
Her spirit was roused, and, putting on her bonnet, she left the house
to do her shopping.

The calico dress her husband had professed to think was good enough for
her to wear to church was purchased, and before Sunday was made up.

The second bells were ringing for church. Mr. Montague, elegantly
dressed, was all ready, and stood before the glass, contemplating his
prepossessing appearance.

“Are you ready, Ellen?” said he, calling to his wife, who was up stairs.

“I shall be in a moment. Walk along slowly with Franky, and I will
overtake you,” replied she.

Mr. Montague took his son by the hand, and walked up the street. He
looked like a model head of the family--so benignant and dignified on
that Sabbath morning.

His wife did not overtake him till he had got half way to church.

“Why, my dear, what have you got on?” asked Mr. Montague, when, to his
horror, he saw her clothed in a common calico dress.

“My new calico,” replied she, coolly, as she took his arm.

“Are you mad, Ellen?”

“It was the best I could buy with the money you gave me.”

“But you are not going to church in that shape?”

“Why, Simeon, didn’t you say you were willing to go to church with me
with a calico dress on?”

“Pshaw! Hadn’t you sense enough to see that I was jesting?”

“Jesting! If you were, it was the first time I ever knew you to jest in
your own house.”

“Don’t be foolish, Ellen.”

“Come; we shall be late, and all the folks in the street are staring at
us.”

“Staring at you. What a ridiculous figure you make in that attire! Your
Irish girl is better dressed than you are.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Pray, go home.”

“I am going to church.”

“Not with me, Ellen, in that plight.”

“Then I leave you,” said she, taking Franky by the hand, and continuing
her walk.

Mr. Montague was bewildered. It was a very awkward position; but the
natural duplicity of his character came to his aid, and, placing his
hand upon his forehead, as though suffering a severe headache, he
retraced his steps homeward.


_CHAPTER III._

Mr. Montague was greatly incensed at the conduct of his wife; but an
experience of a dozen years had fully convinced her that her husband
could not be easily reformed. During that long period, while he was
living in plenty, was throwing away hundreds, and she did not know
but thousands, on his club, his champagne suppers, and other selfish
gratifications, she had found it exceedingly difficult to wring from
his hard grasp the money to clothe herself and children. To ask for it
was a loathsome task, and nothing but the most urgent necessity could
induce her to do so.

Much as her husband had resented her conduct on the occasion mentioned,
he did not offer the means of supplying her wants. The lady had become
so disgusted with his niggardly conduct, that she had fully determined
never to ask him for another dollar. Her father was rich, and very
indulgent to her, his only child. To him she disclosed her grievances;
and though it was repugnant to her sense of delicacy to speak ill of
her husband, she gave her father a complete history of her financial
experience. The old gentleman was exceedingly indignant, as a matter
of course, and stormed like a madman at the sordid character of his
son-in-law.

“But don’t you say a word to him, pa, nor to any one else,” pleaded the
daughter.

“I will blow him sky high! He shall never darken my door again!”

“Nay, nay, pa, for my sake, do not mention it.”

The old man stopped to think.

“You are right, Nellie; not a word,” said he, rubbing his bald head.

“It would sound very bad abroad, pa.”

“So it would; but, Nellie, hand me that book, and the pen and ink.”

The daughter obeyed, and the old gentleman wrote a hasty note.

“Now ring the bell, Nellie.”

Mrs. Montague did as she was requested, and a servant appeared.

“Here, John, take that to No. 10 Court Street,” said the old gentleman,
as he opened the book and wrote a check for five hundred dollars. “Now,
Nellie, spend it as fast as you can, and when that is gone, come and
get some more.”

Mrs. Montague kissed her fond father, and left him to ruminate upon the
astonishing fact which had been revealed to him.

“Not give her any money!” muttered he. “The scoundrel!”

His lips were frequently compressed, and occasionally he rose and
strode with hasty step across the room. The arrival of the lawyer for
whom he had sent, seemed to relieve him.

Mrs. Montague appeared the next Sunday in an elegant brocade silk, a
new bonnet, and a most magnificent mantilla. Her husband, who was an
importer and jobber of dry goods, could readily perceive that she wore
at least two hundred dollars upon her person. He was confounded. She
had asked him for no money lately. He was uneasy. What could it mean?
Mrs. Montague refused to answer any questions.

Six months passed by, and the lady still remained independent of her
husband. She always had money in abundance, but she positively refused
to converse upon the subject. Of course he could understand that her
father furnished her with funds. He was perplexed to discover the
circumstances under which he supplied her. Had his wife told him that
she was refused by her husband? Had she been to her father with her
grievances? He would not have had such a thing happen for all the
world; his reputation, which he valued more highly than his integrity,
would be sacrificed. He was sorely troubled.

One day, about this time, when he came home to dinner, he found that
his father-in-law had been prostrated by an apoplectic fit, and that
his wife had gone to attend him. Before he could finish his dinner, a
messenger announced his death.

Mr. Montague was very much grieved, of course. He mourned in bitterness
of spirit for more than a month after the funeral, his father-in-law
was such a kind-hearted, noble old gentleman; he thought there were few
men like him in the world.

Every thing went on as usual in the Montague family. Not a word was
said about the large property of the deceased. Mr. Montague felt
some delicacy in mentioning the subject to his wife, and no one else
appeared to know any thing about the business. He wondered that nothing
had been said to him about being executor or administrator. Of course
he was the only proper person to execute this trust.

He hinted at the matter as broadly as he dared; but his wife refused to
take the hint. One morning, however, as he was looking over the paper,
he noticed an advertisement concerning the probate of the will; he
pointed it out to his wife.

“Then your father made a will?” said he.

“He did.”

“I was not aware of it; but then I haven’t devoted even a thought to
his property.”

Mrs. Montague looked at him.

“Your father was one of the best of men,” continued he, seriously.

“He was.”

“Did you learn who had been named as executor?”

“My uncle John.”

“Ah! a capital selection; your father was an excellent business man.”

“And three of his personal friends were appointed trustees.”

“Trustees!” exclaimed Mr. Montague, with a violent start.

“Yes; but you have not seen the will?”

“No.”

“I have a copy here,” said the wife, taking the document from a drawer.

With a beating heart, Mr. Montague opened the copy, and proceeded to
read it.

His cheek blanched and his lip quivered as he read. The property was
much greater than he had ever suspected, amounting to over a hundred
thousand dollars. It was all secured to his wife, to the entire
exclusion of her husband; and the instrument was so adroitly drawn
up that he could not even touch the income of the estate without her
permission.

He was thunderstruck; his matrimonial hopes were all blasted, and, what
added to his chagrin, his own affairs, in the stringency of the time,
had become hopelessly embarrassed.

“What does this mean, Ellen?” asked he, in a husky voice.

“You just remarked that my father was an excellent business man; don’t
you understand it?”

“If I had been a drunkard or a gambler, it would have been plain to me.
As it is, it looks like an entire want of confidence in me, on the part
of your deceased father; not that I care about the property,” whined
Mr. Montague.

“Of course you don’t care for _that_.”

“I was not aware before that your father was prejudiced against me. Did
he ever mention this matter?”

Mrs. Montague was silent, and the husband pressed her for an answer.

“There was something said.”

“What, my dear?”

“When I went to him for money, of course that led to some explanations.”

“You went to him for money?” gasped Mr. Montague.

“I could not get it from you.”

Mr. Montague used an exceedingly hard word, which I dare not transfer
to my page, and rushed out of the house.

In a month he failed,--made a bad failure,--and it took him a year to
get out of the difficulty. The assignees had every thing; he could not
put his hand upon a single dollar. His domestic affairs somehow got
into the street, and nobody would trust him; every body despised him.

But Mrs. Montague was not so sordid as he had been, and when he had
received a discharge from his debts, she furnished the means for him to
commence business again. The club and champagne suppers are abandoned;
matters are reversed. The lady is always “flush,” the gentleman
generally short; and, poor fellow, he is sometimes so hard pressed as
to ask her for a few hundred dollars “to help him out.”




TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS.


_CHAPTER I._

“Talk to me about your newspapers! I tell you, neighbor Parker, they
are a consarned humbug!” exclaimed Farmer Cheney.

“That’s a great mistake of yours, neighbor. For my part, I would rather
live on two meals a day, than be without a good newspaper.”

[Illustration]

“Git out! I wonder what the world’s a comin’ to. There’s my gals have
teased me to take Harper’s Magazine, till I hadn’t any peace o’ my
life. But I put my foot right down; you can’t humbug me with such
trash;” and Farmer Cheney complacently wiped away the tobacco juice
which was streaming down from the corners of his mouth.

“You are in the wrong, neighbor Cheney.”

“No, I ain’t, nuther. Then Tom wan’t satisfied, and nothin’ would do
but I must take the American Union and the Practical Farmer. But it
wan’t no use; I wouldn’t have the trash in the house, say nothin’ o’
wastin’ money on it.”

“Do you ever read the papers?”

“Me! no, not I; I’ve got a better use for my time.”

“But the long winter evenings?”

“Well, we allers have corn to shell.”

“Not all winter?”

“No; but when I can’t find no work to do, I’d a nuff sight rather set
in the corner, and go to sleep.”

“But your son Reuben takes the papers.”

“Yes; but I never brought him up to do any sich thing. He takes the
Union and the Farmer both, and stews his brains over ’em half the time.
That ain’t the wo’st on’t, nuther.”

“No evil effects have followed from it, I trust?”

“Yes, there has; there’s my youngest boy, Tom, read sunthin’ or nuther
over to Reuben’s t’other day about a ‘chance for young men,’ and
nothin’ll do but he must go right into it; he’s off to Boston next
week. So much for havin’ newspapers round.”

“But perhaps he may improve the opportunity, and make money by it.”

“No sich thing. He’s got two hundred dollars, and when that’s all gone,
he’ll be back again; see if he don’t.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Well, my mind’s made up about it; but between you and I and the side
of that gate post, I wouldn’t mind givin’ Reuben the price of the
papers if he only wouldn’t take ’em.”

“But Reuben has the reputation of being one of the best farmers in
town.”

“That’s all true enough; but he didn’t learn how to farm it from his
newspapers, let me tell you. He was brought up in the good old way,
when there wan’t no books round but the Bible and the almanac.”

“You will grant that he does not follow all the old-fashioned methods?”

“Well, pooty much all; he’s got some notions of his own, though.”

“How was it about planting corn in rows, neighbor Cheney?”

“That’s one of Reuben’s notions, to plant in rows.”

“And he got seventy bushels to the acre, you know.”

“Yes; but the ashes did the business.”

“The ashes, the rows, and the cultivator, between them.”

“Well, there ain’t no doubt but what that’s the best way to raise corn.
At any rate, all the neighbors foller it now.”

“It is not the old-fashioned way.”

“No; it’s Reuben’s way.”

“Where do you suppose Reuben got it?”

“I don’t know; not from your darn newspapers, though.”

“But he did.”

“Git out!”

“It is a fact.”

“Now, neighbor Parker, you don’t mean to say that them fellers in
Boston, that never saw a cornfield in their life, can tell me how to
raise corn,” said Farmer Cheney, a little warmly.

“They have correspondents all over the country, and the subscribers
have the benefit of their united experience.”

“Don’t believe a word on’t.”

But it was no use arguing the matter, and the two farmers separated.
When Farmer Cheney got home, he found a visitor a waiting him.


_CHAPTER II._

“I understood you had a large quantity of corn for sale,” said the
stranger.

“Well, I’ve got consider’ble, but I don’t care no great about sellin’
it.”

“I should like to buy.”

“I can spare a couple o’ hund’ed bushels for a fair price.”

“What do you ask for it?”

“Well, I don’t know; how is corn nowadays?”

“Last sales in Boston were sixty-eight to seventy cents.”

“Rather low; I meant to git seventy-one for mine,” returned Farmer
Cheney, who was disposed to be shrewd.

“What will you take for the lot?”

“Seventy-one.”

“Say seventy, and we won’t stand about trifles.”

“Can’t do it; seventy-one is my lowest price,” replied Farmer Cheney,
finding that he had got an available customer.

“Split the difference, and it’s a trade,” said the stranger, nervously.

“Couldn’t do it.”

“I’ll take it then. Give me a receipt for this cash to bind the
bargain.”

Farmer Cheney, congratulating himself on the good trade he had made,
wrote the receipt after considerable labor, and put the money in his
pocket book.

“Know of any one else who has got any corn to sell?”

“My neighbor Parker, I rather guess, has got some.”

“You won’t say a word that I paid you seventy-one for yours? It might
spoil a trade.”

“Not a word,” replied Farmer Cheney.

       *       *       *       *       *

Towards night our two farmers happened to meet again.

“Sold your corn to-day, neighbor Parker?” inquired Farmer Cheney.

“Every speck of it,” replied Parker.

“Did you? What did you get?”

“Eighty-one.”

“How much?”

“Eighty-one.”

“You didn’t, though, did ye?” exclaimed the man who would not take the
newspaper.

“That is just what I got, and I think I could have got eighty-two if I
had stuck a little longer.”

“You don’t, though!”

“The same man bought yours, I believe.”

“Yes,” replied Farmer Cheney, edging off.

“What did you get--eighty-two?”

“Well, I guess I didn’t git quite that.”

“O, eighty-one. Well, after all, that is a good price, and ten cents on
a bushel more than I had any idea of getting.”

“I did not get eighty-one,” replied Farmer Cheney, rather crestfallen.

He did not like to deceive his neighbor; he had studied the Bible and
the almanac enough to know better than that; but it came “dreadful
hard” to own up the truth.

“How much did you get?”

“I dar’sent tell.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got took in if the feller gave you eighty-one.”

“What did you get, though, neighbor--seventy-five?”

“Seventy-one.”

“Well, you have been taken in, then; I guess you haven’t heard the
news.”

“No--what?”

“Crops failed in the west.”

“How you talk!”

“And the prospect of a war in Europe; so that our breadstuffs will be
extensively exported, which run up the price of flour and grain.”

“What war?”

“Between Russia and Turkey.”

“Turkey! Well, I hope them cu’sed Turks will get licked!” exclaimed
Farmer Cheney, whose ideas were somewhat antiquated.

“You differ from the world in general. The sympathies of all civilized
nations go with Turkey in this quarrel.”

“You don’t say so! When I was a boy, the schoolmaster used to teach us
to hate the Turks. They are a barbarous race.”

“I think, neighbor Cheney, you will confess now that you had better
take a paper.”

“Confess no sich thing; I wouldn’t have one round the house.”

“If you had taken the papers, you would have known about this rise in
grain.”

“Perhaps I should; but Reuben generally tells me about these things.”

“It was only in the paper that came to-day; I read it since I saw you
this morning. But I should no more think of selling any thing of any
consequence without seeing how the Boston markets were, than I should
think of cutting my own throat.”

“Kind of a dog’s life to be tied to a newspaper,” sneered Farmer Cheney.

“But if you had taken a newspaper, neighbor, and read it, you would
have made twenty dollars by it in this one trade; twenty dollars,
neighbor--enough to pay for the paper ten years.”

“Git out! These things look well enough as you book farmers figger ’em
up; but, you see, when you come to the scratch, they ain’t nowhere.”

“It looks to me like a plain case.”

“Now, ’spose I could make twenty dollars by takin’ the paper; it would
do me a darn sight more mischief than that.”

“How?”

“Why, the newspaper puts the very devil in the gals’ heads. Now, they
never use to have their cu’sed picnics round here, till the gals got
to readin’ on ’em in the papers. And then the buryin’ ground, they
couldn’t even let that alone. Some feller put a piece in the paper
about Mount Auburn, Sorrel Hill, Greenbush, and some sich place, and
the fust thing we know the gravestones are all jumbled up in a heap,
gravel is carted in, and posies set out all over it. Now they call it a
‘symmetry,’ I b’leve.”

“A cemetery, neighbor; but we who read the newspapers like these
things. There is something pleasant in ornamenting with flowers the
resting place of our dead.”

“It looks to me more like ‘sacrelation.’”

“Sacrilege! O, no; far from it.”

“Well, I think so; and then we’ve got to have new school houses, a new
town house, and the roads must all be ‘McDonalized.’”

“McAdamized.”

“Well, no matter what it is; it all comes of these cu’sed newspapers.
My taxes are twenty dollars a year more than they used to be.”

“And you sell the produce of your farm for five hundred dollars more.”

“Well, that’s true; but there’s no kind of need of makin’ the taxes any
more, all for newspapers.”

“But you must think how much better and wiser your family would be with
a newspaper to read.”

“By mighty! I should think they would! Only look at Deacon Craig’s
folks. Them gals cost him a fortin every year in books and new gowns.
The newspapers won’t do; they must have books, and waste half their
time readin’ on em.”

“But it is a very worthy and intelligent family, and the deacon’s
income, owing to his more enlightened method of conducting business, is
at least ten times as great as it used to be, and he can well afford to
spend all he does in educating his children.”

“No use o’ talkin’ about it; give me the good old way; and when I’m
dead, I ain’t at all particular about havin’ buttercups and whiteweed
growin’ on my grave;” and Farmer Cheney went off, “wondering what the
world was coming to.”


_CHAPTER III._

About a year after their conversations, Tom Cheney came home to visit
his father. The ambitious youth, who had acquired half his education
by reading the newspapers, had not written his father concerning his
business prospects.

“Why, Tom, what have you been about all this time?” asked the old
gentleman, as he surveyed Tom’s spruce appearance.

“Making money, father,” replied the hopeful son.

“Have you made any, Tom?”

“A little.”

“A little! Guess you’d better staid at home, and worked on the farm.
You was doin’ well here.”

“Done pretty well as it is.”

“How much you made, Tom?”

“Five thousand.”

“Git out! You are jokin’, Tom.”

“True as preaching.”

“How did you do it?”

“Well, I went into that ‘chance for young men;’ but that wan’t much; so
I looked into the newspapers for something better.”

“Newspapers again,” sneered Farmer Cheney.

“The first thing I saw was, that peaches were selling down south for
ten cents a bushel, while they brought two dollars here. You see, the
risk of transporting them makes the difference. Then I saw in the same
paper that preserved peaches brought two shillings a pound north; so I
put that and that together, and hatched out a speculation. I bought the
sugar, and sent it down to Delaware, where the peaches were cheap, and
went to making preserves there. In this way I made money.”

“You are a shrewd one, Tom.”

“All owing to the newspapers, father.”

“Git out!”

“I see by the papers that the Chinese empire has been divided, and the
rebels are in a fair way of making China a Christian country. I have a
great notion of going out there to establish a line of stages between
Shanghae and Nankin. What do you think about it?”

“Don’t know what to think. I’m done thinkin’; but, Tom, when you go to
Boston again, just drop in and tell ’em to send me the American Union
and the Practical Farmer for one year. Here’s the three dollars.”

“Bravo! you are a brick, after all, pa!”




“CIGARS FOR TWO;”

OR,

CURING A SMOKER.


_CHAPTER I._

“Smokes, does he? The abominable wretch!” exclaimed Mrs. Volant to her
friend, Mrs. Washburn, a young wife who had just gone to housekeeping.

“He smokes, but he is not an abominable wretch--I am sure he is not,”
replied Mrs. Washburn, a little startled by the hard name applied to
her husband, whom she both loved and esteemed.

“Not a wretch?”

“No, I’m sure he is not!”

“Yes, he is; any husband, especially one who has been married only a
year, and won’t leave off smoking when his wife desires it, must be a
wretch.”

“No, you overstate the case. He is every thing a husband ought to
be--so kind, so devoted, so indulgent. But then, I do wish he would not
smoke.”

“You must break him of it--the cruel monster.”

“Nay, do not call him such hard names; I love him with all my heart,
though he does smoke.”

“Well, I suppose you do; young wives are apt to be foolish.”

“Foolish!”

“Yes; he sees, I dare say, that you love him, and so he takes the
advantage of you.”

“Why, Mrs. Volant, don’t you love your husband?”

“Well, suppose I do; there is no need of telling him of it. I make him
think I don’t care any thing about him. Why, I can manage him as easily
as I could a kitten.”

“I don’t like that; I think there ought to be love and confidence
between man and wife.”

“Pooh!”

“You cannot be happy with him.”

“I should not be if I became his slave.”

“Not his slave!”

“Don’t you believe it! When you have been married as long as I have,
you will get rid of some of these sentimental notions, which answer
very well for the first year or so, but become very inconvenient after
that.”

“For my part, I always mean to love my husband as much as I do now,
even if it is sentimental.”

“See if you do! Husbands must be carefully managed, or they become
tyrants. Now, my husband smoked the first year after marriage; but then
he was a little careful about bringing his cigar into the house, for I
told him, up and down, I wouldn’t have it.”

“I should suppose he would have rebelled.”

“He did, but not at first. One night, nearly a year after we were
married, he brought home a whole bundle of cigars, and put them on the
mantel-piece. Taking one, he very coolly lighted it, and proceeded to
read the evening paper.”

“That’s just the way my husband does.”

“I was downright mad at his impudence; but I did not say a word. The
next day I bought a monstrous great snuff box, and filled it full of
rappee. In the evening he lighted his cigar as before; but no sooner
had he done so, than I seated myself opposite to him, and drawing out
my snuff box, I took a generous pinch, snuffing the filthy stuff into
my nostrils, at the risk of sneezing my head off.”

“How funny!”

“My husband did not think so. He looked at me with astonishment. ‘You
take snuff?’ said he. ‘I do; at least, I mean to learn,’ I replied.
‘It is a filthy habit,’ says he. ‘No worse than smoking,’ says I. We
debated the matter for a long time, and at last he gave up the point,
and promised to throw away his cigars if I would throw away my snuff.
My point was gained, and of course I gave up my snuff.”

“And he never smoked any more?” asked Mrs. Washburn, laughing.

“Yes, he began once after; but I took to the snuff again, and he gave
it up.”

“Are you sure he don’t smoke now?”

“If he does, he never lets me see him. My sitting room is not all
smoked up as yours is.”

“It was a glorious trick!”

“That it was, and I advise you to try it upon Mr. Washburn.”

“I! I couldn’t take a pinch of snuff any more than I could swallow an
elephant.”

“Smoke, then. There are some nice little cigars sold at the
apothecaries, made on purpose for ladies. They are so mild that they
wouldn’t make you sick; though, even if they did, you wouldn’t mind, so
they cure your husband of smoking.”

“It seems too bad to play such a trick upon him--he is always so kind,
and permits me to do just as I please,” said the tender-hearted Mrs.
Washburn.

“What else could he do?”

“It looks kind of mean to me.”

“Not a bit.”

“I don’t know as it would succeed.”

“Nonsense! I am sure it would. He never would let you smoke, for these
husbands have an awful horror of any impropriety in their wives.”

“Then, he says he has always smoked, and can’t leave it off.”

“Pshaw! The old story!”

“I am almost tempted to try it.”

“I would.”

“It seems so unkind, though, that I have hardly the heart to do it.”

“You are notional, my dear Mrs. Washburn. When you have been married--”

The remark was broken off by the abrupt entrance of the “abominable
wretch” himself. Mrs. Washburn rose as he entered, and in spite of the
abominable odor that his breath must have exhaled, printed a kiss upon
his tobacco-stained lips.

The lady “who had been married several years” was disgusted, and after
a few words concerning the weather, took her leave.


_CHAPTER II._

Mrs. Washburn was a pretty, affectionate, gentle-hearted wife. Her
whole existence was bound up in her husband, as well it might be; for
never was husband more devoted to his wife than he was. To our mind she
was a model wife; none of your stormy vixens, that set their hearts
upon attaining a point, and will pull the house down upon your head but
they _will_ attain it.

In her eye, Mr. Washburn had only one fault; and that was the
villainous habit of smoking, which all her eloquence had been powerless
to overcome. She didn’t “put her foot down,” as her friend, Mrs.
Volant, had done; for--poor, gentle-hearted creature--she couldn’t
think of provoking a quarrel with him, and had about concluded to make
the best of it, and let him smoke in peace.

But there was something so irresistibly funny about Mrs. Volant’s plan,
that she determined to try it, and, accordingly, on the afternoon of
the next day, she sent the Irish girl to the apothecary’s shop for a
bunch of “Bagdad cigars.” Disposing a few of them in her work basket,
ready for the momentous occasion, her mind pictured the scene that
would ensue when she should light one of them. It was so funny that
she laughed out loud at the idea. Wouldn’t he be surprised to see her,
who had teased him so much to leave off smoking, commence the practice
herself! Wouldn’t his eyes stick out, when he should see her puffing a
cigar at her sewing, as he did when he read the evening paper!

She was so pleased with the plan, that she would have put it in
execution, even if it had been only for the sport it promised her,
independently of any good result which might flow from it. Wouldn’t he
beg her to smoke no more! Wouldn’t he be mortified, and wouldn’t she
win the day, and glory over his defeat! Wouldn’t he be glad to promise
her that he wouldn’t smoke another cigar as long as he lived! She was
so delighted that she could hardly contain herself.

Mr. Washburn came home to tea, and, as usual when he entered the house,
he gave her a kiss, and a tender greeting. They were seated at the tea
table; Mrs. Washburn was so full of mirth, that she came near scalding
herself with the hot tea when she poured it out. Her merry, mischievous
laugh rang pleasantly on her husband’s ear, who, poor fellow, could
have had no idea of the terrible ordeal through which he was doomed to
pass.

When tea was over, the astral lamp transferred to the lightstand, and
Mr. Washburn had stretched himself into a comfortable position in the
large easy rocking chair, with his legs lazily reposing in another
chair, the everlasting cigar was produced, lighted, and began to
diffuse its fragrance through the room.

Mrs. Washburn could hardly control her inclination to burst into a
laugh at the mere thought of what she was about to do. Seating herself
at the side of the table opposite her husband, she took from the
work basket, with an air as brave and solemn as a judge, one of the
“Bagdads.” Placing the filthy roll between her ruby lips, she glanced
at her husband.

“Now, Mr. Smoker,” thought she,--it would have spoiled the joke to
have said it,--“we will see whether you don’t abandon that nasty habit.”

Mr. Washburn happened to glance at her; but, contrary to her
expectation, he manifested no surprise, and went on reading the
Transcript.

“So, so, Mr. Smoker,” thought she again, “you think I am joking, do
you? I will soon convince you;” and the lady took a taper, and applied
a light to the cigar.

But Mrs. Washburn was rather inexperienced in the _modus operandi_
of lighting a cigar, and she was unable to make it “go.” She lit
another taper, and puffed away with all her might; but the Bagdad was
as resolute as the great caliph himself. She persevered, till her
extraordinary exertions again attracted the attention of Mr. Washburn.

“You are lighting the wrong end, my dear,” said he, with the utmost
_nonchalance_.

“How provoking he is!” thought Mrs. Washburn. “Why don’t he
remonstrate?”

“You should bite off the twisted end, and then put it in your mouth,”
continued the husband, turning to the paper again.

Aided by these directions, the lady took another cigar, which she
succeeded in lighting. The first taste of the tobacco smoke was
horrible; but she had determined to be a martyr for her husband’s sake;
and taking her sewing, she continued to puff away as she plied her
needle, till a certain nausea compelled her to abandon the experiment
for that time. Casting the Bagdad into the grate, she began to wish she
had not listened to Mrs. Volant.

“What is the matter, my dear? Wasn’t it a good cigar? Try mine; they
are Monte Christos of the first quality,” and the imperturbable Mr.
Washburn offered her a choice from his case.

“No, I thank you, my dear; I will not smoke any more to-night.”

“But what’s the matter, Mary? You are as pale as a sheet!”

“I feel a little faint; I shall be better in a moment,” and Mrs.
Washburn was obliged to leave the room.

Poor woman! she was sick all the evening! But the next day, Mrs.
Volant, who had called to learn the success of the experiment, advised
her to try again, assuring her it would not make her sick the second
time.


_CHAPTER III._

Mr. Washburn had a couple of his intimate friends at his house to play
a game of whist the next evening, and the devoted wife resolved to try
the effect of a smoke in their presence.

When the party were seated, Mr. Washburn passed round his cigar case.

“Won’t you smoke, my dear?” asked he, tendering the cigars to his wife.

“I will; but you know, Joseph, that I never smoke _your_ cigars; they
do not suit my taste.”

Whew! that was cool!

Mrs. Washburn lit a Bagdad.

“Is it possible you smoke, Mrs. Washburn?” asked Mr. Barnes, astonished
at the singular spectacle of a woman puffing away at a cigar, for all
the world, like a loafer in a bar room.

“Occasionally, just to please my husband,” replied Mrs. Washburn, after
she had blown out a long wreath of blue smoke.

“Yes, Barnes,” interposed Mr. Washburn; “it is more sociable, you know,
to have company when one smokes. We are generally alone in the evening,
and she is so kind as to smoke with me. Ah, Barnes, teach _your_ wife
to smoke, it is so pleasant to smoke with one’s wife.”

The lady was thunderstruck. Was it possible that he had no more respect
for the proprieties of life than that? She smoke? She had already
acquired the reputation of being a smoker, without having produced any
of the anticipated good results.

Mrs. Washburn threw the lighted Bagdad into the stove. She had almost
cried with vexation.

“Not smoke, my dear?” said her husband.

“I think you can be sociable to-night, if I don’t smoke.”

“_Do_ smoke, my dear; it gives me so much pleasure to see _you_ enjoy a
good cigar.”

“That’s too bad, Joseph.”

Mr. Washburn laughed outright, and throwing down his cards, explained
the event of the preceding evening.

“I will own up; I did it to break him of the habit. I give it up!”

When the gentlemen had taken their leave, Mrs. Washburn explained by
whose advice she had adopted the plan.

“Mrs. Volant has the reputation of being a perfect shrew. Her husband
is a laughing stock for all State Street. She is a bad adviser.”

“How slick you have turned the joke upon me!” said Mrs. Washburn,
laughing heartily.

“To tell the truth, I overheard some of your conversation when the plot
was laid.”

“O, ho! you did? No wonder it failed, then.”

“I did; but, Mary, are you so very much against my smoking? I love the
weed, but I love you more;” and Mr. Washburn kissed her tenderly.

“Nay, I will say no more about it. Perhaps I was selfish.”

“Not selfish; I will leave it off, my dear, for your sake.”

“No, no; I don’t want you to do so. If you are so very fond of smoking,
I never will say another word about it.”

And Mr. Washburn has smoked his cigar in peace ever since.




“OUT OF BUSINESS;”

OR,

THE HISTORY OF A SPLENDID “BUST-UP.”


_CHAPTER I._

“Out of business, are you, Ned? Well, that is bad,” said Mr. Joseph
Murdock, a stock broker, to his nephew.

“Decidedly bad.”

“But why did you leave Green & Smith? That is a good concern.”

“Salary was too small.”

“Better than you get _now_, at all events,” replied the worthy old
gentleman, with a look of displeasure.

“Couldn’t pay my way on it.”

“Not on five hundred dollars!” and ‘uncle Joe,’ as he was commonly
called, held up both hands in astonishment.

“I am in debt at this moment,” returned Ned, with a rueful glance at
his uncle.

“And likely to be. Of course you don’t expect to pay your debts by
wandering about the streets.”

“I expect to find business again.”

“You do not expect to get five hundred dollars the first year, do you?”

“I intend to strike for a thousand.”

“Strike! you won’t hit it.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

“Ned, you are going to the deuse as fast as high living and dissipation
in general will carry you.”

“Why, uncle, I’m sure you don’t know me.”

“Sit down, Ned; let us talk it over. I want a young man in my office,
and perhaps we can make a trade.”

“Thousand dollars, uncle Joseph;” and Ned Murdock attempted to look sly.

“Not out of me, Ned.”

“Can’t live on less.”

“Better die then. I want a young man to assist my bookkeeper, run of
errands----”

“An errand boy, you mean;” and Ned felt hurt at the slight put upon his
dignity.

“An errand boy, then. My clerk intends to go into business for himself
one of these days, and if you are attentive to business, here is an
opportunity to advance yourself;” and uncle Joe looked seriously into
the face of his nephew.

“What is the salary?”

“Four hundred, for the present.”

“I should starve on it.”

“Live within your means. When I was of your age, I lived on two
hundred.”

“Times have changed since then.”

“What do you pay for board, Ned?”

“Six dollars a week. I board at a hotel.”

“Six dollars a week! Ned, you are crazy;” and uncle Joe’s eyes stuck
out “like two tallow candles.”

“Two of us room together in the attic, so that they board us low.”

“Should think they did--low for them, but high for you. Costs you a
hundred for clothes, I suppose, don’t it?”

“About that,” replied Ned, evasively.

“Do you go to the ‘play’ often?”

“Not above once a week, except when there are ‘stars’ on.”

“Not _above_ once a week! Ned, you are an extravagant dog; you will die
in the poorhouse!”

“Pshaw! Uncle Joseph, _you_ are old-fashioned!”

“If it is old-fashioned to live within one’s means, to pay one’s debts,
and wear an honest face, then--thank God!--I _am_ old-fashioned,”
replied the worthy old gentleman, with considerable spirit.

“I mean to be honest, and practise all your old-fashioned virtues.”

“You can’t do it, Ned, on five hundred dollars a year with your habits.”

“Can’t be honest?”

“No; it is not honest to run up a bill at your tailor’s which you have
not the ability to pay; it is not honest to get in debt to support
extravagant habits.”

“You don’t mean to say that I am _dis_honest, uncle Joseph?” asked the
young man, with a blush on his cheek.

“Well, well, we won’t talk about _that_, now. I want a young man, and
if you have a mind to lay aside your extravagances, and go into my
office determined to stick to your business, I will see to the rest.”

“What salary shall I have, uncle Joseph?”

“Four hundred the first year,” replied uncle Joseph, firmly.

“But I can’t live on that.”

“Yes, you can. Leave your hotel and board in a private family. Quit the
theatre and the opera, and pay as you go.”

“But my debts?”

“How much do you owe?”

“About two hundred and fifty dollars.”

Uncle Joe scratched his head, contracted his eyebrows, and looked
decidedly stormy.

“Bad business, Ned,” said he, after a few moments’ consideration. “I
could easily get you out of the scrape, provided I saw any hope of
amendment on your part. You don’t even say that you will reform.”

“To be serious, uncle Joseph, I can’t see how I can reform. I must
_live_, you know.”

“And you must live within your means.”

At this moment the penny post deposited a letter on the table, by the
side of the stock broker, the contents of which perfectly amazed him.


_CHAPTER II._

The letter was from the attorney of Miss Mary Marker, a maiden aunt
of Ned Murdock, formerly residing at the west. It contained the
intelligence of the spinster’s death. The old lady, happening to have
a fit of generosity when she made her will, had bequeathed to her
graceless nephew the sum of ten thousand dollars.

Here was a godsend, and Ned leaped up six feet in the air, with
astonishment and delight.

But the worthy stock broker was troubled; for although he was a broker,
he was a good Christian, and had the welfare of his dissolute nephew
near his heart. There was something about the youth that he liked,
notwithstanding he went to the play and boarded at a fashionable hotel.

His only object was the reformation of the young man, whose ruin and
premature decay were foreshadowed in his daily habits. His proposition
to employ him in his own office was merely a stratagem to obtain a hold
upon him.

This legacy seemed to step between him and the accomplishment of his
benevolent purpose.

“What are you going to do with this money, Ned?” asked he with a
troubled countenance; “I am named, as your guardian, you perceive.”

“Bah, guardian! I am twenty-one next week, uncle Joseph,” replied the
young man, unable to conceal the elation the astounding intelligence
had produced in his mind.

“True; but this legacy may be the ruin of you, Ned.”

“You are absurd, uncle.”

“I am sorry your aunt died so soon; I wish she could have been
prevailed upon to live till you had come to the years of discretion.”

“If I had known she intended to remember me in her will, I should
certainly have expressed my desire that she might have lived forever,
or some such hyperbole.”

“What are you going to do, Ned? It is rather a serious question.”

“Time enough to decide it when I get the money.”

“Take my advice Ned; settle yourself down in some quiet position; get
another clerkship; don’t go into business till you are more experienced
in the ways of the world. You had better accept my offer, and take your
first lesson in learning to live within your means.”

“Be an errand boy on four hundred dollars a year, when I have ten
thousand dollars in my possession? Did they do so in old times?” and
Ned bestowed a good-natured sneer upon his quiet old uncle.

“They learned to creep before they walked. If it will make any
difference, I will give you the same salary you received at Green &
Smith’s.”

“Couldn’t think of it, uncle Joseph. A thousand would not procure my
services _now_.”

The stock broker sighed. Ned was as good as lost, in his opinion. There
was no hope for him, and much as it troubled him, he saw no method of
preventing the catastrophe.

For an hour longer, uncle Joe tried to prevail upon his wilful nephew
to adopt a system of prudent living, and preserve his capital until a
favorable opportunity occurred for investing it.

Ned was resolute. Visions of balls, operas, theatres, fast horses,
and a rich wife, flitted before his excited imagination. The sum of
ten thousand dollars appeared to be inexhaustible. In vain uncle Joe
reasoned that its possession was only equivalent to an income of six
hundred dollars. Ned was sure of being worth twenty thousand in five
years, and fifty in ten. It never occurred to him that fast horses and
the opera could not be supported without encroaching upon the principal.


_CHAPTER III._

While they were debating the question, Tom Murdock, a cousin of Ned,
entered the office.

“Ah, Tom,” said Ned, “here we are; I had quite forgotten to inform our
good uncle that you too were out of business.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed uncle Joseph. “Both out of business? I hope
you have not been foolish, Tom.”

“No, uncle, Tom is never foolish--one of your dignified boys--proper,
and all that sort of thing,” replied Ned.

“My services were no longer required. You know I only supplied the
place of another,” added Tom.

“You have been there three months.”

“Yes.”

“On thirty dollars a month!” added Ned, “and saved money at that. Tom
will just fit your place, uncle.”

“Do you want a clerk, uncle Joseph?” asked Tom, meekly.

“I thought of having another; but it is very small pay,” answered the
stock broker, a little nettled; for he had created the want only to
save the reputation of Ned.

“I should be very glad to enter your service, even at a small salary.
Anything is better than being out of business.”

“Right, Tom, right!” exclaimed the old gentleman. “The salary is four
hundred, and you shall have the place.”

And Tom took the place, while Ned, instead of adopting his uncle’s
excellent advice, moved down two flights at the hotel, rode out to
Porter’s every day, and went to the opera every night.

In due time the legacy reached uncle Joseph, who placed Ned in full
possession.

In another month a large gilt sign, bearing the “name and style” of a
new firm, (E. Murdock & Co.,) astonished the mercantile world, and Ned
was no longer out of business.

The dignity of the new firm--the “Co.” was merely a flourish of the
artist’s pencil to give _éclat_ to the thing--demanded that the senior
partner should have a wife. Fortunately for the felicitous carrying
out of Ned’s idea on this subject, things had for several months been
progressing towards this event.

Our young merchant had paid his addresses to the daughter of a
mercantile man, reputed to be wealthy; and now that he “had come to his
possessions,” there was no obstacle to an immediate marriage.

A house in a fashionable street was procured; the cage being ready,
the bird was caught, and Ned found himself in the full enjoyment of
life. He was no nigger, and things went on swimmingly. Dinner parties,
and tea parties, and evening parties followed each other in rapid
succession.

Money flowed like water. Notes on three, six, and nine months were
given, and Ned said the business was bound to prosper.

One half of his legacy only had been invested in his business at the
commencement of the operation. Six, nine, and twelve months did the
rest. But his housekeeping affairs absorbed the other half in less than
six months. His wife was from a rich family, he reasoned, and must be
supported in state.

At the end of those six months, when the first of the notes became due,
Ned was not a little astonished to find that he had nothing to pay them
with. He looked over his books to see where the ten thousand had gone
to; it was only dust in the balance when weighed against his business
and his family expenditures.

Bad debts and unfortunate speculations stared him in the face from
every page, and Ned began to be a little troubled. A dim consciousness
that he had been going too fast crept into his mind. It was a
disagreeable reflection, and when he went home to dinner that day, he
dodged round a corner to avoid meeting uncle Joe.

In the mean time, Tom had acquitted himself to the entire satisfaction
of his uncle. The head clerk had left, and he had been installed
in his place. Living within his means, indulging in no fashionable
dissipations, the future was bright with hope.


_CHAPTER IV._

One morning, while Ned was pondering the unsatisfactory state of his
affairs, a neighbor brought him the news of the failure of his wife’s
father.

Ned was horrified, for, it must be confessed, that in his present
emergency, he had based some rather extravagant hopes on the fact of
having a rich father-in-law.

It was a heavy stroke to his philosophy. The little financial theory
based upon his rich wife, which he had matured to meet the approaching
emergency, suddenly and violently exploded.

A five hundred dollar note came due that day, and he had been thinking
of dropping into his father-in-law’s counting-room about one o’clock,
to see if he had “any thing over.”

The thought of applying to uncle Joe occurred to him; but the worthy
old gentleman was too blunt by half, and would be likely to tell him
some homely truths.

The day wore away with vain devisings of means to extricate himself
from his embarrassments. The note was not paid--was protested.

The next day, people, who had long suspected that Ned was travelling
too fast, began to see with a clear vision the true state of the case.
Before two o’clock, Ned was in chancery!

“How is this, Ned?” asked uncle Joseph, entering the counting room.

“Don’t mention it, uncle; don’t mention it! Before you say a word, I
will own that you were all right, and I was all wrong,” replied Ned,
groaning in spirit.

“I did not come to reproach you, Ned; far from it. I gave the best
advice I was capable of giving; but as you did not deem it advisable to
follow it, of course I shall not taunt you in your troubles.”

This was kind of uncle Joseph, and it was spoken in a kindly manner,
without the slightest appearance of that triumphant “I knew it
would be so,” which wise old men sometimes assume. It went to Ned’s
heart, for Ned had a heart, notwithstanding the little foibles of his
character.

“Why did you not come to me for assistance, Ned? I always meant well by
you.”

“My case was a hopeless one; and to tell the truth, uncle Joseph, after
what passed between us, I was ashamed to meet you.”

“Fie, Ned!” and the old gentleman was highly flattered by his nephew’s
humility.

“I wish I had accepted your offer, even at a salary of four hundred
dollars a year. I should have been a great deal better off now.”

“Well, well, we will not mind that now. The place is still open.”

“Is it?” asked Ned, eagerly.

“Tom is my head clerk. Of course I could not displace him.”

“No, certainly not.”

“But as you have a wife, I will make the salary six hundred now.”

“Thank you, uncle; I will gladly accept the place.”

Ned did accept it, and though it was a sad fall from his former
position, he took his place at the desk in his uncle’s office as the
assistant of Tom, with the best grace in the world.

It is surprising how misfortunes will humble a man; how they will make
him accept with joy a position at which, in the days of his prosperity,
he turned up his nose in disgust.

Mrs. Murdock, was, in the main, a sensible person, and made the best
of her altered circumstances. Three rooms in a retired street were
obtained, to supply the place of the fashionable residence in Tremont
street, and the young couple went to housekeeping on a reduced scale.

Ned kept within his means this time. The humiliation of his fall
gradually wore away, and he was surprised to find himself and his wife
much happier than when they had been surrounded by all the appliances
of wealth and luxury.

Ned remained three years with uncle Joseph, who annually increased his
salary, thus enabling him to add to the comforts of life, and still
keep within his means.

At the end of this period, the old gentleman, finding himself old
enough and rich enough to retire, gave up his business to his two
nephews, who, we are happy to record, are now doing remarkably well.

       *       *       *       *       *

MORAL.--When you are out of business, do not be over nice; and when you
have a legacy left to you, do not be rash.




“SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE.”


_CHAPTER I._

“You are of course aware of the object of my repeated visits at your
house, Mr. Miller?” stammered George Harrison to the father of his
intended.

“O, yes, of course,” replied the father, carelessly.

“And you must be favorably disposed towards the matter, or you would
not have permitted it to continue as long as it has.”

“Well, Mr. Harrison, those are affairs that I don’t like to meddle
with, though my opinion is, a great deal of judgment ought to be used
in relation to them.”

“Certainly, sir; they affect the parties for life,” replied George,
seriously.

“You do not intend to be married at present, do you?”

“Yes, sir; we have been thinking of it; that is, not under a month.”

“A month! Pray, Mr. Harrison, what have you got to support a wife
with?” asked the careful father, gazing with considerable astonishment
into the face of the candidate for matrimony.

“Well, sir, I have not got much now, it is true; but I think I shall be
able to pay my way.”

“You _think_ so, but you may be laboring under a mistake. Young men are
apt to be rash.”

“I am going into business, as you are aware, next week. I have hired a
store, and have no doubt I shall do well.”

“I suppose not. Have you the capital wherewith to stock your store?”

“My capital is small, but I have friends.”

“Every body has friends. Who are they?”

“There is Mr. Redman, who offers to let me have half my stock on six
months.”

“And the other half?”

“I can obtain it on the same terms from other parties.”

“And you propose to lay in all your stock on six months’ credit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rather a dangerous scheme, young man.”

“I think not. I have no doubt that I shall be able to sell goods enough
to pay most of the notes; if not, I can easily get them renewed.”

“You are confident.”

“Perhaps I am vain; but I trust a great deal to my ability as a
salesman. Why, Smith, Jones, & Co. offered me a thousand dollars for
the next year if I would stay with them.”

“You had better accept the offer, young man.”

“I think not; if I am worth a thousand dollars to them, I am worth it
to myself. No, sir; I mean to have the benefit of my own talents.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the prudent Mr. Miller.

“Perhaps I _am_ vain.”

“You are, Mr. Harrison. You will find that your ability in a concern
like that of Smith, Jones, & Co. is much more available than it would
be in your own hands.”

“We differ in that matter,” replied George Harrison, with some display
of wounded dignity. “If you please, we will turn to the subject to
which my present visit relates.”

“To be sure, young man, if you wish. I have no desire to force my
advice upon you, though I cannot help thinking you had better heed the
counsel of those who are older and more experienced than you are.”

“I am very willing to hear any advice.”

“More willing to hear it than to follow it.”

“I wish to be reasonable. If a young man never attempts to better his
condition, it is plain that he never will get ahead in the world.”

“Very true; but let him labor as hard as he may, without proper
discretion, he never will succeed.”

“You question my judgment, do you, sir?” asked George, rather sharply.

“Excuse me, Mr. Harrison, but I do. The relation in which you stand to
my family prompts me to speak very plain. No man in his senses would
stock his store on six months’ credit, and expect to succeed. How can
you pay your notes, coming all together as they do?”

“With your leave, I will take care of that matter,” replied George,
with dignity.

“Very well,” replied Mr. Miller, smiling at the young man’s warmth.
“You propose to be married in about a month?”

“We do.”

“Have you got a house?”

“I have looked at one.”

“Have you the means of furnishing it?”

“Rowe & Co. have offered to sell it to me on six months.”

“Then in six months, Mr. Harrison, I will talk with you about marriage.
In the mean time, I must decline all negotiation.”


_CHAPTER II._

George Harrison was a “crack salesman,” and save and excepting that he
rather over-estimated his talents and business ability, he was a fine
fellow.

He did not believe in looking on the dark side of things. His heart was
full of hope, and he confidently expected that whatever he put his hand
upon would be instantly turned into money.

George was a young man of spirit, and he did not relish the manner in
which his prospective father-in-law had treated him.

“He used me like a boy,” mumbled George, as he left the counting room
of Mr. Miller; “just as though he knew every thing, and I didn’t know
any thing. But I’ll teach him better than that.”

Directing his steps to the house of Mr. Miller, he found Hannah, his
lady love, arrayed for a walk.

“I have bad news, my dear,” said he.

“Bad news! Why, what, George?”

“Let us walk to the Common, and I will tell you all about it.”

Seated on one of the stone seats by the “Frog Pond,” George narrated
the substance of his interview with Mr. Miller.

“But he only postponed the matter for six months George,” said Hannah,
relieved by his statement. “Perhaps it would be better to put it off.”

“You know, dearest, we intended to be married next month.”

“Still, we can wait.”

“There is no need of waiting, Hannah.”

“Perhaps there is not; but if my father thinks so, hadn’t we better
humor him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why, what would you do?”

“Be married;” and George told her how romantic it would be to run away
to New York, and come home man and wife--how it would surprise their
friends.

Hannah’s “spirit” was fully equal to that of George; and the moment she
began to feel that her “cruel father” was persecuting them, she was
ready for any thing, even for an elopement.

The arrangement was made, and George hired the house he had looked
at. Rowe & Co. furnished it, and took George’s note on six months in
payment, with a mortgage for security.

The new store was opened, and things went on “swimmingly.” Business was
good, and every body said George was making money “hand over fist.”

At the appointed time the elopement took place. The newspapers duly
chronicled the event, and, for a time, George was a lion. The ladies,
eager to behold and converse with a gentleman who had the “spunk” to
tear a persecuted daughter from the grasp of a cruel father, and elope
with her, flocked to his store. The elopement was a decided hit, and
George’s gains were largely augmented by it.

The happy couple took up their residence in the new house. It was
beautifully furnished, and Hannah felt that she was a queen in
paradise. To her the day was not long enough to hold all the happiness
that crowded upon her.

And her father, too, instead of treating her harshly after the rash
step she had taken, came to see her, was as kind to her as though
nothing had happened, and never said a single word about the elopement.
Her cup of joy was full.

George was a prince. He was coining money; he snapped his fingers at
the notes, and wondered what Mr. Miller said now!

Flushed with success, he returned home one night after an unusually
good day’s sale, and, after kissing his wife--they were just
married,--and playfully chucking her under the chin, he vented his
exuberant satisfaction in a rhapsody on the joys of life.

“Happy as princes!” exclaimed he. “The money pours in as fast as I care
to handle it.”

“How glad I am!” responded Hannah, artlessly.

“We have nothing more to wish for, have we, Hannah?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know! Why, I thought you were perfectly happy.”

“So I am, dear George; but I was thinking, the other day, how pleasant
it would be to have a piano in the house,” replied she, with some
little diffidence.

“So it would, Hannah; what a dolt I have been not to think of it! I
have felt all along as though there was some thing wanting.”

“But I hope, George, you will not buy one if you cannot afford to do
so.”

“Afford to! Certainly I can; I shall be a rich man in one year. You
shall have one of Chickering’s best to-morrow.”

On the following day the piano came. George paid cash for it from his
surplus funds. But no sooner had the piano come than Hannah began to
feel that the rest of their furniture in the parlor did not correspond
with it. George agreed with the proposition, and their parlor furniture
was sent to Leonard’s forthwith. A new and expensive set was furnished,
and paid for in cash.

Thus things went on for several months. It took all of George’s profits
to keep house and buy the new things which were every day discovered to
be wanting.

The dull season had come on, and George suddenly found that there was
no more business to be done. He had not even money enough at the end
of six months to pay his second quarter’s rent, to say nothing of the
notes which came due at that time.


_CHAPTER III._

The six months had fully expired, even down to the last day of grace.

Hannah sat at the piano, playing “Home, sweet home,” anxiously waiting
the return of George. The hour at which he usually came home had gone
by, and she occasionally cast an impatient glance at the clock.

She had observed that for several days he had worn a troubled air,
and had even been so cross as to repulse her when she offered her
accustomed caress; but the thought that his business matters were in
an embarrassed condition never occurred to her. He had often boasted
of his success, and of course she had no reason to dread the calamity
which her father had pointed out to her before her marriage.

A violent pull at the door bell started her from the piano. A
rough-looking person was ushered into her presence.

“Very sorry, ma’am,” said he, with an awkward bow; “but I’ve come to
take possession.”

“What do you mean, sir?” exclaimed Hannah, affrighted by the crowd of
disagreeable thoughts that rushed to her brain.

“Why, simply, ma’am, that the notes haven’t been paid, and Mr.
Harrison’s creditors have attached the property. This furniture now
belongs to Messrs. Rowe & Co.”

The deputy sheriff, having placed a keeper over the goods, politely
bowed himself out, leaving Hannah a prey to a thousand anxious
forebodings.

The arrival of George was an intense relief to her.

“Just as I supposed!” exclaimed he. “My creditors have had their heads
together, and every thing has gone by the board at once.”

“Pray, what does it all mean, George?” asked Hannah.

“I have failed; my creditors have driven me into an assignment. I am a
beggar.”

“Why, George, I thought you were doing remarkably well.”

“I was; but, with all the business I have done, I doubt if I could ever
have met these notes.”

“But how much do you owe, George? Can’t you sell the piano, and pay it?”

“It would be only a drop in the bucket. To come right to the fact, I
suppose my creditors saw that I lived up to my income, and so it was no
use for them to be gentle. I must find a situation now as a salesman,
and we must give up this house, and board.”

“You ought not to have bought that piano; you know I didn’t want you to
if you couldn’t afford it.”

“And a thousand other things ought not to have been bought. If I had
saved the money, my creditors would probably have given me an extension
on my paying a part of their demands. But it is too late now; I have
been a fool. Your father was right after all.”

“I am afraid he was; but here he comes.”

“Six months after date,” said Mr. Miller, entering the room.

“You were right, sir; I have been a fool,” replied George, with due
humility.

“Well, the victory is half won when you see the error. But I have not
come to reproach you for your folly, George. How much do you owe?”

George stated the amount.

“Very well,” continued Mr. Miller. “I have already seen your creditors,
and with my name on your paper, they have agreed to give you an
extension.”

“Sir!” exclaimed George, starting back in amazement.

“But you must let Messrs. Rowe & Co. take these useless traps; your
house is furnished well enough for a prince.”

“George is fully sensible where the error lies, father; we are ready to
profit by the lesson.”

“All right. Young folks _think_ that old folks are fools, and old folks
_know_ that young ones are. Well, well; we must live and learn.”

“I am _very_ grateful to you, sir,” began George.

“There, there! that will do. All I desire is, your prosperity. When I
objected to your marriage, I foresaw the event which has now happened.
You have done remarkably well in your business; but the best business
in the world wouldn’t pay for a stock of goods in six months, to say
nothing about a thousand dollars in furniture and knick-knacks.”

       *       *       *       *       *

George went to work again on a better principle. When he entered a note
on his “Bills Payable,” it was not until after he had made a close
calculation upon the means of meeting it. He was successful at last,
though, like a majority of young men on the same street, he won his way
to success through failure and disaster, over the rough road of bitter
experience.

A smaller house was procured, and furnished in a neat and plain style,
and Hannah is quite as happy as she was during the honeymoon in her
more ample establishment, especially as George--who is now never
embarrassed by money matters--is always cheerful, contented, and withal
a loving and devoted husband; and the prospect now is, that he will be
so “_Six Months after Date_.”




A WORLD OF TROUBLES.


_CHAPTER I._

“I am so glad you have come, Thomas!” exclaimed Mrs. Butler, a pale,
care-worn young wife, as her husband entered the room in which she had
prepared the evening meal.

“Why, what is the matter _now_?” returned the husband, laying a wicked
emphasis upon the word “now,” as though he meant to imply that there
always was something the matter.

“Nothing; only I wanted you to bring in a pail of water, for I am _so_
tired, that I declare I can hardly keep upon my feet.”

“Is that all? I did not know but what the baby had had a fit, or got
scalded, or something of that sort.”

“Nothing of the kind; I have trouble enough to get along with, without
sickness in the family. I feel just as though I should die every night
when I get my work done;” and Mrs. Butler sighed, as she placed the
smoking tea upon the table, and threw herself into a chair, apparently
so exhausted that she could not have stood another moment.

“You must have a girl, Mary; you know I don’t want you to work so hard.
I have often told you so before,” said Mr. Butler.

“A girl, indeed! Can you afford to keep a girl, Thomas?”

“Certainly, I can. I am earning twelve dollars a week now, and I am
sure our expenses are not above eight. A dollar and a half a week added
to this sum would leave me a handsome surplus.”

“Just like you, Thomas; that is one of your calculations.”

“Certainly, that is one of _my_ calculations,” replied Mr. Butler, a
little tartly.

“I suppose you wouldn’t reckon any thing for a girl’s board,” sneered
the wife.

“A mere trifle.”

“Every thing is a mere trifle with you.”

Thomas stuffed half a hot biscuit into his mouth to help him keep his
temper.

“And then she would waste double her wages,” continued the lady.

“Pshaw! that is an old woman’s bugbear,” replied Butler, impatiently.

“Yes; that’s just the way you always talk.”

“It is correct talk, though.”

“Girls don’t waste, I suppose?”

“I presume they do, many of them; but you abominably exaggerate the
amount.”

“No, I don’t; I say they waste double their wages.”

“No such thing.”

“Ask any one who has kept them.”

“What articles do they waste to such an enormous extent?”

“Every thing--provisions, groceries; and they burn up twice as much
fuel as there is any kind of need of.”

“Twice as much?”

“Yes; _twice_ as much.”

“Let me see;” and Thomas pulled out a bit of paper and a pencil, and
went to figuring with all his might. “We use three tons of coal in six
months. Twice as much would be six tons, which would come to forty-two
dollars, or twenty-one dollars waste. That is eighty cents a week.”

“Clear waste!” exclaimed Mrs. Butler, with palpable horror depicted on
her countenance.

“Now, allow that she wastes one-half the provisions and one-half the
groceries, which is absurd, and she would just double my bills. They
were fifty-two dollars for the last six months, which makes a waste
of two dollars per week. Why, Mary, we have only made the waste to be
two dollars and eighty cents even with these figures. Double her wages
would be three dollars.”

“She would waste enough, as you would find out to your sorrow, if you
kept one,” added Mrs. Butler, not pleased with the state of her side of
the argument.

“You don’t believe she _could_ waste half the fuel and stores?”

Mrs. Butler did not believe it, but she did not like to say so.

“Probably, my dear, under your excellent supervision, she could not
possibly waste more than fifty cents a week.”

“Well, that is twenty-six dollars a year.”

“But I can afford to lose that, rather than that you should make a
slave of yourself.”

“I don’t want a girl; it would be more work to look after her than it
would be to do the work myself.”

“As you please, my dear.”

“I don’t want your friends to think, you have got an extravagant wife.”

“Fudge on my friends!”

“Yes, it is easy enough for _you_ to say so.”

“And for you, too, if you choose.”

“I don’t want to spend all we get.”

“Nor I, my dear; but, to be very plain with you, I had much rather do
it, than hear you everlastingly complain how hard you have to work.”

“Don’t I work hard?”

“I don’t know but you do.”

“Just think what I have to do.”

“Well, I have to work hard, too; but I am sure it does not make one
feel any better to be continually grumbling about it.”

“Who’s grumbling? Can’t a body speak without being accused of
grumbling?” said Mrs. Butler, rather pettishly.

“I only mean to say, that you work twice as hard with your imagination
as you do with your hands; your thoughts make the work hard.”

“Yes, it is easy for you to say so,” said the wife, wiping away the
tears from her wan cheeks.

“When have I come into the house, Mary, for the last six months, and
you have not told me a heap of troubles as big as a mountain? I can’t
stand it.”

“I never thought you _could_ be so harsh to _me_. You did not use to
speak to me in that way,” sobbed Mary, feeling that she was the most
cruelly used wife in the world.

“You irritate me with your troubles.”

“I can’t help my troubles; I do the best I can to keep your house in
order, and take good care of the baby.”

“I never found any fault with your management. I am abundantly pleased
with all you do, save and except your croaking and grumbling.”

“What can I do?”

“Go about your work cheerfully, and with a disposition to make the best
of every thing. By a cheerful and contented disposition, you will make
even the hardest day of toil a day of satisfaction. You look darkly
upon your lot, and that makes it black.”

“I can’t help my feelings.”

“Yes, you can, Mary. At any rate, you ought not to imbitter my
existence with your incessant complainings.”

“I have tried to make you happy.”

“If you have, you have signally failed; for it has come to that, I
almost hate to come into the house, so much do I dread to hear your
tale of woe.”

“I will try to do better.”

“Do, Mary; home will become a curse to me instead of the brightest spot
upon earth, as it ought to be, if you do not.”

The baby cried at this point of the conversation, and Mrs. Butler wiped
away her tears, and took the little cherub from the cradle where he had
been sleeping, all unconscious of the matrimonial squall which had been
blowing around him.


_CHAPTER II._

When Mrs. Butler was married, she was a bright, cheerful, and happy
maiden. For more than a year she and her devoted husband had not known
the meaning of matrimonial strife. It was a new state of existence to
her, and while the novelty of the thing lasted, she was as happy as the
day was long.

But in the course of events, she was deprived of the pleasure of going
abroad much, and the pretty home in which she had spent a year of
joy, began to rust on her imagination. Not that her husband was less
devoted; though he might not have been quite so dreamy and sentimental
as he was in the days of their courtship, yet he was all that a
reasonable wife could expect. He was indulgent, kind, and sympathized
deeply with her in all those matters wherein a young wife needs
tenderness and care.

Little Bobby was born; but the little stranger made such a heap of
work for the fond mother, that she declared she should die under the
infliction. She would not listen to her husband’s suggestion to keep a
girl. She had a kind of vanity in her composition, which led her to
endure rather than subject her husband’s purse to such an expenditure.
She feared folks would say she was not as “smart” as she wished to be
considered, or that Thomas’s relations would deem her extravagant and
lazy.

She continued to do her work, though each day was a day of misery.
Before she got breakfast, dinner, or tea, she sat and moped over it,
thinking what a terrible hard job it was for her to perform. She
dreaded washing day from about Friday morning; and over the washtub she
was as miserable as soapsuds and a rubbing-board could possibly make
her.

The reader may imagine that she was lazy; but I do not think so. She
lived in a “world of trouble;” she looked upon the dark side of every
thing. Of course, there were many hardships she was called upon to
endure--as who is not? She was obliged to keep occupied most of the
time in the duties of the household and the care of the baby. Her
position was undoubtedly one of trial and vexation, as those who are
experienced in these matters will readily understand.

But the principal difficulty was to be found in Mrs. Butler’s unhappy
disposition. She was not cheerful and contented with her lot. Her
morbid imagination magnified the little trials of every-day life into
monstrous woes, and she suffered intolerably in her mind, which was
communicated to the body. She was the most miserable of women--the most
unreasonably miserable.

Of course, her husband, who was of a directly opposite temperament,
was rendered miserable, also. Mrs. Butler seemed so wedded to her woe,
that every effort on his part to alleviate it was promptly repulsed.
He had grown disgusted. His wife was always complaining. He never came
into the house without being assailed by a relation of her woes. He
cursed his stars--blamed himself for ever becoming a husband.

But, then, poor fellow, what could he do? Mary was as gentle and
pleasant a maiden before her marriage as one often finds. She had never
been placed in a position to try her character. He might have heard her
fret over a new dress that did not fit, or something of that sort; but
he never dreamed that a tempest could ever blow out of such a little
cloud. It was only when she felt the cold touch of life’s realities,
that she showed out exactly what she was.

It was too late now; the mischief had been done. She was his wife;
she was the mother of little Bobby. He loved her still, though his
affections had been terribly shocked by her thoughtless grumbling.

Mary had promised to do better; but, alas for the vanity of human
promises, they were words written in sand. The habit had become
deep, rooted. Thomas was in despair. He had tried by threats and by
persuasions to make her reasonable, but all in vain. His house was a
hell to him. If she had scolded him, been negligent of her household
duties, a gadder in the street, a gossip--anything but a grumbler, he
felt that he could have endured it, loved her, and continued to be
happy.

But it was an ever present leaf of woe her countenance presented to
him, and when home had ceased to be a pleasant place, he gradually
absented himself, and the still loving but incorrigible wife smelt the
rum in his breath when he returned from his evening amusements.

[Illustration: A WORLD OF TROUBLE. Page 234.]

One night, about two months after the conversation we have narrated,
as the clock was striking the midnight hour, he was brought home,
helplessly drunk, in the arms of two watchmen, who had picked him up in
the street.

What a sight for a young and loving wife, to behold the father of her
child drunk! They placed him in bed, and she spent a sleepless night in
weeping over his senseless, imbruted form. O, the agony of that bitter
time! Her husband a drunkard! she a drunkard’s wife! Earth has its
miseries, but none like those of the inebriate’s wife.

Want, shame, the poorhouse, the court, and the prison rose before her
with terrible vividness. A train of woes--real woes,--so long she could
not see the end of it, marched in solemn procession before her. There
was her child in rags, her husband a homeless, idle, degraded sot.
There was the gaunt form of Hunger, the glaring eyes of the demons of
crime--there was every thing there, from which the heart of woman would
instinctively shrink.

Thomas rose next morning and ate his breakfast in silence--the silence
which shame seemed to impose upon him. He was about to leave his house
for his workshop, when Mary spoke.

“Thomas,” said she, in the subdued tones of anguish, while a flood of
tears rained down her wan cheek.

He looked at her, as though he had already divined what she meant to
say.

“Thomas, you can’t think how unhappy I was last night, when you
were--when you came home.”

“Well, what’s the matter now?” answered Thomas, sullenly.

“O, Thomas, last night!”

“Well, what of it?”

Mary was amazed that no appearance of contrition mitigated his flagrant
error.

“You don’t come home in the evening now.”

“No.”

“But you will come to-night, Thomas?”

“Perhaps I will.”

“Nay, you _will_?”

“What for?”

“Come for my sake, Thomas.”

“Your sake! Well, that _is_ a good one,” replied he, coarsely.

Mary was shocked.

“Last night, you were--were----” she could say no more.

“Yes, I _was_.”

“You were----”

“Drunk! Out with it.”

“O, Thomas!”

“Well?”

“What misery is in store for us!”

“Can’t help it.”

“Nay, Thomas, promise that you will not----”

“Get drunk,” laughed Thomas.

“Do not again.”

“Can’t promise.”

“O God! has it come to this!”

“Fact!”

Mary threw herself into a chair, and wept as though her heart would
break. The sight seemed to move the husband, who was not yet lost in
transgression. A tear stole into his eye and he bent over her and took
her hand.

“Mary, I have sinned.”

“You will not again?” said she, eagerly.

“But, Mary, is there no fault on your part?”

“My part?”

“My home is hateful to me. Even the presence of that sleeping, innocent
child removes not the curse which seems to hang over it.”

“Why, Thomas, what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Have I not often reasoned with you?”

“O God!” exclaimed Mary, burying her face between her hands, conscious
that the misery which menaced her was of her own seeking.

“I never will complain of anything again as long as I live!” she
continued.

“Ah, Mary, I have often heard you say so before.”

“Trust me, this time, Thomas.”

“I will, Mary.”

“Come home to-night; you shall find me all that you could wish.”

“Bless you, Mary. I trust for your sake as well as my own, and for the
sake of our own dear boy, that you may be true to your resolution.”

“I will, Thomas,” replied she, with a gathering smile, as her husband
kissed her.

“And I promise never again to taste the fatal cup. You shall be
the guardian of this my solemn pledge; for in no way can you more
effectually secure the keeping of my promise, than by observing your
own--in short, by making home happy.”

Again the husband kissed her, and then went to his work.


_CHAPTER III._

A drunkard’s wife! This was a real woe. What were all her little
vexations compared with it? Mary’s resolution was a firm one, and in
her earnestness to observe it, she knelt and prayed for strength from
above to enable her to be equal to the duty before her.

Last night a terrible fate had menaced her. The lot of a drunkard’s
wife--the most appalling woe that can overtake a woman--had threatened
to be her portion. The sombre cloud had risen, and her destiny was in
her own hands.

She knew her husband well enough to be satisfied that his pledge would
be held sacred--that, till she drove him from his home by her unamiable
peculiarity, he would be true to the words he had spoken.

Grumbling is only a habit. It may even have a root in the natural
temperament of the individual; but it is not an incurable disease. Mary
felt that happiness here and hereafter depended upon her fidelity to
the promise she had made--that a single complaining word would be like
a match placed near the magazine--and another word would involve her in
hopeless ruin.

But she had sense enough to know, and she strove to feel that it were
useless to avoid the word, while the disposition existed. It were
useless to whitewash a sepulchre--it is still “full of dead men’s
bones.” She determined to perform a radical cure. She resolved to _be_
contented, and then the hasty word would not be spoken.

She went about her daily duties with a feeling that a mountain had been
removed from her heart. She was cheerful--happy--happy to feel that it
was in her power to avert the terrible catastrophe which had menaced
her--that she could avoid the yawning abyss that was before her.

All her trials and vexations dwindled into trifles compared with the
fate which last night had been so vividly presented to her imagination,
and the comparison made her happy.

Punctual to his accustomed hour, Thomas came home. He had not drank any
thing, and he appeared cheerful and happy. She met him with a smiling
face, and never mentioned a word of the difficulty that had beset her.
She had even been so far as to draw a pail of water herself, and bring
up a hod of coal; but she said nothing about it.

They were happy again; but perhaps it was as much the effect in the
contrast as the actual change in the circumstances. Thomas fondled
little Bobby on his knees, and undressed and put him to bed himself.
Mary was delighted, and from her soul she prayed that her own weakness
might not dissolve the blissful picture of domestic happiness their
home at that moment presented.

A year passed by. Thomas was true to his vow, and Mary to hers.
Whenever things went wrong with her, and the old spirit rose in her
heart, her husband had only to say--

“You absolve me from my oath, Mary?” and she became gentle and cheerful
in an instant.

Those words were a charm. That solemn promise broken, and again the
poorhouse, the penitentiary, the bloated father, the ragged child, the
long procession of woes rose in her mind, and she was true to herself.

But she really improved her disposition. The habit was radically cured.
The home of Thomas Butler is no more a “world of trouble;” it is “home,
sweet home”--the abode of the angel of contentment, the dwelling-place
of truth and love, and the most effectual preventive of the curse of
drunkenness.

Our story is not all a story--it is true to the letter. We beg the
complaining wife to ask herself if she is not making for her husband
a path to the drunkard’s grave--for herself and her children a bed of
thorns.




“SEND FOR THE DOCTOR.”


_CHAPTER I._

My excellent old uncle Jesse--peace to his ashes!--used to tell me that
every thing depended on the “bringing up;” and a little experience in
this world of strange men and things--but a very good world, for all
that--has convinced me that he was considerably more than half right.

[Illustration]

Some people have learned to depend upon themselves in the hour of
peril. The energy, firmness, and decision of their own characters are
their sword, shield, and steed when

    “Giant danger threatening stands.”

Their fortress is within themselves. They have been taught by their
instructors or by their circumstances to rely upon their own strength.

Others are weak, nervous and vacillating in the presence of danger,
throwing the burden of their salvation on the shoulders of the first
“Good Samaritan” who approaches them. Their tower of strength is
the doctor, the minister, the lawyer, or some sympathizing friend.
They have never been taught, either by their instructors or their
circumstances, to depend upon their own resources, moral, mental, and
physical, for guidance and support.

If the house takes fire, one puts it out; but another runs to the
church and rings the bell for his neighbors. If Tommy wheezes, papa,
who has no confidence in himself, sends for the doctor; while mamma,
who has been taught from childhood to think and act for herself, is in
favor of giving the little fellow “an onion and a little goose oil.”

But extremes are always silly or dangerous, as the case may be. People
laugh at papa, because he is so ridiculously timid; and mamma delays
sending for the physician till Tommy is almost dead with the croup.
One lets his house burn down while he is summoning his friends to help
him put it out; and another’s is destroyed because he attempted to put
it out alone, when he actually needed the assistance of his neighbors.
After all, it requires considerable judgment to get along in the world.

We have no intention of writing a homily on the proper conduct of men
and women in connection with the casualties of life. Whether or not it
be expedient to send for the doctor when the baby sneezes, we leave
to the judgment of the parties immediately interested. We have a story
to tell, which illustrates both sides of the question; and either
disputant in the important controversy is at liberty to appropriate the
moral to sustain his or her cherished theory.

Millbrook is a manufacturing village, and the most important person
there, at the time of which we write, was Mr. Milton Barrington, who,
to use the metaphorical language of the villagers, “run” the principal
mill. Though quite a young man, he had amassed a handsome fortune, and
by his enterprise, public spirit, and general character as a person of
integrity and fairness, had attained the most influential position in
the village. People looked to him for advice and assistance in their
extremity, and no one ever thought of making a motion in town meeting
to build a new school house, lay out a road, or of making any important
movement, until he had been consulted. The people were mainly on his
side in politics, religion, and philosophy. Whatever he did, he was
pretty sure to have plenty of imitators.

Mr. Barrington had spent the flower of his manhood in the pursuit of
wealth; and the idea of getting married did not occur to him till he
had reached his thirtieth year. Probably he would not have thought of
such a thing then, if a pretty and otherwise eligible young lady had
not at that time crossed his path, reminding him of his duty in the
premises.

Three years after, we find him in the full enjoyment of all the
blessings of the connubial state, and the father of a pretty little boy
just eighteen months old. Mr. Barrington was the happiest of fathers,
and to use grandma’s enthusiastic expression, “he set his life by that
boy.”

It was a cold night in December. Mr. Barrington was reading Mrs. Stowe’s
Sunny Memories to his wife, while little Charley lay asleep in his crib
beside them.

The clock struck ten, and as the father laid aside the book, Charley
coughed rather hoarsely, and waking up, began to scream most lustily.
Mrs. Barrington took him up and tried to quiet him; but he obstinately
refused to be quieted.

Mr. Barrington was alarmed. Charley was not accustomed to have such
freaks.

“What do you think ails him?” asked he of his wife.

“He has got a little cold, probably.”

“Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?” continued Mr.
Barrington, nervously.

“Not the least need of it.”

“But the croup, my dear?”

“That cough was nothing like the croup.”

Mr. Barrington was comforted by this assurance, and in a little while,
Charley got tired of crying, and went to sleep again.

The child was carried up stairs, and they retired. But Mr. Barrington
was not wholly satisfied. The croup was so sudden and so fatal that the
cough he had heard seemed to haunt his imagination. He could not go
to sleep for thinking of it. He trembled at the thought of losing the
darling little one. He had passed almost into a confirmed old bachelor
before his marriage, and the diseases of children had never received
much consideration from him. He had heard people tell how dreadful
the croup was, and only a week before the only child of one of his
overseers had died with it, after an illness of scarcely twelve hours.

The clock on the village church struck one, and he was still awake. His
wife slept soundly. She was better acquainted with the nature of the
dreadful disease, and had felt no alarm when the child coughed.

While he was thus thinking of what might possibly happen, Charley
coughed again, and jumping up in the bed, began to scream as he had in
the evening.

Mrs. Barrington took him in her arms.

“Did you hear him cough?” asked the trembling father.

“I did not. His screams awoke me.”

“Don’t he breathe hard? Are you sure he has not got the croup?”

“I do not think he has. He seems to breathe freely,” replied Mrs.
Barrington. “He is a little hoarse, but I do not think it is any thing
serious.”

“I am afraid it is. Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?”

“There is no occasion to do so.”

“I am really alarmed about him.”

“Do as you wish; though I think it is only a little cold.”

Mr. Barrington was satisfied it was the croup, and the consent of his
wife, thus doubtfully given, was all he required. The “man of all work”
was called up and despatched for Dr. Broadbeam, with a request that the
physician would come with all possible haste.


_CHAPTER II._

Mrs. Barrington used all her maternal arts to quiet the little
patient. He did not appear to suffer any pain, and his respiration
was apparently as free as ever. In a short time, her efforts were
successful, and Charley sunk away into a peaceful slumber.

It was half an hour before Dr. Broadbeam arrived. It was possible
he had used all convenient despatch in waiting upon his influential
patron; but being a man of two hundred pounds, his swiftest movements
were necessarily slow.

Dr. Broadbeam had the reputation of being a very skilful physician; but
unfortunately he had such a “grouty” way of dealing with his patients
and patrons, that his popularity in Millbrook was on the decline.
People did not like to be “snapped up” when they were sick; and the
only circumstance that enabled Dr. Broadbeam to retain even a moiety
of the practice of the village, was the fact that Mr. Barrington still
employed him.

At the suggestion of a small portion of the population, who had the
hardihood to break away from Mr. Barrington’s lead, a young physician
of good parts, and with an easy and pleasing address, had been induced
to locate himself in the village. Dr. Broadbeam raved like a madman
at the advent of the interloper, stigmatized him as a quack, and
obstinately refused even to be civil to him. But when a year in the
young doctor’s professional experience had passed away without sensibly
augmenting his practice, he condescended to laugh at him, and call him
a fool. The crusty old leech felt that he could have every thing his
own way; that his skill and experience were amply sufficient to offset
his morose address and sour temper.

To get out of a warm bed in the middle of a cold December night, is
never agreeable to any body, unless perchance the house be on fire; and
young gentlemen who aspire to the honors of the medical craft ought to
think of this before they choose the profession.

To Dr. Broadbeam night duty was especially unpleasant. He was rather
indolent and luxurious in his habits, and always made it a rule to
believe that poor folks could wait till morning before they had the
doctor. But when Mr. Barrington summoned him, why, it was quite another
affair.

“What’s the matter with the child?” growled Dr. Broadbeam, as he
entered the apartment.

“I don’t know, doctor, but I am very much afraid of the croup,” replied
Mr. Barrington, handing the physician a chair.

“Humph!”

“The croup prevails to some extent in the village, you are aware,”
added the nervous father.

“Always does at this season of the year,” replied the doctor, bending
over the child to listen to his respiration.

“Does he breathe naturally, doctor?” asked Mrs. Barrington, to whom her
husband’s alarm had to some extent communicated itself.

“Naturally?” sneered the physician. “Nothing under the sun ails the
child.”

“What made him cry so, doctor?” inquired Mrs. Barrington.

“Cry so, madam? cry so! You gave him too much supper, madam; and I
am tumbled out of my bed to see a child that has the stomach ache!”
growled the doctor, enraged when he thought of the comfortable bed
which he had been so unceremoniously compelled to leave.

“But his cough, doctor?” said Mr. Barrington, controlling his
indignation at the rudeness of the physician.

“Mr. Barrington, you are a fool!” exclaimed Dr. Broadbeam, as he
violently jammed his hat upon his head. “Do you think I am to leave my
bed on a cold night like this, whenever your baby sneezes? Humph!”

“You are a physician, are you not?” asked Mr. Barrington.

He was angry; but keeping down his indignation, he put the question
with tolerable calmness.

“A physician! Of course I am; but is that any reason why I should be
turned out in the dead of the night for nothing at all?” replied the
enraged leech.

“You chose your own profession.”

“What if I did?”

“What is your charge for a night visit?”

“Five dollars, sir! Five dollars!” answered the doctor, maliciously.

“And you believe that I am able to pay it?”

“I do, or I would not have come.”

“That is enough, sir; if I am content to pay five dollars for the
assurance of a physician that nothing ails my child, I take it that I
am at liberty to do so.”

“Humph!”

“When I send for a physician, I consider it a business transaction. He
gives me his advice for the money I pay him. If his conduct entitles
him to be cherished as a friend--as an angel sent with healing balm for
the soul as well as the body,”--and Mr. Barrington looked sternly at
the doctor,--“I cheerfully accord him his due.”

“Well, sir!”

“If I send for my millwright, I do not leave it optional with him to
determine whether I need him or not. If he does not choose to come,
there are other millwrights in the state.”

“Do you compare a physician to a millwright?” sneered the doctor.

“If I send for my millwright to come and tell me whether my water
wheel needs repairs, he comes; he examines it; perhaps he decides that
nothing is the matter with it, and that I ought to have known that it
was perfectly sound. If he should reproach me for sending for him, I
should call him no business man. I pay him for his time, though he lift
not an axe.”

“Humph!”

“It is a great satisfaction to me to know that nothing ails my child. I
am able and willing to pay for that assurance.”

“Pay! Do you take me for a hireling?” exclaimed the doctor, with a
fresh outbreak of anger, as he abruptly turned on his heel and left the
chamber.


_CHAPTER III._

On the 1st of January, Dr. Broadbeam’s bill for professional services,
amounting to over two hundred dollars, was presented to Mr. Barrington,
and was promptly paid. He was not one of that numerous and highly
respectable class of people who make it a point to grumble at doctor’s
bills.

The manufacturer was a peaceful, prudent man, not disposed to stir
up strife in the neighborhood; so he kept silent in regard to his
unpleasant interview with the physician.

About a month after, Mr. Barrington was roused from his slumbers at
midnight by the sound of an ominous cough from Charley. But this time
it did not awake the little fellow. The fond father was still fearful
of the croup; yet the child slept so soundly that his fears subsided,
and he was just dropping asleep again when the cough was repeated.

In a few minutes the child awoke, and his respiration began to grow
difficult.

“What do you think?” asked he of his wife.

“He is a little croupy; but I do not think there is any occasion to
be alarmed. I will give him the ‘Hive Sirup,’ which I doubt not will
immediately relieve him.”

Mr. Barrington got up and brought the sirup. A dose was given, and the
parents waited with anxiety the effect.

An hour elapsed, and the child was no better.

“Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?” said Mr. Barrington.

“No, I can get along very well.”

“But the croup; hasn’t he got it?”

“He has a croupy cough, which may lead to croup, if it is not attended
to,” replied Mrs. Barrington, giving the little sufferer another
spoonful of the sirup.

Two hours more passed away, and instead of getting better, the child
grew worse every minute. But Mrs. Barrington did not like to send for
the doctor. In the family of her father, a physician had rarely ever
been called, and she had come to regard the faculty with something like
contempt.

“He grows worse,” said Mr. Barrington, beginning to lose confidence in
the efficacy of his wife’s treatment.

“The medicine has not had time to produce its effect yet,” replied Mrs.
Barrington. “He will begin to grow better soon.”

“I think we had better send for the doctor,” added the anxious father.
“It may be too late in the morning.”

“I do not want any more fuss with the doctor. The last time he came, he
made me so nervous that it took me a week to get over it.”

“We will not have Dr. Broadbeam, then.”

“He will be better soon.”

“Do not delay it too long.”

Another hour elapsed, and still the little sufferer was no better. His
breathing was extremely difficult, and the cough was more frequent and
hard. The mother’s remedy had apparently produced no effect whatever,
and she began to be alarmed herself.

“Perhaps you had better send for the doctor,” said she.

“Dr. Broadbeam?”

“I don’t know.”

“I determined, when I paid his last bill, never to employ him again.”

“Dr. Slender has been very successful in croup,” added Mrs. Barrington,
“and I should feel just as much confidence in him as in Dr. Broadbeam.”

“I will send for him.”

In less than fifteen minutes after the messenger left the house, the
young physician arrived. Of course he was not a little astonished to be
roused from his bed by a summons from the “leading man of the village;”
but he had chosen his profession, and considered it a duty to go
whenever and wherever he was called.

Dr. Slender examined the child.

“You should have procured a physician before,” said he, shaking his
head ominously.

Mr. Barrington’s heart rose to his throat. His frame trembled, and he
was so nervous that he was forced to cling to the bedpost for support.

“Is he dangerous, doctor?” asked he.

“Three hours ago, it would not have been a bad case. I doubt if he can
be saved now. But there is no time to be lost. Bring me some cold water
and some linen cloths.”

Dr. Slender gave the child a portion of medicine, and applied himself
with so much energy to the means of effecting a cure, that the parents
were inspired with hope, and felt entire confidence in his skill.

Morning dawned upon the little patient, and he was apparently in the
last stages of the fell disease. Dr. Slender still remained by him, and
was now adopting the last resort known to the physician. The agony of
the parents can be conceived by those who have watched over the death
bed of a cherished little one, but it cannot be described.

Providence smiled upon the young physician, and he had the
inexpressible satisfaction, before noon, of declaring that the child
would recover. A pæan of praise rose from the grateful hearts of the
devoted parents. In a few days little Charley was as well as ever, and
the reputation of Dr. Slender was made.

The star of Dr. Broadbeam had set. The young physician in a few months
secured the entire practice of the place. The potent influence of Mr.
Barrington was all he needed to insure his success. He was polite and
affable in his professional intercourse with his patients, and the
contrast between him and his crusty rival was so striking, that every
body wondered how they had been able to endure the latter.

Dr. Broadbeam was compelled to “leave town.” Whether or not he has
learned that a decent deportment towards his patients is expedient, we
are unable to say. But we infer that he has, from the fact that, unable
to establish himself again in practice, he turned his attention to the
manufacture and sale of patent medicine; and “Broadbeam’s Celebrated
Chinese Antibilious Pill” are as popular as advertising and false
certificates can make them.

Mr. Barrington has decided that it is best to send for the doctor when
the baby sneezes. Dr. Slender is always willing to come when he is sent
for, and laughingly maintains that he is just as well satisfied to
pocket his fee for saying nothing ails the baby, as for giving it an
emetic.




“FOUR KINDS OF CAKE.”


_CHAPTER I._

“It is folly, wife!” exclaimed Mr. Jotham Somes, a matter-of-fact,
plain-spoken sort of man, to his better half. “There you have got
no less than four kinds of cake, three kinds of pies, two kinds of
preserves, to say nothing of knicknacks and gimcracks.”

The fact was, that Mrs. Somes was having the minister and his wife
and two grown-up daughters to take tea with her. She had been engaged
for three days in the preparations, and such a display of nice things
was calculated to astonish the minister and his family--to give them
a two-fold surprise--first, at the variety and extent of her culinary
resources, and, secondly, at her folly in attempting to make a display
far beyond her means.

The Someses were in comfortable circumstances. Mr. Somes was a farmer,
and probably his income might have amounted to four hundred dollars per
annum.

Mrs. Somes was a prudent, careful housewife, who wasted no more of her
culinary skill upon her own family than was absolutely necessary; but
she delighted in making a grand appearance when she had company. Mr.
Somes and the boys were sometimes so ill-natured as to growl at her
careful catering when the house contained no company, and it cut them
to the bone to see such extraordinary preparations for the neighbors.
It was “kiss the cook” when they were alone; but the board groaned with
plenty when there were guests present.

Mr. Jotham Somes had just come from the sitting room where the table,
with all its tempting array of viands was spread. He did not like it a
bit, and after passing the time of day with the parson and his family,
he proceeded to the kitchen, where his wife was just taking the hot
biscuits out of the oven.

“What do you mean by folly, I should like to know?” replied Mrs. Jotham
Somes, somewhat tartly.

She was a second wife, and having been redeemed from one of the advance
stages of maidenhood, her temper had grown a little sour before she
became a wife.

“The folly of setting a table as you have yours,” replied the husband.
“I should think you were going to have the president and the royal
family to take tea with you.”

“I am going to have the Rev. Mr. Meeklie and his family.”

“But I can’t afford such extravagance as this. You will ruin me.”

“I will take care of my business, if you will of yours,” returned the
lady, slamming the oven door.

“Perhaps this is not my business.”

“No, I’m sure it is not.”

“Who pays for all them gewgaws and gimcracks?”

“You do, of course.”

“But it is none of my business?”

“No; I never thought before you were so confounded mean,” said the
lady, her face reddening with anger.

“Mean! I’m not mean. But when you get victuals for your own family, you
think almost any thing is good enough for them. We never see any pies,
and cakes, and knicknacks.”

“Do you think I’m going to make pies and cakes for the men folks to eat
every day?” retorted the indignant housekeeper.

“Then don’t do it for company. What is good enough for me is as good as
I can afford to give my visitors.”

“I really believe if you had your way, you would have me as mean with
company as the Smiths.”

“The Smiths are as good folks and as liberal as any in town; and I’ll
warrant Parson Meeklie thinks a heap more of them than he does of you,
with all your four kinds of cake.”

“You’re a fool, Mr. Somes!”

“I am fool enough to know that folks are not judged by the quantity of
sweet cakes they put upon the table when they have company. I repeat
it--there is no better folks in town than the Smiths.”

“I s’pose not; but they had nothing but cold biscuit and molasses
gingerbread when we took tea there.”

“That’s as good as they can afford; but it is no better than they have
every day, and I admire their independence.”

“They’re contemptible, mean folks, there!”

“Why? Because they don’t attempt to make folks believe they live
better than they do? For my part, I don’t think it is any better than
hypocrisy to make such a parade as you do, especially when it is hard
work for me and the boys to get a decent meal of victuals.”

“Did any body ever hear the like?” groaned the lady, who had by this
time arrived at that pitch of excitement when tears are more effective
than words.

“Perhaps they never did; but if ever I see any thing of this sort
again, they will be pretty likely to hear of it,” replied Mr. Somes,
throwing off his blue frock, and commencing his preparations for taking
tea with the minister.


_CHAPTER II._

The plate of hot biscuit was placed in the midst of the profusion of
fancy eatables with which the table was crowded. The minister and his
family were duly seated, and the ceremony was proceeding decently and
in order.

Mrs. Somes had not wholly recovered from the excitement of the
interview in the kitchen, and her hand trembled slightly as she handed
Mrs. Meeklie her tea. Mr. Somes had donned his best blue coat, with
brass buttons, which had done duty as a Sunday garment for the past
fifteen years.

He seemed to be somewhat uneasy; and though he and the minister had
always been on the best of terms, his answers were too short and crusty
for a courteous host.

“Won’t you pass the biscuit to Mrs. Meeklie, husband?” said Mrs. Somes,
with her sweetest smile, albeit not very sweet at that.

Mr. Somes did pass the biscuit to Mrs. Meeklie, and she took one; but
when he passed them to Mr. Meeklie, he smilingly declined.

“No, I thank you, Mr. Somes; I never eat hot bread. It does not agree
with me,” said he.

Mrs. Somes passed the cold bread, thinking all the time how very
uncivil it was in the parson to refuse the hot biscuit she had taken so
much pains to prepare.

But Mr. Meeklie was very respectful to his stomach; for he found, when
insulted and imposed upon, that it was tyrannical and disagreeable;
and he paid more deference to his digestive organs than he did to the
feelings of his vain parishioners.

“My biscuit are not very nice; I did not have as good luck as I
generally do,” suggested Mrs. Somes, as Mrs. Meeklie took a second cake.

“Better,” interposed Mr. Somes.

The lady looked at him with very evident marks of displeasure.

“They are very nice,” said the parson’s wife.

“Take a little more of this quince preserve, Miss Meeklie. I dare say
it is not so nice as your mother makes; but the truth is----”

“It has stood too long,” interrupted Mr. Somes. “The jar has not been
opened since you were here last fall.”

Mrs. Somes looked daggers; but the parson very considerately asked Mr.
Somes whether he had done planting just at that moment, and her anger
evaporated without any unpleasant effects.

“Husband, won’t you pass that cake to Mr. Meeklie?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Somes; I never eat cake. Your bread is very good; I
will thank you for some more.”

“Really, Mr. Meeklie, you will take some of this cake? It is not very
rich; there is very little butter in it.”

“Not any, I thank you; I never eat cake, unless it be something very
simple, such as gingerbread or molasses cake.”

What a calamity! Four kinds of cake and the parson wouldn’t touch one
of them!

“But you will take some of these jumbles; I made them on purpose for
you.”

“That’s a fact, Mr. Meeklie,” added Mr. Somes, maliciously.

He would further have added that his wife never made pies and cakes for
her own family; but he was afraid of frightening the parson.

“You must excuse me. I doubt not they are very nice; but I have to be
careful.”

Mrs. Meeklie and her two grown-up daughters were more courteous, and
each nibbled a small bit of the rich pound cake; but they seemed to do
it against their consciences, and against their better judgment.

The truth was, they felt embarrassed by the extraordinary display Mrs.
Somes had made. They did not feel at home. The whole affair was too
set and artificial to be enjoyed, and at an early hour the whole party
withdrew, mentally determining to make it a long time before they took
tea with Mrs. Somes again.


_CHAPTER III._

“Wife, where is the piece of meat I sent home for dinner?” asked Farmer
Somes, as he and the boys came in for their noonday meal, on the day
following the tea party.

The farmer glanced inquiringly at the table which was spread before
him. Involuntarily his nasal organ contracted longitudinally; it would
not be polite to say he “turned up his nose,” though such was the fact
beyond the possibility of denial.

Farmer Somes was not, in any sense, an epicure. He liked a plain,
substantial diet, that “which was good, and enough of it,” as he
forcibly expressed his ideas of table economy.

Lest the reader should suppose he was one of those grouty, ill-natured
“feeders,” who would grumble at the ambrosia and nectar of the gods,
we deem it necessary to particularize the articles on the board of the
lady who placed four kinds of cake before company.

Certainly there was variety enough to satisfy the most fickle taste. On
a broken plate--the best dishes were religiously reserved to the use of
company--was the half of one sausage and two thirds of another, making
one sausage and one sixth, all told. They were partially embedded in a
petrified sea of suspicious-looking fat, and altogether, the aspect of
the dish was singularly forbidding.

On a white plate, with a long black fracture extending quite across
it, lay, in an aggregated mass, three dozen baked beans, and an
infinitesimal fragment of a pork rind. This was an antiquity. Farmer
Somes and the boys had a very distinct remembrance of having seen
this dish every day during the previous fortnight, proving that Mrs.
Somes was not only one of the most economical, but one of the most
persevering dames in the world. The farmer and the boys had virtually
said they would not eat those same beans, and Mrs. Somes virtually said
they should.

On a worn-out blue plate, superannuated, and “nicked” in a thousand
places, were four pork bones, looking as though they had been preyed
upon by that army of mice which Whittington’s cat destroyed. These
bones had seen service during the last twelve days; the joint, of
which they were the disintegrated members, had graced the table just a
fortnight before.

There were sundry other articles, antique, old fashioned “titbits,”
which might have been set before Noah and his friends in the ark. Six
long red potatoes, unpeeled, even unsprouted, completed the array of
edibles, ornamental and substantial.

The farmer’s nose contracted as before related.

“Where is the meat I sent home?”

“Hanging in the well.”

“Hadn’t we better eat it?”

“I want it for company next Sunday.”

“The ---- ahem! Company again?”

“I expect my brother will dine with us then, and I want something fit
to set before him.”

Mr. Somes looked sulky.

“And you mean to starve me and the boys in the mean time?”

“I should like to know if there is not enough for you?” said the dame,
pointing at the table.

Farmer Somes turned up his nose.

“Did I ever refuse to buy victuals when you wanted it?” said he, rather
sternly.

“Not that I know of; but I didn’t suppose you wanted to buy fresh meat
_every_ day,” returned the wife, sourly. “I am sure I try to be as
economical as I can.”

“Four kinds of cake, which nobody would touch, I suppose is prudent,
ain’t it?”

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Somes; I am glad to find you at home,” said Mr.
Meeklie, walking into the room unannounced.

Good gracious! the minister, and with such a table as that spread
before the family! What a commentary on four kinds of cake for company!

Mrs. Somes was all confusion. Though the parson intended to look right
at the farmer, she could see that more than once his eyes wandered over
the table.

“Glad to see you, parson; sit down and take some dinner with us,” said
Mr. Somes, shaking the minister’s offered hand.

“Thank you; I don’t care if I do,” replied Mr. Meeklie. “I have a long
walk to take before I return home.”

Farmer Somes was pointing him to a chair, when the lady interposed.

“We have got a picked-up dinner to-day. Husband sent home a joint of
veal; but it didn’t get here till half after eleven; so I had no time
to cook it.”

“Got here by eight o’clock,” said Farmer Somes; “no fibs to the parson.”

“But if you will wait only a few moments, I will fry some of the veal.”

“Sit down, parson; it is every day fare; but then, what is good enough
for me is good enough for my friends.”

“Right, Mr. Somes,” replied the minister, drawing up his chair. “My
business relates to the new bell for the meeting house. I am carrying
round the subscription paper.”

“I am with you, parson.”

Farmer Somes was in most malicious good humor, and, with a broad laugh
on his honest phiz, he opened the paper the minister gave him.

“Smith, twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars!” exclaimed Mrs. Somes; “I should not think he could
afford it.”

“He gives his friends nothing but gingerbread,” said the farmer. “Put
me down for thirty; we have four kinds of cake.”

The parson consumed one “long red,” and one of the vulgar fractions of
a cold sausage. He preferred brown bread to white, and wouldn’t touch
any of the pies which the prudent housekeeper set before him.

Mrs. Somes was awfully mortified. Her reputation was sacrificed, and
Farmer Somes never again had occasion to find fault with her for making
a vain show of three kinds of pies, two kinds of preserves, and four
kinds of cake.




EXTREMES MEET;

OR,

FACT AND FICTION.


_CHAPTER I._

“What are you reading, sis?”

“Hard Times.”

“A novel!”

“Yes; why not? Dickens’s last new novel, and a capital thing it is,
too.”

The two ladies, between whom this conversation passed, were sisters,
and nieces of one of the better class of New England farmers, with
whom they resided. ’Squire Fairbank, without being a very brilliant
man, had acquired considerable distinction in the village where
he lived, probably because, besides being “worth money,” he was a
straightforward, conservative, reliable man, and had frequently served
the town in an acceptable manner, both in the legislature, and as
moderator in town meeting. He was the most notable man in the village,
and won the title of ’Squire, which was universally accorded to him,
simply by being a very respectable person and a man of influence.

Susan and Mary Fairbank were orphans, inheriting from their father the
very pretty little sum of five thousand dollars each. Both had attained
their majority, and consequently were in full possession of their
portions, untrammelled even by the authority of as indulgent a guardian
as ’Squire Fairbank had proved to be.

They had been well educated at a celebrated female seminary in the
vicinity of Boston, and as a matter of course, had brought home to
the quiet village of Poppleton many strange notions and remarkable
peculiarities. But they were sensible girls in the main, and though
their habits and education elevated them above the reigning _ton_ of
the place, it was generally conceded that they knew “what was what,”
and were not “a mite more stuck up” than would naturally have been
expected.

Mary and Susan were essentially different in temperament and
disposition. The former was exceedingly open and free-hearted, while
the latter was rather disposed to truckle to the formality of the
world, or to the circumstances in which she happened to be placed. Mary
never asked what the world would say or think, and while her notions
of duty were very clearly defined, she chose to be independent and
straightforward. People said she “took after” her father.

Susan, on the contrary, was nicely sensitive to the good opinion of
others. She had not the energy to do any thing in opposition to popular
sentiment. Indeed, she was very much like some of the distinguished
public servants at Washington, who do every thing with an eye to a
reëlection or to government patronage.

A short time before our story opens, a young minister had been settled
in Poppleton, and being a single man, ’Squire Fairbank had consented,
as a special favor, to receive him into his house. The Rev. Mr.
Carlisle was universally allowed to be a very promising young man. He
was talented, had a graceful elocution, and, what pleased the young
ladies better still, was decidedly a handsome person. Those who were
not much influenced by talent, elocution, and personal beauty, thought
he was rather bigoted for one so young, and hoped that time would wear
off the rough corners of his repulsive theology.

Susan Fairbank was deeply interested in the young clergyman, and as
a natural consequence to one of her vacillating temperament, became
deeply interested in spiritual things. We do not believe she had any
intention of playing the hypocrite; but her devotion to the young
minister involuntarily led her to assume an interest, which, if Mr.
Carlisle had been old, ugly, or married, she would not have felt.

“A novel, sis! only think of it!” exclaimed Susan, holding up both
hands with pious horror.

“Pray, Susan, how long is it since you have possessed this holy
repugnance to novels? It was only last winter that I saw you reading
The Children of the Abbey,” returned Mary, laughing heartily.

“I have not read one since, and I never mean to again.”

“Fudge!”

“What do you think Mr. Carlisle would say if he should see you reading
a novel?”

“I shouldn’t care what he said.”

“Why, Mary!”

“I shouldn’t; if he does not like it, he may whistle for all me.”

“Don’t talk so, Mary.”

“Why will you make a fool of yourself, Susan? Mr. Carlisle cares no
more for you than he does for the fifth wheel of a coach; I would not
stand in such fear of him for the world.”

“Fear of him! I do not fear him; I only respect him as a very good man.”

“You have set your cap for him; but let me tell you to be more
independent, or you never will catch him,” said Mary, laughing.

“How absurd you talk!”

“Do I?”

Susan fell to biting her finger nail--a very vulgar habit, by the
way--and to think of something which her sister had no difficulty in
discerning.

“Do you really love him, Susan?” asked Mary.

“Love him! No; I never thought of such a thing.”

Perhaps she never did.

“What makes you go to all the prayer meetings, and mope round the house
like a sick owl, then?”

“I think I am under conviction,” replied Susan, demurely.

“Conviction of what?”

“Conviction of sin.”

“Conviction that Mr. Carlisle is a very handsome fellow, more like.”

“How absurd you are!”

“And I have heard a report round town, that you were going to join the
church.”

“I have spoken to Mr. Carlisle about it.”

Mary looked serious for a moment.

“If you really feel so, I commend your conduct; but I advise you not to
be too hasty. Examine your heart attentively, and do not bring scandal
upon the church by having side motives. But here comes Mr. Carlisle,”
said Mary, as she again turned her attention to the fascinating pages
of Hard Times.

[Illustration: EXTREMES MEET. Page 267.]


_CHAPTER II._

The young minister entered the room. Susan had taken up Saints’ Rest,
which lay by her, and commenced reading where she had left off, when
she saw Mr. Carlisle coming up the yard. As he came into the room
she laid down the book, and looked, for all the world, as though she
had not a friend in the world. The assuming of this appearance was
involuntary on her part; it was in accordance with her nature.

Mr. Carlisle seated himself by her side, and commenced catechising her
in regard to the impression the contents of the book produced upon her
mind--whether it afforded her consolation in her troubled mind--and
finally whether she really thought she had a hope. To all these queries
Susan replied in a satisfactory manner, assuring the handsome young
shepherd that she had been much edified by her reading.

There was a smile of mischief playing upon the pretty and expressive
face of Mary, as she peered over the top of Hard Times, to observe
the ghostly interview. She could see that Mr. Carlisle engaged in
the conversation with her sister merely as a matter of professional
interest--sincerely, it is true, but with no unusual interest in the
penitent. He regarded her as a wandering sheep, whom it was his duty to
bring into the fold.

But she compassionated her sister, who had deluded herself into the
belief that she could win the heart of the shepherd by becoming one of
his sheep; and she was provoking enough to tell her that instead of
making a sheep, she had made a calf of herself.

When the minister had finished his professional counsel, he turned to
Mary. As he did so, an involuntary smile came upon his lips. It was not
the smile of a ghostly father, but of a young man who has flesh in his
heart and blood in his veins.

Mary laid down her book as she noticed his intention to address her.

“What are you reading, Miss Fairbank?” asked he.

“Hard Times,” promptly replied Mary.

“A novel?”

“Yes, sir.”

The jaw of the young minister dropped down two inches.

“Do you like it?”

“O, very much, indeed!” replied Mary, with wicked enthusiasm; “I admire
Dickens’s of all the novels I ever read.”

“Do you make a practice of reading novels?”

“I seldom read anything else. I did read Reveries of a Bachelor and
Dream Life.”

The minister shook his head.

“I take the newspapers, and I always read them through--stories,
poetry, sentiment, editorials, and all.”

“Will you allow me to suggest some reading for you? and I should take
the greatest pleasure in lending you the books.”

“Thank you.”

“Baxter’s Call to the Unconverted is an excellent book for----.”

“It is _so_ stupid!”

Mr. Carlisle was horrified.

“I would not be hired to read it.”

“Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, perhaps, would suit your taste better.”

“I have read it; but don’t you call that a novel?”

“An allegory.”

“If I mistake not, I saw you reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I’m sure that
is a novel, and no better novel either than any of Dickens’s.”

“It is a moral and philanthropic work.”

“So are Dickens’s works. Indeed, I have never read a novel from which a
great deal of good might not be obtained, though I know there are such.”

“Mere fictions generally have a debasing tendency.”

“I judge novels as I do anything else--by their own merits. If I
understand you, Mr. Carlisle, you object to works of fiction, as such,
and not on account of any evil they may contain.”

“Certainly.”

“You insist that the book must be true in its narrative in order to be
good.”

“I do.”

“Then you despise the teachings of Him you profess to serve. He spoke
in parables--in fiction. I do not understand the Prodigal Son to be a
narrative of facts.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Then why may not Scott, Dickens, Irving, Miss Bremer, and Miss Leslie
teach us love and charity through the same medium?”

“Such works vitiate the taste.”

“O, it is the taste, and not the heart, that is damaged.”

“Both; the latter through the former. Let me induce you to read
Baxter’s Call, and you will then allow that you have obtained more
real good from it than from all the novels you ever read in your life.”

“It is too dull and insipid for me. I must draw my inspiration from
more sparkling fountains.”

“You misjudge the book.”

“Perhaps I do. I am not a saint, I am willing to acknowledge; therefore
it does not suit me. And I fancy it is so with half the world, who,
rejecting the counsels of the church, get their wisdom and their
goodness from works of fiction. They are readable to those whose taste,
like mine, has not become sanctified; without them they would read
nothing, and thus the world is better for novels.”

Mr. Carlisle could not but grant that there was some truth in what Mary
had said; and though he did not, in so many words, yield the point, an
impression was produced upon his mind which could not fail to soften
down the bigotry of his views.

But the merry, fearless, independent tones of the eloquent advocate of
works of fiction, went deeper down than the mind, and touched a weak
spot in his theological heart. Her pretty, sparkling eye, roused and
animated by her earnest thought, were irresistible; and the Rev. Mr.
Carlisle, maugre the carnal nature of the fair debater, actually fell
in love with the contemner of Baxter’s immortal works.

Mary was undoubtedly a great sinner, but she was a beautiful and
spirited girl for all that. We will not trouble the reader with the
ingenious plans which the enamoured minister laid that night to reclaim
the erring beauty; it is only necessary to say that, within a week, he
popped the question to her; and that she, out of consideration for her
sister, refused to consider the proposal.


_CHAPTER III._

Susan was a docile lamb, and her conversion progressed to the entire
satisfaction of her spiritual adviser. It was rumored that she was to
be “propounded” on the following Sabbath.

Mary had quite as strong a veneration for spiritual things as her
sister; but she was too straightforward to assume what she did not
possess, and too sensible to be led into imaginary raptures by any
extraneous influence. She knew Susan too well to believe her holy
aspirations were real; she knew that the poor girl had involuntarily
deluded herself. She was not surprised to hear that she had concluded
to join the church.

“Susan, you are deceiving yourself. You love the fold for the sake of
the shepherd,” said she.

“Nay, sister, you wrong me. Can you think me a hypocrite?”

“Not a hypocrite; you have misled yourself.”

“I have carefully examined my heart, and I am confident that I am not
deluded.”

“What would you say if I should tell you that Mr. Carlisle can never
love you?”

“I should say that you knew nothing about it,” replied Susan,
unthinkingly; but in an instant she corrected the mistake. “But that
has nothing to do with it.”

“I fear it has. Tell me honestly, Susan, do you not love Mr. Carlisle?
I will not laugh at you.”

Susan hesitated.

“Be candid sister.”

“I do not love him; but if he loved me, I feel that I could return his
affection.”

“He does not love you, Susan.”

The ambitious “sheep” looked earnestly into the face of her sister.

“How do you know?”

“I _do_ know.”

Susan looked pensive and sad.

“What do you know?”

“That he has even offered his hand and heart to another.”

“The hypocrite!” exclaimed Susan, with a flushed face.

“Why, sis!” and Mary was filled with astonishment, for it appeared from
Susan’s violent ebullition of feeling that the matter had passed much
farther than she had suspected. “Why do you use that pointed word? Did
he ever speak to you of love?”

“Never; but he has led me to believe by his constant attentions that he
was interested in me.”

“That was professional, sis; you have mistaken his zeal to bring you
into the fold for love. I warned you of this.”

“You did; I am a fool. But to whom has he offered himself.”

“It is a secret.”

“Tell _me_!”

“Will you be discreet?”

“I will.”

“To me!”

“To you! You who despised Baxter’s Call and Saints’ Rest?”

“Even so. Extremes meet sometimes.”

“I wish you joy, Mary.”

“But I declined the offer.”

“Why?”

“For your sake. I knew that you loved him.”

Susan was deeply affected at the generosity of her sister.

“I do not love him, sister. Do not let me be an obstacle in the way of
your happiness.”

“I have not said that I loved him.”

“But you do?”

“I have refused him.”

“Nay, he is a noble and a good man, besides being handsome and
talented. You need not be a fool because I have been. I assure you I am
completely cured; I think he is a flirt.”

Mary did not think so, and the young minister was too deeply enamoured
of her, too devotedly admired her wit and beauty, no less than her
innate goodness of heart, to be content with a refusal. When he renewed
his suit, the spirited girl was more tractable, and in process of time
they were married.

Whether Mr. Carlisle ever succeeded in removing those pernicious
notions about novels from the mind of his wife, we are unable to say;
but we do know that Scott, Dickens, and Irving have found a place on
the shelves of his library, beside the tomes of theology and history;
and we infer that a mutual influence has brought each to adopt more
reasonable views both of Baxter and the novelists.




THE MERCANTILE ANGEL.


_CHAPTER I._

“The contemptible little jackanapes! he had the audacity to ask me to
play whist with him!” exclaimed Sophia Danvers to her sister.

“And why should he not, sister?” answered Mary Danvers, calmly.

“Why should he not, indeed! Did he think I would demean myself by
playing whist with a clerk--one of my father’s servants?” and Sophia
tossed her head in proud disdain.

“I can see no impropriety in your associating with him, Sophia. He is
certainly a handsome, intelligent and well-behaved young man.”

“Behaves well enough, for aught I know; but only think of it--a clerk
in our drawing room! For my part, I wonder how father could ever think
of such a thing as admitting him into the family.”

“I suppose it was because he liked the looks of him.”

“What will Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert say when he finds us associating
with poor clerks--the trash of counting rooms?”

“It matters little to me what he thinks; he is a conceited puppy, and I
wonder that you can endure his presence,” replied Mary, smartly.

“But he is the leader of the _ton_, Mary,” said Sophia, astonished at
the plebeian notions of her sister.

“He is a perfect flat, for all that, and infinitely inferior, in all
that constitutes a man, to Mr. Harlowe, whom you affect to despise.”

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Danvers.

“How could you bring that horrible clerk into the house, papa?” said
Sophia, as the merchant prince seated himself by the blazing grate.

“Horrible clerk! Pray, what is the matter with him?” asked Mr. Danvers,
evincing some surprise at the plain speech of his daughter.

“Why, he is a clerk.”

“But a respectable young man.”

“Respectable enough, but not fashionable, papa.”

“I was a clerk once, Sophia; I commenced by sweeping out a store, and
carrying bundles about the city.”

“How absurdly you talk, papa!”

“But Mr. Harlowe is a very estimable young man; I am confident you will
find him agreeable company.”

“I shall have nothing to say to him,” replied Sophia, with a shrug of
the shoulders.

“Beware, Sophia; there is an old proverb, you know, about entertaining
angels unawares.”

Sophia laughed heartily at the idea of a poor clerk being an angel.

“But what says Mary?” asked the merchant, turning to his gentle-hearted
daughter.

“O, _I_ like him very much; we are already fast friends,” replied Mary,
and a slight blush seemed to emphasize the remark.

“Just like her, papa; I should not wonder if she got head over heels in
love with your mercantile angel.”

“She must do as she pleases about that,” replied Mr. Danvers, smiling.

“Pooh, Sophy! who said a word about falling in love? Can’t a body be
civil to a young gentleman without falling in love with him?”

The pretty Mary blushed as she spoke, in good earnest--blushed so
palpably that her father began to think the affair was something more
than a mere jest.

“But pray, papa, when does your new partner arrive?” asked Sophia.
“If all the accounts I have heard of his wit, gallantry, and personal
attractions are true, I shall certainly set my cap for him.”

“He will appear one of these days,” replied Mr. Danvers.

“I hope you will not keep this stupid clerk in the house after he
comes.”

“I certainly shall.”

“But, papa, we shall ‘lose caste’ if you do; it is really abominable.”

“Small loss, my child. If we are dependent upon the apes and puppies
of fashionable life for our position in society, the sooner we lose it
the better for our own self-respect,” said Mr. Danvers, smiling good
humoredly.

“You are absurd, papa.”

“Now, Sophy, you have given me a lesson, let me give you one. The
idol you worship is more senseless than those of the Feegee Islands.
Fashionable society is as hollow as a brass pan; place no reliance upon
it. The fops and fools who follow in your train are as soulless as they
are brainless.”

“I wish Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert could hear you say so,” added Sophia.

“Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert was a journeyman barber in New Orleans, less
than a year ago. I had the honor of being shaved by him last winter
when I was there.”

“O, horrid, papa! Why have you not exposed him?”

“Why should I, my child? He is as good a fellow, as sensible a person,
and, according to your statement, as fashionable a man as Mr. Finstock,
whose great grandfather was the governor of the state.”

“Is it possible that Mr. Fitzherbert was a barber?” exclaimed Sophia,
horrified at the appalling statement.

“Nothing else, my child.”

“An impostor?” added Mary.

“Just so. Probably he is trying to obtain a rich wife.”

“It is abominable, I declare! One hardly knows, nowadays, who is
respectable and who is not,” said Sophia.

“Therefore, my child, we ought not to speak so disparagingly of persons
in humble life, as you have to-night.”

“Pooh! a clerk!”

At this moment, Mr. Harlowe, the new clerk, entered the room, and, as
Sophia would have expressed it, had the impudence to seat himself by
the side of Mary Danvers, who appeared not at all averse to this close
proximity with him.

Frederic Harlowe was, as Mary had said, a handsome, intelligent, and
agreeable young man; and Sophia, if she could have forgiven him for
being a clerk, could have appreciated his society quite as highly as
did her sister.

With her father’s permission, Mary accepted an invitation from Frederic
to attend Alboni’s last concert.

They had scarcely left the house before Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert
was ushered into the sitting room. This gentleman was an exquisite
of the “first water.” In his personal appearance, he certainly was
sufficiently well endowed to challenge the admiration of the fair sex;
but, unfortunately, he was sadly lacking in that necessary element of a
man of sense--brains.

Sophia could scarcely refrain from expressing the contempt she felt
for the journeyman barber in disguise. The leader of the “ton,” in her
estimation, was a ruined man.

The dandy, as a matter of courtesy, inquired for Mary, and was informed
that she had gone to the concert with Mr. Harlowe.

“With Mr. Harlowe--a clerk--aw?” said the ex-journeyman barber, with a
sneer, as he twirled up the long “rat tail” of his mustache.

“A very worthy young man,” replied Mr. Danvers.

“No doubt of it, saw; but a clerk--aw.”

“Pray, were you never a clerk, Mr. Fitzherbert? _I_ was.”

“A clerk! No, saw--nevaw!”

“Did I not meet you in New Orleans last winter?”

The dandy started up like a parched pea from a hot pan.

“I have a faint recollection of having met you in a barber’s shop
there,” continued the merchant, tormentingly.

“Aw, very likely, saw. I patronize the barbaws.”

“And now I think of it, you wore a little white apron, and, if I
mistake not, I had the pleasure of being shaved by _you_ in person.”

“Quite a mistake, saw, I assuaw you.”

Suddenly Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert, whose real name was John Smike,
remembered an imperative engagement, and hastened to take his leave.

He was seen to enter the cars for New York on the following day, and
nothing has been heard of him since.


_CHAPTER II._

Of course the reader understands that Frederic Harlowe and Mary are
deeply, irretrievably in love with each other by this time. The poor
clerk had won his way to the heart of the fair girl, and she, poor
thing, had been captivated by the manly attractions, the noble soul of
him who offered incense before her shrine.

As the world goes, it would be deemed a very wicked thing for a poor
clerk to fall in love with the daughter of his aristocratic employer.
Some people would say it was ungrateful in him thus to spirit away the
affections of a confiding girl, when his position and prospects did not
warrant his presuming to be her husband.

These questions are still open to the casuist. He may debate them to
his entire satisfaction; but Mr. Danvers, either because he was more
sensible than many of the aristocratic merchants of the day, or for
some other equally potent reason, neglected to make any fuss about the
matter, and suffered the clerk to woo and win his daughter, without
even remonstrating against the wickedness of the act.

But Sophia was deeply grieved by her sister’s folly, as she deemed it,
and used all the arguments in the range of her shallow sophistry to
dissuade her from the folly and madness of wedding a clerk.

Mary was obstinate. The only excuse she offered in palliation of the
flagrant misdemeanor was, that she loved him; and if she _loved_
a scavenger, she would cling to him with the last breath she was
permitted to draw.

“A ring!” exclaimed Sophia, one day when matters appeared to have taken
a very decided turn. “Well, well, I suppose you are engaged.”

“We are, Sophia,” replied Mary, with a face radiant with happiness.

“And you intend to be married?”

“Certainly we do; that is the end of an engagement.”

“My conscience! to think that the daughter of a merchant prince should
became the wife of a poor, insignificant clerk!”

“Nothing very alarming about it, Sophy; it wouldn’t be half so
ridiculous as another daughter of a merchant prince becoming the wife
of an ex-journeyman barber. I believe Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert was your
beau ideal of what a fashionable husband ought to be.”

“The impostor!”

“I am at least sure that Frederic is not an imposter--a humbug; one
would not be likely to _assume_ the character of a clerk.”

“Perhaps not; but pray, sister, when do you intend to become the wife
of this counting room cherub?”

“The day has not been fixed yet; in the spring, probably.”

“And may I ask what you intend to do with yourself? His salary is only
a thousand dollars a year.”

“We can get along very well on that sum.”

“Yes, I suppose so, and live in some ten footer in a dark alley.”

“We intend to live out of town, in a nice little cottage.”

“Y-e-s! a nice little cottage!” drawled Sophia, in derision. “O sis, I
will show you how to live when I am married. None of your nice little
cottages for me. But I wonder when the new partner is coming.”

“Papa told me this morning that he had deferred the arrangement till
next spring, and that the gentleman would attend to his business at the
south as heretofore.”

“How provoking! I have been reserving my affections on purpose for him.
I mean to make a conquest of him in just one month.”

“How foolish you talk, Sophy! One would think you had entirely
forgotten your maidenly delicacy.”

“Pooh! I’m jesting; it’s between _us_;” and Sophia relapsed into
a revery, which, we are almost sure, related to the aforesaid new
partner, who was not only a nice young man, but was to put thirty
thousand dollars into the concern when he became a partner.

       *       *       *       *       *

The winter passed away, and the spring came. Frederic and Mary were
to be married in a few days. Mr. Danvers, to the infinite chagrin of
Sophia, had readily consented to the match. The proud sister--though
in the natural goodness of her heart she would not have had Mary’s
affections blasted--would fain have had a little opposition, to save
appearances.

The bridal day came, and after the ceremony had been performed, the
happy parties started for their new residence in the suburbs. Sophia,
who had acted as bridesmaid, was to accompany them.

The carriage wound through an elm-shaded road, and suddenly brought to
the view of the delighted party a splendid country residence.

“That is the cottage,” exclaimed the bride.

“That a cottage! Why, Mary it is a palace!” replied Sophia, in utter
astonishment; for she had never taken interest enough in her sister’s
affairs to visit her proposed residence.

The carriage stopped before the door, which was half hidden behind a
vine-laced portico, and the party alighted.

The place was a perfect paradise, and many were the encomiums lavished
upon it by the bewildered Sophia.

“You cannot think how surprised I was when I first beheld it,” said
Mary, when she and Sophia were alone. “It seemed more like a dream
of fairyland than a reality. But Frederic is so very odd about these
things.”

“I should think that he was! Why, sis, it will certainly ruin him, a
poor clerk on a thousand dollars salary.”

“Well, he knows best; he says the rent is nothing.”

“Nothing, indeed; but it will eat up his poor pittance.”

“Well, I gave him a lesson on extravagance; but he only laughed in my
face, and said he knew what he was about.”

“But here are Frederic and father; I am sure papa has been scolding him
for his recklessness.”

“He does not look as though the scolding had produced a very powerful
effect,” said Mary, as she saw her husband’s smiling countenance.

“What a beautiful house!” exclaimed Sophia, as Frederic Harlowe joined
the group.

“A fitting nest for my pretty bird,” replied the husband, gayly, as he
chucked his blushing wife under the chin.

“I should think your thousand dollars a year would have to suffer
some,” said Sophia, bluntly.

“O, your father has been so very good as to elevate me a peg, so that I
can well afford to incur the expense.”

“Yes, my child,” interposed Mr. Danvers; “you know I said something to
you about entertaining angels unawares. Sophy, _Mr. Frederic Harlowe_
is the new partner.”

“What an abominable cheat, papa! I’ll warrant you told Mary of it in
the beginning,” said Sophia, with abundant good humor.

“Nay, she knew nothing of it till a few days before her marriage. This
was all Mr. Harlowe’s whim; he must explain it for himself.”

Mr. Harlowe did attempt to explain his motive in entering the family
_incog._, but it was a lame explanation. Probably the reader, who
readily penetrates the secret thoughts of the hero of the story, has
already divined his motive. He wanted a wife, and had the sense to seek
for genuine goodness in preference to name and position in society. He
won the daughter of a merchant prince as a simple clerk; there was no
doubt that she loved him.

Mary was very much surprised, and perhaps not a little chagrined, to
find the romance of marrying a clerk so suddenly disappear; but in the
wealth of a mutual love they were richer than in the smiles of fickle
fortune, which had blessed them with an abundance of the good things of
this life.




CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN;

BEING THE SUBSTANCE OF WHAT SOME YOUNG MEN THINK, BUT NEVER SAY.


_CHAPTER I._

When I was a boy, the schoolmaster succeeded in impressing upon my mind
the truth of that common saying--“If a man thinks nothing of himself,
no one will think any thing of him.” The pedagogue believed it himself,
and his daily deportment was based upon it. Whether I learned any thing
else of him I cannot now say; but I am sure I learned to set a high
value upon myself.

[Illustration: CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN.]

At the age of eighteen, I found myself in the service of an eminent
merchant of Boston, in the capacity of assistant bookkeeper, on the
paltry salary of four hundred dollars a year. I was worth more--I was
sure of it. But perhaps my employer had not yet come to a knowledge of
the treasure he possessed in me, and I wisely determined to wait till I
had a better opportunity to distinguish myself.

Certainly I took a great deal of pride in discharging the duties of my
position. I labored assiduously to please both the merchant and the
head bookkeeper, and they seemed to regard me with satisfaction; but
I resolved to make myself so necessary that the business could not be
carried on without me.

Whether my imagination was more lively than my reason, or not, I do
not know; but certainly, at the end of six months I made up my mind
that Mr. Bancroft could not possibly continue in business a single
month without me. As to my superior, he would be perfectly powerless
if I should leave. In fact, I “conceited” that I was in reality _the_
bookkeeper of the concern, though he received the salary and did all
the dictating.

I was an ambitious young man. I built a great many very pretty castles
in the air; among them the idea of marrying my employer’s beautiful
daughter was not the least attractive. She was a splendid girl--people
called her the belle of Boston--and what to me was just as insinuating,
she was an only child, and consequently the heiress of all Mr.
Bancroft’s reputed wealth.

I never was one of that sort who wistfully dream over fine things,
without making an attempt to attain them. That stale old maxim to the
effect that “faint heart ne’er won fair lady,” was uppermost in my
mind. I had come to the conclusion that Rosabel Bancroft should have
the supreme felicity of becoming my household deity.

But the way was full of difficulties. I had never seen the peerless
maiden, save on occasions when I had called at the house in the
capacity of an errand boy--for the key of the safe, to get Mr. Bancroft
to sign a check, or something of that sort. She was a proud beauty,
and had never even taken the pains to look at me. “Ah, my fine lady,”
thought I, “when we are married, I will teach you what is what!”

Certainly I would! And as for marrying her, why, that was a settled
fact in my mind--I had resolved to do the deed.

I flattered myself that I was a decidedly good-looking fellow, and a
great many young men cherish this idea in these progressive times.
My looking glass had told me I was handsome, and there was no going
behind its impressive declaration. But I was aware that my beauty
needed a little cultivation, and accordingly I applied to Bogle for
some of the “compounds,” and in a few weeks, I had the satisfaction
of contemplating the addition of a downy mustache upon my well-turned
upper lip. I took a great deal of pains with this beautifier of my
physiognomy, and felt perfectly sure that the charming Rosabel would be
unable to resist my killing attractions.

There was to be a grand ball at Union Hall, and I heard that my
divinity was to form one of the revellers. I will not trouble the
reader with a relation of the difficulties that beset me in procuring a
ticket--for the affair was intended solely for the “upper ten;” but I
got one, though it cost me in the neighborhood of twenty-five dollars,
to say nothing of twenty-five more expended in a fancy vest, cravat,
and other little amiabilities.

When I was dressed for the occasion, the effect was perfectly stunning.
Rosabel was certainly a goner!

My _entrée_ into the drawing room seemed to create a profound
sensation. All the gentlemen stared at me, and I felt assured of being
the lion of the evening. It was plain that my “personal” had created
a _furor_ among the aristocratic dandies; but I tried to treat them
all with respect and politeness. It is true I saw some of them turn up
their noses at me; and all evinced a disposition to avoid me. But I
attributed all these unmannerly symptoms to the envy which my superior
personal attractions had roused in their narrow minds. I did not resent
their ill nature--I could afford to be magnanimous.

I walked like a king through the sumptuous apartments; indeed I always
prided myself on my gait. More than once, when I have been leisurely
promenading Washington Street, I have felt sure that all the ladies had
singled me out for especial admiration.

There was something magnificent about my style of walking, and I did
not blame the dear creatures for sighing when I passed them. It was a
great pity that, in the illiberality of our laws, only one lady could
ever have the satisfaction of calling me her husband. I am naturally
of an sympathetic temperament, and I assure the reader that it deeply
grieved me to think of the number of fair, promising ladies who would
be disappointed in winning my affections. I could not love them all,
and from the bottom of my heart I pitied those who were doomed to be
disappointed.

Rosabel Bancroft was destined to be my wife. I had deliberately made up
my mind, and though I thought, in consideration of my condescension in
choosing her from the thousands who would have rejoiced to win me, she
ought to meet me half way. But I was not over nice, and in deference to
the fashions of the times, I mentally consented to do all the courting
myself.

I succeeded in getting an introduction to her, and she consented to
dance with me. I was not much elated; I regarded my progress as a
matter of course. During the quadrille, I did the agreeable to my own
satisfaction, and though the impression was not as marked and decided
as I had expected, I was assured that everything was going on well.

“Procrastination is the thief of time,” said somebody. I don’t remember
whether it was Plato or Diogenes. When the dance was ended, and I had
conducted her to the drawing room, I made bold to express my admiration
of her beauty and grace. She blushed, smiled, and looked confused. Poor
thing! how could she help it?

Just then a dandy spoke a word to her, and then retreated. I was not
to be balked, and with all the eloquence I possessed--and I would just
hint that Demosthenes, Cicero, or Daniel Webster couldn’t hold a candle
to me in making a speech--I popped the question.

It was handsomely done, and Rosabel was taken all aback. I expected all
this--I knew all about making love--Ovid couldn’t tell me any thing
about it. Girls at this momentous crisis, do not always mean half they
say; and I was prepared to hear her declare it was rather sudden, that
she must ask papa about it, and all that sort of thing.

But my ardent confession seemed to throw her into a perspiration--if I
may so unpoetically express the confusion which my declaration produced.

“You impudent puppy!” exclaimed she, her pretty cheeks red with anger;
“so you are one of my father’s clerks, and have the presumption to ask
me to dance with you, and then to offer me such an indignity! Leave my
presence, sir, this instant, or I will ask my friends to kick you away!”

Whew! I did feel sheepish for a moment; but then, poor thing, she did
not know her own mind. Some of those envious noodles had been exciting
her prejudices against me. That dandy had told her I was her father’s
clerk, before I had had an opportunity to weave my spell upon her.

Comforting myself with the assurance that there were thousands of
heiresses who were more discriminating than she, I whistled an air, and
ambled away from her. If there is any person on the face of the earth
whom I pity more than another, it is he or she who wilfully throws away
a good opportunity.

Poor Rosabel! I pitied _her_! I believe I was unselfish enough to
deplore her misfortune more acutely than I did my own. I had lost
nothing that might not be regained; she had cast away one of the most
brilliant opportunities that ever dawned upon the destiny of a maiden.

I have the credit, among those who know me best, of possessing
firmness in a very remarkable degree; and it was melancholy to think
she had cast me off forever, for, I am sure, if she had fallen upon her
knees, and begged and pleaded, I should have been as firm as a rock.
Those insulting, unlady-like words, had “fixed her flint”--to use a
rather homely phrase, which I believe did not originate either with
Addison or Macaulay.

I did not dance any more that evening. I found that I had fallen among
fools, who could not appreciate me. And strange as it may seem to
the unphilosophical reader, the fact did not in the least disturb my
natural equanimity. Why should it? Did not Socrates experience the same
coldness at the hands of the fickle Athenians, who put him to death by
mixing poison with his “sherry cobbler?” Why should I expect a better
fate than others whose misfortune it is to be superior to the masses
around them?

I left the hall regretting only that the eighth part of my year’s
salary had been wasted in the adventure.

When I went to the counting room next morning, Mr. Bancroft summoned me
to his private office.

“You are a fool, young man!” said he, and his face was flushed with
anger.

O the ingratitude of the world! This was a pretty return for the
distinguished honor I had intended for his daughter, and which only
her own wilfulness had prevented her from receiving at my hands.

“If you ever presume to speak to my daughter again, under any
circumstances, I will immediately discharge you from my service,”
continued he, with the utmost coolness.

“Nonsense!” thought I--and I beg the reader will not suppose I uttered
this unseemly expression--“you won’t do any thing of the kind. You know
your own interest too well.”

Discharge me! I should have liked to see him do it. I believe I should
actually have gone, if he had said the word, and left him to take care
of his business as best he might! If he had got me mad, I should just
as lief seem him fail as not--it is my temperament. To a friend, I am a
friend; to a foe, a foe of the most determined sort.

But he knew better than to provoke me too far. Bancroft was a
shrewd man. He knew just how far I would have permitted him to go,
in deference to the dignity of his position, and he did not exceed
that limit. It was a lucky thing for him that he did not. Disaster,
mercantile ruin, would have been the inevitable consequence of such an
imprudent act!

I regret that my space does not permit me to give the reader the
details of my exploits in the arena of Cupid for the succeeding six
months. They were rich and varied; but I am happy to console my friends
and admirers with the assurance that I am at present engaged in writing
out the history of the whole period, which in due time will appear,
complete in seven volumes, with portraits and illustrations.

From the events of this campaign, I deduce the melancholy conclusion
that the fair sex are sadly wanting in good taste and nice
discrimination. The fact that I am still a bachelor is a sad commentary
on this truth. The ladies “are not what they are cracked up to be”--to
use a rather inelegant expression, which I think was original with
Hogg, the poet.

But disappointed of my matrimonial hopes, I determined to make commerce
the study of my life. I had about made up my mind to offer my time
and talents to Bancroft--in short, to offer to become his partner
in business. I never was much in favor of these complications of
mercantile affairs, and to become a partner of his might involve me in
some future sacrifices, which it might not be pleasant to make.

I thought it best, on the whole, to retain my present situation. But
the salary was too small. I must wait upon Bancroft, and consent to
remain in his service, if he would add a hundred dollars to my pay. Of
course he could not be so imprudent as to run the risk of failure and
utter ruin for so trifling a matter as this.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bancroft,” said I, in my blandest tones,--for
even a highway robber is polite nowadays when he blows a man’s brains
out--“but I have taken the liberty to wait upon you for the purpose of
asking you to advance my salary from four to five hundred dollars.”

“Go to the devil!” said he, rudely.

It is astonishing how some folks will even kick an angel out of their
presence. Poor Bancroft! he “stood in his own light,”--to borrow from
Carlyle or Mephistopheles, I forget which.

“You are dear help at two hundred a year; I don’t want you any longer
at any price,” continued Bancroft.

“There’s stupidity for you!” thought I.

My blood was up, and I determined to leave him, let the consequences be
what they might.

I did leave him, assured that the mercantile world would be startled
to its centre by a crash, in a very short time. The concern has not
broke down yet, but there is a moral certainty that it must soon “go by
the board,”--to quote from Captain Cook, or Sir John Franklin, it is
not very material which.

I had not been out of business a week before I discovered that
literature was the proper sphere for me. I intend to bring about a
revolution in the world of letters, by introducing an entirely new
style of composition, adapted both to prose and poetry. I have several
works under way, including a complete History of the Musquito Kingdom,
Annals of Hull, and a poem in two hundred and seventy-six cantos, on
the Want of Appreciation and Correct Taste in the Female Sex,--all of
which will appear as soon as written and published.




THE BACHELOR BEAU.


_CHAPTER I._

“I can no longer struggle against the current of misfortune,” exclaimed
Mr. Whiting, a small merchant, who had by the pressure of hard times
become somewhat involved; “I am ruined!”

“Nay, my husband, do not be distressed. Worse calamities than this
might happen, and we will make the best of it.”

“But wife, I must fail; I cannot sustain myself another day.”

“You have done all you can to avert the misfortune, and if it must
come, let us not repine, but bear it like Christians.”

“I will try to keep calm; but it seems hard, after weathering the worst
of the storm, to be wrecked in sight of the land.”

“Perhaps your creditors will give you more time,” suggested Mrs.
Whiting.

“I cannot hope it; the note which comes due to-morrow, and which I am
utterly unable to pay, is in the hands of my bitterest enemy.”

“He will not distress you.”

“I know him well. He is a villain!”

“Whom do you mean?”

“Bacher.”

“God help us, if _he_ is your creditor!”

“As near as I can learn, he bought the note on purpose to perplex me,
and perhaps to obtain his revenge.”

“Why is he so bitter against you?”

“Because I exposed a swindling operation, in which he was engaged.”

“How much is the note, father?” asked a beautiful, hazel-eyed girl, who
had not before spoken, but who had been listening with intense interest
to the conversation between her father and mother.

“Three thousand dollars, Sarah,” replied Mr. Whiting, fixing a glance
of anxiety upon the fair girl.

“Can’t you borrow it, father?”

“Alas! my child, my credit is very much impaired. My notes have been
too thick in State Street for me to borrow without paying exorbitant
interest; and that, I think, would wrong my creditors in case any thing
should happen.”

“It is not so very dreadful to fail, is it, father?”

“It would be ruinous to me, my child. If I could pay this note
to-morrow, I could get along very well. I should not have been
embarrassed, had it not been for the failure of Jones. But I suppose it
must be, and we must content ourselves to live a little more closely
than we have been accustomed to do.”

Sarah asked no more questions, and though the conversation was
continued by her father and mother, she seemed to pay no attention to
it. She appeared to be musing deeply over something.

As the evening advanced, John Barnet, a clerk, who had for some months
been attentive to Sarah, and who, report said, was a favored suitor,
made his accustomed evening visit. Every body said that John Barnet was
a nice young man, and every way worthy of so beautiful and amiable a
wife as Sarah Whiting would undoubtedly make him.

If there is any thing in smiles and gentle words, the affection of the
young clerk was warmly reciprocated by Sarah. They were not engaged,
however, though he called at Mr. Whiting’s house from four to seven
evenings in a week.

Mr. Whiting and his wife retired at an early hour in the evening,
leaving the lovers “to have it out.”

As usual, John Barnet begged her to make him happy by promising to be
his forever. To his utter surprise and consternation, she told him she
could never be his wife, and entreated him to think no more about her.
Of course, the lover pressed her for an explanation of this sudden and
remarkable change in her manner towards him. But she could not even do
this, and John took his leave, feeling that he had not another friend
in the world.


_CHAPTER II._

Sarah Whiting had another suitor in the person of a wealthy and
eccentric old bachelor, who, after withstanding the assaults of
thousands of bright eyes and bewitching smiles, had laid his heart at
the feet of our beautiful heroine. We don’t blame the old fellow for
falling in love with her, any more than we blame Sarah for laughing at
him, when he threw himself at her feet and “popped the question.”

Mr. Landyke Somerset was only about forty, so that, if Sarah had been
less cruel, it would not have been exactly “May and December,” but
about June and November. He loved her with all the fervor which the
march of time had left in his heart, and was actually disconsolate when
she told him “no.”

Mr. Landyke Somerset was not an ill-looking man, though he was an old
bachelor. True, his hair was not as black and glossy as it had been
twenty years before; there was an occasional iron-gray hair, which
looked a little suspicious; yet, when he began to make his court to the
divinity of his dreams, even these suddenly disappeared, and people
were malicious enough to say it was through the influence of a certain
compound applied by the barber. True, also, there was now and then a
wrinkle in his face, which some young ladies affect to dislike. But
what of all these things? Old age is honorable, and the iron-gray hairs
and the wrinkles did not in the least mar the kindly expression of his
phiz.

He was a very clever fellow, and though the merry little Sarah Whiting
could not help laughing when he “popped the question” to her, she would
very willingly have had just such an uncle, or something of that sort.
In short she _liked_ him, but she didn’t _love_ him.

Mr. Landyke Somerset was a firm believer in the ancient verity, that
“faint heart ne’er won fair lady,” and he determined not to faint or
give up the chase till he had bagged the game, or had seen her the
wife of another. Consequently he held out all the inducements in his
power to engage her heart in his favor.

He was not what young ladies called an “old fool,” for he had sense
enough to feel that he should never be able to gain the victory on the
strength of his physical attributes--his personal beauty. But he was an
amiable man at heart, and trusted solely to the influence of his moral
and mental qualities for success. They had thus far failed him, though
he still persevered.

Mr. Whiting, readily understanding what these attentions meant, did all
in his power to favor his suit; for he was an old-fashioned man, and
placed more confidence in the power of a good heart and plenty of money
to make his daughter happy, than he did in the more common attributes
of youth and good looks, even though the possessor of the first-named
commodities had passed the meridian of life.

But Sarah had a mind of her own in these matters, and though she
appreciated her kind father’s motives, she could not think of throwing
herself away on a man of forty, even if he was an angel.

It was only the afternoon of the day preceding the conversation we
have recorded, that Mr. Somerset had paid her a visit, and renewed his
protestations of love to her. She had told him for the twentieth time,
“no.”

When she heard her father relate the particulars of his embarrassment,
the image of Mr. Somerset had involuntarily presented itself to her
mind. He was abundantly able to assist them in this emergency, and for
the love he bore her perhaps he would.

But, then, if she applied to him, and he afforded the necessary aid,
she would be under an obligation to him, which she might find it very
inconvenient to discharge.

Ruin stared her father in the face. He had said it was _ruin_, and she
was sure it was. What right had she to be selfish or over nice, when,
perhaps, she had it in her power to avert the dreadful calamity? Her
father was all in all to her; and though some girls are so sentimental
as to sacrifice father, mother, home, friends, for a lover, she would
sacrifice a dozen lovers for her father alone, to say nothing of her
mother, who was at least worth two dozen more.

Let not the reader suppose the pretty Sarah did not love him upon whom
she had smiled--she did; but her bump of veneration was bigger than
that other bump on the back of the head.

Her resolution was formed, and about eleven o’clock the next day,
she put on her bonnet, and walked up to the Revere House, where Mr.
Somerset boarded.


_CHAPTER III._

Mr. Landyke Somerset was a nabob, and retained a private parlor, to
which the obsequious servant conducted Sarah Whiting.

Of course the bachelor was reasonably astonished at this visit.

“Indeed, Miss Whiting, I am delighted to see you,” exclaimed he, with
rapturous enthusiasm.

“I knew you would be, and that’s the reason I came,” laughed Sarah,
and at the same time she blushed so sweetly that Mr. Landyke Somerset
had almost dissolved in a rapture of delight.

“Ah, my dear Miss Whiting, you are not always so kind to me as you are
to-day.”

“But I always will be hereafter,” and Sarah smiled, though her heart
beat like the boundings of a race horse.

“Ah, you are so good, and so pretty, too.”

“I will save you the trouble of all these useless adulations, by saying
that I have come to accept your oft-repeated proposal.”

“Indeed!” and the bachelor was taken “all aback;” he could hardly
believe the evidence of his own senses.

“What, sir! Do you recede from your offer?” said Sarah, laughing with
all her might--a very convenient cloak for young ladies sometimes.

“Capital joke, eh?” and the bachelor laughed too.

“No joke, sir; I am in earnest.”

Sarah looked as sober as the matron of an orphan asylum.

“Nay, nay, my pretty Sarah, do not make sport of me.”

“I will give you my promise in writing, with my signature, if you
desire it.”

“Is it possible that you mean so?” said the doubtful Mr. Somerset.

“Take my hand.”

The bachelor took it, pressed it to his lips, and began to think
himself the happiest fellow in the world.

“I am yours, Mr. Somerset.”

“Bless you, Sarah!”

“On one condition.”

“Name it.”

Sarah recounted the story of her father’s embarrassment.

“Fill me out a check for three thousand dollars, and I promise to
become your wife within one year.”

Mr. Landyke Somerset mused. He appeared to be in doubt. He was a
high-souled man, and the idea of _buying_ the hand of his wife was to
the last degree repugnant to him.

“You hesitate sir; I know you do not love me,” said Sarah, with
apparent pique.

“On my soul, I do! I agree; here is the check,” replied Mr. Somerset,
as he seated himself at the table and drew the check.

“Now enclose it in a note to my father, saying you learned his trouble
from a mutual friend, and then beg the privilege of loaning him the
amount of the check.”

“And you sacrifice yourself to your father, my fair Sarah!” said the
bachelor, as he sealed the note.

“I do.”

“You are an angel!”

“Nay, I must go now.”

The check did the business, and Mr. Whiting was as happy as ever he
was in his life. Bacher could not sleep that night because he had been
foiled in his revenge.

In the evening Mr. Somerset called at the house to see his future
bride. She treated him kindly, and permitted him to sit by her side,
hold her work basket, and pick up her thimble when she dropped
it--which was glory enough for an evening, to one as moderate in his
wishes as the bachelor beau of our heroine.

But about eight o’clock, to Sarah’s utter consternation, John Barnet
paid his usual visit. The poor clerk was sadly distressed, as well he
might be, and had called to desire an explanation of the cool manner in
which he had been dismissed.

The presence of Mr. Somerset was all the explanation he desired. He was
uneasy; he could not join in the conversation, and aware that he was
making himself disagreeable to the party, he determined to take his
leave; but how could he leave her?

He knew Mr. Somerset to be one of the best men in the world, and he
resolved to request an interview with him on the spot.

The worthy bachelor kindly condescended to walk down the street a short
distance with him, and John Barnet told him the whole story; how he
loved Sarah, and how he had every reason to believe that Sarah loved
him. He was sure that some unfair advantage had been taken, and he
wanted the matter explained.

“Come back to the house, young man, and I will give you all the
satisfaction you desire.”

John consented.

A few minutes sufficed to explain to Mr. Whiting and the discarded
lover the nature of the sacrifice which the devoted Sarah had made for
her father’s sake.

“Bless you, my child!” exclaimed the merchant, his eyes filling with
tears of love, as he tenderly embraced his noble-hearted daughter.

“You understand it now, don’t you, Mr. Barnet?” said the bachelor, with
a good natured smile.

“I do, indeed,” replied John, sorrowfully; “she is a noble girl, and I
shall never cease to love her, though she can never be mine.”

Sarah cast a sad glance at him, and her eyes filled with tears. She
never knew till that moment how much she loved the poor clerk. But it
was all over now--the bright dreams of love had passed away, and she
could never be happy again.

“What, Sarah! do you recede from your promise?” asked Mr. Somerset.

“Nay, I do not. Farewell, John! farewell forever!” and the poor girl
sobbed convulsively.

“Farewell, Sarah!” and the clerk seized his hat and rushed towards the
door.

“Hallo! stop, young man!” exclaimed Mr. Somerset; “don’t go off mad.
Give me your hand.”

The bachelor took the clerk’s hand.

“You are a good fellow; I honor you. Your hand, Sarah,” and Mr.
Somerset took the little white hand of the weeping maiden, and placed
it in that of John Barnet. “Be happy!”

“What do you mean, sir?” asked Sarah, bewildered at the actions of the
bachelor.

“Mean? You love him, don’t you?”

“With all my soul!”

“And you do not love me?”

Sarah began to understand.

“I _like_ you.”

“You are his; be happy! You did not for a moment suppose I could be so
mean as to take advantage of such a noble act of self-sacrifice as you
performed to-day? No! I love you, but I will not make you miserable.”

Poor Sarah! How happy she was, and how she pitied poor Mr. Somerset,
who loved her so much! She felt that, if she had never seen John
Barnet, she would have been glad to become his wife, iron gray and
wrinkles to the contrary notwithstanding--he was such a dear good soul!

“Be happy! and that isn’t all; when I die you shall have half my
fortune.”

The bachelor kept his word, and though he didn’t die of a broken heart,
he did not live many years; yet when he did die, the hand of woman--of
as true and loving a woman as ever made home a paradise--smoothed his
dying pillow, and closed his eyes in their last sleep; and there were
sincere mourners over his bier.

Poor Mr. Landyke Somerset! though he found not a wife in Sarah Whiting,
he found a true friend.




THE GRAND RECEPTION BALL.


_CHAPTER I._

Tiptop is somewhere in the State of Massachusetts; but, in
consideration of the unpleasant nature of the details of my story, I
do not feel at liberty to state its precise geographical position.
Undoubtedly, too, there are within the limits of our ancient
commonwealth a great many Tiptops, and, by assigning it a specific
_locale_, many whom the coat fits will fail to put it on.

Tiptop was fully up with the times. The distinctions of caste were as
precisely defined and protected as in New York or Philadelphia. It is
true, a belle from one of the emporiums of fashion would not have felt
at home there; but then the Tiptopites labored to be as fashionable as
the metropolitans, and if they did not succeed, it was not their fault.

There were balls, parties, and lyceums in Tiptop; but, unfortunately
for the luminous propensities of the “upper ten,” they were obliged to
call in the aid of the _canaille_ on these occasions, in order to make
the expense fall as lightly as possible on the glorified few.

There was a great excitement in the place when it was understood that
the Hon. Mr. Silas Lumpkin, M. C., from one of the Western States,
proposed to spend a few days with Squire Rogers, his “chum” in college.

The Hon. Mr. Lumpkin was a distinguished man in his day and generation.
Though not thirty-five at the period of our story, he had made a mark
on the country which time will not immediately obliterate.

But Mr. Lumpkin was a sensible man, notwithstanding the temptations of
his position to be otherwise. We have referred to the Congressional
Globe, but we do not find that he ever made a long speech, which, in
our mind, fully establishes his reputation as a model Congressman.

The distinguished gentleman’s visit to Tiptop, promised to be an epoch
in the history of the place. The notables were duly impressed with the
honor which awaited them, and immediately put their heads together
to devise a suitable plan for a public demonstration. They fully
appreciated the great man’s condescension, and it only remained to make
a proper expression of it.

A voluntary committee of the most notable of the notables waited on
Squire Rogers in this emergency. Unfortunately, the Squire was a legal
man, and did not feel competent to advise in an affair of this kind;
and the squire, too, was a sensible man, and had it not been for the
fact that he was a candidate for the office of representative to the
next General Court, would probably have expressed his disgust at the
whole thing.

But while the voluntary committee were discussing a scheme for a public
dinner in the town hall, the ladies decided that a grand reception ball
should be given on the occasion of Mr. Lumpkin’s arrival.

Of course the matter was settled, for Miss Araminta Pipkin and
Annabellina Punkinton had said so. Miss Dorothea Pilkinton was opposed
to it at first, on account of the shortness of the time; but Miss
Pipkin was an Amazon in an argument, and carried the day.


_CHAPTER II._

It was after dark when the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin arrived at Tiptop. The
Lyceum Hall was already in a blaze of brilliancy, and the revellers
were rapidly gathering to do honor to the man who had distinguished
himself by holding his tongue.

Mr. Lumpkin, all unconscious of the honors that were in store for him,
cordially grasped the hand of Squire Rogers, and entered the house. He
drank several cups of particularly strong tea, and found himself fully
refreshed from the fatigues of his journey.

“The hall was lighted as you passed, was it not?” asked the squire,
thinking it time to broach the subject of the complimentary ball.

“The building on the hill?”

“Yes--next to the meeting house.”

“It was.”

“Something grand there to-night; we must go up.”

“Political?”

“No, nothing of the kind; your friends in this place, without
distinction of party, propose to welcome you to Tiptop in a grand
reception ball.”

“The deuse they do!”

“Fact!” and the squire grinned in sympathy with the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin.

“But, Rogers, it’s silly.”

“Public men must humor the follies of their constituency.”

“Not my constituents, thank my stars! I am not holden to them for my
office; so I shall do them the honor to spend the evening with you,
Rogers.”

“But my dear Lumpkin, the affair was got up wholly on your account.”

“Infernally silly of them--decidedly flat.”

“They will be disappointed;” and Squire Rogers looked sad, for he
happened to think at that moment that he was a candidate for the
legislature.

“No matter.”

“But the aristocracy--bah!--will be mortally offended with me.”

“The what?”

“The affair was got up by our fashionables.”

“So much the better. If they wish to make fools of themselves, they
shall not do it at my expense.”

“But consider, my dear Lumpkin, what a terrible disappointment it
will be to them. They are even now waiting your arrival. I have been
appointed gentleman usher, to conduct you to the hall, and do the
honors.”

“Good, Rogers!” and Mr. Lumpkin, being a jolly, good natured
Congressman, laughed heartily, notwithstanding the consternation of his
legal friend, who began to fear that his want of tact would insure the
victory, at the approaching election, to his rival.

“But the ladies, Lumpkin.”

This was a fortunate hit on the part of Squire Rogers. Mr. Lumpkin
was a bachelor, and like bachelors in general, he loved the ladies
to distraction, while he kept them at a safe distance. The thought
of being the centre of attraction, amid a galaxy of bright eyes and
blushing cheeks, was rather inviting; but Mr. Lumpkin could not forgive
the Tiptopites for making fools of themselves at his expense.

The honorable gentleman was a consistent man, and having before decided
not to go, it was against his principles to change his mind. There was
a villainous rumor in circulation that Mr. Lumpkin, having unhappily
fallen asleep during the making of a certain motion, had suddenly woke
up and voted “yea,” in opposition to his colleagues, and against the
instructions of his constituents.

Having always been considered sound on the question at issue, every
body was surprised at his vote. He did not discover his mistake until
the following day; but, being a consistent man, he defended his course,
and made the longest speech he was ever known to make, on the folly
of instructing public men who are sent to Congress for the good of
their country. He would have lost his subsequent election, only that a
majority, admiring his manly independence, saw fit to give him their
suffrages.

Mr. Lumpkin had said no, and it was an exceedingly difficult thing for
him to reverse his sentiments, and say yes. But the ladies, being--as
he eloquently expressed it, in his speech on the necessity of reducing
the duty on Cashmere shawls, and making it specific, instead of _ad
valorem_--the bright particular luminaries of a republican nation,
seemed to beckon him to the ball--to be recreant to his principle of
consistency.

But Mr. Lumpkin, in the true spirit of our glorious constitution,
resolved to compromise the matter, and go. There was a codfish clique
in Tiptop, and Mr. Lumpkin considered it his duty to punish them. After
making some arrangements with his friend, whose urgent remonstrances
were all unheeded, he left the house.


_CHAPTER III._

Lyceum Hall blazed with beauty and tallow candles. All the _élite_ of
Tiptop were on tiptoe with expectation. After a long and rather stormy
discussion, it was decided that Miss Pipkin should dance first with Mr.
Lumpkin.

Eight o’clock came, and the distinguished gentleman did not make his
appearance. The less pretentious portion of the party began to grow
impatient. They cared nothing at all about Mr. Lumpkin; they came to
have a good time, and were bound to enjoy themselves, whether Mr.
Lumpkin and his admirers did or not.

Joe Maple began to get a little mad. He came with Lizzie Lee, had paid
for his ticket, and--as he expressed it to Mr. Adolphus Pipkin--he’d
like to know why they couldn’t go ahead without Mr. Lumpkin.

“Hang me if I stay or pay for my ticket if they don’t put her through
pretty soon,” said he.

“What are they waiting for?” asked a stranger by his side.

“For Mr. Stumpkins, or some sich name; but I ain’t a-going to wait
any longer. What do you say, boys--shall we back out if they don’t go
ahead?”

“Sartin; go to the managers, Joe; we’ll back you up in any thing you
say,” replied several.

“They ought to go on,” suggested the stranger.

“Tew be sure they had; so here goes for the managers. They are so darn
stuck up, they seem to think we ain’t nobody; we’ll larn ’em better;”
and Joe Maple marched for the knot of gentlemen who had charge of the
arrangements, and who were wondering why the distinguished guest of the
evening did not appear.

At this moment Squire Rogers entered the hall. In reply to the
managers’ queries, he said Mr. Lumpkin had left his house half an hour
before, promising to meet him at the festive scene.

Joe Maple said the “boys” meant to have a time, any how, and he
insisted that the dance should be immediately commenced, or the “boys”
would make tracks for “hum.”

Joe Maple’s party were in a very decided majority, and their appeal was
irresistible. The band, who were prepared to play “Hail Columbia” for
the “grand entrée” of Mr. Lumpkin, were directed to commence a cotillon.

The sets were nearly formed, when the stranger who had before
questioned him, requested Joe Maple to introduce him to a partner.

“Sartin,” said Joe, who was a good-natured, clever fellow; “but I don’t
know ye. What’s your name?”

The stranger hesitated a moment, and then said it was Smith.

“You don’t say so! You ain’t the Smith that’s just moved on to the
Pelatiah Hopkins place?”

“Just so,” replied Mr. Smith.

“Well, now, I am glad to see you;” and Joe Maple cast about him for a
suitable partner for the new proprietor.

Joe was always up to some mischief, and it seemed as though the very
demon of mischief ruled him when he glanced at Miss Araminta Pipkin,
who was impatiently waiting the arrival of her distinguished partner.

Now Mr. Smith was certainly not very prepossessing in his external
appearance. He looked very much like a country shopkeeper dressed up
in his Sunday clothes, and Joe Maple was perfectly satisfied that
Miss Pipkin would never condescend to dance with him. But there was a
prospect of some sport, and though he and the amiable leader of the
Tiptop _ton_ were not on speaking terms, he determined to present Mr.
Smith.

“I want to introduce Mr. Smith to you,” said Joe, mustering his most
elegant expression. “He wants a pardner.”

Miss Pipkin addressed a languid sneer, first to Joe Maple, and then to
Mr. Smith.

“No, I thank ye,” replied she, briefly, turning away her head from the
suppliant at her feet.

“Hadn’t ye better? This is Mr. Smith, that has bought the Pelatiah
Hopkins place.”

“You have my answer; I dance with Mr. Lumpkin;” and Miss Pipkin looked
unutterably scornful at the thought of descending from a member of
Congress even to the proprietor of the Hopkins place.

“That is very plain speech,” suggested Mr. Smith.

“Short as pie-crust; she’s right down smart. But, Mr. Smith, as you
have bought that place, you shall dance with the poottiest gal in the
hall--that’s Lizzie Lee. She engaged to dance with me----”

“I could not think of disappointing you,” interposed Mr. Smith.

“I don’t stand on trifles. The fact is, Lizzie and I understand one
another pootty well.”

Mr. Smith was introduced to Lizzie, who was all the enamoured Mr. Maple
had said she was.

But the sets were all full save one, in which had been reserved a place
for Mr. Lumpkin and the sighing Miss Pipkin, who fondly hoped to make a
conquest of the distinguished bachelor’s heart.

This set was at the head of the hall, and of course the three couples
which now composed it were the cream of the aristocracy. Mr. Lumpkin
had not come and Joe, who was all attention to the new owner of the
Hopkins place, directed Mr. Smith to lead his partner to this vacant
position.

Mr. Smith did so. He was perfectly innocent of any intention to offend,
and smilingly bowed to his pretty partner.

The three couples were aghast at the coolness and effrontery of Mr.
Smith. Mr. Adolphus Pipkin felt outraged, and stepped forward to
remonstrate, suggesting to the new lord of the Hopkins place that the
head of the hall had been reserved for Mr. Lumpkin and the accomplished
Miss Pipkin.

“When _he_ comes, _I_ will go,” replied Mr. Smith, quietly.

“How rude!” exclaimed Miss Punkinton.

“What horrible impoliteness!” added Miss Pilkinton.

“Brought up in the woods,” suggested Miss Smythson.

“I declare he smells of the cow yard,” sneered Miss Punkinton.

“Will you abandon your position?” asked Mr. Pipkin, fiercely.

“No sir,” replied Smith, calmly.

“On with the dance!” shouted Joe Maple.

And on it went, for the leader of the band, knowing who his strongest
friends were, started the music.

“Sir, you are no gentleman,” continued Mr. Pipkin.

“First couple, lead up to the right!” shouted the caller.

Mr. Smith and Lizzie, being the first couple, _led_ up to the right,
and in doing so, had nearly borne the enraged Mr. Pipkin under their
feet.

“_Balancez!_”

“I demand satisfaction, sir.”

“_Chassez_ to the right!”

Mr. Smith danced furiously; but the rest of the set, horrified at the
idea of dancing with such company as the owner of the Hopkins place and
Lizzie Lee, abandoned their positions. Joe Maple instantly filled them
again, and things went on as merrily as a marriage bell.

Squire Rogers was repeatedly importuned for information in regard to
the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin, whose consistency seemed quite as prominent as it
had ever been before. The squire assured them he would come--that it
was only ten o’clock, and genteel folks never appeared till a late hour.

The Hon. Mr. Lumpkin _did_ come at last.


_CHAPTER IV._

But when he came, the proprietor of the Pelatiah Hopkins place
incontinently _vamosed_.

“Rogers,” said Mr. Smith, “_Lumpkin is come_.”

“High time,” replied Rogers.

“Please announce the fact.”

“There will be a tempest; hadn’t we better have the smelling salts
handy?”

“Ay, cod-liver oil would do as well; there is a smell of codfish in
this vicinity.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” began Squire Rogers to the little knot of
uppercrusts that occupied the head of the hall, “I have the honor of
informing you that the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin has come.”

This announcement produced a very decided sensation. Miss Araminta
Pipkin heaved a deep sigh, and almost fainted in anticipation of the
presentation.

“Where is he?” asked Mr. Adolphus Pipkin, glancing eagerly around the
room.

“The illustrious gentleman is close at hand.”

“Band, play the grand march.”

The band struck up “Hail Columbia.”

Mr. Smith, exhibiting a most wonderful command of himself, while every
body else was excited by the event about to transpire, stood by the
side of Lizzie Lee, engaged in a familiar conversation. Joe Maple, in
view of the very marked attentions of Mr. Smith to his intended, had
begun to grow a little jealous, and half regretted that he had been so
polite to the owner of the Hopkins place.

“Mr. Lumpkin,” said Rogers, breaking in upon the pleasant conference,
“the company wait your presence.”

“Hey, squire! this is Mr. Smith,” said Maple.

“The Hon. Mr. Lumpkin,” continued Rogers.

“You will pardon the little trick I have played upon you,” said Mr.
Smith; “my name is Lumpkin, M. C.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Joe Maple.

“Just so.”

“And I’ve been talking to you just as though you was a common man.”

“So I am.”

“Ain’t you one of them ’ere Congress fellers?”

“Certainly, but one of the people; and, between you and I and the barn,
as we say out west, I am no friend of such folks as these over here;”
and Mr. Lumpkin pointed significantly to the _élite_ of Tiptop.

“You are a brick, squire!” and Joe hawhawed with right good will; “but
I suppose we shan’t see you again to-night, if you are going over
there?”

“Yes; Miss Lee, I claim your hand for the next dance, according to your
promise.”

“I shall be almost afraid to dance with you now,” simpered Lizzie.

“Hush, Liz! talk up to him,” whispered Joe; “a Congress chap ain’t any
better than any body else.”

“Mr. Lumpkin, your admirers will become impatient,” suggested Squire
Rogers, with an ironical smile.

“Excuse me for a few moments, Miss Lee;” and Mr. Lumpkin, taking the
arm of the squire, walked towards the head of the hall.

Joe Maple, whose keen relish for “some sport” did not permit him to
remain in the background, followed in their wake.

“Miss Pipkin, the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin,” said Squire Rogers.

The amiable lady raised her eyes, which had been fixed in maidenly
coyness upon the floor, and beheld the abominable Mr. Smith, the
abhorred owner of the Pelatiah Hopkins place!

“Why--I--yes--I declare--I have met--you before, this evening,”
stammered the leader of the female _ton_.

“Should rather think you had!” roared Joe Maple, who has since declared
that he thought “he should ha’ died a larfin’.”

“We have; I had the honor of being refused the pleasure of your
hand at the first dance,” said Mr. Lumpkin, with a full display of
congressional dignity.

“Mr. Pipkin, the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin, M. C., from the west,” continued
Squire Rogers, who, notwithstanding he felt a little nervous on account
of the seat in the legislature, was in very tolerable spirits, and
heartily enjoyed the discomfiture of the “codfish” party.

“Happy to know you, Mr. Pipkin. You demanded satisfaction of me in the
early part of the evening; should be happy to afford it.”

“You will pardon me, sir; there was some mistake; I would not of course
have spoken in that manner to a member of Congress.”

Mr. Lumpkin, not being above the infirmities of human nature, sneered
rather rudely at the Tiptop exquisite, as much as to say, “You ought to
treat every body well, whether they are public or private individuals.”

The master of ceremonies discharged the duties of his office with
punctilious formality. It seemed to the sufferers that he was
unnecessarily minute in his presentation ceremonial, permitting the
distinguished gentleman to make a home thrust at each one of the
persons who had been so rude to Mr. Smith.

The introductions were happily concluded, and a more chopfallen set
than the _élite_ of Tiptop never gathered together in the same hall.

Miss Pipkin was in an agony. She had actually turned up her nose to
a member of Congress. Of course she could no longer hope to make a
conquest of his heart; the vision of being a distinguished lady melted
quite away.

But then “it is an ill wind that blows no one any good.” If Miss Pipkin
could not have a member of Congress, she at least had the consolation
of saying that she had refused the hand of the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin, which,
to a lady of her peculiar turn of mind, was an immense satisfaction.

Mr. Lumpkin returned to the side of Lizzie Lee, who, maugre her
coyness, was tolerably sociable. Joe Maple, from the abundance of his
good nature, vowed he might dance with her just as many times as he
pleased.

About eleven o’clock, Miss Pipkin suggested to her brother that the
delicate state of her health would not permit her to endure the
excitement of the dance any longer, and when the leader of the _ton_
left, the followers went after her.

But the common folks “staid it out,” and Mr. Lumpkin confessed that he
enjoyed the ball very much indeed; for, true to his duty as a public
man, it had enabled him to administer a suitable reproof to the
pretensions of the Tiptopites.

Joe Maple and Lizzie Lee--since Mrs. Maple--have not yet forgotten the
part they acted, and perhaps they may be pardoned for a slight display
of vanity, as they relate the particulars of _The Grand Reception Ball_.




MARRYING A BEGGAR.


_CHAPTER I._

“So much for bringing poor relations into the house! I really believe
that Charles has fallen in love with the girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Mason to
her husband, a merchant in moderate circumstances in the city of Boston.

“Well, suppose he has; she is a good girl, is she not?” quickly
responded the merchant.

“I don’t know but that she is good enough; but she is a pauper!”

“Not exactly a pauper, Mrs. Mason.”

“Didn’t we take her into the family to keep her from starving?”

“I did not so understand it. You needed a young woman to assist you in
sewing, and employed her at half the usual wages.”

“Yes, and isn’t she a pauper for all that?”

“Gently, Mrs. Mason: you forget that she is my sister’s daughter,” said
the merchant, a little sternly.

“What if she is? She is a penniless girl for all that. A pretty match
for _our_ son!”

“And why not for our son? I am not a _millionnaire_. If the times don’t
come easier than they have been, I shall fail before the year is out.”

“So much the more reason why Charles should look out for himself.”

“If he loves my niece, I sincerely hope he will marry her, for I
believe she is one of the best girls in the world; certainly she is
vastly superior to the silly, affected, mincing, novel-reading misses
of fashionable society. I commend his taste and his judgment.”

“Well, Mr. Mason, I _am_ surprised!”

“Not the least occasion to be surprised.”

“Let me tell you, Mr. Mason, that I never will consent to see Charles
throw himself away on a pauper. If you haven’t the spirit to prevent so
disgraceful a match, I shall send the girl away.”

“Don’t you do it, madam,” said Mr. Mason, in a firm, decided tone.

“I _shall_ do it!” replied the lady, waxing warm at the obstinacy of
her husband, who in trivial matters, was in the habit of letting her
have her own way.

“Better not,” quietly responded the gentleman.

“The minx put on such airs and smirked so, that I really believe she
meant to catch him.”

“What, Grace? Impossible! She is a little gentle, quiet thing, and I am
sure the idea of a flirtation never entered her simple head.”

“Humph!” sneered the lady. “I know better. And now that he is really
making love to her, the provoking jade seems to look upon it as a
matter of course; thinks it just as much a proper thing that she should
be the wife of our Charles, as though she had been born a princess!”

“Poor thing! I suppose she is human, and actually loves the boy!”

“Loves him or not, I’ll make an end of it.”

“Don’t be rash, Mrs. Mason,” replied the husband, twirling in his
fingers a buff envelope, marked “Telegraph.”

“What have you got there?”

“I had almost forgot to mention that brother Joseph had arrived in New
York, and telegraphs that he shall be here to-night by the New Haven
train.”

“Just like you! Never tell of a thing till the last moment!” said the
lady, petulantly.

“I received the despatch only two hours ago.”

“Here is another kettle of fish,” continued the lady, musing. “That
everlasting niece of yours is in the way again.”

“I hope the poor girl has no more sins to answer for.”

“Where do you suppose your brother Joseph will leave his property?”

“I have not the remotest idea.”

“Don’t you suppose that angelic niece of yours will wheedle him out of
a part of it?”

“I hope so.”

“You don’t want he should leave it all in your family, then?” sneered
the lady.

“No, I hope he will do justly.”

“I wish I could get her out of the way before he comes.”

“Don’t attempt it, Mrs. Mason,” said the merchant, with very decided
emphasis.

“If she were only out of the way, Henrietta would come in for the
whole,” added the lady, as she hurried out of the room to make
arrangements for the reception of uncle Joseph.


_CHAPTER II._

Uncle Joseph was a Calcutta merchant, in which capacity he had
accumulated an immense fortune. Being a bachelor, the probable
disposition of his property became a question of considerable interest
among his relations.

The family of Mr. Mason, the merchant introduced in the last chapter,
included but two children, a son and a daughter.

Grace was the only daughter of a sister, recently deceased, who had
been for many years a widow.

It was supposed that uncle Joseph would make one of his nieces his
heiress. This was the old fellow’s whim, and no one could gainsay the
whim of a bachelor. From some indications of preference which he had
bestowed upon Henrietta in her childhood, it was generally believed
that she would prove to be the fortunate one.

Henrietta had been educated to be a lady. Her delicate fingers were
never soiled by rude collision with pots and kettles, and she had been
taught to believe that it was delicate sensibility to be afraid of a
spider or a bullfrog. She played the piano with passable skill, and
lingered away half her time at full length on the sofa, poring over the
contents of a novel.

Such was the prospective heiress of uncle Joseph’s large fortune. Her
father was far from approving the education she had received, and had
used all the influence he possessed, short of quarreling, to have these
defects remedied.

Uncle Joseph came, and was welcomed as became the dignity of one who
had a fortune to bestow.

Henrietta thought he was a “dear love” of a man, and she wondered that
the ladies ever let him remain a bachelor.

Grace, by the contrivance of Mrs. Mason, was not present when her uncle
arrived; but Mr. Mason, understanding the trick, sought her in person,
and introduced her to the man of money.

The poor girl was too modest and retiring to force herself upon the
notice of uncle Joseph, who was too deeply absorbed by the unremitting
attentions of Henrietta to perceive her situation, or discover the
mental capacity in which she acted.

At tea, uncle Joseph complained of being ill, and said that he had not
been well since he landed on the previous day.

Mrs. Mason and her daughter were all sympathy. The ailing bachelor
was conducted to his apartment, and herb teas and jugs of hot water
were put in requisition. Henrietta volunteered to sit all night by his
bedside and minister to his wants; but the sick man did not deem it
necessary.

During all this confusion, Grace was not to be seen. She was not
permitted to assist in the preparations for the sick man’s comfort;
everything must be done by Henrietta’s own hand.

Notwithstanding the kind attentions lavished upon uncle Joseph, there
was no improvement in his condition; but on the contrary, he rapidly
grew worse, and at midnight the physician was sent for. Henrietta had
not left the bedside for a moment. She was the most devoted creature in
the world, and the bachelor could not but contrast her devotion with
the utter neglect of Grace, who had not once entered his room, even to
inquire how he did. Henrietta’s prospects were decidedly brilliant.

The physician came, and after feeling the pulse of the sufferer,
inquired where he resided when at home.

Uncle Joseph replied that he had no home--had just come from Calcutta.

“I see,” said the physician. “Was there any sickness on board the ship?”

“There was. I came by the overland route to Liverpool, thence by a New
York liner. There was a steerage full of emigrants on board, among whom
the fever raged fearfully.”

“Just so,” returned the physician, “and you have got the ship fever.”

“The ship fever!” exclaimed Henrietta, rushing out of the room.

The sick man turned, and witnessed her abrupt departure. With a sigh,
such as can only be wrung from a bachelor conscious of his loneliness,
he drew the bedclothes closely around him, and apparently abandoned
himself to the fate which the dreadful disease seemed to foreshadow.

The physician made up his prescription and retired. No one was left
with uncle Joseph but his brother.

“I am deserted, brother,” said the sick man.

“No, brother, I am here.”

“But there is no hand of woman here; well, it is a dreadful disease,”
and the sufferer sighed again.

Mr. Mason went down to the sitting room, whither his wife and daughter
had fled.

“How is this, wife? Is Joseph to be abandoned now that he most needs
attention?” asked he of Mrs. Mason.

“You don’t think we are going to stay in the same room with the ship
fever?” replied Mrs. Mason.

“You may as well be in the room as in the house.”

“We must leave the house immediately. Why did he not go to the
hospital? It was not very considerate of him to bring the ship fever
into the family. He might have known that he had it.”

“Heaven forgive your heartlessness! But is my brother to die with no
one to care for him?” exclaimed Mr. Mason, indignantly.

“You must hire a nurse.”

“And you will desert him?”

“We can’t stay where the ship fever is.”

“No, papa, it would be suicidal,” added Henrietta. “His fortune would
do us no good if we caught the fever.”

“Go, then! but there is still one in the house who has a heart,”
replied Mr. Mason, as he left the room to seek the apartment of Grace.

Grace was ready in a moment to attend her uncle to the sick room,
where, regardless of the danger of contagion, she laved the burning
brow of the sufferer, and did all that an angel hand could do to render
him comfortable.

Early in the morning, Mrs. Mason and her daughter departed for the
residence of a friend in the country.


_CHAPTER III._

For several weeks Grace, with such assistance as Mr. Mason and Charles
could give, nursed the invalid with the most untiring devotion. All her
time was spent by his bedside. She was all gentleness and sympathy,
bearing patiently with his petulance and ill humor, and never betraying
the slightest appearance of anger when he scolded and even swore at her.

The fever turned, and he began to mend. He was now out of danger, and
rapidly advancing to complete restoration.

The physician commended the skill and devotion of his nurse, assuring
him that he owed his life to her.

But the devotion of the poor girl cost her dearly; for scarcely had
uncle Joseph recovered before she was taken down with the fever, and
for weeks languished on the very verge of the grave.

Yet there was no female hand to lave her brow save that of a hired
nurse. Charles Mason loved her as he did his own existence, and day and
night he watched over her with a constancy and a devotion worthy the
loving heart of the gentler sex.

Uncle Joseph, too, was an anxious watcher round her bed. Though he was
a bachelor, and had spent the greater part of his life in India, away
from the gentle influences of female society, he showed an aptness in
the sick room that would have done honor to a Benedict.

To the intense relief of her devoted friend, Grace recovered. The
disease was now banished from the house, and Mrs. Mason and Henrietta
ventured to return.

“I trust you have had a pleasant visit, madam,” said uncle Joseph,
coldly.

“Pleasant! nay, far from it. You do us injustice; we were perfectly
miserable on account of your dangerous illness.”

“Humph!” said uncle Joseph, with a sneer.

The love between Charles and Grace, strengthened by the scenes of
suffering through which they had passed, was now an unalterable
sentiment. Of course, uncle Joseph had not witnessed their mutual
devotion to him in his illness, without suspecting the existence of
some strong bond of union between them. And the young man’s untiring
attention to her in her own sickness had confirmed the opinion.

Seeking a favorable opportunity, he conversed with Charles upon the
subject, who readily admitted his affection. The bachelor recommended
an immediate marriage.

The step was not, of course, ungrateful to the feelings of the lover.
And the desire to redeem Grace from the life of drudgery to which she
was reduced by the heartlessness of his mother, seemed to demand their
immediate union.

The young man’s intentions were soon noised through the family. Mrs.
Mason renewed the opposition she had before made, and even went so far
as to threaten that, if she could not break up the match, she would
imbitter the lives of the parties.

Uncle Joseph remonstrated.

“May I ask, madam, what objection you can possibly have to the
marriage?” said he, with considerable sternness in his manner.

“What objection! why, the girl is a beggar; I have employed her in my
family to keep her out of the almshouse, which, I think, is objection
enough,” replied Mrs. Mason, disliking the interference of uncle Joseph.

“Your son, I think, is not wealthy, so that he need not _demand_ a rich
wife.”

“He need not marry a beggar, though.”

“She is worthy a prince, beggar though she is.”

“O, very likely,” sneered the lady.

“I owe my life to her, and I can never cease to be grateful to her.
When _others_ forsook me, _she_ was constant,” replied uncle Joseph,
pointedly.

“She knew you were rich,” said Mrs. Mason, sarcastically.

“So did you and your amiable daughter. You were like angels round
my pillow till the doctor said ‘ship fever,’ when you fled like two
frightened sheep.”

The lady looked as black as a thunder cloud.

“I trust you will withdraw your objections to this marriage, Mrs.
Mason. You perceive that Charles is resolute, and will have his own way
about it,” continued uncle Joseph, in a more pliable tone.

“His _own_ way! All this for bad advising! I cannot prevent it,
perhaps; but I will never consent to it. No! a son of mine shall never
have my consent to marry a beggar girl.”

“Madam, she is no longer a beggar. She is the heiress of all my
fortune,” said uncle Joseph, with sudden energy.

Mrs. Mason’s brow contracted.

“And Henrietta?” said she.

“Never touches a penny! She deserted me when I most needed a friend,”
replied the bachelor, vehemently. “If I had ten thousand fortunes, they
would be but a poor return for all that Grace has done for me. I make
over fifty thousand dollars to the newly-married couple as soon as the
knot is tied; the residue at my decease.”

The marriage took place soon after. The ceremony was performed at the
house of Mr. Mason, in spite of the opposition of his wife; for when
the merchant said it should be so, he had the firmness to carry his
point.

The newly-married couple took up their residence in a beautiful house,
purchased for them by uncle Joseph, who consented to make his home with
them.

Henrietta is now five-and-thirty years of age, and an “old maid.” Mrs.
Mason still continues to be a termagant, though her husband maintains
his integrity with firmness and decision. She has never forgiven uncle
Joseph for making Grace the heiress, and probably never will. But the
worthy bachelor never ceases to rejoice over the disposition he has
made of his property, and probably _he_ never will.




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Transcriber’s Notes


 • Italics represented with _underscores_.

 • Small Caps converted to ALL CAPS.

 • Obvious typographic errors silently corrected.

 • Archaic spelling kept as in the original.

 • Illustrations relocated close to relevant material.




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78710 ***