UC-NRLF B 3 32S bSl tF< OUR "FIRST FAMILIES, 1) 2L8«W PHILADELPHIA GOOD SOCIETY. BY A DESCENDANT OF THE "PENS.' "Caress the rich; avoid the unfortunate ; and trust no one." Turkish ProV3Sb. BOSTON: JAMES FRENCH AND COMPANY. 1857. s b qi ° Entered acording to Act of Congress, fca the year 1855, by WnriT & Tost, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eustern District of Pennsylvania. Sptrial Hfrntitt. Although the main incidents and principal characters of this work are sketched from the life school, yet no par- ticular person or private history is made use of in such a manner as to warrant the direct personal application of any portion of it. Almost the only entirely bad pictures extant, as works of art, are those whose sole claim to attention is a collection of individual portraits. This is also eminently true of literature ; but pen and ink are such subtle limners, that they cannot forcibly depict truth of character or man- ner, without flattering hundreds of the unstamped coins of current humanity that they must have been the model whence the portrait was drawn. But they may remain calm : their fears, their vanity and' their indignation, are alike groundless, idle and unimportant. l^tYiaihrt. To thee, 'neath whose despair-sustaining eyes This task, 'midst anguished days and nights, was wrought, I bring, in all their rude and homely guise, These phantom pilgrims of my wayward thought. If in their speech or lineament dwells aught That may remember me to after time. Thine is the spell that all the magic taught — Who in those hours that suffering made sublime, Upheld my fainting steps, life's icy steep to climb. When friends grew cold, and kindred turned aside, And e'en the mother spurned her first-born's name, Thou didSt not falter from my faltering side, Though poisonous tongues grew busy with thy fame, And sought thy spotless truth to brand with shame; But leddest me, with strong and gentle hand, Through unseen paths, that opened as we came, Till, angel-guided, on the height I stand, And view once more, with hope, the peaceful promised land. Now fades the dream on fancy's mirror glassed, Whose fleeting forms I have essayed to stay Within these pages, as they swiftly passed — M204170 DEDICATION. Dimly, as waves reflect the starry way, That arches o'er them in eternal play Of living light — nor have I striven in vain, If I sometimes have caught a broken ray, Some struggling heart to cheer amidst its pain, And show that love can star the darkest night again, June, 1856. Cffttteitii CHAPTER I. The Honourable Mrs. Valentine's Wednesday, 13 CHAPTER II. The Introductions, 24 CHAPTER III. Preparing for the Grand Event, 31 CHAPTER IV The Head of the Family, 38 CHAPTER V. The game of the Honest Quaker, 52 CHAPTER VI. The gay Quaker and her Music Master, 70 CHAPTER VII. The First Rehearsal, 82 CHAPTER VIH. The Two Actresses, 93 9 X CONTENTS. CIIArTER IX. The Fast Man, 100 Cn AFTER X. The Harems of Civilization, 119 CHAPTER XL Temptation and Trial, 137 CHAPTER XII. Rosalie, ~~~ 148 CHAPTER XIII. The Matinee Musical, 160 CHAPTER XIV. A Night of Blood, 170 CHAPTER XV. The Glass Door 180 CHAPTER XVI. The Bloody Footsteps, 187 CHAPTER XVII. The Devil in White Satin, 193 CHAPTER XVITI. The Two Sisters, 211 CHAPTER XIX. Black Mail, 220 CONTENTS. Xi CHAPTER XX. Collecting Evidence, 228 CHAPTER XXI. The Flowering of a Heart, 237 CHAPTER XXII. Our Two Young Ladies, 250 CHAPTER XXIII. Restitution, 263 CHAPTER XXIV. The Trial, 276 CHAPTER XXV. Riches and Death, 292 CHAPTER XXVI. The Unlucky Interruption 302 CHAPTER XXVII. The Castle in the Moon, 314 CHAPTER XXVIII. The Cross 326 CHAPTER XXIX. Two of the "First Families," 334 CHAPTER XXX. Felice's Letter, 344 XU CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXXI. An Infallible Cure for Sea Sickness, 350 CHAPTER XXXII. The Philosophy of Aristocracy, 361 CHAPTER XXXIII. Gathering up the Threads, 369 CHAPTER XXXIV. Women, Cats and Puppies, 377 CHAPTER XXXV. Genova La Superba, 384 CHAPTER XXXVI. Husband and Happiness 395 CHAPTER XXXVII. Fruition, 403 OUR FIRST FAMILIES, ETC. CHAPTER I. THE HONOURABLE MRS. VALENTINE'S WEDNESDAY. "But, my dear Mrs. Loftus, I thought you had no titles in this country ; and yet my first visit is to be paid to ' the Honourable ' Mrs. Valentine. Pray ex- plain this to me." "Oh, it is as you say," replied Mrs. Loftus; "we have no titles here — or rather, titles are valueless ; and being worth nothing, are assumed by any who choose. We have whole armies of captains, colonels, and ge- nerals, without commissions ; judges without benches ; and honourables without either honour or profit. These empty titles are the toys and playthings with which our 'infant republic' amuses itself, and diverts the pains of growing. They are quite harmless, and they make a pleasing sound — what more would you have? " 2 13 14 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. " Oli, I am quite content, my dear madame ; and so the Honourable Mrs. Valentine is no honourable after all ! It is funny ! What satisfaction can she have in wearing a title that does not belong to her ? I would as soon appear in a borrowed dress ! " "Well, if it was a brilliant one, and you had no other qualifications for making a sensation." "But I don't want to make a sensation," said Ma- dame de Saintlieu simply. " Ah ! That is the grand point of difference between you and the Honourable Mrs. Valentine ! She does want to make a sensation — it is that alone she lives for." "And you say she is very popular? " " Oh yes ! She is, or at least assumes to be, one of the leaders of our topmost exclusive circles — the very first of our 'first families' — the authority, without whose stamp of approbation, nothing passes current in the fashionable world. And, besides her wealth, the 'Honourable' is her only claim to distinction." "It is incredible!" exclaimed Mrs. Loftus' compa- nion, shrugging a pair of very handsome shoulders, from which a Cashmere had fallen, in the animation of the dialogue. She was evidently a European — pro- bably a French woman, or at all events, a resident of Paris — for nowhere else does a woman learn to draw a shawl around her in that indescribable, fascinating way, as she was now unconsciously doing. She seemed a living flower, chilled by some unexpected breath of wind, that hastened to re-envelop itself in its too soon discarded ou side leaves. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 15 "And you, my dear friend," she resumed after a pause, "you, who are so immeasurably above all this ridiculous child's play, how can you bear to tolerate it, and even take part in it? " " What would you have me do ? " replied Mrs. Loftus, while a slight shade passed across her fine brow — leaving it, however, momently as it was, open, free, and expanded with truth and benevolence. " I find this woman courted and run after by every body. Those who are not admitted to her society, are dying of envy and despair, while the more fortunate consider an in- troduction to her circles as the infallible signal of suc- cess and distinction. I must either acquiesce with the popular judgment, or I must stay entirely out of so- ciety, and thus deprive myself of the opportunity for doing good to deserving people, — such, my dear friend, as you are. What, do you think, would become of our plans, ma 'petite, if we should begin by insulting the head and front of the very class we must propi- tiate?" Mrs. Loftus rarely indulged in the use of such terms of endearment. It was only when exercising the holy rights of benevolence, that her proud and erect nature condescended to stoop. It is the first impulse of true benevolence, to avoid wounding the self-love of its ob- ject. "Forgive me, forgive me, my kind, good friend,' exclaimed Madame de Saintlieu, taking her compa- nion's hand and pressing it with effusion. "What am I, that I should hesitate to go where you go ? I am, 16 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. indeed, ashamed, and will do every tiling you wish. But — but — I am not quite sure I can get through with it at all respectably;" and she drew her shawl closer about her, with a slight shiver, full of indescribable and infantile grace. "Do it in that way," said Mrs. Loftus, with her calm smile, "and she will think you are only chilly with this spring wind. She is not much troubled with sensitiveness. But here we are. Prepare yourself ! " The carriage drew up, and the two ladies mounted the steps of a giddy porch attached to a very large, but very extraordinary-looking house, which might have been the brick and mortar night-mare of some dys- peptic builder, trying to digest a supper of his own materials. It looked like a collection of architectural specimens, collected in fragments from every age and every country of the earth. Its innumerable turrets,. recesses, protuberances, and angles, gave you the idea of a house turned inside out, with its partitions and closets to the street. As soon as the bell rang, a door in the stair-way be- neath opened, and a roughish-looking personage came out on the sidewalk to reconnoitre. Upon seeing Mrs. Loftus, however, he gave a knowing nod, as much as to say "all right," and disappeared. "What docs that mean?" asked Madame de Saint- lieu, with amazement. "Oli, that means that John, the heavy man of all work, saw that Ave had come in a hired carriage, and supposed wo must belong to the common people. Had OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 17 he not known me, and known that I have a carriage of my own, we should have been let in through the lower door. This door only opens to the quality! " " Good heavens ! I hope you are not quizzing me, Mrs. Loftus — and yet!" — and the pretty blue eyes appealed to heaven, and the pretty shoulders were shrugged, with an air that said so much, that Mrs. Loftus laughed compassionately. "Poor thing!" said she; "what business had you in this barbarous land?" The door was now unlocked from the inside, and grandiloquently swung open, by a most superbly got up steward, whose locks were carefully oiled and ar- ranged in little parterres of curls, ascending mathe- matically to the tops — "small by degrees, and beauti- fully less." Madame cle Saintlieu recoiled shrinking behind her companion, whispering, "Must I really go in?" "Hush, child — nonsense! of course! come along!" and she half led her companion through the hall, and into the back drawing-room. They were early. There was no one in the draw- ing-room but Mrs. Yalentine herself, and a gentleman who was seated at a grand piano, passing his fingers over the keys with that soft, feathery motion, known only to artists, who make the wires reply as if they had been brushed by a bird's wing — suggesting, with a few flashing undulations, music's infinite world. His face flushed deeply, as Mrs. Loftus and her friend came in — like a child's caught in mischief; and 2* 18 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. he was rising hastily to go away, when Mrs. Valentine pushed him down on the music-stool again. "Law," she said, in a coarse voice, masculine in all but depth; "play on — it's only some of my people. This is "Wednesday, you know." The young man looked up timidly, made an awk- ward and ineffectual movement to rise, and then glanced helplessly round at his hat and gloves, which he had left on the long promontory of the piano, that jutted out into the dangerous sea of Wilton carpet and little tables covered with all sorts of knick-knacks, which spread between him and the door. He gave it up. Mrs. Valentine, who had gone to meet her visiters, now came with them up to the piano, saying : "You ungrateful fellow! You will be so glad that I didn't let you go ! Here's Mrs. Loftus been kind enough to bring Madame de Saintlien to see me, about whom we have just been talking. Madame de Saint- lieu, Mr. Wilmar — our American pianist, Madame de Saintlieu — indeed, I may almost call him our Phila- delphia pianist — pet him so here.. You will of course become the very best of friends directly. You may trust yourself safely with him, madame — lie is a real artist — quite a young Chopin, I assure you." Poor Wilmar, completely overwhelmed by this ac- cumulation of compliments, and burning with the basli- fulncss which genius and sensibility supply as the an- tenna of those poor butterflies upon whom the sun of society has never shone, was almost suffocating. He OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 19 half rose, and by an ill-considered attempt at a bow, he pushed over the music-stool ; and thinking hastily to resume his seat, he suddenly found himself upon the floor, looking up in such piteous fashion, that Mrs. Valentine burst into a laugh, and even Mrs. Loftus herself could with difficulty retain her usual look of dignified gravity. But now, the superiority of the sensitive, thorough- bred, electric woman of the world, appeared. Madame de Saintlieu instantly ran up to the poor musician, ten- derly assisted him in rising, picked up the stool, and in her turn pushing him down upon it, gently, said, " You really must pardon us for breaking in upon you so abruptly — it was not my fault, (with a wicked shaking of the finger at Mrs. Loftus.) I would have gladly stopped in the hall till that delicious nocturne of Madame Pleyel's was over. It is a trifling thing — merely an outline of music — but how suggestive ! Do favour me with it ! It recalls many agreeable things to me." The eyes of the young man and the young woman met, while she was speaking to him in this unusual, earnest, astounding way — to him an utter stranger. "But he knew why she was talking so — it was to make him forget his awkAvardness and his accident — and a ray of gratitude, of divine love and worship passed into his soul, lighting up the dim, half-revealed, but glo- rious world that slumbered there. It was the first time in all his life that he had been entirely under- stood, that a thought-barbed human glance had pene- 20 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. trated to the very depths of his nature. He dared again to raise his eyes — that calm, truthful glance still beamed steadily upon him, sending strength, life and vitality through all his being. The ice was thawed — the winter fell from his soul — he was another being. All this was quicker than thought — quicker than the flash of lightning at midnight, that discloses the whole world ere the eye can close its windows from the dizzy glare. Wilmar's embarrassment was gone. He did not speak : but with a faint smile of gratitude, he rose, brought a seat for Madame do Saintlieu, and placed it at his left hand, so that she could see his play — for artists and critics hear music with their eyes as well as their ears — and resumed the fugitive noc- turne of Madame Pleyel, so light, so evanescent — sparkling and breaking like moonlit sea-foam, or the delirious mousseaux of champagne, dying in gladness between woman's lips. The piece was finished, but Wilmar did not stop. His keen black eyes dilated and flashing like a snake's, (which is the most beautiful and innocent-looking eye in the world, contrary to the general prejudice — 'tis the tongue of the reptile that darts the mischief!) — his long, wierd fingers grasping and letting go the keys ' with a passion that made his thin lips writhe and his cheeks palpitate in sympathy — he went on. It was his soul's song of jubilee. Never had he played in such a manner — never before bad he seemed to give way to himself, and to wreak such inexhaustible expres- sion upon the keys. Mrs. Valentine was loud and OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 21 sincere in her praises — for, with all her coarseness and vulgar tastes, she had a genuine appreciation for at least the externals of art ; and even the cold Mrs. Loftus was warmed into something quite like enthusi- asm. Madame de Saintlieu did not speak or move — but a sigh of pleasure expanded her bosom, and a tear, which her resistless will forbade to fall, made her eyes radiant as stars. Wilmar, who had not once removed his glance, where, fascinated, it had fixed, now exhaust- ed by the emotions he had expressed, suddenly ceased, and let his head fall on the edge of the piano, while he convulsively pressed his handkerchief to his lips. When he looked up again, he was calm — but the hand- kerchief, which he held in his hand, was deeply stained with blood. Madame de Saintlieu grew pale, and the other la- dies hastened to inquire if he was ill. Mrs. Valentine was going to ring the bell. "Do not, madam, I beg," said Wilmar. „ "It is no- thing. It was often so, when I was a child — whenever any thing unusually affected me. It has not come back for years — it is nothing. It is over now." "Well, my dear child," said Mrs. Valentine, in her kindest voice ; "you may go now. I am glad it is no- thing serious : I declare I was quite frightened. But re- member not to make any engagement for next Wednes- day. You belong to us for that day. Madame de Saintlieu has kindly authorized her friend Mrs. Loftus, to promise for her. We will have a regular concert — Madame de Saintlieu, and yourself, and some subor- 22 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. dinates that I will pick. up. You consent, do you not ? And you, madame — do you think our jeune sauvage here will be able to accompany you? " "It is quite unworthy of so true an artist," replied Madame de Saintlieu, in a sincere tone, "to accom- pany the voice. But I will consent thus momently to degrade his fine genius, if .he will promise to do him- self full justice afterwards, by repeating the piece he has just played. It is truly an inspiration." It was seldom that Madame de Saintlieu, who was a perfectly conscientious critic of art, permitted her- self to say so much. "Wilmar seemed to feel this. " Madame," said he, " I will try. But I am no long- er the same man I was an hour ago — I can promise nothing, until I have had time to become acquainted with my new powers. But I will try. I hope you will allow me to rehearse your music with you, until I can do it something like justice?" "Oh, to be sure," said Mrs. Loftus, while Wilmar blushed at his own success in finding so ready an ex- cuse for again meeting this creature. " She is staying at my house — I have, very few visiters, and you can have the drawing-room and the piano entirely to your- selves. I am determined that not one of our prying curious people shall hear a note of Madame's voice until she makes her grand entrance here, and lays the foundation of a successful public career. There is so much humbug without talent, now-a-days, that we must see that our precious talent here is not buried, for want of proper management." OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 23 Wilmar bowed to the two ladies, and then, turning to Madame de Saintlieu, begged to be informed when he should wait on her for rehearsal. " Oh, to-morrow, if you like. I haven't thought of what I am to sing — but we will try over every thing, to-morrow, and see what will do. I shall be at home all day." Wilmar bowed to the two ladies, and took his leave. 24 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. CHAPTER II. INTRODUCTIONS. The rooms now began to fill with the usual attend- ants upon the Honourable Mrs. Valentine's Wednes- days. Mrs. Loftus seated herself a little apart, ap- pearing to be occupied with her own thoughts, or in making observations upon the visiters; while Madame de Saintlieu remained standing at the piano, turning over a pile of new music. "Why, Ellen," said Mrs. Valentine, to a thin, scraggy, die-away looking woman, bedizened in regu- lar Rag Fair style, who floated, wriggled and simpered her way into the room, and made her way up to the patroness, with an air of the most intense toadyism. " Why, Ellen, where have you been all this time ? I waited for you to arrange the sofas and tables in the front drawing-room, — and now every thing is wrong." "Dear creature," said Mrs. Glacee, with an.ineffa- ble smile, such as lithographers bestow on their copies of Murillo's Virgin of the Crescent, "you know I am always so proud of being able to relieve you of the petite soin8 of your charming jours de la receptmi" — OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 25 " Jours de reception, Ellen," said Mrs. Valentine, who justly prided herself, on the French, which was the only thing she had been able to attain at Paris ; " for heaven's sake don't let us show our ignorance before Madame de Saintlieu, whom I am going to pre- sent to you." She led the now humble and obedient Mrs. Glacee up to the piano, and introduced her to Mrs. Loftus' protege. " Oh, I am so glad to meet you," exclaimed the vo- latile and enthusiastic Mrs. Glacee, springing upon her toes, and clapping her hands like a little girl; "I have heard so much of you ! I am quite a devorante of music : we are all quite en amateur in our circle. You should hear Mr. Attarhy play the flute ! I de- clare I am so entrainee by it, that poor Mr. Glacee gets sometimes quite jealous.- Only think! to be jea- lous of a harmless instrument like a flute ! You would consider that quite mauvais gout in Paris, wouldn't you now? " Madame de Saintlieu looked up wonderingly at her bizarre acquaintance, then stole a glance at Mrs. Lof- tus, and smiled. "Oh, perhaps you»do not speak English! Well, then, let us converse in French — it is tout le meme chose for me. Mr. Attarby says I speak French with the true Parisian accent. But Mrs. Attarby — have you seen her ? A terrible woman — snubs every body — does whatever she pleases, and is any thing but con- venable. They do say," continued Mrs. Glacee, sink- 3 26 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. ing her voice to that ominious scan, magnitude at -which a character falls at every syllable, " they do say, that ■when she is in the country, she goes shooting with her husband's gun and boots, and — a-heni ! you know what I-mean-ables — rides on the box with her coachman — drinks porter at luncheon, and bounces in at the draw- ing-room window, instead of coming through the door. Oh, a terrible woman, Mrs. Attarby, I assure you. Have you not seen her? " "Ellen," interrupted Mrs. Valentine, "come away. You are monopolizing Madame de Saintlieu, who, I dare say, doesn't take the least interest in your ehro- nique SGandaleuse. Besides, I want to introduce Mrs. Wallingford, who, I see, by the sparkling of her eyes, is quite genie with your so long keeping possession of our new friend. Here, Lilly," she continued, turn- ing to a slight, black-eyed, spirituelle-looking woman, who would have been beautiful, but that her brown complexion was spotted with freckles, and who, in spite of this blemish, was still very striking, with her masses of black shining hair, her brilliant eyes, and her white gleaming teeth, and a laughing child-like voice. "Oh, pray, Mrs. Valentine," said the spoilt beauty, "don't disturb my dear friend, Mrs. Glacee. She isn't half through yet, for I can see that she hasn't come to me. I must wait my turn patiently, I sup- pose," and she gave a little toss of her head, half dis- dain and half disappointment. She really was a good creature at heart, and only slightly tinctured with envy. But her head was very wild and giddy, and she was OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 27 continually mistaking the whims of a morbid fancy, for the development of some profound and irresistible sentiment. She had -experienced at least ten grand passions already in her life, without, perhaps, ever having been really in love at all ; and she was the per- petual victim of the gravest scandal, without ever having committed any thing but thoughtless and innocent fol- lies. She was gay, luxury-loving, and independent; and the daily snubbings, and terrible scandals, to which she was made a victim by the self-righteous, had some- times made her imprudent, and even reckless. How- ever, although she had been incessantly talked about in secret, she had still maintained her position. Her husband, a military man, was frequently absent, but he truly loved his wife, and was known to have the most unbounded confidence in her, as well as being a crack shot with a pistol. But the indefatigable Mrs. Glac6e had at last fairly talked herself out, especially as she had received none of that stimulating encouragement from her listener, which acts as a spur to your professional talker. Ma- dame de Saintlieu indeed listened, with strict polite- ness ; but she did no more — not even by a lifting of the eyebrows, indicating that she took any further in- terest in what she heard, than that which was self-im- posed by that deference which is the foundation of good breeding. Seeing that her tiresome companion, with whose ri- diculous airs and affectations she was thoroughly wea- ried, had at length stopped the stream of her insane 28 ' OUR FIRST FAMILIES. twaddle, Madame de Saintlieu quietly released herself, and went towards Mrs. Valentine, who immediately presented Mrs. Captain Wallingford, and two or three other ladies, who had just arrived. Madame de Saintlieu, whether owing to the patro- nage of two such powerful friends as Mrs. Loftus and Mrs. Valentine, or to the favourahle impression she had made, — or probably to both — found herself a uni- versal favourite. She was not strikingly beautiful, and there was nothing in her appearance to alarm the envy or pride of other women, who only judged of character by outside appearance. Indeed, there was something so unpretending, so absolutely quiet and unconscious in Madame de Saintlieu's manner, that she stole imperceptibly upon you, like a summer twi- light, until at last you are startled into looking up, and find that night with all her starry glories is smiling mysteriously upon you. It was agreed nem. con., that Madame de Saintlieu's first appearance should take place at Mrs. Valentine's on the next Wednesday, and that the occasion should be as exclusive and distinguished as possible ; espe- cially, as the Hendersons — another acknowledged "first family," into whose circles, Mrs. Valentine and her set could no more penetrate, than Apollyon into heaven — were to give one of their grand double-dis- tilled, exclusive dinners, on the same day. It would, of course, be a splendid triumph, to have a successful "sensation," without their help, and in direct opposi- tion to them. Mrs. Loftus suggested, in the interest OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 29 of her protege, Madame cle Saintlieu, that this ar- rangement .might perhaps keep some persons away, who would otherwise gladly attend; for though the heads of the Valentine and Henderson factions were at as bitter odds as Montague and Capulet, yet their partisans, mollified by the modern necessities of calico and cotton, exchange and speculation, occasionally commingled in society. Mrs. Loftus' suggestions, how- ever, were disregarded. Mrs. Valentine, who had re- cently suffered two or three bitter mortifications at the hands of her rival, which galled her the more, as she found it totally impossible to resent them, would hear of no postponement. The idea of being the first to introduce a private morning concert, embellished by the appearance of a foreigner of undoubted family and position in Europe, such as was Madame de Saintlieu, had taken complete possession of her. She offered to take all the unsold tickets, and told her friend, Mrs. Glacee, that she must be sure and come the next day, to assist her in making the necessary preparations for having the affair come off with all possible magnificence and (dat. Madame de Saintlieu, having expressed her warm- est thanks for the interest taken in her, and received the most pressing invitations on all sides, took leave of her new friends, while a smile of hope lit up her face, with something more brilliant, more attractive than beauty — with the electric light of feeling. "Oh, my dear friend," she exclaimed to Mrs. Lof- tus, as they drove homeward, "how shall I ever thank 3* 30 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. you for your delicate kindness? I shall, then, really be able, by my own exertions, to take the place of fortune to my dear little children, and to keep them near me! Thanks, thanks ! You know not how deeply I feel it all here!" and taking her friend's hand, she kissed it and placed it upon her heart. . "Reserve your gratitude, my clear madamc," replied Mrs. Loftus, with her placid smile, ""you do not yet know our fashionable society. You will find, I fear, that they are as mean and paltry in fact, as they are ostentatious in profession. However, the affair is fa- vourably started, and I think that the vanity of your lady patroness will induce them to make it at least moderately successful. But you cannot conceive how tenaciously our grandiloquent parvenu aristocracy cling to their dollars. By the way, what did you really think of Mr. Wilmar's playing ? I am a poor judge of music, you know." " I think him a man of genius, unquestionably, but he will fritter himself away with nervousness. He has no manner — no repose." " Alas ! — with a sick mother and two young sisters to support, he has little time to acquire repose, or even necessary practice." "It is a great pity," replied Madame de SaintUeu, as if half speaking to herself, and half replying to her friend's remark, "he has certainly genius — poor fel- low ! I wish I could help hirn ! " OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 81 CHAPTER III. PREPARING FOR THE GRAND EVENT. The next day betimes, the docile and devoted Mrs Glaeee repaired to Mrs. Valentine's, to commence ac- tive preparations for the great event. Early as she was, however, she found a formidable areopagus al- ready assembled. There was Mrs. Balderskin, a hand- some and audacious woman, who stood up for woman's rights, and stoutly contended that ladies in private life, had as good a right to display their charms to the pub- lic, and to enjoy a free and easy life, as actresses, and other less reputable women. She boldly illustrated her theory by practice and example ; and Mrs. Bal derskin's bare and handsome shoulders, decolhtce t< the extremest boundary permitted even by the fashion of that time, or to be seen, any where out of a paint- er's studio, or a nursery, were conspicuously to be seen at the theatre, opera, concert, soiree, and conver- sazione. Other women, like Mrs. Glaa'e, who had no shoulders, and consequently maintained a stout and effective defence of their virtue, as General Jackson did not defend New Orleans — behind cotton breast- 32 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. WO rks — whispered, and pretty loudly, too, that Mrs. Balderskin's conduct was by no means so immaculate as her shoulders. — Little, however, did she care for that. The most powerful temptation to a handsome woman, is the envy and scandal which her successes provoke. Mrs. Baldcrskin was rich, young, healthy, and her husband was as contented as she was, to fol- low his own caprices, and leave her to the enjoyment of hers. She had but one passion — the desire of being conspicuous ; and to gratify this, she was determined to pay any price. Exactly such a woman as she was, thrown upon the world without money or position, would inevitably have become what we need not charac- terize. As it was, she was one of those dangerous and demoralizing characters, of which our unsifted society contains far too many specimens, and whose respecta- bility is a living libel on the institutions and principles of that society, which recognises and protects them. Seated by the side of Mrs. Balderskin, was a fair, fat and forty old maid, who still fancied herself a young one, and was perpetually in a fever of trepidation as to the effect she was producing. For days before her appearance on any grand occasion, she was in the habit of scouring the city, (for she knew everybody,) and going from house to house, among her acquain- tances, soliciting their opinion as to whether she looked best in red or green, and what effect she would be likely to produce in this head-dress, or that cape. — When actually in society, she seemed to be Bitting on nettles, and was perpetually getting up, walking about, OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 83 sitting down, and then walking about again, and try- ing to read, in the countenances of otliers, what kind of a success she was then and there achieving;. But alas! Miss Jemimah Jenkins was the only person whose thoughts or ideas were in the least occupied with the appearance or movements of Miss Jemimah Jenkins. She had years since been unanimously voted an intolerable bore ; and though she was wealthy, of the most extra-virtuous behaviour, and really quite good-looking, every body dreaded to encounter her. The worst of it all was, that her self-complacence was so intense, that she sincerely believed in her own im- portance, and mistook the frequent symptoms of im- patience which her presence excited, for envy of her superior charms and fascinations. To her mind, wo- man had but one mission, which was to excite the ad- miration of men — but one duty, which was to disap- point the hopes which that admiration inspired. In this double self-imposed struggle, poor Miss Jenkins had a hard time of it — yet it must be confessed, that the continual contu^i.- with the monster man, to which she submitted, with the smiling confidence and courage of a martyr, seemed to agree marvellously well with her. She was still round and ruddy — ate and slept remarkably well — and, but that she would insist upon surmounting her brown wig with preposterous garlands of japonicas and orange flowers, and insisted upon having her frocks made with waists a la vierge, like those of babies, she might have passed through tk * 34 OUR FIBST FAMILIES. • lunatic asylum, which -we call the world, without oeing considered one of its most incorrigible inmates. "Well, now, my dear Mr-. Valentine," said I Jenkins, after I carefully taken off her shawl before the looking-glass, put up her foot on the of a chair, to examine the effect of her ankle in a new flesh-coloured silk stocking, settled her wig. and given an infantile twist to the left shoulder of her ' : "now then, tell us all about tl morning concert. You have been in Paris and London, and know all the ins and outs of the affair. When is it to begin ': Not before ten o'clock, I hope — I am so sleepy of mornings, that I really sometimes think I can't be done growing yet. He! "Madame de Saintlieu and myself have alrendy agrcc-fl about the time," replied Mrs. Valentine, with an assumed gravity and importance. "The concert is to begin at three o'clock." "Three o'clock! why, that's an afternoon concert." "So it is, M in," broke in Miss Jenkins; "and how is a body to know how to dress, at such an extraordinary time of day? In evening or dinner . I suppose, of course. By the way, Mrs. Glac&e, do you think I look best by daylight in my blue and gold, or rny crimson-flowered bi "No one wears any thing but a morni • at a morni Jenking Mrs. Grl "the very name expr idea." "But I shall, though, my dear Mrs. Glacee. I can't bear to sit in a 1 drawing-room, or theatre with OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 35 niy neck and shoulders muffed up like a sea-captain's. Let every one dress according to her own taste or ne- cessities. I shall go in full dress." "Well, well, never mind, now," said Mrs. Valentine, who saw an angry cloud rising to the brow of her om- bra, Mrs. Glacee, whose shoulders, no more than her neighbour's reputation, would not bear a too free ex- posure. "Fine enough, for all that. The present question is, about the invitations. Ellen, you make out a list, as far as you can recollect, and I will draw up the form of invitation." Mrs. Glac6e went to work at her list, and Mrs. Va- lentine at her form of invitation. After a severe la- bour, and a general consultation with the others, the following formula was produced : " Mrs. Valentine will be happy to receive Mr. and Mrs. , on Wednesday, for the purpose of attend- ing a morning concert, to be given by Madame de Saintlieu, at her house. "To commence at 3 o'clock. "Tickets $3." " Oh, that's a great deal too much !" exclaimed Miss Jenkins; "why, you can hear Jenny Lind for that, — and Madame de Saintlieu has no name as an artist." " Well, I think myself it's too much," said Mrs. Bal- derskin, touching her lips with a seventy-five dollar pocket-handkerchief. "No doubt this Madame de Saintlieu is all very well in her way — but then, no matter what she may have been, remember she is now only an artist. However, it is certainly worth some- 34 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. great lunatic asylum, which we call the world, -without oeing considered one of its most incorrigible inmates. "Well, now, my dear Mrs. Valentine," said Miss Jenkins, after she had carefully taken off her shawl before the looking-glass, put up her foot on the edge of a chair, to examine the effect of her ankle in a new flesh-coloured silk stocking, settled her wig, and given an infantile twist to the left shoulder of her dress ; "now then, tell us all about this wonderful morning concert. You have been in Paris and London, and know all the ins and outs of the affair. "When is it to begin? Not before ten o'clock, I hope — I am so sleepy of mornings, that I really sometimes think I can't be done growing yet. He ! he ! " "Madame de Saintlieu and myself have already agreed about the time," replied Mrs. Valentine, with an assumed gravity and importance. " The concert is to begin at three o'clock." "Three o'clock! why, that's an afternoon concert." " So it is, Mrs. Balderskin," broke in Miss Jenkins ; "and how is a body to know how to dress, at such an extraordinary time of day? In evening or dinner dress, I suppose, of course. By the way, Mrs. Glacee, do you think I look best by daylight in my blue and gold, or my crimson-floAvercd brocade?" "No one wears any thing but a morning dress at a morning concert, Miss Jenkings," said Mrs. Glacee; "the very name expresses the idea." "But / shall, though, my dear Mrs. Glacee. I can't bear to sit in a crowded drawing-room, or theatre with OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 85 my neck and shoulders muffed up like a sea-captain's. Let every one dress according to her own taste or ne- cessities. I shall go in full dress." "Well, well, never mind, now," said Mrs. Valentine, who saw an angry cloud rising to the brow of her om- bra, Mrs. Glacee, whose shoulders, no more than her neighbour's reputation, would not bear a too free ex- posure. "Fine enough, for all that. The present question is, about the invitations. Ellen, you make out a list, as far as you can recollect, and I will draw up the form of invitation." Mrs. Glac6e went to work at her list, and Mrs. Va- lentine at her form of invitation. After a severe la- bour, and a general consultation with the others, the following formula was produced : "Mrs. Valentine will be happy to receive Mr. and Mrs. , on Wednesday, for the purpose of attend- ing a morning concert, to be given by Madame de •Saintlieu, at her house. "To commence at 3 o'clock. "Tickets |3." " Oh, that's a great deal too much !" exclaimed Miss Jenkins; "why, you can hear Jenny Lind for that, — and Madame de Saintlieu has no name as an artist." "Well, I think myself it's too much," said Mrs. Bal- derskin, touching her lips with a seventy-five dollar pocket-handkerchief. "No doubt this Madame de Saintlieu is all very well in her way — but then, no matter what she may have been, remember she is now only an artist. However, it is certainly worth some- 33 OUR FIT^ST FAMILIES. thing to be exclusive, and not be pushed and elbowed about by the vulgar rabble. Let us put the price at two dollars." "Agreed," said Mrs. Valentine, who was well ac- quainted with the shop-keeping habits of her country- men, and whose standard had been fixed by Madame Saintlieu, at two dollars. The deduction in prices was therefore made; and every body pleased at the immense economy thus effected. The next question was, how the invitations should be prepared — whether written or printed, whether in the form of notes or cards. One thought an engraved card would be the most stylish, — another suggested written notes, enclosing a programme of the music, printed on pink satin. Finally, the written note was decided on, as being most aristocratic, but the pro- gramme was voted decidedly vulgar, and was then 1' e dispensed with. Mrs. Glacee was then set to writing the notes, as fast as she could. Miss Jemimah, who was tremendously good-natured, as we have said, and had a most violent penchant for making herself useful, offered to assist; and as she wrote very prettily, — though sometimes hesitating a good while to ascertain which way the curl of a g's tail would look best, whether turned to the right or left, she made but slow progress. The other ladies, seeing things so fairly under way, now went away, to prosecute their shopping and other avocations. Mrs. Balderskin, looking at her watch, vowed that she did not know it was so late, and hui> OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 37 ried off in evident trepidation, lest she should be too late for some appointment. Any one who Lad seen the shrugs and smiles, exchanged between Mrs. Valen- tine and Mrs. Glac6e, as she went out, would have been at no loss to guess its probable character. 38 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. CHAPTER IV. THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. Let us get in the omnibus, reader. The " store " is a long way off, and we can have a good ride for our fip. And, as lucky as if it were in a play, here comes Mr. Henderson himself, to bear us company. The driver has caught the commanding wave of his cane : and though Mr. Henderson's fip isn't actually worth any more than our own — sometimes, in fact, not so much, as the great merchant, in making up his cash account, puts a "short fip" into his waist-coat pocket, especially for the omnibus — still the driver feels an involuntary sentiment of respect for his wealthy cus- tomer, and pulls up close to the curb-stone, although it isn't at all muddy, and Mr. Henderson's boots are not remarkably clean. But that is nothing — every body knows him, from the Schuylkill to "the Coast." His store, one of the largest, wealthiest, and longest- established in the city, is the universal resort of the wives and daughters of the wealthy residents, who can make their purchases there, at a much lower rate than in the fashionable, show-window establishments of Chest OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 39 nut street. Mr. Henderson is a quaker — a descendant of one of the early settlers on the banks of the Dela- ware — a companion and friend of William Penn, and a sharer with that great patriot and patriarch, in the gigantic profits of some of his "fair business transac- tions " with the Indians. The poor Indians ! Surely their fate has been a hard one. Cheated or slaugh- tered, and maddened by bad whisky, depopulated by small pox and other civilized diseases, they have been trundled off and out of existence, with very little cere- mony, to make room for Young America, and his he- terogeneous family of pedlars, speculators, and hard diggers. If the benevolent old patriarch Penn was a shrewd calculator, and drove hard bargains with the natives, still his treatment looks like positive fatherly kindness, compared with the bloody extermination of the race by the settlers of other portions of the coun- try. However the quaker of modern days may have de- teriorated in point of humanity and benevolence, from the standard of William Penn, he has at any rate lost nothing of the bargain-making and wealth-acquiring faculties which distinguished the great prototype and model of the sect. The quaker, in our days, is, on a large scale, what the degenerated sons of Israel are on a small one. The passion of getting, and the en- joyment of keeping, are the only sentiments which he permits to remain active in his bosom. All the other feelings, passions, and affections of his nature are distilled down into the tasteless, spiritless, colourless 40 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. consistence of duties — duties prescribed by law, and public opinion, and so far scrupulously performed; but duties which do not prevent extortion, over-reach- ing, oppression of the poor, fraud in trade, a life of falsehood and dishonesty, such as, were it not regula- ted by a sagacious knowledge of the laws and technica- lities of trade — by a careful study of the art of playing upon the miseries, the indiscretions, and the passions, of mankind— and by a sleepless self-control, that never deserts or betrays him, even in his hours of love and endearment, (if he have any,) — would cover him with infamy as a cheat and swindler. Much of this is doubtless owing to the hypocritical, hollow and false spirit of trade engendered by the fierce commercial rivalry of the times, and the universal ex- travagance, heartlessness and rivalries of the women of our commercial classes. But the quaker cannot plead the necessities of his family and kindred, for his griping and unscrupulous avarice — because the tenets of his creed strictly forbid extravagance, ostentation, and display of all kinds. The covetousness of the quaker is a problem which has never been solved, and yet it seems to be capable of a natural solution. It is the love of power, subjected to a rigid logical actio 1. The quaker sees that wealth is the one great end and aim of mankind, and that this wealth either eludes the grasp of the great majority, or else is squandered as fast as acquired, through the activity of the passions — especially those of social rivalry, gambling and love. Now, if he can subdue the passions, and leave the in- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 41 tellect alone to work, the chances of success are infi- nitely multiplied. By destroying a suppressing pride, the quaker can stoop to humiliations, meannesses, de- ceptions, and innumerable tricks and devices, from "which a proud man would revolt. By extinguishing love, both conjugal and fraternal, and substituting a decent and respectable observance of the conventionali- ties of the household, he cuts off at once the great mo- tive of imprudence, recklessness, and extravagance, both on the part of himself and his family, and shields himself plausibly from refusing all favours, kind- nesses or obligations, for his neighbours and associates. Thus, by sweeping away, or for confining in the re- cesses of his own bosom, all the passions and feelings which lead to the spending of money, and developing to its keenest activity, the intellect, which is the me- dium of getting it, the way to riches and power is open. Individuals who act upon this theory are often met in the world at large — and always among the rich. In fact, save here and there, by inheritance or acci- dent, or some immense and successful scheme of legal humbug or rascality, scarcely any man in this country ever does become rich on any other theory. But the quakers are the only sect who have em- bodied and expanded this theory into a doctrine, and organized upon it a distinctive social body. The con- sequence is, that the quakers are all rich — that is, every quaker is much richer than a man of the same intellectual organization and personal advantages as himself, in the profane world. Quakerism is literally 4* 42 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. the golden creed — the religion of money — the living, vital, daily worship of Mammon, the only material deity, from Paganism to our own times, possessing the power and the will to reward his votaries. Any man can become a quaker, either openly or by the secret practice of his life — any man can sell his soul and still keep his mind; and it is frightful to see how this horrible crime of moral mutilation is spread- ing and multiplying among us. As in the times of luxury, men were deprived of their manhood, that they might acquire brilliant voices, so our modern artificers of wealth, divest themselves of heart and feeling, of love and sympathy, and of the godlike happiness of doing good to others, that they may clutch and hold fast the glittering symbols of power. Detestable in- sanity ! Self-immolating egotism ! that withers every noble, tender, beautiful, and holy thing in nature, and makes the world a hell ! Mr. Henderson was born and educated a quaker, of the purest and strictest school. He was of a powerful mental organization, and the early and systematic re- pression of the natural sympathies, affections, and inspi- rations, had imparted to his grasping intellect a cold and remorseless contempt for mankind a misanthropic hatred of refinement, of women, and of every form of art and pleasure — things which, had he dared, he would 80 boundlessly have enjoyed! Add to this being, the most exquisite self-control of voice, manner, and fea- ture — a hypocrisy bo perfect a a to appear almost sublime — and the character of Ira Henderson is before you. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 43 Mr. Henderson had inherited a large portion of his present enormous wealth. As we have said, his an- cestor was among the companions of Penn, and was one of the first to establish regular mercantile business in Philadelphia. For several generations, the name, the business, and the patrimony, had been regularly transmitted. The firm of Ira Henderson and Son, had been familiar to every succeeding generation of Phi- ladelphians, and had now almost become one of the municipal archives. But the present owner of the name, had quadrupled at least the wealth he had in- herited. A series of fortunate mercantile ventures, under his careful management, had poured thousands upon thousands into the treasury of the house ; but it had received its greatest and most brilliant accession from a transaction which took place some few years before the commencement of our story, and might be called his crowning financial achievement. Of this achievement, the exigencies of our story re quire that we should give a brief account. Those who, in a novel, always skip such things as explanations, and hurry on to the dialogues and the catastrophies, must content themselves either with misunderstanding and puzzling themselves in vain over the dramatic de- velopement of our narrative, or else with humbly re- curring to this and the following chapter, and furnish- ing themselves with the requisite information. Although the quakers trust nobody, either in friend- ship or business, yet they do not at all object to others trusting in them. On the contrary, one of their most 44 OrR FIRST FAMILIES. cherished objects, is to inspire the confidence of the community, in their strict and punctilious good faith, especially in matters of money and fiduciary t and so willing is that ass. society, to take c\cry one at his own valuation, and bray in concert with him who blows his own trumpet the loudest, that thousands have been completely ruined by this fashionable and impli- cit trust, without ever even suspecting the dishonesty and hypocrisy that had destroyed them, but which had succeeded in diverting the attention of their victim in an entirely opposite direction. It is to one of these transactions, in which the pre- sent Mr. Henderson had been a lordly though infa- mous gainer, that we must now allude. Among the acquaintances — we should say friends, if such men ever had friends — of Mr. Henderson, was a gentleman about his own age. named Wilmar. Mr. "Wilmar was a man of very great wealth, and of an elegant, and highly cultivated taste. Having succeed- ed early in life in amassing a fortune which would have satisfied any body but a miser, and which sup- plied a princely income without touching the capital, he had retired from business at fifty, and devoted the remainder of his life to the enjoyment, in the bosom of his beloved family, of all the refined happiness which wealth, taste, and mutual affection could bestow, — to which was added the exquisite pleasure of a discrimi- nating and far-reaching benevolence, dispensed under the direct superintendence of Mrs. Wilmar herself. They had three daughters, all born within the first OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 45 ten years of their marriage, and a much younger son — a "blessing long prayed and waited for, and who gave promise, even in his childish years, of every thing his doting parents and sisters had hoped. Tender, affec- tionate, and sensitive as a girl, he was the idol of the whole family, yet he was not spoilt. The natural good- ness of the boy himself, as well as the excellent judg- ment and careful nurture of both his father and mother, prevented him from becoming either selfish or wilful. Wayward he certainly sometimes was — dreaming, ex- citable, enthusiastic, even passionate. But in none of these moods did he indicate any intrinsically evil pro- pensities. On the contrary, in very early years he be- trayed the possession of that peculiar and mysterious organization whose results are what men call genius, and which, nine times in ten, are a life-long curse to their possessor. Geniuses are generally born and re- main, poor: and genius itself, from the exquisiteness of its physical as well as mental organization, demands a large enjoyment of physical pleasure, and seeks ever to surround itself with material luxury. Add to this, its inherent disdain for money, and for all the methods and processes of obtaining or keeping it — and the po- verty and misery of the sons and daughters of genius will no longer excite our wonder. But such did not threaten to be the fate of the young Arthur Wilmar. Like the princes and princesses of the Byzantine empire, he was born in the purple, and opened his eyes only to luxury, indulgence, and hap piness. Both Mr. and Mrs. Wilmar, as well as the 46 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. sisters, eagerly watched and tended the developement of the infant son and brother. The father saw in "him the worthy representative of his countless wealth and spotless name ; his mother doted on him with that sur- passing love known only by mothers for the youngest- born, who comes long after she has ceased to hope for so much happiness, to sustain and bless her declining years. The sisters were emulous of each other in their attentions to their young brother, and already looked forward to the time when his manly arm should be held out to guide and protect them. His future career was the daily subject of loving discussion; and his father had already endeavoured to analyze the peculiar character of his son, with a view to the most appro- priate career for him to embrace. But these fair and happy prospects were suddenly clouded; and in the tempest that followed, all these brilliant hopes were dashed to the ground. Mr. Wil- mar, having taken a severe cold, in consequence of a drenching which he had got from a sudden shower, during one of his daily rides on horseback, was seized with a violent inflammation of the lungs, which in less than twenty-four hours assumed a threatening aspect. The children cowered, terror-stricken, in their rooms, listening breathlessly to every sound that wont through the house, as if it were laden with some dreadful in- telligence. The wife alone was firm, and, apparently, unmoved. Except that she was very pale, and there was a ner- vous trembling in her hands, which were cold and clam- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 47 my, she received the family physician, as if upon one of his ordinary visits. "Good morning, madam," said Dr. Felton, cheer- fully, as he came in. "I am sorry to hear that Mr. Wihnar is ailing. An indigestion, or a cold, I sup- pose. We must set him to rights, directly." "He was in much suffering during the night, doc- tor : he has a very high fever, and appears to me to be very ill. I am thankful that John found you at home. Pray, come up stairs directly." The doctor saw instantly that the case was much more serious than he had supposed. His patient was evidently very ill. "Why, my dear friend," said he, hastening to the bed, and taking the sick man's hand; "why did you not send for me last night ? How long have you been in this way? — How did it come on?" Wilmar's lips were parched with fever, and he spoke with difficulty. Mrs. Wilmar, though trembling with anxiety, at what she read in the physician's counte- nance, clearly and concisely explained the circum- stances, and stated that it was by her husband's ex- press desire that she had not disturbed him in the night. " Disturbed, my dear friend ! Preposterous ! I am disturbed perpetually with all sorts of trivial com- plaints. You should have sent for me at once." Mrs. Wilmar uttered a faint shriek ; but restraining herself by a violent exertion, she took her husband's hot hand, which the doctor had let fall, and pressed it to her bosom. 50 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. " Oil, as for that, three or four days 'will settle this infernal inflammation," said the doctor, gulping furious- ly at something in his throat: "and then," he added, briskly, "we can see, you know, what the case next requires." " Precisely, doctor. And now answer me another question. Do you consider Ira Henderson a perfect ly honest and faithful man?" "Certainly," said the doctor, surprised. "Have you any reason for thinking otherwise?" "By no means. On the contrary, I have every reason for confiding implicitly in him. I am glad your judgment agrees with mine." "Yes, it must he so. If Ira Henderson is not ho- nest, why hang it ! there can be no such thing as ho- nesty. His house has for generations been proverbial for its good faith." " It is true, — it must be so : I believe it. "Will you ride by his store, and ask him if he can come and see me, this evening, on particular business?" " Certainly, certainly ; but let us hope for a great deal better things than that ! We do not begin to de- spond yet — not by any means. Courage ! Courage ! If we can once get the upper hand of that devilish in- flammation — God forgive me for swearing ! — we shall get on well enough. I shall see you early to-morrow, and will go round to Henderson's immediately. Good bye!" Mrs. Wilmar, who had got up, having in vain tried to sleep, met the doctor at the top of the stairs. OTJR FIRST FAMILIES. 51 "Doctor, dear doctor, is lie better?" she faltered. "Not precisely better, as jet, my dear madam. — ■ You see these idiopathic inflammations, as I have just been explaining to Mr. Wilmar, are very violent and obstinate customers. They require patience. Mean- while, you must take some rest, or I shall have you upon my hands, too. Now promise me that you will take a nice cup of tea, in your own room, this evening, and go quietly to bed and to sleep. Promise !" "I promise." " That's right, that's right. God bless you, my dear Mrs. Wilmar!" 52 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. CHAPTER V. THE GAME OF "lIONEST^ QUAKER." Since Mr. Wilmar had retired from business, he had intrusted the entire management of his wealth, which he had converted into stocks and available funds, to his friend Ira Henderson, in whom every one, as well as himself, had the most unbounded confidence — not merely in his good faith, for that was a question not even thought of, so much above suspicion of every kind was he — but in his good fortune. Every thing he touched prospered ; and even in enterprises which were on the point of being abandoned as hopeless, if once his name appeared among their supporters, every thing was changed immediately. He was what gam- blers call a lucky card — the dread of bankers, and whose bets, however at random, are eagerly followed by the other players — and it is notorious, they gene- rally win. Mr. Wilmar had, therefore, wisely, as he thought, placed his capital in the hands of his friend, the great quaker merchant, who was secretly concerned in one of the largest banking-houses in Third Street, and OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 53 could profitably and safely employ any number of mil- lions, as being a better investment for his children, than an idle deposit at ordinary interest. He had also made his will, a copy of which was deposited with his lawyer, signed by himself, and duly attested, and the original confided to Mr. Henderson, who was appointed sole executor and administrator, for the equal bene- fit of his children. It was not without some well- feigned reluctance, that the " honest quaker " had been prevailed upon to assume so heavy a responsibility. But AYilmar pressed him so earnestly, that he could no longer refuse. So infatuated was Wilmar, or ra- ther, so happy in the certainty of having found so safe and trustworthy an agent and executor, that he even gave him complete control of his wife's fortune as well as his own. It is true, he had attempted to consult her on this point, but she replied with a smile, "My dear, my fortune is so much more than I de- serve that as long as I have you, I have nothing else to care for. Your judgment is mine, in this as in all things." And so the poor flies actually solicited the honour of the sleek and honest-looking spider, to be allowed to walk into his neatly-contrived cell, to be caught and devoured ! At eight o'clock, precisely, on the evening of the day in which Mr. "Wilmar had sent for his friend Hen- derson, that worthy man rang the bell, and was shown directly to the sick man's room. "How does thee do, friend Wilmar," inquired tho 5* 54 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. quaker in his unmodulated voice, that sounded like the noise made by a machine, and slowly rubbing his hands,' which crackled like parchment. "I am very ill, my dear friend, and have little breath to waste. I have sent for you to give you my last instructions respecting my family. I leave them entirely in your hands, as, next to my own, the most trustworthy on earth. I have made no change as to the final disposition of my property among my family. Every thing remains as expressed in my ■will. All is placed in your hands for investment; and after my death, separate accounts are to be opened for my wife and each of the children, so that each shall be entirely independent, and can withdraw his or her portion with- out restraint. As my executor, you will, of course, exert an influence over either of the children, in case it should ever become necessary. But I trust that they will not be intractable." "Mh!" piously whined the honest quaker, through the most orthodox and nasal of noses. "My greatest concern," continued Wilmar, "is for my son Arthur. He is now old enough to think of choosing his profession, and yet he has indicated no disposition to do so. He is so absorbed in his musical studies, that he thinks of nothing else. He told me the other day, with one of his gay laughs, that he ac- tually believed he should turn artist." "Mh!" repeated Mr. Henderson commiseratively, "it would not appear that the thumping upon wires with little hammers would greatly profit the lad's for- tune or standing among his fellow men." OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 55 " Certain*y not. Although I have a profound reve- rence for art and artists, — as I know, my friend, you have not, — yet it is not a profession my son must choose. He has great talent — genius, I am certain. I had fondly hoped to watch him with my own care, and see him fitted for one of the great careers of life — politics or the law. But that dream is over. The Lord's will be done." "Mh!" " I have said all, my dear friend. I had nothing really new to add to my former arrangements. All your affairs are going on prosperously, I hope?" "Providence be thank-ed for his mercies, yes. Would thee desire, friend Wilmar, to examine the con- dition of my stewardship ? I will forthwith prepare a full exhibit, if thee wishes," " No, no, my friend, by no means. I am far too weak to look at it — even this conversation has exhausted me. Besides, do I not know you, my old and well-tried friend? Have I not trusted you as a brother, and ever found you true? Safely, therefore, I commend my dear ones to your fatherly care. You appear cold, I know, and impassive — but your heart is in the right place." "Mh!" again repeated the quaker Then rising, and buttoning his long Jesuit's coat to the very edge of his starchless white neckerchief, and settling his low, broad-brimmed felt hat, which he had never removed from his head, he prepared to leave the room. "I hope thee'll be better soon, friend Wilmar," 56 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. said he; "if thee needs me again, thee knows where to send for me: " — and sS, without civility or courtesy of any kind, he went down the stairs, and left the house. The presentiments of Mr. Wilmar as to his own fate, proved to be correct. In spite of the skill of Dr. Fel- ton, who insisted upon calling into consultation several other of the most eminent of his brethren — spite of the unwearied attentions, the prayers, the agony of Mrs. Wilmar and his children, who sobbed and shrieked around him — he died calmly and quietly, on the third day after his interview with Mr. Henderson. The grief of the wife was mortal — past all cure. A severe paralytic stroke, brought on by the violence of her emotions, left her a helpless wreck, far more pitia- ble than death — for she might never hope to recover life in this world. Gently and patiently was she watched by her children, who took turns — Arthur insisting upon taking his turn with his sisters — in attending to her wants, and never for a moment leaving her, night or day. For a few months no change occurred in their posi- tion — Mr. Henderson answering, as was customary , all their orders upon him for money. At length, ono morning, quite early, a ring was heard at the street door, and Mr. Henderson presented himself in the breakfast room, where Emma and her sister Helen, with Arthur, were about commencing breakfast. " Thee doesn't know me, young woman, does thee ? But the young man may remember me. 1 am Ira Henderson thy lather's executor." OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 57 "I know you, sir," replied Arthur, coming forward respectfully, "as my father's confidential and worthy friend. My sisters and myself have often wondered that we never had the pleasure of seeing you." " Our people never pay visits to the world's people, except on business." " Then I am to suppose that you have business now ? But pray, Mr. Henderson, at least take a seat." "I have no time to stay. I came, young man, to tell you that the bank where your fortune, as well as a great part of my own, was invested, is broken. The stock is down to nothing — the depositors will never get a cent." And Mr. Henderson, casting an indescribable look out of his livid eyes upon the sumptuous appointments of the apartment, left the house without another word. It was not at once that the poor children could un- derstand the full meaning of Mr. Henderson's commu- nication. They had heard the words, it is true, but their total inexperience of life, of the value of money, or of the tenure of worldly possessions, prevented them from appreciating their real meaning. Arthur and his sisters, therefore, said but little, but sat looking at each other in distress and confusion. At length Emma said, " Helen, dear, go up to mamma's room, and send Kate down stairs. She is the only one of us that knows any thing about business. Perhaps she can tell us what it all means." "Dear Kate," said Arthur, " Mr. Henderson has been 58 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. here, and he says that the bank is broken, and that we are ruined. What can he mean ? " "Nonsense ! " said Kate, "it must have been a joke : papa was so rich!" "He did not look at all as if he were joking," said Arthur. " What is to be done ? " "I'll tell you," said Kate, after thinking a long time. "Arthur, you must go and see Dr. Felton. He will call upon Mr. Henderson and find out all about it." " That is the very thing ; I will go this minute. But don't say a word to mother until I come back. There may be some mistake." In about two hours, Arthur came back. lie looked a different being from the Arthur of the morning. The boy had become a man. His sisters regarded him with surprise, and ran to him tenderly. "Dear brother, what is the matter? " " What has happened ? Tell us, dear Arthur. — Tell us the worst." " It is true, my dear sisters — true. We are entirely ruined. Every thing will be taken from us. Our poor mother! — What is to become of her?" " Oh, we will work for her — we will never leave her!" exclaimed the girls, embracing one another. "And me," said Arthur, "admit me also to this sa- cred circle. And let us take upon ourselves a solemn obligation, that, happen what will, we will never sepa- rate — never leave our poor mother ! " "Never! never!" OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 59 "But," said Helen, after a pause, blushing and smiling as she spoke, "I will write to Edward" — "Build no hopes on your lovers, girls," said Arthur, sadly; "they will but follow. the rest of the world. Dr. Felton has given me some harsh but much-needed information as to our changed position. Hereafter, we must rely on ourselves alone." "Oh, I am sure of Edward Ingraham," exclaimed Helen, her eyes sparkling with animation, "Wealth or poverty will make no difference with him." The bell at this moment rang, and a note for Helen was delivered by the penny post-man. Helen opened it eagerly, and read: — " My dear Miss Wilmar — It is with the liveliest con- cern that I have just heard from my husband, the pe- cuniary misfortunes that have overtaken your family. We sincerely regret an occurrence which, among other disagreeable consequences, will prevent the nearer re- lationship which in other circumstances had been con- templated between our families. My son Edward unites with me in sending condolences. "Your obedient "Mary E. Ingraham." Poor Helen ! Sinking into a chair, she covered her face with her hands, and wept in silence. "It is what I expected, my dear sister," at length said Arthur, going up to his sister, kneeling down be- side her, and putting his arms round her neck. " But, GO OUR FIRST FAMILIES. cheer up ! Such promptness to cast you off, now that you are no longer rich, shows too clearly that he was unworthy your love. Henceforth, we must be all in all to one another — our- own world. We have no one to depend on but ourselves. You will see, sisters," he continued, rising, and speaking in a cheerful voice, " that your brother is no longer a boy, but a man, de- voted to you and our dear mother, and ready to em- ploy every energy to sustain and support you. Dr. Felton says, that with my musical acquirements, I need not lack for profitable employment — and surely the ca- reer of an artist is an honourable and lofty one. It is, as you well know, that which I would have selected in preference to any other. And now that I have such additional stimulus to exertion, you shall see what progress I will make." His confident tone seemed to inspire his sisters with his own spirit. "I can certainly do something with my needle," said Emma ; " I have been greatly complimented on my embroidery — and, though I may not be able to earn much, the trifle will help." "And I," said Kate, "I will teach languages, or keep a shop, or do something. I will not be idle." "For me," said Helen, drying her eyes, "I do not know what I can do. But I can at least help in taking care of mamma, and look after the household affairs. You know papa always praised my housekeeping." "Dear girls," exclaimed Arthur, embracing them in turn, "with such a spirit, we cannot fail. God will OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 61 not desert us, "while we thus do our duty. We shall yet be happy. But I forbid any scheme for either of you that will separate us. Let us at least remain to- gether, and then we may defy poverty, or at any rate, meet it with courage and hope. Go to my mother, Emma — she has been left alone too long already. Do not teH her any thing — it would only distress her use- lessly. I shall go to Dr. Felton, who has kindly pro- mised to advise with me as to our plans. Good bye ! and keep up a heart ! " Arthur went out, and the sisters went to their mo- ther's room, as usual. Emma to read to her, Kate to put the room in order, while poor Ellen, her eyes still red with weeping, and her heart sobbing with its great sorrow, stole to a piano — which had been brought to Mrs. Wilmar's room, that she might listen to music, of which she was so fond — and at first unconsciously running over the keys, the young girl gradually found expression for her grief, in the pure and sublime lan- guage of art — the only friend that rlever deceives, the only confidant that never betrays, the only consoler that never fails — for art, to the refined nature, is the symbol of eternal truth, eternal harmony, and infinite goodness. By the advice of Dr. Felton, Arthur went the next day to see Mr. Spearbill, who had been his father's lawver, and was acquainted with the circumstances of the will and executorship of Mr. Henderson. At first Mr. Spearbill made a great many wise and mysterious observations, tending to assure his young client that 6 62 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. he might depnd upon him for sifting the matter to the bottom, and that, if there had been any foul play, he should be sure to ferret it out. "But do you suspect any thing wrong, then?" in- quired Arthur. "My dear young friend," replied Mr. Spearbill, in pompous and measured tones, "it would be going a great deal too far, in the present incipient stage of the affair, to say that we suspect any thing wrong. Mr. Ira Henderson is a respectable man — a very respecta- ble man — the head of one of the best houses in the city — stands high, too, in society — one of the first families — a man of great influence and unimpeached character. Mind, I do not say there is any thing wrong — I do not even say that I suspect any thing wrong. Bank broke, you say — all your property confided to it — all gone — Mr. Henderson, too, a great loser! It is, to be sure, a remarkable circumstance, in so shrewd a man as Mr. Henderson. It ought to be inquired into. You may depend on me, Mr. Wilmar. I should look carefully after the interests of my late worthy and ex- cellent friend's family. You may depend upon me, implicitly. I shall wait upon Mr. Henderson this very day." Arthur went away; and Mr. Spearbill, taking his hat and gold-headed cane, smoothed his white waist- coat over his capacious stomach, buttoned the top but- ton of his blue coat, so as to expose a goodly portion of his waistcoat — and took his way to the counting- house of the great merchant. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 63 On inquiring for Mr. Henderson, he was shown into a private office, at the back of the store, where the great merchant sat alone at his cash and sales books, and by the help of the bank book, calculating the pro- fits of the week. "How does thee do, friend Spearbill," said the quaker, scarcely looking up. " Thee may take a seat for a few minutes, if thee will. I have a calculation here that somewhat troubles me. It is meet that I should make it right, while the transactions of the day are fresh in my memory. Exactitude, thee knows, is as necessary in business as punctuality." "No one knows that so well as a lawyer," replied Mr. Spearbill, sententiously. " I have often known the weightiest cases, involving entire estates, to turn upon a single word." "Mh!" slowly ejaculated Mr. Henderson, as he went on with his occupation. In about a quarter of an hour — as soon as he thought his visiter had got thoroughly impatient and out of hu- mour, — he laid down his bank book, and* wheeled round on his patent revolving chair, until he sat face to face with his visiter. Neither spoke for some time — each seemed to be reading the countenance and character of the other. The lawyer was the first to break the silence. "So," said he, "the 'monster' has succumbed at last ! A terrible crash, — a terrible crash ! But not unexpected. Every body has known for some time that it must come, sooner or later. You financial 64 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. men — at least shrewd and experienced ones like your- self — took good care to sell out your stock, and with- draw your deposits, before tho crash took place ? Ter- rible crash! terrible crash!" repeated Mr!' Spearbill, as if to himself, while taking a pinch of snuff, and care- fully brushing away the pungent particles that had lodged on his stainless white waistcoat. " Thee is greatly deceived, friend Spearbill," replied the merchant, looking steadily at his visiter, and speak- ing very slowly; "I am a heavy loser by the bank, in which I had invested not only a large amount of my own funds, but the whole fortune of Mr. Wilmar, who made me his executor, as you are aware. It is all gone — all! " "Bless us, Mr. Henderson — you don't tell me so! That is a heavy blow, indeed! All the wenlth of my dear friend and client, Wilmar, who died in the happy conviction that he had left his family rich, and beyond the reach of ill fortune. Did you say it was all gone ? " " Every dollar. Even the house will have to be sold, to make up for the sums which I advanced, from time to time, to keep good the ' margin ' of the stock : — for, like the whole world of business men, I could not think that the bank would be finally suffered to go down." " But was not that rather imprudent, my dear Mr. Henderson?" "Perhaps it was, friend; but I did not think so. I ventured my own money, as well as the trust confided to me. I did what I thought was right, before men, and in the fear of the Lord — mh ! " OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 65 " Of course, of course, my dear Mr. Henderson — I did not presume to doubt it. But my friendship for my late respected client, Mr. Wilmar — the profes- sional relations in which I still partly stand towards the family — you understand — makes me naturally anx- ious — very anxious, my dear sir — very anxious." "I have just finished making out a complete state- ment of the affairs of Mr. Wilmar's family, and of my trust as executor under the will. I meant to leave it with thee for thy examination to-morrow. But as thee is here now, thee may as well take it. And as this is a labour done entirely for me, it is no more than just, that I should pay thy fee. Thee will find all the papers in this package — and here is a check for thy own trou- ble, friend Spearbill. Mh ! " and the merchant, hand- ed over a large package of papers, and a check for a thousand dollars." Spearbill took the papers, glanced carelessly at the check, which he folded and put in his waistcoat pock- et ; then getting up, he took his gold-headed stick, put on his hat, and went away. As the door of Mr. Henderson's private office closed upon him, the great merchant rubbed his parchment hands slowly together, and said to himself with a grim smile, — " These world's people hold themselves cheap — very cheap. Ira Henderson could now buy them by the score. Oh, Mammon, Mammon ! How do the idola- ters and the unrighteous fall down and worship thee ! " After this pious reflection, the honest quaker turned 6* 66 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. round again on his revolving chair, and fell solemnly to the examination of his books. "A regular old scoundrel!" said Mr. Spearbill to himself, as he opened the door of the first sales-room, and stepped into the street. "lam convinced that the broad-brimmed old rascal has muttoned the whole of Wilmar's fortune. Lost it by the bank, indeed ! Don't believe a word of it ! Catch old birds with chaff! But it will take a good deal of such chaff as this," lie continued, pulling out his check, "to catch, or hoodwink so old a bird as Nicholas Spearbill ! We shall see ! We shall see ! Old Wilmar can't have left much short of a million. If things are as I suspect, I'll go halves with old Broadbrim, or I'll peach, and let him down so roughly that he will never get up again! " We need not trace this "fair business transaction" between the great merchant and the eminent lawyer, to its conclusion. It is enough to say, that they came finally to a perfect understanding ; that Spearbill, having required something for the careful investi- gation of the affair, announced to the expectant Ar- thur that it was "all correct;" that Mr. Henderson could not have foreseen the catastrophe that occurred ; that the whole commercial community had been as much astonished at it as himself; and that Mr. Hen- derson had, in fine, acted in all things according to what he had believed for the best. Mr. Spearbill added, that although Mr. Henderson's own losses and advances had been very large, yet he had induced hini OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 67 to postpone the sale of the house and furniture for three months, to enable the Wilmars to look about them a little, and see what was to be done. Arthur went home with a heavy heart. Although he had made up his mind for the worst, and had im- pressed upon his sisters the necessity of expecting nothing favourable from the investigation of Mr. Spearbill, still a shadow of hope had remained, despite himself. Now, all was over. Even were he himself ever so well convinced that he and his family had been wrongly dealt by, yet he would have seen no way of bringing the wrong-doers to justice. Behind the pro- tection of two such respectable and worthy men as Ira Henderson the good quaker merchant, and Nicholas Spearbill the eminent lawyer, what could he, a poor friendless boy, hope to effect ? And besides, he was but seventeen — and at that age it is easier to believe in the malevolence of fortune, than the hypocrisy of men. So, the once wealthy and brilliant Wilmars, whose smiles were courted by the most powerful, and whose favour was a passport to the most exclusive circles of society, disappeared from the public eye, like the ac- tors and pageantry of the stage when the curtain de- scends, and the lights are extinguished. Their bril- liant equipage laid aside, their proud bearing and commanding positions put off, they mingled in the great stream of humble humanity, that surges and struggles within its obscure banks, until it falls into the sea of eternity. 68 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. In this dark and dismal season, Dr. Felton proved a true and constant friend. Although lie was unable to afford them help in money — which they would have declined, had it been offered — his advice and friendly suggestions were of incalculable benefit. Arthur's character continued to develope and ma- ture wonderfully, in the new and trying situation in which he was placed. He attended to every thing — provided for every thing — and in the intervals of ar- ranging a new and humble home, and getting his mo- ther and sisters comfortably established as circum- stances would admit, he still found leisure for three or four hours' steady practice at the piano, at which he made incredible progress. The considerate kind- ness of Dr. Felton, who knew and highly approved his plan of becoming an artist, had introduced him to the best maestro in the city — Avho was so astonished and delighted with the progress of his young pupil, that he prophesied for him a brilliant career. Meanwhile he turned his attention seriously to teaching; and, by the most untiring industry, he ob- tained in this way the principal support of the family — retiring at night, when he returned home wearied and nervous from his daily and irksome duties, to the solitude of his little chamber, where he practised and wrote till late into the night. Yet Ids life was not an unhappy one — perhaps less so than had he been left to the ennui and tempta- tions of idleness and wealth. lie felt that he had at least an enthusiastic devotion to his art — perhaps ge- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 69 nius : and he toiled and laboured cheerfully on, wait- ing unconsciously for the hour and the occasion that was to touch his nature with the divine fire of love, and thus light up in his soul the bright and inextin- guishable flame of genius. Three years had passed in this way, during which no change had occurred in the affairs of the "VVilmars — except that Arthur began already to make his way as an artist. He had played several times at public concerts with success; and a number of short, light pieces which he had ventured to offer to a publisher, who kindly undertook to publish them them for no- thing, had been received with great favour. He was much sought as a teacher, and had been enabled to in- crease his terms to the aristocratic rate — so that his income was considerably expanded, and he was ena- bled to gradually add to the comforts of his mother and sisters, some faint attempts at even the luxuries and embellishments of life. But the struggle was still a hard one — and he inwardly groaned as he saw the days and months go by, without enabling him to with- draw from the Irksome labour of teaching, and devote himself wholly to the pure study of his art and of the higher walks of composition. It was at this time, that Arthur Wilmar first saw Madame de Saintlieu, at the reception of his great friend and patron, Mrs. Valentine. 70 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. CHAPTER VI. THE GAY -QUAKERESS AND HER MUSIC MASTER. It was an act of extreme kindness and delicacy, on the part of Mr. Henderson, and much lauded and won- dered at by the members of the exclusive circle, of which he, (or rather his wife,) was the acknowledged head — that they had dismissed Signor Polvenno, the" maes- tro of their only daughter, Sarah, and had committed her musical education to Arthur Wilmar , who, though 7 7 O a very clever young man, could not, of course, com- pare with the Signore, who had learned his divine art beneath the sunny skies of Italy, and who sang so con espressione, and whose hair and moustaches were so elegantly black, so exquisitely curled, so celestially scented ! (The Signore had carefully concealed from his adorers among the barbarians of the new world, that he was originally a runaway tailor's boy in Naples, and had joined the supernumeraries at the San Carlos, where he got three cents a night for singing in the chanisscs.) The day after young "Wilmar had met Madame de Saintlieu, Sarah Henderson was in her mother's draw- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 71 ing-room, expecting her music master, and impatiently turning over the leaves of Lablache's vocal exercises, — though it was evident she was not looking for any particular lesson, as her slender white fingers dashed through the book, from beginning to end, and from end to beginning with feverish and reckless haste, as if she were striving by the occupation, to check or dis- tract some troublesome thought. Now she stopped all at once, and running to a little table, on which stood a bronze time-piece, she compared the position of the long, black, skeleton fingers, pointing over the golden face, to those of a tiny watch which she drew from her bosom. " Eleven o'clock ! " she exclaimed, with girlish petu- lance, "and he always comes at half-past ten. I'm tempted to go up stairs, and not take my lesson at all. But perhaps he is ill," — she continued. "I am sure something must have happened — he is always so punc- tual!" Philadelphia, celebrated as it is for its beautiful girls, had few so beautiful as Sarah Henderson. Her mother was the daughter of a leading family of " gay Quakers" — a schism from the sect of Quakers, still holding the same fundamental doctrines, but foregoing many of the puritanic self-denials and ostentatious hu- milities of their stricter and more sanctimonious breth- ren. Although the schism is a very decided one, the gay Quakers indulging in the heinous crimes of wear- ing bonnets somewhat like other people's — giving par- ties, dancing, and enjoying music and the fine arts, 72 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. and above all, speaking a grammatical language — still the difference between them cannot be said to be actu- ally a rupture. The families of the two schools of Quakerism hold such social and personal intercourse with each other, as the rigid regulations of the stricter sect admit of — a general co-operation in matters of trade- and business is kept up by the men — and mar- riages, though on the whole discouraged, are not un- frequent, between members of the two branches of the chosen people. Sarah's mother had been the great belle of the gay Quakers, in her youth ; and old Ira Henderson, im- pressed with her beauty — or rather, enchanted with the large fortune which she would inherit from her fa- ther, whose oldest child she was — had unbent from the severity of his sectarian discipline, and proposed the match between her and his son. It was the first time that the Hendersons had sought an alliance among the "gay" portion of the brotherhood; and Sarah's father was consequently flattered by the distinction ; and as the daughters themselves are permitted no voice in their conjugal relations until after marriage, the match was finally concluded. Some of the strictest among his brethren and sisters, commented with severity and wonderment upon this social dereliction ; but the Hen- dersons were people not to be offended, and famous for always having their own way. Besides, gossiping is not a Quaker vice ; and as the match was in every other respect entirely eligible, it was shortly and ge- nerally acquiesced in, by the friends of both parties. • OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 73 The young couple had got along extremely well. The husband retained all the primitiveness of his speech and habits, and occasionally frowned or sighed — for Mrs. Henderson was a woman of spirit, and not to be chidden or lightly crossed, as her husband soon dis- covered — at the extravagance and style of the house- hold establishment, the expensive parties and enter- tainments given by his wife, and the vain and frivolous manner in which their daughter was brought up and educated. Several severe domestic contests on these points, however, in which he was invariably beaten out of the field, by his clever and determined wife, showed him the folly of opposition; and he finally yielded up the management of the household to her, and withdrew entirely into his own peculiar domain of the counting-house. Here, he was the tyrant, which at home he could not be ; and the face and bearing of the great Quaker merchant were a regular thermome- ter, as he gradually subsided from the stately and in- flexible freezing point of the store, down to the zero of his true position at his grand house in Schuylkill Eleventh street. Sarah, their only daughter, inherited the beauty, the spirit, and the taste of her mother. She was intrinsi- cally, and at heart, as well as by education, a "gay Quaker" — and her eager and active organization, her superb health, and warm imagination, would have in- cited her to overstep even the "gayest" bounds of her sect, and leap, like a frisky colt, into the flowery pas- tures of the "world's people." But her mother kept 7 74 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. a strong hand and a watchful eye over her, and she was early taught the uselessness of attempting to revolt against the inflexible will, and the sagacious watchful- ness of a mother, who, if she did not love her daughter, at least was proud of her, and had marked out for her a destiny as brilliant and immaculate as her own. And Sarah Henderson was a girl of whom all bril- liant and beautiful things might be predicted. Sensi- tive and fond of pleasure, yet she had intellect and enthusiasm enough to make her an ardent student of literature and art, those purifiers of the passions, those antidotes of low tastes and degrading vices. She was no dreamer, for she had never had any serious disap- pointments, and life had been to her a reality, as bril- liant as her own dreams would have pictured it. Pros- perity had made her exacting, capricious, and vehe- ment ; and should the hour ever come — as come it may and will, to queenly beauty in silken bower, as well as to lowly maiden in gown of green — the disappointed passion shall sweep through that strong and powerful heart, the storm would be a fearful and devastating one. But at sixteen, a girl thinks not of disappointment, nor even of passion — though the seeds may have al- ready been sown in her teeming heart. If she have vexations, they are only such as affect her vanity, or her momentary caprices. They do not enter into and form a part of life itself. Had Sarah Henderson, however, been a student of metaphysics, and could she truthfully have examined OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 75 her own sensations, as she stood by the little French time-piece, comparing its markings with those of her dainty little watch, she would have been somewhat startled. She might have even suspected that it was a strange symptom, to be so very much put out by the delay of her music master ! What if she should miss her music lesson for a single day ? — it would be no great matter. Or, if she was so earnestly bent in making progress in her singing, could she not very profitably turn back and go over those last two lessons again ? They were very difficult ; and even her voice, beautiful and flexible as it was, and her ear, quick and sensitive as electricity, to the least disturbance of har- monic combination, had not been able to master some of those strange intervals. In fact, she ought to study those two lessons again, — Mr. Wilmar had gently in- sinuated as much, a few days before. But when she suddenly turned upon him with those flashing eyes, overarched by two little imperious frowns, and demand- ed of him whether he really thought her so stupid as to require any more study at that — he blushed, and stammered, and fumbled at the music-book — put his gloves on his head, and stuck his arm into his hat up to the elbow. And then Sarah had laughed, with a bright, merry, ringing laugh; and he had blushed and fidgeted still more — and at length, watching his opportunity, as also his hat and gloves, had fairly rushed out of the house. She vividly recalled this scene, as she still stood, watch in hand, her eyes fixed abstractedly on the 76 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. honest and uncompromising face of the time-piece — and a smile stole out from her lips, and spread gradu- ally over her beautiful cheeks — like morning lighting up the rosy clouds — till it melted in the flashing sun- light of her eyes. At this moment the hell rang. " Oh, there he is, at last! " she exclaimed, in a low voice, while a sigh of relief escaped her bosom ; and, with that infinite and indescribable hypocrisy, know T only to young girls, and some strains of Bellini's music, she walked back statelily to the piano, and seating herself grandly, began practising her imperfect lesson, with as much sang froid as if she never ex- pected to see a music master in the world.- She lis- tened between the notes, for the sound of his step in the hall — but she would not have turned for her life. How long he was in coming in ! " So, cousin Sarah, you are at your lesson all alone to-day! I did not know you were so industrious." She turned round in consternation, and saw Miss Jemima Jenkins ! Without deigning to bestow a syllable upon her an- tiquated cousin, whom she always hated, she was hur- rying out of the room, when Jemima chattered on — " Oh no, — no Mr. Wilmar for you to-day ; he is much more grandly employed. They are going to have a matinte musicale at Mrs. Valentine's, and Mr. Wilmar is to play the piano. Madame de Saint- lieu is to make her first appearance. I have just come from Mrs. Valentine's, where they are writing the in- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 77 vitations. It is going to be the grand affair, and I hurried off to tell you all about it, and especially to ask your advice." "Who is Madame de Saintlieu? — and why cannot Arth — Mr. Wilmar — give me my lesson, because he is going to play at Mrs. Valentine's, matinee? I sup- pose it doesn't take place to-day." " Oh bless you, no ! next Wednesday, at three o'clock precisely. But Mr. Wilmar has gone by appointment to Mrs. Loftus, to rehearse with Madame de Saintlieu. He met her at Mrs. Valentine's yesterday, and she complimented him very much on his playing. He is regularly infatuated with her. Mrs. Glacee told me all about it. Now I want your advice — do I look best in pink or blue ? We are to wear morning costume, and I am going to the store to select my dress. Some- times I think that, by daylight, blue becomes my — " But her auditor was gone. Rushing up stairs, hold- ing her hands tightly to her heart, she threw herself on her bed, and burst into tears. Poor little gay Quakeress! The first storm is rising afar in your brilliant horizon ! The incorrigible old maid, having done all the mis- chief, and inflicted all the pain, which it is the " mani- fest destiny" of that class of beings — the furies of the Greeks, translated into wigs and petticoats — to do and inflict — looked about with the most innocent surprise at what she had done, and went trotting up stairs to find her cousin, Mrs. Henderson, to repeat her won- derful budget of news from the Valentines, and to dis- 7* 78 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. cuss the important point, with her relative, whether she should go to the concert in blue or pink. Mrs. Henderson had but one serious, inflexible, un- qualified hatred in the world — and that was Mrs. Va- lentine. She had a quiet sort of detestation, indeed, for her vain, tattling, conceited cousin, Jemima, who was the female mercury of the town, and spent her whole life in gadding from one house to the other, tell- ing every body exactly the thing which they most dis- liked to hear. Practice had made her perfect in this delightful employment. She was a moral probe, and could hit the sore spot in the dark, without ever miss- ing. She was regarded as a general nuisance, by all circles — by Quakers, both grave and gay, (to the lat- ter sect of which she belonged,) as well as by the world's people. But she was not to be got rid of, as her po- sition and character were unimpeachable, and her for- tune was very considerable, and held entirely in her own right. Had she left off her sentiment and orange wreaths, and taken honestly and openly to snuff and porter, there doubtless might still have been found some desperate young man, so desperate, both in purse and purpose, as to have married her for the sake of her fortune — and a hard bargain the poor fellow would have had ! But even the boldest and most unscrupu- lous of adventurers shrinks from that mingling of in- fantile smiles, and false teeth, wreaths and wrinkles, pouts and prepared chalk, which goes to make up the modern, (we beg pardon, we mean the ancient,) old maid, and reminds the beholder of a peripatetic sam- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 79 pie of Laurel Hill, sent round as a specimen of its highly ornamental and flowery tombs. Mrs. Henderson received the news of the doings at Mrs. Valentine's, with the most withering disdain, though in her inmost heart she was chafing with spite and envy. "Infamous creature!" she exclaimed; "how dare she go on at this rate, in the face of such a career as hers ! I declare, the police ought to take her up as a vagrant, and shut up her house as a disreputable es- tablishment : there certainly can't be a worse one ! And you, cousin ! I am astonished that you dare be seen in such company — and most especially, that you can come to me with news of her doings. You choose your subjects badly, cousin. What do I care for your Madame de Saintlieu? No doubt some French Trol- lope, who has been driven away, as too bad even for Paris. She has found a precious, and doubtless a con- genial patroness!" "Why, cousin, you astonish me! I thought you cared nothing about these people ; and yet you are positively angry because they are going to have a matinee musicale!" "No, I am not — I am only angry because you have come to tell me of it. I hate to hear that woman's name — it makes an honest woman distrust honesty, when such creatures- can make a figure in the world." " I am quite sorry I said a word about it, my dear cousin — I thought you would like to hear the news." 80 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. " "When does your matinee musicale, as you call it, take place? " " Next Wednesday, at three o'clock precisely — morn- ing costumes. Now, dear cousin, do be good-natured for a moment, and tell me which you think I look the best in, by daylight, red or blue ? Sometimes I think one, and sometimes the other. Do tell me your opinion." "Both, I should think." " Really ! Well, I never thought of that ! It is a new idea — quite splendid, in fact ! Cousin, I am very much obliged to you — I must hurry down to the store. Good bye! " After she had gone, Mrs. Henderson sat for a mo- ment, in deep and angry thought; then, ringing her bell with unusual violence, she ordered the carriage, and prepared to go out. "And send Miss Henderson to me," she said, as the maid went out. Sarah came in, having dried her eyes as well as she could — though they were still red and showery. "You look ill, my child — what is the matter?" " Only a very bad head-ache, mamma — I was lying down." . . " Woll, go and put on your things — I am going out ; and a drive will do you good." " Where are you going, mamma?" " To call on Mrs. Attarby." " Mrs. Attarby ! I thought you hated her, because she is an actress." OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 81 "Not because she is an actress on the stage, but because she continues to be one after she has left it. But I have special reasons for seeing her. ' You can remain in the carriage — I shall only stay a moment." "I will be ready." And as the young girl went out, she said to herself, " Are we not all actors ? I am sure mamma is — and I know I am — though I have played my part badly. I will get mamma to let me go in, and take a lesson from her and Mrs. Attarby." 82 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. CHAPTER VII. THE FIRST REHEARSAL. Madame de Saintlieu had entirely forgotten her impromptu rehearsal, for which she had engaged to be at home to Mr. Wilmar. When he came, he found her playing with her two little girls, in Mrs. Loftus' drawing-room. The oldest girl was about six — a bright, healthy, elastic creature. She was teaching her sister, a little affair of three years or so, and who could hardly toddle, to dance the polka, while mamma, looking over her shoulder at the funny little manoeu- vres, with a smile of ineffable affection and playful- ness, was drumming away at the piano. Wilmar stopped, and stood in the door, admiring the pretty and natural picture before him. Madame de Saintlieu did not see him ; but the children did, breaking up their lesson in confusion, and coming up to her. She then turned to the door, and seeing Wilmar, motioned him in with a cordial welcome. "Oh, I had forgotten you, Mr. Wilmar," She said. " How very kind of you to come! Hun away, my darlings ! That will do for to-day." OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 83 The children went towards the door ; then the oldest came back to her mother, and whispered mysteriously in her ear. "Yes, certainly. Mr. Wilmar won't mind, I dare say. My little girls want to stay and hear mamma sing. May they do so, Mr. Wilmar ? ' " Madame, it will be a happiness for me to think that my ill-timed appearance does not drive them away from you. I ought really to apologize for intruding." " On the contrary, it is I who ought to apologize. But I have become so accustomed to your American inaccuracy about appointments, that I really had not fixed ours seriously in my memory. But, as you are here, if you please, we will go through the pieces de resistance of our entertainment." Wilmar, who at first had felt all his shyness and awkwardness returning, insensibly lost consciousness of himself, and was soon seated in front of Madame de Saintlieu, with an immense portfolio of music be- tween them on a little table, and conversing quite at his ease. "I suppose of course we must have something very high and grand in the Italian way," she asked. " Oh, I suppose so, of course, all our young misses sing scenas and cavatinas. Something will certainly be expected of you in that style." " I am sorely tempted to disappoint them, if only for the sake of novelty. I am heartily tired of grand arias in the drawing-room." "But you do not dislike the Italian school?" 84 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. "I mijxlit as well dislike Greek architecture, or Ra- faelle's pictures. It is the only school that has com- bined the grace of music and the power of passion into an art." *' Ah ! I thought so ! I felt it must be so, notwith- standing the wretched disappointments I have alone listened to." "It is for this very reason, that I hate to see the grand and sublime pictures of the Italian opera dragged out of their frames, cut up into fragments, and distributed with the tea and muffins around the drawing-room." " I feel that you are right, yet it would be cruel to deprive us, who cannot have the opera entire, of the pleasure and profit of enjoying even its fragments." "You must have a difficult public to please, more exacting than critical." " That is the precise truth, the idea that I have al- ways been trying in vain to express. Our general public know, literally, nothing of music, and care no- thing for it: and when they listen to a real artist, they are disappointed, because they do not derive their money's worth of pleasure." " That is the way with an ignorant public, art suf- fers in their estimation, because it is art — because it is not something else — something that they like and can understand. It was so for many, many years in London. Indeed, Italian opera has never flourished naturally out of Italy. Even in Paris, it is an exotic —more criticised than enjoyed." OUR'FIRST FAMILIES. 85 " You are flattering my self-conceit enormously, by uttering my very thoughts. You learned to sing in Italy." " I studied there — I ought not to say I learned to sing: not every one who studies does that." " I am dying to hear you — if you will forgive my madness — I meant — I — really" — " Certainly, with all my heart. What shall we try? Here is the prayer from Favorita — let us try that." Wilmar's fingers trembled, his face flushed, and his heart beat. But it was now, however, the artist, and not the man, who was excited. He felt that he was about to hear what he had heretofore only dreamed of — the impassioned symjxithetic expression of dramatic sentiment, through the language of music; that lan- guage which, instead of narrowing, restricting, and breaking up the sentiment intrusted to it, ennobles and exalts passion itself, and gives to it a divine and im- mortal utterance. She began, but it was in such thrilling, touching, heart-breaking accents, that the trembling player for- got his keys, and turned upon her, gasping for breath, as he listened. He was spell-bound. The accompaniment is very slight, and she went on for a few bars without it; when, missing a leading chord to which she had been accustomed, she stooped over Wilmar as she sang, feeling with her soft moist fingers for the notes she wanted — his feverish hands lying strained and motionless upon the keys. He 8 86 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. could not have stirred for worlds ; and, carried away by the despair, the anguish, the love of that terrible prayer, Madame de Saintlieu went on, striking the chords as the modulations melted into each other, or broke into startling combinations. She ceased, and went back to her seat, taking no notice of hi.3 strange conduct. At length he recovered his voice. "I have found it!" he cried, in wild excitement; "I know now what it is — I have dreamed aright. Yes — I have heard that in my dreams a thousand times. Oh, sing it again ! I will not fail you this time ! " and he grasped the keys, as if determined that they should not escape him. She smiled, and standing up at the piano, was ready to begin. Wilmar was right — he did not fail her, but followed her with such exquisite fruth and feeling, that voice and instrument vibrated together, as if one had pro- ceeded from the other. "Ah, you deserve to worship art," she said. "Few are the happy ones who do. For, with this divine gift, what ought to make us unhappy?" Wilmar was bewildered: all his wild dreams of art had suddenly become true, and stood revealed before him. No wonder that he mingled his worship of art with adoration for her who had first embodied it. He trembled violently with his emotions; and not daring to look up, he unconsciously caught up the youngest child, a timid fearful little thing, and pressed her con- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 87 vulsively in his arms. The child screamed, and pal- pitating like a frightened bird, glided from his arms, and ran sobbing to her mother. Her sister stepped valiantly before her, and with flashing eyes, stood in an attitude of defiance, as if to protect and defend her. Wilmar was abashed, and coloured with shame and confusion. "There, my little warrior," said Madame de Saint- lieu, with a smile; "that will do. Mr. Wilmar did not hurt your sister." The girl drew back, and took her little sister by the hand — keeping a watchful eye upon Wilmar, as if not oolite sure of his pacific intentions. Madame de Saintlieu and the young man both looked at the two children ; and as they withdrew their glances, their eyes met. — Wilmar blushed again, more deeply than be- fore. Madame de Saintlieu suffered her eyes to rest upon him for an instant, with an expression full of interest. "You are very young to feel so deeply," she said. "You must have suffered." "Ah, yes," he replied, "for others: we do not suffer for ourselves." " That is true only of those who devote themselves to art — or to religion." " Are they not the same ? " "Perhaps. I do not think, for example, that there can be a prayer more sincere than breathes through that music," pointing to the partition they had just been using;. 88 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. "And the penitence of a bereaved and disappointed heart, that comes brokenly back to cast itself at the feet of its Creator," said Wilmar, catching the deep enthusiasm that trembled in her voice; "where has that ever been so touchingly expressed as in Fernan- do's wailing, 'spirito gen til ' ? " " I see you understand the Favorita. You think, then, that our 'prayer' will do for the concert?" "Yes, yes — but what shall come after it?" " Oh, we must fall in with the spirit of the occa- sion, and give them a ballad, or a chansonette, or per- haps a polka," she replied, with an almost impercep- tible shrug of disdain. "But you — what do you mean to play? Something of your own, I hope." "I have written nothing. I feel the fever, but not the strength of composition : and yet, I sometimes dare to hope that the power is latent in me. But I am weak and wavering — I need some sure guidance in my blind struggles after excellence. Befriend me — tell me how to begin, how to go on, in order to ex- tricate the chaos of harmonies that come unbidden to me every hour, and seem striving for expression." "You will smile at my old-fashioned stereotyped advice. It is, to study the old masters of harmony and counterpoint. They seem dry and meager, in these florid days of ornament and over-dressing. Yet they are the source of true grandeur and repose — the only foundation for style and sustained individualism. Imitate them you need not — but once imbued with their severe and puritanic spirit, you can never escape OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 89 its influence, never become trifling or corrupt. For the rest, your own inspiration must do it all." " I thank you sincerely. I have only needed the encouragement of some one like you, to confirm me in my determination to commence this arduous and al- most appalling work." "It need be neither arduous nor appalling. Look at it merely as a series of dry lessons in the techni- calities of mathematics, and master only a few of them every day. Gradually they will all become fa- miliar to you — be your obedient slaves, and minister to you of their own will, whenever they are needed." "It must have cost immense labour to have at- tained that mechanical perfection of method which makes the sense of method lost, in listening to you." " I do not know — I scarcely remember. I certainly worked hard ; but I think it was rather to understand and feel the meaning of what I sang, than a mere ex- ercise of the different notes. I am a very poor prac- titioner — I do not know whether I could sing a scale correctly, merely standing by itself, as an exercise." "Yet, your advice to me is on a different prin- ciple." "No — the lessons of the old masters of harmony become in themselves inspirations, the moment they are comprehended. Like the murmur of the sea, they contain within themselves all the harmonies of na- ture." " Does nature, then, actually express music ? I had thought differently." 8* 90 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. "Yes — only the composition is on so grand a scale, the different notes seem to us discordant and far apart. What appears fragmentary and imperfect to our narrow sense, is but a portion of that universal harmony which is ever present to the infinite conrpre. hension." "What, then, is art?" "It is the infinite, compressed to the compass of a single brain. Every true artist carries a picture of the whole universe in his "soul." "Your words are light to one who walks and strug- gles in darkness. You have re-created me. I am no longer what I was." " You mean, merely, that I have furnished the clue by which you can explore the labyrinths of your own being. You were yesterday what you are to-day." "Yes, yesterday — because yesterday, I saw you." He stopped suddenly, and grew alternately pale and red, frightened at his own boldness. Mrs. Loftus now came in. She was afraid, she said, that she was too late. Was the rehearsal over? No — they had just begun — they were discussing the principles of art. "You have an apt scholar, Madame de Saintlieu," said Mrs. Loftus, with a meaning smile; "be careful that you do not teach him too much ! " It was her turn now to blush. But she rose hastily, and going to the piano, proposed that they should sing another Italian piece. "I suppose," she said to OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 91 Mrs. Loftus, " we must have at least two grand scenas, or something at least as grandiloquent?" " Oh, I know nothing about all that — arrange it to suit yourselves. But I should like to hear some- thing new, if only to be in advance of the public." "Well — here is Schubert's Serenade: we must contrive to get that in, somehow — though it really should be sung by a man." If Wilmar had been captivated by the tenderness and feeling which Madame de Saintlieu had imparted to Leonora's prayer, he was overwhelmed with the passion of the Serenade. He could not speak — he could scarcely breathe. Even Mrs. Loftus was over- come. She went up to her friend and took her in her arms. "My dear friend!" said she, with animation, "if the barbarians of this our democratic realm don't fall down and worship you — or build you a temple — or carry you on their shoulders — or some other such folly, they deserve to be humbugged all their lives ! I declare, I never heard singing like that before. It is actually love, and pleading, and passion. One doesn't think of the music at all." "We don't think of the etymology and the other grammatical ologies, when we read Shakspeare," said Madame de Saintlieu, with a gay laugh. "It ought to be the same with music. Those who listen to it merely to analyze the quavers and cadenzas, have no right to listen to it at all. The musical snuff-box does 92 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. all that much better than any voice or instrument can do." "I do not know whether you are most admirable as critic or as artist," replied Mrs. Loftus. "Or as woman!" ejaculated Wilniar, to his own heart. Poor Wilmar! Madame de Saintlieu had well said, "I wish I could help him? " For he could not help himself! OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 93 CHAPTER VIII. THE TWO ACTRESSES. Mrs. Henderson and her daughter found Mrs. At- tarby at home. On the way, Sarah had found means to persuade her mother to take her up stairs with her, to see the great actress, and had artfully drawn from her the motive of this unusual and extraordinary visit. "Surely," said the curious and observant Sarah to herself, as they were shown into a large handsome library, over the drawing rooms; "this doesn't look much like what mamma said. I should take Mrs. At- tarby for anything but an actress." Mrs. Attarby was a large, noble-looking woman, with a natural grandeur and repose, reminding you insensibly of the majesty of ancient art. Although superficially correct, as to Mrs. Attarby's appearance presenting none of the usual or supposed indications of her profession, yet intrinsically she was wrong. To a critical and philosophic observer, no woman ever looked so eminently fitted for being an actress. She seemed capable, at a glance, of embodying the extremes of human passion, dignity, and suffering. The character- 94 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. istic expression of her large face was, energy in re- pose. When she slowly raised her large heavy eyes, like a cloud charged with electricity, resting over the still tranquil horizon, she seemed capable of anything, of every thing. As her visiters entered, Mrs. Attarby rose, and coming towards them with the easy alacrity of well-bred po- liteness, welcomed them cordially. " Good morning, Mrs. Henderson," she said, in a frank, joyous voice, holding out both hands to her visiter, with the palms upwards, and in such an en- gaging friendly way, that the prudish and puritanical quakcr — prudish and puritanical, at least, to the world's people, and most of all to the people of that mimic world, the stage — could not help placing her own formless and undeveloped fingers in those flexible, mobile, and expressive palms. No man can have been long a close observer of the physical differences in mankind, formed by the differ- ences of internal character and habits, without be- coming, to a certain extent, a believer in palmistry. That science, however absurdly it may have been abused by the dishonesty of its professors, and the ig- norance and superstition of other times, is undoubtedly as nearly connected with the real and noble science of physiology, as chemistry with alchemy, or astronomy with astrology. All great and valuable discoveries in science, are preceded by partial revelations, here and there the result of accident or solitary study : and the bigotry and ignorance of mankind — always the parent OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 95 of selfishness — ever seek to connect these discoveries with individual hopes, fears, and interests, and furnish the cunning and designing with their most powerful instruments over the minds of men. The meeting of Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Attarby, was a curious and interesting social phenomenon. The haughty, exclusive, disdainful, leader of society, was constrained, artificial, evidently acting an ill-studied part; while the actress herself was as natural, as un- studied, as stately in her yielding grace, as a forest tree. It was a pity that so instructive a "situation," should not have taken place before the public. But it had one observant, quick-witted, keen-sighted auditor. Sarah smiled, with an expression it was difficult to analyze, as she watched the meeting of the two ac- # tresses. "I am truly happy that you have at length found me out, my dear madam, and beaten me up in my re- treat. And you, Miss Henderson — although I have not yet had the pleasure of being presented to you, it does not need — you are too faithful a souvenir of your beautiful mother to require naming — I assure you that you have given me great pleasure by coming to me in this friendly and unceremonious way." "I know my visit must seem very strange," said Mrs. Henderson, striving to regain her usual frigid composure; "it is so unexpected — so" "Every pleasure is unexpected, my dear Mrs. Hen- derson ; they are so few, in this life, that one soon ceases altogether to look for them. But when, by chance, 96 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. one does come — and especially in such a shape," she added, with a gracious smile at mother and daughter — "it is so much the more welcome." "Madam, you completely conquer me by your good- ness. I must frankly own that I have been heretofore restrained from cultivating your acquaintance, by the absurd prejudices, as you will call them, of my educa- tion, as well as from many foolish and idle rumours, to which I myself must have been quite as foolish and idle, to have paid the least attention. I honestly owe you this confession and this apology, which I freely make." "Do not let us say another word about it. I have met with so much bitterer things lately, than neglect and silence, that I have no room in my memory for any such partial injustice. Besides, to tell you the truth, I really have given cause for a great deal of gossip, by systematically outraging many of the minor requirements of good society. This has been done partly from a natural impatience of control or super- vision by any but the prompter and the call boy; and partly from a disdain of much that I have seen and suffered since I assumed my present mode of life. So you see that I have been myself as much to blame as you: I pray you, let us cry quits, and be friends." "Willingly, most willingly. Still, before I can ac- cept the treaty, I must make another confession. My visit, even now, is not so much one of good will — or was not until I met you — as of pure selfishness. I came to ask a very great favour of you." OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 07 "Oh, then it is all right, and we shall be sworur friends forever. Let me know what it is immediately." " The fact is," continued Mrs. Henderson, colouring, and striving in vain to overcome her embarrassment ; "it is altogether a very selfish affair, and you will think all the worse of me when you know it. In a word, then, that Mrs. Valentine has turned the heads of everybody, with a matinee musicale, which she is to give on Wednesday, at which she is to present a pro- tege of Mrs. Loftus, Madame de Saintlieu — and — and — I was thinking if you would favour us with your company to our family dinner on Wednesday," "Say no more— I accept at once. I am sure you could not think any apology necessary for such an in- vitation." " Stop, stop ! you must hear me out, Mrs. Attarby," said Mrs. Henderson, colouring. "I must add that in the evening there is to be a little conversazione — and I was in hopes that, perhaps, you would conde- scend to " "Ah, ha!" said Mrs. Attarby, laughing, and for a moment enjoying her visiter's confusion; "I think I understand you, at last. You wish to see me mounted on the cothurnus once more ! You, who would never come to such a dreadful place as the theatre, to give countenance to trifling amusements ! Oh, fy ! my dear madam ! How could you ! " "Pardon me, madam," said Mrs. Henderson, stung by the reproach, although it was spoken jestingly, and drawing herself up somewhat stiffly ; " we will speak 9 98 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. no more of it — I have again to crave your forgive- ness." "But we will speak more of it, my dear friend, we will speak of nothing else. I will do it with the greatest pleasure; in fact, I shall enjoy it hugely. To tell you the truth, I am horribly bored at missing all my ac- customed darling excitements of the stage, which are but scantily repaid by the poor fun of aggravating my neighbours by my systematic bizarreries. What shall it be? You shall judge for yourself. Here is my Shakspeare — there, pick and choose. What do you say, Miss Henderson? Come, madam, let us leave it to your daughter. I warrant she is a better student of Shakspeare than you are." "AY ell, child, since Mrs. Attarby is so kind — so very kind — I leave the choice to you." The blushing Sarah took the book, and turning over the pages, paused at those magic names, to whose utterance the heart of youth and love ever responds, as if they were indeed a spell. "Ah, I guessed as much!" said the actress, with a mischievous smile. " So fair and sweet a Juliet could never be so cruel as to overlook the gentle Romeo. — That is settled, then — Romeo and Juliet it shall be. I will clip and trim it of every thing extraneous, or inappropriate to a drawing-room reading, and you may announce me to your public, Mrs. Manager, in such terms as your majesty may please. Oh, it will be delightful!" OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 99 "And Mr. Attarby, — I hope we shall have the plea- sure of his company, with yours, at dinner? " " Oh yes, — that is, if he is not already engaged at the rival house. Should Mrs. Manager Valentine have sent him a valentine edict, through Mrs. Gracee, her stage manager, he will not dare to disobey. However, he will at least drop in during the evening. The pro- prieties shall all be observed — never fear Mr. Attarby for that." Every thing being thus happily arranged, Mrs. Henderson rose and took her leave, with many ex- pressions of thanks, while her heart beat high with her anticipated triumph over her "rival manager," as Mrs. Attarby had not inappropriately styled her enemy, Mrs. Valentine. For a moment the two ladies stood face to face, each curiously scanning the other, and endeavouring to penetrate the disguise of which each suspected the other to wear. Then, mutual in- vitations were exchanged — Mrs. Henderson promised, in reply to an appealing look from her daughter, to let Sarah come and spend a day with her new acquain- tance. The two actresses separated — the curtain fell — and the prologue of our play was over. 100 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. CHAPTER IX. THE EAST MAN. In our democratic country, party spirit runs as high at those parties that take place in society, as in those formed and directed in political committee rooms. Every class has its cliques and family interests, which unite or divide into factions, who wage war with all the acrimony and perseverance of a presidential campaign. The difference is, that in society, parties are made up and controlled hy women, and that their triumphs are directed to the gratification of vanity instead of ava- rice. In both, however, ambition, or the love of power, is equally conspicuous; but we must give the wo- men the credit of greater tact and versatility in their schemes and manoeuvres, than their male counterparts. In fact, history shows, that in all ages, women have been the most adroit and successful politicians; and our friend "Sam" may congratulate himself that the ladies are all in his favour — though, paradoxically enough, they are not opposed to "foreign influence," especially if it has bright eyes, and wears a handsome black moustache ! In another important particular, there is great re- semblance between the managers of political and so- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 101 cial parties — their mutual tendency to make use of civilization, for the purpose of attaining or keeping popularity or power. What the "b'hoy" is to the politician, the "fast man" is to the lady managers of our "first families." Although neither of these wor- thies is very highly respected by those who employ him, yet they are both treated with great outward con- sideration — a combination of fear and flattery, exactly adapted to the mental calibre of these equivocal genera of the human species, which gratifies their vanity, and prevents them from ever suspecting that they are being merely made use of to serve the vanity of others. "With the rowdy of the politicians we are not going to meddle at present. He will find his turn in due time. Our present object is the "fast man." Edward Ingraham, whose name has already ap- peared in our pages as the lover of Helen Yfilmar, was a thorough specimen of a "fast man." Until the rupture of his match with Helen, her gentle influence had greatly restrained his natural recklessness, and besides, he was then very young, and had not lost all shame and principle. His, mother, too, had hereto- fore exerted a restraining, if not a beneficial influence over him. She was the sister-in-law of Mrs. Valen- tine, and had been left a widow very soon after her marriage with Mr. Ingraham, with an only son — Ed- ward — whom she had brought up in the expectation of making a great figure in the fashionable world, — that narrow circle by which all her hopes were bounded. On learning the loss of the Wilmars' for- 9* 102 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. tunc, as has been seen, the match between Edward and Helen Wilmar had been peremptorily broken off. Edward, Avho really had a great liking for the girl, pleaded feebly for her at first ; but the inflexible will of the mother prevailed, and he was compelled to give her up. This made him reckless and dissipated, and he plunged headlong into every folly. About a year afterwards, his mother died suddenly. He found him- self master of his own actions, and of almost incalcu- lable wealth, with none to dictate to him, or even remonstrate with him. After a year spent in Paris — where he cut but a sorry figure — plucked and morti- fied, he returned to Philadelphia, took up his abode in his aunt's house, and recommenced his life as a "fast man." Since then, he had expanded into full bloom; he was a perfect type of his class — a rou6, a gambler, a libertine, a spendthrift, ready, at any moment, for a "spree," and always confoundedly bored in the morning with the effects of his overnight's debauch, and not fairly coming to himself until the afternoon, after he had imbibed "drinks" enough to get up steam and reach the general level of perpetual tipsi- ness. When he had arrived at this point, he ayus ready for anything — for the gambling-house, the dance- house, the drinking-ccllar, the brothel, or any other place or enterprise which any of his gang might pro- pose. Ned Ingraham's immense fortune was hold entirely in his own right, being inherited from his father, who had been killed, when his son was three years old, in OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 103 .1 fit of apoplexy, brought on by a debauch with the grooms and jockeys at a horse-race. The son was profuse in his expenditure of money, simple in hia wits, easily led and gulled, and consequently a tre- mendous favourite with all the genteel sharpers, black- legs, and swindlers about town. A gang of these worthies attended him in his nightly peregrinations among the billiard-rooms, raffling-shops, eating-houses, and other haunts of vice and dissipation. They ob- served towards him the greatest deference — wore waistcoats and trowsers as nearly his pattern as their limited credit at the tailor's would allow, — rode his horses, borrowed or won his money, ate his suppers, and carefully carried him home o' nights, when he was too far gone to help himself. "Cousin Neddy" was a great pet of Mrs. Valen- tine, who had divined that the endearing epithet of "cousin" sounded better than the antiquated stateli- ness of "my nephew," and besides, gave room for a charitable doubt as to her own age greatly in her favour. His room was one of the most elegant in her house ; although he was looked upon with a hopeless terror by Mr. Valentine — a weakly, timid invalid, who had long since given up his merchandising, and re- tired from the world, to nurse that health which he had lost in looking after his great money matters. American readers will experience no surprise in being thus casually introduced to the husband of one of the principal personages of our history — such instances of the nonentity of husbands with dashing and fashion- 104 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. able wives, are unfortunately by no means rare. Whether Mr. Valentine will reappear at all in our pages, depends altogether upon circumstances. At present, neither we nor Mrs. Valentine can make any farther use of him. But cousin Neddy was a different sort of person- age. His immense popularity among the young men about town, had been often used to promote the views of this bold and experienced party tactician — while his great wealth, and a really handsome face and per- son, made him acceptable to the women, both old and young, and "plated with gold" the innumerable and notorious sins, in the commission of which his life was passed. Of course Mrs. Valentine had not failed to send forth her cousin to trumpet the glories of her forth- coming entertainment. One morning after the affair was settled, she sent up, after taking breakfast in her own room, to know whether Mr. Ingrahain was at lei- sure. " Certainly — always at Mrs. Valentine's sex*vice." He was sitting in a velvet dressing-gown, in the flashiest Palais Koyal cut and pattern — in fact it had been manufactured in that emporium of the "latest fashions," expressly for the American market — and smoking a cigar; while a half-emptied glass of brandy and water stood on the little marble table beside him. "Good morning, Coz," said Mrs. Valentine, enter- ing the room without ceremony. "Aw — how do, aunty!" the young man replied, OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 105 rocking back in his arm-chair, looking listlessly up over his forehead, and puffing a whiff of smoke into her face. "Sit down — smoke won't hurt you, it's a genuine puras — very good ! What can I do for you?" "You have bestirred yourself about my matinee musicale, haven't you?" "Ya — yes — aw! I believe Gibbs was jabbering something about its being all right, this morning, while I was being tumbled into bed. Do you want my help in the programme, aunty? I'll sing 'em a solo on the trombone, that shall astonish their weak nerves ! Just listen!" and taking his cigar from his lips, he put one fist to his mouth, and with the other made motions h la trombone, at the same time uttering a series of brays, which certainly bore no slight resem- blance to the trombone part in Max Maretzek's ver- sion of Rigoletto. "Oh, Ned, for heaven's sake, stop!" exclaimed his aunt, stopping her ears; "you'll kill me!" "What! you underrate my musical abilities, then? Well — it's the fate of genius, as somebody says in the play. What do you want of me, then? " "Why, I want you to go about particularly amongst the young men, and get all the women up in arms to come. And I want you to take a package of tickets, and sell them amongst your acquaintances. Get hold of some of the reporters, or penny-a, liners, or what- ever they are called, and give them the information, as a very great favour, and a profound secret. I am 106 OUH FIRST FAMILIES. determined it shall be the greatest affair of the season. The Hendersons have already heard of it, and will no doubt give one of their grand dinners on the same day. But I shall outshine them this time, any how." "A very fine girl, though, that Sally Henderson, aunt ! I've pretty much made up my mind to marry her, and get you all into an uncommon muss, like Romeo and Juliet, you know. Valentine and Henderson. Not a bad idea, indeed ! And then the fun of carry- ing her away from old Broadbrim there ! Ha ! ha ! I'll do it, aunt! " "Nonsense! Don't be so stupid! Go and do what I tell you, and let Sarah Henderson alone." "But I won't, though, and — I tell you my mind'3 made up. I met Sarah the other day at Parkinson's, looking as fresh as a rose: and I know she would have got into a chat with me, if it hadn't been for her mother. It will be glorious fun — Borneo and Ju- liet in real life! " "Well, well — never mind all that, now. Dress yourself and do what I tell you. There are the tickets — mind, you must sell them all, or I shall have to pay for them. Don't be a good-for-nothing now, but remember what I tell you." "Well, aunt, you know you always manage to get what you want out of me. But you must promise me not to get jealous of little Sally Henderson, and cross any of my plans there, — or I won't stir for you, and the matin'e musicale may go to the d— 1." * OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 107 "I promise, you naughty boy— because I know you are only trying to vex me. So, go along." Mrs. Valentine having taken her leave, Edward got up, walked to a psyche glass in the corner, and sur- veying himself complacently, said: "I don't think little Sally can withstand that, eh, Mr. Edward Ingraham ? As for aunty, she'll be fu- rious, I know — but who cares ? I am my own master, and she — isn't my mistress — ehem ! " He then set about the serious task of dressing — having rung the bell for Gibbs, an English valet, to whose judicious management and experience Mr. Ed- ward Ingraham owed his escape from being taken in public for what he was in private — a vulgarian and a decided "flash cove." Having finished his cigar, and emptied a second glass of brandy and water, our fast man took a final survey of himself in the glass, and sallied forth upon his mission. While he walks leisurely down Chestnut street, we will stop an instant to look in upon Mrs. Valentine, who is seated at a writing-desk, reading over a note which she has just finished. " There — I think that will do the coxcomb's business. He little thinks that I know all about the French girl in Cherry street — she'll soon settle his new penchant for Miss Henderson. ' Mdlle Rosalie Durand, No. — Cherry street.' Now, cousin Neddy, I think I have the game in my own hands. I can't spare you, my dear, stupid, handsome cousin, on any account!" Leaving our hero's aunt-cousin to despatch her note 108 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. * to Millie Durand, wo will overtake anil accompany that gentleman on his afternoon and evening rambles. Our history would neither be truthful nor complete, if we did not let our readers see a little of what is called "life" by the "fast" and rising generation. His first stopping-place was a fashionable drinking- shop, or "coifee-house," as the grandiloquence of the times has named these places — a greater number of which are to be found in Philadelphia, than perhaps in any other city on the continent. Every country has its customs, as the polite Frenchman remarked, when the mob at the pit door of the theatre tore his coat off his back. The Indian smokes over every- thing — the Arab divides his salt with the stranger — ■ the Englishman shakes hands ; but over every trans- action of life, trifling or important, the American "takes a drink." If we conclude a bargain, the party who fancies he has got the best of it, immediately in- vites his victim to "take a drink." If we bet on the election, swap horses, or make up a marriage for our children, we take a drink. It is even related of a pi- ous deacon, that, on announcing to the assembled vestry the gratifying fact that the debt incurred for painting the parson's house, had been paid off by the congregation, he concluded by inviting his fellow-mem- bers to go across the way and take a drink. At the fashionable hotel, the "bar," which has been kept open till two or three o'clock in the might, serving out hot shot, like the Lancaster battery at Sebastopol, is re-opened at six or seven in the morning, in readi- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 109 ness for tlie thirsty travellers from west and south, who generally take a cock-tail before putting on their boots, and another before breakfast. This scattering fii*e — with now and then a variation in the shape of a bottle of sarsaparilla or lemon soda, in favour of some- body with a private head-ache — is kept up till eleven o'clock, when the regular "lunch" begins. Citizens now rush in, from store, office, and counting-house, intent upon making up for the deficiencies of their sloppy home breakfast, with a plate of fried tripe and pickled cucumbers, and a brandy smash. It is not until in the afternoon and evening, however, that the heavy business of the bars begins ; and it was about three o'clock, when Mr. In graham made his first call at one of these regular haunts, where, at the proper hours, he was sure of meeting several of his companions. He had evidently been waited for, on the present occasion, and his arrival was greeted by a shout of welcome. "Drinks all round" were immedi- ately called for, although several glasses were still unemptied. However, it won't do to hang back, in such a crowd as this. Thirsty or not, tipsy or drunk, drink you must; and the greatest of all possible fun, is to get one of the party so far gone that he cannot stand. He is then taken home in triumph, or put to bed at a hotel, while his companions resume their travels in high glee. Round after round of drinks was called on and dis- posed of; and Ingraham at length began to feel, as he declared, "about right." It was then proposed to 10 110 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. sail j forth, in pursuit of the regular business of the night — as it was already getting dark, and there -was no time to be lost. They therefore fortified them- solves with another drink, lighted fresh cigars, and scrambled up stairs into the street — boldly elbowing off -the sidewalk every small boy, or old man. and in- sulting every woman, they encountered. — Wherever an underground temple of the bacchanalian god, belching its reeking gas-light across the walk, showed that the perpetual saturnalia was going on beneath, our hero and his friends would make a rushing descent, and renew their potations — flanked by occasional dishes of ham and eggs, sausages, and deviled crabs, cooked last week, and kept stewing in dishes swimming in hot water. Then they looked in at the billiard-rooms and bowling-alleys — always commencing and ending the visit with a drink. At one of these places, having got elevated to the quarrelsome point, they interrupted a couple of gentlemen who were quietly pursuing their game. The gentlemen resented — a general row took place — and our heroes came off second best — one with a smashed hat, another with his coat torn, and In°ra- ham himself, with a bloody nose. Having, by the aid of the various shops which these diversified disasters called into requisition, repaired damages, they stopped at Jones', took a drink, and started again, in quest of more "fun." Our party of "nice young men" next, in their search after fun, found their way into a " raffling shop," a low, dirty, sickening room, opening from a blind al- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. Ill ley, and filled with unwashed, tipsy, swearing rowdies, crowding around the dice-tables, drinking and quar- relling over every throw. Having taken a turn at the dice, and a drink all round, (they were now at that point where all liquor, good or bad, tasted alike to them,) they crossed over the narrow alley, and dived into a dark and noisome cellar, where a bagatelle table in one corner was in brisk operation — the balls, of various sizes and discoloured by age to the hue of their own tobacco-stained teeth, being chipped and notched on all sides, and the one being apparently con- structed from the remains of a fifty cent umbrella-han- dle. However., it was all "couleur de rose" to our elated heroes — and such fun to knock the balls into the holes, and then cheat one another in counting the game ! After some half-a-dozen rounds, however, even this refined and intellectual amusement grew monotonous ; and our friends started in pursuit of something more piquant and exciting. This, under the direction of the unfaltering Ingraham, who was "up" to every thing, was soon found. Entering a small but hand- some bar, fitted up with considerable elegance, where they of course all took another drink, they made their way through a dark hall, up a narrow staircase, and into a large and handsome apartment, composed of the two parlours of the first floor. In the front room was a large table covered with green cloth, around which were seated and standing some fifteen or twenty men, watching eagerly the rattling of the dice, and chaffer- 112 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. ing for the chances, as each one made his throw. The most conspicuous personage in the room, however, was a large, fine-looking woman, of twenty-five or thirty, with a fair skin and a grass-green dress. Her round, fat arm was bare to the shoulder, and her boddice was strained almost to bursting. That is " Miss Catharine " — whether she has, or ought to have, any other name, is none of our business. She is the mistress of the establishment, and always has a "chance" in every raffle. Lucky do the two individuals consider them- selves, between whose shoulders that arm is insert ed, for the purpose of rattling the dice. She is generally very lucky ; but to-night she does not win. The prize is finally carried off by another. Well, where next? The night wanes, and we have hardly begun to have our "fun" yet! One proposes the gambling-house; another, another place, which need not be more especially mentioned ; a third, the dance-house. But the point is finally settled by In- graham, in favour of the gambling-house, for which the dice have put him exactly in humour. So, down stairs again — another drink — and away up Chestnut street, to the well-known cage of "the Tiger." Gambling may be considered a national vice in America, and Philadelphia has her full share of the practice. From the speculator in copper stock, roam- ing up and down the "coast," seeking whom he may devour, to the little niggers of St. Mary street, pitch- ing pennies on the sidewalk for ground-nuts, a uni- versal spirit of gambling pervades the city. Private OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 113 houses, among the middle class, are very frequently furnished with a card-room, where the members of the family, with some unfortunate young man whom they have "roped in" for the occasion, spend the night at "fip poker." In this employment perhaps one half our hard-working young men spend the hours that ought to be devoted to sleep, — and thus go forth to their daily occupations, weary, stupid, ill-natured, and totally unfitted for the active duties of life. But our fast men are not bound on any such enter- prise. Their goal is the veritable cage of " the Tiger," whose claws scratch wide and deep, and who, until scourged into darkness by the bold hand of the fearless magistrate — to whom be all praise and honour — was almost as public as the drinking-house, or the dry-goods shop. The tiger, however, is not at all an ostentatious animal. He cherishes his beautiful and fascinating black and red spots, and grows fat and sleek, in a plain, modest brick house. The door steps are of white marble — looking like all Philadelphia door-steps, as if they had been cut off from a whole piece of door-step, which sold at retail, at so much a yard. They ring — and a well dressed mulatto, with the kinks of his hair redolent with cologne and attar of roses, opens the door, and politely inquires their busi- ness. Recognising "massa Ingraham," however, the party is ushered up stairs. In the front room is laid a superb supper, garnished with various kinds of wine and liquors, and continually replenished with wood 10* 114 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. cock, quails, partridges, and other "delicacies of the season," -which arc served to every person as he seats himself at the table, without ceremony, or reference to others. Every thing, including wines and liquors — champagne, when called for — is free. The Tiger keeps open house, and practises a liberal hospitality — to his victims. Of course, our friends are at home here. They take their seats at the table — take a drink all round to com- mence with, and then fall gravely to supper, as if they had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. Then — hey for the hack parlour ! with the long table covered with black cloth, on which are painted the thirteen cards of a suit, and at one side of which, in the centre, sits a slim, pale, genteel-looking young man, with a thou- sand dollar diamond pin in his shirt, and a ruby ring as big as a bird's egg, on his little finger. In his hands he holds a silver music box — but the music it makes is very monotonous, and sometimes not very pleasant to a portion of the audience. "Gentlemen, make your bets! Are you done? Seven — queen!" that is all that you hear, except, before every repetition of the tune, the rattling of some white and red buttons, distributed about on the various cards, and piled up in front of the players and at the right hand of the dealer. This is the Tiger — here his inner cage, where the dainty animal takes his food ! Ingraham had no taste for gambling, and seldom indulged in it beyond a few checks, just enough, as OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 115 he said, to pay for his supper. As to his companions, they had already paid their respects to the Tiger too often. The affectionate creature had hugged* them so closely that they had not a dollar in their pockets. So — now to the dance-house ! There is yet time, and the wood cock and champagne have put our heroes up to any thing. Down through the streets, past the squares, the elegant houses — till the streets grow dim- mer and darker, the gas-lights are exchanged for feebly glimmering lamps, and there is a suspicious and brood- ing silence all round, that makes them start at the sound of their own footsteps. The dance-house is the lowest form in which that universal passion for jumping up and down to music, so characteristic of human nature, has ever developed itself. In the orgy which goes on there, every con- ceivable base and degraded sentiment and appetite of man and woman is combined. On the part of the men, first stupified with poisoned liquor, they are lured to these places by the merest beastly, physical lust, which they are determined to gratify at any risk, or any expense. And the women, knowing this fact, play upon this horrible and depraved appetite, to lead their victims on, step by step, to drunken insensibility, and then to rob them. The keepers of these places of course share the spoil, and run the risk of the law. This is the whole philosophy of the dance-house. It was at one of these establishments that our party now arrived. Going up a dark alley, they pushed open the back door, and at once found themselves in the 116 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. temple of Terpsichore. Seated on wooden benches, on either side of the room, were various couples, in attitude's which do not need to be particularly described. Some of the females were bright yellow, some brown, some white, and some jet black. They were shockingly indecently dressed, and were exerting all their fasci- nations upon the half drunken sailors, Californians, country green-horns, and what not, whom each held tightly with one arm round the neck, while with the other hand she fumbled at his pockets. Here, too, Ingraham and his party seemed to be well known, as their entrance created no surprise, and they passed unmolested into the front room, where the old black fiddler had just struck up a lively quadrille. He was seated on a barrel, at the end of the rickety old counter, behind which stood a fat, blear-eyed, bloated old hag, dealing out the "stuff," at a fip a nip — besides a levy every round for the dance. "How are ye, old mother Cockalorum!" shouted Ingraham, who was evidently quite as much at home here, as he had found himself in all the other haunts of the evening. "What's going on? Shall we join your party, eh ? " "Would the gentlemen tako a turn on the flurc?" inquired the old hag, pointing to the dancers. But there seemed nothing very attractive there. The " Ilure" was occupied by a dubious collection of rowdy "killers," drunken sailors, and loa fers, generally, with women to match. Some of the young rowdies were the "beaux " of the ladies, and were, as usual, allowed OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 117 to "mix in " with the dancers, waiting for fresh victims to come and take their places. As fast as this hap- pened, they obediently got out of the way, took a tre- mendous dram of poisoned whisky at the bar, and started out to get up a fight or a fire — only too happy if it should happen to be both. The quadrille being now finished, a general stand up all round was proposed by Ingraham and his friends, who seized the girls and began to take their places. Some resistance, however, was shown by two or three of the ladies' former partners, which was speedily mol- lified by the landlady, who beckoned the malcontents to the counter, poured them out a glass apiece, and thus harmony was restored, while the gentlemen "had their little bit of a frolic just." It was now long after midnight, and our fast men began to feel rather slow. Some complained of the "d d bad brandy" that had made them sick at the stomach — another acknowledged to a terrible head- ache, and thought he must go home and have a good sleep ; while another hiccupping the time to his own music; as the whole party emerged into the street, began singing that elegant and classical song, supposed to have been handed down from the feasts of Bacchus at Corinth, commencing — and ending — with, "We won't go — hie — home till morn — hie — ing, Till daylight doth ap — hie — pear!" They thus reeled and staggered their way along, till seeing a gleam of light streaming out from a little 118 OUK FIRST FAMILIES. cellar in the neighbourhood of Musical Fund Hull, they literally tumbled down the narrow and slimy stairs — narrowly escaped being brought up again in a tub of oyster-shells, borne by a couple of naked-armed Germans — took a parting drink — and each went on hia separate way rejoicing — promising to meet the next day at the old rendezvous, and have some more "fun of the same kind." There, reader — thank Heaven with me, that this chapter is over ! It is altogether too true, too disgust- ing in its details — and too humiliating to human na- ture, to inspire either author or reader with anything but unmitigated horror. Yet, without it, you would have known nothing of our Philadelphia fast man — for amid these scenes is passed his outward and visible existence. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 119 CHAPTER X. THE HAREMS OF CIVILIZATION. The Wilmars, notwithstanding their industry, their economy and their devotion — which all the newspapers are cautiously repeating to us, as the sure means of prosperity and wealth — had a hard struggle. Although, through Arthur's success as a teacher, they managed to escape absolute want, yet many and severe were the privations to which they were exposed, and many the moments of discouragement and almost of despair. Their mother continued nearly in the same condition, apparently sinking from month to month, yet still living on miserably and hopelessly. She now required more attention and nursing than ever ; and between the duties of housekeeping, and the attendance upon their mother, the time of the daughters was almost entirely consumed — so that they could add little or nothing to their brother's earnings. Besides, since the death of Mr. Wilmar, and the brutal abandonment of Edward Ingraham, Helen had never recovered her spirits or her health. Though she never complained, and was as gentle and kind-hearted as ever, yet she 120 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. paled day by day, and it was evident to her brother and sisters that the light of her life "was gone. At first they naturally attributed the change in her man- ner and appearance to the moral suffering which they knew she had experienced in her wounded and crushed affections — and they hoped that time would sooth and restore her. But the gentle and affectionate girl had a far deeper nature than they suspected. The blow she had re- ceived was a vital one, and attacked the very sources of life. Month after month wore on, and brought not back the light to her eye, or the bloom to her cheek. Day by day her strength wasted away, and her round elastic frame grew thin and emaciated. She was far more beautiful than her sisters, and had, from child- hood, been their pet and darling — every caprice hu- moured, every fancy indulged; while she repaid their loving care with the joyous outpourings of her brilliant and susceptible nature. But now the music of her voice was gone — her eyes no more sparkled with gayety and animation — her step grew faint and languid — and she smiled feebly and sadly at the words of encourage- ment and hope which they offered her, and the atten- tions they lavished upon her. Still, she was beautiful — perhaps even more beautiful than she had ever been in the full glow of health, and hope, and happiness. Her glance had a tender and almost divine light — her pale transparent check, over which the blood. mantled in crimson shadows at the slightest emotions, spoke of ineffable depths of feeling OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 121 and passion — and her voice had acquired a low and thrilling power, that moved the soul of the listener to its inmost depths. The good doctor Felton, who con- tinued the unremitting kindness of his attentions to the whole family, would often sit for a long time gazing anxiously upon that now spiritual face, as if striving to penetrate the secret of her ailing, and to discover the means of relief. Of course he knew that the en- gagement between Edward Ingraham and herself was broken off; and he frequently, at first, congratulated her, playfully, upon having so soon found out the worthlessness of her lover, and thus escaped a life of misery. But his practical experience of every day life and real physical suffering, prevented him from seeing or understanding that the strange phenomenon of a cureless inward sorrow and a broken heart, was daily enacting beneath his eyes. Physicians — even the best of them — come, in the course of their expe- riences among tangible ailments, to disbelieve in the in- curable sufferings of the heart; and although he sym- pathized deeply with the slight and insult which poor Helen had endured, he never dreamed of attributing to that, the gradual yet certain undermining of her health, which now began seriously to alarm his friendly fears. Still she bore up resolutely ; and to all the in- quiries of the doctor and the family, she answered, with a smile, that she should soon be well — quite well. They had no society. Quietly dropped by all their former acquaintances — ignored by the brilliant circle in which they had mov«d, as completely as though they 11 122 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. had never existed — they had neither time nor inclina- tion to make new friends, or to form new associations. But, since Mr. Henderson's visit, announcing the loss of their fortune, that gentleman had frequently come to see them. At first it was natural and even neces- sary, in the discharge of his duties as their father's executor, that he should to some extent superintend their movements, and offer his counsel and guidance, in the new and thorny path upon which they were setting out. On these occasions, he seemed to display unwonted feeling, and to unbend from his usual cold- ness and severity. He even condescended to interest himself directly in their movements — sent Arthur to a house-agent with whom he was acquainted — and ac- tually became security for the rent of the new and humble home, which was finally selected to receive the unhappy family. This — together with the extraordi- nary generosity he had displayed in appointing Arthur as the maestro of his daughter — formed the key-note of a perfect anthem of praises of his charity and be- nevolence, which was chanted throughout the houses of his sect, and commented upon, even by the profane world, as an incredible stretch of quaker generosity. Oh, silly world ! and ye, oh misjudging brethren of the inner light! do not the worthy and faithful dis- ciple of George Fox and William Pcnn such gross in- justice ! He was still true to his principles ; and if he came, oftcner than it was necessary, to the humble home into which he had driven his hapless victims — if he sat sometimes late into the evening, on his way OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 123 from the store to his magnificent home, conversing in edifying language with the daughter of his dead friend — he had, as ever, a motive for all. After what we have already disclosed of the inward nature and character of this man, we surely need not add that among his most actively developed virtues, was that of hypocrisy ; and that beneath that withered and icy exterior, there dwelt a subdued volcano of passions — passions long subdued and forced under the most complete control, but which were not extinguished, and which might, at any hour, burst forth in streams of burning lava, whelming and destroying all around. Such an outbreak now threatened in the bosom of this man, so long disciplined to external peace and calm. The strongest passion of man's nature is the love of women. In proportion as the innumerable instincts of the organization are repressed or smothered, they add their pent-up forces to this one absorbing passion, which cannot be controlled, and will have vent some- where. Either instinct or study had taught Mr. Hen- derson this great physiological as well as metaphysical truth ; and consequently, he had, early in life, made systematic arrangements for providing for this impe- rious law of his nature, and thus escaping the effects of the explosion which otherwise must one day hap- pen. Society, with all its grand pretensions, teaches thoroughly but one lesson to her subjects — duplicity. The sum of that "practical education," so blindly 12-4 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. vaunted by all, is, not to purify the heart or the con- duct, — but to seem to do so: to live, in short, a double life — one for society, and one for yourself and your own world of appetites and desires. All that the world requires, either in religion or morals, is con- formity, not belief; propriety, not purity. Let a man pay his debts punctually, and he may obtain the money to do so by what devices of extortion, imposi- tion or deception, he pleases — he will stand well with the world, and every one will endorse him, and give him an unimpeachable character — though they may knoio of his hard-heartedness, his extortion, his over- reaching, his actual dishonesty. Let him fulfil all his conventional obligations — support his family, pay his rent, appear at church or theatre with his wife and daughters — dine at home at Sundays, and exchange merely the ordinary forms of civility with other wo- men — and he will be quoted and pointed at as a model husband and father ; though every man and woman of his acquaintance is aware that he keeps a mistress, or gambles like a black-leg, in secret. Whence pro- ceeds this universal charity among men? — Simply from men's universal need of its exercise towards themselves. And the inflexible severity with Avhicli the world punishes and pursues those who overstep conventionality, and openly violate its forms — whence comes that? From the dread, lest, if they do not disown such a monster, attention will be awakened to themselves and their own conduct, and then the whole OUR FI11ST FAMILIES. 125 miserable, cowardly lie, upon winch society is con- ducted, laid bare. There are two classes of men in society — those who learn and practise this great lesson, early, and those who never learn it, or disdain to practise it. Whoever will carefully examine the creed and social theory of Mahomedanism, as developed and explained by Gibbon, that great "philosopher teaching by ex- ample," will be startled at recognising, in that won- derful creed, the exact worldly antithesis of the pure doctrines of Christianity. Mahomet was the mock Christ, as civilization is the mock Christianity. Fa- naticism, asceticism, skepticism, bigotry and hypocrisy, are the fundamental principles of Islamism — they are only the secret practice of civilization. And they who will peruse, with this key to its real meaning, that searching and sublime criticism on the unrecognised crimes of society — the Revolt of Islam — will no longer be at a loss to discover its real meanings, to under stand its withering denunciations of the hypocrisy, selfishness and cruelty, the rapacity and licentiousness, of the world ; nor will they be able to withhold their tenderest pity for the noble, child-like and innocent soul, immolated by that society whose inexorable creed it had outraged, but which was still pure and truthful to Heaven and nature, had died with dismay at the atrocious falsehoods by which it found itself surrounded. Is it not among those concealed facts whose exis- tence, known to all, is resolutely ignored by all, that n* 1-G OUR Fir.ST FAMILIES. the legislatures and magistrates who pass such strin- gent laws against intemperance, licentiousness and gambling, are themselves licentious, gamblers and in- temperate? Is not this every-day phenomenon the very counterpart of the life and character of the Ma- hometans? The Koran proscribes drunkenness as a mortal offence — yet the Mahometans, either through the open use of opium, or the secret indulgence of wine, are a nation of inebriates, who pass their lives in the fevered dreams and imbecile idiocy of intoxica- tion. The Koran punishes fornication and adultery with death in this world, and eternal damnation in the world to come — yet Mahometanism openly permits polygamy, and the harem, which is a universal tolera- tion of the coarsest and most disgusting prostitution, adultery, and licentiousness. Civilization effects the same objects, and achieves the same end — but in all decency and propriety. The sanctimonious face, and the green veil of civiliza- tion, do for our men and women, what the Koran and exemption of the true believers, accomplish for the faithful followers of the Prophet. Let us now join our worthy and most respectable acquaintance, Ira Henderson, the great merchant, the honest man, the representative of the highest power of society, and pay a visit to one of the harems of civilization. He wears the same long, shapeless coat, assumed as the cloak of Jesuitism — which may be called Quaker- ism in another form — tho same immaculate white OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 127 neckcloth and sanctimonious face — in which wc have heretofore beheld him. His pace is shambling and awkward, and his glance is meek and humble, as he encounters the sons and daughters of the "world's people," who pity him for his self-denial of all the amenities and enjoyments of life — and whom he in his turn despises, as children, who carry openly in their hands the sweet-meats which every hungry beggar • may snatch from them. On he goes, up the wide and well-washed walk of that smooth-faced, drab-coated and broad-brimmed avenue, which is the symbol, in brick and mortar, of those who built it, and who still inhabit it. The clumsy and ungraceful forms of the buildings — the ostentatious ugliness of the door-steps and porticoes — the shambling, wooden window-shutters — are but the shapeless coats and trowsers, the protruding, eave-like hats, and the studiously uncouth gait of their owners. But, before he has proceeded far up this wide thoroughfare, our respectable merchant takes a little street to the right, and again turning into another, that runs parallel with the great one he has left, he cautiously pursues his way. The very route he has chosen, is indicative of his present purpose — which is also one of those foul and narrow private ways that run parallel to the good man's public walk and conversation. Ah, these by- ways and obscure alleys of our moral and Christian cities ! To those who know where they lead, and who walk in them, they are full of meaning. The good man at length stops at a modest little 128 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. Louse, whose lower shutters are close J, whose door-st< p gleams with cleanliness, whose narrow bit of side-walk has been scrubbed and scoured down to its red and raw integuments. lie takes a bright little yellow latch key from an inside pocket, and enters. It is very in- discreet, we know — very improper — thus to violate the impenetrable veil of the harem ; but we, too, have our • disguise — and we must enter with him. He does not stop to look in at the little parlour, now so carefully darkened by the closed shutters ; but takes his way up stairs, and knocks at the door of the front chamber. "Come in." A woman is seated in a comfortable arm chair, en- gaged in sewing. She lays down her work, rises, and respectfully brings forward another chair for her guest. She has evidently been expecting him. "How is my friend to-day? I hope he is well," she says, in a low deferential tone. ""Well, I thank thee, sister Catherine; very well. And how does thee prosper ? lias thee thought of the matter I spoke to thee of when I saw thee last? Has thee composed any dainty female device, such as will advance our purpose?" "Yes. I must myself visit the young lady. I am alone widow, who engages in works of charity, and has need of assistance in sewing, and preparing suitable garments for the children of the poor families under my charge. I have heard, through a friend, of the family of Wllmar — how industrious and good tin;. — how they strive to take care of their n<>or siek urn- OUK FIRST FAMILIES. 129 ther; and I can put some light and profitable employ- ment in the way of the daughters. If the young lady will come to my house, I will provide her with the work, and give her the necessary instructions." "Good!" "You see I have always ready the necessary habili- ments for my visit. Does the plan please you?" and she pointed, with a smile, to her slate-coloured, straight- skirted dress, to a narrow white muslin shawl that covered her shoulders, and to a bonnet of the same colour as her dress, lying on the bed. "It is admirable, Catherine — it could not be better. When will thee make thy essay? " " To-day, if it please you. I have always time to attend to the wishes of my kind patron." " Thee is an excellent woman, Catherine, and I do believe, a faithful — especially, as I make it always to thine own interest to serve me well and truly. When, think thee, that I may expect to meet the beautiful Helen beneath thy friendly roof? " " This night, I think and hope. I shall request her to be punctual. But should I not succeed, I will pass through the store, as if. to make some purchases, at four o'clock. If you do not see me at that time, you may suppose that I have succeeded in decoying the young girl to my house." "It is well. Does thee need anything to-day? " "No — I have money enough for the present." "When thee needs, speak frankly. I have ever found thee reasonable." 100 OUR riliST FAMILIES. "And faithful to your interests, as I have promised." "Does thee sometimes, Catherine, regret our con- tract?" "Perhaps: but I never wish to break it. I have chosen my way of life. The past has no pleasant memories — the future no hopes. I am contented to remain that which I am — that which you have made me." " Thee is a most sensible woman, Catherine — most sensible. The proud dames of the world are no better than thee — their lives are not so peaceful. I will re- turn to-night: and I must now go to take the neces- sary precautions, that my absence may be accounted for." The woman rose, and attended her visiter to tho door, and would have even gone with him down stairs — but he motioned her back; and going down softly, passed out of the house, took his way directly to Arch street, and so returned to his counting-house. In a few minutes after he had entered, a clerk came in to the private office where he was usually seated, during business hours, and handed him a telegraphic despatch. He opened it, glanced over its contents, and handed it back. "File away the despatch among thy daily memo- randums, friend John," said he; "and presently bring me a duplicate of the account of our correspondent, Ellis Harmer, at Trenton. I must proceed thither to- night, as thee sees by the despatch, to settle that long outstanding matter. I shall return to-morrow." OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 131 Meanwhile, sister Catherine, as she had been desig- nated by her visiter, put on her bonnet, wrapped a plain drab-coloured shawl about her shoulders, smoothed her hair over her temples, and prepared to set out on her expedition. As she went down stairs, a young girl, of apparently sixteen, leaned over the balustrade 3>f the room above, and spoke to her. "Good morning, Mrs. Anthony," said the lovely face, in a sweet voice, and with a slight accent, which the practised ear would have recognised immediately as belonging only to French lips. "Are you going out so early? Can I not go with you? " "No, my child, not to-day: I am going to make some charitable calls, and shall come back to dinner." "Well, then," replied the voice, in a pretty, childish tone of disappointment; "will you take this note for Edward to the despatch post ? I have not seen him for two whole days. I fear he is ill." And running lightly down stairs, she put her little note into Mrs. Anthony's hands. It was directed to "Edward Brown, Esquire, Blood's Despatch. To be called for." "Don't forget, my dear Mrs. Anthony," said the girl. " Edward assures me that he goes or sends every day to the despatch office ; and I want to see him very much. It is so lonely without him ! " "I shall be sure not to forget, my dear Rosalie," said Mrs. Anthony, looking at the note, and putting it in her pocket. "Do I ever forget anything you want?' ] 32 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. " Oh, never, never ! " cried the girl ; "you are always kind. But I do -want to sec Echvard so much ! If he not come this evening, I shall be very, very un- happy." " Good morning, my dear — don't mope and make yourself ill. You must look your best, you know, when i~. I ward comes." Rosalie, blushing, returned to her room, and Mrs. Anthony went out to execute her mission of charity. Her visit to the Wilmars was well timed. After paying their quarter's rent, which had just fallen due, and settling the little bill at the grocer's, they found themselves literally at the end of their resources. Two or three of Arthur's wealthy patrons, whose quarter's bills for teaching were now some time over- due, had still forgotten or neglected to make payment — and Arthur could not bring himself to speak of the subject. Oh, if the rich knew how much actual suf- fering to the poor whom they employ, they might al- leviate, by promptly paying them their pittance, when it was earned, I am sure they would not be so incon- siderate and thoughtless as they too often are. Sur- rounded by every comfort, every luxury, and never feeling the want of money, they are far from under- standing the imperious need of every dollar which the poor man earns. lie lives from day to day — he ha* no credit, beyond the quick-coming Saturday-night, with the grocer, the butcher, (lie baker and the milk- man, lie must pay as he goes, or he and his family must go destitute. Hundreds of families pass a cold OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 133 and hungry Sabbatli from the neglect of their rich employers to pay them what they have toiled early and late, through the dismal week, to earn. Many a poor, -pale, emaciated seamstress, after working all night to complete her task, on the payment of which she depends for present fire, food and light, turns away despairing and heart-broken from her wealthy employer's door, at the cruel phrase, •' Call again in a few days — I have no money now 1" And while she returns disconsolately to her miserable home, knowing not where to get the bread for her children, or fire to warm their feeble frames, the rich lady who " has no money now," steps into her carriage, or promenades the fashionable walk, stopping at every shop, and spending for useless luxuries, enough to have gladdened the heart and hearth of her poor seamstress for a twelvemonth. Ye rich and prosperous) remember this ; and at least observe toward your poor and humble creditors that punctuality which all so rigidly exact from them ! It was the clay of the matinlc musical e. Arthur had been up nearly the whole night practising the solos he was going to play at the concert — conscious how important it was for him to make a favorable impression upon the brilliant audience who were to listen to him — and stimulated, too, by another motive, which the young reader will divine, and which it is not at all necessary that the old ones should under- stand. Still, it was with an anxious brow, and a heavy heart, that he had gone forth in the morning, to give 12 134 OUE FIRST FAMILIES. his usual lessons. They were literally reduced to their last resources. The breakfast had been a scanty one, and the dinner promised to be still more meager, unless some of his patrons should happily remember to discharge their debt to him, and thus replenish the exhausted family treasury. No such good fortune hap- pened — as it never does happen at the time it is most needed. Sad and disheartened, he left the door of his last pupil, and at length resolved to call upon Mr. Hen- derson — who was among his list of delinquent patrons — and ask him for a small supply of money for his im- mediate wants. He went to the store, and, on inquiring for Mr. Henderson, was told that, being obliged to leave town that evening on important business, he could see no one till the next day. It was in vain that he insisted — the clerk, who was civil enough, said his orders not to interrupt Mr. Henderson, were positive, and even declined to send in WHmar's name. With a pang so keen, that nothing but poverty has a right to inflict it, he turned away, and slowly walked home- wards. To go through the crowded streets, full of people walking briskly, and with smiling countenances — for to the desperate, every face he meets seems to speak of success and satisfaction, and to mock him with it-; gayety — and to feel that there is at home not even the means of providing another meal — that the loved ones are actually in want of bread, and that they will try to meet him with cheerful faces, while hunger is gnaw- ing them, and they are faint from want — this is po- OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 135 verty. And yet, how many thousands in this beauti- ful world, thus daily walk slowly and totteringly to their homes ! At last, he came to his humble door.' He had no more excuses for waiting — he must enter. The hour for the concert was hastening on ; and he must go from this wretched home to keep his appointment with the gay and joyous world of luxury and revelry. He must hide the anguish in his heart, and call up the inspirations of art and poetry, to inform his fingers, and enable him to minister worthily to the pampered tastes, the thoughtless criticisms of the brilliant crowd. He felt as if he must sink beneath the trial. But he found a ray of comfort when he entered. A plentiful dinner was laid, and his sister Emma met him with an encouraging smile. "How have you done this, dear sister? " said he, in surprise. "I did not leave you even a shilling, this morning. I have brought nothing. Have you been running into debt?" " Oh, no, dear brother — here is money left, you see. A kind quaker lady — the president of friends' charitable society — came to see us, and has taken Helen away with her. She is going to superintend some needle-work at the lady's house, and will here- after get five dollars every week for her services. The lady insisted upon paying a week's wages in ad- vance, and upon Helen going with her immediately. She said she had been sent by a friend, whose name she did not tell, as she said the friends always did 1-36 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. their charities in secret, never letting the left hand know "what the right is doing. But I think it was Dr. Felton who told her about us. I feared poor Helen's health, and would have gone in her place. But Helen was sure that the employment would do her good — and the lady was of the same opinion : and so she went. She is to be sent home this evening in the lady's carriage." Believed of a heavy load of care, Arthur did not stop to discuss the prudence of letting- Helen go out alone with a stranger. Had he done so, he could have scarcely objected to intrusting her to a respec- table quaker lady, who had been so kindly conside- rate, and Avho, besides, was the president of a chari- table society ! So, hastily dining, he paid his cus- tomary visit to his mother, and prepared himself for the concert. Sitting down at his piano for a mo- ment, to try over his capriccio, founded upon Ma- dame Pleyel's nocturne, which he had improvised under the inspiration of Madame de Saintlieu's eyes, and since written out and committed to memory, he found that power and expression had come back to his weary fingers. Then, kissing Emma and Kate, he set out for Mrs. Valentine's, — his heart beating with tu- multuous emotions, which he doubtless would have at- tributed wholly to his artist anxieties, but which we sagely suspect were largely combined with other half- formed feelings and emotions, that, vague and unde- fined as they were, had already acquired the mastery of his heart. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 137 CHAPTER XL TEMPTAMON AND TRIAL. Helen and her new friend proceeded directly to the lady's house, the modest appearance of which struck the young girl as somewhat different, both in style and location, from what she had expected. She bestowed no particular thought upon the subject, how- ever, and followed her companion into the house, without making any observation. Going directly up stairs, Mrs. Anthony led the way to the third story, and entered the room adjoin- ing Rosalie's, and communicating with it by a glazed door — the glass of which, however, being either ground or painted white, prevented all observation through it. There was, besides, a sofa against the door, showing that it was not in use. The table and bed were spread out with pieces of calico and muslin, trimmings, thread, and all the et- ceteras of feminine handicraft ; and, seating her guest on the little sofa, she placed herself beside her, and began saying: " Now, my dear young lady, thee sees thy workshop. 12* 138 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. Here is, in abundance, every thing thee requires. I should bo glad if thee would fall to work immediately, and cut out a dozen little frocks, of the size and pat- tern thee will find there. We have several young la- dies who are ready to assist in the sewing, but they have not the skill to cut and fashion the garments to the best advantage. I have some other errands to do, this afternoon, and will send .thee directly a cup of tea, and some lunch. Meanwhile, fall to work, my dear young lady, and God speed thee ! " The unsuspecting girl, happy at having found em- ployment so suitable to her wishes, and by which she was to be enabled to assist materially in the expenses of their home, threw off her bonnet and shawl, and went to work with alacrity. She did not, however, hear the key turned softly in the lock, as her hostess went out — or she would not have gone on so cheerfully with her new employment. Hour after hour went by ; and, just as it was be- coming dark, Mrs. Anthony reappeared with a tray, upon which a nice warm dinner was spread. She ex- cused herself for having kept her so long without her dinner — saying that her errands had taken more time than she had expected, and that she wished to see for herself that she was well served. " Here are the dozen little frocks, madam, all ready. That heap there on the bed is the skirts, and here arc the waists. Besides, you see that I have cut out ano- ther for myself, and have almost finished it." And she held up her work before her hostess. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 139 "Thee is indeed a treasure ! " exclaimed the good lady, " we shall get the full value of our money from thy labour, my pretty one ! I feel as if I had not offered thee enough." " Oh, yes — I am very well content, and will do my best to please you," replied the gratified Helen. "But I think it is time for me to go home. I will not trouble you to call your carriage, madam — I can very well run home by myself." " Thee need not be in a hurry. I have promised thy sister to take good care of thee, and send thee home in safety ; and I must keep my word to the letter. Besides, it is not good for beautiful young girls, like thee, to walk in the streets alone, after night- fall." " But they will be uneasy, madam. I did not ex- pect to stay so long away: and brother Arthur will soon come home now; and I think, if you please, I will go at once." "Very good — it shall be as thee pleases. Eat some dinner — for I am sure, after working so steadily, thee must be very hungry. I will go down stairs and send for the carriage." Helen, who really was hungry and fatigued — having seldom worked for so long a time together — sat down and ate her dinner, cheerfully. But after some time she began to get impatient, and very much wondered where her friend Mrs. Anthony could be. At last she got up and walked to the win- dow. It was quite dark, and she began to feel a vague 140 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. and nameless terror. She looked around for the bell, determined to ring — but she looked in vain. Then, her heart beginning to heat with something like real alarm, she decided, at all hazards, to go down stairs, and, if she could not find Mrs. Anthony, to go home alone, and in the dark. Anything- was better than staying any longer where she was. She went to the door, and found that it was locked ! Then, indeed, she began to fear in earnest ! Where was she? Into what trap had she been inveigled? Who was Mrs. Anthony? Why was she thus a pri- soner ? She listened — all was still as night. Was the door really fastened? Had not her fears deceived her? She would try again. No — there was no mistake — the door was indeed locked from the outside. She tried the glazed door behind the sofa — that, too, was fastened. Should she scream ? She ran to the win- dows, first to one, then to the other. They were both so firmly fastened, that she endeavoured in vain to raise them. She went to the door again, and beat against it till her strength failed her — she called — she screamed — until, at length, overcome by terror, and the violence of her exertions, she fainted, and fell on the floor. How long she lay in this state, she had no means of knowing. When her consciousness first returned, she opened her eves, and saw a man bending over her, with a lamp in his hand. Starting up, and pressing her hands to her eyes, as OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 141 if to dispel a vision, she withdrew them, and looked again. There could be no deception this time: she saw standing before her, the quaker, Ira Henderson ! The first sensation was one of joy. "Oh, Mr. Henderson !" she exclaimed, springing towards him; "I am so glad to see you! — How did you come here ? There has been some terrible mis- take. I" But, although it was, indeed, Ira Henderson, yet he was very different from the Ira Henderson she had known. His manner, his looks, his whole aspect, was completely changed. Instead of his usual cold and chalky countenance, and his impassive manner, his face now beamed with a strange smile, his eyes flashed, and he opened his arms to receive her. "Come hither, poor frightened child!" he said, soothingly ; " who has hurt thee ? — what is the matter ? Come, tell thy friend, he will protect thee from all harm." But she recoiled from him, and returned to the other side of the room, in fear and amazement. A maiden's instinct is the true touchstone — it feels the approach of impurity, as sensitively as the opal of the Giersteins did water. " Tell me where I am, sir — and why you came here ? And, oh, Mr. Henderson — I implore you, take me back to my sisters ! I have a dreadful suspicion that I have been decoyed here — that some wrong is in- tended me. I conjure you to take me from this place 142 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. — let me but into the street, and I will find my way home, though it should be midnight." "Be patient, my poor frightened little bird; I would hold some converse with thee. Come near me, and sit down beside me. I am not a wild animal to rend thy beautiful form," he continued, as he advanced to- wards her, his eyes sparkling and gloating over her delicate figure, as if he really were an animal, who would devour her on the spot. But all the woman, alarmed for her honour, was now aroused within her. She saw at a glance the infamous trick that had been practised upon her ; and, if she still had entertained any doubt that the quaker was a party to the transaction, his looks and gestures, as he came towards her, would have confirmed her worst fears. Suddenly springing by him, on the other side of the table, which stood between them, she rushed to the door, and was darting through it, when she was caught by one arm and dragged back into the chamber, struggling in the arms of Henderson, who strained her fiercely and passionately to his breast; then, as if he suddenly recollected that he was going too fast to his purpose, he set her down, and uttered a profound sigh. He now, however, took care to secure the door — locking it on the inside, and putting the key in the inner pocket of his waist-coat. She was furious. Her nostrils dilated — her face flushed scarlet with shame and anger at the unholy contact of his person — her eye flashed fire. ""Wretched old man!" she exclaimed. "What do OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 143 you mean? How dare you touch me? Let me go from this vile place, instantly — this very moment ! I promise you faithfully that if you will do so, I will never breathe to mortal that I have seen you here. If you don't, I will proclaim your villany to the whole world." "Let thee and me argue that question a little, beautiful damsel ! I swear by the profane boy Cupid, that never before did thee appear to me half so ravish- ing ! Oh, maiden ! If thee but knew how I love thee ! Listen to me — nay, if thee will, I will not come nearer thee than I now am. Sit thee down on that side of the table — I will remain on this. There — so thee is quite safe, thee sees. Let me talk with thee — let me reason the case with thy better judgment." She sank into a chair — indeed, Bhe could no longer stand. r rhe paroxysm that gave her supernatural strength., had passed away ; she trembled in every limb, and would have fallen, had she attempted to take a single step. She felt that she needed time to regain at least some portion of her strength, and sat looking at him steadfastly in the eyes. "Nay, do not look at me like that," said the quaker, while a shudder of passion ran through his frame ; " do not look like that, or I sball surely forget myself! " "She blushed at what his words implied, and her eyes sunk in shame and mortification. "Now mark me, fair maiden ! " at length said Hen- derson, speaking with a voice still stifled with passion. 144 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. " I have much to say to thee. But, first, I love thee, and would do thee no evil, but rather good." "Monster!" she exclaimed, shuddering, in her turn — but with womanly disgust. "Call me no names!" exclaimed Henderson, his face flushing purple; "it will be the worse for thee. But listen calmly to what I have to say, and thee will have no reason to complain of Ira Henderson the quaker." He paused ; wiped the perspiration from his forehead ; and, restraining himself by a violent effort, withdrew his devouring gaze from the fair, trembling girl, and then resumed. " I love thee, maiden ; my soul is sick for thee — thee must be mine! Nay, start not! Men like me do not give way to a temptation, and then consent to lose it. I have struggled in vain with the desire that consumes me. I do verily believe, maiden, that my life depends on possessing those exquisite charms. Thee has hitherto deemed me the puritan, the ascetic — dead to all human feelings and passions. But know me now, for what I am — the adorer of thy sex, and most of all of thee. Thy beauties have inflamed my very soul. They are ever present before me. At midnight I dream of thee, and start from slumber stri- ving to clasp thee. Bethink thee, whether, after making this confession, I am likely to give thee up ! No — no — a thousand times ! Thee must and shall he mine OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 145 At the fierce tone of his voice, not less than at the words themselves, Helen recoiled in horror. " Nay — I mean thee fairly ; I mean thee fairly. See — I hold in my hands the power to restore thy father's fortune to thee and thy family — all — all — rto the last dollar : it needs but a word from thee, and it is done ! Think of that ! Think of thy poor mother — thy sisters slaving and dragging their lives out in their squalid kitchen ! Think of thy brother's career — of thy former splendid and luxurious life ! All can be, and shall be, returned to thee — I will swear it by any profane oath thee may dictate — restored to thee and thine in a single day. And only a word from thee, beautiful, bewitching maiden ! Thee consents ! I see thee does ! It would be a crime against thy brothers and sisters to refuse ! " "Do you speak of crime? " replied Helen, who had now regained her self-possession, and had nerved her- self for the terrible emergency in which she was placed. "Do you speak of crime? .You, who are trying to tempt me to become infamous before God and man — a scorn and a by-word to my brother and my sisters ! Is it possible that mankind contains such monsters of perfidy and villany? Begone — or let me go on the instant!" There was so much of grandeur and majesty in the attitude, voice, and gesture of the young girl, as she rose and pointed upwards, as if appealing to Heaven to send down its justice upon the guilty being before her, that for a moment Henderson shrank from her 13 146 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. looks, and his resolution seemed to fail him. She saw the effect she had produced, and went on : — "I again promise you that I will spare you from all exposure, if you will-instantly set me free. I will account to my family as best I may, for this absence — never shall your name, in connexion with this transaction, cross my lips. But beware, old man ! If you keep me here — if you dare further to insult me — I will proclaim you the villain you are, and my brother will know how to punish you for this atrocious outrage. I warn you to think well on how you decide. I am a woman, and alone — weak and helpless, as you deem me, and doubt- less beyond the reach of other aid than God's : but I am still stronger than you — God will give me strength. I fear you not — I only loathe and detest you." " Thee is magnificent, fair Helen — thee would tempt a saint to forego paradise! .But thee is but a bad logician, girl ! Does thee not know that, in order to proclaim to the world all those fine things thee has threatened, thee must go into the world — it cannot hear thee utter a syllable from where thee is at this moment ! And, as I said to thee, I am not a man to be balked in his caprice — and especially such a dainty caprice as thee ! I would risk losing my life sooner than give thee up. Thee can never depart from this chamber but as mine. And yet, if thee consent, every good shall attend thee. Thy fortune shall be restored — thy secret kept from thy family, and from all the world — and we will meet here, only here, in precious communion. Sees thee not how easy — how proper — OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 147 how convenient — how in every way advantageous — it is ? Reflect ! Let thy woman's wit and common sense decide." "Leave me, sir — at least for awhile," said Helen, at length, letting Henderson suppose, from the altered tone of her voice, that she was at least willing to think seriously of his proposals. "It is true," she contined, " that I am in your power; yet it seems to me like a dream. It is incredible that Ira Henderson — my father's friend, whom he trusted as he would have trusted a brother — can be guilty of this outrage upon his daughter. I cannot believe it!" "Do not deceive thyself on that point, lovely Helen! The time for hypocrisy is over; what I have told thee, is the veritable truth — the alternative I have placed before thee is the only one from which thee has power to choose. And that thee may have time to think freely and decide wisely, I will withdraw for a brief time. It is now past midnight : at the third hour, I will revisit thee — by that time, thy decision must be made. Remember; I offer thee fairly, maiden, and mean thee well — but if thee continues obstinate, the worse will befall thee. Thou canst not, and shalt not escape me ! " and the intenseness of his feeling actually made him forget the conventional jargon of his life and sect, and for once resort to grammatical language. He rose from his seat — gazed for a moment at the beautiful girl, with a stern and unpitying glance, and then slowly left the room, carefully locking the door as he went out. 148 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. CHAPTER XII. ROSALIE. ' Some years before the commencement of this history, a little girl sat by the side of her dying mother, in the steerage of an emigrant ship, on the Atlantic. She was too young to understand what death was — but she felt that some great sorrow was about to come upon her. She had never had any other friend than her mother ; and when she was gone, the little girl would be all alone in the world, with no one to take care of her, or even to speak to her — all alone on the waters, with not one face she had ever seen, in the country where she was going. She could not reason upon the consequences of this — but she had a highly-endowed and sensitive nature; and the instincts of the child seemed dimly to reflect her destiny. She was not more than six or seven years old, and yet she did not look like a child. Her face was pensive and thoughtful; and her large gray-blue eyes were filled with tears that did not overflow, as she watched her mother's pale and suffering face — such tears as are pressed by despair from the heart ripened by years and suffering. The exquisite beauty of her infantile head, the unstained OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 149 lustre of the silken hair, the babyish grace of her atti- tude, contrasted strangely with the intense expression of her face, and her steady, prophetic look, piercing futurity. The seal of suifering was already imprinted on this child, marking her as of a nature too high and noble for aught but sorrow. The mother had been seemingly asleep ; but her voice suddenly recalled the child from her revery. "Rosalie, do you love me?" said her mother, in a faint, trembling voice. The child did not answer; but the tears that had been brimming in her eyes, gushed over, and she rose and threw herself upon her mother's neck — yet tenderly and carefully, as if she remembered how weak and fragile she was. Then, creeping her little fingers among the dark masses of her mother's hair, the full heart began sobbing. "Mamma!" at length whispered the child. " Rosalie, is it you ? Where am I ? Oh, I remember all again." "Here, darling, take your mother's portrait and hang it about your neck — let it always rest upon your heart. It is all I have to leave you — may it prove a talisman, to save you from a fate like mine ! Perhaps God's mercy will, at some future day, restore you to our dear France, and the friends I have lost forever. My child ! my child ! May God protect you ! " Then she suddenly started up, strained her child wildly to her bosom, kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her hair; then, holding her from her, and gazing with in- 13* 150 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. effable tenderness upon her. "I am going," she cried, "kiss me — embrace me ! Closer, closer, llosalie dear ! I feel you not — I see you not ! And now you are as cold as a dead baby upon my bosom ! Farewell, and remember ! ' ' The mother was dead, and the child lay senseless in her stony arms. During this scene, several of the female passengers had gathered round the mother and child, who had been objects of especial interest, during the whole voyage, to their rough but kind-hearted fellow passen- gers. They had come on board the vessol, at Liver- pool, by themselves — nobody attended them or looked after them — and they did not, like the rest of the pas- sengers, look back with regrets at the land they were leaving. They were evidently neither Irish nor English — probably French — for the few words they exchanged with each other, were in a language which none of the other passengers understood. But suffering is of all countries. The mother was evidently feeble, and for the first few days had suffered terribly from sea-sickness. After she recovered from that, she seemed to be very weak, and could scarcely stand. Finally, she took to her bunk, from which she never rose again. Among the passengers in the steerage, was an Irish woman, of a better condition than those who generally cram the steerage of our emigrant vessels. She had resided in the United States some years, and was a well-to-do widow, keeping a little corner grocery in OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 151 Philadelphia. Having received news from Ireland of the death of her mother, and a small patrimony that thus fell to her, she had gladly taken the opportunity of seeing her native home once more, and had gone to settle the affair in person — leaving her grocery in charge of a friendly and honest gossip from her own county in the Emerald Isle. She was now on her return home ; and had, from the first, taken a special interest in the poor "forrin craythur," and her pretty and interesting daughter. Rosalie began now to move; and Mrs. O'Donnell went up and took her in her arms, and carrying her to the other side of the cabin, came back, gazed for a moment on the face of the dead, and then reverently covered it with the blanket, that had served for both sheet and coverlet — muttering a few words in a low tone, and crossing herself. Rosalie now returned towards her mother, but the woman took her by the hand to lead her away, saying, "'Tis no place for yees, darlint — come away, come away!" But the child struggled fiercely, and breaking away by a sudden movement, ran to the bunk, crying pi- teously. " Mamau ! mamau ! Je ne veux pas te laisser ! Je ne veux pas ! " She pulled the blanket away, and was struck motion- less by the sight of the face. The eternal sculptor, who moulds his marble statues from the warm and living flesh and blood, had done his work. Rigidly 152 OUE FIRST FAMILIES. the jaw fell on the bosom — fixed the stony eyes glared with the livid light of death. The young soul compre- hended all, and looked calmly at the image of what was her mother. Then, tenderly and carefully, she closed the cold eyes with her soft warm fingers, drew the blanket again over the face, and knelt down by the bunk, turning towards her visiter, with a gesture and look, which said, in a language not to be mistaken, "Let me watch here! " So commenced the life of Rosalie — alone, fatherless, motherless, — an infant, whose very childish prattle was not understood by any around her — friendless, and with none but God to care for her or watch over her tender years. What a destiny ! what an illustra- tion of life and its terrible struggle ! How should she go on ? How escape starvation now, or crime and in- famy hereafter? Did she ask herself these questions? Had her quick-dawning mind already taken in the meanings of her situation, and did the latent energies of her soul already begin to move and develop themselves in the inmost recesses of her being ? We know not. But none who have not watched, as we have done, the ac- tivity of thought and reason in the mind of a child, can rightly conjecture how quick and susceptible that mind may become, under the stimulus of unusual circum- stances — how prematurely the faculties of reason and self-reliance may be developed — nor how firmly and strongly the will of infancy may be moulded. Children are almost always misunderstood by men and women, OUR FIRST FAMILIES. ' 153 who treat them with a contemptuous indifference, which the child returns with bitterness and disdain. It has often seemed to me that, in all but absolute material experience, the child is intellectually the equal of man. Who does not recall, in the still and silent hours of busy life, the vivid dreams and searching speculations, the reasonings, the doubts, the conclusions, of child- hood — and is not sometimes startled to find that the infant instinct had intuitively embraced decisions and opinions, which, rejected in the pride of vain-glorious youth, came back to be confirmed by the sadder and truer experience of middle age? There are moments when life's perspective is reversed, and the rising sun- light of infancy appears broader and brighter and more celestial than the narrow and clouded rays of mid-day. Indeed, are not the first and last hours of earthly ex- istence those which connect us most nearly with the immortal world? — whence sent out wailing and help- less, to a dark and uncertain pilgrimage, moaning and helpless the weary spirit joyfully returns ! It is not my purpose to follow further the incidents of this voyage. The sad and desolating event to poor Rosalie, which we have already recorded, was neces- sary to be recalled, in order for the comprehension of the early life of- Rosalie, and the proper comprehen- sion of our story. It was with the greatest difficulty that the child could be removed from the corpse of her mother ; and when they came to take it away, and consign it to the waves, she became frantic, and, but for the perse- 15-4 OUR FIRST FAMILIES vering kindness of Mrs. O'Donnell, would have killed herself in despair. Mrs. O'Donnell, as we have said, was a widow, and she had no children. She had already made up her mind to adopt little Rosalie. Under the gentle treatment of the good widow, poor Rosalie soon grew calm; and before the voyage was concluded, she had become quite reconciled to her new protector, called her mamma, and had already learned a strange sort of dialect, composed of French and Irish, and which gave the widow huge delight. As soon as they got on shore, Mrs. O'Donnell has- tened to Philadelphia, with her new-found protege, and gladly re-established herself in her own little store and home. She took almost a mother's fancy for the pretty little orphan, and watched her, day by day, as she grew up in beauty and gentleness. Rosalie was re- markably quick and intelligent ; and Mrs. O'Donnell sent her to school, for several seasons, until she had acquired at least the outlines, if not the rudiments, of an education. When Rosalie was fifteen, Mrs. O'Donnell placed her in a little fancy dry-goods shop, where she soon became, from her activity and good. nature, a great favourite with the public, as well as with her em- ployers. When Rosalie was a little over sixteen, Mrs. O'Don- nell died — leaving her a handsome legacy, amounting to about a thousand dollars, after the affairs of the OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 155 shop were closed up, and everything paid off. This sum she deposited in the savings bank, and, deeply mourn- ing the loss of her benefactor and only friend, con- tinued in her situation — occupying her spare time in reading, and doing what she could to extend her edu- cation, and gratify her ardent taste for knowledge and refinement. Of course, so beautiful a girl, thus daily exposed to the gaze of the public, did not escape the attention of numerous of the "fast young men" about town — one of whose principal employments consists in watch- ing the shop windows, and spying out every new face that makes its appearance behind the counter. These shop-girls are considered fair game by the sons of our aristocratic families ; and it is notorious that many of them are deliberately selected and hunted down by them. Among the many who had in vain endeavoured to attract the attention of Rosalie, at length appeared a young man, who was destined to exert a controlling influence over her fate. This was Edward Ingraham. For a long time he watched her daily, without ac- costing her. But at length the opportunity occurred — and the mischief was done. One evening she was on her way with a parcel, for a lady in the upper part of Chestnut street. She did not usually carry parcels ; but the boy had gone and neglected this one, which had been particularly promised to be left that evening. So, seeing that there was no one else to do 156 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. it, she offered to take it, as there was still plenty of time for her to return before dark. Ingraham had been watching about the shop for some time, during the afternoon; and as soon as he saw her come out, he followed her. Shortly over- taking her, he said, very politely, — "It seems to me strange, miss, that you should al- Jjw yourself to be made an errand-boy of." Rosalie looked up at the handsome and open face of the young gentleman — which, sooth to say, she had often seen and involuntarily admired; and, in- stead of hurrying on without replying, as she had at first intended to do, some irresistible spirit of mis- chief impelled her to say, ' " Oh, I'm not an errand-boy, I'm an errand-^iW, if you please, sir! " " Why, so you are ! " said Ingraham, laughing ; " and the prettiest one, too, that ever carried a parcel. But come — now that I have at last got to speak with you, which I have been trying to accomplish for a long time, let me make the best use of my time. I am a young man with plenty of money, and I admire you beyond anything. I wish, seriously, to becomo ac- quainted with you; and if you should happen to find me agreeable, I mean to marry you. I have nobody to con- sult, and nobody that can cross my wishes. My mean- ing is really honourable ; and if you will give me an op- portunity of making your acquaintance, I'll convince you of it." Such was Rosalie's first declaration — her first offer. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 157 Poor girl ! If she had known, as well as we know, reader, the real value and meaning of such words, uttered under such circumstances, she would have waited not another instant, but would have ran away as fast as she could — or, if that had not answered, she would have called the police, or the passengers on the walk, to her assistance, to rescue her from the im- pending destruction. But, alas ! Rosalie did none of these things. She had already learned to admire the handsome face and form of this young man ; and when, instead of accost- ing her rudely, or insulting her with some infamous proposal, he spoke to her so softly and so gently, commencing by declaring his wish to make her his wife, she did not know what to say, or what to. do. And so she quickened her pace, turned away her head, and remained silent. " Then you positively will have nothing to say to me? I have been too bold — I have offended you! Well, then, I can only declare, upon my honour, that such was not my intention — and that I most sincerely beg your pardon. Farewell!" Saying this, Ingra- ham left her side, and fell behind. So he was gone! She was glad of it — yes, very glad. For what business had a gentleman — even though he was hand.some, and spoke so softly — to ac- cost a modest girl like her in the street ; and to make her an offer of marriage almost in the first breath ? Yes — she was very glad he was gone ! And yet — oh, Eve, and Mrs. Lot, and all the other 14 158 OUE FIRST FAMILIES. women that ever lived ! — " oh, sin, oh, sorrow, and oh, womankind ! " — our very fingers tingle with blushes as we record the fact ! — Rosalie looked round ! It was only a little — just the very least glance in the world ! But the angler's watchful eye saw that his bait had been swallowed, and was sure of bringing the bright and beautiful little flutterer to shore, in good time. He was at her side again in an instant, — "Will you not," said he, even in softer and more insinuating tones than before; "will you not, at least, tell me your name, and who your friends are, that I may, if possible, make their acquaintance, and thus present myself to you in a less offensive manner? Surely, you cannot deny me this ? " "My name is Rosalie," murmured the girl, "and I have no friends — they are all dead ! " "Let me, then, dear Rosalie, supply the place of all other friends. I swear that I do not mean to wrong you. Will you not see me again ? This eve- ning, after you have finished your day's occupation? Meet me here, and Ave will walk in the moonlight, while I explain myself more fully to you." Thus saying, he made a respectful bow, and disappeared. He knew that npt another word was necessary; the fish was caught. We need not say that after much beating of the heart, much self-discussion, and a little crying, Rosa- lie kept the appointment. The specious arguments and representations of the handsome young man — OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 159 who called himself Edward Brown — easily prevailed on her to repeat the interview. They became fre- quent — at last almost nightly — until, one fatal eve- ning, Edward persuaded her to pay a visit to his aunt — oh, those aunts ! — a worthy and respectable quaker lady, who had the greatest desire to see the future wife of her nephew. In fact, he had positively pro- mised that she should come. He was so persuasive — so tender — so handsome ! So, what could the poor girl do ? She was already desperately in love ; and a girl in love, thinks her lover every thing grand, godlike and supernatural. And so — and so — " A little still she strove, and much repented — And whispering, 'I will ne'er consent,' consented! " Mrs. Anthony — the reader may have already di- vined her — was as much at the service of the young and dashing Edward Ingraham, — under his assumed name of Brown — as of the old and cautious Ira Hen- derson. Between them both, she drove a prosperous trade; and, if one might judge from her sleek, healthy and robustious form, and round smooth face, slept soundly, and kept an easy conscience. Rosalie had already been several months in the house of Mrs. Anthony, when the incidents occurred which are related in the following chapters. 1G0 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. CHAPTER XIII. THE MATIN fiE MUSICALE. From the fierce and bloody contests of the Blue and Green factions of the Byzantine Hippodrome, which lasted for four centuries, and whose contests frequently decided the fate of contending aspirants for the imperial purple, and massacred thousands in a single day, society has been more or less agitated and divided on the subject of the choice of colours. The long and terrible contests of the White and Red roses — the massacres of the Cockade in France — the strug- gles of the Buff and the Blue in England's later days — the Red Republican massacres, and the Orange Riots of our own time — to say nothing of the Blue Laws of Connecticut, which are just now coming into force again, with more than their original stringency — are all too familiar to the Enlightened Public, for us to detain it with a recapitulation of the events to which they have led. But, perhaps in the whole history of those contests of colours ; no severer or more protracted s( niggle is on record, than that which took place in the mind of Miss OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 1G1 Jemima Jenkins, on the emergent question whether she looked best by daylight in lied or -Clue! It will perhaps be recollected, that, although Miss Jenkins had industriously propounded this question to every one of her acquaintances in turn, the only suc- cinct suggestion which had been vouchsafed to her, was that of her friend and relative, Mrs. Henderson, who had briefly but frequently advised her to "try both." After much and painful deliberation on this point — after having purchased the last three numbers of Graham's Magazine, and carefully studied the ef- fects of the various contrasts of colour, as exhibited in its fascinating fashion-plates — Miss Jemima at length actually resolved the question by taking her aunt's ad- vice. Yes — she was determined to try both ! The ef- fect was, at least, striking. The skirt of her dress was of bright blue — the four flounces dazzling red. The boddice was disposed in alternate stripes of blue and red; the feathers on one side of her newly-curled pe- ruke were blue marabouts — on the other, red. The strings of this remarkable head-dress, were each blue and red, decussating beneath the chin, and streaming over her shoulders like the pennants of two packet- ships in the Delaware, belonging to opposite lines. Her scarf was blue, with red fringe; and we verily believe, though we have no ocular evidence to offer on the subject — Honi soit qui mail/ pense, you know ! — that the poor puzzled maid's stockings and garters, were of the same variegated complexion. The effect of this costume upon the crowded and 14* 162 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. brilliant assemblage, at the matinee musicale of Mrs. Valentine, was tremendous. Many of the youngei portion of the audience supposed that she was to be a part of the performance ; and at the end of every piece, expected her to make her appearance, and go through with a fancy-dance. However, nothing of this kind occurred. Miss Jenkins, somewhat op- pressed by her gorgeousness, and embarrassed by the unusual attention she received, modestly retired to a seat behind one of the drawing-room doors, whence she did not move during the entire performance. And now, all the guests being arrived, and the little satin-paper programmes distributed liberally on all sides, at about four o'clock, the concert really be- gan. Madame de Saintlieu, the object of universal -at- tention — that rara avis, a woman whom women have consented to lionize — entered, during an introductory from the piano, played despite his courage, very ir- regularly and nervously by poor Wilmar, whose blood was set tingling, and fingers wandering, by the rustle of Madame de Saintlieu's dress, smiling encouragingly as she passed. She was, of course, very much quizzed and criticised by all the ladies. The tall ones thought her too short; the thin, too stout; the skinny declared her arms were too large; and those who for obvious reasons always wore their dresses buttoned up to the throat, were considerably shocked at the looseness of her corsage. However, on the whole she got off pretty well with the femalo part OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 1G3 of the audience — and as to the gentlemen, they were a little afraid of her. All agreed that she was an " un- commonly fine woman" — but there was something in her easy calmness and unconscious self-possession, which made them uneasy. It had been voted permissible to applaud ; and as she stood up to sing, she was greeted with an immense clapping of kid gloves ; and here and there, some am- bitious young gentlemen, whose moustaches and Italian were in the very earliest stages of development, com- menced crying bray-vo bray-vah and bray-vi, in all the terminations of which a bray may be supposed to be susceptible, before she had sung a note. A large number of the audience, however, knew what they were about, and had really come to hear. All now was profound silence ; and as Wilmar faintly Struck the few preliminary chords of Leonora's prayer, the solemn and despairing expression, which the music seemed to call up on the artist's countenance, made every heart still its beating, and every bosom sus- pend its breath. She began so tremblingly and low, that several of the "regular old stagers," as they call themselves, began to fear for "stage fright," and to exchange those glances of triumphant pity, which so freely circulate when any misfortune happens to an artist's voice and execution — as much as to say " There ! did you hear that? — Poor thing ! " But their fears were groundless. Before the first few bars were over, they forgot that they were listening to an elegant French woman, faultlessly dressed, as 1G4 OUR FIRST FAMILIES if she bad but to-day siepped from the faubourg St. Germain, and seemed to hear alone the wailing and pleading of a broken heart — of a woman dying of shame, and remorse, and inextingui liable love. The critics forgot to take notes — tne unmusical forgot that they didn't care anything about music — many sighed and grew pale with emotion — and many wept unre- strainedly. "When the last accents of the prayer had died away, there was a pause, and then a spontaneous brava ! quite unconventional and vulgar, but none the less hearty and sincere. Then came congratulations — sincere, for once; for the strength of the emotions which the artist had excited, overcame, for the moment, the ordinary affectations and concealed jealousies which repress art and poison society. It was now Wilmar's turn, with his grand eapriecio, over which he had spent so many hours. Before he commenced, the young musician turned to her who had inspired his composition, as if to renew the spell under which his imagination had first struck it out. She was there, with that same calm, steady, strength-im- parting smile, which she had first fixed upon him. He replied by a look of gratitude, devotion, love — every- thing that the heart of genius may feel for the woman who has first awakened the deep fountains of his soul, and showed the heavens and earth, and all things beautiful, reflected there. The eapriecio went olf splendidly. It was really superbly played, so far as feeling and fancy were con- cerned — and the composition possessed many beauties. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 165 Madame de Saintlieu, however, for "whose applause alone the artist looked, shook her head with a playful smile — as much as to say, "I don't like it so well as the first time." He understood her; and rising from the piano, went to her, to explain, that much of his small stock of electricity was necessarily wasted in such a crowd. "But you? " he continued; "may I ask you a ques- tion?" "Yes, as many as you please." "It is a very impertinent one; I believe," he said, hesitating. "I will take the risk of that. Proceed." "Well, then — have you not sung on the stage?" "Never." " How, then, do you obtain that perfect self-posses- sion and composure?" "Because I have no ambition." "You cannot mean that." "Yes, I do — I mean that the bane of all artists is their constant self-criticism. Nothing is to be done in art without absolute, entire abandonment. This is the old story, but it is the only true one. But you really played well. Did he not, Mrs. Loftus?" " Oh, you know I don't pretend to be a judge of music ; but I have never been so much affected by the piano before in my life." Mrs. Glacee now brought up Mr. Attarby, to be pre- sented to Madame de Saintlieu. He spoke feelingly and judiciously of her singing. She was surprised to 166 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. see how much better taste he had in music than women — and although she said nothing, yet an almost im- perceptible glance from Mrs. Loftus, told her that her thoughts were understood. "A propos," said Mrs. Valentine, coming up from the bottom of the saloon, where she had been to see the effect, and to admire the complete and brilliant success of her entertainment. ""What news do you bring from the other house!" Mr. Attarby? That was really too cruel of Mrs. Attarby, to lend herself to Mrs. Henderson, to break me down." " Oh, I haven't been there yet — nor do I intend to go until evening. I should not wonder if my adorable wife played them all some prank, in revenge for Mrs. Henderson's previous slighting of her." "Oh," said Mrs. Balderskin, making her way to the group of talkers, " did you hear your wife's last bon mot, about Mrs. Henderson ? I got it of poor Je- mima, who sits yonder behind the door, buried in the American flag, and doesn't dare to stir." "But the bon mot. I hear so many good things of my wife, that I really wish she would try and keep some of them for home consumption." "Oh, Mrs. Henderson, half alarmed at having in- vited an actress into her house, said, confidentially to Jemima, that she really was afraid she should never dare, after all, to sit down to the table with her. Of course, Jemima, being bound to secrecy, went to Mrs. Attarby with the complimentary speech." "And what was the reply?" inquired Mrs. Glacce. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 167 " ( Oh,' said the tragedienne ; ' she need not be afraid — genius isn't catching ! ' Capital, was it not? " " Ha ! ha ! very excellent, upon my word ! " said Mr. Attarby, with a grimace. "But I think it is Madame de Saintlieu's wish to go on with the programme." — " Will you do me the honour, madame ? " he continued, offering his hand to lead her to the piano. But we will not pursue the course of the programme further. It is enough that the affair was in every way a success. Mrs. Valentine wa3 in high spirits, and declared that it was the happiest day of her life. She was profuse in her thanks to Mrs. Loftus, who had introduced Madame de Saintlieu. " But, my dear Mrs. Loftus," said she, taking her aside, "who is Madame de Saintlieu? Isn't she some great celebrity in disguise? " "No — she is exactly what she represents herself. Her letters to Mr. Loftus are unquestionable, and so is her position. Had I not been certain of this, you may be sure, my dear madam, that I should not have introduced her here." There might have been a slight tone of irony in this, but Mrs. Valentine was too well pleased with herself and every body around her, to be sensible of it. " So, she has come here to support her children, you say ? How did she lose her fortune ? " ' I do not know that she has actually lost her for- tune — I believe her income is only suspended for a time, owing to the assets, deposits and all, of some 168 OUR FIRST FAMILIES, delinquent banker in Paris, being taken possession of by the courts." "Does she mean to go on the stage?" " I trust not. The talent and genius so conspicuous in a drawing-room, her natural sphere, would probably fail her on the stage, to which she is entirely unused. Besides, we must keep her to ourselves." After the music was over, the favoured few, who had received special invitations, remained, for supper and a dance. Wilmar, who was dying for this oppor- tunity of conversing with Madame de Saintlieu, still felt uneasy respecting Helen — although he did not know exactly what he feared. He therefore took leave •of Mrs. Valentine and explained to Madame de Saint- lieu the reason for his going, — adding that he hoped that their acquaintance was not necessarily to end be- cause the concert was over. "I trust not," she replied, frankly and sincerely, but without manifesting the least embarrassment; "it will always give me pleasure to see you, while I remain here." "I trust to you for teaching me many things about art, that I have partly dreamed of, but do not know." " Trust more to yourself — think not of the opinions of others — at least, not now. This is the best advice I can give you." "Adieu, madam ! " and he held out his hand. She gave him her soft hand, whose touch again thrilled him, as on that day when their fingers had met on tlie keys of tho piano. He held it a moment OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 169 — he seemed as if he were about, unconsciously, to put it to his lips. She gently withdrew it, and said, softly, "good night! " But, these two little syllables contained a tone which, to hirn, made them a reward for all the evils and dis- asters of life. And yet, how mistaken he was ! They were kind, sincerely, truly kind — nothing more. Let not the wild-eyed artist dream that there was aught else in that tone ! 15 170 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. CHAPTER XIV. A NIGHT OF BLOOD. Ingraham did not make his appearance at the con- cert. "With that waywardness which characterized all his movements, he studiously kept out of the way, merely because he was particularly wanted. After an evening spent in the same round of low dissipation which we have already described, — going from haunt to haunt, each lower than the other in the scale of de- pravity, — he stole away from his companions, about midnight; and making his way to the house of Mrs. Anthony, opened the door noiselessly, and wont in. A night-lamp stood on the hall table, which he took, and proceeded up the stairs. When he was about half-way up, a door in the hall above, opened, and a woman in her night-clothes, and bare-footed, leaned over the banisters, saying, " Is that you, Mr. Brown ?" " Yes, Mrs. Anthony," replied Ingraham, looking up at the woman; " it's all right. Has Rosalie gone to bed ?" " I don't know — I guess not. She don't seem to be OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 171 ■well to-night. She got a letter this morning, which set her off in a terrible way. I've been taking care of her all the evening. But she's better now. " Good nisht." And the woman went back into her own room." Ingraham — or Brown, as we must now call. him, went on up the other staircase to the third story, mut- tering to himself, " A letter ! Who can have been writing: to her ? I wonder what's in the wind." • He found Rosalie in a night-wrapper, sitting in a low rocking-chair, with her elbows on a table by her side, and her chin supported by her hands, gazing at a miniature lying before her. She did not look up, or change her posture in the least, as he came in. An open letter was lying on the table — her handkerchief, limp with tears, beside it : but she was not weeping now. The storm had expended its fury, though the face was still clouded, and the eyes looked red and glared strangely. "Why, Rosalie, what's the matter, girl?" said In- graham, going towards her. "Stand off!" she uttered, in a low, quick voice. " Do not come any nearer to me, — see here ! " and she drew a small silver-cased dagger from the bosom of her night-wrapper. "Are you crazy, girl?" Baid Ingraham, starting back — for your fast man is not over fond of cold steel in any other shape than an oyster-knife. "What's the matter, I say? " "Is your name Ingraham?" said the girl, in the same low, spasmodic voice. 172 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. "lngraham! No!" lie replied, turning pale. — " What do you mean ? Don't you know me?" " Yes — I do know you. You are Edward Ingraliam, nephew of Mrs. Valentine, — and besides, you are an infamous, black-hearted villain ! " " Rosalie ! — Take care ! Do you know what you are saying ? Who has put all this nonsense into your head?" " Read that letter " — and she flung it towards him. He stooped, and took it from the floor, where it had fallen ; then, approaching the light, but carefully keep- ing the table between him and the girl, he sat down ' and read : "Mademoiselle, — I do not know you; but, whoever you are, you are a woman, and therefore deserve to be saved. Do you know the man you have trusted with your destiny ? Do you even know his real name ? It is Edward- Ingraliam, and he is the nephew of Mrs. Valentine, of street. He is about paying his ad- dresses to a wealthy young lady in his own circle of society. I have warned you — I say no more." "A Woman." " When did you receive this ? Where did it come from? Where is the envelope ? " "No matter. Is it true ? " "No — no! — It's a lie — an infamous lie! I know nothing of your Edward Ingrahams and your fashiona- ble young ladies. But I'll know who wrote that letter —that I will!" OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 173 "It is no matter who wrote the letter, or "where it came from : for it is true, Edward — true — all true ! and you have deceived and betrayed me. Oh God ! I wish I was dead ! Will you have pity on me ? Will you right me before heaven and earth ? Will you do what you have so often and so solemnly promised ? Will you marry me?" "My dear Rosalie," stammered Ingraham, "I am astonished at you — what can all this mean ? You surely are not so foolish as to believe the absurd state- ments of an anonymous letter. I thought you knew the world better. It is probably the invention of some enemy or rival of mine, who has seen you, and wishes to supplant me in your affections. What have you got there ? A miniature ! — Let me see it. I never knew you had a miniature." " Yes — look at it. It is my mother's picture — she put it round my neck with her dying hands, when I was a little child, — oh, I remember well that dreadful day ! Never has it left me for a moment. — Look at those dear features : think that my mother's spirit is now watching over her poor, erring, betrayed, help- less child ! May it inspire your heart with pity ! Ed- ward, you have deceived me : that letter is true. Mrs. Anthony is not your aunt — so much I forced from her trembling lips this very night, when she would have consoled me in my agony. Edward, I loved you dear- ly — I still love you — when I cease to love you, I must die. You are to me all the world. I was' innocent and happy — I might have lived virtuously, and met 15* 174 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. niy mother in heaven. I gave my destiny into your hands: you have betrayed me. But it is not too late. — Edward, my beloved — will you do me right? Will you save me from despair? "Will you bind me to your heart forever ? "Will you keep your oft-pledged, sacred promise? Oh, Edward, I implore you, answer me! It is my life I ask of you ! " That pure, saintly, angelic face had lost all traces of anger — it beamed only with divine, ineffable love and tenderness. There were moments in Edward's life, when his better angel was present Avith him, and when he could not have withstood that pleading face. But now, he was under the influence of the demon. He was flushed with drink, and excited by all the brutal passions and appetites which a night's orgy among the haunts of vice and low debauchery could not but inspire. Love, virtue, marriage, — amid such images and recollections, they seemed but mockeries. He gazed at the being before him, neither with fear, astonishment, nor love, but with the gross passions his night's excesses were calculated to arouse. Lovely she was ; her beauty had first drawn him towards her — but, beautiful as she now was, he had never seen her. There she stood — her long waving hair falling around her, her eyes flashing, her nostrils dilated. One arm extended towards him, clasped the dagger — the other strove to still the beatings of her heaving bosom. "llosalie," said he, after a moment's pause ; " all I ask of you is love. Are you not beautiful, that you OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 175 may be loved ? Come, forget this nonsensical letter ! You are mine — what marriage could make you any more mine than love? Come, Rosalie! Edward In- graham, or Edward Brown, am I not still your Ed- ward?" . As he spoke, Edward advanced towards Rosalie, and attempted to clasp her in his arms ; but she darted from him, with a look of defiance and contempt. " Dare you insult me too ? No ! you are not my Edward! My Edward was noble, truthful, just; not the degraded creature, reeking from low taverns, who now reels before me. Shame, shame, on you! your very touch would chill me! — Keep off! Remember all your sacred vows ! In the eyes of God I am your wife, and as your wife, respect me." " Wife ! " said Ingraham, laughing scornfully ; " men do not marry their mistresses. And if I am, as you bo hotly insist, Edward Ingraham, the rich nephew of the aristocratic Mrs. Valentine, that itself is an insu- perable bar to my marrying a shop-girl. You have mistaken your game, my pretty Rosalie ! The phantom you have yourself conjured up, stands forever between you and your wishes. " Come, let us have no more fooling ! If you have done it to show how uncommonly handsome you are when you play tragedy, you have entirely succeeded ! But now let me smooth back that lovely hair, and kiss your flushed cheek, and still your throbbing heart.— Come, Rosalie! " Again Ingraham drew near Rosalie ; but she again 176 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. retreated ; and standing against the wall of the room, she threw her robe open, and putting the dagger's point on to the firm round bosom, thus disclosed, she exclaimed, wildly, — " Keep off! " Seducer ! miscreant ! You shall never touch me more ! I have trusted you ; and God knows that relying on you as on him, my love for you -was pure and holy as a wife's. I will not be your mistress ! Take but one step nearer — stretch but your arm to- wards me — and you shall see that I choose death rather than infamy! " "We will see who is the strongest, then, my pretty tragedy queen ! Yes, indeed ! I did not come here to be thwarted and scorned by my own mistress — by a woman who lives by my bounty!" With these words he rushed forward, and clutched at his victim ; but, with a violent effort she disengaged herself, and fled past him. Ingraham pursued her, maddened with passion ; but suddenly, just as he was about again to clasp her, Rosalie fell to the ground, and there, -with- out uttering a word, she lay motionless at his feet. He stopped, with his arms still extended, and gazed down on her in wonder. He saw that in flying, her foot had tripped over a footstool, and that thus she had fallen. He looked down on her, motionless, as she lay — half fancying she was feigning, and waiting for him to raise her in his arms. But she moved not. Had she fainted? Edward knelt down beside her. She had fallen on her face. He raised her in his arms, and snatching a cushion from a sofa, placed her OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 177 head gently on it. Hastily be parted the beautiful tresses which veiled the face. Pale, pale, was it now; and the scorn still on the lip and on the brow. She has fainted ! Still further back he throws the hair — so long, that it fell far below her waist. It touches his face, as he flings it back — so soft, so warm, it brings the tears to his eyes ; and in accents of love, he whispers, "Rosalie! dear Rosalie!-" Still she moves not. He puts his hand on her heart — Oh, God ! He en- counters the cold hilt of the dagger ! and taking his eyes from that long-loved face, where till now they had rested, he beholds the deep red blood trickling down the white bosom, and staining the muslin robe. Had the dagger pierced her heart by chance, as she fell? — or had her own will accomplished the work it threatened ? That secret lies between herself and God. But Edward's conscience almost taxed him with the deed ; and withdrawing his arm from under her, the corpse — for she, the breathing, living, loving woman, is now a corpse — falls, with a dull heavy sound to the ground. Still kneeling by her side he buried his face in his hands. " Dead ! dead ! " The words sounded in a thousand tones in Edward's ears, as there, sobered and horror- stricken, he knelt. Dead, by his fault — almost by his hand ! This appalling thought brought the world and selfish feelings back to him at once. Dead ! murdered ! and he might be thought the murderer! Hastily he arose ; looked down for one instant with horror and fear, no longer with love and sorrow, on the bleeding 178 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. corse — then, putting out the light, and forgetting all, in his cowardly fear, but his own miserable self, he stole noiselessly out of the room and down the stairs — opened the street door, without a sound — closed it carefully behind him — and rushed down the street, pursued by the furies of death and hell. On he ran, never daring to pause or look behind him — though he thought he heard the footsteps of those who started out from every walk and corner, to join in mad pursuit of him. But it was only fancy. A discreet watchman or two, arroused by the rapid footsteps, started from the tree or door-step against which he was leaning, and looked curiously after the fugitive. But, as no one followed, and there was no particular disturbance of the public peace, he did not feel called upon to interfere. Perhaps the gentleman was running for a wager I Ingraham reached his aunt's house in safety; and entering as noiselessly as a thief, he did not breathe freely until he found himself in his own room, the door of which he locked. Then, throwing himself into a chair, he covered his face with his hands, and tried to think. He had not killed the girl — true ; but he had subse- quently acted precisely as if had killed her. Were it to be known that he was alone with her in her cham- ber — that he had crept out of the house, and run as if_ for life, till he reached his own room — no human being would be convinced that lie had cot murdered her with his own hand. Withdrawing his right hand from his OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 179 face, he started and shuddered with a new horror. It was stained with blood ! And his clothes were also bloody, where he had held the dead girl in his arms — and his very boots, where she had fallen down, and lay across his feet. All was blood, blood ! He looked fearfully round the room, and in the tall psyche glass, where he had so admired himself in the morning, he caught sight of a white and ghastly face — and that, too, was spotted and dabbled with blood. Even there the crimson stamp of murder was upon him ! He felt that he was going mad — he had only just self-com- mand enough to refrain from shrieking aloud for help. 180 OUR FIRST- FAMILIES. CHAPTER XV. THE GLASS DOOR. It has been stated that the room in which Helen was imprisoned, had a glazed door, originally commu- nicating with another apartment, but which had been fastened up, and a sofa placed in front of it — showing evidently that its use had been definitely abandoned, in the present apportionment of the chambers, and that it was considered merely as forming a portion of the partition wall. The door was glazed, for about half the distance from the top, but the transparency of the glass had been destroyed, by a coating of white paint. "When Helen first discovered that she was a prisoner, and had been decoyed to the house by some deep-laid plot of villany, this glass door naturally became an object of scrutiny, in the hope that it might possibly afford some way of escape, which her enemies had for- gotten to close against her. The examination, how- ever, resulted in nothing satisfactory. The door Avas not only locked, but, as she discovered by removing the sofa, strongly secured by Large nails, driven through the door and into the solid casement. She thought OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 181 she discovered, however, an aperture in one of the highest panes of glass ; and by replacing the sofa, and standing partly on the back, and supporting herself by clinging to the posts of the door on either side, she was enabled to apply her eye to the aperture, and thus obtain a partial view of the room beyond. It appeared that the door served as the back of a small closet, so constructed as to be used by the occupant of either chamber, or, by opening both doors, to serve as a thoroughfare from one to the other. By the present arrangement, the closet belonged exclusively to the back chamber, and the -door opening into the front where Helen was imprisoned, was, as we have seen, firmly closed. From the disposition of various articles in the closet, it was evident that the door opening into the back chamber, to which the closet now belonged, was never closed. We beg the reader to bear in mind this brief but minute description of the situation and arrangement of the two chambers — as it is indispensable to an un- derstanding of the catastrophe of our history. While Helen stood thus painfully supporting her- self, and looking into the adjoining chamber, the figure of a young girl advanced from the corner of the room towards the hall, which she could not see, and passed in front of the closet door. She appeared to be in great excitement, and walked rapidly up and down the room, making violent gesticulations, and apparently weeping convulsively. Once or twice 'she 16 182 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. stopped in front of Helen, and gazed fixedly upon an open letter which she held in her hand, but which she evidently had already perused more than once. Her lips moved, but Helen could not hear even the sound of her voice. The cavernous space of the intervening closet deadened and swallowed up the sound. At length, the young girl ceased walking, and threw herself into a chair, near the bed, and between that and a little table, which stood directly in front of the closet door — so that Helen now had an uninterrupted view of the girl, and of all her movements. After leaning back for a few moments in her chair, the girl sat erect, laid her letter on the table, and drew a miniature from her bosom, upon which she gazed intently, until she was obliged to wipe away the tears that flowed fast and plenteously down her cheeks. The face of the young girl, though changed and clouded with weeping, and the excitement of some terrible passion, was extremely beautiful. Under the influence, apparently, of the miniature upon which sho was gazing, the traces of anger and hatred gradually disappeared, and the countenance assumed an almost angelic character of tenderness and trustfulness. Helen Avas powerfully interested in this young and lovely girl. Had she, too, like herself, been betrayed into this infamous abode of vice, and was she, like Helen, bewailing the infatuation which had perhaps placed her life and honour in peril? Or was she an older inmate of this place? Had she already fallen OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 183 beneath the machinations of her foes — for that face was guilelessness, was purity itself; and was she now lamenting her cruel and hopeless destiny ? Diverted for a moment from her own perils — like all noble na- tures who behold another in suffering — she vainly en- deavoured to devise some means of rendering assis- tance to her sister in affliction. But what could she do? *"Herself a prisoner — seduced from her home, and her family even ignorant of where she had set out to go — what had she to expect ? Long before as- sistance could discover her, the plotters against her, whoever they were, and whatever might be their de- signs, would have abundance of time to carry out their plans, and work her ruin. This thought made her frantic ; and forgetting for the moment the stranger who had so powerfully excited her sympathies she sprang from the sofa, ran to the outside windows, which, as we have said, were securely fastened, and then commenced calling and beating furiously at the door, until her strength gave way, and she fell on the floor in a swoon. Her subsequent interview with Ira Henderson had been of so overpowering an excitement as to drive all thought of her unhappy neighbor from her memory ; but when she was again left alone, her mind reverted to her fellow captive, and she once more took her post of observation. The young girl was seated in the same place as be- fore. But she had taken off the walking-dress in which Helen had at first seen her, and put on a flow- ing night-wrapper, made of very thin white muslin, 184 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. and which showed the exquisite proportions of her young and slender form, as if it had been draped around a statue. Her countenance was now much more composed, and an expression of a settled and desperate determination, had imparted a dignity and character to her face, strangely at variance with its infantile and piquant contour. She was evidently passing through one of those crises of life, in which years are condensed to hours and moments. Half regretting her own terrors, and the despair with which she contemplated the return of Henderson, as he had promised — a promise which she could not doubt he would punctually keep — she continued to watch the young girl. The letter lay open on the little table — and the mi- niature was placed directly before the girl, who, leaning her elbows upon the table, and supporting her head on her hands, gazed at it intently — but she no longer wept. At this moment, a slight noise was heard in the hall — which Helen could distinguish through her own door, although she could hear nothing that took place in the room adjoining. Soon, a figure passed into her field of vision, and stopping on the side of the table towards the door, presented its profile to her view. Either her senses were wandering, or it was the face of Edward Ingraham! The face now turned more fully into the light, and she saw distinctly that il indeed he — once her own, her still loved I'M ■ whose false and shallow baseness bad broken ' r heart, and disenchanted her life! OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 185 What did lie here ? Alas ! what followed enabled her too well to guess. She saw the young girl display her little dagger — saw her lips pour out the torrent of words which she could not hear, but whose meaning was too clearly expressed by her speaking face, now again roused and distorted with emotion. She be- held, at length, the pursuit of Ingraham, and the flight of the girl, and finally saw her fall forward on her face. Then Edward came into sight again — raised the girl in his arms ; and Helen beheld, at the same in- stant as he, the blood upon her garments and her bo- som — and with a wild scream of horror, she half-fell, half-leaped, to the floor. — Dishonour, madness, death, were around and before her. But this was the moment that inspired all her wis- dom, all her energy. It must be nearly the hour at which Ira Henderson had promised to return to her; and, at all events, her screams would inevitably send some one up stairs. Quickly putting on her bonnet and shawl, she sta- tioned herself close to the hinges of the- door, so that when it was opened, she would be screened, until the person had entered the room. Then, to dart through the door, down stairs, and so into the street, was now her only hope. It was as she had thought. In a few minutes she heard footsteps on the stairs, and in the hall. They app oached her door — it opened — and Ira Henderson enteral. Quick as thought, or as the bird who escapes 16* 186 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. his cage, she darted into the hall, overthrew Mrs. Anthony on the landing, descended to the front door, which was only fastened hy the dead-latch — leaped out, and ran, half wild with terror, through the streets. But her senses, quickened by the imminence of her danger, by the horror inspired by all she had wit- nessed, and the fear of being overtaken, did not de- sert her, until she had reached her own home and rang the bell. The door was instantly opened by Arthur, w T ho had just come back, half dead from alarm and despair, from a fruitless visit to all the neigh- bouring police stations, and who now joyfully received his sister's fainting form in his arms. Emma and Kate, who had been frantic at their sister's protracted absence, and who had all night watched at door and window, carried her to her room, and put her to bed. But it Avas long before she re- turned to life — and many hours ere consciousness and memory were restored. Then she told her brother and sisters how they had all been deceived, and what was the real character of Mrs. Anthony and her house. She did not relate the terrible tragedy she had witnessed, but dwelt upon the peril she had escaped, and the means by which she had regained her liberty. She did not pronounce the names of either Ingraham or Henderson. She was not herself, as yet, sure of what she wished, nor of what might be her actual duty, lier brain was Btill weak ami confused; and thanking Arthur and her sisters for their kind cares, and tenderly inquiring after their mother, she begged to bo permitted to sleep. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 187 CHAPTER XVI. THE BLOODY FOOTSTEPS. When Ira Henderson returned to the chamber where Helen was imprisoned, the State House clock was striking three — all great merchants are models of punctuality, as well as of all the other virtues ! And it was at Ijhree o'clock, precisely, that he had promised to return and complete the ruin of the daughter of his dearest friend, having previously beggared the whole family, according to the strictest requisitions of the commercial law — (vide, Spearbill, passim !) Not seeing his victim, he advanced into the room, supposing that she had shrunk into the furthest corner, or had perhaps hidden in some closet, to escape his gentle attentions. But no Helen was there ! Had he mistaken the room ? No — the door was locked, and he had opened it with the key which he took from his own pocket. Still, bed-room locks were all alike, and one chamber very much resembled another. He had been too much absorbed in his principal design, to notice particularly either the locality or the furniture of the room; and 188 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. he might possibly have been mistaken. Thus think- ing, and still very much puzzled, and very much in doubt, he returned to the hall; and going to the head of the stairs, he encountered Mrs. Anthony, who had .just recovered from the effects of her sudden and un- expected contact with the flying Helen, and was slowly attempting to regain her feet. But now, as he looked down, he found himself stand- ing in a little puddle of some dark-coloured liquid, that seemed to have oozed out from beneath the door of the room at the head of the stairs, against the case- ment of which he was almost leaning. He was by na- ture courageous, and his nerves were firmly strung: still, a shudder ran through his frame, as the Convic- tion flashed uponhim, that he was standing in a pool of blood ! Hastily stepping back, he pointed at the slippery spot, and demanded of Mrs. Anthony, who now strug- gled her way to the top of the stairs, who was in that room. "Oh, nobody but a young friend of mine from the country — nobody that you know any thing of." "But see there! Look at that blood! — Open the door, instantly! " In nameless terror, the woman obeyed: and there, cold and dead, lay the beautiful Rosalie ! The blood, flowing in a torrent from her breast, bad crept along the floor, and over the threshold, to bear its testimony to the awful scene within. The man and woman looked at one another, for a moment, stnpified. Then each, OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 189 thinking only of self and safety, hastened down stairs — the woman to return to her room, gather up her money and such valuables as she could herself carry away — for she knew her own character and deeds too well to run the risk of waiting for the investigation of this bloody transaction, and had instantly determined on flight, — while Henderson himself rushed down stairs, and made his way with all possible secrecy and speed, to a distant part of the city — whence, proceed- ing more leisurely, lie at length found a cab, and waking the sleepy driver, he jumped in, and ordered him to drive to the Walnut street ferry — intending to cross over to Camden, walk about till morning, and return to the city with the passengers by the early train — thus carrying out the idea he had originally caused to be believed by his clerks, that he had gone to Trenton. But this scheme, natural and sagacious as it was, failed. A captain of police, returning from his nightly rounds, saw Henderson as he issued from the house in Cherry street. He had for some time entertained strong suspicions of the character of this house; and now, that he saw the great quaker merchant, whose person was well known to him, coming out of it, clan- destinely, between three and four o'clock in the morn- ing, he no longer felt a doubt. Shrugging his shoul- ders at the discovery he had made, he passed on, muttering to himself, "Who would have thought to find that immaculate old gentleman in such business ! — Well ! well ! The 190 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. world is all alike — saints and sinners, Quakers ami all ! But it's nothing to mo. So long as he doesn't disturb tho peace of the public, he has a right to go ■where he pleases. But it's lucky, though, that some of the vampyres* didn't get hold of him. He would have been a nice victim for them to suck ! " At this moment, the officer was met by one of the policemen of the beat, who came towards him with that air of mysterious importance, which no one but a po- liceman ever ha3 equalled — excepting, perhaps, Lord Burleigh, in the critic, and the worthy Baron Pom- polino. "Captain Butler," said the policeman, "I am sure there is something very queer a going on in No. Cherry street. The "woman of the house, who I've often seen, and have had my eye on for some time, has just come out, with a big bundle in her hand, and cut stick as if the devil was after her. That's very suspicious, I think, at this time of the morning." " I think so too, Wilkins. "We will go directly, and see what all this means. I too have had suspicions of the character of that establishment." They proceeded to the house. — The door was locked, and no attention was paid to the bell. After satisfy- ing themselves that thero was no one in the house, Captain Butler, in view of the very suspicious circum- stances of which he was cognizant, became convinced * This is the name, in police slang, for those creatures who prowl about disreputable houses, and levy black mail upon tho men and women who visit them. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 191 that somo deed of crime and darkness had been perpe- trated within its walls. He therefore decided upon forcing the door immediately, as the first step neces- sary to the clearing up of the mystery. Wilkins was accordingly sent to the station-house, where a com- plete set of skeleton keys, and other burglarious in- struments, are always kept. In a few minutes he returned, and the front door was opened. The reader is already aware of the scene that awaited them. Covering up the body of the dead girl, Captain Butler commenced seeking for some clue which might lead to the confirmation of the conjectures he had already formed as to the perpetrators of this diabolical deed. Tracing the blood from the spot where the girl had fallen, to the door and into the hall, he saw by the light of the lantern, two distinct footsteps traced in blood, as if some one had stepped into it in passing down stairs. These footsteps, which were wonderfully well defined, the sagacious officer carefully measured with a pocket rule, noting down the measurement, both of length and breadth, in a little memorandum book. He then took a pencil of red chalk from his pocket, and marked, as carefully as he could, the outline of the footsteps, lest the blood should dry, or be absorbed in the floor, and leave no trace. Meanwhile, Wilkins had been by no means idle. He had detected and instantly seized upon the letter and the miniature which still lay on the table — but he did not think it necessary to mention this trifling cir- cumstance to his superior. He was now despatched 192 our rnisT families. for the coronor in all haste, while Captain Butler him- self remained to watch the premises, and guard them from all the slightest disturbance of the least detail, until that officer should arrive. Poor Rosalie ! Mother and daughter both confided to the tender care of the coroner, with none to waft a sigh or a prayer after you, on your journey to the dark and turbid Styx ! Who says that the law of hereditary possessions is not founded in nature? At least des- tinies are faithfully transmitted. The moral charac- teristics, far more than the mental endowments, impart themselves to the offspring of our loves. — Destiny is immortal — she will not pause to fashion so slight a thing as the fate of a single individual — she sums up, in one terrible hieroglyphic, the catastrophes of a race. OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 193 CHAPTER XVII. THE DEVIL IN "WHITE SATIN. Notwithstanding the solicitude entertained by Mrs. Henderson, lest her attempt to engage Mrs. Attarby for her dinner and conversazione should fail, and her self-congratulation at her success, there were moments when she almost trembled at what she had done, for fear of its possible consequences upon her own stand- ing and position. Although she and her husband re- presented, in their own persons, the two oldest, weal- thiest, and most decidedly aristocratic families of the two divisions of the quaker sect, and thus far she had found no opposition* to her wishes or views, still she knew the stolid obstinacy with which the whole body of Friends, whether "gay or grave," maintained a point, when it had once been taken. She recalled to mind the persecution of an eminently pious and learned preacher of the sect, in the early days of the colony, who had been exiled and finally driven to open apostacy, because he would not bow down implicitly to the man- dates of the brethren, in some minor and unimportant matters of church discipline. True, the outward cha- 17 104 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. racter and conduct had, since that time, undergone almost as great changes, as the face of the city itself, •which had grown from a puritanic village in the wilder- ness, to one of the gayest, richest, and most fashionable cities on the continent. Still there were certain ap- pearances which, the more the substance of the early strictness of morals had disappeared, were the more stringently insisted on. Among these, the two most important and inveterate, were a hatred of every thing appertaining to the theatre, and an unconpromising hostility to dancing. Shak- speare and Cellarius were regarded, in connexion with their father the devil, as forming the trinity of iniquity. To dance, was to challenge the wrath of the God of David, who danced before the ark ; while the door of the theatre was shunned, as though the "pit " to which it led, was the bottomless one itself. Mrs. Henderson, although heartily despising all this detestable cant, had never dared openly to set her face against it. To attend concerts, and allow her daughter, was as far as she dared to go. Indeed, she had not been able to accomplish this, without a serious struggle with her husband — a struggle which he ob- stinately maintained, and in which he evidently put forth all his powers, for the purpose of accurately measuring his own strength against that of his wife, and ascertaining exactly how they stood. The result was a complete humiliation. At every point she had shown her decided superiority. From that moment, he retired in disgust from the contest, and in every OUR FIRST FAMILIES. 195 thing relating to the government and conduct of the family, he allowed her to have her own way — simply because he had discovered that he could not prevent it. But now in the heat of her animosity for her rival, and her settled determination to eclipse her on the present occasion, she had gone, she feared, a step too far. While Mrs. Attarby, under her maiden name, was still on the stage, Mrs. Henderson had resolutely refused to visit the theatre — although she knew that her rival, Mrs. Valentine, was nightly drawing around her, there, the fashionable men of the town, and her own dull parlours were deserted. On the other hand, she reasoned, that, since Miss Carlton, the celebrated actress, had married Mr. At- tarby, an undoubted member of fashionable society, and had finally withdrawn from the stage, her cha- racter and position had necessarily undergone a com- plete change, — and this had ever been acknowledged by herself and several ladies of her circle had for- mally recognised her as the wife of a member of their class, by the usual pasteboard civility of a call. — This call had never been returned — being resented by Mrs. Attarby as a gross and impertinent insult. And upon her husband attempting to remonstrate, throwing her- self into the attitude, and assuming the tone, of high tradegy, she had overwhelmed him with such an out- burst of contempt, disdain and indignation, that he had fainly run out of the house, and had never since had courage to renew the subject. But now, not only had the acknowledged leader of 196 OUR FIRST FAMILIES. the crane