^^p^)))'^^- 'Z^r'
 
 v 
 
 

 
 
 MARRYING A BEGGAR ; 
 
 OS 
 
 THE ANGEL IN DISGUISE, 
 
 AND 
 
 rtr 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM T. ADAMS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 THA-YER AND ELDRIDGE, 
 
 114 & 116 WASHINGTON STBEET. 
 1860.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by 
 
 WENTWORTH, HEWES & CO. 
 die Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetf 
 
 TIBEOTTPBD AT TRB 
 BOITOH IIBBKOTTPB FOODBV.
 
 TO 
 
 CHARLES KIMBALL, ESQ., 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, 
 
 BY HIS FRIEND, 
 
 WILLIAM T. ADAMS. 
 
 2052378
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 SOME of the sketches contained in this volume 
 appeared in the Boston True Flag, the American TJnwiv, 
 and, one of them, " The New Minister " in Gfoa- 
 son's Pictorial ; the remainder have not been published 
 before. 
 
 A great variety of sketches has been introduced, 
 nearly all of them practical in their application, and 
 illustrative of the social and domestic duties of life. 
 No attempt at " fine writing " has been made in them ; 
 they are simply home thrusts at the follies of the parlor 
 and the kitchen ; of the shop and the counting-room , 
 in short, of life " in doors and out." 
 
 The author is encouraged to collect these simple sto- 
 ries in a volume by the advice of partial friends^ and 
 by a desire to redeem them from a kind of literary 
 1* (5)
 
 6 PBEFACE. 
 
 orphanage to which the unscrupulousness of some reck- 
 less man of paste and scissors has reduced them. Many 
 of them are now travelling over the country, like a 
 dog without a collar ; but unlike that highly respectable 
 puppy which isn't any body's dog, they have an anxious 
 friend at home, who takes this method of calling them 
 
 back to the fold again. 
 
 W. T. A. 
 
 DOECHESTEK.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAOB 
 
 MARRYING A BEGGAR, . * 11 
 
 GOOD FOR NOTHINGS, 22 
 
 Two DAGUERREOTYPES, .... . . 31 
 
 Six HUNDRED A YEAR, .......40 
 
 t 
 THE NEW MINISTER, 49 
 
 OUT NIGHTS, ....63 
 
 BRING FLOWERS, 74 
 
 THE ACADEMY'S PRIZE, ...... 84 
 
 THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT, ..... .94 
 
 BANG UP, . ... 104 
 
 THE NEW CLOAK, . . . * 114 
 
 EVERY THING COMFORTABLE, ...... 125 
 
 FAMILY JARS, 138 
 
 LIFE INSURANCE, 153 
 
 LAST DAY OF GRACE, ....... 163 
 
 MONTAGUE AND LADY, 174 
 
 TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS, ...... 18* 
 
 CIGARS FOR Two, 198 
 
 (7)
 
 8 CONTENTS. 
 
 OUT OF BUSINESS, . 208 
 
 Six MONTHS AFTER DATS, ... . . . . 220 
 
 WORLD OF TROUBLE, 230 
 
 SEND FOR THE DOCTOR, ....... 243 
 
 FOUR KINDS OF CASE, ....... 255 
 
 EXTREMES MEET, ........ 265 
 
 THE MERCANTILE ANGEL, ....... 276 
 
 CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN, .... 286 
 
 THE BACHELOR BEAU, 295 
 
 THE GRAND RECEPTION BALL, 306 
 
 GETTING AN INDORSER, . . * . . . 320
 
 
 MARRYING A BEGGAR.
 
 MAEEYING A BEGGAE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " So much for bringing poor relations into the house ! I 
 really believe that Charles has fallen in love with the girl ! " 
 exclaimed Mrs. Mason to her husband, a merchant in mod- 
 erate circumstances in the city of Boston. 
 
 " Well, suppose he has ; she is a good girl, is she not ? " 
 quickly responded the merchant. 
 
 " I don't know but that she is good enough ; but she is a 
 pauper ! " 
 
 " Not exactly a pauper, Mrs. Mason." 
 
 " Didn't we take her into the family to keep her from 
 starving ? " 
 
 " I did not so understand it. You needed a young woman 
 to assist you in sewing, and employed her at half the usual 
 wages." 
 
 " Yes, and isn't she a pauper for all that ? " 
 
 " Gently, Mrs. Mason ; you forget that she is my sister's 
 daughter," said the merchant, a little sternly. 
 
 " What if she is ? She is a penniless girl for all that. 
 A pretty match for our son ! " 
 
 " And why not for our son ? I am not a millionnaire. 
 If the times don't come easier than they have been, I shall 
 fail before the year is out." 
 
 ttl)
 
 12 MARKYING A BEGGAE. 
 
 " So much the more reason why Charles should look out 
 for himself." 
 
 " If he loves my niece, I sincerely hope he will marry her, 
 for I believe she is one of the be*st girls in the world ; cer- 
 tainly she is vastly superior to the silly, affected, mincing, 
 novel-reading misses of fashionable society. I commend his 
 taste and his judgment." 
 
 " "Well, Mr. Mason, I am surprised ! " 
 
 " Not the least occasion to be surprised." 
 
 " Let me tell you, Mr. Mason, that I never will consent 
 to see Charles throw himself away on a pauper. If you 
 haven't the spirit to prevent so disgraceful a match, I shall 
 send the girl away." 
 
 "Don't you -do it, madam," said Mr. Mason, in a firm, 
 decided tone. 
 
 " I shall do it ! " replied the lady, waxing warm at the 
 obstinacy of her husband, who, in trivial matters, was in the 
 habit of letting her have her own way. 
 
 " Better not," quietly responded the gentleman. 
 
 " The minx put on such airs and smirked so, that I really 
 believe she meant to catch him." 
 
 " What, Grace ? Impossible ! She is a little gentle, 
 quiet thing, and I am sure the idea of a flirtation never en- 
 tered her simple head." 
 
 " Humph ! " sneered the lady. " I know better. And 
 now that he is really making love to her, the provoking jade 
 seems to look upon it as a matter of course ; thinks it just 
 as much a proper thing that she should be the wife of our 
 Charles, as though she had been born a princess ! " 
 
 " Poor thing ! I suppose she is human, and actually lovei 
 the boy ! "
 
 MAREYING A BEGGAR. 13 
 
 " Loves him or not, I'll make an end of it." 
 
 " Don't be rash, Mrs. Mason," replied the husband, twirl- 
 ing in his fingers a buff envelope, marked " Telegraph." 
 
 " What have you got there ? " 
 
 " I had almost forgot to mention that brother Joseph, had 
 arrived in New York, and telegraphs that he shall be here 
 to-night by the New Haven train." 
 
 " Just like you ! Never tell of a thing till the last mo- 
 ment ! " said the lady, petulantly. 
 
 " I received the despatch only two hours ago." 
 
 " Here is another kettle of fish," continued the lady, mus- 
 ing. " That everlasting niece of yours is in the way again." 
 
 " I hope the poor girl has no more sins to answer for." 
 
 " Where do you suppose your brother Joseph will leave 
 his property ? " 
 
 " I have not the remotest idea." 
 
 " Don't you suppose that angelic niece of yours will whee- 
 dle him out of a part of it ? " 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " You don't want he should leave it all in your family, 
 then ? " sneered the lady. 
 
 " No, I hope he will do justly." 
 
 " I wish I could get her out of the way before he comes." 
 
 " Don't attempt it, Mrs. Mason," said the merchant, with 
 very decided emphasis. 
 
 " If she were only out of the way, Henrietta would come 
 in for the whole," added the lady, as she hurried out of the 
 room to make arrangements for the reception of uncle Jo- 
 seph. 
 
 2
 
 14 MAKBYING A BEGGAR. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 UNCZE JOSEPH was a Calcutta merchant, in which capaci- 
 ty he had accumulated an immense fortune. Being a bache- 
 lor, the probable' disposition of his property became a ques- 
 tion of considerable interest among his relations. 
 
 The family of Mr. Mason, the merchant introduced in the 
 last chapter, included but two children, a son and a daughter. 
 
 Grace was the only daughter of a sister, recently deceased, 
 who had been for many years a widow. 
 
 It was supposed that uncle Joseph would make one of his 
 nieces his heiress. This was the old fellow's whim, and no 
 one could gainsay the whim of a bachelor. From some in- 
 dications of preference which he had bestowed upon Henri- 
 etta in her childhood, it was generally believed that she 
 would prove to be the fortunate one. 
 
 Henrietta had been educated to be a lady. Her delicate 
 fingers were never soiled by rude collision with pots and 
 kettles, and she had been taught to believe that it was 
 delicate sensibility to be afraid of a spider or a bullfrog. 
 She played the piano with passable skill, and lingered away 
 half her time at full length on the sofa, poring over the con- 
 tents of a novel. 
 
 Such was the prospective heiress of uncle Joseph's large 
 fortune. Her father was far from approving the education 
 she had received, and had used all the influence he possessed, 
 short of quarrelling, to have these defects remedied. 
 
 Uncle Joseph came, and was welcomed as became the dig- 
 nity of one who had a fortune to bestow.
 
 MAEBYING A BEGGAB. 15 
 
 Henrietta thought he was a " dear love " of a man, and 
 she wondered that the ladies ever let him remain a bach- 
 elor. 
 
 Grace, by the contrivance of Mrs. Mason, was not present 
 when her uncle arrived ; but Mr. Mason, understanding the 
 trick, sought her in person, and introduced her to the man 
 of money. 
 
 The poor girl was too modest and retiring to force herself 
 upon the notice of uncle Joseph, who was too deeply ab- 
 sorbed by the unremitting attentions of Henrietta to perceive 
 her situation, or discover the menial capacity in which she 
 acted. 
 
 At tea, uncle Joseph complained of being ill, and said 
 that he had not been well since he landed on the previous 
 day 
 
 Mrs. Mason and her daughter were all sympathy. The 
 ailing bachelor was conducted to his apartment, and herb 
 teas and jugs of hot water were put in requisition. Henri- 
 etta volunteered to sit all night by his bedside and minister 
 to his wants ; but the sick man did not deem it necessary. 
 
 During all this confusion Grace was not to be seen. She 
 was not permitted to assist in the preparations for the sick 
 man's comfort; every thing must be done by Henrietta's 
 own hand. 
 
 Notwithstanding the kind attentions lavished upon uncle 
 Joseph, there was no improvement in his condition ; but, on 
 the contrary, he rapidly grew worse, and at midnight the 
 physician was sent for. Henrietta had not left the bedside 
 for a moment. She was the most devoted creature in the 
 world, and the bachelor could not but contrast her devotion 
 with the utter neglect of Grace, who had not once entered
 
 16 MARttYIXG A BEGGAR. 
 
 his room, even to inquire how he did. Henrietta's prospects 
 were decidedly brilliant. 
 
 The physician came, and after feeling the pulse of the 
 sufferer, inquired where he resided when at home. 
 
 Uncle Joseph replied that he had no home had just 
 come from Calcutta. 
 
 " I see," said the physician. " Was there any sickness on 
 board the ship ? " 
 
 " There was. I came by the overland route to Liverpool, 
 thence by a New York liner. There was a steerage full 
 of emigrants on board, among whom the fever raged fear- 
 fully." 
 
 " Just so," returned the physician, " and you have got the 
 
 
 ship fever." 
 
 " The ship fever ! " exclaimed Henrietta, rushing out of 
 the room. 
 
 The sick man turned, and witnessed her abrupt departure. 
 With a sigh, such as can only be wrung from a bachelor 
 conscious of his loneliness, he drew the bedclothes closely 
 around him, and apparently abandoned himself to the fate 
 which the dreadful disease seemed to foreshadow. 
 
 The physician made up his prescription and retired. No 
 one was left with uncle Joseph but his brother. 
 
 " I am deserted, brother," said the sick man. 
 
 " No, brother, I am here." 
 
 " But there is no hand of woman here ; well, it is a dread- 
 ful disease," and the sufferer sighed again. 
 
 Mr. Mason went down to the sitting room, whither his 
 wife and daughter had fled. 
 
 " How is this, wife ? Is Joseph to be abandoned now that 
 he most needs attention ? " asked he of Mrs. Mason.
 
 MARRYING A BEGGAR. 17 
 
 X 
 
 " You don't think we are going to stay in the same room 
 with the ship fever ? " replied Mrs. -Mason. 
 
 " You may as well be in the room as in the house." 
 
 " We must leave the house immediately. "Why did he 
 not go to the hospital ? It was not very considerate of him 
 to bring the ship fever into the family. He might have 
 known that he had it." 
 
 " Heaven forgive your heartlessness ! But is my brother 
 to die with no one to care for him ? " exclaimed Mr. Mason, 
 udignantly. 
 
 " You must hire a nurse." 
 
 " And you will desert him ? " 
 
 " We can't stay where the ship fever-is." 
 
 " No, papa, it would be suicidal," added Henrietta. " His 
 fortune would do us no good if we caught the fever." 
 
 " Go, then ! but there is still one in the house who has 
 a heart," replied Mr. Mason, as he left the room to seek the 
 apartment of Grace. 
 
 Grace was ready in a moment to attend her uncle to the 
 sick room, where, regardless of the danger of contagion, she 
 laved the burning brow of the sufferer, and did all that an 
 angel hand could do to render him comfortable. 
 
 Early in the morning, Mrs. Mason and her daughter de- 
 parted for the residence of a friend in the country. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FOR several weeks Grace, with such assistance as Mr. Ma- 
 son and Charles could give, nursed the invalid with the 
 most untiring devotion. All her time was spent by his bed- 
 2*
 
 18 MAREYING A BEGGAR. 
 
 side. She was all gentleness and sympathy, bearing pa- 
 tiently with his petulance and ill humor, and never betray- 
 ing the slightest appearance of anger when he scolded and 
 even swore at her. 
 
 The fever turned, and he began to mend. He was now 
 out of danger, and rapidly advancing to complete restoration. 
 
 The physician commended the skill and devotion of his 
 nurse, assuring him that he owed his life to her. 
 
 But the devotion of- the poor girl cost her dearly ; for 
 scarcely had uncle Joseph recovered before she was taken 
 down with the fever, and for weeks languished on the very 
 verge of the grave. 
 
 Yet there was no female hand to lave her brow save that 
 of a hired nurse. Charles Mason loved her as he did his 
 own existence, and day and night he watched over her with 
 a constancy and a devotion worthy the loving heart of the 
 gentler sex. 
 
 Uncle Joseph, too, was an anxious watcher round her bed. 
 Though he was a bachelor, and had spent the greater part 
 of his life in India, away from the gentle influences of female 
 society, he showed an aptness in the sick room that would 
 have done honor to a Benedict. 
 
 To the intense relief of her devoted friends, Grace recov- 
 ered. The disease was now banished from the house, and 
 Mrs. Mason and Henrietta ventured to return. 
 
 "I trust you have had a pleasant visit, madam," said 
 uncle Joseph, coldly. 
 
 "Pleasant! nay, far from it. You do us injustice; we 
 were perfectly miserable on account of your dangerous ill- 
 ness." 
 
 " Humph ! " said uncle Joseph, with a sneer.
 
 MAKBYING A BEGGAR. 19 
 
 The love between Charles and Grace, strengthened by the 
 scenes of suffering through which they had passed, was now 
 an unalterable sentiment. Of course uncle Joseph had not 
 witnessed their mutual devotion to him in his illness with- 
 out suspecting the existence of some strong bond of union 
 between them. And the young man's untiring attention to 
 her in her own sickness had confirmed the opinion. 
 
 Seeking a favorable opportunity, he conversed with Charlea 
 upon the subject, who readily admitted his affection. The 
 bachelor recommended an immediate marriage. 
 
 The step was not, of course, ungrateful to the feelings of 
 the lover. .And the desire to redeem Grace from the life of 
 drudgery to which she was reduced by the heartlessness of 
 his mother, seemed to demand their immediate union. 
 
 The young man's intentions were soon noised through the 
 family. Mrs. Mason renewed the opposition she had before 
 made, and even went so far as to threaten that, if she could 
 not break up the match, she would imbitter the lives of the 
 parties. 
 
 Uncle Joseph remonstrated. 
 
 " May I ask, madam, what objection you can possibly have 
 to the marriage ? " said he, with considerable sternness in 
 his manner. 
 
 " What objection ! why, the girl is a beggar ; I have em- 
 ployed her in my family to keep her out of the almshouse, 
 which, I think, is objection enough," replied Mrs. Mason, 
 disliking the interference of uncle Joseph. 
 
 " Your son, I think, is not wealthy, so that he need not 
 demand a rich wife." 
 
 " He need not marry a beggar, though." 
 
 " She is worthy a prince, beggar though she is."
 
 20 MAEETING A BEGGAB. 
 
 " O, very likely," sneered the lady. 
 
 " I owe my life to her, and I can never cease to be grate- 
 ful to her. When others forsook me, she was constant," 
 replied uncle Joseph, pointedly. 
 
 " She knew you were rich," said Mrs. Mason, sarcastically. 
 
 "So did you and your amiable daughter. You were like 
 angels round my pillow till the doctor said ' ship fever,' when 
 you fled like two frightened sheep." 
 
 The lady looked as black as a thunder cloud. 
 
 " I trust you will withdraw your objections to this mar- 
 riage, Mrs. Mason. You perceive that Charles is resolute, 
 and will have his own way about it," continued uncle Joseph, 
 in a more pliable tone. 
 
 " His own way ! All this for bad advising ! I cannot 
 prevent it, perhaps ; but I will never consent to it. No ! a 
 son of mine shall never have my consent to marry a beggar 
 girl." 
 
 " Madam, she is no longer a beggar. She is the heiress 
 of all my fortune," said uncle Joseph, with sudden energy. 
 
 Mrs. Mason's brow contracted. 
 
 " And Henrietta ? " said she. 
 
 " Never touches a penny ! She deserted me when I most 
 needed a friend," replied the bachelor, vehemently. " If I 
 had ten thousand fortunes, they would be but a poor return 
 for all that Grace has done for me. I make over fifty thou- 
 sand dollars to the newly-married couple as soon as the knot 
 is tied ; the residue at my decease." 
 
 The marriage took place soon after. The ceremony was 
 performed at the house of Mr. Mason, in spite of the oppo- 
 sition of his wife ; for when the merchant said it should be 
 so, he had the firmness to carry his point.
 
 MAKRYIXG A BEGGAR. 21 
 
 The newly-married couple took up their residence in a 
 beautiful house, purchased for them by uncle Joseph, who 
 consented to make his home with them. 
 
 Henrietta is now five-and-thirty years of age, and an 
 " old maid." Mrs. Mason still continues to be a termagant, 
 though her husband maintains his integrity with firmness 
 and decision. She has never forgiven uncle Joseph for 
 making Grace the heiress, and probably never will. But the 
 worthy bachelor never ceases to rejoice over the disposition 
 lie has made of his property, and probably he never will.
 
 "GOOD FOR NOTHINGS." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " YOUK girl is a prize, Mrs. Bagley," said Mrs. Veazie, a 
 lady whose physiognomy was rather indicative of a sour 
 temper. 
 
 "Bridget is a good girl," responded the lady addressed; 
 " and she has been with me over a year now." 
 
 " Indeed ! Over a year ! Well, I am astonished ! For 
 my part, if I get a good girl, I can't keep her." 
 
 " I have "been very fortunate in that respect." 
 
 " You have indeed. O dear ! it is really terrible to think 
 how much one is dependent upon these Irish servant girls. 
 They are such lazy, impudent, good-for-nothing creatures, 
 that it is enough to weary out one's life." 
 
 " Some of them are. If I had been so unfortunate as to 
 get such a one as you describe, I should instantly discharge 
 her. But very few are of that description." 
 
 " Very few ! Let me tell you that your girl is one in a 
 thousand, Mrs. Bagley. Where you find one who is honest, 
 faithful, and respectful, you will find nine hundred and nine- 
 ty-nine who are just the reverse." 
 
 " I can hardly believe it," replied the good-natured Mrs. 
 Bagley, with a smile of incredulity upon her pleasant 
 features. 
 
 (22)
 
 GOOB FOE NOTHINGS. 23 
 
 " It is as true as the gospel ! Why, I have had no less 
 than ten different girls within a year." 
 
 " Ten ! Is it possible ? " 
 
 " And my family is no larger and the work is no harder 
 than yours. Isn't it singular-? " 
 
 Politeness compelled Mrs. Bagley to answer that it was 
 singular ; but, at the same time, she knew that it was not so 
 very singular, after all. If she had felt at liberty to do so, 
 she could have given her friend a solution of the mystery. 
 
 " And the girl I have now I shall be compelled to dis- 
 charge. She is discontented, impudent, and overbearing." 
 
 " I am sorry for you." 
 
 " She is a capital girl in every other respect, and I am 
 sorry to part with her. She is a good cook, and what 
 you don't find in many girls understands pastry, cake, and 
 puddings." 
 
 " Too bad to lose her, isn't it ? " said Mrs. Bagley, with a 
 greater appearance of sympathy in her speech than found a 
 place in her heart. 
 
 " It is ; but one cannot put up with impudence, you know. 
 I would send off the best girl in the world before I would 
 submit to it." " ' 
 
 " Certainly ; impudence cannot be tolerated. Can't you 
 teach her better ? " 
 
 " No ; she won't hear to any thing. It was only the other 
 day, when I saw her washing the potatoes in the wash-hands 
 basin, that I merely called her a nasty, good-for-nothing 
 hussy ; and, don't you think, the impudent jade told me to 
 mind my own business, and not to be sticking my nose into 
 her affairs ! Did any one ever hear the like ? " 
 
 Mrs. Bagley only smiled. If she had lived in a less civ-
 
 24 GOOD FOB NOTHINGS. 
 
 ilized era, perhaps she would have been blunt enough to say 
 that the fault was partly with the mistress, and not wholly 
 with the servant. 
 
 " And then she is so ugly," continued Mrs. Veazie, " that 
 I dare not trust my children with her." . 
 
 " I leave the baby with Bridget for half a day sometimes, 
 and feel perfectly safe." 
 
 "My girl don't like children; I know she hates them. 
 "Why, only yesterday I told her she might leave the washing 
 for an hour or so, and take Charley out in the little wagon ; 
 and, don't you think, she had the impudence to tell me that, 
 if I wanted Charley taken out, I might take him out myself ! 
 I never was so provoked in my life." 
 
 Mrs. Bagley's good nature was all exhausted ; and, at the 
 risk of being deemed uncivil, she had the hardihood to say 
 she never took Bridget away from her washing unless in a 
 case of absolute necessity. 
 
 " Wasn't this a case of absolute necessity ? " asked Mrs. 
 Veazie, with a rather uncompromising look upon her sharp 
 features. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Bagley ! She was in for it, and must needs 
 defend the policy at which she had incautiously hinted. 
 
 " I should say not," replied she, not a little fearful that 
 she was about to " stir up strife." 
 
 " What would you do ? Charley ought to have the fresh 
 air every day." 
 
 " I should have taken him out myself; for it is very an- 
 noying to a girl to be called away from the wash tub. She 
 has to change her dress, which is a great deal of trouble, and 
 leave her clothes in the water or on the fire." 
 
 " Yes, girls are desperate 'fraid of a little trouble."
 
 GOOD FOE NOTHINGS. 25 
 
 " If they feel any pride about their work, they like to 
 nave it done up in good season, you know." 
 
 " And she insists upon being absent every fourth Sunday.** 
 
 " I let Bridget go every third Sunday." 
 
 "You do?" 
 
 " I think it very reasonable." 
 
 *' Who gets your dinner Sundays ? " 
 
 " What little we get I attend to myself. But we always 
 have baked beans Sunday, so that I don't have to stay at 
 home from meeting." 
 
 " And you wash the dishes yourself ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Veazie, in utter astonishment. 
 
 " Certainly. The fact is, these Irish girls are human be- 
 ings, after all, and need a little recreation as well as the rest 
 of us." 
 
 ** But they take advantage.' 
 
 " If you give them no advantages, they will take them. 
 I have found out that, the better you use good girls, tho 
 more faithfully they will serve you. I make it a point to treat 
 my girl well ; and, having secured her good will, I feel a 
 reasonable assurance that she will do the best she can 
 for me." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that I don't treat my girl well ? " 
 said Mrs. Veazie, her features coloring under the insinuation 
 she believed was aimed at her. 
 
 "Certainly not. My remark was intended to be very 
 general." 
 
 Mrs. Veazie went home ; and, though she was a little an- 
 gry with her neighbor, she " set to thinking " upon what she 
 had heard.
 
 26 GOOD FOE NOTHINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Mas. EAGLET'S girl, Bridget, had a beau, and, in the 
 course of events, was married. Her mistress, though ex- 
 ceedingly sorry to part with her, could of course make 'no 
 objections to her working out her woman's destiny. She 
 was a good-hearted person, and did all she could to see the 
 faithful girl, who had been almost a mother to her children, 
 comfortably situated in her new relation. 
 
 Her first attempt to procure another good girl proved to 
 be unsuccessful ; for the new servant was, beyond the hope 
 of remedy, slovenly and dirty. She was compelled to dis- 
 charge her. 
 
 About this time Mrs. Veazie's girl was discharged. The 
 lady, profiting by the lesson she had received of her neigh- 
 bor, had for a few months treated Margaret with kindness 
 and consideration. The change was appreciated by the girl. 
 She was ignorant and headstrong ; but neither so ignorant 
 nor headstrong as not to be able to understand the meaning 
 of kind words and considerate actions. 
 
 Mrs. Veazie was astonished at the change in the temper of 
 the girl ; and, for a time, she persevered in maintaining the 
 new order of things. But it is useless for any one to at- 
 tempt to be gentle and kind in their speech and action when 
 there is neither gentleness nor kindness in the heart. A 
 " change of heart," in the language of the Scriptures, is as 
 necessary to make an ill-tempered person amiable towards 
 others as it is in the working out of the more technical
 
 GOOD FOB NOTHINGS. 27 
 
 " profession " of religion. A " profession " of good nature 
 is the first step towards piety. 
 
 When Mrs. Veazie relapsed, Margaret relapsed, and there 
 was strife again. No sooner did the servant observe the un- 
 reasonableness of the mistress than she was in open rebellion 
 again, as saucy as ever. 
 
 " I am determined to send her off, Mrs. Bagley," said she, 
 as she was seated with her neighbor one afternoon. 
 
 "Send her off! Why, I thought she was doing nicely 
 now." 
 
 " So she was ; but this morning a couple of tons of coal 
 came, and, as I had no one to get it in, I told her she might 
 do it. I am sure I spoke very pleasantly to her," said Mrs. 
 Veazie, with an abundance of self-complacency. 
 
 Mrs. Bagley held up both hands in astonishment. 
 
 " What diS she say ? " 
 
 " She told me very coolly that she had rather not do it. 
 But I was angry then ; I thought it was about time to be 
 angry, too, when a girl answered me in that way ; so I told 
 her she was a lazy, good-for-nothing minx." 
 
 " Did you ? " 
 
 " Indeed I did." 
 
 " Well, what did she say then ? " 
 
 " ' The same to yourself, ma'am,' says she. She has not 
 been saucy before for a good while." 
 
 " Didn't it occur to you that your request was slightly 
 unreasonable? " 
 
 " I'm sure it didn't. Why, these girls are used to working 
 in the fields in Ireland, digging turf and pounding stones. I 
 don't see why they should be so stuck up when they come tc 
 America."
 
 28 GOOD FOR NOTHINGS. 
 
 "Well, I suppose, when they come to a country where 
 even the rights of the poor are respected, they think better 
 of themselves very naturally too, I think. But, Mrs. 
 Veazie, if you are going to discharge Margaret, I should 
 like to take her/' 
 
 " You ? " 
 
 *' If you have no objection." 
 
 " Of course not ; but she never will suit you, I know." 
 
 And Margaret went to live with Mrs. Bagley. She was 
 an able, capable, and industrious girl, and her mistress im- 
 mediately took a great liking to her. Margaret had her 
 faults, the most prominent of which was a quick temper, that 
 often prompted her to give a saucy or a spiteful answer be- 
 fore she was aware. 
 
 She had not been a week with Mrs. Bagley before, without 
 a reasonable provocation, she gave her mistress a short and 
 crusty answer. No notice was taken of it, though the point 
 was insisted upon and carried. A few days after, when she 
 got a little perplexed, she was saucy ; but Mrs. Bagley was 
 as firm as she was even in her temper, and calmly rebuked 
 the uncivil words. Margaret was abashed by the gentleness 
 and decision of the rebuke, and readily understood with 
 what manner of person she had to deal. She was conquered, 
 and made as good a girl as the most obdurate of servant 
 hunters could possibly desire. 
 
 In the course of the year Bridget's husband was killed on 
 the railroad, and the poor girl found herself again compelled 
 to go out to service. Mrs. Bagley was well suited with 
 Margaret, and did not feel at liberty to discharge her, es- 
 pecially as both parties were satisfied. 
 
 Mrs. Veazie had tried half a dozen girls since Margaret
 
 GOOD FOE NOTHINGS. 29 
 
 had left her, and, as usual, had been unable to retain them. 
 It was with a thrill of satisfaction she heard that Bridget, 
 " the prize of a girl," wanted a place again, and she lost not 
 a moment in making an engagement with her. 
 
 About a week after this important event, Mrs. Veazie came 
 in hot haste over to Mrs. Bagley's. 
 
 " Don't you think," exclaimed she, out of breath, " that 
 Bridget has given me notice of her intention to leave." 
 
 " To leave ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I don't believe she meant to stay when she came." 
 
 " I think she did. Bridget wouldn't do a mean action, if 
 she is an Irish girl." 
 
 " I don't know about that." 
 
 " But how did it happen ? " 
 
 " Why, she was as saucy as ever Margaret was in the 
 world." 
 
 " Bridget ? Impossible ! " 
 
 " I asked her as politely as though she had been a lady if 
 she wouldn't be so kind as to black Mr. Veazie's boots." 
 
 " And she refused ? " 
 
 " No ; she did it. She said she would do it this time 
 but she had rather not have it as part of her work." 
 
 " You couldn't blame her, could you ? " 
 
 " Of course I could ; and I told her she was a lazy, good- 
 for-nothing vixen, and that she'd have to do it every day, if 
 she staid with me. Why, Irish girls at home have to black 
 their masters' boots." 
 
 " But it is not the custom here." 
 
 " It ought to be ; and I told her, up and down, that she 
 was not what she used to be when she lived with you. Upon 
 that she told me she would leave. Did you ever see such 
 3*
 
 30 GOOD FOE NOTHINGS. 
 
 luck as I have ? '' and Mrs. Veazie puffed with excitement. 
 She really believed she was the most unfortunate woman in 
 the world. 
 
 " To be plain with you, Mrs. Veazie, I don't think Bridget 
 was in the least to blame." 
 
 " Not to blame ? " 
 
 " No. When you set your girls to getting in coal and 
 cleaning boots, you must expect them to be rebellious, es- 
 pecially when you follow it up with such hard words." 
 
 Mrs. Veazie went out, and slammed the door after her. 
 She has never crossed the threshold of her friend's door 
 since ; but it was a small loss. 
 
 The moral of our sketch is- sufficiently apparent. When 
 we hear ladies complaining that they can't keep a servant, 
 we are a little disposed to doubt whether the fault is not in 
 part upon their side.
 
 THE TWO DAGUERREOTYPES. 
 
 A TEMPERANCE TALE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 JIM SCEOGGINS, though in the main an honest, peaceaVle, 
 quiet, harmless, fellow, had a beastly habit of getting drunk 
 whenever a fit opportunity presented itself; and, unfortu- 
 nately, because " where there is a will there is a way," the 
 opportunities were both fit and frequent. 
 
 Jim owned a little farm in the country, which, by his own 
 industry and economy, he had almost paid for. Mrs. Scrog- 
 gins was a " real worker," and, no doubt, did her full part 
 in buying the homestead. She was endowed with a great 
 deal of energy and good judgment, and people were so ma- 
 licious as to say that she was the smartest man of the twain. 
 Be this as it may, Mrs Scroggins was an industrious woman, 
 nd took a great deal of pride in the little place, which had 
 Been bought by their united industry and economy, and tho 
 thought of having it wrested from them by a cold-hearted 
 creditor was in the highest degree disagreeable ; but to such 
 a calamity her husband's infirmity, as the good minister of 
 the village called it, seemed to point. 
 
 The habit grew upon him, as it almost always does upon 
 those who once get into the way of imbibing too freely. 
 
 (3D
 
 32 THE TWO DAGUERREOTYPES. 
 
 The miseries of the drunkard's wife had been too often pre- 
 sented to the good woman's understanding to be regarded 
 as simply creations of the imagination, and she looked for- 
 ward with alarm to the prospect of enduring them and losing 
 the little place. 
 
 But what could be done ? She had exhausted all her elo- 
 quence upon the infatuated man, without producing any 
 thing more than a temporary effect. She pointed out to 
 him, kindly, the inevitable consequences of his indulgence, 
 and Jim promised to amend ; but alas, for the vanity of 
 human expectations ! he got tipsy the very next day. 
 
 Then she appealed to his love of money to his sense of 
 satisfaction in being the owner of a cottage and ten acres of 
 land. She assured him that he would certainly lose it all, 
 and warming up with the importance of the subject, declared 
 that she would not slave herself any longer to buy the place, 
 and then have it taken from them to pay a rum bill. 
 
 Jim listened patiently and without speaking a word to the 
 indignant dame's eloquence, and, as usual, promised to do 
 better ; but, also, as usual, he came into the house the next 
 day tight as a fiddlestring. 
 
 Mrs. Scroggins was in despair ; " what to do she didn't 
 know," as she expressed it to Parson Allwise, who was a 
 sincere sympathizer with her in her distress. She had en- 
 treated, she had scolded, she had threatened, and all to no 
 purpose. " What could a body do ? " 
 
 Parson Allwise himself, though he made it a point never 
 to interfere in the domestic affairs of his parishioners, was 
 at last moved to try his powers of persuasion on the poor 
 fellow. But Jim, unfortunately for the success of the ap-. 
 peal, had but a poor opinion of ministers in general, and of
 
 THE TWO DAGUERREOTYPES. 33 
 
 Parson Allwise in particular, and as good as told the "worthy 
 pastor that he had better mind his own business. 
 
 Mrs. Scroggins was shocked at the boldness of her spouse 
 in answering a minister of the gospel in such a pointed man- 
 ner, and was led to believe that the case was now hopeless, 
 indeed. 
 
 But woman's wits are equal to almost any emergency; 
 and, though she had professedly given Jim over to the ten- 
 der mercies of the devil, she could not help thinking it would 
 be a good thing if he could only, be saved from himself. 
 
 One day circumstances seemed to conspire in favor of an 
 experiment, which had suggested itself to her fertile brain, 
 and she immediately carried it into effect with the most hap- 
 py success, as the sequel will show. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 JIM had been cleaning out the pig pen, and as the opera- 
 tion was a rather disagreeable one, he had fortified his olfac- 
 tories by drinking an inordinate quantity of vile New Eng- 
 land rum. 
 
 The filthy stuff happily did not take effect on his brains 
 till the job was done. The pig pen was cleaned out, but Jim 
 was in a condition which better fitted him to occupy it, than 
 the neat, white-floored kitchen of his cottage. But Jim did 
 not realize this unpleasant truth, and leaving his shovel and 
 hoe in the sty, staggered into the house. 
 
 " He was a sight to behold," as Mrs. Scroggins told the 
 minister. The job he had just completed was eminently a 
 nasty one, and Jim, as we have before remarked, being a
 
 34 * THE TWO DAGTJERKEOTYPES. 
 
 prudent man, had prepared himself to perform it, without 
 any detriment to tKe neat garments he ordinarily wore. 
 
 He was dressed in a suit of ragged clothes, and on his 
 head rested a " shocking bad hat," with the crown stove in, 
 and the hrim half torn off. As the liquor began to fuddle 
 him, he had moved it over from its perpendicular position, 
 so that it rested jantily on one side of his head. 
 
 Jim settled himself heavily in a chair by the cooking stove, 
 looked silly, and seemed disposed to address himself to slum- 
 ber, his usual resort when inebriated. 
 
 Mrs. Scroggins was mad at first ; for it was only the day 
 before that Jim, for the hundred and first time, had promised 
 never to drink another drop, not even in case of sickness. 
 
 But what was the use of being mad with such a poor, 
 silly, imbecile being as he was at that moment ? He was not 
 in a condition to appreciate a regular matrimonial "blow 
 up," and she wisely resolved to reserve the vials of her wrath 
 to be poured out at a more convenient season. 
 
 She looked at him, and thought of losing the little place, 
 of penury, degradation, misery, and the poorhouse. A lucky 
 thought rose, like the phoenix from the flames, out of the 
 contemplation of the dark picture ; and after a few minutes 
 deliberation, she put on her bonnet and cloak, and hurried 
 over to the village, not half a mile distant. 
 
 During the previous week, a young daguerreotypist, with 
 a portable saloon a kind of overgrown omnibus had 
 been delighting the villagers by "giving them the semblance 
 of their faces at prices varying from nine shillings to three 
 dollars a head, depending upon the value of the case. 
 
 All the people in town had been daguerreotyped, and the 
 omnibus man was the most popular person in the village.
 
 THE TWO DAGUEKBEOTYPES. 35 
 
 All the dames and maidens were taken, and every Jonathan 
 and Jehiel who could boast of a Susan, a Ruth, or a Sally, 
 was taken, with her by his side in the picture, his arm 
 thrown lovingly round her neck, and both looking unutter- 
 ably affectionate. j . 
 
 But Mrs. Scroggins was not sentimental ; she had gotten 
 over all that long before Jim took to drinking. She pro- 
 posed to put the skill of the daguerreotypist to a more prac- 
 tical use than that of propitiating a lover. 
 
 She entered the saloon, and though her heart did beat 
 a little at the degradation of exposing her domestic matters 
 to an entire stranger, she demeaned herself with all the firm- 
 ness necessary for the trying occasion. 
 
 Fortunately for her, all the people in town " had been 
 taken," and it was a dry time with the artist. In as few 
 words as possible, she stated the case to him, and the young 
 man readily promised his cooperation. 
 
 Taking his apparatus under his arm, he accompanied Mrs. 
 Scroggins to the cottage* where Jim was sleeping off the 
 effects of the villanous " New England." 
 
 The inebriate sat in precisely the same position in which 
 his wife had left him. He was asleep in a high back chair, 
 which kept his head up so that every thing was favorable for 
 the sitting. 
 
 In a trice Jim Scroggins, old hat, ragged clothes, long 
 beard, dozy, drunken expression and all, were transferred to 
 the plate. 
 
 But the picture did not suit the artist ; he thought one 
 taken when the sitter was awake would be a more correct 
 representation. Mrs. Scroggins thought so too, and after 
 the daguerreotypist had put in a new plate, she waked 
 him up.
 
 36 
 
 " What d'ye want ? " growbd Jim. 
 
 " Wake up ! " and the lady gave him a smart pi^.h, 
 which opened his eyes, thus completing the expression of 
 the drunkard. 
 
 The artist was prompt, and in an instant the second edi- 
 tion of Jim Scroggins was on the plate. 
 
 The original, not heing required for further use, was suf- 
 fered to sink away and complete his nap. 
 
 The pictures were put in a frame, and Mrs. Scroggins 
 produced her money. 
 
 " Nothing, ma'am ; I shall not charge you any thing." 
 " But, sir, I am able to pay." 
 
 The artist shook his head, and resolutely refused to touch 
 her money. 
 
 Of course Mrs. Scroggins was grateful, and gave the young 
 artist an invitation to take tea with her, which he accepted. 
 In the course of the meal the table being laid in the little 
 front room the daguerreotypist told the story of his own 
 life ; how he had been brought up in the midst of intem- 
 perance, and knew all about it. His father had died a 
 drunkard, leaving his mother penniless, and he supported 
 her by the profits of his portable saloon. Mrs. Scroggins, 
 of course, sympathized with the young man, and readily un- 
 derstood why he would not take pay for the pictures. 
 
 But what was better than all, the young artist took quite 
 a fancy to Jim's only daughter, a pretty little girl of eigh- 
 teen, and after tea insisted upon taking her daguerreotype. 
 And the sly rogue pretended that the first was not a good 
 one, and took another, which he carried away with him, 
 professedly for a show specimen, though, to my certain 
 knowledge, he never exhibited it.
 
 THE TWO DAGUERREOTYPES. 37 
 
 The tea things were cleared away, and still the young gen- 
 tleman lingered, and talked a great deal with the pretty 
 little Susan. But when he did go, the poor girl's heart fol- 
 lowed him, and half the night she lay awake to think of 
 him. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 JIM SCROGGINS recovered from his debauch ; but the first 
 thing he saw when he came into the kitchen, in the morning, 
 was the case containing the two daguerreotypes, which lay 
 open on the table. 
 
 He picked it up, and started back in confusion, when he 
 recognized his own distorted features in one of the pictures. 
 
 He examined the other. It was the counterpart of the 
 first, with the eyes open, and looking ten times more hideous 
 than the sleeping picture. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " exclaimed he ; " did I ever look so 
 infarnal homely as that ? " and he proceeded to scrutinize the 
 pictures a second time. 
 
 " Hang me ! if I thought I ever looked so cussed mean as 
 that, I'd go down and jump into the river. 
 
 '" I've seen men though, that looked just like that 'ere," 
 continued he ; " but thorn was drunkards. Now, I an't a 
 drunkard, though I sometimes git a little sizzled. I never 
 lit my pipe at the pump, though. Howsomever, them was 
 took for me, though when or where I've no kind o' notion. 
 There's the old hat, and that's the old coat no mistake." 
 
 The footsteps of his wife caused him to drop the pictures, 
 and he hastened out of the house to avoid the tempest which 
 he thought his wickedness would call down upon his head. 
 4
 
 38 THE TWO DAGTJERKEOTYPES. 
 
 It is a notable fact that lie omitted his morning dram on 
 this occttSion, and his wife took courage. Like a prudent 
 woman, as she was, she did not say a word about the occur- 
 rences of yesterday, and permitted him to eat his breakfast 
 in peace. 
 
 He got through that day without drinking a drop ; but on 
 the following day the old appetite clamored for the usual 
 dram, and in the afternoon, while his wife was in the sitting 
 room, he went to the closet where he kept the bottle. 
 
 But the first thing that met his gaze was the two daguer- 
 reotypes resting against the black bottle. There was Jim 
 Scroggins drunk asleep, and Jim Scroggins drunk awake. 
 
 " Them cussed dogerytypes ! " muttered he, starting back 
 in confusion at the miserable-looking object they so faithfully 
 shadowed to him. 
 
 Jim stopped to think. He fully resolved never again to 
 be the loathsome being they represented him to be. Taking 
 the black bottle, he went to the door with it, and with right 
 good will hurled it on the door stone, where it was smashed 
 into a thousand fragments, and the delectable stuff irretriev- 
 ably lost. 
 
 " Halloo ! what are you about ? " said a young man, en- 
 tering the yard. 
 
 " Smashing my rum bottle," replied Jim with admirable 
 coolness. 
 
 " Bravo ! I commend your resolution," replied the young 
 man. 
 
 ** You are the dogerytype man, an't you ? " said Jim. 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " Walk in, if you please ; " and Jim ushered Mr. Shadow 
 jito the sitting room, where Lia wife and daughter were,,
 
 , THE TWO DAGT7EBEEOTYPES. 39 
 
 " Wife," said he, " you had them picters taken ? " 
 
 " I did, James." 
 
 " I've broke the bottle ; and as to looking like them cre- 
 turs, I never will again." 
 
 " Thank God, James ; I hope you never will." 
 
 " Here is the pledge," said Mr. Shadow, who was a tem- 
 perance man in theory as well as practice. 
 
 " I'll sign it, by mighty ! " and Jim did sign it. 
 
 " Now, wife, will you rub them things out ? " 
 
 " Certainly, James ; " and Mrs. Scroggins went for the 
 pictures. 
 
 " And now, Mr. Scroggins, if you will walk over to my 
 saloon, I shall be happy to take the real man as God made 
 him." 
 
 " I'll do it ; and, Betsey, you shall come, too ; and Susey." 
 
 Susey went with her father and mother, though her pic- 
 ture had been taken. On the way Mr. Shadow walked by 
 her side, and said a great many silly things, with which I 
 will not trouble the reader. 
 
 The daguerreotypes were taken, and Jim was surprised at 
 the difference between the picture of a drunken man and 
 that of a sober man. 
 
 He drank no more liquor ; and though this incident hap- 
 pened three years ago, he is still a sober and reputable man 
 in the village. The little place is all paid for, and Mrs. 
 Scroggins is superlatively happy. 
 
 Susan, in less than a year, became the wife of Mr. Shadow, 
 who, notwithstanding his name, is a man of substance, and 
 loves his wife all the more because he was instrumental in 
 saving her from the degradation of being a drunkard's 
 daughter.
 
 SIX HUNDRED A YEAR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " WELL, Dixon, what is it ? " asked Mr. Phogie of his 
 assistant bookkeeper, who had been patiently waiting for 
 half an hour in the private counting room of the merchant 
 for an opportunity to speak with his employer. 
 
 " My second year in your service will begin to-morrow, 
 sir ; and I have taken the liberty to request your attention 
 to a matter which, though of little consequence to you, per- 
 haps, is of considerable moment to me." 
 
 The young man paused as if to note the effect of his 
 words upon his employer. 
 
 " Indeed ! " ejaculated the merchant, not half liking the 
 cool and dignified way the young gentleman had of intro- 
 ducing himself. 
 
 To his mind there was a lack of that cringing, subservient 
 tone and manner which his old-fashioned notions had taught 
 him to believe was a dangerous deficiency in a clerk. 
 
 " I refer to my salary, sir." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 There was a gathering frown upon the brow of the merchant. 
 
 " I have endeavored to serve you faithfully," continued 
 the clerk, rather discouraged by the coldness with which he 
 was received. 
 
 (40)
 
 SIX HTJNDBED A TEAK. 41 
 
 There was an awkward pause. Mr. Phogie's philosophy 
 did not permit him to speak ; and the young man was too 
 much embarrassed to proceed with his application. 
 
 " My salary for the past year has been five hundred dol- 
 lars," stammered Dixon, when he found his employer was 
 bent on holding his peace. 
 
 " Well ? " said Mr. Phogie, who still provokingly refused 
 to take a hint. 
 
 "The object of my present visit is respectfully to request 
 you to raise it to six hundred," continued Dixon, more 
 boldly, as he began to appreciate the humor of his em- 
 ployer. 
 
 Mr. Phogie stared, aghast with astonishment and horror, 
 at the supplicant. Cruikshank or Johnston would have ac- 
 counted the scene quite equal to that in the workhouse, where 
 Oliver Twist, in a less important matter, had the unheard-of 
 presumption and impudence to " ask for more." 
 
 Dixon lost all hope. 
 
 " I trust, sir, I am not unreasonable," said he, excusing 
 his boldness. 
 
 " Forty years ago, Dixon, when I was of your age," began 
 Mr. Phogie, with solemn deliberateness, " I should have 
 been glad to have received one half of your present salary." 
 
 The merchant looked complacently at the clerk, to note the 
 effect of this astounding declaration. 
 
 Dixon ventured to suggest that the times had changed. 
 
 Mr. Phogie admitted it, but was quite sure the change 
 had been for the worse. 
 
 " That is a matter of opinion, sir." 
 
 " Humph ! " 
 
 *' It costs much more to live now than it did then." 
 4*
 
 42 SIX HUNDEEU A TEAK. 
 
 " Young men didn't drive fast horses then, nor go to the 
 opera, nor board at fashionable hotels," sneered Mr. Phogie. 
 
 " I am guilty of none of these follies, sir," replied Dixon, 
 a little indignant at the coarseness of the implication. 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but five hundred dollars a year is a good 
 salary for a prudent, careful young man." 
 
 " For one who can do no better it is very well." 
 
 " Clerks are vain nowadays, and over-estimate them- 
 selves," said Mr. Phogie, rebuking the complacence of his 
 servant. 
 
 " I do not ask an increase of salary, sir, because I cannot 
 live on five hundred dollars, but because I wish to advance 
 myself, and, if you will pardon my vanity, because I think 
 my services are worth more." 
 
 " Very well, sir ; when young men get above their busi- 
 ness, there is no knowing where they will stop. I cannot 
 accede to your demand ; " and Mr. Phogie, to show his indif- 
 ference, busied himself in arranging some papers on the desk 
 before him. 
 
 " Then, sir, I shall be obliged to give you notice of my 
 intention to leave your service," returned Dixon, evidently 
 relieved by the fact that the interview was concluded, even 
 in this unsatisfactory manner. 
 
 Mr. Phogie paused in his occupation, and looked with 
 surprise upon the clerk. It was doubtful whether Dixon 
 meant so. 
 
 ** Got another situation ? " asked he. 
 
 1 No, sir." 
 
 " Nothing in view ? " 
 
 " Nothing, sir. Of course I could not make an arrange- 
 ment till I had consulted you."
 
 SIX HUNDRED A YEAB. 43 
 
 Mr. Phogie was not pleased with the result of the inter- 
 view. Dixon was an honest, faithful, and devoted clerk, and 
 the idea of parting with him was not agreeable. But to 
 retract what he had hastily said would be an indication of 
 weakness ; besides, he knew that any quantity of clerks 
 could be obtained for four, or even three hundred dollars a 
 year ; and he reasoned with himself that he should be a fool 
 to pay Dixon six when he could get one for three. 
 
 Accordingly Dixon gave formal notice of intention to 
 " quit ; " but, having already earned a reputation for integ- 
 rity and fidelity, he could easily obtain a situation at the 
 salary he had demanded of Mr. Phogie. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 / -* 
 
 " GOOD morning, Mr. Phogie," said Mr. Wyman, a lib- 
 eral-minded merchant, as he entered the counting room of 
 the former. 
 
 " Good morning, sir. Any thing new stirring ? " 
 
 " No ; I called to see you about a young man who haa 
 been in your employ ; I mean Dixon." 
 
 Phogie was all attention. 
 
 " I want a bookkeeper, and he has applied for the situa- 
 tion. How is he ? " . 
 
 Phogie did not very well like to say he was a competent 
 ma'n, honest, faithful, and zealous ; he did not dare say he 
 was any thing else so he was compelled to compromise the 
 matter for the moment by saying nothing. 
 
 " I was very much surprised to hear from him that he had 
 Isft your service. Any thing unpleasant? "
 
 44 SIX HTmDBED A TEAK. 
 
 ' NO." 
 
 "Blot the books?" 
 
 No." 
 
 " Inaccurate ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Off too much ? " 
 
 " No ; nothing of the kind." 
 
 " But he was always considered one of the most promising 
 young men on the street." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Wyman was perplexed by the taciturnity of the other. 
 
 " I don't ask from idle curiosity ; I want a bookkeeptr." 
 
 Phogie was dumb. 
 
 " Has the young man any fault ? " and there were visible 
 evidences of impatience in the tones and manner of the 
 matter-of-fact merchant. 
 
 " Not that I know of." 
 
 " O, you didn't want him ? " 
 
 " No that is yes but " 
 
 " Exactly so ! " exclaimed Wyman, laughing. 
 
 Phogie laughed too ; he could not help laughing when he 
 saw what a figure he was making ; besides, a laugh is seme- 
 times a great relief to a man in a quandary. 
 
 " If you must know, Wyman, I'll tell you. I gave him 
 five hundred for the last year ; he wants six for the next. I 
 won't give it." 
 
 " No ? " 
 
 " Yes ; that is the whole story." 
 
 " Wait a minute till I have secured him, and then I will 
 talk with you ; " and Wyman moved towards the door. 
 
 " Give him six hundred ? " asked Phogie, not a little
 
 SIX HT7NDBED A TEAS. 45 
 
 astonished to find his neighbor so eager to complete the 
 engagement. 
 
 " Yes ; seven if he demands it." 
 
 " I can send you half a dozen in an hour who will engage 
 for three." 
 
 " Will you give bonds for their integrity and fidelity ? " 
 asked Wyman, with a sneer. 
 
 "Pooh!" 
 
 " Pooh ? The fact is, I have suffered enough from cheap 
 clerks. Assure me that a young man is honest and true to my 
 interest, and I never will let him leave me on account of any 
 reasonable difference about salary. All that Solomon said 
 about a virtuous woman I believe in with regard to an hon- 
 est and faithful clerk." 
 
 " I can't afford to pay these big salaries ; and a young 
 man gets above his business when you pay him too much." 
 
 " Nonsense ! He will respect himself, which every man 
 must do in order to keep himself honest." 
 
 " You are a transcendentalist." 
 
 " I'm common sense. You say you cannot afford to pay 
 high salaries. Can you afford to have a semiannual deficit 
 in your cash account of three hundred dollars, botched up 
 with false entries, lying balances, and the like ? " 
 
 Mr. Phogie had never been troubled in this way, and 
 there was no probability that he ever should be ; he looked 
 out for his business himself, and he should like to see the 
 clerk that could " bamboozle " him. 
 
 Mr. Wyman thought otherwise, and took his leave, won- 
 dering at the stupidity of his friend. It occurred to him, as 
 he left the counting room, that it was not so very strange,
 
 46 SIX JITJNDBED A YEAH. 
 
 after all, that clerks on three hundred a year can drive 2 : 40 
 horses and go to the opera three nights in a week ; not very 
 strange, either, that petty defalcations were discovered occa- 
 sionally, and that young men on small salaries got ahead 
 amazingly fast. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 .:..*.: '--^llk 
 
 WTMAK engaged Dixon, and Phogie procured the services 
 of an ill-looking fellow for three hundred dollars. The next 
 time he saw Wyman, he indulged in a little innocent raillery 
 over the fact that he paid his new clerk but just half the 
 salary Dixon received ; and Phogie thought he was even a 
 better bookkeeper than Dixon, wrote a plainer hand, and 
 could run up a column of figures rather quicker. As to the 
 new clerk's honesty, he had a bundle of testimonials as big 
 as the invoice book ; and his maternal uncle was president 
 of the Soap and Candle Makers' Bank. Of course he was 
 honest ! 
 
 Things went on swimmingly for six months. The new 
 assistant was a jewel ; and when Mr. Quilldriver, the head 
 bookkeeper, was taken down with rheumatism, which proved 
 to be chronic, Mr. Phogie had so much confidence in this 
 notable nephew of a notable uncle that he gave him the 
 entire charge of the books, and, in the liberality of his big 
 heart, advanced his salary voluntarily to four hundred dollars 
 a year. 
 
 On the first of January, however, when Mr. Phogie called 
 for the balance sheet, it was not ready. The trial balance
 
 SIX HUNDEED A TEAK. 47 
 
 didn't come out right, and the profit and loss account looked 
 " thundering strange," as Mr. Phogie classically expressed it. 
 Three days were hopelessly used up in " taking stock ; " but 
 the thing couldn't be figured out. 
 
 Mr. Phogie began to be alarmed. The general a noted 
 expert in unsnarling complicated and difficult accounts 
 was called in to examine into affairs ; but no sooner did the 
 smart nephew of the president of the Soap and Candle 
 Makers' Bank see' the well-known gray locks of the expert 
 bent over the obstinate folios than he stepped out to lunch, 
 and, by some singular oversight, forgot to return. 
 
 The upshot of the whole matter was, that the general dis- 
 covered an " absquatulation " of some fifteen hundred dol- 
 lars just enough to keep the dapper little bookkeeper in 
 opera tickets and 2 : 40's during the past season. 
 
 Of course the thing went up and down the street ; and 
 the little ragged news boys in State Street bellowed it at the 
 top of their lungs into the ears of the passer by. 
 
 " Why, Phogie, how's this ? " said Mr. Wyman, meeting 
 the supporter of the cheap clerk system. 
 
 Mr. Phogie used a very hard word, which only the minis- 
 ters are permitted to use in stirring sermons. 
 
 " Pay 'em well, Phogie, and they won't steal ; and when 
 you get a faithful servant, don't part with him." 
 
 Phogie scowled and edged off. 
 
 " By^the way, Dixon has brought every thing out as square 
 as a brick. Trial balance, balance sheet, every thing foots 
 up without the variation of a penny," continued Wyman, 
 maliciously, as Phogie increased his speed. 
 
 Poor penny-wise, pound-foolish merchant ! He learned 
 better after that.
 
 48 SIX HUNDRED A TEAK. 
 
 For the satisfaction of the reader, I may as well add, thai 
 Dixon got a thousand for his next year's service, and that 
 he is now engaged to his employer's pretty daughter, with 
 the* prospect of immediately becoming a partner in the 
 concern.
 
 THE NEW MINISTER; 
 
 OB, , 
 
 "CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " IT is abominable hypocrisy for you to talk so, Susan ; 
 you don't care any more about the missionaries than you do 
 about the fifth wheel of a coach," exclaimed Louise Percy, 
 the village schoolmistress, to her friend, Susan Maylie, at 
 whose father's house she boarded. 
 
 " Why, Louise, how rude you are ! You wouldn't like it 
 if I should talk so about you," replied Susan, an angry flush, 
 gathering upon her cheek. 
 
 " Perhaps I shouldn't ; but if it were true, I don't know 
 that I could blame you for it." 
 
 " It is not true, Louise." 
 
 " Why, it is only two months since you refused to put 
 any thing into the contribution box for the missions. You 
 said you thought the missionaries were a set of lazy vaga- 
 bonds, who had a good deal rather preach than work for a 
 living. Now, since the new minister has come, all of a sud- 
 den you are a strenuous friend of missions and missionaries." 
 
 " Can't a body change her opinions, when they are found 
 to be wrong ? " replied Susan, petulantly. 
 
 " Certainly you can ; but is your opinion really changed ? *' 
 5 f>
 
 50 THE NEW MINISTEB. 
 
 " How strange you talk, Louise ! " 
 
 " May be I do ; truth is stranger than fiction." 
 
 " You must confess that our new minister's eloquence has 
 been quite enough to convince any reasonable person that 
 the propagation of the gospel among the heathen is a holy 
 and beautiful work." 
 
 " Undoubtedly, it is a good work ; and if you really feel 
 called upon to labor so earnestly in the cause, I am sure I 
 should be the last one to reprove you for it." 
 
 " You don't believe I am sincere, then ? " 
 
 " I think you are very fond of the new minister. If an 
 old man, with a Avife and half a dozen children, had preached 
 those missionary sermons, I hardly believe you would have 
 felt so much interest in the work." 
 
 "Why, Louise, you astonish me-! I really believe you 
 hate the missionaries." 
 
 " On the contrary, I have the highest respect for them. I 
 have always contributed my mite to sustain them. I think 
 I was quite as strongly attached to the cause before this 
 young and handsome Mr. Rogers made his appearance among 
 us as I am now ; " and Louise laughed merrily. 
 
 "He is handsome, isn't he?" said Susan, catching the 
 playful spirit of her companion and confidant. 
 
 "I grant that with the greatest pleasure ; but if you ex- 
 pect to catch him, you had better moderate your missionary 
 ardor, and act yourself." 
 
 " Nay, Louise, I really feel an interest in the cause ; " and 
 Susan looked as sober as though she had been a mission- 
 ary herself, just on the point of starting for the interior of 
 Africa. 
 
 Louise laughed merrily again, as she looked duu'u^olty 
 into the face of her friend.
 
 THE NEW MIXISTEK. 51 
 
 A knock at the door started them from the revery into 
 which both had fallen. 
 
 " Mr. Rogers, as I live ! " exclaimed Louise, catching a 
 glance at the new minister as he stood on the door stone. 
 
 " Pray, don't be rude, Louise," said Susan, as she ad- 
 justed her dress before the glass. 
 
 "Be rude ! of course not ; but I shall say just what I 
 think." 
 
 " Don't, Louise. Be a friend of missions, for my sake." 
 
 Susan opened the door, and Mr. Rogers entered the house. 
 
 " I have called, Miss Maylie, to propose a plan for a tea 
 party in aid of the missions," said he, after the common 
 place introductories had been disposed of. " I look to you, 
 who have been first and foremost in this good cause, for 
 sympathy and cooperation." 
 
 " I shall be very glad, indeed, to do all I can to forward 
 the good work," said Susan, demurely, " and so will Miss 
 Percy." 
 
 " You must excuse me ; my time is so much occupied that 
 I do not think I shall be able to render any essential aid," 
 interposed Louise, scarcely able to restrain a laugh at the 
 prompt tender Susan had made pf her services. 
 
 " Perhaps you are not interested in the missions," sug- 
 gested Mr. Rogers. 
 
 " To some extent, I am, sir." 
 
 " I trust, then, we shall be able to enlist your sympathies. 
 Certainly the heathen, perishing in their sins, demand a 
 noble effort on the part of the Christian world." 
 
 " I do not question the lofty character of the missionary 
 enterprise, but I do think charity ought to begin at home." 
 
 " Why, Louise, how strange you talk ! " exclaimed Susan.
 
 52 THE NEW MINISTEK. 
 
 " True, Miss Percy, but it ought not to end there. I see 
 you favor the home missions." 
 
 " I do. I favor a mission nearer home than any society 
 has been formed to advance, in our village at least the 
 mission to the poor and destitute." 
 
 " The gospel is preached for all," said the minister. 
 
 " For all, but not to all. There is poor Mrs. "Weston, 
 who cannot afford to buy clothes to send her children to 
 meeting." 
 
 " Indeed ! " ejaculated the minister. 
 
 " Her husband is a poor, miserable drunkard," added Su- 
 san. " You don't think her a worthier object of charity than 
 the poor, suffering, dying heathen, who are perishing in their 
 ignorance and sin ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I do ! " returned Louise. 
 
 " Her case ought to be attended to immediately," said 
 Mr. Rogers. 
 
 " She ought to go to the poorhouse ; the overseers offered 
 to take her," continued Susan. 
 
 " The poorhouse ! Mrs. Weston has seen better days, 
 and, I doubt not, would rather die than be subjected to such 
 a bitter humiliation." , 
 
 " Her own fault, then ; if she won't let the town help her, 
 what more can be done ? " 
 
 " She went to Deacon Hapgood, who owns the hovel in 
 which she lives, to get him to take off ten dollars a year from 
 her rent. But the deacon didn't see how he could afford it, 
 and the poor woman left him, to continue alone her struggle 
 with the demon of poverty as best she might. Yet the dea- 
 con can afford to give a hundred dollars a year to the mis- 
 sions, and says he never feels the sacrifice."
 
 THE HEW MINISTER. 53 
 
 " I will see Deacon Hapgood," said the minister, mus- 
 
 " I hope you will teach him that ' charity begins at 
 home.' " 
 
 " The hungry can be fed, the naked clothed, the houseless 
 sheltered, and still there will be means left to carry on the 
 missions. We are commanded to * preach the gospel to all 
 nations.' " 
 
 " And reminded that the poor are always with us. There 
 is Farmer Jones ; he can't afford to buy a spelling book for 
 his daughter, but he gives large sums of money to the mis- 
 sionary society." 
 
 Mr. Rogers, who was an earnest seeker after truth, and 
 who noblj endeavored to do his duty, began to feel that 
 there was a great deal of practical wisdom in the remarks of 
 the schoolmistress. 
 
 After a little more conversation, in relation to the pro- 
 posed tea party, he took his leave. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LOUISE PEKCT, without being very beautiful or very be- 
 witching, was a very sensible, earnest, straightforward girl. 
 With a warm heart and a generous disposition, she was free, 
 open, and sincere in her intercourse with the world. 
 
 Just the opposite was her friend and confidant, Susan 
 Maylie, though, as the world goes, she passed for a good- 
 hearted person. She lacked that transparency of motive 
 which was so eminently the characteristic of Louise's tem- 
 perament. Where no strong prejudice actuated her, she 
 5*
 
 54 THE NEW MINISTER. 
 
 was generally prompt in her choice of the good from the 
 evil, though sometimes the most intimate friend was invol- 
 untarily led to suspect her motive. 
 
 Six months before we introduce them to the reader, the 
 village in which they resided was thrown into commotion by 
 the arrival of the new minister, who had been called to offi- 
 ciate in the parish church. 
 
 He was young, handsome, and, more than all, unmarried. 
 Straightway, one half of the eligible maidens in town be- 
 came interested in "serious things." The prayer meetings 
 and the conference meetings were all at once found to be 
 seasons of special interest. All the charitable societies con- 
 nected with the church suddenly became prosperous. The 
 missionary society, which was composed of ladies, who met 
 once a month at the sewing circle, received a new impetus 
 from the arrival of Mr. Rogers. 
 
 The young clergyman made it a point to attend these 
 meetings, for he was particularly interested in the enterprise 
 of sending the gospel to the heathen. He had preached sev- 
 eral sermons on his favorite topic, and his exertions were re- 
 warded by the creation of a strong and unusual feeling on 
 the subject. 
 
 Susan, all at once, found her mind intently engaged in the 
 engrossing subject. It is true she had learned from her 
 father to ridicule and despise the missions ; but then her 
 heart was hard, and the ministrations of the handsome 
 young clergyman had turned her mind from the vanities and 
 vexations of life, to the lofty and substantial realities of 
 " serious things." 
 
 Louise could not help noticing the sudden and remarkable 
 change ; but then Susan so constantly spoke of the minis-
 
 THE NE\V MINISTER. 55 
 
 ter's handsome face ; so often sneered at the thought of sun- 
 dry village belles, whom she was malicious enough to accuse 
 of attempting to " catch " him, that she readily fathomed 
 the occasion of the singular transformation. 
 
 Louise got out of patience with her friend's duplicity, but 
 suspecting that it might be involuntary, or the consequence 
 of a want of consideration, she had plainly pointed out the 
 inconsistency. Susan could hardly deny the fact, and feeling 
 that Louise was a true friend, one who would not proclaim 
 her infirmity to the world, she suffered the charge to pass 
 unrefuted. 
 
 " I am going to set up an opposition to the missionary 
 society," said Louise, after Mr. Rogers had gone. 
 
 " Pray, what mad scheme have you got in your brain 
 now ? " asked Susan. 
 
 " I am going to do something for the relief of Mrs. Wes- 
 ton." 
 
 " How foolish you are ! " 
 
 "Ami?" 
 
 " You are, very foolish. It is the town's business to look 
 out for paupers." 
 
 " It is my business, too, and yours, Susan." 
 
 " I am sure / shall not meddle with it." 
 
 " We have each of us reserved five dollars for charitable 
 purposes, you know." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " I shall give mine to Mrs. Weston." 
 
 " And I shall give mine to the missions. I thought you 
 were going to do the same." 
 
 " I have altered my mind. I cannot send my money across 
 the ocean, when there is an abundance of heathen growing
 
 56 THE NEW MINISTEK. 
 
 up in ignorance around us. Now, if you will put your five 
 dollars with mine, it will just make up the amount the poor 
 woman asked the deacon to abate her rent." 
 
 " I shall do no such thing, I assure you. I am too much 
 interested in the missions to throw my money away upon 
 the town's paupers." 
 
 " Very well ; I will not urge you." 
 
 "What do you suppose Mr. Rogers would say if I should 
 give nothing to the missions ? " 
 
 " Are you beholden to him to render an account of your 
 stewardship ? For my part, I shouldn't care what he thought. 
 Do your duty, Susan, let folks think as they may. If I had 
 money enough, I would contribute handsomely towards hav- 
 ing the gospel preached to such heathen as Deacon Hapgood, 
 Farmer Jones, and some others who support missions, while 
 they starve their own souls and those of their families." 
 
 Susan, knowing how obstinate Louise was when excited, 
 refrained from opposing the purpose she had announced, and 
 Louise retired to her room. 
 
 " Five dollars," said she, musingly ; " it is more than a 
 week's pay ; but she shall have it ; yes, and more too. Since 
 Susan has refused to join me in this work of charity, I will 
 give another five dollars ; and then how happy the poor 
 creature will be ! " 
 
 The face of the gentle-hearted girl lighted up with an in- 
 voluntary smile, as she opened her drawer and took therefrom 
 the ten dollars. It was a large sum for her ; but she cheer- 
 fully resigned the pleasures it would purchase, and looked 
 forward to the joy she was about to carry to the cottage of 
 the drunkard's wife. 
 
 With a light heart she tripped down the road to execute
 
 THE NEW MINISTER. 57 
 
 her charitable mission. As she entered the hovel, she shrank 
 back at the scene of wretchedness presented to her view. 
 The poor woman, pale and haggard with care, apparently 
 with one foot- in the grave, was surrounded by half a dozen 
 ragged children, whom her utmost exertions could hardly 
 feed with the coarsest fare, and clothe even with the miser- 
 able garments that only half covered their nakedness. 
 
 Stating the object of her visit, Louise handed to her the 
 ten dollars. 
 
 Mrs. Weston started back in amazement. Such unheard- 
 of liberality overwhelmed her with confusion. If Deacon 
 Hapgood could not afford to take off ten dollars from her 
 rent, how could a poor girl afford to give her that sum out- 
 right ? Before she could recover her self-possession suffi- 
 ciently to express her gratitude, the young minister entered 
 the house. 
 
 Mr. Rogers was almost as much astonished at the generos- 
 ity of Louise as Mrs. Weston had been ; and when he took 
 his leave, he gladdened the poor creature's heart by adding 
 another ten dollars to the gift. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AFTER their departure from Mrs. Weston's, Mr. Rogers 
 walked by the side of Louise towards her residence. The 
 conversation was earnest, and at times warm, for Louise 
 had opinions of her own, and was not diffident in maintain- 
 ing them, even against the eloquence of the parson. 
 
 Mr. Rogers was not less pleased with the spirit and inde- 
 pendence of his companion than he was with her warm
 
 58 THE NEW MINISTEK. 
 
 heart and charitable disposition. And when he bade adieu 
 to her at the door of Mr. Maylie's house, he could not ban- 
 ish her from his mind. 
 
 The following day was Sunday. Oddly enough for him, 
 the minister had not a word to say about missions or the 
 heathen. His text was, "The poor ye have always with 
 you." 
 
 It was a noble sermon, showing that the poor, by being 
 continually before the eye, came to be regarded with indif- 
 ference and neglect, while objects of charity far removed by 
 distance excited the liveliest sympathy and commiseration. 
 He demonstrated that the first duty of all was to relieve dis- 
 tress in their midst ; in fine, that " charity begins at home." 
 It was shown, very much to the edification of Deacon Hap- 
 good, who sat in the broad aisle, wondering " what the min- 
 ister was driving at," that a rich man could not blind the 
 eye of his Maker by giving large sums to the missions, while 
 he oppressed the poor, and turned a deaf ear to their prayer 
 for help. 
 
 Louise was deeply interested in the sermon, while a ma- 
 jority of the congregation arrived at the conclusion that Mr. 
 Rogers had gone crazy. It was a reflection of her views, 
 and a feeling of proud satisfaction pervaded her mind, as she 
 reflected that she had been instrumental in calling the min- 
 ister's attention to the subject. 
 
 The effect of the sermon was immediate and substantial. 
 Every one of the " eligible young ladies " straightway emp- 
 tied the contents of their purses into Mrs. Weston's lap. A 
 society was proposed for ameliorating the condition of the 
 poor, whom they always had with them. But Mr. Rogers 
 cruelly vetoed the measure, not thinking an organized effort
 
 THE NEW MINISXEK. 59 
 
 necessary to complete the work, especially as Mrs. Weston, 
 who -was, perhaps, the only destitute person in town, had 
 money enough to pay a year's rent, and three months' pro- 
 vision in her cellar. 
 
 In the mean time, Mr. Rogers manifested a laudahle in- 
 terest in the welfare of the village school, and even preached 
 a sermon on the duty of parents to their children. He vis- 
 ited the school three times in one week, besides conferring 
 four distinct and separate times with the schoolmistress at 
 her boarding-place in the evening. 
 
 "Well, every body except the eligible young ladies said 
 it was the minister's duty to look after the school, and see 
 that the mistress did her duty ; so every body, with the ex- 
 ception mentioned, agreed that Mr. Rogers was particularly 
 faithful in the discharge of his duty. 
 
 Susan was intensely astonished at the course of events, 
 and more especially was she pained at the comparative neg- 
 lect with which the missions had come to be regarded. Other 
 charities, nearer home, shared the sympathies of the young 
 and handsome pastor, and she suddenly realized that her 
 extraordinary exertions in spreading the gospel among the 
 heathen had failed to accomplish the purpose she had in 
 view. But hope had not yet deserted her. Her eyes were 
 not as wide open as they might have been, and she did not 
 yet fully understand the " signs of the times." 
 
 " "What a blessed field of usefulness is open to the teacher 
 of the district school ! " exclaimed she, one day, to her con- 
 fidant, the schoolmistress. 
 
 Louise looked up from the book she was reading, aston- 
 ished at the remark not at the important truth involved in 
 it, but that it should proceed from such a source.
 
 60 THE NEW 
 
 " It is, indeed, an interesting field of labor to those who 
 can appreciate it," replied she, a smile of intelligence cross- 
 ing her good-natured countenance. 
 
 " I have been thinking, Louise, that I might be useful it 
 that capacity." 
 
 " I do not doubt it." 
 
 " And I understand ttiat the school in the south district 
 will be vacant in a few weeks ; don't you think I could pro- 
 cure the appointment ? " 
 
 " Why, Susan, you do not really intend to become a teach- 
 er, do you?" 
 
 "I certainly do. I feel that I have suffered too many 
 years of my life to pass away in idleness. I intend to re- 
 deem the time." 
 
 " You cannot mean it ! " 
 
 " I am in earnest. Do you think I could get the ap- 
 pointment ? " 
 
 " I can point you to a place nearer home, if you are really 
 esirous of becoming a teacher." 
 
 " What place ? " 
 
 " You may have mine in the course of a month or two." 
 
 " Yours, Louise ! " 
 
 " I shall send in my resignation next week." 
 
 " Why, Louise, I had no idea that you intended to aban- 
 don teaching," said Susan, with undisguised astonishment ; 
 and, as she had regarded the attentions her friend received 
 from the handsome young minister with a jealous eye, per- 
 haps the announcement was received with some small degree 
 of satisfaction. 
 
 " I had no such intention a few days ago. But if you
 
 THE NEW MINISTEB. 61 
 
 wish for my place, you can have the opportunity of making 
 the first application." 
 
 " I shall be delighted to get it." 
 
 " I will mention the subject when I send in my resig- 
 nation." 
 
 " But, Louise, you have never told us any thing about 
 this. Pray, what is going to happen ? " 
 
 " I suppose I must tell you the secret. Of course you will 
 not betray my confidence ? " 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " I am going to be married this fall ; " and Louise blushed 
 up to her eyes. 
 
 " Going to be married ! My goodness ! And we never 
 even found out that you had a beau." 
 
 " It has been rather sudden." 
 
 " I should think it had. Who is the fortunate gentle- 
 man ? " 
 
 " Mr. Rogers." 
 
 " Mr. Rogers ! " exclaimed Susan, starting back in blank 
 amazement, while the color deserted her cheeks, and her 
 heart fluttered with emotion. 
 
 " Just so. From the time we met at Mrs. Weston's, when 
 1 gave the poor woman my money, he has been very atten- 
 tive and, in short, the matter is now settled." 
 
 " Well, I am astonished ! " 
 
 Susan was astonished. 
 
 " I cannot wonder ; I am astonished myself. But, Susan, 
 I think I shall carry in my resignation to-morrow, and you 
 had better have a written application ready." 
 
 Susan bit her lips with vexation, and even wondered tha 
 6
 
 62 THE NEW MINISTER. 
 
 
 
 she had not oeen fool enough to give her money to Mrs. 
 "Weston, instead of the missionary society. 
 
 " I think, on the whole, Louise, that I shall not hecome a 
 teacher at present," said she, as she turned, and abruptly left 
 the room. 
 
 In the fall Mr. Rogers and Louise were married. The 
 parsonage is the home of peace, love, and charity. Mrs. 
 Rogers is a model minister's wife, and though the missionary 
 cause receives an earnest support, she still believes, and acts 
 upon the belief, that " CHAEITT BEGINS AT HOME."
 
 "OUT NIGHTS;" 
 
 OB, 
 
 BELONGING TO THE "SONS." 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 
 
 " DON'T go out to-night, Charles," said Mrs. Prescott, t> 
 pretty, sweet-smiling lady, who had been married just six 
 months, to her husband. 
 
 " Really, Carrie, I am very sorry ; but I do not see how I 
 can be absent from the meeting'to-night," replied the young 
 husband, as he brought his great-coat from the entry. 
 
 " You always say so. I wish you did not belong to the 
 ' Sons.' Can't you leave them? " 
 
 " I could, my dear, if I desired ; I have no wish to do so." 
 
 " Wouldn't you do it to please me ? " said the lady, smil- 
 ing so sweetly that one could have found it in his hear,t to do 
 almost any thing for her. 
 
 " You do not seriously wish me to do so." 
 
 " Nay, I do." 
 
 " Think, Carrie." 
 
 " I am jealous of that society." 
 
 " Fie ! " ' 
 
 " You leave me here all alone, and you can' t think how 
 lonesome I am." 
 
 " I am very sorry to leave you ; but, really, I feel it to be 
 
 (63)
 
 64 OUT NIGHTS. 
 
 my duty to sustain so good an association as the * Sons of 
 Temperance.' " 
 
 " There are enough without you." 
 
 " All might, with equal propriety, say so." 
 
 " They do not all leave a wife alone at home." 
 
 " Perhaps not." 
 
 " Can't you belong to them without going to the meetings 
 every night ? " 
 
 "I should not wish to do that. To be a merely nominal 
 member of the Order is to be nothing at all." 
 
 " You would be giving your name and influence to the 
 cause of temperance just as much as you do by attending 
 the meetings." 
 
 " What is the cause of temperance, Carrie ? I fear you 
 give it a very vague construction, like many others in the 
 community." 
 
 " Why, preventing and curing intemperance." 
 
 " Preventing and curing it in whom ? " 
 
 " Every body, I suppose all your friends and neighbors." 
 
 " But not yourself." 
 
 " There is no danger of you, Charles." 
 
 " But I joined the Sons quite as much for my own sake 
 as for that of others." x 
 
 " You don't think you are in any danger of becoming a 
 drunkard, do you ? " asked Mrs. Prescott, with a smile of 
 incredulity. 
 
 " Not while I am as strongly fortified against the vice of 
 drinking as I am now." 
 
 " Pooh ! I would risk you, even if you did not belong to 
 the Sons." 
 
 " Suppose I should abandon them, and permit myself to
 
 OUT NIGHTS. 65 
 
 be influenced by the example of those around me of your 
 brother Frank, for example ? Suppose I should shake off 
 my allegiance to the principle of total abstinence, how long 
 would it take me to get rid of all my scruples against drink- 
 ing a glass of wine ? " 
 
 " Can't you adhere to the principle without belonging to 
 a society?" 
 
 " Association strengthens principle." 
 
 " You don't steal, Charles ; on principle, you would not 
 steal ; but is it necessary that you should belong to an anti- 
 thieving society ? " and the pretty young wife's features 
 wore an expression of triumph. 
 
 " Drinking is a fashionable vice ; stealing is not. When 
 the community regards the fashionable wine bibber as it does 
 the thief, there will be no occasion for associated effort to 
 restrain it. Popular opinion will do the work which the 
 Sons are now doing." 
 
 " But I don't think there is any need of going so con- 
 stantly," replied the wife. "Do stay with me to-night; I 
 feel so lonesome." 
 
 " The Order acts upon some particular business to-night, 
 and " 
 
 " Particular business again ! " exclaimed Mrs. Prescott, 
 with a good-natured laugh. 
 
 " It does indeed." 
 
 " Always so." 
 
 " Besides, I am W. P., you know." 
 
 "W. T., you mean." 
 
 " What's that ? " 
 
 " Wife tormentor." 
 
 " Nay, Carrie " 
 
 6*
 
 66 OUT NIGHTS. 
 
 " Go along ; I will excuse you to-night ; but don't stay 
 late." 
 
 " No, dear." 
 
 " It was eleven o'clock before you got home last Saturday 
 night." 
 
 " I -will be home by ten to-night ; " and Charles Prescott 
 kissed his pretty, smiling wife we beg the reader to re- 
 member that they had been married but six months and 
 left the house. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MRS. PRESCOTT did not appear to be half so lonesome as 
 she had pretended she was ; for, as her little white hand del- 
 icately and daintily grasped the needle, the same involuntary 
 smile played on her pretty lips that had been there while her 
 husband was present. 
 
 Her thoughts must have been very pleasant, or she could 
 not have worn that bewitching smile. Her soft, gazelle-like 
 eye, too, beamed forth the language of a pure and beautiful 
 soul a soul at rest among the flowers of its own tender 
 rearing. 
 
 She was thinking, and her thoughts were full of joy. 
 What a happy wife she was ! But perhaps her view of mat- 
 rimony was mingled with something of sentiment a few 
 grains of that amiable moonshine which strews flowers and 
 perfumes in the pathway of the young wife. 
 
 Alas that the blight of coldness should ever come to 
 wither those flowers which the young and loving wife scat- 
 ters in her pathway ! Alas that the cares and trials of life 
 should ever come and cast a great, broad shadow over that 
 moon o her dreams.
 
 OUT NIGHTS. 67 
 
 Mrs. Prescott was happy, and she was thinking how happy 
 she was. Charles was all love and devotion. He was in- 
 dustrious, frugal, and temperate ; and, though they lived in 
 a humble house and in a humble street, she sighed not for 
 the fine things her neighbors had. 
 
 They lived comfortably ; and, while her husband loved 
 her, she cared not for tapestry carpets and velvet-covered 
 lounges. 
 
 Charles had only one failing ; and that wasu an earnest de- 
 votion to the Order of the Sons of Temperance, which drew 
 him away from her side every Saturday night. He never 
 left the house any other evening without her ; and undoubt- 
 edly he would have insisted on her joining the order, only 
 that it was a secret society ; consequently no women could 
 be tolerated within its pale. 
 
 Mrs. Prescott could not see why her husband should be a 
 " Son ; " he was strictly temperate in his habits. Poor 
 wife ! She neglected to inquire into the reason of his 
 being so. 
 
 She plied her needle, and smiled forth the joy that was in 
 her heart. She was so happy and contented that there was 
 only one thing left her to. wish for that her husband was 
 with her. 
 
 About half an hour after Charles had gone, her brother 
 Frank, who had been married nearly a year, called with his 
 wife. 
 
 " I have got to go down to the store and post up the 
 books, Carrie, and I have brought Lucy to stay with you ; 
 she was afraid to stay alone," said Frank Winslow, after the 
 two wives had kissed each other, and said sundry pretty 
 tLings about the weather and the walking.
 
 68 . OTJT NIGHTS. 
 
 " I am glad you did ; I am all alone myself." 
 
 " Where's Charley ? " 
 
 " Gone to the lodge." 
 
 " What lodge ? " 
 
 " I don't mean the lodge the meeting -of the Sons.' " 
 
 " Bah ! " 
 
 " He goes every Saturday night." 
 
 " What a pity ! Charley is a good fellow, and it is a 
 great shame that he should herd with those fanatics," said 
 Frank Winslow. 
 
 " Don't you talk so about my husband, Frank," interposed 
 the loving wife. " He is not half so much of a fanatic on 
 temperance as you are on cognac and sherry." 
 
 " Fie, sis ! I believe in all sorts of good things ; and 
 being a Son is, in my opinion, the next thing to being a 
 fool." 
 
 " Why don't you tell him so ? " 
 
 " I would if he were here. You don't think I am afraid 
 of him, do you ? " 
 
 " No ; but the last time you argued the question with 
 him ". 
 
 " Bah ! " exclaimed Frank, impatiently. 
 
 Promising to call for his wife by ten o'clock, he left the 
 house. 
 
 " I hope our husbands won't quarrel over this temperance 
 question," said Mrs. Winslow. 
 
 " I hope not." 
 
 " But this ' Sons ' business does seem so silly to me that I 
 cannot wonder Frank laughs at him." 
 
 " Well, I don't care any thing about it, only that Charles 
 is out so late every night at the meetings."
 
 OUT NIGHTS. 69 
 
 " And leaves you all alone ? " asked Mrs. Winslow. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I wouldn't let Mm ! It is a shame ! Why, I should go 
 into fits if my husband left me alone till eleven o'clock ! " 
 and Mrs. Winslow was horrified at the very thought. 
 
 " I have said a good deal about it." 
 
 " Said ! Why, I would tip the house over before I would 
 submit to it." 
 
 " He is so deeply interested in it." 
 
 " He ought to be deeply interested in his wife too." 
 
 " Nay, nay, Lucy, you wrong him. He loves me with all 
 his soul." 
 
 " And leaves you alone till eleven o'clock ? " 
 
 " I'm not afraid to stay alone." 
 
 " Why, it's almost as bad as having a drunken husband to 
 sit up fpr." 
 
 " O, no, I'm sure it is not." 
 
 Charles Prescott was warmly condemned by the visitor/ 
 and warmly defended by the wife, who, poor thing, though 
 she wished he would stay at home, could not bear to hear a 
 word said against him. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 BEFORE ten o'clock, the two ladies had settled the question 
 of Charles's defection, and passed naturally enough into 
 mousse de laines, laces, and the newest fashions. Mrs. 
 Winslow did not like to say that he was a monster in 
 the hearing of his wife ; but she fully believed it ; and Mrs. 
 Prescott, moved by the arguments of her friend, concluded
 
 70 OUT NIGHTS. 
 
 that she was used much more hardly than she had ever 
 suspected. 
 
 Punctual to his appointed hour, Charles came home. Mrs. 
 Winslow playfully upbraided him for his want of constancy 
 in leaving his wife to spend the evening alone ; but the hus- 
 band made a " moral question " of it, and proceeded to dis- 
 cuss the topic at length. 
 
 An hour was used up in the unprofitable argument, and 
 the clock struck eleven. 
 
 Mrs. "Winslow yawned, and wondered why Frank did not 
 come began to think the books must have gotten into a 
 snarl to keep him so late. 
 
 It was half past eleven before he came. 
 
 " How are ye, old boy ? " said he, grasping the hand of 
 Prescott. " How are the Sons to-night ? " 
 
 " As usual thriving." 
 
 " What makes you so late, Frank ? " asked Mrs. Winslow. 
 " You promised to come at ten o'clock." 
 
 " The books got a little twisted. But sit down, Suke ; I 
 want to talk with Charley ; " and Frank threw himself into 
 a rocking chair before the fire. 
 , " No, no, Frank ; it is almost twelve o'clock." 
 
 " Never mind ; sit down. They say there is more liquor 
 drank since the Maine law was made than ever before," said 
 Frank, turning to Charles Prescott. 
 
 " And there is more cheating, killing, and stealing since 
 the ten commandments were made than ever before. What 
 does that prove ? ',' 
 
 " Bah ! " 
 
 " You refer to the golden calf? " 
 
 " Seriously, Charley, in my opinion, the fanatics who made
 
 OUT NIGHTS. 71 
 
 that law ougat to be held responsible for half the drunken- 
 ness in the community." 
 
 " And Paul, Peter, and John for half the sin the gospel 
 was intended to prevent." 
 
 " You talk like one of the fanatics," said Frank, nis cheek 
 reddening with anger. 
 
 " I merely change the application of the principles which 
 your remarks cover." 
 
 " You distort them. A fanatic can't argue the question 
 fairly. Come, Suke, let's go home." 
 
 Frank Winslow rose from his chair, but instantly sank 
 back again. 
 
 " What is the matter, Frank ? " asked his wife. 
 
 " Nothing ; don't you see ? " and he attempted to rise 
 again, but without success. 
 
 " What ails you? How strange you act ! " 
 
 " Your Sons and your Maine laws are a humbug, Charley ; 
 there's no rubbing that out. Tell me about your hie 
 Maine law ! " 
 
 " O Heavens ! " groaned the poor wife. 
 
 " What the deuse's the hie matter now ? " 
 
 It was too plain to be longer concealed ; Frank Winslow 
 was drunk ! The heat of the room was revealing the terri- 
 ble truth to the poor wife, to the fond sister, that the hus- 
 band and brother was helplessly intoxicated ! 
 
 Charles Prescott was shocked ; Carrie's cheek was pale, 
 and her frame trembled ; that smile was gone, for the loving 
 brother was a drunkard ! 
 
 It was an agonizing moment to the fond wife. Mountains 
 of sombre clouds came rolling down before her bewildered 
 flenses, and the future was dark with poverty, woe, disgrace.
 
 72 OUT NIGHTS. 
 
 and death. The drunkard's grave yawned like a cavern of 
 hell in the path of her husband. 
 
 " O, Frank, Frank ! " exclaimed she, throwing herself into 
 his arms, and bathing his brow with her woman's tears. 
 
 " What in ails you all ? " said Frank, gazing round 
 
 him with a drunken leer. 
 
 Charles attempted to get him upon his feet ; but he was 
 utterly helpless. 
 
 " Let me hie alone. I am none of your cussed 
 hie fanatics, that can't go alone ; " and he fell at full 
 length upon the floor. 
 
 Mrs. Winslow threw herself into a chair, and sobbed in 
 bitterness of spirit. Carrie wept upon her bosom. It was a 
 sad sight, that group of weepers over the drunken body of a 
 noble-hearted, generous young man. Angels weep over such 
 pitiable objects. 
 
 With much difficulty Charles Prescott succeeded in putting 
 him to bed ; but, to all save the besotted inebriate, it was a 
 sleepless night. Tears stained 'the pillow of the wife and 
 . sister, and silent prayers rose to heaven for the preservation 
 of the erring young man. 
 
 Morning came, and Frank had slept off his debauch. He 
 was* conscious of his position, and with shame and humil- 
 iation he presented himself in the breakfast room of his 
 friend. The pale, anxious faces, the red and swollen eyes of 
 his wife and sister, told him what they had suffered. 
 
 Like a true man, he acknowledged his fault, and promised 
 to amend. Charles pointed out the necessity of making a 
 principle of abstinence, to which he assented, and promised 
 to connect himself with the Sons. He kept his promise, and 
 in a few weeks was initiated.
 
 OUT NIGHTS. 73 
 
 Mrs. Prescott, after the impressive lesson she had received 
 from the experience of her brother, was convinced that ac- 
 tive membership in a temperance society, or at least a cher- 
 ished principle of abstinence, was necessary in these degen- 
 erate days for the salvation of the young man. 
 
 Her husband had resisted temptation through the salutary 
 influence of the " Sons ; " and she could not but reflect how 
 unreasonable she had been in attempting to lure him away 
 from the fountain of his principle. 
 
 Even Mrs. Winslow has so far overcome her timidity as to 
 be content to stay alone every Saturday night while her hus- 
 band attends the meetings of the Order. It is a blessed 
 thing for the wife to be assured that, while he is away from 
 her in those hours which properly belong to her, he is fortify- 
 ing his soul against the temptations that every where beset 
 him. 
 
 7
 
 BEING FLOWERS; 
 
 OB, 
 
 GOING INTO MOUENING. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " I AM sure they cannot care much for their sister, for nol 
 one of them had eren a black ribbon on her bonnet," said 
 Mabel Grant to her invalid sister. 
 
 "Nay, Mabel, you must not judge them harshly." 
 
 " But only think of it ! Even her mother did not so much 
 as change her bonnet." 
 
 " Probably they have views and opinions of their own 
 upon the subject," replied Mary Grant, feebly, for she was 
 in the last stage of consumption, that dreadful scourge of 
 our northern clime, and even the exertion of speaking a 
 few words was exceedingly tiresome. 
 
 " And poor Ellen Lawson, our dear friend and schoolmate, 
 one of the fairest and truest girls in the village to think 
 that she should go down to her early grave without even a 
 show of mourning in her own family. It looks like sacrilege 
 to me." 
 
 " Nay, Mabel, your respect for a mere custom causes you 
 to disregard the plainest dictates of charity." 
 
 '* I do not mean to be uncharitable." 
 
 (74)
 
 BRING FLOWERS. 75 
 
 " I know it, Mabel ; but you must remember that the prac- 
 tice of putting on mourning is only a custom ; and there is 
 no sacrifice of love or principle in disregarding the custom." 
 
 " Well, I don't know ; I cannot think they loved poor 
 Ellen as she deserved to be loved." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 '* Because, if they had, they would at least have shown a 
 decent respect for her while they stood around her bier." 
 
 " Did they seem to be cold, indifferent ? " asked the in- 
 valid, with a great deal of interest. 
 
 " No ; Mrs. Lawson was very much affected while in the 
 'emetery. She sobbed as though her heart would break." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " But it did not seem to be real, her dress was so inap- 
 propriate." 
 
 " You wrong her, Mabel." 
 
 " I hope I do." 
 
 " You cannot see into the heart." 
 
 " And her sisters, too, if they had not worn white bonnets, 
 Rrould have seemed like real mourners." 
 
 " The heart weeps, Mabel, not the dress, nor even the 
 tearful eye. Many a one in sable weeds has felt no sorrow 
 for the loss of a parent or a friend." 
 
 " That may be ; but don't you think yourself that white 
 bonnets ad blue dresses are very improper at the funeral of 
 a near friend ? " 
 
 " It would not be my taste, Mabel," replied Mary, with a 
 faint smile. " But I wish to accord to every one the priv- 
 ilege of doing as they please in a matter of this kind." 
 
 " So do I ; of course they have the right to wear what 
 they please.""
 
 76 BEING FLOWEBS. 
 
 " You censure them, though." 
 
 "Not censure them, Mary; I only say that it looks as 
 though they did not care much for poor Ellen." 
 
 " You impugn their motives ; you ought to be charitable 
 to them, however strange they may seem to act." 
 
 " I will, sister ; but if I had lost a friend, I should feel as 
 though I was deficient in respect to the memory of that friend, 
 if I did not put on mourning." 
 
 Mary sighed ; she knew not how soon that dear sister 
 would be called upon to put on mourning for her. Even 
 another day of existence might not be permitted her. She 
 was calmly waiting the hour that would bear her from the 
 scenes of earth to that brighter realm beyond the dark grave. 
 Already she heard the music of the angel's fluttering wing, 
 and was ready to lay her head upon the lap of earth. 
 
 Mabel penetrated her sister's thoughts, and turned away 
 to hide a tear, which sprung unbidden to her eye. 
 
 " There are many things to be considered, Mabel, in rela- 
 tion to the custom of wearing mourning. For my part I 
 think it would be far better if the practice was entirely dis- 
 continued." 
 
 " Why, Mary ! how strange you talk ! " 
 
 " You can conceive how very disagreeable it must be for 
 those who are waiting to consign the remains of a dear friend 
 to the tomb, to be compelled to attend upon mantjiamakers 
 and milliners." 
 
 Mabel had never thought of that before. 
 
 " No sooner has the spirit taken its flight, than the house 
 of death is made the scene of commotion and confusion by 
 the preparations to appear in black. That holy sorrow, 
 which craves solitude, is broken in upon by the cares of busi-
 
 BEING FLOWEKS. 77 
 
 ness by the necessity of conforming to a mere fashion which 
 requires the mourner to make a vain show." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, Mary; pray, do not talk any 
 more. You are quite exhausted." 
 
 Mary said no more. A shade of deep thought rested upon 
 her pallid features. She was thinking how much more sooth- 
 ing it would be, when her redeemed spirit sped its flight, if 
 her friends could only think of her while her lifeless clay 
 remained with them, without the intrusion of milliners and 
 dressmakers. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IT was spring time, and the joyous birds sung their cheer- 
 ful notes upon the blossoming trees. The flowers were 
 blooming upon the hill side, and Nature was assuming her 
 verdant robes. 
 
 Under the influence of the mild, balmy air of the spring, 
 Mary Grant seemed to revive. Her strength appeared to re- 
 turn with the opening buds, and her friends dared to hope 
 that she might be spared to behold the profusion of another 
 summer, the glories of another autumn. But the disease was 
 deceptive. While hope smiles, the destroyer comes. 
 
 The physician, after giving the parents of Mary all the en- 
 couragement he could, directed his patient to ride out as often 
 as the weather would permit. 
 
 The invalid was happy in the privilege of once more in- 
 haling the balmy breezes, of once again visiting the cher- 
 ished scenes, where, in the full vigor of health and joy, sha 
 had gayly and thoughtlessly roamed. 
 
 7*
 
 78 BEING JFLOWEES. 
 
 The village cemetery had always been a hallowed aad 
 beautiful spot to her, and she expressed a desire to visit it 
 again, ere her inanimate form should be laid away to slumber 
 beneath its peaceful bosom. 
 
 With Mabel for her companion, the carriage was slowly 
 driven through the garden of graves. Mary was silent and 
 thoughtful ; and more than once a tear rose to the eye of 
 Mabel, when she thought how soon she might be called upon 
 to follow the cold form of the loved one to her resting-place. 
 
 The invalid was thoughtful, but not gloomy. Already tho 
 spirit had reached forward to the glories of that better world 
 where there is no death, no sorrow. The grave had no ter- 
 rors to her ; it was a place of rest. Death was not a hid- 
 eous, quaking skeleton to her imagination, but a white- 
 winged angel, who would fold her upon his bosom, and bear 
 her across the dark valley to the " house with many man- 
 sions, eternal in the heavens." 
 
 With introverted thoughts she gazed upon the memorials 
 of the slumbering dead. The funereal fir, the pendent wil- 
 low that swept over the green graves, diffused a heavenly 
 calm in her heart, and she felt ready to join the great com- 
 pany that slept beneath them. 
 
 " There is a new-made grave," said she, as the carriage 
 turned the angle of one of the avenues. 
 
 " It is the grave of poor Ellen Lawson," replied Mabel. 
 
 Mary requested the driver to stop. 
 
 On the grave, over which no marble had yet been reared, 
 were several bouquets of fresh flowers. Some little white 
 blossoms, which had been transplanted near the head, were 
 opening their tiny buds. 
 
 " Still remembered, Mabel," said Mary, as she pointed to 
 the flowers.
 
 BRIXO FLOWERS. 79 
 
 " They place fresh flowers upon her grave every day." 
 
 " And do you think they did not love her, Mabel ? " 
 
 " O, sister, I know they did ! " 
 
 " And wore no black at her funeral ? " 
 
 " I was wrong, Mary." 
 
 " These are meet emblems of the heart's remembrance. 
 When I go. hence, may the flowers of spring blossom upon 
 my grave. May some loving hand place flowers upon the 
 sod that hides me from those I loved on earth." 
 
 " You are sad, sister ; do not speak so gloomily." 
 
 " Nay, Mabel, I am not sad ; I am happy." 
 
 Mabel shed a flood of tears upon the bosom of her sister. 
 
 " Do not weep, Mabel ; we shall meet in heaven, and be 
 happy there forever." 
 
 " You are better, dear sister ; do not speak so hopelessly." 
 
 " Only a little while longer, and I shall rest beneath this 
 sod. But do not be sad ; I am happy : I am not afraid to, 
 die. I feel as though the angels were with me now, waiting 
 to bear me to my home in the skies." 
 
 Mabel cast another glance at the flower-decked grave of 
 Ellen Lawson, as the carriage drove on, and she felt that the 
 heart could more eloquently express its remembrance of the 
 loved and lost, than by a display of the sable weeds of the 
 mourner. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MAEY GKANT went out of the house no more. In another 
 week her waiting spirit bade farewell to earth, and winged 
 its way to ita native skies. Calmly and trustingly, while a
 
 80 BEING FLOWEBS. 
 
 heavenly smile played upon her irradiated features, she. 
 breathed her last in the arms of Mabel. 
 
 She was gone ! Her wasted form, from which the undying 
 soul had just taken its flight, lay in rigid silence before her. 
 She was beautiful in death so beautiful that Mabel could 
 hardly believe she was dead ; that those lips, parted in a 
 placid smile, could no more speak gentle counsel to her ; that 
 those eyes, now motionless and sealed, could no more reflect 
 the love of that affectionate heart upon her. 
 
 But a moment before, she had bidden her farewell. Could 
 she be dead ? Was it indeed true that those smiling lips 
 were forever sealed ; that another note of sisterly love could 
 not proceed from them ? 
 
 Kind friends were waiting to prepare the body for the 
 sepulchre, and a gentle hand led her away from the inan- 
 imate form. Then, then she realized that her sister was in- 
 deed dead, and a torrent of woe swept wildly into her heart. 
 
 Flying to her chamber, she gave free vent to her grief. 
 
 " She is gone ! She is gone ! " sobbed she, as she buried 
 her face beneath her hands, and trembled in the agony of her 
 emotion. 
 
 Mary died as the sun was sinking behind the western hills. 
 Her pure spirit had fled with the day ; but the change bore 
 her to an endless day, where there is no night and the sun 
 never sets. 
 
 Mabel passed a sleepless night. Her pillow was wet with 
 her tears. She rose in the morning, and hastened to gaze 
 again upon the form of Mary. She was arrayed for the grave, 
 and as Mabel bent over her, and printed a kiss upon the pal- 
 lid, cold lips, the memories of the past rushed vividly into 
 her heart. Her eyes rained tears upon the marble beauty 
 of the corpse.
 
 BEING FLOWEBS. 81 
 
 And there she stood for an hour communing with the days 
 which Avere now no more ; which could never be again, be- 
 cause the heart that made them glad was now still in death. 
 
 The formality of the morning meal was disposed of, it 
 was nothing more than a form to the weeping household, 
 and Mabel returned to the side of her departed sister. She 
 kissed the cold lips again, and gave herself up to the flood 
 of irresistible grief which faithful memory forced upon her. 
 
 " Excuse me, Miss Grant," said one of the neighbors, who 
 had come in to assist the family, " but Miss Barnes, the 
 dressmaker, is waiting to fit your dress." 
 
 Her dress ! There was something heartless, cruelly repul- 
 sive in the word. Her dress at such a time as that ! Must 
 she leave the bier of her dead sister to converse upon the de- 
 tails of a garment ? Must her mind abandon the thought 
 of the dead to dwell upon the fashion of a dress ? 
 
 "Without a word she went to the sitting room. It was a 
 busy scene for the house of mourning, and she learned that 
 the mantuamaker had been there all night, for the weather 
 was warm, and the funeral must take place on the following 
 day. 
 
 The conversation of the apartment sounded loathsome to 
 her. It was not of her dead sister, it was of the latest fash- 
 ions, of the propriety of this and that ; the fitness of one 
 article and the unfitness of. another. 
 
 They asked her how she would have her dress cut ; but 
 her thoughts were with Mary, and she answered not. As 
 soon as she could be spared, she left the dressmakers, and 
 returned to the chamber of the dead. 
 
 Again she wandered back with Mary to the scenes of their 
 happy childhood. Again the tears flowed freely Jown he*
 
 82 BBING FLOWEBS. 
 
 cheeks, and the spirit of the loved one seemed to speak to 
 her from the heaven to which she had ascended. 
 
 " The milliner has come, and wants to try on your bon- 
 net," said the servant girl. 
 
 Mabel attended the summons and returned. Her grief 
 was too deep to permit her to participate in the occupations 
 of the sitting room, though her mother was compelled to be 
 there, and had been there all night. 
 
 " Please ma'am, the shopkeeper has come over with some 
 gloves, and they want you to pick out a pair," said the girl 
 again. ' 
 
 She had scarcely disposed of this matter before another 
 demanded her attention ; and thus it was all day long. The 
 house was full of bustle and confusion. The tailor, the hat- 
 ter, the hosier, and a score of female artisans were constantly 
 coming and going. 
 
 The solitude which her weeping heart craved was denied 
 her. On the morrow that loved form was to be borne away 
 and placed in the ground. They could never behold it again ; 
 but from the hour that Mary had breathed her last, to the 
 arrival of the funeral guests, she heard more of business, of 
 the repulsive details of dress and fashion, than of those more 
 appropriate words which solace the mourner in the hour of 
 trial. 
 
 The mourning garments were completed ; but when Mabel 
 was arrayed in them, they carried no comfort to the heart. 
 She could not even feel that the wearing of them was a token 
 of respect to her dead sister ; for they had robbed her of the 
 blessed privilege of weeping over her bier. 
 
 More than once she recalled the uncharitable judgment 
 she had passed upon the Lawsons ; but they had been priv*
 
 BEING FLOWEBS. 83 
 
 ileged to mourn without interruption over their dead. The 
 course they had chosen was reasonable ; and she could not 
 but feel that if the heart alone were consulted, it would not 
 weep in nodding plumes and sable weeds. 
 
 Around the grave of Mary the devoted sister planted the 
 flowers she had loved so well, and every evening, as the sun 
 sank away, she placed a fresh bouquet upon the green sod 
 above her. 
 
 And close by, the hand of affection strewed flowers upon 
 the grave of Ellen Lawson ; and all summer long, and when 
 the chill winds of autumn swept the cemetery, these floral 
 offerings told the passer bjfc that the dead were remembered 
 every day. 
 
 Bring flowers ! Scatter them upon the graves of the dead ; 
 for they are a far more grateful tribute to the memory of the 
 departed than all the trappings of fashionable woe !
 
 THE ACADEMY'S PKIZE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 M. ST. PIERRE was the most noted artist in Paris, and 
 his fame extended all over Europe. His studio was thronged 
 with students from every country on the continent. To 
 have been a student of M. St. Pierre was a passport to dis- 
 tinction. 
 
 Among the pupils of the noted master were two young 
 Frenchmen, Jean and Paul Murot. They were cousins, and 
 M. St. Pierre deemed them the most promising of all the 
 students. They were about equally advanced in their art. 
 An indifferent critic would hardly have been able to distin- 
 guish the works of one from those of the other. 
 
 But, equally endowed as they were in that genius which 
 makes a painter, they were essentially different in disposition 
 and character. Jean, the elder, was cold, dark, and re- 
 vengeful, while Paul was gentle hearted, kind, and forgiving. 
 
 The ladies who frequented the studio of the great master 
 were so impartial as to say that both the young artists were 
 equally well endowed in the attributes of personal beauty. 
 They were universal favorites. If the light blue eye of Paul 
 seemed to exhale a profusion of smiles from his very heart, 
 the dark, flashing eye of Jean spoke a soul full of manly 
 energy, firmness, and decision. 
 
 (84)
 
 THE ACADEMY 8 PBIZE. 85 
 
 M. St. Pierre had an only daughter, Emilie a beautiful, 
 eimple-hearted maiden, upon whom her father lavished a 
 world of endearments. The artist had a soul for beaut j ; 
 and, if there had been no natural tie to bind him to the fair 
 being, his soul would still have clung to her. 
 
 Emilie was a pupil of her father, and as earnestly devoted 
 to her art as even the master himself. By the throng of 
 students with whom she was associated she was almost wor- 
 shipped as an angel of light. 
 
 Among those who bowed at her^ shrine were Jean and 
 Paul Murot. They were both inspired by the genius of the 
 art she loved, and, turning from the mediocrity of the mass, 
 she dwelt with interest upon their lofty productions. 
 
 Both loved her ; both had sought to win her heart, to 
 make her choose between them ; but Emilie was obstinate, 
 and refused to smile more upon one than the other. Her 
 heart had not yet been touched by any other love than that 
 of the divine art. 
 
 The National Academy had offered a most magnificent pre- 
 mium for the best picture which should be submitted, before 
 a given day, by the students of Paris. Jean and Paul were 
 both competitors for the prize. For months they labored 
 and studied with the most assiduous devotion ; for he who 
 should bear off the prize of the National Academy would 
 already have won a fame which a lifetime might not ac- 
 complish. 
 
 M. St. Pierre was one of the umpires. From him Emilie 
 learned, with an unspeakable satisfaction, that one of her 
 favorites was sure of the premium. Her father's judgment 
 to her was infallible, and she gloried in the laurels which 
 were to be worn by Jean or Paul. 
 8
 
 86 THE ACADEMY'S PRIZE. 
 
 One day, she entered . the apartment where the two pupil* 
 labored. Jean alone was there ; but Paul's picture, sketched 
 on the canvas, nestled on its easel. 
 
 " Jean," said she, smiling sweetly upon him, " you cannot 
 both win the prize." 
 
 " Perhaps neither of us," responded Jean, with a sigh. 
 
 " Nay, one of you will ; my father says so, and he knows 
 the ability of every student in Paris." 
 
 " Said he so, Emilie ? " said Jean, smiling. 
 
 He did." 
 
 " But, Emilie beautiful Emilie," said Jean, laying down 
 his crayon, and fixing a tender glance upon her, " there is 
 another prize we have both sought to win." 
 
 " Another prize ! " 
 
 " One worth infinitely more than that the National Acad- 
 emy has offered." 
 
 " You speak in enigmas, Jean," said she, with a coquettish 
 blush. 
 
 " Let me speak plain, then ; I mean yourself, beautiful 
 Emilie," continued Jean, throwing himself at the feet of the 
 fair maiden. 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur Murot, you are losing your brains again ; 
 pray rise," answered Emilie, laughing. 
 
 " Nay, Emilie, I have not lost my brains, but my heart. 
 I love you. Without you the prize of the Academy would 
 be worthless to me. I would throw myself into the Seine, 
 with the bawble in my hand." 
 
 " You are extravagant, Jean." 
 
 " Nay, I love you ; bid me hope, and the prize is mine 
 the prize of art and the prize of beauty." 
 
 " And Paul, he loves me too," pleaded Emilie, smiling,
 
 THE ACADEMY'S PRIZE. 87 
 
 ** Choose between us ; choose him, and let me die.** 
 
 " No, Monsieur Murot, you will not die." 
 
 " I swear to kill myself when you refuse me." 
 
 " And will Paul kill himself, too, if I refuse him ? " said 
 Emilie, laughing gayly ; for she seemed not to regard serious- 
 ly the ready hyperbole to which her countrymen are addicted. 
 
 " Nay, I know not, Emilie ; I will challenge him. One 
 of us shall die, that your choice may be made." 
 
 " Fie, Monsieur Murot ; if you do, the survivor shall 
 never see my face again." 
 
 " Cruel Emilie !" 
 
 " But, Jean, I will decide ; I love you both. He who 
 wins the prize of the Academy shall win my hand and heart 
 with it." 
 
 " Hist ! Here is Paul." 
 
 " He shall know all." 
 
 The fair girl then related to Paul Murot the substance of 
 the conversation that had just transpired. He, too, had de- 
 clared his love to Emilie, and entered the lists with even 
 more willingness than Jean had evinced. 
 
 " Bless you, Emilie," said he ; " we shall both strive to 
 win the prize." 
 
 The brow of Jean darkened as he saw the mild, soft eye 
 of Paul fixed lovingly upon the peerless maiden. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE period allotted for the completion of the pictures had 
 passed away. Jean and Paul were putting the finishing 
 touches to their productions, and the reart of each beat high
 
 88 THE ACADEMY'S PKIZE. 
 
 with hope. The laurel wreath of fame was almost within 
 their grasp, and the heart and hand of the most beautiful 
 maidon in Paris was also to be the guerdon of the victor. 
 
 Paul was sad sad because both could not be equally for- 
 tunate. The most lively friendship had always subsisted 
 between them ; at least, the heart of Paul was sincere, and 
 that of Jean appeared to be so. But the gentle-hearted 
 student grieved to think that his own success might be the 
 herald of Jean's discomfiture that it would, perhaps, 
 mar his prospects for life, and forever imbitter his existence. 
 
 As he gazed with affectionate interest upon the canvas 
 from which his genius spoke like the tongue of an angel, he 
 could not help thinking of poor Jean, if his own picture 
 should be the successful one. Forgetful of self, the thought 
 of marring some of the fine effects of his painting occurred 
 to him, that he might win the happiness of seeing his friend 
 the victor in the lists. 
 
 A single stroke of the pencil across that gorgeous tint of 
 summer sky, one dash over that striking contrast of light 
 and shade, one touch over the reflected light on the trunk of 
 that English oak, would utterly disqualify it to compete with 
 tb-e glowing wealth of Jean's production. 
 
 With an impulsive energy, he grasped the pencil, and 
 moistened it with color from the palette. It seemed like a 
 sacrilege to mar the beautiful work ; but the happiness of 
 Jean was in his hand, and he raised the pencil to impart the 
 Vandal touch. 
 
 His hand dropped. Ah, Paul, know you not that you are 
 sacrificing the fair Emilie ? that you are shutting yourself 
 out from the treasures of a paradise ? 
 
 Paul could not do it. The love of Emilie could not be
 
 THE ACADEMY'S PRIZE. 89 
 
 given up no, not even for Jean. Had the prize of the 
 Academy been all there was at stake, Paul had had the 
 courage to make him the victor. 
 
 Throwing down the pencil with an impatient gesture, -ag 
 though he was ashamed of his own selfishness, he left the 
 apartment just as Jean entered it. 
 
 The dark eye of the student kindled as he glanced first 
 upon his own picture and then upon that of Paul. The try- 
 ing hour of his lifetime had come. He should either be 
 lifted to the pinnacle of distinction, and win the hand of 
 Emilie, or be plunged into the abyss of disappointment. It 
 was a vast chasm that yawned between success and failure, 
 and he had no patience to look upon the darker side of 
 the event. 
 
 If he failed, there was nothing in life worth living for, 
 and again he glanced at the painting of Paul. 
 
 A single daub would ruin it would insure him the hand 
 of Emilie and the coveted prize. It was a thought born 
 of the devil ; but Jean's heart was black enough to har- 
 bor it. 
 
 It was nearly dark, and to-morrow would decide his fate. 
 He took up the pencil. 
 
 Black-souled Jean ! Couldst thou have read all that 
 passed through the heart of thy friend an hour before, the 
 devils within thee had grappled with thy soul ! 
 
 He advanced to Paul's picture ; but the entrance of two 
 artisans, who had come to prepare the pictures for transpor- 
 tation, defeated his purpose nay, only delayed it. Bid- 
 ding the artisans defer their task till morning, he left the 
 room. 
 
 He had scarcely gone before M. St. Pierre and Em- 
 8*
 
 90 THE ACADEMY S PRIZE. 
 
 ilie entered the studio to see the paintings of the stu- 
 d jnts. 
 
 " Ah, my father, Jean has won the prize," said the fai/ 
 maiden. 
 
 " Nay, Emilie, the evening light falls unfavorably upon 
 Paul's. Let us change them, and you will see the effect." 
 
 The master changed the position of the two paintings, 
 placing Paul's before the window where Jean's had stood. 
 The pictures, though not identical, were similar. A large 
 tree occupied the foreground in each. 
 
 " You are right, my father, and poor Paul's hope is not 
 yet blasted." 
 
 The master was silent for a while. 
 
 " Paul has been nervous," said he, at last, with a sigh. 
 
 Poor Emilie ! How her heart grieved for the gentle- 
 hearted student ! 
 
 The shades of night had gathered when Jean reentered 
 the studio. It was too dark to distinguish objects ; but the 
 heart of Jean was also black, and he groped about for the 
 pencil. 
 
 Standing opposite Paul's picture, he endeavored to distin- 
 guish its outlines. Only the great tree in the foreground 
 could be dimly made out by the light of a back window, near 
 which it stood. 
 
 With remorseless hand, he drew the brush across the 
 trunk of the tree ; and the beautiful light reflected from a 
 golden cloud which was the crowning glory of the picture, 
 across that he drew the pencil, and the labor of Paul was 
 ruined ! 
 
 With a cloth he wiped down the canvas, so as to remove 
 the evidences of an intentional daub, and left the room.
 
 THE ACADEMY'S PHIZE. 91 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE board of umpires was still in session. It was whis- 
 pered through the mansion of M. St. Pierre that a decis- 
 ion had been made, and that it lay between Jean and Paul 
 Murot, as every body had expected ; but no one knew which 
 was the fortunate artist. 
 
 " The picture of one has been thrown out because it is 
 disfigured," continued the bedrer of the news. 
 
 " Thrown out ! Mon Dieu ! " exclaimed Jean. 
 
 " Thrown out ! " repeated Paul, bewildered with astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 Perfidious Jean ! How his black heart leaped at the pros- 
 pect of the victory! The stern judges had not troubled 
 themselves to inquire into the origin of the defacement of 
 Paul's picture, and he was safe. Already he congratulated 
 himself on folding the beautiful Emilie to his heart, and call- . 
 ing her all his own. 
 
 Poor Paul ! The tears trickled down his cheek as he 
 thought of the disappointment that awaited one of them. 
 Treading down the selfishness which he had combated unsuc- 
 cessfully on the previous night, he even hoped that it might 
 be his own which had been rejected. 
 
 But ah, there stood Emilie, beautiful as an angel. She 
 was silent, for she, too, felt that -the present was an eventful 
 moment. 
 
 How could the painting have been disfigured ? Poor, 
 gentle-hearted thing ! She dreamed not of the villany that 
 had been perpetrated. She knew not that the heart of one
 
 92 THE ACADEMY. S PRIZE. 
 
 of her Covers was as Hack as a demon's. If Jean was the 
 winner, 'she knew not to what wicked arms she would be 
 consigned. 
 
 But Jean felt that the victory was his. He only knew 
 that it was Paul's picture that was rejected, and he could 
 hardly refrain from revealing the abundant joy that filled hia 
 mind. 
 
 The arrival of M. St. Pierre awakened the silent group 
 from their lethargy. 
 
 " Ah, my father, who has won the prize ? " exclaimed 
 Emilie, breathless with anxiety, while a crimson blush suf- 
 fused her beautiful features. 
 
 " It lay between Jean and Paul," replied the master. 
 
 " But which, my father ? " 
 
 " Nay, Emilie, I hardly dare say." 
 
 " Speak, M. St. Pierre," said Paul. " I can bear disap- 
 pointment." 
 
 " So can I, my master," added Jean. 
 
 " One of the pictures was sadly disfigured." 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! how could it happen ! " exclaimed Jean. 
 
 " Indeed, I know not ; but the majority of the umpires 
 decided that it was done by carelessness, and, against my 
 earnest remonstrance, threw the picture out of the competi- 
 tion." 
 
 " How unfortunate ! " said Emilie, deeply grieved. 
 
 " It was, since I am confident it would otherwise have won 
 the prize." 
 
 Jean's heart leaped when he thought how prudent he had 
 been in wantonly ruining Paul's picture. If his conscience 
 had been less scrupulous, Paul had been the victor ! 
 
 " Here is the award, Emilie ; you shall read it," contin-
 
 THE ACADEMY'S PKIZE. 93 
 
 ued M. St. Pierre, giving her a roll of parchment, and leaving 
 the room. 
 
 Emilie, with trembling hand, unrolled the parchment. 
 
 Jean stood firm, while Paul trembled with emotion. 
 
 " Award to Paul Murot "^ continued she, reading. 
 
 " To Paul Murot ! " shoifted Jean, staggering forward 
 with amazement, and clutching the parchment. 
 
 With quivering lip, he gazed at the fatal words. 
 
 " Hell and furies ! " exclaimed he, while his dark eye 
 flashed with anger, " this is wrong." 
 
 Emilie and Paul started back, shrinking from the fury of 
 the disappointed student. 
 
 " Jean is right ; there is some mistake," said Paul. 
 
 " There is no mistake," replied M. St. Pierre, reentering 
 the room. " Jean's was thrown out for being carelessly 
 daubed." 
 
 " Was it mine that was thrown out ? " said Jean, wildly. 
 
 " It was ; your name was upon it. How was it defaced ? " 
 
 " I know not." 
 
 " Last night it was in perfect condition when Emilie and 
 myself visited the studio. I was sure then that you would 
 be the victor ; but, to form a better judgment, I changed the 
 position of the pictures, so as to get a different light upon 
 Paul's." 
 
 " You changed them ! " gasped Jean, staggering to a chair. 
 
 " I did. Are you ill, Jean ? " 
 
 Jean had daubed his own picture ! 
 
 He was ill ; a fever laid him at death's door, and remorse 
 extorted a confession of his villany. 
 
 Emilie became the bride of Paul Murot. His painting 
 that won the Academy's prize and the beautiful wife he still 
 adores hangs in the Louvre.
 
 THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " JULIA has been to the public schools long enough," said 
 Mrs. Mason to her husband. " She is fifteen years old, and 
 I am sure she can learn nothing more till she is sent to a 
 boarding school." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " Besides, Mrs. Benson's daughter has left, and Julia don't 
 want to go any longer." 
 
 " Let her stay at home then." 
 
 " Stay at home ! Don't you mean she shall have any 
 polish ? " 
 
 " Can't you polish her, my dear ? " asked the easy hus- 
 band, with a good-natured smile. 
 
 " How absurdly you talk ! " 
 
 " Why, my dear, you have got quite polish enough for the 
 wife of a small merchant. I would not give a copper to 
 have you any more of a lady than you are." 
 
 " But Julia may be the wife of a rich man ; what would 
 she be then without music, French, and painting ? " 
 
 " And she may be the wife of a poor mechanic, and these 
 accomplishments be useless and burdensome." 
 
 " She never shall be the wife of a mechanic if I can help 
 t," retorted Mrs. Mason, smartly. 
 
 (94)
 
 THE DOMESTIC EXEMENT. 9& 
 
 " Fie, Mary ; you are unreasonable. Why should she 
 look higher than a mechanic, especially as some of our best 
 and most reputable men are mechanics ? " 
 
 " She shall not be the wife of a mechanic if I can help 
 it," repeated the lady. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " She shall do better, and that is the reason why I want 
 her better educated." 
 
 " She may do worse. What are we, my dear, that we 
 need look among the nabobs for a husband for our 
 daughter ? " 
 
 " Are you not a merchant ? " 
 
 " Only a small shopkeeper." 
 
 " Well, that's a merchant ; and I mean Julia shall marry 
 a merchant." 
 
 Mr. Mason yielded the point, and agreed that Julia should 
 marry whomsoever she and her mother might choose. 
 
 " But she must be educated for her future station." 
 
 " True, she must." 
 
 " She must go to a boarding school, and learn French, 
 music, painting, and German." 
 
 " And Chinese," interposed Mr. Mason. 
 
 " She must learn all the fashionable things." 
 
 " I believe English grammar, writing, and arithmetic are 
 not in fashion." 
 
 " Pooh ! she knows all about these things." 
 
 " I asked her to tell me how many bushels of potatoes a 
 wagon seven feet long by four wide and three high would 
 contain, and she could not make the first figure towards it." 
 
 " I suppose there was no such question in her book." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; and she could not tell me where Seva-
 
 96 THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT. 
 
 topol was whether it was in China or the Sandwich 
 Islands." 
 
 " How foolish you are ! I think likely she never hap- 
 pened to see the place on the map." 
 
 " And that letter she wrote to her uncle was such horrible 
 grammar that I was ashamed to send it." 
 
 " No matter for that ; she understands grammar very 
 well." 
 
 " May be she does ; but she has an awkward way of 
 showing it. I suppose washing, cooking, and baking are 
 not fashionable either." 
 
 " There it is again." 
 
 " I think you would do better by her if you took her 
 into the kitchen, and taught her these things. If she hap- 
 pens to" marry a poor man, they will be of some service 
 to her." 
 
 " Time enough for these things." 
 
 " Well, well, do as you please ; but I am opposed to 
 boarding schools ; I think they do more harm than good." 
 
 " That's just like you ! Opposed to boarding schools ! 
 Who ever heard of such a thing ? " 
 
 " They spoil more young ladies than they ever benefit." 
 
 " How in the world can it spoil them ? " 
 
 " Home is the place for girls. The first thing they should 
 be taught to love is the fireside ; they ought never to be 
 weaned from it by sending them away to undergo monastic 
 discipline in a boarding school." 
 
 " How foolish ! " 
 
 " It gives them bad habits makes them romantic fills 
 their silly heads with moonshine ; and if you send Julia, ten 
 to one she will run away with some bearded puppy.'
 
 THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT. 97 
 
 But it was no kind of use for Mr. Mason to argue with, 
 his wife on such a topic as this ; she was bent on sending 
 Julia to the boarding school. He was a man of peace, and, 
 rather than make a tempest, he withdrew from the combat. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 JULIA MASON did not possess a very brilliant intellect. 
 Nature had never intended her for a " blue stocking," and, 
 live as long as she might, there was no probability that she 
 would ever become even a " strong-minded woman." She 
 had for many years attended one of the public schools, but 
 had never risen above the second class, and the master did 
 not believe she ever would. 
 
 Yet, for all this, Julia was a good-hearted, generous, whole- 
 souled girl. What Nature had neglected to place in her 
 head, she had beneficently put in her heart. She had a nice, 
 womanly, domestic temperament, was quiet and unobtrusive 
 in her manners, and^ without doubt, if no pains had been 
 taken to spoil her, would have made somebody a very loving 
 if not a very brilliant wife. 
 
 She was a little disposed to be romantic and sentimental 
 would have fed well and thriven on moonshine a tem- 
 perament which requires a great deal of prudent manage- 
 ment on the part of the parent or guardian. 
 
 Julia went to the boarding school ; but she had not been 
 thre three weeks before she wrote to her mother, begging 
 her to take her away, or she declared she should ceitain- 
 ly die. 
 
 The poor girl was homesick. Monastic discipline was an 
 9
 
 98 THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT. 
 
 outrage upon her affectionate, domestic nature. She had 
 been accustomed to spend her evenings by the fireside at 
 home, -with her parents and younger brother and sisters; 
 and it was a sad deprivation to her to be driven, at the stroke 
 of a bell, into her chamber at seven o'clock, there to sit in 
 painful silence with her roommate, and study her lesson. 
 She was not a genius, and she hated study ; it was uncon- 
 genial in the highest degree. 
 
 At nine o'clock, at the stroke of the bell, she must retire, 
 and in fifteen minutes her light must be put out, or a black 
 mark was made against her name on the following day ; and 
 so it was all day long, week in and week out. Her exist- 
 ence was odiously mechanical. Her life was regulated by 
 that everlasting stroke flf the bell. She was obliged to 
 do every thing by rule eat, drink, sleep, study, play, walk, 
 by rule. 
 
 It was unnatural, and her soul cried out within her against 
 such monstrous formality. She could not learn, her heart 
 grieved so under the repulsive mechanism of her existence. 
 Even the music lesson, which she had anticipated with the 
 liveliest pleasure, was gloomy and distasteful. She was con- 
 scientious, and, though her companions laughed at her for it, 
 she at first paid the most implicit obedience to the rules of 
 the institution. Her roommate devised various happy ex- 
 pedients for relieving the tedium of their lives ; but she 
 refused to avail herself of them. 
 
 Her mother begged her to persevere for a time, assuring 
 her that she was only homesick a disease which a few 
 weeks would effectually cure. She did persevere ; but her 
 " chum " finally succeeded in overcoming her conscientious 
 cruples, and the evenings, instead of being passed in study,
 
 THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT. 99 
 
 were devoted to a " good time generally." It is true, Julia 
 got innumerable black marks for failures in her recitations ; 
 but the horrible bugbears soon became so familiar that they 
 ceased to have any terrors. Before the first term had ex- 
 pired, she had so completely weaned herself from her domes- 
 tic memories that home had lost all its charms. 
 
 She had learned a great many " new tricks." Indeed, the 
 preceptor, in his report to her parents at the close of her first 
 term, felt it his duty to say that her conduct had not been 
 altogether satisfactory. She had gone to the boarding 
 Bchool the quietest person in the world ; she returned a 
 romp, her head full of strange notions about lovers, and 
 her heart as washy as the moonshine in her head. 
 
 On the first evening after her return home she insisted on 
 going to the opera ; the second to a concert ; the third to 
 the theatre ; the fourth to a lecture ; the fifth to a party ; 
 the sixth to a conference meeting ; and so on every evening. 
 
 " What in the world has got into you, Julia ? You did 
 not use to be fond of ' kiting ' round in this manner," said 
 the astonished Mrs. Mason. 
 
 " O^mother, it is so insufferably dull at home ! Besides, 
 it is not fashionable to stay at home in the evening," drawled 
 Julia. 
 
 " What has got into you ? " 
 
 " Boarding schools," said Mr. Mason. 
 
 " I should die of ennui to stay at home an evening," con- 
 tinued the daughter, with a languishing sigh. 
 
 " You had better give her a lesson on the pots and kettles 
 now," interrupted Mr. Mason. 
 
 " O papa, how cruel you are ! Pray go to the opera 
 with me."
 
 100 THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT. 
 
 Mr. Mason was an indulgent papa, and he was obliged to 
 go ; but he could not help wondering what Julia would 
 finally come to if she was permitted to go on in this manner 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 JULIA returned to the boarding school, and, in spite of 
 the weak efforts of her father to avert the fashionable fate 
 that awaited her, she continued there for nearly two years. 
 In music and painting she made rapid progress ; but in lit- 
 erature and science she failed to make even a decent pro- 
 ficiency. 
 
 She was an altered creature. She was vain, affected, ro- 
 mantic, and transcendental, cherishing all sorts of visionary 
 notions about life, and especially about lovers and husbands, 
 who filled a long space in her daily meditations. She had 
 lost her domestic nature, and that was the saddest loss of all. 
 Her heart was not actually corrupted ; but it was so buried 
 up in the weeds of vanity and folly that its gentle influence 
 was almost entirely lost upon her life and character. If not 
 unsexed, she had lost that hold upon woman's sphere which 
 confers her chief charm in society. She was a creature for 
 the ball room and the opera, and not for the quiet shades 
 of home. 
 
 Perhaps a boarding school does not always make such sad 
 havoc in the mind and heart of the young female ; but such 
 is the tendency of its artificial manner of existence. Monas- 
 tic discipline spoils woman ; it removes her from, and unfits 
 her for, her social, domestic position. 
 
 When the two years had nearly expired, Mr. Mason one
 
 THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT. 101 
 
 day received a letter from the principal of the seminary, con- 
 taining the astounding intelligence that Julia had eloped 
 with a young gentleman who had come from the city on a 
 visit in the neighborhood. 
 
 " The grand finale of the drama," said Mr. Mason, throw- 
 ing the letter to his wife. 
 
 " Good Heaven ! who is this Mr. Winchel ? " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Mason, when she had read the letter. 
 
 " A son of Winchel, the merchant in Street." 
 
 "Rich?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Thank God it is no- worse ! " replied Mrs. Mason, so far 
 relieved that a pleasant smile played upon her lips. 
 
 A few days after, Julia and her husband presented them- 
 selves at the home of her father. They were received with 
 open arms. Mrs. Mason was too much pleased with the 
 match to make a fuss about it, and Mr. Mason followed his 
 wife's " lead." 
 
 A few weeks after, they were comfortably settled in a 
 pleasant house ; for Mr. Winchel, who had some very clearly 
 defined aspirations for the quiet joys of a fireside of his own, 
 insisted upon going to housekeeping instead of boarding. 
 
 This kind of life was novel to Julia, and for the first six 
 months, while her husband consented to take her every 
 evening to the opera, a ball, party, or concert, she was toler- 
 ably contented. 
 
 But Mr. Winchel got sick of such an incessant round of 
 
 amusement, and sighed for that paradise of home which' his 
 
 imagination had years ago painted. He reasoned with his 
 
 giddy wife ; but she hated home, and reproached him for 
 
 9*
 
 102 THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT. 
 
 attempting to imprison her in the house, and thus make her 
 life miserable. 
 
 Mr. Winchel was firm, and positively refused to go to any 
 more operas, balls, parties, or concerts. 
 
 Julia was forced to accede to his reasonable desires ; but 
 home, even in the presence of her husband, had become an 
 intolerable place. Indeed, the romance of a husband had 
 worn itself away. He had fallen in love with her in the 
 most natural way in the world, and had proposed to wait 
 upon her father, and arrange the preliminaries for their mar- 
 riage ; but Julia was not content to be united to him in such 
 a tame manner as that, and insisted upon an elopement. 
 Her lover gratified her to his sorrow, he now discovered. 
 
 Julia was unhappy. Her husband, disgusted at her folly, 
 returned to the club he had abandoned when he married her, 
 leaving her to comfort or amuse herself as best she might. 
 And she found comfort and amusement in the society of a 
 gay and dashing Lothario, who consoled her for her hus- 
 band's absence by making love to her. It was not long 
 before the world was again astonished by the publication of 
 an elopement not a harmless, sentimental affair, but a 
 criminal elopement. 
 
 Julia was too romantic to consider the moral turpitude of 
 the act. The pious preaching and praying of the boarding 
 school had been lost upon her in the variety of more con- 
 genial topics that were there presented to her. The elope- 
 ment was romance ; she thought not of the crime. 
 
 Mr. Mason and his wife were in the deepest distress. Mr. 
 Winchel called at her father's store, and stated the particu- 
 lars of their domestic experience. It was plain to both that
 
 THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT. 103 
 
 the distaste for home was traceable to the loss of the do- 
 mestic element of the misguided wife. 
 
 Julia and her seducer we wrong him both were guil- 
 ty were heard from in New Orleans ; but the villain soon 
 became tired of her whims, and left her, and she died a few 
 years later, a ruined, abandoned, off-cast creature, the vic- 
 tim of a false education. 
 
 Mr. Mason's remaining daughters were not sent to the 
 boarding school. They received the best education to be 
 had in the city, and there are noted institutions of learning 
 there. They were thus kept constantly under the watchful 
 care of their parents, and the domestic element in their na- 
 tures was not unsettled by absence from home while the 
 plastic mind was being moulded into its shape for life.
 
 "BANG UP!" 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE EESULTS OP A D V E B T l!3 I N G. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " ANY thing over, Ben ? " 
 
 " Not a dollar ; I just paid the Journal's bill for advertis- 
 ing, which has pretty much cleaned me out." 
 
 " How much ? " 
 
 " Forty-two dollars and twenty-five cents." 
 
 *' Ben, I don't like to tell you that you are the biggest 
 fool on the street ; but you are." 
 
 " Wait, Joe, and see," returned the other, with a confi- 
 dent smile. 
 
 " Forty-two dollars for advertising ! " 
 
 " Just so, and for three months' advertising." 
 
 The applicant for " any thing over " gave a peculiar whis- 
 tle to define the length, breadth, and depth of his astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 This conversation occurred in the store of Benjamin Wes- 
 ton, a young and enterprising merchant, who had just com- 
 menced business on his own account. The other person, 
 who, to use his own classic expression, was " bang up," and 
 
 (104)
 
 BANS UP. 105 
 
 wanted to borrow fifty dollars to make up the amount of a 
 note due that day, was Joseph Weston, a cousin of the other. 
 They had been playmates in youth and stanch friends in 
 maturity. Though there was a great diversity of opinion on 
 many topics, a strong sympathy existed between them. 
 
 They had commenced business at about the same time, 
 and under nearly the same circumstances, both being obliged 
 for the want of sufficient capital to mortgage the stock in 
 their respective stores. 
 
 Thus far they had done well, and the prospect was, that 
 both would become wealthy and distinguished merchants. 
 
 They had married sisters, and occupied tenements in the 
 same block. Their houses were furnished in substantially 
 the same style, and with no material difference of expendi- 
 ture. Both had been brought up to business habits, ana 
 educated into the principles of a rigid economy. 
 
 " Forty-two dollars for advertising," repeated Joe. 
 
 " And if I had the money to spare, I would spend double 
 that sum," replied Benjamin. 
 
 " What benefit do you expect to realize from it ? " 
 
 " You are behind the times, Joe. Benefit ! What a ques- 
 tion ! I expect to make my fortune by it." 
 
 " Humbug ! " 
 
 " Look at Brandreth and Swaim." 
 
 " Both humbugs." 
 
 " No matter for that ; if these fellows have been able to 
 make princely fortunes by advertising humbugs, how much 
 more so will he who deals in substantial realities ! " 
 
 " All gammon ! " 
 
 " We differ ; time will tell who is in the right." 
 
 " Seriously, Ben, you will ruin yourself if you go on i
 
 106 BANG TIP. 
 
 this manner. Forty-two dollars a quarter for advertis- 
 ing !" 
 
 " I shall spend a hundred the next quarter." 
 
 " Don't do it, Ben." 
 
 " How does it happen, Joe, that you are in the street bor- 
 rowing money ? I never did such a thing since I commenced 
 business." 
 
 " How does it happen, Ben, that you haven't got any 
 money to lend ? " asked Joe, with a smile. 
 
 " Because I spent it in advertising." 
 
 ' Better have spent it for opera and 2 : 40's." 
 
 " "Wait, Joe, wait." 
 
 ** I spent nothing for advertising ; but I will bet you the 
 oysters my sales for the last quarter are as large as yours." 
 
 " I will take you up on the next quarter." 
 
 " Why not the last ? " 
 
 " Advertising is somewhat like planting potatoes ; you 
 must wait for the crops." 
 
 " Don't believe in it, Ben. When I have a fifty spot that 
 I don't know what to do with, I shall put it into my family. 
 Buy a library, a new sofa, or something of that sort. I 
 should rather go to the White Mountains with it, than 
 throw it away upon newspapers." 
 
 " You don't know your own interest, Joe." 
 
 " Don't I ? Some kinds of business might thrive on ad- 
 vertising ; but ours, never. Do you believe the women look 
 in the newspapers before they go shopping ? " 
 
 " Well, there was a lady in here just now, who said she 
 saw such and such goods advertised by me." 
 
 " Pshaw ! and on the strength of that you intend to spend 
 fifty dollars more in advertising ! Ben, you are crazy ; "
 
 BA.NQ UP. 107 
 
 and Joseph Weston turned upon his heel and left the store, 
 assured in his own mind that his friend was going to 
 ruin. 
 
 In his estimation such loose principles would eventually 
 bring him to bankruptcy. But Ben was his friend, and he 
 deeply commiserated him because he clung to such weak and 
 pernicious doctrines. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 BUSINESS prospered with the young men. By prudent 
 and careful management, each had not only made a living, 
 but had been able to pay a small portion of the mortgage on 
 the stock, at the end of the first year. 
 
 Joseph had the advantage of his friend in possessing a 
 Detter location, and though his rent was somewhat higher, 
 the difference was more than compensated by the increased 
 facilities it afforded him. The prospect was decidedly brig*ht 
 to him. If his business increased as it had done, he would 
 be enabled to clear himself of debt in another year. 
 
 Under this encouraging aspect he ventured to expend a 
 hundred dollars in additions to his furniture, which his wife 
 insisted was absolutely necessary for their comfort and hap- 
 piness. The house had been furnished altogether too plain 
 for this progressive age, in her estimation. She was behind 
 some of her friends, who, she was sure, were doing no bet- 
 ter than her husband. 
 
 Joseph was a little obstinate at first ; but then there was 
 something so decidedly comfortable in a set of stuffed chairs 
 and a lounge, that he did not hold out in his opposition.
 
 108 BANG TTP. 
 
 He was doing well, and the expenditure would not seriously 
 embarrass him. 
 
 With a nice new Brussels carpet and the new furniture, 
 Mrs. Weston' s little parlor looked exceedingly pleasant and 
 comfortable. Besides, it looked as though her husband was 
 prospering in his business. 
 
 It was so very nice that the young wife could not bear the 
 idea of having the parlor shut up, so that no one should see 
 it till the furniture had grown rusty ; consequently she made 
 up her mind that they must have a party. 
 
 Their friends had parties ; why shouldn't they ? It looked 
 stingy not to have one. Mrs. Weston was an eloquent de- 
 bater, and she gained the day in this matter. It is true the 
 party was not a very extravagant affair ; but it cost Joe some 
 fifty dollars. In the mean time Benjamin had paid quite as 
 much for advertising as his friend had for new furniture and 
 the party. Joseph laughed at him, and finally came to be- 
 lieve that he was insane, and would certainly come to ruin 
 within another year. 
 
 Mrs. Ben Weston, too, felt decidedly unpleasant about the 
 improvements which had been going on in her sister's house. 
 
 " Why can't we have a rosewood table and a set of stuffed 
 chairs, Benjamin ? " asked she, pouting her pretty lips into 
 a very unamiable position. 
 
 " Simply, my dear, because I cannot afford it," replied the 
 philosophical merchant. 
 
 " How can Joe afford it ? " 
 
 " I presume he knows his own business best." 
 
 " He has put over a hundred dollars into his house." 
 
 Ben whistled "T'other Side of Jordan," and made no 
 reply.
 
 BANG UP. 108 
 
 " Do, Ben, buy some new chairs." 
 
 " Can't afford it." 
 
 " Yes, you can." 
 
 " No, I can't." 
 
 " You can afford it as well as Joe." 
 
 " Perhaps I can." 
 
 " Do buy some." 
 
 " I should be very glad to gratify you, but I cannot take 
 the money from my business. A year hence, if business 
 prospers with me, you shall have them." 
 
 " A year henco," pouted the wife. 
 
 " I must spend a hundred dollars in advertising the next 
 quarter." 
 
 " How foolish ! " 
 
 " Very foolish, my dear ; but it must be done." 
 
 " That's the way you throw your money away. You don't 
 catch Joe to do such a trick as that." 
 
 " True ; but though he has the advantage of having a 
 corner store, I paid three hundred dollars more on my mort- 
 gage note than he did." 
 
 " Then you can afford the table and chairs." 
 
 " Nay, my dear, I will not spend a dollar for superfluities 
 while I am in debt." 
 
 Mrs. Ben Weston felt very bad about it, but her husband 
 was firm, and she was forced to content herself with the 
 plain furniture. 
 
 Mrs. Joe Weston enjoyed her nice parlor till the novelty 
 wore away, and then she discovered that there were a great 
 many other articles wanted to make things look uniform. 
 The two windows must have drapery curtains, a pier glass 
 was needed, and some pictures were wanted to relieve the 
 10
 
 HO BANQ UP. 
 
 walls. Her husband, who had once exceeded the limits of 
 his means, found no great difficulty in doing so again, and 
 the things were hought. 
 
 But Joe had some scruples about it. His notes began to 
 be troublesome, and every day he was in the street borrow- 
 ing money. His business, too, had not met his expectations. 
 Instead of increasing in the ratio of his first year's experi- 
 ence, it hardly held its own, and the poor fellow began to 
 have some serious misgivings about the future. 
 
 Before the year had half expired, he was obliged to intro- 
 duce a rigid system of retrenchment into his family and busi- 
 ness affairs, in order to keep his expenses within his means. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ANOTHER year had passed away in the business experi- 
 ence of the young merchants. The books had been balanced, 
 and the results stood in black and white before them. 
 
 Ben had followed up his system of advertising through 
 the year. He had expended large sums, but had made the. 
 outlay with judgment and discretion. 
 
 The result exceeded his most sanguine expectations. His 
 store was crowded with customers ; with genuine, lona fide 
 customers, and with but a small proportion of gadders and 
 fancy shoppers. The newspapers had borne to the best fam- 
 ilies in the city and country full descriptions of his stock. 
 His name was as familiar as "household words" in the 
 dwellings of the rich and poor, of the farmer, the mechanic, 
 and the laborer. 
 
 Truly, the harvest was abundant, and Ben rubbed his
 
 BANG UP. Ill 
 
 hands with delight as he cast his eyes over the figures which 
 conveyed to him the pleasing results of his year's operations. 
 He had the means, not only of clearing himself of deht, hut 
 also of gratifying his wife hy giving her all the new furni- 
 ture she required, hesides a handsome surplus with which to 
 increase his business. 
 
 The new furniture was bought and set up ; every debt was 
 discharged, and the importers and jobbers were eager to give 
 him unlimited credit. 
 
 One day, while he was ruminating upon this pleasant state 
 of things, Joe Weston entered the store. For some months 
 past, the intercourse between the young merchants had not 
 been as cordial as formerly. Joe's nice things had rather 
 " set him up ; " some of the upper ten had condescended to 
 visit him ; and he had attended the " Almack " parties with 
 his wife. 
 
 He was getting ahead fast in his own estimation, and cher- 
 ished a supreme contempt for the slow motion of his friend. 
 But when, in the middle of the year, he found himself run- 
 ning down hill, and discovered that Ben's store was crowded 
 with shoppers, while his own was empty, a feeling of envy 
 took possession of him. Ben must be underselling, he con- 
 cluded, and sooner or later the consequences would ap- 
 pear. 
 
 The prosperous merchant could not but notice the sad and 
 dejected mien of his friend, as he entered the store. 
 
 " How are you, Joe ? You are almost a stranger, lately. 
 Where do you keep yourself? " said Ben. 
 
 " Business, Ben ; business ! " replied Joe, demurely. 
 
 " Good ! Business before pleasure." 
 
 " Any thing over to-day ? " asked Joe; but the query wag
 
 112 BANG TIP. 
 
 not put in that buoyant, elastic tone, which had distinguished 
 him in former times. 
 
 " A trifle ; how much do you want ? " returned Ben, 
 promptly. 
 
 " To tell the truth, I am ' bang up.' 1 have got a note 
 of four hundred to pay, and I have not yet raised the first 
 dollar towards it." 
 
 " You are late ; it is half past one now," replied Ben, 
 consulting his watch. 
 
 " Ben, I am in a tight place," said Joe, in a low, solemn 
 tone. 
 
 " Indeed ! I am sorry to hear it," and Ben's face wore an. 
 expression of sincere sympathy. " Nothing serious, I hope ? " 
 
 " I am afraid so." 
 
 " What can I do for you ? " and the young merchant took 
 down his check book, and examined the state of his bank 
 account. 
 
 " I can give you a check for three hundred, if that will do 
 you any good," continued he, taking up the pen to fill out 
 the blank. 
 
 " Thank you, Ben ; you are very kind ; but I don't know 
 as I ought to take it." 
 
 " Not take it ! Why not ? " 
 
 " If I should pay this note, there is hardly a possibility 
 that I could get through the month." 
 
 " So bad as that ? Ton my soul, I am sorry to hear it." 
 
 " Smith and Jones advise me to make an assignment." 
 
 " How does it happen ? I thought you were doing well ? " 
 
 "Business has been very dull for the last six months. 
 Haven't you found it so ? " 
 
 " Well, no ; it has been driving with me."
 
 BANG tTP. 113 
 
 Q 
 
 Joe knew it had ; indeed, his present visit was not to 
 borrow money, but to prepare his friend for the " smash," 
 which was now unavoidable. 
 
 " My sales have been light," continued he ; "I can't ac- 
 count for it." 
 
 " I can ; look here, Joe." 
 
 Ben took down his leger, and pointed to the account 
 " Charges," where the sums paid for advertising had been 
 entered. On a slip of paper he had footed them up. 
 
 " Five hundred and sixty-five dollars for advertising, Joe ! 
 That's what did the business." 
 
 Joe was astonished. It was quite as much as he had paid 
 for fine things for his house, and for parties, and the opera ; 
 but the investment had been vastly more profitable, inasmuch 
 as, taken in connection with his careful management of his 
 business and his economical manner of living, it had laid 
 the foundation of his future fortune. It had given him a 
 good start in business, and a good beginning is half the 
 battle. 
 
 Joe Weston failed, and paid only twenty cents on a dol- 
 lar. His fine furniture was all sold, and he was obliged to 
 board out. But in his extremity Ben was his true friend. 
 He received him into his house, and when his business was 
 settled up, took him into partnership. 
 
 The firm is now one of the most respectable and prosper- 
 ous in the city. Joe, ever since he was "bang up," believes 
 in advertising, and any one who opens the Journal, or, in- 
 deed, any of the daily papers, cannot fail to notice the con- 
 spicuous advertisement of " Weston & Co." 
 10*
 
 THE NEW CLOAK; 
 
 OB, 
 
 "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS." 
 
 CHAPTER I. .i? 
 
 " THERE ! I declare, if Mrs. Burton hasn't got a new 
 cloak ! " exclaimed Mrs. Waxwell to her intimate friend, 
 Miss Viney, as they came out of church one Sunday. 
 
 " I see she has," replied Miss Viney, very quietly. 
 
 " I know her husband can't afford it ; she will be the ruin 
 of him yet." 
 
 " I suppose they know their own business best. At any 
 rate, it is a blessing that you and I are not accountable for 
 her misdeeds," said Miss Viney, who, though what is tech- 
 nically termed an " old maid," was not of that class who 
 have been slanderously styled gossips and busybodies ; and 
 we have purposely introduced her to refute the foul calumny 
 that " old maids " are all meddlers, and we are sure th'at all 
 spinsters will be grateful to us for the service. 
 
 " I don't know about that," returned Mrs. Waxwell, with 
 a dubious shake of the head. " Mr. Burton owes my hus- 
 band three hundred dollars, and I don't believe he will ever 
 get his pay if things go on in this way. That cloak couldn't 
 have cost less than thirty dollars." 
 
 (114)
 
 THE NEW CLOAK. 115 
 
 '* I presume they could afford it, or they would not have 
 bought it. At any rate, they ought to know best." 
 
 "Mrs. Burton is a vain, conceited, proud woman, and 
 pride will have a fall one of these days." 
 
 " I hope not." 
 
 " I hope she will have a fall ; she would drop some of 
 those airs then." 
 
 *' I never thought she was what might be termed a vain 
 woman." 
 
 " She is ; she is an impudent minx, and the sooner she is 
 brought down to a level with her circumstances, the better 
 for her and the world." 
 
 " She has the reputation of being a very kind-hearted per- 
 son and an excellent neighbor." 
 
 " I don't care if she has ; she likes to ' lord ' it through 
 the village, and for one I won't be ruled by her." 
 
 " Really, I do n'ot understand you ; she is as amiable and 
 humble as any one need be." 
 
 " Amiable and humble indeed ! What did she buy that 
 new cloak for except to excite the envy of half the town, 
 and make them think she is somebody ? " 
 
 " I hope there is no one so silly as to envy her ; " and 
 Miss Viney cast a significant glance full into the face of her 
 companion. 
 
 " I don't, for one ; but I should like to teach her that she 
 is no better than the rest of the world." 
 
 " She don't profess to be ; she visits the neighborhood ; 
 and I'm sure there is no better person in sickness than 
 she is." 
 
 " All that may be."
 
 116 THE NEW CLOAK. 
 
 " When you had the erysipelas, you remember she watched 
 with you when no one else would." 
 
 "I know it; but is one to be tyrannized over forever 
 because she watched a few nights with me ? " 
 
 " How strange you talk ! " 
 
 " Do I ? Didn't she buy that cloak on purpose to cut a 
 figure through the town, and make every body feel cheap ? " 
 
 " No, I am sure she did not ; she had no such motive," 
 replied Miss Viney, smartly. 
 
 " I don't believe it, there ! " 
 
 " She is not such a woman as that." 
 
 " Yes, she is, just such a woman as that." 
 
 " I have seen no one but you who feels bad about it." 
 
 " But me ! Lor' sake ! I wouldn't have you think I feel 
 bad about it. She can wear what she's a mind to for all me ; 
 only I hope she can afford it that's all." 
 
 " I think she can ; she has the reputation of being a pretty 
 careful woman." 
 
 " I don't care ; but I feel it my duty to warn my husband 
 to look out about his debt. When folks get to be so awful 
 extravagant, there's no knowing what may happen." 
 
 " Mr. Burton is doing a very good business, people say." 
 
 " Nobody knows any thing about what he is doing. All 
 I know is, that when Squire Smith sold him two cords of 
 wood last week, and carried in the bill, he couldn't pay it. 
 He actually put the squire off till next week. That looks as 
 though they could afford thirty dollar cloaks, don't it ? " 
 
 With these sage reflections, Mrs. Waxwell turned down 
 the lane that led to her home, leaving Miss Viney to pursue 
 her way and ponder the extravagance of " s^me folks."
 
 THE NEW CLOA.K." 1 117 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MBS. WAX WELL loved fine clothes quite as much as any 
 other woman of the nineteenth century, and this is saying a 
 great deal ; but then her husband was parsimonious, and she 
 was parsimonious ; and, though she loved " nice things " 
 very much, she loved money more, which, we take it, amounts 
 to nothing more nor less than meanness. 
 
 Mr. Waxwell was a farmer, and well off in the world. 
 The advent of the railroad into his native town had turned 
 things topsy-turvy in general, and "put the devil into the 
 women " in particular, to use Mr. "Waxwell's classic language. 
 Time was when they were content to wear a straw bonnet 
 and a calico gown to meeting ; but now they had to rig out 
 in silks and satins, with flounces and furbelows, and all sorts 
 of rigging hitched to 'em, for all the world just like a clown 
 in the circus. Such were Mr. Waxwell's views of the social 
 influence of the railroad. 
 
 Society began to be a little " select ; " folks put on airs, 
 and were so " stuck up " that you couldn't touch them with 
 a ten foot pole. 
 
 Farmer Waxwell did not much like this state of things ; 
 it cost money on the one hand, and he did not like to be 
 thrown into the shade on the other. He was about the rich- 
 est man in the place ; but ten dollar bonnets and thirty dol- 
 lar cloaks were abominations that he could not tolerate. 
 Mrs. Waxwell didn't like to be outdone in the matter of 
 dress, and when she bought a new merino cloak the previous 
 eason, she had not a doubt but it would be unsurpassed for
 
 118 THE NEW CLOAK. 
 
 two seasons at least. When Mrs. Burton came out with 
 the thirty dollar velvet, she found the wind was taken en- 
 tirely out of her sail, and she was as indignant as the case 
 demanded. 
 
 In the rise and progress of the village since the advent of 
 the railroad, two new stores had gone into operation, one of 
 which was conducted by Mr. Burton, an enterprising young 
 man from the metropolis, who had brought a city wife and a 
 great many city notions into the place with him. 
 
 As with a great many who go from the city to the country, 
 he was exceedingly annoyed by that disinterested, charitable 
 attention to other people's business which so extensively pre- 
 vails in many rural districts. He kept his affairs to himself, 
 and this bothered and perplexed the gossips. His wife had 
 a way of attending to her own concerns ; .she had been 
 brought up where people do not even know their next door 
 neighbors. If she wanted a new dress or a new bonnet, she 
 never deemed it necessary to consult the neighbors in re- 
 gard to her ability to afford it, or about the style and 
 material. 
 
 But, in spite of these peculiarities, she was a popular per- 
 son in the village. She was amiable and kind to all, a friend 
 and a comforter to the sick, and quite a useful person in the 
 society of the place. She understood matters and things, had 
 a larger experience of the world than those who had seen 
 nothing of it ; and the consequence was, that when a party 
 was to be given, a picnic projected, or a ball got up, she waa 
 consulted, and her advice followed. She understood all these 
 things, and was happy to explain the " fashion " in "egard to 
 them to all who asked her counsel. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Waxwell ! Her star began to decline when
 
 THE NEW CLOAK. 119 
 
 Mrs. Burton came to the village. She was no longer the 
 leader of the ton, and her heart was bursting with envy. 
 Though she had often received the kind offices of the store- 
 keeper's wife, both in sickness .and in health, she would 
 willingly have crushed her. That new cloak was the cap- 
 sheaf of the indignities which she fancied had been heaped 
 upon her, and she determined that her unconscious rival 
 should suffer the consequences of her temerity. 
 
 Her first demonstration was upon her husband, whom she 
 found no difficulty in convincing that Mr. Burton must be 
 ruined by the extravagance of his wife, and that, unless he 
 immediately collected his debt, he would certainly lose it. 
 
 As soon as she had done her washing on Monday, she 
 " made some calls," and embraced the opportunity of com- 
 menting freely upon that new cloak. The women told their 
 husbands that Mr. Burton would certainly fail ; and before 
 three days had elapsed there was quite a ferment in the 
 place. 
 
 Nobody knew any thing about Mr. Burton's affairs ; he 
 seemed to be doing a good business, though no one knew of 
 his having any money. He did not even own the house in 
 which he lived ; he had no property, apparently, but his 
 stock. The careful old farmers, to whom in the course of 
 trade he had become indebted for produce which he sent to 
 Boston, began to be alarmed by these rumors. 
 
 It was in the State of New Hampshire ; and at the time 
 of which I write, the " grab law " was in force, and is still, 
 for aught I know. 
 
 One morning, as Mr. Burton returned from a journey to a 
 neighboring town, he found his stock attached on the claim 
 of Fanner Waxwell, and all on account of that new cloak
 
 120 THE NEW CLOAK. 
 
 which his wife had worn to meeting on the preceding 
 Sunday. 
 
 He had not the means to pay the note at that moment, 
 and while he was considering a plan to extricate himself from 
 the dilemma, the news that his goods had been attached 
 spread all over the place. All the creditors were in hot 
 haste to follow the track of Fanner Waxwell ; for it was 
 " first come, first served," and in less than two hours a dozen 
 had fastened upon the stock of his store. 
 
 This was a tremendous result to follow in the train of a 
 thirty dollar cloak and a gossiping old woman. 
 
 CH'APTER III. 
 
 " WHAT do you think now, Miss Viney ? " asked Mrs. 
 Waxwell, as they met, soon after the storekeeper's disaster 
 had been made public. 
 
 " I hope Mr. Burton will be able to pay his debts." 
 
 " But he won't I know he won't." 
 
 " Probably, if they had given him any notice of their in- 
 tention to demand the payment of their claims, he would 
 have been prepared to meet them." 
 
 " I guess Mrs. Burton will not feel quite so stuck up after 
 this." 
 
 " I hope you have done nothing to bring about this sad 
 result." 
 
 " But I have ; I made my husband sue his note, and when 
 he put on, the others did. Thirty dollar cloak indeed ! " 
 
 " I am sorry you have done this ; you may ruin Mr. Bur- 
 ton by it."
 
 THE NJSW CLOAK. 121 
 
 " That's just what I mean to do ! " and Mrs. Wax-well's 
 malignant expression betrayed the jealousy she had so long 
 harbored. 
 
 " You did ? It was very unkind and ungrateful in you to 
 do so," replied Miss Viney, indignantly. 
 
 " Humph ! " 
 
 " Any trader would be likely to come out badly to hav 
 all his creditors pounce upon him without jjiving him a 
 chance to collect his debts." 
 
 " I don't believe he has any to collect." 
 
 " Even your husband, as well off as he is, might be em 
 barrassed if suddenly called upon to pay his debts ; " and 
 Miss Viney looked significantly at her angry companion. 
 
 " I doubt it." 
 
 " He may have a trial," said the maiden lady, as she 
 moved towards the store. 
 
 "What can she mean by that?" thought Mrs. Waxwell. 
 
 Miss Viney had some property of her own, and it was all 
 in the hands of Farmer Waxwell, who had, on his own ac- 
 count, invested the greater part of it in railroad stock. 
 
 This is what she meant. She would claim the three thou- 
 sand dollars her husband owed her, and a cold chill passed 
 through her veins as the thought struck her. Farmer Wax- 
 well was rich in houses, lands, and stocks, all of which 
 yielded him a good income ; but he had not three thousand 
 dollars in money, and it might cost him some trouble to 
 raise it. 
 
 " Don't cry, my dear ; I have enough due me in Boston to 
 pay these debts ten times over," said Mr. Burton to his wife, 
 who was much alarmed by the storm which threatened them. 
 11
 
 122 THE NEW CLOAK. 
 
 " What will people think ? " 
 
 " What will they think when I pay them all ? The whole 
 amount is not above nine hundred dollars." 
 
 Just then Miss Viney entered the house. In a few words, 
 she explained the circumstances which had led to the sudden 
 "strike" among the creditors. 
 
 Mrs. Burton, kind soul, shed a flood of tears when she 
 heard how cruel Mrs. Waxwell had been she whom she 
 had nursed with all the tenderness of a mother when her 
 frightened neighbors fled from the contagious disease. 
 
 " Never mind it, my dear. We may expect any thing 
 from a meddler, a gossip, a slanderer," said Mr. Burton. " I 
 must start for Boston in the noon train." 
 
 " Allow me, Mr. Burton, to offer you the money to dis- 
 charge these liabilities. I have three thousand dollars in 
 the hands of Mr. Waxwell." 
 
 " You are very kind, and I accept your offer," replied Mr. 
 Burton, " and next week I shall have the means of repaying 
 you. I assure you I am worth at least five thousand dol- 
 lars." 
 
 In proof of his assertion, he showed her various notes, 
 mortgages, and certificates of stock. 
 
 " I presume, if the people here knew that I was not a 
 bankrupt, they would not have molested me. In spite of all 
 my amiable neighbor, Mrs. Waxwell, may say, I think I ai 
 abundantly able to give my wife a thirty dollar cloak." 
 
 " I never doubted it," replied Miss Viney, as she hastene* 
 to the village lawyer to put her note in course of col- 
 lection. 
 
 Farmer Waxwell was at dinner when the lawyer, who wai 
 a personal friend, called upon him.
 
 THE NEW CLOAK. 123 
 
 " Sorry to trouble you, but I am instructed to collect this 
 note," said he. 
 
 " The devil ! " exclaimed Farmer Waxwell. 
 
 " The ugly hussy ! " added Mrs. Waxwell, as she per- 
 ceived that Miss Viney's prophetic words had been burdened 
 with a meaning. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madam," said the lawyer ; " but if I 
 understand it rightly, you have publicly boasted that you 
 brought about all this difficulty." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 " Yes, madam ; that new cloak did the business. You 
 set your husband on, and all the rest followed him ; so Miss 
 Viney tells me." 
 
 " My gracious ! " 
 
 " And now she wants the money to assist Mr. Burton out 
 of the difficulty into which you have plunged him." 
 
 " That's plain speech, squire," said the farmer. 
 
 " But true." 
 
 " I can't raise the money." 
 
 " Then I must sue." 
 
 " Can't we compromise ? " 
 
 " Burton is worth at least five thousand dollars, and, when 
 he gets a remittance from Boston, will pay all." 
 
 " I will dissolve my attachment, and be bound for tho 
 payment of the others. Will that do it ? " 
 
 " Yes, if Miss Viney will consent." 
 
 Miss Viney did consent, she was a kind-hearted lady 
 and the matter was compromised. 
 
 " Now, wife," said Farmer Waxwell, on the following 
 week, as he put the three hundred dollars in his pocket 
 which Burton had paid, minus thirty which he held in hii
 
 124 THE NEW CLOAK. 
 
 hand, " here's thirty dollars, and I think you'd better go and 
 buy one of them 'ere cloaks. Your foolish envy like to 
 have got me into the cu'sedest scrape I ever got into in 
 my life." 
 
 She would not take it ; she was too mean to dress well 
 nerself, and too envious to permit others who were able to 
 ao so in peace. But she gathered from the events of our 
 story a healthy experience of the wisdom of that excellent 
 maxim "MiND TOUS OWN BUSINESS."
 
 "EVERY THING COMFORTABLE." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " You have every thing comfortable, Maria," said Mrs. 
 Belladonna Buttercup, to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Sparrow, 
 at whose house she was making a visit ; " every thing com- 
 fortable" 
 
 The speaker placed a very significant emphasis upon the 
 last word, which, in connection with her peculiar tone of 
 voice, and the half apparent sneer on her lips, was equiva- 
 lent to saying, " You have all that is absolutely necessary to 
 make your house habitable ; you have beds, and chairs, and 
 tables, but your furniture is of the most ordinary descrip- 
 tion plain, cheap, and old-fashioned. It would not suit 
 me." 
 
 Mrs. Belladonna Buttercup was a New York lady ; that 
 is to say, she had formerly been a shop girl in Boston, and, 
 having considerable talent at diplomacy, had captivated the 
 senses of a dry goods clerk on four hundred dollars salary, 
 become Mrs. Buttercup, and moved to New York. She was 
 an ambitious person, and though she had been brought up 
 in a ten footer in an obscure street, she earnestly desired to 
 become what is technically called a " lady." Fashion was 
 her god. To dress well, to live in a fine .house, furnished 
 11* (125)
 
 126 EVERT THING COMFORTABLE. 
 
 d la mode, and to move in fashionable society constituted 
 her highest ideal of human happiness. 
 
 Mr. Buttercup entertained similar views. It is true, he 
 was only a poor clerk when he married, he had married to 
 redeem his wife from the drudgery of her occupation, and 
 when he went to New York he had a hard struggle to sup- 
 port her, even in a five dollar boarding house. At the end 
 of a year, circumstances so favored him that he was enabled 
 to go into business on his own account. In a small shop, 
 which his former employer stocked for him, taking a mort- 
 gage with interest at the rate of twenty per cent, per annum, 
 he rushed boldly into the stream, assured it would bear him 
 to opulence and an influential position in society. 
 
 Fortune favored him, and the first year showed a gain of 
 a thousand dollars. The young man was elated, and having 
 lived within his means, he had a considerable surplus on his 
 hands. Taking a larger store and employing two additional 
 clerks, he commenced his second year. He was the biggest 
 man on Broadway ; talked magnificently about his business 
 operations, and innocently magnified his last year's profits 
 to five thousand dollars. Things looked so promising with 
 him that the importers and jobbers gave him all the credit 
 he desired. Mr. Buttercup was perfectly satisfied that he 
 was on the high road to fortune. As Richelieu says in the 
 play, there was no such word as " fail " in his vocabulary. 
 
 Of course, a five dollar boarding house could no longer be 
 tolerated, and to Mrs. Buttercup's inexpressible satisfaction, 
 her husband engaged a room in a fashionable establishment 
 "up town." It was only one room, and Mr. B. had con- 
 tracted to pay twenty dollars a week for it, washing and
 
 EVEJ1Y THIXG COMFORTABLE. 127 
 
 *' sundries " extra. The ambitious lady went a shopping a 
 few days after, and contrived to get rid of a hundred dollars, 
 which the complacent shopkeeper in an impulsive moment 
 had placed in her hands. Milliners and dressmakers were 
 in demand for a time, and Mrs. Buttercup's present ambition, 
 was fully satisfied. It is true, she could see in the distance 
 an establishment of her own, with imported carpets and 
 mirrors, with a train of liveried servants, a carriage with 
 the Buttercup arms blazoned on its panels ; and a faint 
 whisper from the admiring crowd, " There goes the ele- 
 gant Mrs. Buttercup ! " reached her ears. The future was 
 full of glorious visions, full of royal splendors, full of every 
 thing that the heart of vanity could conceive. But for the 
 present, she was satisfied. 
 
 Things went on swimmingly at the new store, and when 
 Mrs. Buttercup proposed a tour to the east, her husband 
 readily assented. Our lady of magnificent aspirations had 
 considerable difficulty in deciding whether she should pro- 
 pose Saratoga or home for the summer excursion. On the 
 one hand, Saratoga was fashionable, and she would have 
 abundant opportunity to make the acquaintance of the ex- 
 clusives. But on the other hand, if she went home, she 
 could create a tremendous sensation among her own and her 
 husband's friends and relatives. She could carry the New 
 York fashions among them ; could astonish them with a 
 display of her elegant silk, made by Madam Hippolyta Hy- 
 falutin, from Paris, and her splendid new bonnet from the 
 .celebrated rooms of Madam Hesperiana Blomereaux, also 
 from Paris. These things would scarcely be noticed by the 
 fashionables of Saratoga the absence of them alone would 
 make a noise there.
 
 128 EYERY THING COMFOBTABLE. 
 
 And then her husband's glorious prospects in the dry goods 
 line, as well as the immense business he at present transacted 
 it would be so delightful to hear Tim tell them all about 
 it ! How his old father's eyes would stick out when he heard 
 his son talk about a hundred thousand dollars so beautifully 
 and so indifferently ; how he would open his mouth with 
 wonder, when Tim should tell him that the firm of Funk, 
 Hunk, and Co. the most extensive dry goods establishment 
 in New York had offered him three thousand dollars salary 
 to superintend their retail department, and how indignantly 
 he had rejected the offer. Tim had such a graceful way of 
 telling these things ; indeed, she knew that he could make 
 the most out of a very small matter. 
 
 They could create a sensation at home, and the prospect of 
 being the " bright particular star " of a circle of admiring and 
 wondering friends enabled her to decide between Saratoga and 
 the east. The preparations Avere completed, and in due time 
 they reached the " village of Boston," as Tim facetiously 
 termed it. 
 
 Father and mother were duly astonished when the magnif- 
 ; cent Mr. Buttercup spread himself. The old gentleman's 
 jyes stuck out, and his mouth was all agape with wonder. 
 He " couldn't exactly see how Broadway, if 'twan't more'n 
 a hund'ed foot wide, could hold all the carriages Tim telled 
 on stoppin' afore his door." 
 
 In the course of events, Tim and his accomplished lady 
 called on his sister, Mrs. Sparrow, whose husband was the 
 secretary of an insurance company. Mr. Sparrow lived in 
 his own house a small, but neat and convenient struc- 
 ture. It was plainly furnished ; but reasonable people said 
 they were prettily situated, while those who knew them best 
 were sure they were contented and happy.
 
 EVEKY iniNG COMFORTABLE. 129 
 
 Mrs. Belladonna Buttercup looked over the house, and 
 turned up her nose at it. Tim's mother was with them, and 
 the simple-minded old lady was so indiscreet as to ask her 
 magnificent daughter-in-law how she would like just such 
 an establishment. She should not like it ; it would not suit 
 her. When she went to housekeeping, not less than six 
 thousand dollars would furnish her house. At present, she 
 preferred boarding. 
 
 " Then you don't like my house, Belladonna ? " asked 
 Mrs. Swallow, with the slightest appearance of disappoint- 
 ment on her smiling face. 
 
 " Well, I can't say that I do, Maria," replied Mrs. Butter- 
 cup, languidly. 
 
 " It is as good as any body need have," added Mrs. But- 
 tercup, Senior. " If I ever see Tim as comfortably settled 
 as Charles is, I shall be perfectly satisfied." 
 
 " Dear me ! Tim wouldn't look at such an establish- 
 ment." 
 
 " He may be glad to yet." 
 
 " I am sure I always liked my house very much indeed," 
 said Mrs. Swallow. 
 
 " You have every thing comfortable, Maria ; every thing 
 comfortable" 
 
 " It is as good as my husband can afford ; and housekeep- 
 ing is so much preferable to boarding." 
 
 " Do you think so ? I would not go to housekeeping for 
 all the world." 
 
 Mrs. Swallow shook her head. 
 
 " But then it depends, of course, upon whether you get a 
 good boarding house," continued Mrs. Buttercup. " We are 
 delightfully situated. Some of the first families in the city
 
 130 EVERY THING COMFORTABLE. 
 
 board there. Besides, there is so much society in New York, 
 I really don't think I could find time to keep house. Why, 
 there is the Hon. Mr. Flunkey he is a .member of Con- 
 gress, you know invited us to go out to his country seat 
 on the Hudson and spend the summer. Mrs. Flunkey 
 pressed and insisted, and would not take ' no ' for an 
 answer." 
 
 " Did you go ? " asked Mrs. Buttercup, Senior. 
 
 " Why, no ; we couldn't go. Tim's business drove him 
 so, that the poor fellow couldn't sleep nights. And there 
 are the Smallheads they live next door to N. P. Willis, 
 out to Lazy wild " 
 
 " Idlewild," suggested Mrs. Swallow. 
 
 " So it was ; well, they would have us come and spend a 
 month with them. They are very fine folks. General 
 Smallhead was an aide-de-camp with General Washington 
 at Braddock's defeat, you remember." 
 
 " Indeed ! then he must be a very old man," added Mrs. 
 Swallow. 
 
 " About fifty." 
 
 "Why, Braddock's defeat occurred a hundred years 
 ago!" 
 
 ^'O, no; you are mistaken," replied Mrs. Buttercup, 
 blushing a little. " But no matter ; he insisted on a visit. 
 What could I do with a house ? " 
 
 " Very true," answered Mrs. Swallow, politely. 
 
 " And then Tim has a season ticket at the opera. He 
 paid two hundred dollars for a choice of seats last season." 
 
 " Did he ? " said the mother-in-law, with a frown. 
 
 " And it is so pleasant when you are away so much to be 
 lid of the responsibility of keeping house."
 
 EVERY THING COMFORTABLE. 131 
 
 Mrs. Swallow did not think so. But Mrs. Buttercup had 
 others in view whom it was her purpose to astonish, and she 
 took her leave soon after. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FOB the first time in her housekeeping experience, Mrs. 
 Sparrow felt a little discontented, after her sister-in-law had 
 gone. Her pleasant little house looked smaller than ever 
 before; its plain, substantial furniture looked coarse and 
 common. Why couldn't her husband have some of the fine 
 things that other people had ? Why couldn't she have a 
 carved rosewood table, antique chairs, a tapestry carpet, and 
 velvet draperies at the windows ? Her husband owned the 
 house in which they lived, and had over a thousand dollars 
 in the bank. Mrs. Walbend, in the next house, had all 
 these fine things, and her husband got but a thousand dol-? 
 lars a year, while Mr. Swallow got fifteen hundred. 
 
 " Charles," said she, when her husband came home to tea 
 that evening, " I have been thinking of something." 
 
 " Have you, indeed ! That is rather remarkable," replied 
 Mr. Swallow, with a smile. 
 
 " You don't want to know what, I suppose." 
 " I do ! I am ' dying with curiosity,' as the ladies say." 
 " Well, then, I will tell you ; but don't be cross about it." 
 Mr. Swallow promised not to be cross about it. 
 " I have been thinking about having some new furniture." 
 The husband stuffed a tea roll into his mouth. Evidently 
 the subject was not a very inviting one to him. 
 " I want you to entirely refurnish the house."
 
 132 EVERY THING COMFOETAJBLE. 
 
 Mr. Swallow upset his tea. 
 " You can afford it, can't you ? " 
 " I think not, my dear." 
 " Yes, you can, Charles." 
 
 " What has got into you, Maria ? " asked her husband, 
 very seriously. 
 
 " You promised not to he cross." 
 
 " I won't be ; but I am very much surprised. I thought 
 you were perfectly satisfied with your house and furniture." 
 
 "We have every thing comfortable, but " Mrs. Swal- 
 low paused. 
 
 " What more do you want ? " 
 " Our furniture is not in fashion." 
 " The d euse it isn't ! " 
 
 " No ; and I want some antique chairs, a carved centre 
 table, a tapestry carpet, and velvet draperies, for the win- 
 dows " 
 
 " What else ? " 
 
 " And a mirror seven feet high to go between the win- 
 dows." 
 
 " Call it twelve, my dear." 
 
 " If you could only hear Belladonna tell of the houses in 
 New York. Why, she says the Hon. Mrs. Chopstick has a 
 mirror in her parlor which is twenty feet high by fifteen 
 wide." 
 
 " Did she tell you how big the doors of that house were ? " 
 " And the carpet which General Smallhead bought last 
 winter cost nineteen dollars and a half a yard." 
 "And a half?" 
 
 " Yes ; they asked twenty, but the general bought BO much 
 that they took off half a dollar."
 
 EVEKY THING COMFOKTABLE. 133 
 I 
 
 " Our rooms are so small that we should have to pay 
 twenty, then," added Mr. Swallow, with a laugh. 
 
 " Other folks live so fine, why can't we ? " 
 
 " Other folks have money." 
 
 " So have you." 
 
 " A little ; but I mean to keep it in preference to buying 
 this trumpery with it." 
 
 " Since Belladonna has been here, I feel quite discon- 
 tented." 
 
 " Belladonna is a silly creature, and I thank my stars that 
 my wife is not like her," replied Mr. Swallow, chucking the 
 pretty little pouting wife under the chin. 
 
 " But she knows what the fashions are." 
 
 " And that is all she does know." 
 
 " She says we have * every thing comfortable.' " 
 
 " Which is very true." 
 
 " But we are not in style." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " 
 
 " Won't you buy some more stylish furniture, Charles ? " 
 
 " No, my dear ; I cannot afford it." 
 
 " If you could only hear Belladonna talk ! " 
 
 " Probably she makes things appear full as bright as they 
 are." 
 
 " Tim is doing a great business ; making thousands and 
 thousands of dollars." 
 
 " I hope he is." 
 
 " Why, Charles ! he has taken a great store in Broadway, 
 and keeps, I don't know how many clerks he said fifty or 
 a hundred." 
 
 Mr. Swallow's cough troubled him. 
 
 '' Maria, you used to be very contented and happy. Don't 
 12
 
 134 EVEEY THING COMTOKTABLE. 
 
 let this silly idea get possession of you. Our house is ' 
 furnished very well. If I had twenty thousand dollars, I 
 would not furnish it any better that is, not to please my- 
 self. If Tim can afford to live in better shape than I do, 
 let him ; it will not disturb me. Don't think any thing 
 more about it." 
 
 " I won't, Charles ; but I felt so cheap when Belladonna 
 talked so familiarly of all those fine things, and of her ac- 
 quaintances among the elite ; I felt as though I was nobody." 
 
 " Wait, my dear, wait a while. Time will show what all 
 these great pretensions amount to. I hope Tim will do 
 well ; but with such loose ideas ojf economy as he appears 
 to have, and, more than all, with such a silly, extravagant 
 wife, there is much to fear." 
 
 Mrs. Swallow was satisfied. The words of her more ex- 
 perienced husband banished the feelings of chagrin and dis- 
 contentment she had permitted herself to harbor. A careful 
 reconsideration of Belladonna's extravagant stories convince--' 
 her that some of them, if not made out of " whole c) 
 were greatly exaggerated, and she came to the co- 
 that her -sister-in-law was no more of a lady in reality 
 she was herself. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ABOUT six months after the events we have detailed, as 
 Mr. and Mrs. Swallow were sitting down to breakfast, they 
 were surprised by the abrupt appearance of Tim and his 
 wife. 
 
 " This is unexpected," said Mr. Swallow. 
 " Rather sudden," replied Tim, more seriously than he 
 was wont to speak.
 
 EVJ2BY THING COMFOETABLE. 135 
 
 * I am glad to see you. Breakfast is all ready." 
 
 " We have left New York for good," interposed Bella- 
 donna, after she had kissed and hugged her sister-in-law 
 twenty times an exhibition of affection which she had not 
 before manifested since she became Mrs. Buttercup. 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed Charles and Maria together. 
 
 " Fact ! " said Tim, with a melancholy laugh. 
 
 " And I am so glad to get away fr*om there ! I always 
 hated New York ! " added Belladonna. 
 
 " Why, I thought you liked New York. Pray, how are 
 your friends the Smallheads, the Flunkeys, and the Chop- 
 sticks ? " 
 
 " I hate them all ! " 
 
 " Going into "business in Boston, Tim ? " asked Mr. 
 
 - 
 
 Swallow. 
 
 " Is it possible you have not heard of it ? " said Tim, look- 
 ing his brother-in-law hard in the face. 
 
 " Heard of what ? " 
 
 " My misfortunes." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " Bu'st up." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it." 
 
 " Sad, but true ; " and Tim essayed a stroke of humor. 
 " Yes, sir ! bu'st up ; not a sixpence left poor as a church 
 mouse borrowed the money to come on with." 
 
 " Tim makes the best of it, you see," added Belladonna, 
 with a laugh. " For my part, I was almost glad he failed, 
 I was so rejoiced to get away from New York. But, Maria, 
 how have you been since I saw you ? " 
 
 " Very well indeed." 
 
 ' And how is little Charley ? the dear little fellow 1 "
 
 136 EVEBY THING COMFOBTABLE. 
 
 continued Mr. Buttercup, tenderly kissing the little boy, who 
 sat in the high chair at the table, and who had contrived to 
 daub his mouth pretty thoroughly with the molasses on his 
 buckwheat cakes. 
 
 " How long since this affair happened ? " asked Mr. Swal- 
 low, when the party had seated themselves at the table. 
 
 " Three weeks," replied Tim. " Took every thing I had 
 tried to get a situation couldn't find one." 
 
 " But where were Funks, Hunks, and Co. ? Didn't they 
 want you? " asked Maria. 
 
 Tim looked at her looked queer. 
 
 " No ; they have a man now," replied he. 
 
 " What are you going- to do ? " inquired Mr. Swallow. 
 
 " I happened to meet White in New York, and told him 
 how I was situated offered me five hundred a year to come 
 on as salesman accepted his offer." 
 
 Maria looked at Belladonna, and thought of furnishing a 
 house at an expense of six thousand dollars. 
 
 After breakfast, when Tim and Charles had gone out, Mrs. 
 Buttercup introduced another topic. 
 
 " How pleasant it would be if we could board with you ! " 
 said she abruptly. 
 
 Mrs. Swallow did not think it would.be so pleasant ; but 
 of course she could not say so, and, being too honest to belie 
 her own heart, she remarked that they did not live in very 
 good style. 
 
 " Good enough for any body, Maria." 
 
 " But if your friends, the Smallheads or the Flunkeys, 
 should happen to visit you " 
 
 " O, there is no fear of that ; if they did, I should not 
 care."
 
 EVERY THING COMFORTABLE. 137 
 
 " But we live so plainly compared with your fashionable 
 boarding houses." 
 
 " You live well enough ; and your house is so nice and 
 convenient O, I should be so happy ! " 
 
 " We have every thing comfortable," added Maria, slyly. 
 
 Mrs. Belladonna Buttercup stopped to think. That re- 
 mark sounded familiar to her ears. 
 
 "Very comfortable, and nice, and pretty ! I wish Tim had 
 just such a house ! " 
 
 " You have altered your mind." 
 
 "And just such furniture I should be so happy ! " 
 
 At dinner time the matter was still further discussed. 
 Though Mr. Swallow liked Tim very well, he did not like 
 his wife ; but, in consideration of their unfortunate condition, 
 he consented to receive them as boarders. 
 
 Mrs. Buttercup never says a word now about an establish- 
 ment, and Tim has a more serious and "respectful way of 
 speaking of a hundred thousand dollars. The Smallheads 
 are never mentioned, and Tim thinks he missed it when he 
 moved into a larger store. Belladonna declares she never 
 heard of such a thing as a mirror twenty feet long by fifteen 
 high, and is quite sure the Smallhead carpet did not cost 
 above three dollars a yard. 
 
 Mrs. Swallow is satisfied that fine furniture does not make 
 a happy wife. She regards the New York experience of her 
 brother and his wife as an excellent commentary on the 
 vanity of magnificent pretensions. And though her husband 
 has been elected cashier of the Bay State Bank, with a salary 
 of twenty-five hundred dollars per annum, she is still content 
 with hav'ng " ETEBT THING COMFORTABLE." 
 12*
 
 FAMILY JARS. 
 
 A LESSON FOB WIVES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 '* HE'S real ugly, there ! He treats his wife shamefully ! " 
 exclaimed Mrs. Benson, a pretty little woman, who had been 
 a wife just eleven months and twelve days. 
 
 " Perhaps not, my dear," replied the young husband, 
 quietly crossing his legs over the top of the fire frame, and 
 puffing out a long wreath of smoke from his mouth as he 
 removed the fragrant regalia. 
 
 " Perhaps not ! "Why, haven't I seen it myself? " 
 
 " You are not acquainted with all the circumstances." 
 
 " Pshaw ! A man that can treat his wife so rudely is a 
 perfect brute ; I don't care what the circumstances are." 
 
 " Brown always was a good-hearted fellow, and if he is 
 changed at all, matrimony has done it." 
 
 "Thank you, Charles; you are very complimentary. I 
 wonder if matrimony has changed you." 
 
 " Why, Julia, we have not been married quite a year yet," 
 replied the husband, smiling. 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " Brown has been married five years," replied Mr. Benson, 
 with admirable self-possession. 
 
 (138)
 
 .FAMILY JARS. 139 
 
 " Then you think / have not shown out what I am yet ? " 
 
 " Bah ! My dear, you are making quite a personal matter 
 of it. We were speaking of Brown." 
 
 " Brown is a hrute a hog ! " said the lady, in a pet. 
 
 " What has Brown done ? " 
 
 " Done ? Why, good gracious ! he is enough to wear out 
 a woman's patience." 
 
 " I dare say, my dear ; but what has he done ? " 
 
 " Every thing. He is wearing his poor, patient wife out ; 
 she will die poor, weak, sensitive thing under such 
 treatment." 
 
 " No doubt of it ; but you do not tell me what he has 
 done." 
 
 " I don't mean to say that he beats her." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Nor starves her." 
 
 " Does he scold at her ? " 
 
 " No ; if he would only scold, it would be a relief to her." 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Brown ! " 
 
 " He is so cold and distant ; I am sure he married her for 
 her money." 
 
 " Quite likely ; but how is it with Mrs. Brown ? Is she 
 an angel ? " 
 
 " I don't know as she is an angel ; but she bears her sor- 
 rows like an angel. The poor thing had been crying, I 
 know, when I called there this afternoon." 
 
 " Did she tell you what the matter was ? " 
 
 " Yes ; you know we were children together, and never 
 bad any secrets," replied the young wife, with a troubled ex- 
 pression ; for she had some doubts as to the propriety of 
 what she had done.
 
 140 FAMILY JABS. 
 
 "Don't meddle with a quarrel between man and wife, 
 Julia," said Mr. Benson, shaking his head. 
 
 " I could not hear to see her suffering ; so I asked her what 
 the matter was." 
 
 " I am sorry you did." 
 
 " I could not help it, Charles ; I pitied her so, and I was 
 pretty well satisfied as to the cause of her grief." 
 
 "And her husband ill treats her ? " 
 
 " He does not love her. She says he has been two or 
 three days without speaking to her." 
 
 " That is bad ; but who is to blame ? " 
 
 " Who is to blame ? Why, he, of course ; " and the pret- 
 ty little Mrs. Benson looked up in astonishment from the 
 little cap she was embroidering. 
 
 " Why of course '?"' 
 
 " He don't consult her tastes in regard to his dress. If 
 she asks him to bring her home any thing from down town, 
 ten chances to one he forgets it. He don't seem to care for 
 her feelings. The poor thing says she has cried for an hour 
 in his presence, and he has sat like a log, perfectly unmoved 
 so different from you, Charles." 
 
 " Perhaps Mrs. Brown is not in every respect like you, 
 my dear." 
 
 The young wife looked up with a smile of gratified pride. 
 She was yet young and beautiful, and, what was far better 
 than youth and beauty, she was good tempered, kind, and 
 . reasonable. Mrs. Brown's case excited all her sympathies, 
 and she proceeded to detail to her husband a list of the poor 
 lady's trials. But, as the reader will be better able to appre- 
 ciate them by being present during the scene described, we 
 will introduce the injured lady and her unfeeling husband.
 
 FAMILY JARS. 141 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MBS. BEOWN sat by the fire in the parlor, turning 
 over the pages of the last new novel. Occasionally she 
 sighed, as though the world had used her badly, and she 
 had not the means of paying off the world for its ill treat- 
 ment. 
 
 Mr. Brown kept a dry goods store, and, being a prudent, 
 industrious man, he substituted his own services for those of 
 an extra clerk, which kept him busily occupied from an early 
 hour in the morning till late in the evening. 
 
 He had been married five years, and, for some reason un- 
 known beyond the pale of his own home, his matrimonial 
 experience, without being decidedly stormy, was very far 
 from being pleasant and profitable to either party. Brown 
 was a good-hearted fellow, and always looked on the bright 
 side of things. If the world would only move along smooth- 
 ly, he was perfectly satisfied, and never felt disposed to quar- 
 rel wifh any body. 
 
 Mrs. Brown's disposition was not particularly objectiona- 
 ble ; she was kindhearted, clever, and amiable, as the world 
 goes ; but some how nothing ever went right with her. It 
 seemed as though every body took a malicious pride in tor- 
 menting her Brown in particular. If Brown bought sau- 
 sages for dinner, she was sure to want mutton, and if mut- 
 ton, she was sure to want sausages. 
 
 Brown could not understand it. Whatever he did was 
 sure to be exactly wrong. But Brown was a philosopher ; 
 and, though he sometimes got so disgusted that he held his
 
 142 FAMILY JABS. 
 
 tongue for several days, he maintained a very tolerable de- 
 gree of good nature. 
 
 Brown treated himself to a new overcoat. Being reason- 
 ably independent in such matters, he had assumed the 
 responsibility of purchasing the garment without consult- 
 ing his wife. 
 
 Imprudent Brown, thus to expend the sum of eighteen 
 dollars without consulting Mrs. B. ! Reckless Brown, thus 
 to buy that brown coat, when all the experience of the past 
 pointed to the appalling consequences ! Did you not re- 
 member the last time you purchased a pair of pants, that 
 neither the hue nor the texture suited your amiable partner ? 
 Did you not call to mind the last curtain lecture on this very 
 topic, when you audaciously ordered the tailor to make you 
 a coat off that piece? Knew you not that Mrs. B. likes not 
 black, drab, green, brown, olive, blue, nor any thiag of the 
 fancy order ? 
 
 But Brown recklessly ordered the coat, and when it was 
 done, he recklessly put it on. What made the offence a 
 hundred fold more horrible, he coolly marched, with the coat 
 on, into the parlor where Mrs. B. sat by the fire, tinning 
 over the pages of the last new novel. 
 
 The lady was thunderstruck ; but she was not one of your 
 spitfires, who make a tremendous tempest in your presence 
 when any thing does not suit them. She was meek, patient, 
 suffering, under any indignity, even one so pointed and 
 wicked as in the present case. 
 
 The lady looked up from her book, and bestowed a lim- 
 juid smile upon the partner of her joys, and, alas ! of her 
 orrows too. 
 
 Brown smiled in return; he could not do less than smpje.
 
 FAMILY JARS. 143 
 
 He even looked innocent, as though he had done nothing 
 wrong as though he had not aimed a blow at the peace of 
 his amiable lady. 
 
 " "What have you got on, Jonas ? " asked she, mildly. 
 
 " An overcoat," replied Brown, sententiously. 
 
 " A new one ? " sighed the lady. 
 
 " Just from the tailor's shop," answered Brown, screwing 
 up his courage to meet the onslaught. 
 
 " You know I don't like brown, Jonas." 
 
 " I do," replied Brown, valorously. 
 
 "You know I never liked brown." 
 
 Brown had half a mind to construe the remark into a pun ; 
 but he was forbearing, thought no evil, and so kept silence. 
 
 " It's a sack too ; you know I never liked a sack." 
 
 " I always did." 
 
 " A surtout would become you much better." 
 
 " I like a sack." 
 
 " It is a horrid-looking coat," sighed Mrs. Brown. 
 
 " Muddle says it is the best looking coat I ever had on." 
 
 " Muddle ! Of course he would say so." 
 
 " Temple said so too." 
 
 *' Temple has no taste." 
 
 " I agree with Temple." . 
 
 " You never will wear a coat that suits me." 
 
 Brown thought this was strictly true, but, being a prudent 
 man, he held his peace. 
 
 " You still persist in letting Muddle make your clothes, 
 though he charges you more than any one else would." 
 
 " His prices are reasonable." 
 
 *' I wish you would let some other tailor make your coat ; 
 Muddle's clothes never set well."
 
 144 FAMILY JARS. 
 
 "Fit me to a T." 
 
 " If it had only been black ! " 
 
 " But, my dear, you forget that my last coat was black, 
 and you did not like that." 
 
 " It suits your figure better than brown." 
 
 Just at that moment the door bell rang, and the servant 
 brought in a pair of pants. 
 
 " What is that ? " asked the lady. 
 
 " Pants." 
 
 Mrs. B. eagerly opened the bundle. The garment was 
 black. 
 
 " Black pants ! " exclaimed the lady, holding them up 
 Defore her ; " you know I don't like black pants." , 
 
 " Indeed, my dear, you just now said you did like black." 
 
 " Not black pants ; you know I never did like them ; 
 besides, they won't wear well." 
 
 " But, Mrs. B., I do not wish you to wear them." 
 
 The lady thought this was exceedingly cruel of Mr. Brown ; 
 tor she, poor woman, had no more idea of " wearing the 
 breeches " than she had of going to Congress. 
 
 " They suit me, my dear. I never interfere with your 
 taste in regard to bonnets and dresses.." 
 
 " I wish you would tell me what you like best ; I am sure 
 I desire to conform to your taste." 
 
 " Don't wish to. I cannot tell what is good taste in fur- 
 belows and flounces any more than a woman can in coats and 
 pants." 
 
 " But you might be a little more attentive to my wishes. 
 You used to once." 
 
 This was a hard hit, and Mr. Brown was silent. 
 
 " You don't seem to care whether I am suited or not now/'
 
 FAMILY JARS. 145 
 
 Brown still was silent ; the story had been repeated so 
 often that he knew precisely what to expect. 
 
 Mrs. Brown continued to rehearse her grievances, believ- 
 ing herself the most miserable woman in the world. Finally, 
 the tears gathered in her eyes, and she sobbed bitterly. 
 Brown was a monster ; he never tried to please her, even 
 in the slightest things ; and the thought l\iat her husband's 
 affections were alienated was perfectly overwhelming. 
 
 Brown had picked up the last new novel, which had fallen 
 from Mrs. B.'s lap, and sat turning over the leaves with the 
 most stoical indifference. How could Brown sit and see his 
 beloved wife, the partner of his joys and sorrows, weeping 
 as though her heart would break, and not offer her a word 
 of consolation ? Brown was a philosopher. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IT was after such a scene as we have described that Mrs. 
 Benson called upon the friend of her early years, and found 
 her in tears. 'She believed that poor Mrs. Brown was cruel- 
 ly treated by her hardhearted husband. 
 
 Several months elapsed, and the difficulty between Brown 
 and his wife increased. The lady was an habitual grumbler ; 
 she grumbled for the sake of grumbling, because it seemed 
 to be a " fixed fact " with her that grumbling was one of 
 the essentials of her existence one of the luxuries of life. 
 
 Though Brown was a philosopher, there is a point beyond 
 
 which even philosophy cannot go to defend its votaries. 
 
 The lady's unamiable peculiarity grew upon her, and 
 
 Brown's disgust threatened to produce a fatal rupture. 
 
 13
 
 146 FAMILY JAttS. 
 
 Several times after the lady had given him a lesson on the 
 duty of consulting a wife's taste, after she had cried her 
 eyes out with vexation because she could not grunvble any 
 more, her unfeeling spouse had deserted the house, re- 
 maining out till midnight. Some flying rumors were in cir- 
 culation, too, that he had heen seen " lingering long at the 
 bowl," and even that he frequented gambling houses. 
 
 Then people felt sorry for poor Brown, an honest, hard- 
 working, economical man as he was ; it was a great pity that 
 he should go to destruction. 
 
 Mrs. Benson felt keenly for her friend. Brown was a 
 monster ; and the injured lady told her she should certainly 
 die if a drunken husband were added to her other miseries. 
 She even wished Mrs. Benson to request her husband to talk 
 to Brown about his vicious propensities. 
 
 Mr. Benson had done so. Brown was a little " struck 
 up " at first, but quietly informed the obliging remonstrant 
 that, since home had become a hell to him, he had been 
 obliged to seek comfort in a grog shop, and concluded his 
 cold-blooded remark by suggesting that people had better 
 mind their own business. 
 
 Benson thought so too, and fully resolved not to meddle 
 with the matter again. But, although Brown had resisted 
 his well-meaning neighbor's interference, it was not without 
 its effect, and the injured lady had the satisfaction of inform- 
 ing her sympathizing friend that he did much better, that his 
 breath did not smell half so strong of rum, and that he was 
 at home every evening by nine o'clock. 
 
 Mrs. Benson was encouraged, and a few days after ac- 
 cepted an invitation to tea at the Browns'. 
 
 That day, the reckless, obstinate husband had worn
 
 FAMILY JARS. 147 
 
 nome to dinner a new plaid vest a pattern in fashion at 
 that time. 
 
 The lady did not like plaid she never liked plaid ; and 
 poor Brown went to the store leaving his. wife in tears at his 
 perverse taste. She had exhausted all her rhetoric in grum- 
 bling at the offending garment, and her hardhearted hus- 
 band had maintained his usual indifference to sighs and 
 tears. Brown was disgusted ; and, though we heartily ap- 
 prove of husbands pleasing their wives in these matters, 
 some how we cannot find it in our heart to blame him. She 
 always grumbled at him, and, poor fellow, what could he do ? 
 
 Mrs. Benson did not arrive in season to hear the lady's 
 gtory about the vest before Brown himself came. He was in 
 high glee, apparently, notwithstanding the recent tempest. 
 The visitor thought him a " very nice man," and she sighed 
 when she thought of his vicious propensities. 
 
 Brown was polite, very polite, and the pretty little Mrs. 
 Benson felt no reserve in his presence. 
 
 " What a pretty vest you have got on, Mr. Brown ! " said 
 she, smiling sweetly upon the horrible husband. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " exclaimed Brown, rubbing his hands 
 with excitement. 
 
 " Certainly, I do ; it's a perfect love of a vest. I shall 
 persuade Charles to have one just like it." 
 
 " How strange you talk, Julia ! " said Mrs. Brown. 
 
 "Strange! why?" 
 
 "To caU that vest pretty." 
 
 " I'm sure it is." 
 
 " It's a perfect fright. My husband has no taste in hia 
 dress." 
 
 " Why, now, I think he dresses with admirable taste,"
 
 148 FAMILY JARS. 
 
 replied Mrs. Benson, surveying the apparel of Brown, who 
 stood like a show image in the middle of the room. " 1 
 admire his taste." 
 
 " It is not my taste," sighed Mrs. Brown. 
 
 The pretty little sympathizing woman was seized with a 
 doubt whether Brown was such a monster, after all. 
 
 Just then Bridget popped her head in at the door to say 
 that the baker had not sent the tea cakes. 
 
 " The tea cakes, Jonas," said Mrs. Brown. 
 
 " There ! by all that is sweet and pleasant to the 
 taste, I forgot all about them," exclaimed Brown, seizing 
 his hat. 
 
 " Just the way always," groaned the suffering wife. " You 
 never will do the little errands I ask you to." 
 
 " Why, my dear, I intended to do the errand, but I forgot 
 it," pleaded Brown, with abundant good humor. 
 
 " You always forget what J want you to do." 
 
 " But, my love, I did not forget it on purpose." 
 
 " It's always the way ; " and Mrs. Brown threw herself 
 into a chair with an exhibition of despondency which would 
 have answered very well for the concentrated miseries of a 
 whole lifetime. 
 
 " There's no harm done ; it is only half past five, and I 
 will have the tea cakes here in ten minutes." 
 
 " You might just as well have brought them before." 
 
 Brown looked cross, threw down his hat in a pet, and 
 settled himself upon the sofa. 
 
 Mrs. Benson was silent with astonishment. Brown rose 
 fifty degrees in her estimation. 
 
 " Are you not going to get the tea cakes, Jonas ? " asked 
 Mrs. Brown, meekly, after the lapse of a few minutes.
 
 FAMILY JARS. 149 
 
 Brown was silent. 
 
 " You will not get back in season if you don't go soon.'* 
 
 Brown picked up the evening paper, but said nothing. 
 
 " I must go myself then," said the suffering lady, rising 
 from her chair. 
 
 Brown knew this was only a part of his wife's tactics ; 
 but the pretty little Mrs. Benson, for whose good opinion he 
 entertained some anxiety, was present, and he concluded to 
 go himself. 
 
 When he had gone, Mrs. Brown fixed a melancholy gaze 
 upon her visitor. 
 
 " Now you have seen just how he behaves," said she, 
 with a deep sigh. 
 
 " I have," replied Mrs. Benson, who for the first time per- 
 ceived that poor Brown was not the greatest sinner in the 
 world. 
 
 "And so he wears my life out." 
 
 " Perhaps your husband is not wholly to blame," sug- 
 g^sted Mrs. Benson. 
 
 " Why, Julia ! " exclaimed Mrs. Brown, with languid em- 
 phasis. " I am sure I bear and suffer every thing. I had 
 nearly cried my eyes out once before to-day." 
 
 " Mr. Brown seems disposed to be very good natured." 
 
 " Good natured, Julia ! Didn't you see how angry he 
 got ? He went out without speaking a word." 
 
 " But you do not reflect how cruelly you provoked him by 
 needlessly finding fault with him. If I should say half as 
 much to my husband as you said to Mr. Brown, he would 
 turn me out of the house," answered Mrs. Benson, who, aa 
 she found herself implicated in the quarrel, was disposed to 
 be very candid. 
 
 13*
 
 150 FAMILY JAKS. 
 
 " I was not conscious of doing any thing to provoke him." 
 
 " You found fault with his vest." 
 
 " But such a horrid-looking veat ! " 
 
 " There you and he differ ; you say he never complains of 
 your dress." 
 
 No." 
 
 " He respects your tastes, then. You know how bad you 
 feel when any person says any thing disparaging of your 
 clothes ; every body does." 
 
 " But he always dresses BO shamefully out" of taste." 
 
 " Other people do not think so ; but even if he did, you 
 should not find fault with him." 
 
 " I don't find fault," sighed Mrs. Brown ; " I only men- 
 tion what I like best." 
 
 " And the tea cakes, you ought not to have said a 
 word." 
 
 " Why, he is so careless " 
 
 " All men are of things about the house ; but you must 
 consider that their minds are full of business. My husban^l 
 is just so ; but then he has so many things to think of, I 
 wonder that he does not forget every little commission I 
 give him." 
 
 " But your husband is different from mine. He tries to 
 remember." 
 
 " Ah, Mary, I see now what has caused the rupture be- 
 tween you and Mr. Brown." 
 
 " Then you think I am altogether to blame ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not entirely ; but I am satisfied, from what I 
 know of your husband, that, if you cease to find fault with 
 aim, he will be all that a husband should be." 
 
 Mrs. Brown bit her lip, and was silent. The truth had
 
 FAMILY JABS. 151 
 
 forced itself home to her understanding. She was, as we have 
 before remarked, an amiable, goodhearted body ; but the fact 
 that she had actually grumbled away the peace of her once 
 happy fireside had never before occurred to her. Her eyes 
 were opened, and she saw that even so little a thing as ha- 
 bitual fault finding can alienate the affections of man and 
 wife, and transform home the temple of love and peace 
 into a hell. Her resolution was formed, and fortified by all 
 the strength of her nature. 
 
 Brown returned with the tea cakes. He was cold, sullen, 
 and reserved ; but a smile from his wife albeit a boon 
 seldom vouchsafed him restored him to his former equa- 
 nimity. 
 
 " Jonas, did you think to order some more coal to-day ? 
 Bridget says there is not enough to get breakfast with," ob- 
 served Mrs. Brown, as she handed her husband his second 
 cup of tea. 
 
 Brown confessed that he had forgotten it, and braced up 
 his nerves to meet the storm. ^ 
 
 " Never mind, Jonas ; we will contrive to get along with 
 wood." 
 
 Brown dropped his knife and fork in wonder, and looked 
 aghast at his wife. 
 
 It was no illusion ; his wife was as gentle in her thoughts 
 as in her actions. She found no fault ; and, for the first 
 time in many months, Brown felt sorry that he had forgotten 
 to execute her commission. 
 
 After tea, Mr. Benson came to spend the evening, and it 
 was one of the happiest evenings ever known beneath the 
 roof of the Browns. Nobody but the two ladies could tell 
 why, but, some how, every thing went different from the
 
 152 FAMILY JARS. 
 
 ordinary course of events in the family circle. Brown was 
 bewildered didn't know what io make of it that his wife 
 found no fault. 
 
 And she never found fault to any immoderate degree 
 again. Peace was restored. Brown went no more to the 
 drinking saloons, never staid out late at night, and never let 
 his wife cry without wiping away her tears. 
 
 He never knew what had produced the wonderful change 
 in his wife's temperament, hut he always laid it to the visit 
 of the pretty little woman who admired his plaid vest. 
 
 We never see a married man enter a drinking shop to 
 spend an evening without thinking that, perhaps, he has 
 been driven from his fireside by a snarling, petulant discon- 
 tented, fault-finding wife.
 
 LIFE INSURANCE; 
 
 OH, 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S LEGACY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " GOT his life insured ! Then he will certainly die ! " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Jones, the mother of a family of three children, 
 to her intimate friend Mrs. Brown, also rejoicing in the ma- 
 ternity of a promising brood of little ones. " For my part, 
 I would no more let my husband get his life insured than I 
 would let him cut his head off. He will certainly die." 
 
 " That is the lot of all mortals, Mrs. Jones, and I presume 
 my husband does not consider himself exempt from the com- 
 mon lot," replied Mrs. Brown. 
 
 " You know what I mean ; he will die before his time 
 comes." 
 
 " His time will have come when he dies." 
 
 " How captious you are ! " 
 
 " I do not understand you. The good book says that ' no 
 man knoweth the day nor the hour.' " 
 
 " But I never knew any man to get his life insured 
 without dying very soon after." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that getting a life insured is likely 
 to hasten the end of the assured ? " asked Mrs. Brown, with 
 a pleasant smile at the superstition of her friend. 
 
 (153)
 
 154 I-IFE INSUEANCE. 
 
 "Well, no, not exactly that ; only it is a bad sign." 
 
 " Pshaw ! Do you think your husband's barn is any more 
 likely to be burned down because he has taken the precau- 
 tion to have it insured ? " 
 
 " But that is not like getting one's life insured ; it really 
 seems to me just like trifling with serious things." 
 
 " How absurd ! " 
 
 " But it does. Only think of attempting to thwart the 
 will of God. Insuring a life ! " 
 
 " You take the wrong view of it." 
 
 " Our minister takes the same view of it," returned Mrs. 
 Jones, with triumphant assurance. 
 
 " He does not understand the subject then." 
 
 " Our minister don't ? " 
 
 " I am sure he does not." 
 
 Mrs. Jones permitted a sneer to play upon her lips, as 
 Bne paused in her sewing, and gazed at her friend. 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you know more than the 
 Rev. Mr. Schism, a regularly educated minister of the gospel, 
 in good and regular standing ? " continued she, scarcely able 
 to restrain her indignation within a reasonable limit. 
 
 " I presume the Rev. Mr. Schism has confined his atten- 
 tion mostly to the study of theology, and knows much more 
 about that than he does about the practical affairs of every- 
 day life," rejoined Mrs. Brown, somewhat warmly. 
 
 " He says that it is trifling with death to get one's life 
 insured ; and I am sure, if my husband got his life insured, 
 I should certainly expect he would die the very next day 
 after he did the sacrilegious thing." 
 
 " I think you told me the other day that Mr. Jones had 
 put some money in the Savings Bank." 
 
 " Only twenty dollars all he could spare."
 
 LIFE INSUBANCE. 155 
 
 " What did he put it there for ? " 
 
 " What for ? Why, to keep, of course." 
 
 " Why does he wish to keep it ? " 
 
 " What a fool you pretend to be ! " 
 
 " Pray answer me." 
 
 " Against a rainy day." 
 
 " Has he no definite purpose in laying up money ? " 
 
 " To be sure he has. He means to have something for 
 his family, in case he should be taken away." 
 
 " But isn't this trifling with serious things ? What does 
 your minister say about it ? " 
 
 " How silly you are ! " 
 
 " But you are providing against such a calamity as the 
 death of your husband." 
 
 " It is not like life insurance." 
 ^ " Just like it, only less efficient." 
 
 " I don't think so." 
 
 " Suppose your husband should die this year." 
 
 "Don't talk so." 
 
 " Nay, Mrs. Jones, it is well to look these things in the 
 face, especially when you have used your influence to prevent 
 your husband from making a provision for you in the event 
 of his death." 
 
 " He is opposed to the whole thing himself." 
 
 " Only think, if he should die this year, what would be- 
 come of you and your three children ? " 
 
 " Well, I suppose we should get along just as a thousand 
 others have done under the same circumstances." 
 
 " Think what a struggle you would have ! " 
 
 " Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," replied Mrs. 
 Jones, coldly. " But here is my husband ; he can speak for 
 himself."
 
 156 HFE INSURANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE two ladies, with whose conversation we have prefaced 
 our simple story, had been intimate friends for many years. 
 About the same time they had married men in humble cir- 
 cumstances, and taken houses near each other. 
 
 Their husbands were journeymen mechanics, honest, in- 
 dustrious, and frugal men, fair specimens of the bone and 
 sinew of New England. Their families had increased in 
 about the same ratio, and though they received good wages, 
 they found it required the most rigid system of domestic 
 economy to enable them to keep along, and save a trifling 
 sum against a " rainy day." 
 
 Brown was a thoughtful man, whose domestic and afiec- 
 tional nature was fully developed. He loved his wife and 
 children with a devotion worthy a reasonable being. His 
 happiest hours were spent by the cheerful fireside of home. 
 He was a conscientious parent, and his care for his depend- 
 ent loved ones reached beyond the day of their present pros- 
 perity. 
 
 In the future might be clouds and storms. The whirlwind 
 of adversity might burst upon him, and then what would 
 become of his wife of Charley, and Joey, and Emma ? 
 
 It was a question with which few would have troubled 
 themselves ; but it was a question of momentous importance. 
 It was not borrowing trouble ; it was prudent forethought. 
 But Brown was strong in his bone and muscle, and while 
 he had an arm, and there was bread in the land, he could 
 procure it. All he could do was to save a scanty pittance
 
 LIFE INSUBANCE. 157 
 
 from his wages to meet the hour of trial, if it should ever 
 come. 
 
 Death is no respecter of persons. It takes not only those 
 who leave houses, and lands, and money, and stocks behind 
 them, but it snatches the poor man away from his dependent 
 family. It robs the toiling wife and the helpless little ones 
 of the protecting arm which had been bread, raiment, and 
 shelter to them. 
 
 Brown hpped to live many years, to bring up his family, 
 and when, by and by, business prospered with him, to be 
 enabled to make a decent provision for them when he should 
 go hence. 
 
 Every man hopes thus much; many more than hope 
 they feel sure of it. 
 
 Brown was reasonable. A falling timber, a fever, a thou- 
 sand calamities, might carry him off before the year expired. 
 And what would become of his family then ? What more 
 could his wife do, with three helpless children, than take 
 care of them ? He could leave them no legacy. He was a 
 poor man. 
 
 The reflection was startling, The fear of death took pos- 
 session of him not the fear of passing through the dark 
 valley, for Brown was an honest man, and trembled not in 
 view of judgment and retribution, but the fear of leav- 
 ing his wife and children to hunger for food, to tremble with 
 cold, to starve for intellectual sustenance. For several 
 weeks he was gloomy and sad, and more than once he 
 questioned the wisdom of his getting married before he had 
 the means to support his family in case of his decease. 
 
 While thus depressed in spirits, his eye was attracted by 
 the advertisement of a Life Insurance Company. His coun- 
 14
 
 158 LIFE INSUEANCE. 
 
 tenance brightened up with a smile, as he read the notice. 
 The remedy was before him, and it seemed worse than folly 
 not to embrace it. 
 
 Before another week had passed away, he had thoroughly 
 investigated the whole subject, and insured his life in the 
 sum of three thousand dollars. 
 
 Like a true apostle of a good cause, he was not content to 
 enjoy the bles'sing alone ; and more than once he had called 
 the attention of his fellow- workmen to the subject. Many 
 of them had followed his example ; many of them were ob- 
 stinate, and among them Jones was the most obstinate of all. 
 
 Brown was always pleased to discuss his favorite topic. 
 Life insurance had been a boon of happiness to him ; it nad 
 dispelled the dark clouds which lowered over the future ; it 
 had done more to calm his mind in relation to that great 
 change which must come to all than the sermons of a hun- 
 dred years could have done ; and he was eager to confer 
 these blessings upon others. 
 
 Mrs. Brown was quite as enthusiastic as her husband ; and 
 when Jones entered the room where we left the ladies, a 
 strong hope that she might yet convert him to her faith per- 
 vaded her mind. 
 
 But Jones was more than usually obstinate. 
 
 " It's all a humbug, Mrs. Brown, you may depend upon 
 it," said he. " These fellows mean to get your money, and 
 keep it. You never will catch them paying the policies." 
 
 Mrs. Brown pointed him to the recorded experience of the 
 past. 
 
 " I put my money in the bank, and feel that it is safe." 
 
 " How much can you save in a year ? " 
 
 " Well, about a hundred dollars, as wages are now."
 
 LIFE INSUBANCE. 159 
 
 < 
 
 " Which is just my husband's estimate." 
 
 " But he pays nearly as much as that to keep insured." 
 
 " Very true. He is insured for three thousand dollars. 
 If he should die to-day which God forbid ! his family 
 would realize that sum." 
 
 " Perhaps they would." 
 
 " But, by putting one hundred dollars a year into the bank, 
 even if you got six per cent., compound interest, your money 
 would amount to only about six hundred dollars in five years." 
 
 " Call it twenty years how then ? " 
 
 " If you could be sure of living twenty years, perhaps the 
 money would amount to more than the policy. But only 
 think of your family if you should die within one, or even 
 five years ! " 
 
 " You are a shrewd one ! " said Jones, evasively. 
 
 " In twenty years your children will be able to take care 
 of themselves." 
 
 " It's all a humbug, you may depend upon it, Mrs. Brown ; 
 got up to support lazy fellows in idleness nothing more, I 
 candidly believe," replied Jones ; and there the conversation 
 ended, much to the regret of Mrs. Brown that she had been 
 unable to win a convert to the faith. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SOME six months after, while Jones was engaged in raising 
 a house, he fell from the plate to the ground, striking upon a 
 rock in his fall. He was conveyed to his home, and a coun- 
 cil of physicians pronounced it a hopeless case. His spine 
 was injured, and there was no possibility of recovery.
 
 160 
 
 He lingered along for a month in the most excruciating 
 agony, and then died. The expenses of his sickness and of 
 the funeral absorbed all his little savings ; and when his dis- 
 consolate wife, followed by her three fatherless children, re- 
 turned from the grave of her husband, she realized that she 
 was not only alone in the world, but that she was penniless 
 
 literally penniless. 
 
 It was a sad thought for the poor woman. Not even a 
 short season of mourning, which her widowed heart craved, 
 could be allowed her. Her children must not starve, and 
 there was no bread in the house. 
 
 Her neighbors, suspecting her situation, were kind to her, 
 and sent in provisions in abundance ; but instinctively she 
 shrunk from the mortifying alternative of accepting charity. 
 
 Poor woman ! what could she do ? How could she sup- 
 port her fatherless children ? She had no wealthy relatives 
 
 she was from the house of poverty herself. But she could 
 not live on charity. 
 
 The village in which she resided was a large place, and 
 though she was too proud to accept a gift, she was not too 
 proud to solicit work. "With her eyes yet red with weeping 
 over her husband's bier, she called upon several wealthy fam- 
 ilies to ask for their washing. 
 
 It was given her, and she began to feel a certain sense of 
 independence again, as she returned with her bundles of 
 clothes to her desolate home. 
 
 All she could do was given her ; and with a severe struggle, 
 she was able to support herself and children, and refused any 
 overtures of aid which were made her by her neighbors. 
 Mrs. Brown attempted to assist her friend, in a delicate way,, 
 but without success. Mrs. Jones toiled on with all her
 
 ZIFE INSURANCE. 161 
 
 strength and energy, preferring independence to every other 
 consideration. 
 
 But it soon became evident to her neighbors that her 
 health was suffering severely from this unremitting toil. 
 Remonstrances were in vain ; and ere another six months had 
 rolled away, Mrs. Brown was watching over the dying bed 
 of her friend. Little children, not old enough to understand 
 their lonely condition, were gathered around it to receive the 
 parting KISS of a dying mother. 
 
 Poor orphans ! God will take care of you, though all the 
 world be cold and cruel ! Ye shall not find another mother, 
 but the Father of the fatherless shall watch over and protect 
 you. 
 
 She died, and they placed her by the side of her husband, 
 over whose grave the grass had not yet grown. The hard 
 lot of poverty had hurried her into that early grave. The 
 want of a few of those dollars which the gay and heartless 
 thoughtlessly squander by the thousand, had carried her 
 down to that bourn where there is no sorrow, and the weary 
 are at rest. 
 
 The orphans were carried to the poorhouse. Life was a 
 desert to them. Home was no more. Love was in the cold 
 grave. 
 
 Was Jones right, or was he wrong ? Would not that 
 boon of our progressive age, life insurance, have averted 
 some part of this long list of calamities ? Would it not have 
 saved a mother's life ? Would it not have redeemed those 
 lonely orphans from the degradation and neglect of the poor- 
 house ? 
 
 It could not have saved Jones's life, but it could have been 
 a blessing to his family a blessing that would have reached 
 14*
 
 162 LIFE INSTTRANCE. 
 
 down to distant generations. It might have saved a home, 
 and more, far more than all beside, a devoted mother, to 
 those fatherless little ones. 
 
 Brown, too, has gone to his rest. But his death entailed 
 none of the miseries upon his family, which were the lot of 
 Jones's. His widow is a frugal and industrious woman ; but 
 labor is her helpmate her husband now ; she is not the 
 slave of toil. Brown left her the POOB MAN'S LEGACY.
 
 LAST DAY OF GRACE; 
 
 OB, 
 
 MR. LAWTON'S MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " I CAN'T stand it any longer, Lottie ; I won't have her in 
 the house ! " exclaimed Samuel Lawton to his wife. 
 
 " But what are you going to do about it, Samuel ? You 
 surely wouldn't have me turn my own mother into the 
 street." 
 
 " No, no not exactly that ; but can't you give her a 
 hint that she has staid long enough ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I can't, Samuel," replied the young wife, with 
 a sad and troubled look on her pretty face. " I don't see 
 why you should be so prejudiced against her." 
 
 " Don't you, my dear ? Do you think it is pleasant for 
 me to have one continually telling me I am extravagant, or 
 something of that sort ? She told me just now that I could 
 not afford to buy turkeys for our Sunday dinner, when she 
 saw me bring one home." 
 
 " She meant right, Samuek" 
 
 " But it is none of her business, Lottie." 
 
 " She is older and more experienced in these matters than 
 we are." 
 
 (163)
 
 164 I-A%T DAT OF GEACE. 
 
 " Fudge ! Do you believe, Lottie, that I don't know my 
 own business a great deal better than she or any one else 
 can teach me ? " and the young husband put on a look of 
 dignity which showed how deeply conscious he was^of his 
 own ability. 
 
 " I hope you do, Samuel," replied Lottie, who, as can 
 easily be supposed, was sorely perplexed by the difficulties 
 of her unfortunate position. 
 
 Poor thing ! She was a gentle-hearted, kind, and tender 
 woman, and loved her mother as truly as becomes a married 
 daughter. She was conscious that her mother had her pe- 
 culiarities, as who has not ? and it was a source of con- 
 tinued regret to her that her husband could neither under- 
 stand nor bear with them. 
 
 They had been married about a year and a half. Samuel 
 Lawton was a merchant on a small scale. His employer had 
 set him up in business about a year before his marriage, and 
 he had done well ; that is, above his expenses he had cleared 
 some eight hundred or a thousand dollars, which was con- 
 sidered a very fair income for a young man. 
 
 The young merchant was elated with his success, and, like 
 very many others in his situation, felt that he was an enter- 
 prising young man, and a thorough financier. The road to 
 wealth was before him, and already he had formed a very 
 clear idea of being at the head of a large importing house, 
 with clerks and lumpers by the dozen at his command. His 
 fancy also gilded the picture with a very costly mansion on 
 Pemberton Hill, with a carriage gnd two sleek horses, a foot- 
 man, and opera, concerts, and great parties to match. 
 
 Samuel Lawton formerly belonged to a " debating society," 
 in which the question of " early marriages " had been thor
 
 LAST DAT OF GRACE. 165 
 
 oughly discussed. The chairman had appointed him to sus- 
 tain the affirmative ; and either on account of the skill and 
 eloquence' with which he argued the point, or because the 
 members were in favor of matrimony at the earliest possible 
 day, it was decided that early marriages were eminently con- 
 ducive to the morality and happiness of mankind in general. 
 
 One of the strongest arguments which our hero could offer 
 in support of his cause was, that matrimony would save the 
 young man from early dissipation. He even went so far in 
 his zeal as to declare that a young man, even if he had not a 
 penny in the world, had better be married than wait till he 
 had the means. I will not trouble the reader with the facts 
 and statistics by which he made it appear that it was cheaper 
 to support man and wife than to support man alone. But 
 the best evidence he could give of his devotion to his philos- 
 ophy was to get married himself ; and accordingly, though 
 he had not the means of furnishing his house, and though 
 he was still deeply in debt for his stock, he took a wife in 
 the person of the youngest and last remaining daughter of a 
 widow lady, possessing a little property in her own right. 
 
 Of course the young man had to run in debt for all the 
 appurtenances of housekeeping ; but this was nothing ; he 
 was doing well. It made no difference how much a man 
 owed, provided he had the means to pay. He was very san- 
 guine of his future success. His profits would be at least a 
 thousand dpllars a year ; but, reckless fellow, he had no 
 more idea how far a thousand dollars would go than a baby. 
 It seemed to him a very large sum, and he gauged his do- 
 mestic expenditures on a pretty high scale. 
 
 When he married Mrs. Harding's last remaining daughter, 
 the widow was left alone. Lottie said it would be so nice
 
 166 LAST DAY OF GRACE. 
 
 to have her " dear mother " with her, and accordingly Sam- 
 uel had invited her to make his house her home. 
 
 The good lady was in the main a very clever sort of person, 
 who probably talked quite as bad, possibly a little worse, than 
 she meant. She saw that her son-in-law was going too fast, 
 and, in her own way, she made such comments as she deemed 
 it the duty of a faithful mother-in-law to make. 
 
 Mr. Lawton did not relish what he deemed her interfer- 
 ence. He was very clear in his own way, and to have a 
 woman dictate to him, and croak about the possible result of 
 his lavish expenditure, was intolerable ; and when his pa- 
 tience was thoroughly exhausted, he spoke to his wife upon 
 the subject, as we have written. 
 
 Truth has been compared to a two-edged sword, though it 
 is generally believed that one edge to the sinner is sufficient- 
 ly uncomfortable. Samuel Lawton had listened to his moth- 
 er-in-law's good advice, to her suggestions on the economy 
 of the household, for more than a year, and Mrs. Lawton 
 could not but wonder what it was that made her husband so 
 " touchy" about it just now. He had always turned off the 
 point of her rebuke with a jest ; but now he looked sour, 
 and actually wanted to get her mother out of the house. 
 
 The fact was, the young merchant had just begun to find 
 out that a thousand dollars a year would not " keep house " 
 like a nabob. Certain notes were about to fall due, and 
 little debts without number had been contracted. The un- 
 pleasant truth began to dawn upon him that he was going 
 faster than his means would permit. 
 
 In view of the consequences, he could already hear Mrs. 
 Harding's triumphant " I told you so." He had resolved to 
 reduce his expenses, to give over roast turkeys for his Sunday
 
 LAST DAT OF GBACE. 167 
 
 dicner, and come down to plain, old-fashioned pork and 
 be'ans ; but the idea of giving in that the odious mother-in- 
 law was in the right was not to be harbored. He had post- 
 poned the contemplated retrenchment till those said certain 
 notes began to cast ominous shadows in his pathway. It 
 must be done, and Mrs. Harding's presence became doubly 
 troublesome. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE poor, despised mother-in-law was so unfortunate as 
 to overhear some portion of the conversation which so near- 
 ly concerned her ; and the consequence was, that in less than 
 a week after, she left the house, bag and baggage, for the 
 home of another daughter, who had repeatedly pressed her 
 to come and live with her. 
 
 Mrs. Harding might have been provoked with her son-in- 
 law, but she prudently held her tongue, and made no men- 
 tion of the reason for her sudden departure. 
 
 Samuel felt quite a relief the very hour she left, and in the 
 evening, while they were seated in the little parlor, the baby 
 sleeping in the crib between them, he was so ungenerous 
 and unkind as to express himself to this effect. 
 
 " But, Samuel, you can't think how lonesome I shall be ; 
 you are in town all day," said the poor wife. 
 
 " Well, perhaps you will be for a few days ; but you will 
 get used to it." 
 
 Mrs. Lawton sighed. 
 
 " And then," continued Mr. Lawton, " you have the baby 
 to occupy the time." 
 
 Just then there came from the cradle a single rough, ring-
 
 1<68 I-AST DAY OF GKACE. 
 
 ing cough that peculiar, metallic-sounding cough which ia 
 like the knell of death to the ear of the loving mother. 
 
 " O n^rcy ! " exclaimed Mrs. Lawton, in tremulous tones, 
 as she sprang to the side of the cradle. 
 
 " What's the matter, Lottie ? " asked Samuel. 
 
 " Didn't you hear that cough ? " and the poor mother's 
 frame trembled, and her teeth chattered with alarm. 
 
 " I suppose Sammy has got a little cold." 
 
 *' It's the croup, Samuel ! Do run for the doctor as quick 
 as you can." 
 
 " To-night ? " 
 
 " Samuel, he may be dead before morning ! '* and the 
 tears coursed freely down the cheek of the anxious mother. 
 
 " Nay, Lottie, you are nervous." 
 
 " I know it ; but do go for the doctor." 
 
 " I will go if there is any need of it ; but, really, I do not 
 see that there is ; " and Samuel bent over the cradle to dis- 
 cover what had so alarmed his wife. 
 
 But the child still slept, and apparently breathed as freely 
 as ever. 
 
 " Nay, Samuel, go ; you know what the croup is." 
 
 " Certainly, I will go if you wish ; " and the young hus- 
 band put on his overcoat and left the house. 
 
 The residence of the young merchant was in D , a 
 
 town adjoining Boston, and the physician's house was full 
 half a mile distant. He could hardly restrain a smile at the 
 idea of going for a doctor when the baby had only coughed 
 once. 
 
 Dr. F was fortunately at home, and the two pro- 
 ceeded on their return together. The physician considered 
 the case much more serious than the inexperienced father had 
 deemed it.
 
 LAST DAT OF GEACE. 169 
 
 On their arrival, they found the child awake. The little 
 patient was breathing laboriously, and occasionally that 
 brazen cough rang from his throat. 
 
 " Croup ! " said the doctor, the moment he entered the 
 room. 
 
 " O doctor, do you think he will die ? " exclaimed the 
 agonized mother. 
 
 " No, no, no ! "^replied Dr. F , confidently. 
 
 The physician was a good-natured, good-hearted German, 
 who was thoroughly master of his profession. He had been 
 eminently successful in his practice, especially with children, 
 and his words were like oil upon the troubled waters to the 
 anxious mother. 
 
 " I am so frightened, doctor! " 
 
 " There is nothing to fear ; we have the case in season, 
 and there is no danger. Suppose you wait till to-morrow 
 morning before you call me ? I shrug my shoulders, and 
 tell you the child must die." 
 
 " O Samuel ! " exclaimed Lottie, looking at her husband. 
 
 Mr. Lawton was appalled by the significant .words. His 
 frame shook with terror. The child was his idol. He knew 
 nothing of the symptoms of the insidious and terrible dis- 
 ease that menaced the life of his darling little one ; he was 
 nervous and uneasy. Death seemed to cast a broad shadow 
 upon his home. 
 
 The doctor gave the child a little white powder, and placed 
 some bandages wet in cold water upon its throat and chest. 
 The effect was instantaneous ; the child instantly breathed 
 
 easier. Leaving the necessary medicines, Dr. F took 
 
 his leave, assuring the anxious parents that the little one 
 would be nearly well Ly morning. 
 15
 
 170 I-AST DAY OF GRACE. 
 
 But Mr. Lawton was uneasy, and Lottie was uneasy. An 
 undefinable dread had taken possession of their hearts. 
 Samuel Fas troubled. The child breathed with a -sad, 
 groaning sound, which shook every fibre in the nervous 
 system of the father and mother. He was conscious of 
 their inexperience ; the child might relapse, and symptoms 
 which they did not understand might appear. 
 
 " How I wish mother was here, SamueJ ! " said poor Lot- 
 tie, awed by the fearful responsibility that rested upon her. 
 
 Mr. Lawton had wished so before, and thought if he 
 once more had her in the house, he would give the world 
 to keep her there mothers-in-law are so exceedingly useful 
 at times ! 
 
 Samuel made no reply. Even in his terrible anxiety for 
 the life of his child, pride had not entirely deserted him. 
 
 Lottie shed a flood of tears. For the first time in her 
 life, her husband seemed cold and unfeeling, and it was 
 cruel in him not to second her wish in such an hour of trial. 
 
 " If he should grow worse, Samuel ! " continued the poor 
 wife. " 0, I am so fearful ! " 
 
 " I will go for your mother if you wish," replied Mr. 
 Lawton, the anguish of his wife getting the mastery of his 
 feelings. 
 
 " She has got cold ; I don't know as she would dare to 
 come out in the night air/' 
 
 " I will try, at least." 
 
 Mr. Lawton left the house. Mrs. Harding's new home 
 was not far off. He succeeded in rousing her, and, in spite 
 of her cold, she was ready in five minutes to accompany him. 
 
 His heart smote him as he thought how hard he had been 
 upon her how he had almost attempted to drive her from
 
 LAST DAT OP GRACE. 171 
 
 his roof; and in his soul he thanked God that she did not 
 know how mean he had been. 
 
 Her advice had been good. She had spoken to him for 
 his interest, not for her own ; and if she had not spoken it 
 exactly as he wished, why, it was only because she was hu- 
 man, and had infirmities, like all the rest of mankind. 
 
 In the moment of peril and trial, he felt what a blessing 
 it was to have a mother-in-law. 
 
 Mrs. Harding soon comforted Lottie. She understood 
 the case, and perceived that the danger was past. Her pres- 
 ence was like that of an angel. It restored the drooping 
 spirits of the devoted parents, and by midnight, worn out 
 with anxiety, they went to sleep by the side of the child, 
 whose slumbers, though troubled, were deep and sound. 
 
 The next morning, as Dr. F had predicted, Sammy 
 
 was nearly well, and Mr. Lawton went to his business as 
 usual ; but there was trouble brewing around him. He 
 spent nearly all the forenoon in vain attempts to raise the 
 money to meet one of his notes which came due that day. 
 He was unsuccessful, and, worn out and dispirited by his 
 anxiety on the previous night, he gave up in despair, and 
 went home, resolved to let the note be protested. 
 
 " You come home early, Samuel," said his wife. 
 
 The young merchant made no reply, but threw himself, 
 with a heavy sigh, into a chair. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter, Samuel ? " 
 
 " I am ruined, Lottie ! " replied he, gloomily. " I must 
 fail. This is the last day of grace, and I have left a note to 
 be protested." 
 
 Lottie was appalled by this intelligence. Mrs. Harding, 
 who sat by the fire, holding little Sammy, merely glanced at
 
 172 LAST DAY OF GEACE. 
 
 him. She did not use those awful words, " I knew it would 
 be so." 
 
 " Mother, you were right ; I have been too fast," said 
 Mr. Lawton, gazing sheepishly at her. " I thought very 
 hard of you for telling me I lived better than I could afford ; 
 but you were right ; I may as well own it." 
 
 " I am sorry for you, Samuel. How much is the note ? " 
 said Mrs. Harding, with a gentle look a look so kind and 
 forgiving that it wrung his soul. 
 
 " Eight hundred dollars," replied Lawton. 
 
 " Will you take the baby a moment, Lottie ? " continued 
 Mrs. Harding, who, giving Sammy into the hands of his 
 mother, went to the secretary, and wrote a check on her 
 bank for the amount. 
 
 " Why, mother, you wrong yourself," exclaimed the as- 
 tonished Lawton, as she handed him the check. 
 
 " Take it, Samuel ; pay your note, and live and learn," 
 replied she, with a benignant smile. 
 
 Lawton took the money, and hastened back to the city to 
 pay his note. His credit was saved, and hope again smiled 
 upon him. 
 
 In the course of conversation that evening, Lawton was 
 BO far humiliated as to make this remark, 
 
 " Mother, you will come and live with us again, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 " What ! after you have wished me out of the house ? " 
 replied Mrs. Harding, with a smile. " I heard your conver- 
 sation the other day." 
 
 " Forgive me, mother." 
 
 " Perhaps, Samuel, I am not always just as I ought to be ; 
 but we all have our weaknesses. I mean to do right."
 
 EAST DAT OF GRACE. 173 
 
 " I know you do ; I understand you now. Last night and 
 to-day have taught me your value ; and if I had heeded 
 your counsel, I need not have been pressed for money to- 
 day. Forgive me, mother." 
 
 " Freely, Samuel. I live only to make my children 
 happy." 
 
 Mrs. Harding resumed her residence at Lottie's, and from 
 that time to this she has been appreciated. Mr. Lawton 
 learned a lesson. The long proposed retrenchment was ex- 
 ecuted, and the prospect now is that he will die a rich man, 
 if he don't die too soon. 
 
 We were provoked to write this sketch by that con- 
 temptible squib from Punch, to the effect that Adam was 
 a happy man because he had no mother-in-law. If Cain 
 or Abel, in their babyhood, had the croup, measles, whoop- 
 ing cough, or any thing of that sort, we warrant he sighed 
 for that sq aib-ridden, conundrum-defamed commodity a 
 
 MOTHEB-IN -LATV. 
 
 15*
 
 MONTAGUE AND LADY. 
 
 A LESSON FOB HUSBANDS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " ANOTHEK new dress ! " exclaimed Mr. Simeon Montague 
 to his wife. " It does not seem to be more than three weeks 
 since you had one." 
 
 " Just two months, Simeon." 
 
 " And you need another ? " 
 
 " I should not ask for the money if I did not. And Franky 
 must have a new jacket, and Nellie a new cloak." 
 
 Mr. Montague sighed. 
 
 " I gave you fifteen dollars only a few weeks ago." 
 
 " What is fifteen dollars ? Do you think it will clothe 
 me and the children a year ? " replied Mrs. Montague in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 " Money comes hard," suggested Mr. Montague. 
 
 " I suppose it does ; but if you wish me and the children 
 to go half clothed, why, only say so." 
 
 " Of course, I wish nothing of the kind ; I only want you 
 to be as prudent as possible." 
 
 " I intend to be so." 
 
 " These are dreadful tight times." 
 
 " I should think they were," replied the lady, with a pal- 
 
 (174)
 
 MONTAGUE AXI) LADY. 175 
 
 pable sneer on her lip. " They have been just so, though, 
 ever since we have been married." 
 
 " "Won't next week do ? " 
 
 " I engaged a dressmaker for next Friday." 
 
 " I don't see how I can spare fifteen dollars to-day," said 
 Mr. Montague, musing, apparently, upon his financial affairs. 
 " I have a note to pay to-day." 
 
 " You have had a note to pay every time I have asked you 
 for money since we were married." 
 
 " I will try and have it for you to-morrow." 
 
 " I wan't to go out shopping to-day ; I can't go to-morrow." 
 
 " I cannot possibly spare it to-day. Won't ten dollars 
 answer your purpose ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I can make it do." 
 
 " If you can, I wish you would," replied the husband, as 
 he took out his pocket book and handed her that amount. 
 
 " I can only get a calico for myself." 
 
 "Well, won't that answer?" 
 
 " Are you willing to go to church with me with a calico 
 dress on ? " 
 
 " Certainly, my dear. Why not ? " 
 
 " I thought you had some pride." 
 
 " I have, but no foolish pride." 
 
 " A twenty-five dollar coat is hardly good enough for you 
 to wear to church." 
 
 " But I don't have one every month." 
 
 " You have two every year." 
 
 Mr. Montague did not think it was prudent to say any 
 more ; and putting on his hat, which he had just been brush- 
 ing with, the most scrupulous care, he surveyed his person 
 before the looking glass. His collar needed a little elevat-
 
 176 MONTAGUE AND LADY. 
 
 ing, his cravat had to be readjusted, and he discovered a 
 speck of dirt on his black coat, which was carefully removed. 
 His lady looked at him with a smile as he stood before the 
 glass. 
 
 " Calico dress, indeed ! " thought she. " There is not a 
 prouder man walks Washington Street than my husband." 
 
 Mr. Montague smoothed down his whiskers, and was 
 leaving the room, when a gentleman wishing to see him was 
 announced. 
 
 " Ah, Butler," said he, as the gentleman entered the 
 room. 
 
 " I called at your store yesterday, but did not find you," 
 said Butler, handing him a little paper. 
 
 *' Just so," said he, opening it. 
 
 Mrs. Montague was impertinent enough to look over his 
 shoulder as he read the paper. It ran as follows : 
 
 " Mr. Simeon Montague 
 
 To Apollo Club Rooms, Dr. 
 
 To your Quarterly Assessment, $25,00 
 
 " 1 Basket Heidsick Champagne, 16,00 
 
 " 100 Concha Cigars, 4,00 
 
 $45,00 
 Received Payment, 
 
 B. BUILEB, Steward." 
 
 " Just so," repeated Mr. Montague, throwing the bill on 
 the table, and taking out his pocket book. Sorry to trouble 
 you ; meant to have paid it last night." 
 
 "'No tiouble at all," replied Butler.
 
 MONTAGUE AND LADY. 177 
 
 *' Forty-five, is it ? " continued Montague, as lie counted 
 out the money. 
 
 " Forty-five." 
 
 The steward of the " Apollo Club Rooms " put the money 
 in his pocket, and bade his liberal patron good morning. 
 
 " It was too bad to make him call twice for that money, 
 wasn't it, Simeon ? " asked Mrs. Montague, when the steward 
 had gone. 
 
 " Of course I was sorry to give him any unnecessary 
 trouble," replied Mr. Montague. 
 
 " I thought you had a note to pay to-day ? " 
 
 " So I have." 
 
 " But can't you spare me the other five dollars for which 
 I asked you ? " 
 
 " Can't, possibly." 
 
 " I think your family ought to receive as much considera- 
 tion as the Club House, at least." 
 
 " I must go to the store, my dear ; I am in a great hurry." 
 
 " Sixteen dollars for champagne," said the wife, reading 
 from the bill, which she had picked up from the table. " I 
 only asked for fifteen." 
 
 " You would not have me niggardly at the Club Rooms, 
 <vould you ? " 
 
 " I would not have you go there at all. I suppose it is 
 nothing to be niggardly in your family ? " 
 
 " Am I niggardly ? " asked Mr. Montague, rather sternly. 
 
 The lady was silent. 
 
 " One would think that I was made of money, by the way 
 you ask me for it," continued Mr. Montague. 
 
 " One would think you were, to see you paying forty-five 
 dollars a quarter at the Club House," replied Mrs. Montague, 
 meekly. " A married man too."
 
 178 MONTAGUE AND 1ADY. 
 
 " I wasn't born to be tied to a woman's apron string," 
 added Mr. Montague, rushing from the house. 
 
 The lady looked at the door which had just closed upon 
 him. Her heart was sad, and she burst into tears. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MB. SIMEON MONTAGUE thought the money he bestowed 
 upon his family was as good as wasted. He was not a do- 
 mestic man. He had married his wife, with a reasonable 
 show of affection, because her father was rich, and she was 
 an only daughter. Of course, he would not even confess to 
 his own heart that he was so selfish and cruel as to marry 
 for sordid motives that he had prostituted the holy altar 
 of Hymen by sacrificing to Plutus upon it ; but it was none 
 the less true because he denied it to himself and every body 
 else. 
 
 Mrs. Montague's father at her marriage was only about 
 forty-five years of age ; yet his health was so feeble that there 
 was not one chance in ten of his living another year. But 
 the old gentleman had revived, and now, after twelve years 
 had expired, seemed to be completely rejuvenated. He was 
 hale and hearty, and gave the promise of living twenty years 
 more. Of course the sordid son-in-law was disappointed. 
 He had thrown himself into the sea of matrimony with an 
 unworthy motive, and if he had been drowned there it would 
 have served him just right. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Montague ! her bright hopes were all wrecked. 
 Instead of the world of affectipn she had anticipated in the 
 connubial relation, she found nothing but coldness and sordid
 
 MONTAGUE AND LADY. 179 
 
 selfishness. Her husband still frequented the Club House ; 
 and when at home, he seemed to have no sympathy with her. 
 His business seemed to engross all his attention, and he had 
 no time to think of his wife, none to devote to his children. 
 
 Yet Mr. Montague was not a morose or an ill-natured 
 man. He loved the good opinion of the world, and would 
 have made almost any sacrifice rather than have had an impu- 
 tation cast upon his domestic character. He paid the most 
 scrupulous attention to all the forms of life, walked to church 
 every Sunday with his wife on his arm, always found the 
 place in the hymn book for her, and never failed abroad to 
 manifest the most lively interest in his family. He always 
 called his wife " my dear," and spoke affectionately to the 
 children in the presence of company. 
 
 The eye of affection could penetrate all this mass of conven- 
 tionalism, and the poor wife, in less than a year after her 
 marriage, realized that she had thrown herself away upon a 
 hollow-hearted man one who, without loving her, would 
 keep the peace at almost any sacrifice one who would 
 compel the world to believe that he was the most tender and 
 devoted husband, even while his heart was petrified and cold. 
 His devotion was mere mechanism ; it was a kind of habit, 
 acquired by an active desire to secure the good will of all 
 his friends. 
 
 Perhaps, even if there had been none to see him, Mr. 
 Montague would not have been harsh ; it was not his nature. 
 He was a smooth-tongued, plausible man under all circum- 
 stances. He could appear to love when his heart was per- 
 fectly indifferent. He could avoid the most palpable of his 
 domestic duties even while he professed the most earnest de- 
 votion to the welfare of his family.
 
 180 MONTAGTJE A.ND LADY. 
 
 Twelve years had in a measure reconciled the disappointed 
 wife to her lot. She was contented with it because her 
 maiden visions of connubial bliss had evaporated, and she 
 knew no other existence than that to which she had been so 
 long accustomed. Her air castles, reared in the sunny years 
 of her girlhood, had long since tumbled to the ground, and 
 left her in a world of reality, cold and repulsive at first, but 
 rendered tolerable by long endurance. 
 
 Her husband was sordid and selfish. He never felt a 
 hundred dollars expended in champagne suppers at the Club 
 House ; but half that sum given to his wife wrung his soul. 
 Though he was in a good business, lived in good style, and 
 always had money at his command, his brow always dark- 
 ened when his wife asked him for any sum to be expended 
 upon herself or her children. He was absolutely unwilling 
 to give it, though he could not possibly have endured the 
 mortification of seeing them shabbily dressed. 
 
 Mr. Montague is not an anomaly among men. There are 
 thousands as sordid and inconsistent as he was thousands 
 who wish to have their wives and children appear well in 
 the world, and at the same time deny them the means of 
 doing so. 
 
 Mrs. Montague was in tears. She was both grieved and 
 provoked at the conduct of her husband. The promptness 
 with which he had paid his Club House bill, while he denied 
 her the trifling sum she had asked, was a sad commentary on 
 his devotion. For more than an hour she thought the mat- 
 ter over, and became fully assured that she was a much- 
 injured wife. Her spirit was roused, and, putting on her 
 bonnet, she left the house to do her shopping. 
 
 The calico dress her husband had professed to think was
 
 MONTAGUE AND LADY. 181 
 
 good enough for her to wear to church Avas purchased, and 
 before Sunday was made up. 
 
 The second bells were ringing for church. Mr. Montague, 
 elegantly dressed, was all ready, and stood before the glass, 
 contemplating his prepossessing appearance. 
 
 "Are you ready, Ellen ? " said he, calling to his wife, who 
 was up stairs. 
 
 " I shall be in a moment. Walk along slowly with 
 Franky, and I will overtake you," replied she. 
 
 Mr. Montague took his son by the hand, and walked up 
 the street. He looked like a model head of the family 
 so benignant and dignified on that Sabbath morning. 
 
 ^His wife did not overtake him till he had got half way to 
 church. 
 
 " Why, my dear, what have you got on ? " asked Mr. 
 Montague, when, to his horror, he saw her clothed in a com- 
 mon calico dress. 
 
 " My new calico," replied she, coolly, as she took his arm. 
 
 " Are you mad, Ellen ? " 
 
 " It was the best I could buy with the money you 
 gave me." 
 
 " But you are not going to church in that shape ? " 
 
 " Why, Simeon, didn't you say you were willing to go to 
 church with me with a calico dress on ? " 
 
 " Pshaw ! Hadn't you sense enough to see that I was 
 jesting?" 
 
 " Jesting ! If you were, it was the first time I ever knew 
 you to jest in your own house." 
 
 " Don't be foolish, Ellen." 
 
 " Come ; we shall be late, and all the folks in the street 
 are staring at us." 
 
 16
 
 182 MONTAGUE AND LADY. 
 
 " Staring at you. What a ridiculous figure you make in 
 that attire ! Your Irish girl is better dressed than yo,u are." 
 
 " I can't help it." 
 
 " Pray, go home." 
 
 " I am going to church." 
 
 " Not with me, Ellen, in that plight." 
 
 " Then I leave you," said she, taking Franky by the hand, 
 and continuing her walk. 
 
 Mr. Montague was bewildered. It was a very awkward 
 position ; but the natural duplicity of his character came to 
 his aid, and, placing his hand upon his forehead, as though 
 suffering a severe headache, he retraced his steps homeward. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MR. MONTAGTTE was greatly incensed at the conduct of 
 his wife ; but an experience of a dozen years had fully con- 
 vinced her that her husband could not be easily reformed. 
 During that long period, while he was living in plenty, was 
 throwing away hundreds, and she did not know but thou- 
 sands, on his club, his champagne suppers, and other selfish 
 gratifications, she had found it exceedingly difficult to wring 
 from his hard grasp the money to clothe herself and children. 
 To ask for it was a loathsome task, and nothing but the most 
 urgent necessity could induce her to do so. 
 
 Much as her husband had resented her conduct on the oc- 
 casion mentioned, he did not offer the means of supplying 
 her wants. The lady had become so disgusted with his nig- 
 gardly conduct that she had fully determined never to ask 
 him for another dollar. Her father was rich, and very
 
 MONTAGUE AND LADY. 183 
 
 indulgent to her, his only child. To him she disclosed her 
 grievances ; and though it was repugnant to her sense of 
 delicacy to speak ill of her husband, she gave her father a 
 complete history of her financial experience. The old gen- 
 tleman was exceedingly indignant, as a matter of course, and 
 stormed like a madman at the sordid character of his son- 
 in-law. 
 
 " But don't you say a word to him, pa, nor to any one 
 else," pleaded the daughter. 
 
 " I will blow him sky high ! He shall never darken my 
 door again ! " 
 
 " Nay, nay, pa, for my sake, do not mention it." 
 
 The old man stopped to think. 
 
 " You are right, Nellie ; not a word," said he, rubbing his 
 bald head. 
 
 " It would sound very baa abroad, pa." 
 
 " So it would ; but, Nellie, hand me that book, and the 
 pen and ink." 
 
 The daughter obeyed, and the old gentleman wrote a 
 hasty note. 
 
 " Now ring the beU, Nellie." 
 
 Mrs. Montague did as she was requested, and a servant 
 appeared. 
 
 " Here, John, take that to No. 10 Court Street," said the 
 old gentleman, as he opened the book and wrote a check for 
 five hundred dollars. " Now, Nellie, spend it as fast as you 
 can, and when that is gone, come and get some more." 
 
 Mrs. Montague kissed her fond father, and left him to 
 ruminate upon the astonishing fact which had been revealed 
 to him. 
 
 " Not give her any money ! " muttered he. " The scoun- 
 drel ! "
 
 184 MONTAGUE AND LADY. 
 
 His lips were frequently compressed, and occasionally he 
 rose and strode with hasty step across the room. The arri- 
 val of the lawyer for whom he had sent seemed to relieve 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. Montague appeared the next Sunday in an elegant 
 brocade silk, a new bonnet, and a most magnificent mantilla. 
 Her husband, who was an importer and jobber of dry goods, 
 could readily perceive that she wore at least two hundred 
 dollars upon her person. He was confounded. She had 
 asked him for no money lately. He was uneasy. What 
 could it mean ? Mrs. Montague refused to answer any 
 questions. 
 
 Six months passed by, and the lady still remained inde- 
 pendent of her husband. She always had money in abun- 
 dance, but she positively refused to converse upon the sub- 
 ject. Of course he could understand that her father furnished 
 her with funds. He was perplexed to discover the circum- 
 stances under which he supplied her. Had his wife told him 
 that she was refused by her husband ? Had she been to her 
 father with her grievances ? He would' not have had such a 
 thing happen for all the world ; his reputation, which he 
 valued more highly than his integrity, would be sacrificed. 
 He was sorely troubled. 
 
 One day, about this time, when he came home to dinner, 
 he found that his father-in-law had been prostrated by an 
 apoplectic fit, and that his wife had gone to attend him. Be- 
 fore he could finish his dinner, a messenger announced his 
 death. 
 
 Mr. Montague was very much grieved, of course. He 
 mourned in bitterness of spirit for more than a month after 
 the funeral, his father-in-law was*such a kindhearted, noble
 
 MONTAGUE AND LADY. 185 
 
 old gentleman ; he thought there were few men like him in 
 the world. 
 
 Every thing went on as usual in the Montague family. 
 Not a word was said about the large property of the de- 
 ceased. Mr. Montague felt some delicacy in mentioning the 
 subject to his wife, and no one else appeared to know any 
 thing about the business. He wondered that nothing had 
 been said to him about being executor or administrator. Of 
 course he was the only proper person to execute this trust. 
 
 He hinted at the matter as broadly as he dared ; but his 
 wife refused to take the hint. One morning, however, as he 
 was looking over the paper, he noticed an advertisement 
 concerning the probate of the will ; he pointed it out to his 
 wife. 
 
 " Then your father made a will ? " said he. 
 
 " He did." 
 
 " I was not aware of it ; but then I haven't devoted even 
 a thought to his property.' 
 
 Mrs. Montague looked at him. 
 
 " Your father was one of the best of men," continued he, 
 seriously. 
 
 " He was." 
 
 " Did you learn who had been named as executor ? " 
 
 " My uncle John." 
 
 " Ah ! a capital selection ; your father was an excellent 
 business man." 
 
 "And three of his personal friends were appointed 
 trustees." 
 
 " Trustees ! " exclaimed Mr. Montague, with a violent start. 
 
 " Yes ; but you have not seen the will ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 16*
 
 186 MONTAGUE AND LADY. 
 
 " I have a copy here," said the wife, taking the document 
 from a drawer. 
 
 With a beating heart, Mr. Montague opened the copy, and 
 proceeded to read it. 
 
 His cheek blanched and his lip quivered as he read. The 
 property was much greater than he had ever suspected, 
 amounting to over a hundred thousand dollars. It was all 
 secured to his wife, to the entire exclusion of her husband ; 
 and the instrument was so adroitly drawn up that he could 
 
 not even touch the income of the estate without her per- 
 
 . . * 
 
 mission. 
 
 He was thunderstruck ; his matrimonial hopes were all 
 blasted, and, what added to his chagrin, his own affairs, in 
 the stringency of the time, had become hopelessly em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 " What does this mean, Ellen ? " asked he, in a husky 
 voice. 
 
 " You just remarked that my father was an excellent busi- 
 ness man ; don't you understand it ? " 
 
 " If I had been a drunkard or a gambler, it would have 
 been plain to me. As it is, it looks like an entire want of 
 confidence in me on the part of your deceased father ; not 
 that I care about the property," whined Mr. Montague. 
 
 " Of course you don't care for that." 
 
 " I was not aware before that your father was prejudiced 
 against me. Did he ever mention this matter ? " 
 
 Mrs. Montague was silent, and the husband pressed her 
 p or an answer. 
 
 *' There was something said." 
 
 " What, my dear ? "
 
 MONTAGUE AND XADY. 187 
 
 " When I went to him for money, of course that led to 
 some explanations." 
 
 "You went to him for money? " gasped Mr. Montague. 
 
 " I could not get it from you." 
 
 Mr. Montague used an exceedingly hard word, which I dare 
 not transfer to my page, and rushed out of the house. 
 
 In a month he failed, made a bad failure, and it took 
 him a year to get out of the difficulty. The assignees had 
 every thing ; he could not put his hand upon a single dollar. 
 His domestic affairs somehow got into the street, and no- 
 body would trust him ; every body despised him. 
 
 But Mrs. Montague was not so sordid as he had been, and 
 when he had received a discharge from his debts, she fur- 
 nished the means for him to commence business again. The 
 club and champagne suppers are abandoned ; matters are 
 reversed. The lady is always " flush," the gentleman gen- 
 erally short ; and, poor fellow, he is sometimes so hard 
 pressed as to ask her for a few hundred dollars " to help 
 him out."
 
 TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " TAJIK to me about your newspapers ! I tell you, neigh- 
 bor Parker, they are a consarned humbug ! " exclaimed 
 Farmer Cheney. 
 
 " That's a great mistake of yours, neighbor. For my 
 part, I would rather live on two meals a day than be with- 
 out a good newspaper." 
 
 " Git out ! I wonder what the world's a comin' to. 
 There's my gals have teased me to take Harper's Magazine 
 till I hadn't any peace o' my life. But I put my foot right 
 down ; you can't humbug me with sich trash ; " and Farmer 
 Cheney complacently wiped away the tobacco juice which 
 was streaming down from the corners of his mouth. 
 
 " You are in the wrong, neighbor Cheney." 
 
 "No, I ain't, nuther. Then Tom wan't satisfied, and 
 nothin' would do but I must take the American Union and 
 the Practical Farmer. But it wan't no use; I wouldn't 
 have the trash in the house, say nothin' o' wastin' money 
 on it." m 
 
 " Do you ever read the papers ? " 
 
 " Me ! no, not I ; I've got a better use for m^ time." 
 
 " But the long winter evenings ? " 
 
 " Well, we allers have corn to shell." 
 
 (188)
 
 TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS. 189 
 
 " Not all winter ? " 
 
 * No ; but when I can't find no work to do, I'd a nuff 
 sight rather set in the corner, and go to sleep." 
 
 " But your son Reuben takes the papers." 
 
 "Yes ; .but -I never brought him up to do any sich thing. 
 He takes the Union and the Farmer both, and stews his 
 brains over 'em half the time. That ain't the wo'st on't, 
 nuther." 
 
 " No evil effects have followed from it, I trust? " 
 
 " Yes, there has ; there's my youngest boy, Tom, read 
 eunthin' or nuther over to Reuben's t'other day about a 
 chance for young men,' and nothin'll do but he must go 
 right into it ; he's off to Boston next week. So much for 
 havin' newspapers round." 
 
 " But perhaps he may improve the opportunity, and make 
 money by it." 
 
 " No sich thing. He's got two hundred dollars, and when 
 that's all gone, he'll be back again ; see if he don't." 
 
 " Perhaps not." 
 
 " Well, my mind's made tip about it ; but between you 
 and I and the side of that gate post, I wouldn't mind givin' 
 Reuben the price of the papers if he only wouldn't take 'em." 
 
 " But Reuben has the reputation of being one of the best 
 farmers in town." 
 
 " That's all true enough ; but he didn't learn how to farm 
 it from his newspapers, let me tell you. He was brought up 
 in the good old way, when there wan't no books round but 
 the Bible and the almanac." 
 
 " You will grant that he does not follow all the old-fash- 
 ioned methods ? " 
 
 " Well, pooty much all ; he's got some notions of his own, 
 though."
 
 190 TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS. 
 
 " How was it about planting com in rows, neighbor 
 Cheney ? " 
 
 " That's one of Reuben's notions, to plant in rows." 
 
 " And he got seventy bushels to the acre, you know." 
 
 " Yes ; but the ashes did the business." 
 
 " The ashes, the rows, and the cultivator, between them." 
 
 " Well, there ain't no doubt but what that's the best way 
 to raise corn. At any rate, all the neighbors foller it now." 
 
 " It is not the old-fashioned way." 
 
 " N o ; it's Reuben's way." 
 
 " Where do you suppose Reuben got it ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; not from your darn newspapers, though." 
 
 " But he did." 
 
 " Git out ! " 
 
 " It is a fact." 
 
 " Now, neighbor Parker, you don't mean to say that them 
 fellers in Boston, that never saw a cornfield in their life, 
 can tell me how to raise corn," said Farmer Cheney, a little 
 warmly. 
 
 " They have correspondents all over the country, and the 
 subscribers have the benefit of their united experience." 
 
 " Don't believe a word on't." 
 
 But it was no use arguing the matter, and the two farmers 
 separated. When Farmer Cheney got home, he found a visitor 
 waiting him 
 
 * 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " I UNDERSTOOD you had a large quanity of corn for 
 sale," said the stranger. 
 
 " Well, I've got consider'ble, but I don't care no great 
 about sellin' it."
 
 TAKING THE NEWSPAPEBS. 191 
 
 " I should like to buy." . 
 
 " I can spare a couple o' hund'ed bushels for a fair 
 price." 
 
 " What do yon ask for it ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know ] how is corn nowadays ? " 
 
 " Last sales in Boston were sixty-eight to seventy cents." 
 
 " Rather low ; I meant to git seventy-one for mine," re- 
 turned Farmer Cheney, who was disposed to be shrewd. 
 
 " What will you take for the lot ? " 
 
 " Seventy-one." 
 
 " Say seventy, and we won't stand about trifles." 
 
 " Can't do it ; seventy-one is my lowest price," replied. 
 Farmer Cheney, finding that he had got an available cus- 
 tomer. 
 
 " Split the difference, and it's a trade," said the stranger, 
 nervously. 
 
 " Couldn't do it." 
 
 " I'll take it then. Give me a receipt for this cash to bind 
 the bargain." 
 
 Farmer Cheney, congratulating himself on the good trade 
 he had made, wrote the receipt after considerable labor, and 
 put the money in his pocket book. 
 
 " Know of any one else who has got any corn to sell ? " 
 
 " My neighbor Parker, I rather guess, has got some." 
 
 " You won't say a word that I paid you seventy-one for 
 yours ? It might spoil a trade." 
 
 " Not a word," replied Farmer Cheney. 
 
 Towards night our two farmers happened to meet again. 
 " Sold your corn to-day, neighbor Parker ? " inquired 
 Farmer Cheney.
 
 192 TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS. 
 
 "Every speck of it," replied Parker. 
 
 " Did you ? What did you get ? " 
 
 " Eighty-one." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 " Eighty-one." 
 
 " You didn't, though, did ye ? " exclaimed the man who 
 would not take the newspaper. 
 
 " That is just what I got, and I think I could have got 
 eighty-two if I had stuck a little longer." 
 
 " You don't, though ! " 
 
 " The same man hought yours, I believe." 
 " Yes," replied Farmer Cheney, edging off. 
 
 " What did you get eighty-two ? " 
 
 " Well, I guess I didn't git quite that." 
 
 " O, eighty-one. Well, after all, that is a good price, 
 and ten cents on a bushel more than I had any idea of 
 getting." 
 
 " I did not get eighty-one," replied Farmer Cheney, 
 rather crestfallen. 
 
 He did not like to deceive his neighbor ; he had studied 
 the Bible and the almanac enough to know better than that; 
 but it came " dreadful hard " to own up the truth. 
 
 " How much did you get ? " 
 
 " I dar'aent tell." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " I've got took in if the feller gave you eighty-one. 
 
 " What did you get, though, neighbor seventy-five ? " 
 
 " Seventy-one." 
 
 " Well, you have been taken in, then ; I guess you haven't 
 heard the news." 
 
 "No what?"
 
 TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS. 193 
 
 " Crops failed in the west." 
 
 " How you talk ! " 
 
 " And the prospect of a war in Europe ; so that our 
 breadstuffs "will be extensively exported, which run up the 
 price of flour and grain." 
 
 " What war ? " 
 
 " Between Russia and Turkey." 
 
 " Turkey ! Well, I hope them cu'sed Turks will get 
 licked ! " exclaimed Fanner Cheney, whose ideas were some- 
 what antiquated. 
 
 " You differ from the world in general. The sympathies 
 of all civilized nations go with Turkey in this quarrel." 
 
 " You don't say so ! When I was a boy, the schoolmas- 
 ter used to teach us to hate the Turks. They are a bar- 
 barous race " 
 
 " I think, neighbor Cheney, you will confess now that you 
 had better take a paper." 
 
 " Confess no sich thing ; I wouldn't have one round the 
 house." 
 
 "If you had taken the papers, you would have known 
 about this rise in grain." 
 
 " Perhaps I should ; but Reuben generally tells me about 
 these things." 
 
 " It was only in the paper that came to-day ; I read it 
 since I saw you this morning. But I should no more think 
 of selling any thing f any consequence without seeing how 
 the Boston markets were than I should think of cutting my 
 own throat." 
 
 " Kind of a dog's life to be tied to a newspaper," sneered 
 Farmer Cheney. 
 
 " But if you had taken a newspaper, neighbor, and read 
 17
 
 194 TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS. 
 
 it, you would have made twenty dollars by it in this one 
 trade ; twenty dollars, neighbor enough to pay for the 
 paper ten years." 
 
 " Git out ! These things look well enough as you book 
 farmers figger 'em up ; but, you see, when you come to the 
 scratch, they ain't nowhere." 
 
 " It looks to me like a plain case." 
 
 " Now, 'spose I could make twenty dollars by takin' the 
 paper ; it would do me a darn sight more mischief than 
 that." 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 " Why, the newspaper puts the very devil in the gals' 
 heads. Now, they never use to have their cu'sed picnics 
 round here till the gals got to readin' on 'em in the papers. 
 And then the' buryin' ground, they couldn't even let that 
 alone. Some feller put a piece in the paper about Mount 
 Auburn, Sorrel Hill, Greenbush, and some sich place, and 
 the fust thing we know the gravestones are all jumbled up in 
 a heap, gravel is carted in, and posies set out all over it. 
 Now they call it a ' symmetry,' I b'leve." 
 
 " A cemetery, neighbor ; but we who read the newspapers 
 like these things. There is something pleasant in ornament- 
 ng with flowers the resting-place of our dead." 
 
 " It looks to me more like ' sacrelation.' " 
 
 " Sacrilege ! O, no ; far from it." 
 
 " Well, I think so ; and then weve got to have new 
 school housen, a new town house, and the roads must all be 
 McDonalized.' " 
 
 " McAdamized." 
 
 " Well, no matter what it is ; it all comes of these cu'sed 
 newspapers. My taxes are twenty dollars a year more than 
 they used to be."
 
 TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS. 195 
 
 " And you sell the produce of your farm for five hundred 
 dollars more." 
 
 " Well, that's true ; but there's no kind of need of makin' 
 the taxes any more, all for newspapers." 
 
 "But you must think how much " better and wiser your 
 family would be with a newspaper to read." 
 
 " By mighty ! I should think they would ! Only look at 
 Beacon Craig's folks. Them gals cost him a fortin every 
 year in books and new gowns. The newspapers won't do ; 
 they must have books, and waste half their time* readin' 
 on 'em." 
 
 " But it is a very worthy and intelligent family, and the 
 deacon's income, owing to his more enlightened method of 
 conducting business, is at least ten times as great as it used 
 to be, and he can well afford to spend all he does in edu- 
 cating his children." 
 
 " No use o' talkin' about it ; give me the good old way ; 
 and when I'm dead, I ain't at all particular aboui havin' 
 buttercups and white weed growin' on my grave ; " and 
 Farmer Cheney went off, " wondering what the world was 
 coming to." 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ABOUT a year after their conversations, Tom Cheney came 
 home to visit his father. The ambitious youth, who had 
 acquired half his education by reading the newspapers, had 
 not written his father concerning his business prospects. 
 
 " Why, Tom, what have you been about all this time ? " 
 asked the old gentleman, as he surveyed Tom's spruce ap 
 pearance.
 
 196 TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS. 
 
 " Making money, father," replied the hopeful son. 
 
 " Have you made any, Tom ? " 
 
 " A little." 
 
 " A little ! Guess you'd better staid at home, and worked 
 on the farm. You was doin' well here." 
 
 " Done pretty well as it is." 
 
 " How much you made, Tom ? " 
 
 " Five thousand." 
 
 " Git out ! You are jokin', Tom." 
 
 " True as preaching." 
 
 " How did you do it? " 
 
 " Well, I went into that ' chance for young men ; ' tout 
 that wan't much ; so I looked into the newspapers for some- 
 thing better." 
 
 " Newspapers again," sneered Farmer Cheney. 
 
 " The first thing I saw was, that peaches were selling down 
 south for ten cents a bushel, while they brought two dollars 
 here. YOU see, the risk of transporting them makes the 
 difference. Then I saw in the same paper that preserved 
 peaches brought two shilling a pound north ; so I put that 
 and that together, and hatched out a speculation. I bought 
 the sugar, and sent it down to Delaware, where the peaches 
 were cheap, and went to making preserves there. In this 
 way I made money." 
 
 " You are a shrewd one, Tom." 
 
 "All owing to the newspapers, father." 
 
 " Git out ! " 
 
 " I see by the papers that the Chinese empire has been 
 divided, and the rebels are in a fair way of making China a 
 Christian country. I have a great notion of going out there 
 to establish a line of stages between Shanghae and Nankin. 
 What do you think about it ? "
 
 TAKING IHE NEWSPAPEES. 197 
 
 
 
 " Don't know what to think. I'm done thinkin' ; but, 
 Tom, when you go to Boston again, just drop in and tell 'em 
 to send me the American Union and the Practical Fanner 
 for one year. Here's the three dollars." 
 
 " Bravo ! you are a brick, after all, pa 1 " 
 17*
 
 "CIGAKS FOR TWO;" 
 
 OR, 
 
 CUEING A SMOKER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. ' 
 
 " SMOKES, does he ? The abominable wretch ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Volant to her friend, Mrs. Washburn, a young wife 
 who had just gone to housekeeping. 
 
 " He smokes, but he is not an abominable wretch I am 
 sure he is not," replied Mrs. Washburn, a little startled by 
 the hard name applied to her husband, whom she both loved 
 and esteemed. 
 
 " Not a wretch ?" 
 
 "No, I'm sure he is not ! " 
 
 " Yes, he is ; any husband, especially one who has been 
 married only a year, and won't leave off smoking when his 
 wife desires it, must be a wretch." 
 
 " No, you overstate the case. He is every thing a husband 
 ought to be so kind, so devoted, so indulgent. But then, 
 I do wish he would not smoke." 
 
 " You must break him of it the cruel monster." 
 
 " Nay, do not call him such hard names ; I love him with 
 all my heart, though he does smoke." 
 
 " Well, I suppose you do ; young wives .are apt to be 
 foolish." 
 
 (198)
 
 CIGAES FOR TWO. 199 
 
 Foolish ! " 
 
 " Yes ; he sees, I dare say, that you lo re him, and so he 
 takes the advantage of you." 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Volant, don't you love your husband ? " 
 
 " Well, suppose I do ; there is no need of telling him of 
 it. I make him think I don't care any thing about him. 
 Why, I can manage him as easily as I could a kitten." 
 
 " I don't like that ; I think there ought to be love and 
 confidence between man and wife." 
 
 " Pooh ! " 
 
 " You cannot be happy with him." . 
 
 " I should not be, if I became his slave." 
 
 " Not his slave ! " 
 
 " Don't you believe it ! When you have been married as 
 long as I have, you will get rid of some of these sentimental 
 notions, which answer very well for the first year or so, but 
 become very inconvenient after that." 
 
 " For my part, I always mean to love my husband as 
 much as I do now, even if it is sentimental." 
 
 " See if you do ! Husbands must be carefully managed, 
 or they become tyrants. Now, my husband smoked the first 
 year after marriage ; but then he was a little careful about 
 bringing his cigar into the house, for I told him, up and 
 down, I wouldn't have it." 
 
 " I should suppose he would have rebelled." 
 
 " He did, but not at first. One night, nearly a year af- 
 ter we were married, he brought home a whole bundle of 
 cigars, and put them on the mantel-piece. Taking one, 
 he very coolly lighted it, and proceeded to read the evening 
 paper." 
 
 " That's just the way my husband does."
 
 200 CIGARS FOR TWO. 
 
 " 1 was downright mad at his impudence ; hut I did not 
 say a word. The next day I bought a monstrous great snuff- 
 box, and filled it full of rappee. In the evening he lighted 
 his cigar as before ; but no sooner had he done so, than I 
 seated myself opposite to him, and drawing out my snuffbox, 
 I took a generous pinch, snuffing the filthy stuff into my 
 nostrils, at the risk of sneezing my head off." 
 
 "How funny!" 
 
 " My husband did not think so. He looked at me with 
 astonishment. ' You take snuff? ' said he. ' I do ; at least, 
 I mean to learn,' I replied. ' It is a filthy habit,' says he. 
 4 No worse than smoking,' says I. We debated the matter 
 for a long time, and at last he gave up the point, and 
 promised to throw away his cigars if I would throw away 
 my snuff. My point was gained, and of course I gave up 
 my snuff." 
 
 " And he never smoked any more ? " asked Mrs. Wash- 
 burn, laughing. 
 
 " Yes, he began once after ; but I took to the snuff again, 
 and he gave it up." 
 
 " Are you sure he don't smoke now? "- 
 
 " If he does, he never lets me see him. My sitting room 
 is not all smoked up as yours is." 
 
 " It was a glorious trick ! " 
 
 " That it was, and I advise you to try it upon Mr. Wash- 
 burn." 
 
 "Ill couldn't take a pinch of snuff any more than I could 
 swallow an elephant." 
 
 " Smoke, then. There are some nice little cigars sold at 
 the apothecaries, made on purpose for ladies. They are so 
 mild that they wouldn't make you sick ; though, even if they
 
 CIGAKS BOB TWO. 201 
 
 did, you wouldn't mind, so they cure your husband of 
 smoking." 
 
 " It seems too bad to play such a trick upon him he is 
 always so kind, and permits me to do just as I please," said 
 the tender-hearted Mrs. "Washburn. 
 
 " What else could he do ? " 
 
 " It looks kind of mean to me." 
 
 " Not a bit." 
 
 " I don't know as it would succeed." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I am sure it would. He never would let 
 you smoke, for these husbands have an awful horror of any 
 impropriety in their wives." 
 
 " Then, he says he has always smoked, and can't leave it 
 off." 
 
 " Pshaw ! The old story ! " 
 
 " I am almost tempted to try it." 
 " I would." 
 
 " It seems so unkind, though, that I have hardly the heart 
 to do it." 
 
 " You are notional, my dear Mrs. "Washburn. When you 
 have been married " 
 
 The remark was broken off by the abrupt entrance of the 
 " abominable wretch " himself. Mrs. Washburn rose as he 
 entered, and in spite of the abominable odor that his breath 
 must have exhaled, printed a kiss upon his tobacco-stained 
 lips. 
 
 The lady " who had been married several years " was dis- 
 gusted, and after a few words concerning the weather, took 
 her leave.
 
 202 CIGARS FOR TWO. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MRS. WASHBURN was a pretty, affectionate, gentle-hearted 
 wife. Her whole existence was bound up in her husband, 
 as well it might be ; for never was husband more devoted to 
 his wife than he was. To our mind she was a model wife ; 
 none of your stormy vixens, that set their hearts upon attain- 
 ing a point, and will pull the house down upon your head 
 but they will attain it. 
 
 In her eye, Mr. Washburn had only one fault ; and that 
 was the villanous habit of smoking, which all her eloquence 
 nad been powerless to overcome. She didn't " put her foot 
 down," as her friend, Mrs. Volant, had done ; for poor, 
 gentle-hearted creature she couldn't think of provoking a 
 quarrel with him, and had about concluded to make the best 
 of it, and let him smoke in peace. 
 
 But there was something so irresistibly funny about Mrs. 
 Volant's plan, that she determined to try it, and, accordingly, 
 on the afternoon of the next day, she sent the Irish girl to 
 the apothecary's shop for a bunch of " Bagdad cigars." Dis- 
 posing a few of them in her work basket, ready for the mo- 
 mentous occasion, her mind pictured the scene that would 
 ensue when she should light one of them. It was so funny 
 that she laughed out loud at the idea. Wouldn't he be 
 surprised to see her, who had teased him so much to leave 
 off smoking, commence the practice herself ! Wouldn't his 
 eyes stick out, when he should see her puffing a cigar at her 
 eewing, as he did when he read the evening paper ! 
 
 She was so pleased with the plan, that she would have put
 
 CIGABS FOE TWO. 203 
 
 it in execution, even if it had been only for the sport it 
 promised her, independently of any good result which might 
 flow from it. Wouldn't he beg her to smoke no more ! 
 Wouldn't he be mortified, and wouldn't she win the day, 
 and glory over his defeat ! Wouldn't he be glad to promise 
 her that he wouldn't smoke another cigar as long as he lived ! 
 She was so delighted that she could hardly contain herself. 
 
 Mr. Washburn came home to tea, and, as usual when he 
 entered the house, he gave her a kiss, and a tender greeting. 
 They were seated at the tea table ; Mrs. Washburn was so 
 full of mirth, that she came near scalding herself with the 
 hot tea when she poured it out. Her merry, mischievous 
 laugh rang pleasantly on her husband's ear, who, poor fellow, 
 could have had no idea of the terrible ordeal through which 
 he was doomed to pass. 
 
 When tea was over, the astral lamp transferred to the 
 lightstand, and Mr. Washburn had stretched himself into a 
 comfortable position in the large easy rocking chair, with his 
 legs lazily reposing in another chair, the everlasting cigar 
 was produced, lighted, and began to diffuse its fragrance 
 through the room. 
 
 Mrs. Washburn could hardly control her inclination to 
 burst into a laugh at the mere thought of what she was 
 about to do. Seating herself at the side of the table op- 
 posite her husband, she took from the work basket, with an 
 air as grave and solemn as a judge, one of the " Bagdads." 
 Placing the filthy roll between her ruby lips, she glanced a* 
 her husband. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Smoker," thought she, it would have spoiled 
 the joke to have said it, we " will see whether you don't 
 abandon that nasty habit."
 
 204 CIGARS POK TWO. 
 
 Mr. Washburn happened to glance at her ; but, contrary to 
 her expectation, he manifested no surprise, and went on 
 reading the Transcript. 
 
 " So, so, Mr. Smoker," thought she again, " you think I 
 am joking, do you ? I will soon convince you ; " and the lady 
 took a taper, and applied a light to the cigar. 
 
 But Mrs. Washburn was rather inexperienced in the modus 
 operandi of lighting a cigar, and she was unable to make it 
 " go." She lit another taper, and puffed away with all her 
 might ; but the Bagdad was as resolute as the great caliph 
 himself. She persevered, till her extraordinary exertions 
 again attracted the attention of Mr. Washburn. 
 
 *' You are lighting the wrong end, my dear," said he, with 
 the utmost nonchalance. 
 
 " How provoking he is ! " thought Mrs. Washburn. 
 " Why don't he remonstrate ? " 
 
 " You should bite off the twisted end, and then put it in 
 your mouth," continued the husband, turning to the paper 
 again. 
 
 Aided by these directions, the lady took another cigar, 
 which she succeeded in lighting. The first taste of the 
 tobacco smoke was horrible ; but she had determined to be 
 a martyr for her husband's sake ; and taking her sewing, she 
 continued to puff away as she plied her needle, till a certain 
 nausea compelled her to abandon the experiment for that 
 time. Casting the Bagdad into the grate, she began to wish 
 she had not listened to Mrs. Volant. 
 
 "What is the matter, my dear.? Wasn't it a good cigar? 
 Try mine; they are Monte Christos of the first quality," 
 and the imperturbable Mr. Washburn offered her a choice 
 from his case.
 
 CIGARS FOB TWO. 205 
 
 " No, I thank you, my dear ; I will not smoke , any more 
 to-night." 
 
 "But Avhat's the matter, Mary? You are as pale as a 
 sheet ! " 
 
 " I feel a little faint ; I shall be better in a moment," and 
 Mrs. Washburn was obliged to leave the room. 
 
 Poor woman ! she was sick all the evening ! But the next 
 day, Mrs. Volant, who had called to learn the success of the 
 experiment, advised her to try again, assuring her it would 
 net make her sick the second time. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MK. WASHBTTEN had a couple of his intimate friends at 
 his house to play a game of \thist the next evening, and the 
 devoted wife reso'lved to try the effect of a smoke in their 
 presence. 
 
 When the party were seated, Mr. "Washburn passed 
 round his cigar case. 
 
 "Won't you smoke, my dear? " asked he, tendering the 
 cigars to his wife. 
 
 " I will ; but you know, Joseph, that I never smoke your 
 cigars ; they do not suit my taste." 
 
 Whew ! that was cool ! 
 
 Mrs. Washburn lit a Bagdad. 
 
 " Is it .possible you smoke, Mrs. Washburn ? " asked Mr. 
 Barnes, astonished at the singular spectacle of a woman 
 puffing away at a cigar, for all the world, like a loafer in a 
 bar room 
 
 " Occasionally, just to please my husband," replied Mrs. 
 18
 
 206 CIGAES FOB TWO. 
 
 Washburn, after she had blown out a long wreath of blue 
 smoke. 
 
 " Yes, Barnes," interposed Mr. Washburn ; " it is more 
 sociable, you know, to have company when one smokes. We 
 are generally alone in the evening, and she is so kind as to 
 emoke with me. Ah, Barnes, teach your wife to smoke, it 
 is so pleasant to smoke with one's wife." 
 
 The lady was thunderstruck. Was it possible that he had 
 
 no more respect for, the proprieties of life than that? She 
 
 smoke ? She had already acquired the reputation of being 
 
 'a smoker, without having produced any of the anticipated 
 
 good results. 
 
 Mrs. Washburn threw the lighted Bagdad into the stove. 
 She had almost cried with jrexation. 
 
 " Not smoke, my dear ? " said her husband. 
 
 " I think you can be sociable to-night, if I don't smoke." 
 
 " Do smoke, my dear ; it gives me so much pleasure to 
 see you enjoy a good cigar." 
 
 " That's too bad, Joseph." 
 
 Mr. Washburn laughed outright, and throwing down his 
 cards, explained the event of the preceding evening. 
 
 " I will own up ; I did it to break him of the habit. I 
 give it up ! " 
 
 When the gentlemen had taken their leave, Mrs. Wash- 
 burn explained by whose advice she had adopted the plan. 
 
 " Mrs. Volant has the reputation of being a perfect shrew. 
 Her husband is a laughing stock for all State Street. She is 
 a bad adviser." 
 
 " How slick you have turned the joke upon me ! " said 
 Mrs. Washburn, laughing heartily. 
 
 " To tell the truth, I overheard some of your conversation 
 when the plot was laid."
 
 CIGAES FOE TWO. 207 
 
 " O, ho ! you did ? No wonder it failed, then." 
 
 " I did ; but, Mary, are you so very much against my 
 
 smoking ? I love the weed, but I love you more ; " and Mr. 
 
 Washburn kissed her tenderly. 
 
 " Nay, I will say no more about it. Perhaps I was selfish." 
 " Not selfish ; I will leave it off, my dear, for your sake." 
 " No, no ; I don't wan't you to do so. If you are so very 
 
 fond of smoking, I never will say another word about it." 
 And Mr. Washburn has smoked his cig^r in peace ever 
 
 since.
 
 "OUT OF 'BUSINESS ;" 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE HISTORY OP A SPLENDID "BUST UP." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "Oux of business, are you, Ned? Well, that is bad," 
 said Mr. Joseph Murdock, a stock broker, to his nephew. 
 
 " Decidedly bad." 
 
 "But why did you leave Grreen & Smith? That is a 
 good concern." 
 
 " Salary was too small." 
 
 " Better than you get now, at all events," replied the 
 worthy old gentleman, with a look of displeasure. 
 
 " Couldn't pay my way on it." 
 
 " Not on five hundred dollars ! " and ' uncle Joe,' as he 
 was commonly called, held up both hands in astonishment. 
 
 " I am in debt at tliis moment," returned Ned, with a 
 rueful glance at his uncle. 
 
 " And likely to be. Of course you don't expect to pay 
 your debts by wandering about the streets." 
 
 " I expect to find business again." 
 
 " You do not expect to get five hundred dollars the first 
 year, do you ? " 
 
 " I intend to strike for a thousand." 
 
 (208)
 
 OUT OF BUSINESS. 209 
 
 " Strike ! you won't hit it." 
 
 " Perhaps I shall." 
 
 " Ned, you are going to the deuse as fast as high living 
 and dissipation in general will carry you." 
 
 " Why, uncle, I'm sure you don't know me." 
 
 " Sit down, Ned ; let us talk it over. I want a young 
 man in my office, and perhaps we can make a trade." 
 
 " Thousand dollars, uncle Joseph ; " and Ned Murdock 
 attempted to look sly. 
 
 " Not out of me, Ned." 
 
 " Can't live on less." 
 
 " Better die then. I want a young man to assist my book- 
 keeper, run of errands " 
 
 " An errand boy, you mean ; " and Ned felt hurt at the 
 slight put upon his dignity. 
 
 " An errand boy, then. My clerk intends to go into 
 business himself one of these days, and if you are attentive 
 to business, here is an opportunity to advance yourself; " and 
 uncle Joe looked seriously into the face of his nephew. 
 
 "What is the salary?" 
 
 " Four hundred, for the present." 
 
 " I should starve on it." 
 
 " Live within your means. When I was of your age, 1 
 lived on two hundred." 
 
 " Times have changed since then." 
 
 " What do you pay for board, Ned ? " 
 
 " Six dollars a week. I board at a hotel." 
 
 " Six dollars a week ! Ned, you are crazy ; " and uncle 
 Joe's eyes stuck out " like two tallow candles." 
 
 " Two of us room together in the attic, so that they board 
 us low." 
 
 18*
 
 210 OUT OF BUSINESS. 
 
 " Should think they did low for them, but high for you. 
 Costs you a hundred for clothes, I suppose, don't it? " 
 
 " About that," replied Ned, evasively. 
 
 " Do you go to the ' play ' often ? " 
 
 " Not above once a week, except when there are ' stars ' 
 on." 
 
 " Not above once a week ! Ned, you are an extravagant 
 dog ; you will die in the poorhouse ! " 
 
 " Pshaw ! Uncle Joseph, you are old-fashioned ! " 
 
 " If it is old-fashioned to live within one's means, to pay 
 one's debts, and wear an honest face, then thank God ! 
 I am old-fashioned ! " replied the worthy old gentleman, 
 with considerable spirit. 
 
 " I mean to be honest, and practise all your old-fashioned 
 virtues." 
 
 " You can't do it, Ned, on five hundred dollars a year 
 with your habits." 
 
 "Can't be honest?" 
 
 " No ; it is not honest to run up a bill at your tailor's 
 which you have not the ability to pay ; it is not honest to 
 get in debt to support extravagant habits." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that I am rftshonest, uncle 
 Joseph ? " asked the young man, with a blush on his cheek. 
 
 " Well, well, we won't talk about that, now. I want a 
 young man, and if you have a mind to lay aside your ex- 
 travagances, and go into my office determined to stick to your 
 business, I will see to the rest." 
 
 " What salary shall I have, uncle Joseph ? " 
 
 " Four hundred the first year," replied uncle Joseph, 
 firmly. 
 
 " But I can't live on that."
 
 OUT OF BUSINESS. 211 
 
 " Yes, you can. Leave your hotel, and board in a private 
 family. Quit the theatre and the opera, and pay as you go." 
 
 " But my debts ? " 
 
 " How much do you owe ? " 
 
 " About two hundred and fifty dollars. 1 *' 
 
 Uncle Joe scratched his head, contracted his eyebrows, and 
 looked decidedly stormy. 
 
 " Bad business, Ned," said he, after a few moment's con- 
 sideration. " I could easily get you out of the scrape, pro- 
 vided I saw any hope of amendment on your part. You 
 don't even say that you will reform." 
 
 " To be serious, uncle Joseph, I can't see how I can re- 
 form. I must live, you know." 
 
 " And you must live within your means." 
 
 At this moment the penny post deposited a letter on the 
 table, by the side of the stock broker, the contents of which 
 perfectly amazed him. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE letter was from the attorney of Miss Mary Marker, a 
 maiden aunt of Ned Murdock, formerly residing at the west. 
 It contained the intelligence of the spinster's death. The 
 old lady, happening to have a fit of generosity when she 
 made her will, had bequeathed to her graceless nephew the 
 sum of ten thousand dollars. 
 
 Here was a godsend, and Ned leaped up six feet in the 
 air with astonishment and delight. 
 
 But the worthy stock broker was troubled ; for although 
 he was a broker, he was a good Christian, and had the
 
 212 OUT OF BUSINESS. 
 
 welfare of his dissolute nephew near his heart. There was 
 something about the youth that he liked, notwithstanding 
 lie went to the play and hoarded at a fashionable hotel. 
 
 His only object was the reformation of the young man, 
 whose ruin and premature decay were foreshadowed in his 
 daily habits. His proposition to employ him in his own 
 oifice was merely a stratagem to obtain a hold upon him. 
 
 This legacy seemed to step between him and the accom- 
 plishment of his benevolent purpose. ; 
 
 " What are you going to do with this money, Ned ? " 
 asked he with a troubled countenance ; " I am named as 
 your guardian, you perceive." 
 
 " Bah, guardian ! I am twenty-one next week, uncle 
 Joseph," replied the young man, unable to conceal the ela- 
 tion the astounding intelligence had produced in his mind. 
 
 " True ; but this legacy may be the ruin of you, Ned." 
 
 " You are absurd, uncle." 
 
 " I am sorry your aunt died so soon ; I wish she could 
 have been prevailed upon to live till you had come to the 
 years of discretion." 
 
 " If I had known she intended to remember me in her 
 will, I should certainly have expressed my desire that she 
 might have lived forever, or some such hyperbole." 
 
 " What are you going to do, Ned ? It is rather a serious 
 question." 
 
 " Time enough to decide it when I get the money." 
 
 " Take my advice, Ned ; settle yourself down in some 
 quiet position ; get another clerkship ; don't go into business 
 till you are more experienced in the ways of the world. You 
 had better accept my offer, and take your first lesson in 
 ?earning to live within your means."
 
 OUT OF BUSINESS. 213 
 
 " Be an errand boy on four hundred dollars a year, when 
 I have ten thousand dollars in my possession ? Did they do 
 so in old times ? " and Ned bestowed a good-natured sneer 
 upon his quie 1 ; old uncle. 
 
 " They learned to creep before they walked. If it will 
 make any difference, I will give you the same salary you 
 received at Green & Smith's." 
 
 " Couldn't think of it, uncle Joseph. A thousand would 
 not procure my services now." 
 
 " The stock broker sighed. Ned was as good as lost, in 
 his opinion. There was no hope for him, and much as it trou- 
 bled him, he saw no method of preventing the catastrophe. 
 
 For an hour longer uncle Joe tried to prevail upon his 
 wilful nephew to adopt a system of prudent living, and pre- 
 serve his capital until a favorable opportunity occurred for 
 investing it. 
 
 Ned was resolute. Visions of balls, operas, theatres, fast 
 horses, and a rich wife flitted before his excited imagination. 
 The sum of ten thousand dollars appeared to be inexhausti- 
 ble. In vain uncle Joe reasoned that its possession was 
 only equivalent to an income of six hundred dollars. Ned 
 was sure of being worth twenty thousand in five years, and 
 fifty in ten. It never occurred to him that fast horses and 
 the opera could not be supported without encroaching upon 
 the principal. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHILE they were debating the question, Tom Murdock, 
 a cousin of Ned, entered the office. 
 
 " Ah, Tom," said Ned, " here we are ; I had quite for-
 
 214 OUT or BtrsiHESs. 
 
 gotten to inform our good uncle that you too were out 
 of business." 
 
 " Is it possible ! " exclaimed uncl Joseph. " Both out of 
 business ? I hope you have not been foolish, Tom." 
 
 " No, uncle, Tom is never foolish one of your dignified 
 boys proper, and all that sort of thing," replied Ned. 
 
 " My services were no longer required. You know I only 
 supplied the place of another," added Tom. 
 
 " You have been there three months." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " On thirty dollars a month ! " added Ned, " and saved 
 money at that. Tom will just fit your place, uncle." 
 
 "Do you want a' clerk, uncle Joseph?" asked Tom, 
 meekly. 
 
 " I thought of having another ; but it is very small pay," 
 answered the stock broker, a little nettled ; for he had 
 created the want only to save the reputation of Ned. 
 
 " I should be very glad to enter your service, even at a 
 small salary. Any thing is better than being out of busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Right, Tom, right ! " exclaimed the old gentleman. 
 " The salary is four hundred, and you shall have the place." 
 
 And Tom took the place, while Ned, instead of adopting 
 his uncle's excellent advice, moved down two flights at the 
 hotel, rode out to Porter's every day, and went to the opera 
 every night. 
 
 In due time the legacy reached uncle Joseph, who placed 
 Ned in full possession. 
 
 In another month a large gilt sign, bearing the " name and 
 style" of a new firm, (E. "Murdock & Co.,) astonished the 
 mercantile world, and Ned was no longer out of business.
 
 OTTT OF BUSINESS. 215 
 
 The dignity of the new firm the "Co." was merely a 
 flourish of the artist's pencil to give eclat to the thing 
 demanded that the senior partner should have a wife. For- 
 tunately for the felicitous carrying out of Ned's idea on this 
 subject, things had for several months been progressing to- 
 wards this event. * 
 
 Our young merchant had paid his addresses to the daugh- 
 ter of a mercantile man, reputed to be wealthy ; and now 
 that he " had come to his possessions," there was no obsta- 
 cle to an immediate marriage. 
 
 A house in a fashionable street was procured ; the cage 
 oeing ready, the bird was caught, and Ned found himself in 
 the full enjoyment of life. He was no niggard, and things 
 went on swimmingly. Dinner parties, and tea parties, and 
 evening parties followed each other in rapid succession. 
 
 Money flowed like water. Notes on three, six, and nine 
 months were given, and Ned said the business was bound to 
 prosper. 
 
 One half of his legacy only had been invested in his busi- 
 ness at the commencement of the operation. Six, nine, and 
 twelve months did the rest. But his housekeeping affairs 
 absorbed the other half in less than six months. His wife 
 was from a rich family, he reasoned, and must be supported 
 in state. 
 
 At the end of those six months, when the first of the notes* 
 became due, Ned was not a little astonished to find that he 
 had nothing to pay them with. He looked over his books 
 to see where the ten thousand had gone to ; it was only dust 
 in the balance when weighed against his business and his 
 family expenditures. 
 
 Bad debts and unfortunate speculations stared him in the
 
 216 OUT OF BUSINESS. 
 
 face from every page, and Ned began to be a little troubled. 
 A dim consciousness that lie had been going too fast crept 
 into his mind. It was a disagreeable reflection, and when 
 he went home to dinner that day, he dodged round a corner 
 to avoid meeting uncle Joe. 
 
 In the mean time, Tom had acquitted himself to the entire 
 satisfaction of his uncle. The head clerk had left, and he 
 had been installed in his place. Living within his means, 
 indulging in no fashionable dissipations, the future was 
 bright with hope. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ONE morning, while Ned was pondering the unsatisfacto- 
 ry state of his affairs, a neighbor brought him the news of 
 the failure of his wife's father. 
 
 Ned was horrified, for, it must be confessed, that in his 
 present emergency, he had based some rather extravagant 
 hopes on the fact of having a rich father-in-law. 
 
 It was a heavy stroke to his philosophy. The little finan- 
 cial theory based upon his rich wife, which he had matured 
 to meet the approaching emergency, suddenly and violently 
 exploded. 
 
 A five hundred dollar note came due that day, and he had 
 been thinking of dropping into his father-in-law's counting 
 room about one o'clock, to see if he had " any thing over." 
 
 The thought of applying to uncle Joe occurred to him ; 
 but the worthy old gentleman was too blunt by half, and 
 would be likely to tell him some homely truths. 
 
 The day wore away with vain devisings of means to extri-
 
 OUT OF BUSINESS. 217 
 
 cate himself from his embarrassments. The note was not 
 paid was protested. 
 
 The next day, people, who had long suspected that Ned 
 was travelling too fast, began to see with a clear vision the 
 true state of the case. Before two o'clock, Ned was in 
 cttancery ! 
 
 " How's this, Ned ? " asked uncle Joseph, entering the 
 counting room. 
 
 " Don't mention it, uncle ; don't mention it ! Before you 
 say a word, I will own that you were all right, and I was all 
 wrong," replied Ned, groaning in spirit. 
 
 "I did not come to reproach you, Ned; far from it. I 
 gave the best advice I was capable of giving ; but as you 
 did not deem it advisable to follow it, of course I shall not 
 taunt you in your troubles." 
 
 This was kind of uncle Joseph, and it was spoken in a 
 kindly manner, without the slightest appearance of that tri- 
 ninphant "I knew it would be so," which wise old men 
 sometimes assume. It went to Ned's heart, for Ned had a 
 heart, notwithstanding the little foibles of his character. 
 
 " Why did you not come to me for assistance, Ned ? I 
 always meant well by you." 
 
 " My case was a hopeless one ; and to tell the truth, uncle 
 Joseph, after what passed between us, I was ashamed to 
 meet you." 
 
 " Fie, Ned ! " and the old gentleman was highly flattered 
 by his nephew's humility. 
 
 " I wish I had accepted your offer, even at a salary of four 
 hundred dollars a year. I should have been a great deal 
 better off now." 
 
 19
 
 218 OTJT OF BUSINESS. 
 
 " Well, well, we will not mind that now. The place is 
 still open." 
 
 " Is it ? " asked Ned, eagerly. 
 
 " Tom is my head clerk. Of course I could not displace 
 him." 
 
 " No, certainly not." 
 
 " But as you have a wife, I will make the salary six hun- 
 dred now." . 
 
 " Thank you, uncle ; I will gladly accept the place." 
 
 Ned did accept it, and though it was a sad fall from his 
 former position, he took his place at the desk in his uncle's 
 office as the assistant of Tom, with the best grace in the 
 world. 
 
 It is surprising how misfortunes will humble a man ; how 
 they will make him accept with joy a position at which, 
 in the days of his prosperity, he turned up his nose in 
 disgust. 
 
 Mrs. Murdock was, in the main, a sensible person, and 
 made the best of her altered circumstances. Three rooms in 
 a retired street were obtained to supply the place of the 
 fashionable residence in Tremont Street, and the young 
 couple went to housekeeping on a reduced scale. 
 
 Ned kept within his means this time. The humiliation 
 of his fall gradually wore away, and he was surprised to find 
 himself and his wife much happier than when they had been 
 surrounded by all the appliances of wealth and luxury. 
 
 Ned remained three years with uncle Joseph, who annual- 
 ly increased his salary, thus enabling him to add to the 
 comforts of life, and still keep within his means. 
 
 At the end of this period, the old gentleman, finding him-
 
 OUT OF BTT.3IXESS. 219 
 
 self old enough and rich enough to retire, gave up the busi- 
 ness to his two nephews, who, we are happy to record, are 
 now doing remarkably well. 
 
 MORAL. When you are out of business, do not be over 
 nice ; and w^en you have a legacy left to you, do not be 
 rash.
 
 "SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Yoir are of course aware of the object of my repeated 
 visits at your house, Mr. Miller ? " stammered George Har- 
 rison to the father of his intended. 
 
 " O, yes, of course," replied the father, carelessly. 
 
 " And you must be favorably disposed towards the mat- 
 ter, or you would not have permitted it to continue as long 
 as it has." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Harrison, those are affairs that I don't like to 
 meddle with, though my opinion is, a great deal of judgment 
 ought to be used in relation to them." 
 
 " Certainly, sir ; they affect the parties for life," replied 
 George, seriously. 
 
 " You do not intend to be married at present, do you ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; we have been thinking of it ; that is, not 
 under a month." 
 
 " A month ! Pray, Mr. Harrison, what have you got to 
 support a wife with ? " asked the careful father, gazing with 
 considerable astonishment into the face of the candidate for 
 matrimony. 
 
 " Well, sir, I have not got much now, it is true ; but I 
 think I shall be able to pay my way." 
 
 (220)
 
 SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE. 221 
 
 " You think so, but you may be laboring under a mistake, 
 Young men are apt to be rash." 
 
 " I am going into business, as you are aware, next week, 
 I have hired a store, and have no doubt I shall do well." 
 
 "I suppose not. Have you the capital wherewith to 
 stock your store ? " 
 
 " My capital is small, but I have friends." 
 
 " Every body has friends. "Who are they ? " 
 
 " There is Mr. Redman, who offers to let me have half my 
 stock on six months." 
 
 " And the other half? " 
 
 " I can obtain it on the same terms from other parties." 
 
 "And you propose to lay in all your stock on six months' 
 credit?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Rather a dangerous scheme, young man." 
 
 " I think not. I have no doubt that I shall be able to sell 
 goods enough to pay most of the notes ; if not, I can easily 
 get them renewed." 
 
 " You are confident." 
 
 " Perhaps I am vain ; but I trust a great deal to my 
 ability as a salesman. Why, Smith, Jones, & Co. offered 
 me a thousand dollars for the next year if I would stay with 
 them." 
 
 " You had better accept the offer, young man." 
 
 " I think not ; if I am worth a thousand dollars to them, 
 I am worth it to myself. No, sir ; I mean to have the bene- 
 fit of my own talents." 
 
 " Bah ! " exclaimed the prudent Mr. Miller. 
 
 " Perhaps I am vain." 
 
 " You are, Mr. Harrison. You will find that your ability 
 19*
 
 222 SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE. 
 
 in a concern like that of Smith, Jones, & Co. is much more 
 available than it would be in your own hands." 
 
 " We differ in that matter," replied George Harrison, with 
 some display of wounded dignity. " If you please, we wiL 
 turn to the subject to which my present visit relates." 
 
 " To be sure, young man, if you wish. I have no desire 
 to force my advice upon you, though I cannot help thinking 
 you had better heed the counsel of those who are older and 
 more experienced than you are." 
 
 " I am very willing to hear any advice." 
 
 " More willing to hear it than to follow it." 
 
 " I wish to be reasonable. If a young man never attempts 
 to better his condition, it is plain that he never will get 
 ahead in the world." 
 
 " Very true ; but let him labor as hard as he may, without 
 proper discretion, he never will succeed." 
 
 "You question my judgment, do you, sir? " asked George, 
 rather sharply. 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Harrison, but I do. The relation in 
 which you stand to my- family prompts me to speak very 
 plain. No man in his senses would stock his store on six 
 months' credit, and expect to succeed. How can you pay 
 your notes, coming all together as they do ? " 
 
 " With your leave, I will take care of that matter," re- 
 plied George, with dignity. 
 
 "Very well," replied Mr. Miller, smiling at the young 
 man's warmth. " You propose to be married in about a 
 month ? " 
 
 " We do." 
 
 " Have you got a house ? " 
 
 *' I have looked at one."
 
 SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE. 223 
 
 " Have you the means of furnishing it ? " 
 " Howe & Co. have offered to sell it to me on six months.** 
 " Then in six months, Mr. Harrison, I will talk with you 
 about marriage. In the mean time, I must decline all ne- 
 gotiation." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 GEOHGE HARRISON was a " crack salesman," and save 
 and excepting that he rather over-estimated his talents and 
 business ability, he was a fine fellow. 
 
 He did not believe in looking on the dark side of things. 
 His heart was full of hope, and he confidently expected that 
 whatever he put his hand upon would be instantly turned 
 into money. 
 
 George was a young man of spirit, and he did not relish 
 the manner in which his prospective father-in-law had 
 treated him. 
 
 " He used me like a boy," mumbled George, as he left the 
 counting room of Mr. Miller; "just as though he knew 
 every thing, and I didn't know any thing. But I'll teach 
 him better than that." 
 
 Directing his steps to the house of Mr. Miller, he found 
 Hannah, his lady love, arrayed for a walk. 
 
 " I have bad news, my dear," said he. 
 
 " Bad news ! Why, what, George ? " 
 
 " Let us walk to the Common, and I will tell you all 
 about it." 
 
 Seated on one of the stone seats by the " Frog Pond," 
 George narrated the substance of his interview with Mr. 
 Miller.
 
 224 six MONTHS AFTER DATE. 
 
 " But lie only postponed the matter for six months, 
 George," said Hannah, relieved by his statement. " Per- 
 haps it would be better to put it off." 
 
 " You know, dearest, we intended to be married next 
 month." 
 
 " Still, we can wait." 
 
 " There is no need of waiting, Hannah." 
 
 " Perhaps there is not ; but if my father thinks so, hadn't 
 we better humor him ? " 
 
 " I don't think so." 
 
 " "Why, what would you do ? " 
 
 " Fe married ; " and George told her how romantic it 
 would be to run away to New York, and come home mac 
 and wife how it would surprise their friends. 
 
 Hannah's "spirit" was fully equal to that of George; 
 and the moment she began to feel that her " cruel father " 
 was persecuting them, she was ready for any thing, even for 
 an elopement. 
 
 The arrangement was made, and George hired the house 
 he had looked at. Howe & Co. furnished it, and took 
 George's note on six months in payment, with a mortgage 
 for security. 
 
 The new store was opened, and things went on " swim- 
 mingly." Business was good, and every body said George 
 was making money "hand over fist." . 
 
 At the appointed time the elopement took place. The 
 newspapers duly chronicled the event, and, for a time, George 
 was a lion. The ladies, eager to behold and converse with a 
 gentleman who had the " spunk " to tear a persecuted daugh- 
 ter from the grasp of a cruel father, and elope with her
 
 SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE. 225 
 
 flocked to his store. The elopement was a decided hit, and 
 George's gains were largely augmented by it. 
 
 The happy couple took up their residence in the new 
 house. It was beautifully furnished, and Hannah felt that 
 she was a queen in paradise. To her the day was not long 
 enough to hold all the happiness that crowded upon her. 
 
 And her father, too, instead of treating -her harshly after 
 the rash step she had taken, came to see her, was as kind to 
 her as though nothing had happened, and never said a single 
 word about the elopement. Her cup of joy was full. 
 
 George was a prince. He was coining money ; he snapped 
 his fingers at the notes, and wondered what Mr. Miller said 
 now ! 
 
 Flushed with success, he returned home one night after an 
 unusually good day's sale, and, after kissing his wife, they 
 were just married, and playfully chucking her under the 
 chin, he vented his exuberant satisfaction in a rhapsody on 
 the joys of life. 
 
 " Happy as princes ! " exclaimed he. " The money pours 
 in as fast as I care to handle it." 
 
 " How glad I am ! " responded Hannah, artlessly. 
 
 " We have nothing more to wish for, have we, Hannah? " 
 
 "Well, I don't know." 
 
 " You don't know ! Why, I thought you were perfectly 
 happy." 
 
 " So I am, dear George ; but I was thinking, the othei 
 day, how pleasant it would be to have a piano in the house," 
 replied she, with some little diffidence. 
 
 " So it would, Hannah ; what a dolt I have been not to 
 think of it ! I have felt all along as though there was some- 
 thing wanting."
 
 226 SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE. 
 
 " But I hope, George, you will not buy one if you cannot 
 afford to do so." 
 
 " Afford to ! Certainly I can ; I shall be a rich man in 
 one year. You shall have one of Chickering's best to- 
 morrow." 
 
 On the following day the piano came. George paid cash 
 for it from his surplus funds. But no sooner had the piano 
 come than Hannah began to feel that the rest of their furni- 
 ture in the parlor did not correspond with it. George agreed 
 with the proposition, and their parlor furniture was sent to 
 Leonard's forthwith. A new and expensive set was fur- 
 nished, and paid for in cash. 
 
 Thus things went on for several months. It took all of 
 George's profits to keep house and buy the new things which 
 were every day discovered to be wanting. 
 
 The dull season had come on, and George suddenly found 
 that there was no more business to be done. He had not 
 even money enough at the end of six months to pay his 
 second quarter's rent, to say nothing of the notes which 
 came due at that time. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE six months had fully expired, even down to the last 
 day of grace. 
 
 Hannah sat at the piano, playing " Home, sweet home," 
 anxiously waiting the return of George. The hour at which 
 be usually came home had gone by, and she occasionally 
 cast an impatient glance at the clock. 
 
 She had observed that for several days he had worn a
 
 SIX MONTHS A.FTEB, DAIE. 227 
 
 troubled air, and had even been so cross as to repulse he* 
 when she offered her accustomed caress ; but the thought 
 that his business matters were in an embarrassed condition 
 never occurred to her. He had often boasted of his success* 
 and of course she had no reason to dread the calamity which 
 her father had pointed out to her before her marriage. 
 
 A violent pull at the door bell started her from the piano. 
 A rough-looking person was ushered into her presence. 
 
 " Very sorry, ma'am," said he, with an awkward bow ; 
 " but I've come to take possession." 
 
 " What do you mean, sir ? " exclaimed Hannah, affrighted 
 by the crowd of disagreeable thoughts that rushed to her 
 brain. 
 
 " Why, simply, ma'am, that the notes haven't been paid, 
 and Mr. Harrison's creditors have attached the property. 
 This furniture now belongs to Messrs. Rowe & Co." 
 
 The deputy sheriff, having placed a keeper over the goods, 
 politely bowed himself out, leaving Hannah a prey to a 
 thousand anxious forebodings. 
 
 The arrival of George was an intense relief to her. 
 
 " Just as I supposed ! " exclaimed he. " My creditors 
 have had their heads together, and every thing has gone by 
 the board at once." 
 
 " Pray, what does it all mean, George ? " asked Hannah. 
 
 " I have failed ; my creditors have driven me into an as- 
 signment. I am a beggar." 
 
 " Why, George, I thought you were doing remarkably well." 
 
 " I was ; but, with all the business I have done, I doubt 
 if I could ever have met these notes." 
 
 " But how much do you owe, George ? Can't you sell 
 the piano, and pay it ? "
 
 228 SIX MONTHS AFTEK DATE. 
 
 " It would be only a drop in the bucket. To come right 
 to the fact, I suppose my creditors saw that I lived up to my 
 income, and so it was no use for them to be gentle. I must 
 find a situation now as a salesman, and we must give up this 
 house, and board." 
 
 " You ought not to have bought that piano ; you know I 
 didn't want you to if you couldn't afford it." 
 
 " And a thousand other things ought not to have been 
 bought. If I had saved the money, my creditors would 
 probably have given me an extension on my paying a part 
 of their demands. But it is too late now ; I have been a 
 fool. Your father was right, after all." 
 
 " I am afraid he was ; but here he comes." 
 
 " Six months after date," said Mr. Miller, entering tht 
 room. 
 
 " You were right, sir ; I have been a fool," replied George, 
 with due humility. 
 
 " Well, the victory is half won when you see the error. 
 But I have not come to reproach you for your folly, George. 
 How much do you owe ? " 
 
 George stated the amount. 
 
 " Very well," continued Mr. Miller. " I have already seen 
 your creditors, and with my name on your paper, they have 
 agreed to give you an extension." 
 
 " Sir! " exclaimed George, starting back in amazement. 
 
 " But you must let Messrs. Howe & Co. take these 
 useless traps ; your house is furnished well enough for a 
 prince." 
 
 " George is fully sensible where the error lies, father ; we 
 are ready to profit by the lesson." 
 
 " All right. Young folks think that old folks are fools,
 
 SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE. 229 
 
 and old folks know that young ones are. Well, well ; \ve 
 must live and learn." 
 
 " I am very grateful to you, sir," began George. 
 
 " There, there ! that will do. All I desire is, your pros- 
 perity. When I objected to your marriage, I foresaw the 
 event which has now happened. You have done remarkably 
 well in your business ; but the best business in the world 
 wouldn't pay for a stock of goods in six months, to say 
 nothing about a thousand dollars in furniture and k>ick- 
 
 knacks." 
 
 
 
 George went to work again on a better principle. When 
 he entered a note on his " Bills Payable," it was not until 
 after he had made a close calculation upon the means of 
 meeting it. He was successful at last, though, like a major- 
 ity of young men on the same street, he won his way to suc- 
 cess through failure and disaster, over the rough load of 
 bitter experience. 
 
 A smaller house was procured, and furnished in a neat 
 and plain style, and Hannah is quite as happy as she was 
 during the honeymoon in her more ample establishment, 
 especially as George who is now never embarrassed by 
 money matters is always cheerful, contented, and withal a 
 loving and devoted husband ; and the prospect now is, that 
 he will be so " Six Months after Date." 
 20
 
 A WORLD OF TROUBLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " I A.M so glad you have come, Thomas ! " exclaimed Mr*. 
 Butler, a pale, care-worn young wife, as her husband entered 
 the room in which she had prepared the evening meal. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter now 1 " returned the husband, 
 laying a wicked emphasis upon the word " now," as though 
 he meant to imply that there always was something the 
 matter. 
 
 " Nothing ; only I wanted you to bring in a pail of water, 
 for I am so tired, that I declare I can hardly keep upon my 
 feet." 
 
 " Is that all ? I did not know but what the baby had had 
 a fit, or got scalded, or something of that sort." 
 
 " Nothing of the kind ; I have trouble enough to get 
 along with, without sickness in the family. I feel just as 
 though I should die every night when I get my work done ; " 
 and Mrs. Butler sighed, as she placed the smoking tea upon 
 the table, and threw herself into a chair, apparently so ex- 
 hausted that she could not have stood a'nother moment. 
 
 " You must have a girl, Mary ; you know I don't want 
 you to work so hard. I have often told you so before," said 
 Mr. Butler. 
 
 " A girl, indeed ! Can you afford to keep a girl, Thomas ? " 
 
 (230)
 
 A WORLD OF TROUBLE. 231 
 
 " Certainly, I can. I am earning twelve dollars a week 
 now, and I am sure our expenses are not above eight. A 
 dollar and a half a week added to this sum would still leave 
 me a handsome surplus." 
 
 " Just like you, Thomas ; that is one of your calcula- 
 tions." 
 
 " Certainly, that is one of my calculations," replied Mr. 
 Butler, a little tartly. 
 
 " I suppose you wouldn't reckon any thing for the girl's 
 board," sneered the wife. 
 
 "A mere trifle." 
 
 " Every thing is a mere trifle with you." 
 
 Thomas stuffed half a hot biscuit into his mouth to help 
 him keep his temper. 
 
 " And then she would waste double her wages," continued 
 the lady. 
 
 " Pshaw ! that is an old woman's bugbear," replied But- 
 ler, impatiently. 
 
 " Yes ; that's just the way you always talk." 
 
 " It is correct talk, though." 
 
 " Girls don't waste, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I presume they do, many of them ; but you abominably 
 exaggerate the amount." 
 
 " No, I don't ; I say they waste double their wages." 
 
 "No such thing." 
 
 " Ask any one who has kept help." 
 
 " What articles do they waste to such an enormous ex- 
 tent ? " 
 
 " Every thing provisions, groceries ; and they burn up 
 tAvice as much fuel as there is any kind of need of." 
 
 " Twice as much ? "
 
 232 A WORLD OF TBOTJBLE. 
 
 " Yes ; twice as much." 
 
 " Let me see ; " and Thomas pulled out a bit of paper and 
 a pencil, and went to figuring with all his might. " We use 
 three tons of coal in six months. Twice as much would 
 be six tons, which would come to forty-two dollars, or twen- 
 ty-one dollars waste. That is eighty cents a week." 
 
 " Clear waste ! " exclaimed Mrs. Butler, with palpable 
 horror depicted on her countenance. 
 
 " Now, allow that she wastes one half the provisions and 
 one half the groceries, which is absurd, and she would just 
 double my bills. They were fifty-two dollars for the last 
 six months, which makes a waste of two dollars per week. 
 Why, Mary, we have only made the waste to be two dollars 
 and eighty cents, even with these figures. Double her wage? 
 would be three dollars." 
 
 " She would waste enough, as you would find out to your 
 sorrow, if you kept one," added Mrs. Butler, not pleased 
 with the state of her side of the argument. 
 
 " You don't believe she could waste half the fuel and 
 stores ? " 
 
 Mrs. Butler did not believe it, but she did not like to say so. 
 
 " Probably, my dear, under your excellent supervision, 
 she could not possibly waste more than fifty cents a week." 
 
 "Well, that is twenty-six dollars a year." 
 
 " But I can afford to lose that, rather than that you should 
 make a slave of yourself." 
 
 " I don't want a girl; it would be more work to look after 
 her than it would be to do the work myself." 
 
 " As you please, my dear." 
 
 " I don't want your friends to think you have got an 
 extravagant wife."
 
 A WOELD OF TROUBLE. 233 
 
 " Fudge on my friends ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is easy enough, for you to say so." 
 
 " And for you, too, if you choose." 
 
 " I don't want to spend all we get." 
 
 " Nor I, my dear ; but, to be very plain with you, I had 
 much rather do it, than hear you everlastingly complain how 
 hard you have to work." 
 
 " Don't I work hard ? " 
 
 " I don't know but you do." 
 
 " Just think what I have to do." 
 
 " Well, I have to work hard, too ; but I am sure it does 
 not make one feel any better to be continually grumbling 
 about it." 
 
 " Who's grumbling ? Can't a body speak without be- 
 ing accused of grumbling ? " said Mrs. Butler, rather 
 pettishly. 
 
 " I only mean to say, that you work twice as hard with 
 your imagination as you do with your hands ; your thoughts 
 make the work hard." 
 
 " Yes, it is easy for you to say so," said the wife, wiping 
 away the tears from her wan cheeks. 
 
 " When have I come into the house, Mary, for the last 
 six months, and you have not told me a heap of troubles as 
 big as a mountain ? I can't stand it." 
 
 " I never thought you could be so harsh to me. You did 
 not use to speak to me in that way," sobbed Mary, feeling 
 that she was the most cruelly used wife in the world. 
 
 " You irritate me with your troubles." 
 
 "I can't help my troubles; I do the best I can to keep 
 your house in order, and take good care of the baby." 
 
 " I never found any fault with your management. I am 
 20*
 
 234 A WORLD OF TROUBLE. 
 
 abundantly pleased with all you do, save and except youl 
 croaking and grumbling." 
 
 " What can I do ? " 
 
 " Go about your work cheerfully, and with a disposition 
 to make the best of every thing. By a cheerful and con- 
 tented disposition, you will make even the hardest day of 
 toil a day of satisfaction. You look darkly upon your lot, 
 and that makes it black." 
 
 " I can't help my feelings." 
 
 " Yes, you can, Mary. At any rate, you ought not to 
 imbitter my existence with your incessant complainings." 
 
 " I have tried to make you happy." 
 
 " If you have, you have signally failed ; for it has come 
 to that, I almost hate to come into the house, so much do I 
 dread to hear your tale of woe." 
 
 " I will try to do better." 
 
 " Do, Mary ; home will become a curse to me, instead of 
 the brightest spot upon earth, as it ought to be, if you do 
 not." 
 
 The baby cried at this point of the conversation, and Mrs. 
 Butler wiped away her tears, and took the little cherub from 
 the cradle where he had been sleeping, all unconscious of 
 the matrimonial squall which had been blowing around him. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHEN Mrs. Butler was married, she was a bright, cheer- 
 ful, and happy maiden. For more than a year she and her 
 devoted husband had not known the meaning of matrimonial 
 strife. It was a new state of existence to her, and while the
 
 A WORLD OF TROUBLE. 235 
 
 novelty of the thing lasted, she was as happy as the day was 
 long. 
 
 But in the course of events, she was deprived of the pleas- 
 ure of going abroad much, and the pretty home in which 
 she had spent a year of joy began to rust on her imagina- 
 tion. Not that her husband was less devoted; though he 
 might not have been quite so dreamy and sentimental as he 
 was in the days of their courtship, yet he was all that a 
 reasonable wife could expect. He was indulgent, kind, and 
 sympathized deeply with her in all those matters wherein a 
 young wife needs tenderness and care. 
 
 Little Bobby was born ; but the little stranger made such 
 a heap of Ayork for the fond mother, that she declared she 
 should die under the infliction. She would not listen to her 
 husband's suggestion to keep a girl. She had a kind of van- 
 ity in her composition, which led her to endure rather than 
 subject her husband's purse to such an expenditure. She 
 feared folks would say she was not as " smart " as she wished 
 to be considered, or that Thomas's relations would deem her 
 extravagant and lazy. 
 
 She continued to do her work, though each day was a day 
 of misery. Before she got breakfast,jlinner, or tea, she sat 
 and moped over it, thinking what a terrible hard job it was 
 for her to perform. She dreaded washing day from about 
 Friday morning ; and over the washtub she was as misera- 
 ble as soapsuds and a rubbing-board could possibly make her. 
 
 The reader may imagine that she was lazy ; but I do not 
 think so. She lived in a " world of trouble ; " she looked 
 upon the dark side of every thing. Of course, there were 
 many hardships she was called upon to endure as who ia 
 not ? She was obliged to keep occupied most of the time
 
 236 A WORLD OF TROUBLE. 
 
 in the duties of the household and, the care of the baby. 
 Her position was undoubtedly one of trial and vexation, aa 
 those who are experienced in these matters will readily un- 
 derstand. 
 
 But the principal difficulty was to be found in Mrs. But- 
 ler's unhappy disposition. She was not cheerful and con- 
 tented with her lot. Her morbid imagination magnified the 
 little trials of every-day life into monstrous woes, and she 
 suffered intolerably in her mind, which was communicated to 
 the body. Sh was the most miserable of women the 
 most unreasonably miserable. 
 
 Of course, her husband, who was of a directly opposite 
 temperament, was rendered miserable also. Mrs. Butler 
 seemed so wedded to her woe, that every effort on his part 
 to alleviate it was promptly repulsed. He had grown dis- 
 gusted. His wife was always complaining. He never came 
 into the house without being assailed by a relation of her 
 woes. He cursed his stars blamed himself for ever be- 
 coming a husband. 
 
 But, then, poor fellow, what could he do ? Mary was as 
 gentle and pleasant a maiden before her marriage as one 
 often finds. She had ^ever been placed in a position to try 
 her character. He might have heard her fret over a new 
 dress that did not fit, or something of that sort ; but he 
 never dreamed that a tempest could ever blow out of such a 
 little cloud. It was only when she felt the cold touch of 
 life's realities that she showed out exactly what she was. 
 
 It was too late now ; the mischief had been done. She 
 was his wife ; she was the mother of little Bobby. He loved 
 her still, though his affections had been terribly shocked by 
 her thoughtless grumbling.
 
 A WOULD OF TEOUBLE. 237 
 
 Mary had promised to do better ; but, alas for the vanity 
 of human promises, they were words written in sand. The 
 habit had become deep rooted. Thomas was in despair. 
 He had tried by threats and by persuasions to make her 
 reasonable, but all in vain. His house was a hell to him. 
 If she had scolded him, been negligent of her household 
 duties, a gadder in the street, a gossip any thing but a 
 grumbler, he felt that he could have endured it, loved her, 
 and continued to be happy. 
 
 But it was an ever-present leaf of woe her countenance 
 presented to him, and when home had ceased to be a pleas- 
 ant place, he gradually absented himself, and the still loving 
 but incorrigible wife smelt the rum in his breath when he 
 returned from his evening amusements. 
 
 One night, about two months after the conversation we 
 have narrated, as the clock was striking the midnight hour, 
 he was brought home, helplessly drunk, in the arms of two 
 watchmen, who had picked him up in the street. 
 
 What a sight for a young and loving wife, to behold the 
 father of her child drunk ! They placed him in bed, and 
 she spent a sleepless night in weeping over his senseless, 
 imbruted form. O, the agony of that bitter time ! Her 
 husband a drunkard ! she a drunkard's wife ! Earth has 
 its miseries, but none like those of the inebriate's wife. 
 
 "Want, shame, the poorhouse, the court, and the prison 
 rose before her with terrible vividness. A train of woes, 
 real woes, so long she could not see the end of it, marched 
 in solemn procession before her. There was her child in 
 rags, her husband a homeless, idle, degraded sot. There 
 was the gaunt form of Hunger, the glaring eyes of the
 
 238 A WOELD OF TROUBLE. 
 
 demons of crime there was every thing there, from which 
 the heart of woman would instinctively shrink. 
 
 Thomas rose the next morning, and ate his breakfast in 
 silence the silence which shame seemed to impose upon 
 him. He was about to leave his house for his workshop, 
 when Mary spoke. 
 
 " Thomas," said she, in the subdued tones of anguish, 
 while a flood of tears rained down her wan cheek. 
 
 He looked at her, as though he had already divined what 
 she meant to say. 
 
 " Thomas, you can't think how unhappy I was last night, 
 when you were when you came home." 
 
 " Well, what's the matter now ? " answered Thomas, sul- 
 lenly. 
 
 " 0, Thomas, last night ! " 
 
 " Well, what of it ? " 
 
 Mary was amazed that no appearance of contrition miti- 
 gated his flagrant error. 
 
 " You don't come home in the evening now." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " But you will come to-night, Thomas ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I will." 
 
 " Nay, you will ? " 
 
 " What for ? " 
 
 " Come for my sake, Thomas." 
 
 " Your sake ! Well, that is a good one," replied he, 
 coarsely. 
 
 Mary was shocked. 
 
 " Last night, you were were " she could say no 
 
 more. 
 
 "Yes, I zoos."
 
 A WOBLD OF TBOTJBI,E. 239 
 
 " You were 
 
 " Drunk ! Out with it." 
 
 " O Thomas ! " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 *' What misery is in store for us ! " 
 
 " Can't help it." 
 
 " Nay, Thomas, promise that you will not " 
 
 *' Get drunk," laughed Thomas. 
 
 " Do not again." 
 
 ** Can't promise." 
 
 " O God ! has it come to this ? " 
 
 " Fact ! " 
 
 Mary threw herself into a chair, and wept as though her 
 heart would break. - The sight seemed to move the husband, 
 who was not yet lost in transgression. A tear stole into his 
 eye, and he bent over her and took her hand. 
 
 " Mary, I have sinned." 
 
 " You will not again ? " said she, eagerly. 
 
 " But, Mary, is there no fault on your part ? " 
 
 " My part ? " 
 
 " My home is hateful to me. Even the presence of that 
 sleeping, innocent child removes not the curse which seems 
 to hang over it." 
 
 " Why, Thomas, what do you mean ? " 
 
 " You know what I mean. Have I not often reasoned 
 with you ? " 
 
 " O God ! " exclaimed Mary, burying her face between 
 her hands, conscious that the misery which menaced her was 
 of her own seeking. 
 
 " I never will complain of any thing again as long as I 
 live ! " she continued.
 
 240 A WOULD OF TROUBLE. 
 
 '* All, Mary, I have often heard you say so before." 
 
 '* Trust me this time, Thomas." 
 
 " I will, Mary." 
 
 " Come home to-night ; you shall find me a*ll that you 
 could wish." 
 
 " Bless you, Mary. I trust for your sake, as well as my 
 own, and for the sake of our own dear boy, that you may 
 be true to your resolution." 
 
 " I will, Thomas," replied she, with a gathering smile, as 
 her husband kissed her. 
 
 " And I promise never again to taste the fatal cup. You 
 snail be the guardian of this my solemn pledge ; for in no 
 way can you more effectually secure the keeping of my 
 promise than by observing your own in short, by making 
 home happy." 
 
 Again the husband kissed her, and then went to his work. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A DRUNKARD'S wife ! This were a real woe. What were 
 all her little vexations compared with it ? Mary's resolution 
 was a firm one, and in her earnestness to observe it, she 
 knelt and prayed for strength from above to enable her to 
 be equal to the duty before her. 
 
 Last night a terrible fate had menaced her. The lot of a 
 drunkard's wife the most appalling woe that can overtake 
 a woman had threatened to be her portion. The sombre 
 cloud had risen, and her destiny was in ner own hands. 
 
 She knew her husband well enough to be satisfied that his 
 pledge would be held sacred that, till she drove him from
 
 A TY'DELD OF TROUBLE. 241 
 
 his home by her unamiable peculiarity, he would be true to 
 the words he had spoken. 
 
 Grumbling is only a habit. It may even have a root in 
 the natural temperament of the individual ; but it is not an 
 incurable disease. Mary felt that happiness here and here- 
 after depended upon her fidelity to the promise she had 
 made that a single complaining word would be like a 
 match placed near the magazine and another word would 
 involve her in hopeless ruin. 
 
 But she had sense enough to know, and she strove to feel, 
 that it were useless to avoid the word, while the disposition 
 existed. It were useless to whitewash a sepulchre it is 
 still " full of dead men's bones." She determined to per- 
 form a radical cure. She resolved to be contented, and then 
 the hasty word would not be spoken. 
 
 She went about her daily duties with the feeling that a 
 mountain had been removed from her heart. She was cheer- 
 ful happy happy to feel that it was in her power to 
 avert the terrible catastrophe which had menaced her that 
 she could avoid the yawning abyss that was before her. 
 
 All her trials and vexations dwindled into trifles com- 
 pared with the fate which last night had been so vividly pre- 
 sented to her imagination, and the comparison made her 
 happy. 
 
 Punctual to his accustomed hour, Thomas came home. 
 He had not drank any thing, and he appeared cheerful and 
 happy. She met him with a smiling face, and never men- 
 tioned a word of the difficulties that had beset her. She 
 had even been so far as to draw a pail of water herself, and 
 bring up a hod of coal ; but she said nothing about i.t. 
 
 They were happy again ; but perhaps it was as much the 
 21
 
 242 A WORLD OF TROUBLE. 
 
 effect of the contrast as the actual change in the circum- 
 stances. Thomas fondled little Bobby on his knees, and 
 undressed and put him to bed himself. Mary was delighted, 
 and from her soul she prayed that her own weakness might 
 not dissolve the blissful picture of domestic happiness their 
 home at that moment presented. 
 
 A year passed by. Thomas was true to his vow, and Mary 
 to hers. Whenever things went wrong with her, and the 
 old spirit rose in her heart, her husband had only to say, 
 
 "You absolve me from my oath, Mary ? " and she became 
 gentle and cheerful in an instant. 
 
 Those words were a charm. That solemn promise broken, 
 and again the poorhouse, the penitentiary, the bloated father, 
 the ragged child, the long procession of woes rose in her 
 mind, and she was true to herself. 
 
 But she really improved her disposition. The habit was 
 radically cured. The home of Thomas Butler is no more a 
 " world of trouble ; " it is " home, sweet home " the 
 abode of the angel of contentment, the dwelling-place of 
 truth and love, and the most effectual preventive of the 
 curse of drunkenness. 
 
 Our story is not ail a story it is true to the letter. We 
 beg the complaining wife to ask herself if she is not making 
 for her husband a path to the drunkard's grave for herself 
 and her children a bed of thorns.
 
 "SEND FOR THE DOCTOR." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MY excellent old uncle Jesse peace to his ashes ! 
 used to tell me that every thing depended on the " bringing 
 up ; " and a little experience in this world of strange men 
 and things but a very good world, for all that has 
 convinced me that he was considerably more than half right. 
 
 Some people have learned to depend upon themselves in 
 the hour of peril. The energy, firmness, and decision of 
 their own characters are their sword, shield, and steed when 
 
 " Giant danger threatening stands." 
 
 Their fortress is within themselves. They have been taught 
 by their instructors or by their circumstances to rely upon 
 their own strength. 
 
 Others are weak, nervous and vacillating in the presence 
 of danger, throwing the burden of their salvation on the 
 shoulders of the first " Good Samaritan " who approaches 
 them. Their tower of strength is the doctor, the minister, 
 the lawyer,* or some sympathizing friend. They have never 
 been taught, either by their instructors or their circumstances, 
 to depend upon their own resources, moral, mental, and physi- 
 cal, for guidance and support. 
 
 If the house takes fire, one puts it out ; but another runs 
 to the church and rings the bell for his neighbors. If Tommy 
 
 (243^
 
 244 SEND FOR THE DOCTOK? 
 
 wheezes, papa, who has no confidence in himself, sends for 
 the doctor ; while mamma, who has "been taught from child- 
 hood to think and act for herself, is in favor of giving the 
 little fellow " an onion and a little goose oil." 
 
 But extremes are always silly or dangerous, as the case 
 may be. People laugh at papa, because he is so ridiculously 
 timid ; and mamma delays sending for the physician till 
 Tommy is almost dead with the croup. One lets his house 
 burn down while he is summoning his friends to help him 
 put it out ; and another's is destroyed because he attempted 
 to,put it out alone when he actually needed the assistance of 
 his neighbors. After all, it requires considerable judgment 
 to get along in the world. 
 
 We have no intention of writing a homily on the proper 
 conduct of men and women in connection with the casualties 
 of life. Whether or not it be expedient to send for the 
 doctor when the baby sneezes, we leave to the judgment of 
 the parties immediately interested. We have a story to tell 
 which illustrates both sides of the question ; and either dis- 
 putant in the important controversy is at liberty to appro- 
 priate the moral to sustain his or her cherished theory. 
 
 Millbrook is a manufacturing village, and the most im- 
 portant person there, at the time of which we write, was Mr. 
 Milton Barrington, who, to use the metaphorical language 
 of the villagers, " run " the principal mill. Though quite a 
 young man, he had amassed a handsome fortune, and by his 
 enterprise, public spirit, and general character as a person of 
 integrity and fairness, had attained the most influential po- 
 sition in the village. People looked to him for advice and 
 assistance in their extremity, and no one ever thought of 
 making a motion in town meeting to build a new school
 
 SEND FOR THE DOCTOR. 245 
 
 house, lay out a road, or of making any important move- 
 ment, until he had been consulted. The people were mainly 
 on his side in politics, religion, and philosophy. Whatever 
 he did, he was pretty sure to have plenty of imitators. 
 
 Mr. Barrjngton had spent the flower of his manhood in 
 the pursuit of wealth ; and the idea of getting married did 
 not occur to him till he had reached his thirtieth year. Prob- 
 ably he would not have thought of such a thing then, if a 
 pretty and otherwise eligible young lady had not at that 
 time crossed his path, reminding him of his duty in the 
 premises. 
 
 Three years after, we find him in the full enjoyment of all 
 the blessings of the connubial state, and the father of a pretty 
 little boy just eighteen months old. Mr. Barrington was 
 the happiest of fathers, and to use grandma's enthusiastic 
 expression, " he set his life by that boy." 
 
 It was a cold night in December. Mr. Barrington was 
 reading Mrs. Stowe's Sunny Memories to his wife, while 
 little Charley lay asleep in his crib beside them. 
 
 The clock struck ten, and as the father laid aside the book, 
 Charley coughed rather hoarsely, and waking up, began to 
 scream most lustily. Mrs. Barrington took him up and tried 
 to quiet him ; but he obstinately refused to be quieted. 
 
 Mr. Barrington was alarmed. Charley was not accustomed 
 to have such freaks. 
 
 " What do you think ails him ? " asked he of his wife. 
 
 " He has got a little cold, probably." 
 
 " Don't you think I had better send for the doctor ? " con 
 tinued Mr. Barrington, nervously. 
 
 " Not the least need of it." 
 
 " But the croup, my dear ? " 
 21*
 
 246 SEND FOR THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " That cough was nothing like the croup." 
 
 Mr. Harrington was comforted by this assurance, and in a 
 little while, Charley got tired of crying, and went to sleep again. 
 
 The child was carried up stairs, and they retired. But 
 Mr. Harrington was not wholly satisfied. The croup was 
 BO sudden and so fatal that the cough he had heard seemed 
 to haunt his imagination. He could not go to sleep for 
 thinking of it. He trembled at the thought of losing the 
 darling little one. He had passed almost into a confirmed 
 old bachelor before his marriage, and the diseases of children 
 had never received much consideration from him. He had 
 heard people tell how dreadful the croup was, and only a 
 week before the only child of one of his overseers had died 
 with it, after an illness of scarcely twelve hours. 
 
 The clock on the village church struck one, and he was 
 still awake. His wife slept soundly. She was better ac- 
 quainted with the nature of the dreadful disease, and had 
 felt no alarm when the child coughed. 
 
 While he was thus thinking of what might possibly happen, 
 Charley coughed again, and jumping up in the bed, began to 
 scream as he had in the evening. 
 
 Mrs. Barrington took him in her arms. 
 
 " Did you hear him cough ? " asked the trembling father. 
 
 " I did not. His screams awoke me." 
 
 " Don't he breathe hard ? Are you sure he has not got 
 the croup ? " 
 
 " I do not think he has. He seems to breathe freely," 
 replied Mrs. Barrington. " He is a little hoarse, but I do not 
 think it is any thing serious." 
 
 " I am afraid it is. Don't you think I had better send for 
 the doctor?"
 
 SEX1) FOR THE DOCTOR. 247 
 
 " There is no occasion to do so." 
 
 " I am really alarmed about him." 
 
 " Do as you wish. ; though I think it is only a little cold." 
 
 Mr. Barrington was satisfied it was the croup, and the 
 consent of his wife, thus doubtfully given, was all he re- 
 quired. The " man of all work " was called up and de- 
 spatched for Dr. Broadbeam, with a request that the physician 
 would come with all possible haste. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MRS. BARRINGTON used all her maternal arts to quiet the 
 little patient. He did not appear to suffer any pain, and 
 his respiration was apparently as free as ever. In a short 
 time, her efforts were successful, and Charley sunk away into 
 a peaceful slumber. 
 
 It was half an hour before Ur. Broadbeam arrived. It 
 was possible he had used all convenient despatch in waiting 
 upon his influential patron ; but being a man of two hundred 
 pounds, his swiftest movements were necessarily slow. 
 
 Dr. Broadbeam had the reputation of being a very skilful 
 physician; but unfortunately he had such a "grouty" way 
 of dealing with his patients and patrons, that his popularity 
 in Millbrook was on the decline. People did not like to be 
 " snapped up " when they were sick ; and the only circum- 
 stance that enabled Dr. Broadbeam to retain- even a moiety 
 of the practice of the village was the fact that Mr. Barrington 
 still employed him. 
 
 At the suggestion of a small portion of the population, 
 who had the hardihood to break away from Mr. Barrington's
 
 248 SEND FOB THE DOCTOR. 
 
 lead, a young physician of good parts, and with an easy and 
 pleasing address, had been induced to locate himself in the 
 village. Dr. Broadbeam raved like a madman at the advent 
 of the interloper, stigmatized him as a quack, and obstinately 
 refused even to be civil to him. But when a year in the 
 young doctor's professional experience had passed away 
 without sensibly augmenting his practice, he condescended 
 to laugh at him, and call him a fool. The crusty old leech 
 felt that he could have every thing his own way ; tha^t his 
 skill and experience were amply sufficient to offset his morose 
 address and sour temper. 
 
 To get out of a warm bed in the middle of a cold Decem- 
 ber night is never agreeable to any body, unless perchance 
 the house be on fire ; and young gentlemen who aspire to 
 the honors of the medical craft ought to think of this before 
 they choose the profession. 
 
 To Dr. Broadbeam night duty was especially unpleasant. 
 He was rather indolent and luxurious in his habits, and 
 always made it a rule to believe that poor folks could wait 
 till morning before they had the doctor. But when Mr. 
 Barrington summoned him, why, it was quite another affair. 
 
 " What's the matter with the child ? " growled Dr. Broad- 
 beam, as he entered the apartment. 
 
 " I don't know, doctor, but I am very much afraid of the 
 croup," replied Mr. Barrington, handing the physician a 
 chair. 
 
 "Humph!" 
 
 " The croup prevails to some extent in the village, you are 
 aware," added the nervous father. 
 
 " Always does at this season of the year," replied the doc- 
 tor, bending over the child to listen to his respiration.
 
 SEND FOR THE DOCTOR 249 
 
 "Does he breathe naturally, doctor ?" asked Mrs. Bar- 
 rington, to whom her husband's alarm had to some extent 
 communicated itself. 
 
 " Naturally ? " sneered the physician. " Nothing under 
 the sun ails the child." 
 
 " What made him cry so, doctor ? " inquired Mrs. Bar- 
 rington. 
 
 " Cry so, madam ? cry so ! You gave him too much sup- 
 per, madam ; and I am tumbled out of my bed to see a child 
 that has the stomach ache ! " growled the doctor, enraged 
 when he thought of the comfortable bed which he had been 
 so unceremoniously compelled to leave. 
 
 " But his cough, doctor ? " said Mr. Barrington, control- 
 ling his indignation at the rudeness of the physician. 
 
 " Mr. Barrington, you are a fool ! " exclaimed Dr. Broad- 
 beam, as he violently jammed his hat upon his head. " Do 
 you think I am to leave my bed on a cold night like this 
 whenever your baby sneezes ? Humph ! " 
 
 "You are a physician, are you not?" asked Mr. Bar- 
 rington. 
 
 He was angry ; but keeping down his indignation, he put 
 the question with tolerable calmness. 
 
 " A physician ! Of course I am ; but is that any reason 
 why I should be turned out in the dead of the night for 
 nothing at all ? " replied the enraged leech. 
 
 " You chose your own profession." 
 
 " What if I did ? " 
 
 " What is your charge for a night visit ? " 
 
 " Five dollars, sir ! Five dollars ! " answered the doctor, 
 maliciously. 
 
 ** And you believe that I am able to pay it ? "
 
 250 SEND FOB THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " I do, or I would not have come." 
 
 " That is enough, sir ; if I am content to pay five dollars 
 for the assurance of a physician that nothing ails my child, 
 I take it that I am at liberty to do so." 
 
 "Humph!" 
 
 " "When I send for a physician, I consider it a business 
 transaction. He gives me his advice for the money I pay 
 him. If his conduct entitles him to be cherished as a friend 
 as an angel sent with healing balm for the soul as well as 
 the body," and Mr. Barrington looked sternly at the doc- 
 tor, "I cheerfully accord him his due." 
 
 " Well, sir ! " 
 
 " If I send for my millwright, I do not leave it optional 
 with him to determine whether I need him or not. If he 
 does not choose to come, there are other millwrights in the 
 state." 
 
 " Do you compare a physician to a millwright ? " sneered 
 the doctor. 
 
 " If I send for my millwright to come and tell me whether 
 my water wheel needs repairs, he comes ; he examines it ; 
 perhaps he decides that nothing is the matter with it, and 
 that I otjght to have known that it was perfectly sound. If 
 he should reproach me for sending for him, I should call him 
 no business man. I pay him for his time, though he lift not 
 an axe." 
 
 " Humph ! " 
 
 " It is a great satisfaction to me to know that nothing aila 
 my child. I am able and willing to pay for that assurance." 
 
 " Pay ! Do you take me for a hireling ? " exclaimed the 
 doctor, with a fresh outbreak of anger, as he abruptly turned 
 on his heel and left the chamber.
 
 SEND FOB THE DOCTOK. 251 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ON the 1st of January, Dr. Broadbeam's bill for pro- 
 fessional services, amounting to over two hundred dollars, 
 was presented to Mr. Barrington, and was promptly paid. 
 He was not one of that numerous and highly respectable 
 class of people wl 10 make it a point to grumble at doctor's 
 bills. 
 
 The manufacturer was a peaceful, prudent man, not dis- 
 posed to stir up strife in the neighborhood ; so he kept silent 
 in regard to his unpleasant interview with the physician. . 
 
 About a month after, Mr. Barrington was roused from his 
 slumbers at midnight by the sound of an ominous cough from 
 Charley. But this time it did not awake the little fellow. 
 The fond father was still fearful of the croup ; yet the child 
 slept so soundly that his fears subsided, and he was just 
 dropping asleep again when the cough was repeated. 
 
 In a few minutes the child awoke, and his respiration 
 began to grow difficult. 
 
 *' What do you think? " asked he of his wife. 
 
 " He is a little croupy ; but I do' not think there is any 
 occasion to be alarmed. I will give him the ' Hive' Sirup,' 
 which I doubt not will immediately relieve him." 
 
 Mr. Barrington got up and brought the sirup. A doso 
 was given, and the parents waited with anxiety the effect. 
 
 An hour elapsed, and the child was no better. 
 
 " Don't you think I had better send for the doctor ? " said 
 Mr. Barringtou. 
 
 " No, I can get along very well."
 
 252 SEND FOR THE DOCTOR. 
 
 " But the croup ; hasn't he got it ? " 
 
 " He has a croupy cough, which may lead to croup, if it 
 is not attended to," replied Mrs. Barrington, giving the little 
 sufferer another spoonful of the sirup. 
 
 Two hours more passed away, and instead of getting 
 better, the child grew worse every minnte. But Mrs. "Bar- 
 rington did not like to send for the doctor. In the family 
 of her father, a physician had rarely ever been called, and she 
 had come to regard the faculty with something like contempt. 
 
 " He grows worse," said Mr. Barrington, beginning to lose 
 confidence in the efficacy of his wife's treatment. 
 
 " The medicine has not had time to produce its effect yet," 
 replied Mrs. Barrington. " He will begin to grow better soon." 
 
 " I think we had better send for the doctor," added the 
 anxious father. " It may be too late in the morning." 
 
 ".I do not want any more fuss with the doctor. The last 
 time he came, he made me so nervous that it took me a 
 week to get over it." 
 
 " We will not have Dr. Broadbeam, then." 
 
 " He will be better soon." 
 
 " Do not delay it too long." 
 
 . Another hour elapsed, and still the little sufferer was no 
 better. His breathing was extremely difficult, and the 
 cough was more frequent and hard. The mother's remedy 
 had apparently produced no effect whatever, and she began 
 to be alarmed herself. 
 
 " Perhaps you had better send for the doctor," said she. 
 
 " Dr. Broadbeam ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " I determined, when I paid his last bill, never to employ 
 him again."
 
 SEXD FOR THE DOCTOR. 253 
 
 " Dr. Slender has been very successful in croup," added 
 Mrs. Barrington, " and I should feel just as much confidence 
 in him as in Dr. Broadbeam." 
 
 " I will send for him." 
 
 In less than fifteen minutes after the messenger left the 
 house, the young physician arrived. Of course he was not a 
 little astonished to be roused from his bed by a summons 
 from the " leading man of the village ; " but he had chosen 
 his profession, and considered it a duty to go whenever and 
 wherever he was called. 
 
 Dr. Slender examined the child. 
 
 " You should have procured a physician before," said he, 
 shaking his head ominously. 
 
 Mr. Barrington's heart rose to his throat. His frame 
 trembled, and he was so nervous that he was forced to cling 
 to the bedpost for support. 
 
 " Is he dangerous, doctor? " asked he. 
 
 " Three hours ago, it would not have been a bad case. I 
 doubt if he can be saved now. But there is no time to be 
 lost. Bring me some cold water and some linen cloths." 
 
 Dr. Slender gave the child a potion of medicine, and 
 applied himself with so much energy to the means of effect- 
 ing a cure, that the parents were inspired with hope, and 
 felt entire confidence in his skill. 
 
 Morning dawned upon the little patient, and he was ap- 
 parently in the last stages of the fell disease. Dr. Slender 
 still remained by him, and was now adopting the last resort 
 known to the physician. The agony of the parents can be 
 conceived by those who have watched over the death bed of 
 a cherished little one, but it cannot be described. 
 
 Providence smiled upon the young physician, and he had 
 22
 
 254 SEND FOB THE DOCTOR. 
 
 the inexpressible satisfaction, before noon, of declaring that 
 the child would recover. A paean of praise rose from the 
 grateful hearts of the devoted parents. In a few days little 
 Charley was as well as ever, and the reputation of Dr. Slender 
 was made. 
 
 The star of Dr. Broadbeam had set. The young physician 
 in a few months secured the entire practice- of the place. 
 The potent influence of Mr. Barrington was all he needed to 
 insure his success. He was polite and affable in his profes- 
 sional intercourse .with his patients, and the contrast between 
 him and his crusty rival was so striking that every body 
 wondered how they had been able to endure the latter. 
 
 Dr. Broadbeam was compelled to " leave town." Whether 
 or not he has learned that a decent deportment towards his 
 patients is expedient, we are unable to say. But we infer 
 that he has, from the fact that, unable to establish himself 
 again in practice, he turned his attention to the manufacture 
 and sale of patent medicine ; and " Broadbeam's Celebrated 
 Chinese Antibilious Pills " are as popular as advertising 
 and false certificates can make them. 
 
 Mr. Barrington has decided that it is best to send for the 
 doctor when the baby sneezes. Dr. Slender is always willing 
 to come when he is sent for, and laughingly maintains that 
 he is just as well satisfied to pocket his fee for saying noth- 
 ing ails the baby, as for giving it an emetic.
 
 "FOUR KINDS OF CAKE." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " IT is all folly, wife ! " exclaimed Mr. <ptham Somes, a 
 mattsr-ot-fact, plain-spoken sort of man, to his better half. 
 " There you have got no less than four kinds of cake, three 
 kinds of pies, two kinds of preserves, to say nothing of 
 knickknacks and gimcracks." 
 
 The fact was, that Mrs. Somes was having the minister 
 a-nd his wife and two grown-up daughters to take tea with 
 her. She had been engaged for three days in the prepara- 
 tions, and such a display of nice things was calculated to 
 astonish the minister and his family to give them a two- 
 fold surprise first, at the variety and extent of her culinary 
 resources, and, secondly, at her folly in attempting to make 
 a display far beyond her means. 
 
 The. Someses were in comfortable circumstances. Mr. 
 Somes was a farmer, and probably his income might have 
 amounted to four hundred dollars per annum. 
 
 Mrs. Somes was a prudent, careful housewife, who wasted 
 no more of her culinary skill upon her own family than v/as 
 absolutely necessary ; but she delighted in making a grand 
 appearance when she had company. Mr. Somee ar.o. the 
 boys were sometimes so ill natured as to growl at her ca:cful 
 catering when the house contained no company, and it cut 
 
 (260
 
 256 FOUK KINDS OF CAKE. 
 
 them to the bone to see such extraordinary preparations for 
 the neighbors. It was "kiss the cook" when they were 
 alone ; but the board groaned with plenty when there were 
 guests present. 
 
 Mr. Jotham Somes had just come from the sitting room, 
 where the table, with all its tempting array of viands, was 
 spread. He did not like it a bit, and after passing the time 
 of day with the parson and his family, he proceeded to the 
 kitchen, where his wife was just taking the hot biscuit out 
 of the oven. , 
 
 " What do you mean by folly, I should like to know ? '* 
 replied Mrs. Jotham Somes, somewhat tartly. 
 
 She was a second wife, and having been redeemed from 
 one of the advance stages of maidenhood, her temper had 
 grown a little sour before she became a wife. 
 
 " The folly of setting a table as you have yours," replied 
 the husband. "I should think you were going to have the 
 president and the royal family to take tea with you." 
 
 " I am going to have the Rev. Mr. Meeklie and his 
 family." 
 
 " But I can't afford such extravagance as this. You will 
 ruin me." 
 
 " I will take care of my business if you will of yours," 
 returned the lady, slamming the oven door. 
 
 " Perhaps this is not my business." 
 
 " No, I'm sure it is not." 
 
 " "Who pays for all them gewgaws and gimcracks ? " 
 
 " You <3o, of course." 
 
 " But it is none of my business ? " 
 
 " No I never thought before you were so confounded 
 ncan," said tie lady, her face reddening with anger.
 
 i'OUB KINDS OF CAKE. . ^ 267 
 
 " Mean ! I'm not mean. But when you get victuals for 
 your own family, you think almost any thing is good enough 
 for them. We never see any pies, and cakes, and knick- 
 knacks." 
 
 " Do you think I'm going to make pies and cakes for the 
 men folks to eat every day ? " retorted the indignant house- 
 keeper. 
 
 " Then don't do it for company. What is good enough 
 for me is as good as I can afford to give my visitors." 
 
 " I really believe, if you had your way, you would have 
 me as mean with company as the Smiths." 
 
 " The Smiths are as good folks and as liberal as any in 
 town ; and I'll warrant Parson Meeklie thinks a heap more 
 of them than he does of you, with all your four kinds of 
 cake." 
 
 " You're a fool, Mr. Somes ! " 
 
 " I am fool enough to know that folks are not judged by 
 the quantity of sweet cake they put upon the table when 
 they have company. I repeat it there is no better folks 
 in town than the Smiths." 
 
 " I s'pose not ; but they had nothing but cold biscuit and 
 molasses gingerbread when we took tea there." 
 
 " That's as good as they can afford ; but it is no better 
 than they have every day, and I admire their independence." 
 
 " They're contemptible, mean folks, there ! " 
 
 " Why ? Because they don't attempt to make folks be- 
 lieve they live better than they do ? For my part, I don't 
 think it is any better than hypocrisy to make such a parade 
 as you do, especially when it is hard work for me and the 
 boys to get a decent meal of victuals." 
 
 " Did any body ever hear the like ? " groaned the lady, 
 22*
 
 258 FOUR. KINDS OF CAKE. 
 
 who had by this time arrived at that pitch of excitement 
 when tears are more effective than words. 
 
 " Perhaps they never did ; but if ever I see any thing of 
 this sort again, they will be pretty likely to hear of it," re- 
 plied Mr. Somes, throwing off his blue frock, and commen- 
 cing his preparations for taking tea with the minister. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE plate of hot biscuit was placed in the midst of the 
 profusion of fancy eatables with which the table was crowded. 
 The minister and his family were duly seated, and the cere- 
 mony was proceeding decently and in order. 
 
 Mrs. Somes had not wholly recovered from the excitement 
 of the interview in the kitchen, and her hand trembled 
 slightly as she handed Mrs. Meeklie her tea. Mr. Somes 
 had donned his best blue coat, with brass buttons, which had 
 done duty as a Sunday garment for the past fifteen years. 
 
 He seemed to be somewhat uneasy ; and though he and 
 the minister had always been on the best of terms, his 
 answers were too short and crusty for a courteous host. 
 
 " Won't you pass the biscuit to Mrs. Meeklie, husband ? " 
 said Mrs. Somes, with her sweetest smile, albeit not very 
 eweet at that. 
 
 Mr. Somes did pass the biscuit to Mrs. Meeklie, and she 
 took one ; but when he passed them to Mr. Meeklie, he 
 smilingly declined. 
 
 " No, I thank you, Mr. Somes ; I never eat hot bread. It 
 docs not agree with mo," said he. 
 
 Mrs. Somes passed the cold bread, thinking all the time
 
 FOUR KINDS OF CAKE. 259 
 
 now very uncivil it was in the parson to refuse the hot bis- 
 cuit she had taken so much pains to prepare. 
 
 But Mr. Meeklie was very respectful to his stomach ; for 
 he found, when insulted and imposed upon, that it was ty- 
 rannical and disagreeable ; and he paid more deference to his 
 digestive organs than he did to the feelings of his vain pa- 
 rishioners. 
 
 " My biscuit are not very nice ; I did not have as good 
 luck as I generally do," suggested Mrs. Somes, as Mrs. 
 Meeklie took a second cake. 
 
 " Better," interposed Mr. Somes 
 
 The lady looked at him with very evident marks of dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 " They are very nice,' ; said the parson's wife. 
 
 " Take a little more of this quince preserve, Miss Meeklie. 
 I dare say it is not so nice as your mother makes ; but the 
 truth is " 
 
 " It has stood too long," interrupted Mr. Somes. " The 
 jar has not been opened since you were here last fall." 
 
 Mrs. Somes looked daggers ; but the parson very consid- 
 erately asked Mr. Somes whether he had done planting just 
 at that moment, and her anger evaporated without any un- 
 pleasant effects. 
 
 " Husband, won't you pass that cake to Mr. Meeklie ? " 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Somes ; I never eat cake. Your bread 
 is very good ; I will thank you for some more." 
 
 " Really, Mr. Meeklie, you will take some of this cake ? 
 It is not rich ; there is very little butter in it." 
 
 " Not any, I thank you ; I never eat cake, unless it be 
 something very simple, such as gingerbread or molasses 
 cake."
 
 260 FOUR KINDS OF CAKE. 
 
 What a calamity ! Four kinds of cake, and the parson 
 wouldn't touch one of them ! 
 
 " But you will take some of these jumbles ; I made tnem 
 on purpose for you." 
 
 " That's a fact, Mr. Meeklie," added Mr. Somes, mali- 
 ciously. 
 
 He would further have added that his wife never mada 
 pies and cakes for her own family ; but he was afraid of 
 frightening the parson. 
 
 " You must excuse me. I doubt not they are very nice ; 
 but I have to be careful." 
 
 Mrs. Meeklie and her two grown-up daughters were more 
 courteous, and each nibbled a small bit of the rich pound 
 cake ; but they seemed to do it against their consciences, 
 and against their better judgment. 
 
 The truth was, they felt embarrassed by the extraordinary 
 display Mrs. Somes had made. They did not feel at home. 
 The whole affair was too set and artificial to be enjoyed, and 
 at an early hour the whole party withdrew, mentally deter- 
 mining to make it a long time before they took tea with 
 Mrs. Somes again. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " WIFE, where is the piece of meat I sent home for din- 
 ner ? " asked Farmer Somes, as he and the boys came in for 
 their noonday meal on the day following the tea party. 
 
 The farmer glanced inquiringly at the table which was 
 spread before him. Involuntarily his nasal organ contracted 
 longitudinally ; it would not be polite to say he " turned u, 1 *
 
 FOTJK KIXDS OF CAKE. 261 
 
 his ncsc," though such was the fact beyond the possibility 
 of denial. 
 
 Farmer Somes was not, in any sense, an epicure. He 
 liked a plain, substantial diet, that " which was good, and 
 enough of it," as he forcibly expressed his ideas of table 
 economy. 
 
 Lest the reader should suppose*he was one of those grouty, 
 ill-natured " feeders," who would grumble at the ambrosia 
 and nectar of the gods, we deem it necessary to particularize 
 the articles on the board of the lady who placed four kinds 
 of cake before company. 
 
 Certainly there was variety enough to satisfy the most 
 fickle taste. On a broken plate the best dishes were reli- 
 giously reserved to the use of company was the half of 
 one sausage and two thirds of another, making one sausage 
 and one sixth, all told. They were partially embedded in a 
 petrified sea of suspicious-looking fat, and, altogether, the 
 aspect of the dish was singularly forbidding. 
 
 On a white plate, with a long black fracture extending 
 quite across it, lay, in an aggregated mass, three dozen baked 
 beans, and an infinitesimal fragment of a pork rind. This 
 was an antiquity. Farmer Somes and the boys had a very 
 distinct remembrance of having seen this dish every day 
 during the previous fortnight, proving that Mrs. Somes was 
 not only one of the most economical, but one of the most 
 persevering dames in the world. The farmer and the boys 
 had virtually said they would not eat those same beans, and 
 Mrs. Somes virtually said they should. 
 
 On a worn-out blue plate, superannuated, and " nicked " 
 in a thousand places, were four pork bones, looking as 
 though they had been preyed upon by that army of mice
 
 262 FOUK KINDS OF CAKE. 
 
 which Whittington's cat destroyed. These bones had seen 
 service during the last twelve days ; the joint, of which they 
 were the disintegrated members, had graced the table just a 
 fortnight before. 
 
 There were sundry other articles, antique, old-fashioned 
 ' titbits," which might have been set before Noah and his 
 friends in the ark. Six long red potatoes, unpeeled, even 
 unsprouted, completed the array of edibles, ornamental and 
 substantial. 
 
 The farmer's nose contracted, as before related. 
 
 " Where is the meat I sent home ? " 
 
 " Hanging in the well." 
 
 " Hadn't we better eat it ? " 
 
 " I want it for company next Sunday.'' 
 
 " The ahem ! Company again ? " 
 
 " I expect my brother will dine with us then, and I want 
 something fit to set before him." 
 
 Mr. Somes looked sulky. 
 
 " And you mean to starve me and the boys in the mean 
 time ? " 
 
 " I should like to know if there is not enough for you ? " 
 said the dame, pointing at the table. 
 
 Farmer Somes turned up his nose. 
 
 " Did I ever refuse to buy victuals when you wanted it? " 
 said he, rather sternly. 
 
 " Not that I know of; but I didn't suppose you wanted 
 to buy fresh meat every day," returned the wife, sourly. " I 
 am sure I try to be as economical as I can." 
 
 " Four kinds of cake, which nobody would touch, I sup- 
 pose is prudent, ain't it ? " 
 
 " Ah, good morning, Mr. Somes ; I am glad to find you
 
 FOUR KINDS OF CAKE. 203 
 
 at home," said Mr. Mceklie, walking into the room unan- 
 nounced. 
 
 Good gracious ! the minister, and with such a table as 
 that spread before the family ! What a commentary on 
 four kinds of cake for company ! 
 
 Mrs. Somes was all confusion. Though the parson in- 
 tended to look right at the farmer, she could see that more 
 than once his eyes wanueied over the table. 
 
 " Glad to see you, parson ; sil down and take some din- 
 ner with us," said Mr. Somes, shaking the minister's offered 
 hand. 
 
 " Thank you ; I don't care if I do," replied Mr. Meeklie. 
 " I have a long walk to take before I return home." 
 
 Farmer Somes was pointing him to a chair, when the lady 
 interposed. 
 
 " We have got a picked-up dinner to-day. Husband sent 
 home a joint of veal ; but it didn't get here till half after 
 eleven ; so I had no time to cook it." 
 
 " Got here by eight o'clock," said Farmer Somes ; " no 
 fibs to the parson." 
 
 " But if you will wait only a few moments, I will fry 
 some of the veal." 
 
 " Sit down, parson ; it is every day fare ; but then, what 
 is good enough for me is good enough for my friends." 
 
 " Right, Mr. Somes," replied the minister, drawing up his 
 chair. " My business relates to the new bell for the meeting 
 house. I am carrying round the subscription paper." 
 
 " I am with you, parson." 
 
 Farmer Somes was in most malicious good humor, and, 
 with a broad laugh on his honest phiz, he opened the paper 
 the minister gave him.
 
 
 264 rOUE KINDS OF CAKE. 
 
 " Smith, twenty dollars." 
 
 " Twenty dollars ! " exclaimed Mrs. Somes ; " I should 
 not think he could afford it." 
 
 " He gives his friends nothing but gingerbread," said the 
 farmer. " Put me down for thirty ; we have four kinds of 
 cake." 
 
 The parson consumed one " long red," and one of tne 
 vulgar fractions of a cold sausage. He preferred brown 
 bread to white, and wouldn't touch any of the pies which 
 the prudent housekeeper set before him. 
 
 Mrs. Somes was awfully mortified. Her reputation was 
 sacrificed, and Farmer Somes never again had occasion to 
 find fault with her for making a vain show of three kinds of 
 pies, two kinds of preserves, and four kinds of cake.
 
 EXTREMES MEET; 
 
 OB, 
 
 FACT AND FICTION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "WHAT are you reading, sis?" 
 
 " Hard Times." 
 
 " A novel ! " 
 
 " Yes ; why not ? Dickens's last new novel, and a capi- 
 tal thing it is, too." 
 
 The two ladies, between whom this conversation passed, 
 were sisters, and nieces of one of the better class of New 
 England farmers, with whom they resided. 'Squire Fair- 
 bank, without being a very brilliant man, had acquired con- 
 siderable distinction. in the village where he lived, probably 
 because, besides being " worth money," he was a straight- 
 forward, conservative, reliable man, and had frequently 
 served the town in an acceptable manner, both in the legis- 
 lature, and as moderator in town meeting. He was the 
 most notable man in the village, and won the title of 'Squire, 
 which was universally accorded to him, simply by being a 
 very respectable person and a man of influence. 
 
 Susan and Mary Fairbank were orphans, inheriting from 
 their father the very pretty little sum of five thousand dollars 
 each. Both had attained their majority, and consequently 
 
 (265)
 
 266 EXTREMES MEIJT. 
 
 were in full possession of their portions, untrammelled even 
 by the authority of as indulgent a guardian as 'Squire Fair- 
 bank had proved to be. 
 
 They had been well educated at a celebrated female sem- 
 inary in the vicinity of Boston, and as a matter of course, 
 had brought home to -the quiet village of Poppleton many 
 strange notions and remarkable peculiarities. But they were 
 sensible girls in the main, and though their habits and edu- 
 cation elevated them above the reigning ton of the place, it 
 was generally conceded that they knew " what was what," 
 and were not " a mite more stuck up " than would naturally 
 have been expected. 
 
 Mary and Susan were essentially different in temperament 
 and disposition. The former was exceedingly open and free 
 hearted, while the latter was rather disposed to truckle to 
 the formality of the world, or to the circumstances in which 
 she happened to be placed. Mary never asked what the 
 world would say or think, and while her notions of duty 
 were very clearly defined, she chose to be independent and 
 straightforward. Pe-ople said she " took after " her father. 
 
 Susan, on the contrary, was nicely sensitive to the good 
 opinion of others. She had not the energy to do any thing 
 in opposition to popular sentiment. Indeed, she was very 
 much like some of the distinguished public servants at Wash- 
 ington, who do every thing with an eye to a reelection or >4 
 government patronage. 
 
 A short time before our story opens, a young minister had 
 been settled in Poppleton, and being a single man, 'Squire 
 Fairbank had consented as a special favor to receive him 
 into his house. The Rev. Mr. Carlisle was universally al- 
 lowed to be a very promising young man. He was talented
 
 EXTEEMES MEET. 267 
 
 had a graceful elocution, and, what pleased the young ladies 
 better still, was decidedly a handsome person. Those who 
 were not much influenced by talent, elocution, and personal 
 beauty, thought he was rather bigoted for jjne so young, and 
 hoped that time would wear off the rough corners of his 
 repulsive theology. 
 
 Susan Fairbank was deeply interested in the young cler- 
 gyman, and as a natural consequence to one of her vacil- 
 lating temperament, became deeply interested in spiritual 
 things. We do not believe she had any intention of playing 
 the hypocrite ; but her devotion to the young minister in- 
 voluntarily led her to assume an interest, which, if Mr. Car- 
 lisle had been old, ugly, or married, she would not have felt. 
 
 " A novel, sis ! only think of it ! " exclaimed Susan, 
 holding up both hands with pious horror. 
 
 " Pray, Susan, how long is it since you have possessed 
 this holy repugnance to novels ? It was only last winter that 
 I saw you reading The Children of th Abbey," returned 
 Mary, laughing heartily. 
 
 " I have not read one since, and I never mean to again." 
 
 " Fudge ! " 
 
 " What do you think Mr. Carlisle would say if he should 
 see you reading a novel ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't care what he said." 
 
 " Why, Mary ! " 
 
 " I shouldn't ; if he does not like it, he may whistle for 
 all me." 
 
 " Don't talk so, Mary." 
 
 " Why will you make a fool of yourself, Susan ? Mr. 
 Carlisle cares no more for you than he does for the fifth 
 wheel of a coach ; I would not stand in such fear of him for 
 the world."
 
 268 EXTREMES MEET. 
 
 " Fear of him ! I do not fear him ; I only respect him 
 as a very good man." 
 
 " You have set your cap for him ; but let me tell you to 
 be more independent, or you never will catch him," said 
 Mary, laughing. 
 
 " How absurd you talk ! " 
 
 "Do I?" 
 
 Susan fell to biting her finger nail a very vulgar habit, 
 by the way and to thinking of something which her sister 
 had no difficulty in discerning. 
 
 " Do you really love him, Susan ? " asked Mary. 
 
 " Love him ! No ; I never thought of such a thing." 
 
 Perhaps she never did. 
 
 " What makes you go to all the prayer meetings, and 
 mope round the house like a sick owl, then ? " 
 
 " I think I am under conviction," replied Susan, demurely. 
 
 " Conviction of what ? " 
 
 " Conviction of sjn." 
 
 " Conviction that Mr. Carlisle is a very handsome fellow, 
 more like." 
 
 " How absurd you are ! " 
 
 " And I have heard a report round town that you were 
 going to join the church." 
 
 " I have spoken to Mr. Carlisle about it." 
 
 Mary looked serious for a moment. 
 
 " If you really feel so, I commend your conduct ; but I 
 advise you not to be too hasty. Examine your heart atten- 
 tively, and do not bring scandal upon the church by having 
 side motives. But here comes Mr. Carlisle," said Mary, as 
 she again turned her attention to the fascinating pages of 
 Hard Times.
 
 EXTEEMES MEET. 269 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE young minister entered the room. Susan had taken 
 up Saints' Rest, which lay by her, and commenced reading 
 where she had left off, when she saw Mr. Carlisle coming up 
 the yard. As he came into the room she laid down the 
 hook, and looked, for all the world, as though she had not i 
 friend in the world. The assuming of this appearance was 
 involuntary on her part; it was in accordance with her 
 nature. 
 
 Mr. Carlisle seated himself by her side, and commenced 
 catechizing her in regard to the impression the contents of 
 the book produced upon her mind whether it afforded her 
 consolation in her troubled mind and finally whether she 
 really thought she had a hope. To all these queries Susan 
 replied in a satisfactory manner, assuring the handsome 
 young shepherd that she had been much edified by her 
 reading. 
 
 There was a smile of mischief playing upon the pretty 
 and expressive face of Mary, as she peered over the top of 
 Hard Times, to observe the ghostly interview. She could 
 see that Mr. Carlisle engaged in the conversation with her 
 sister merely as a matter of professional interest sincerely, 
 it is true, but with no unusual interest in the penitent. He 
 regarded her as a wandering sheep, whom it was his duty to 
 bring into the fold. 
 
 But she compassionated her sister, who had deluded her- 
 self into the belief that she could win the heart of the shep- 
 herd by becoming one of his sheep ; and she was provoking 
 23*
 
 270 EXTREMES MEET. 
 
 enough to tell her that instead of making a sheep, she had 
 made a calf of herself. 
 
 When the minister had finished his professional counsel, 
 he turned to Mary. As he did so, an involuntary smile came 
 upon his lips. It was not the smile of a ghostly father, but 
 of a young man who has flesh in his heart and blood in nis 
 veins. 
 
 Mary laid down her book as she noticed his intention to 
 address her. 
 
 " "What are you reading, Miss Fairbank ? " asked he. 
 
 " Hard Times," promptly replied Mary. 
 
 " A novel ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 The jaw of the young minister dropped down two inches. 
 
 " Do you like it ? " 
 
 " O, very much, indeed ! " replied Mary, with wicked 
 enthusiasm ; " I admire Dickens's of all the novels I ever 
 read." 
 
 " Do you make a practice of reading novels ? " 
 
 " I seldom read any thing else. I did read Reveries of a 
 Bachelor and Dream Life." 
 
 The minister shook his head. 
 
 " I take the newspapers, and I always read them through 
 stories, poetry, sentiment, editorials, and all." 
 
 " Will you allow me to suggest some reading for you ? and 
 I shall take the greatest pleasure in lending you the books." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " Baxter's Call to the Unconverted is an excellent book 
 for " 
 
 " It is so stupid ! " 
 
 Mr. Carlisle was horrified.
 
 fiXTREMES MEET. 271 
 
 " I would not be hired to read it." 
 
 " Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, perhaps, would suit your 
 ste better." 
 
 " I have read it ; but don't you call that a novel ? " 
 
 " An allegory." 
 
 " If I mistake not, I saw you reading Uncle Tom's Cabin. 
 I'm. sure that is a novel, and no better novel either than any 
 of Dickens's." 
 
 " It is a moral and philanthropic work." 
 
 " So are Dickens's works. Indeed,^I have never read a 
 novel from which a great deal of good might not be ob- 
 tained, though I know there are such." 
 
 ' Mere fictions generally have a debasing tendency." 
 
 "I judge novels as I do anything else by their own 
 merits. If I understand you, Mr. Carlisle,* you object to 
 works of fiction, as such, and not on account of any evil 
 they may contain." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " You insist that the book must be true in its narrative in 
 order to be good." 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Then you despise the teachings of Him you .profess to 
 serve. He spoke in parables in fiction. I do not under- 
 stand the Prodigal Son to be a narrative of facts." 
 
 " Perhaps not." 
 
 " Then why may not Scott, Dickens, Irving, Miss Bremer, 
 and Miss Leslie teach us love and charity through the same 
 medium ? " 
 
 " Such works vitiate the taste." 
 
 " O, it is the taste, and not the heart, that is damaged." 
 
 "Both; the latter through the former. Let me induce
 
 272 . EXTREMES MEET. 
 
 you to read Baxter's Call, and you will then allow that yon 
 have obtained more real good from it than from all tne 
 novels you ever read in your life." 
 
 " It is too dull and insipid for me. I must draw my in- 
 spiration from more sparkling fountains." 
 
 " You misjudge the book." 
 
 " Perhaps I do. I am not a saint, I am willing to ac- 
 knowledge ; therefore it does not suit me. And I fancy it 
 is so with half the world, who, rejecting the counsels of the 
 church, get their wisdom and their goodness from works of 
 fiction. They are readable to those whose taste, like mine, 
 has not become sanctified ; without them they would read 
 nothing, and thus the world is the better for novels." 
 
 Mr. Carlisle could not but grant that there was some truth 
 in what Mary had said ; and though he did not, in so many 
 words, yield the point, an impression was produced upon his 
 mind which could not fail to soften down the bigotry of his 
 views. 
 
 But the merry, fearless, independent tones of the eloquent 
 advocate of works of fiction went deeper down than the 
 mind, and touched a weak spot in his theological heart. 
 Her pretty, sparkling eye, roused and animated by her ear- 
 nest thought, were irresistible ; and the Rev. Mr. Carlisle, 
 maugre the carnal nature of the fair debater, actually fell in 
 love with the contemner of Baxter's immortal works. 
 
 Mary was undoubtedly a great sinner, but she was a beau- 
 tiful and spirited girl for all that. We will not trouble the 
 reader with the ingenious plans which the enamoured minis- 
 ter laid that night to reclaim the erring beauty ; it is only 
 necessary to say that, within a week, he popped the question 
 to her; and that she, out of consideration for her sister, 
 refused to consider the proposal.
 
 EXTREMES MEET. 273 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 N was a docile lamb, and her conversion progressed 
 to the entire satisfaction of her spiritual adviser. It was 
 rumored that she was to be " propounded " on the following 
 Sabbath. 
 
 Mary had quite as strong a veneration for spiritual things 
 as her sister ; but she was too straightforward to assume 
 what she did not possess, and too sensible to be led into 
 imaginary raptures by any extraneous influence. She knew 
 Susan too well to believe her holy aspirations were real ; she 
 knew that the poor girl had involuntarily deluded herself. 
 She was not surprised to hear that she had concluded to join 
 the church. 
 
 " Susan, you are deceiving yourself. You love the fold 
 >r the sake of the shepherd," said she. 
 
 " Nay, sister, you wrong me. Can yu think me a hypo- 
 'crite?" 
 
 " Not a hypocrite ; you have misled yourself." 
 
 " I have carefully examined my heart, and I am confident 
 that I am not deluded." 
 
 " What would you say if I should tell you that Mr. Car- 
 lisle can never love you ? " 
 
 " I should say that you knew nothing about it," replied 
 Susan, unthinkingly; but in an instant she corrected the 
 mistake. " But that has nothing to do with it." 
 
 " I fear it has. Tell me honestly, Susan, do you not love 
 Mr. Carlisle ? I will not laugh at you." 
 
 Susan hesitated.
 
 274 EXTREMES MEET. 
 
 ' Be candid, sister." 
 
 " I do not love him ; but if he loved me, I feel that I 
 could return his affection." 
 
 " He does not love you, Susan." 
 
 The ambitious " sheep " looked earnestly into the face of 
 her sister. 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " I do know." 
 
 Susan looked pensive and sad. 
 
 " What do you know ? " 
 
 " That he has even offered his hand and heart to an- 
 other." 
 
 " The hypocrite ! " exclaimed Susan, with a flushed face. 
 
 " Why, sis ! " and Mary was filled with astonishment, for 
 it appeared from Susan's violent ebullition of feeling that 
 the matter had passed much farther than she had suspected. 
 " Why do you use that pointed word ? Did he ever speak 
 to you of love ? " 
 
 " Never ; but he has led me to believe by his constant at- 
 tentions that he was interested in me." 
 
 " That was professional, sis ; you have mistaken his zeal 
 to bring you into the fold for love. I warned you of this." 
 
 " You did ; I am a fool. But to whom has he offered 
 himself." 
 
 " It is a secret." 
 
 " Tell me ! " 
 
 " Will you be discreet ? " 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " To me ! " 
 
 " To you ! You who despised Baxter's Call and Saints' 
 Best r "
 
 _EXTEEMES MEET. 275 
 
 " Even so. Extremes meet sometimes." 
 
 " I wish you joy, Mary." 
 
 " But I declined the offer." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " For your sake. I knew that you loved him." 
 
 Susan was deeply affected at the generosity of her sister. 
 
 " I do not love him, sister. Do not let me be an obstacle 
 in the way of your happiness." 
 
 " I have not said that I loved him." 
 
 " But you do ? " 
 
 " I have refused him." 
 
 " Nay, he is a noble and a good man, besides being hand- 
 some and talented. You need not be a fool because I have 
 been. I assure you I am completely cured ; I think he is a 
 flirt." 
 
 Mary did not think so, and the young minister was too 
 deeply enamoured of her, too devotedly admired her wit and 
 beauty, no less than her innate goodness of heart, to be con- 
 tent with a refusal. When he renewed his suit, the spirited 
 girl was more tractable, and in process of time they were 
 married. 
 
 Whether Mr. Carlisle ever succeeded in removing those 
 pernicious notions about novels from the mind of his wife, 
 we are unable to say ; but we do know that Scott, Dickens, 
 and Irving have found a place on the shelves of his library, 
 beside the tomes of theology and history ; and we infer that 
 a mutual influence has brought each to adopt more reasona- 
 ble views both of Baxter and the novelists.
 
 THE MERCANTILE ANGEL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " THE contemptible little jackanapes ! he had the audaci- 
 ty to ask me to play whist with him ! " exclaimed Sophia 
 Danvers to her sister. 
 
 " And why should he not, sister ? " answered Mary Dan- 
 vers, calmly. 
 
 " Why should he not, indeed-! Did he think I would 
 demean myself by playing whist with a clerk one of my 
 father's servants ? " and Sophia tossed her head in proud 
 disdain. 
 
 " I can see no impropriety in your associating with him, 
 Sophia. He is certainly a handsome, intelligent, and well- 
 behaved young man." 
 
 " Behaves well enough, for aught I know ; but only think 
 of it a clerk in our drawing room ! For my part, I wonder 
 how father could ever think of such a thing as admitting him 
 into the family." 
 
 " I suppose it was because he liked the looks of him." 
 
 " "What will Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert say when he finds 
 us associating with poor clerks the trash of counting 
 rooms ? " 
 
 " It matters little to me what he thinks ; he is a conceited 
 
 (276)
 
 THE MERCANTILE ANGEL. 277 
 
 puppy, and I wonder that you can endure his presence," re- 
 plied Mary, smartly. 
 
 " But he is the leader of tae ton, Mary," said Sophia, 
 astonished at the plebeian notions of her sister. 
 
 " He is a perfect flat, for all that, and infinitely inferior, 
 in all that constitutes a man, to Mr. Harlowe, whom you 
 afiect to despise." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. 
 Danvers. 
 
 " How could you bring that horrible clerk into the house, 
 papa?" said Sophia, as the merchant prince seated himself 
 by the blazing grate. 
 
 , " Horrible clerk! Pray, what is the matter with him? " 
 asked Mr. Danvers, evincing some surprise at the plain 
 speech of his daughter. 
 
 " Why, he is a clerk." 
 
 " But a respectable young man." 
 
 " Respectable enough, but not fashionable, papa." 
 
 "I was a clerk once, Sophia; I commenced by sweeping 
 out a store, and carrying bundles about the city." 
 
 " How absurdly you talk, papa ! " 
 
 " But Mr. Harlowe is a very estimable young man ; I am 
 confident you will find him agreeable company." 
 
 " I shall have nothing to say to him," replied Sophia, 
 with a shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 "Beware, Sophia; there is an old proverb, you know, 
 about entertaining angels unawares." 
 
 Sophia laughed heartily at the idea of a poor clerk being 
 an angel. 
 
 " But what says Mary ? " asked the merchant, turning to 
 his gentle-hearted daughter. 
 24
 
 278 THE MERCANTILE' ANGEL. 
 
 " O, J like him very much ; we are already fast friends,' 
 replied Mary, and a slight blush seemed to emphasize the 
 remark. 
 
 " Just like her, papa ; I should not wonder if she got 
 head over heels in love with your mercantile angel." 
 
 " She must do as she pleases about that," replied Mr. 
 Danvers, smiling. 
 
 " Pooh, Sophy ! who said a word about falling in love ? 
 Can't a body be civil to a young gentleman without falling 
 in love with him ? " 
 
 The pretty Mary blushed as she spoke, in good earnest 
 blushed so palpably that her father began to think the affair 
 was something more than a mere jest. 
 
 " But pray, papa, when does your new partner arrive ? " 
 asked Sophia. " If all the accounts I have heard of his wit, 
 gallantry, and personal attractions are true, I shall certainly 
 set my cap for him." 
 
 " He will appear one of these days," replied Mr. Danvers. 
 
 " I hope you will not keep this stupid clerk in the house 
 after he comes." 
 
 " I certainly shall." 
 
 " But, papa, we shall ' lose caste ' if you do ; it is really 
 abominable." 
 
 " Small loss, my child. If we are dependent upon the 
 apes and puppies of fashionable life for our position in so- 
 ciety, the sooner we lose it the better for our own self-re- 
 spect," said Mr. Danvers, smiling good humoredly. 
 
 " You are absurd, papa." 
 
 " Now, Sophy, you have given me a lesson, let me give 
 you one. The idol you worship is more senseless than thosa 
 of the Feegee Islands. Fashionable society is as hollow as a
 
 THE MEBCAXTILE AXGEL. 279 
 
 brass pan ; place no reliance upon it. The fops and foola 
 who follow in your train are as soulless as they are brain- 
 less." 
 
 " I wish Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert could hear you say so," 
 added Sophia." 
 
 " Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert was a journeyman barber in 
 New Orleans less than a year ago. I had the honor of be- 
 ing shaved by him last winter when I was there." 
 
 " O, horrid, papa ! Why have you not exposed him ? " 
 
 " Why should I, my child ? He is as good a fellow, as 
 sensible a person, and, according to your statement, as fash- 
 ionable a man, as Mr. Finstock, whose great grandfather was 
 the governor of the state." 
 
 " Is it possible that Mr. Fitzherbert was a barber ? " ex- 
 claimed Sophia, horrified at the appalling statement. 
 
 " Nothing else, my child." 
 
 " An impostor ? " added Mary. 
 
 " Just so. Probably he is trying to obtain a rich wife." 
 
 " It is abominable, I declare ! One hardly knows, nowa- 
 days, who is respectable and who is not," said Sophia. 
 
 " Therefore, my child, we ought not to speak so dispar- 
 agingly of persons in humble life as you have to-night." 
 
 " Pooh ! a clerk ! " 
 
 At this moment, Mr. Harlowe, the new clerk, entered the 
 room, and, as Sophia would have expressed it, had the im- 
 pudence to seat himself by the side- of Mary Danvers, who 
 appeared not at all averse to this close proximity with him. 
 
 Frederic Harlowe was, as Mary had said, a handsome, 
 intelligent, and agreeable young man ; and Sophia, if she 
 could have forgiven him for being a clerk, would have ap- 
 preciated his society quite as highly as did her sister.
 
 280 THE MEBCANTILE ANGEL. 
 
 "With, her father's permission, Mary accepted an invitation 
 from Frederic to attend Alboni's last concert. 
 
 They had scarcely left the house before Mr. Augustus Fitz- 
 herberfc was ushered into the sitting room. This gentleman 
 was an exquisite of the " first water." In his personal ap- 
 pearance, he certainly was sufficiently well endowed to chal- 
 lenge the admiration of the fair sex ; but, unfortunately, he 
 was sadly lacking in that necessary element of a man of 
 sense brains. 
 
 Sophia could scarcely refrain from expressing the contempt 
 she felt for the journeyman barber in disguise. The leader 
 of the " ton," in her estimation, was a ruined man. 
 
 The dandy, as a matter of courtesy, inquired for Mary, 
 and was informed that she had gone to the concert with Mr. 
 Harlowe. 
 
 " With Mr. Harlowe a clerk r aw? " said the ex-jour- 
 neyman barber, with a sneer, as he twirled up the long " rat 
 tail " of his mustache. 
 
 " A very worthy young man," replied Mr. Danvers. 
 
 " No doubt of it, saw ; but a clerk' aw." 
 
 " Pray, were you never a clerk, Mr. Fitzherbert ? 7 was." 
 
 " A clerk ! No, saw nevaw ! " 
 
 " Did I not meet you in New Orleans last winter ? " 
 
 The dandy started up like a parched pea from a hot pan. 
 
 " I have a faint recollection of having met you in a bar- 
 ber's shop there," continued the merchant, tormentingly. 
 
 " Aw, very likely, saw. I patronize the barbaws." 
 
 " And, now I think of it, you wore a little white apron, 
 and, if I mistake not, I had the pleasure of being shaved by 
 you in person." 
 " Quite a mistake, saw, I assuaw you."
 
 THE MERCANTILE ANGEL. 281 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert, whose real name was 
 John Smike, remembered an imperative engagement, and 
 hastened to take his leave. 
 
 He was seen to enter the cars for New York on the follow- 
 ing day, and nothing has been heard of him since. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF course the reader understands that Frederic Harlowe 
 and Mary are deeply, irretrievably in love with each other 
 by this time. The poor clerk had won his way to the heart 
 of the fair girl, and she, poor thing, had been captivated by 
 the manly attractions, the noble soul, of him who offered 
 incense before her shrine. 
 
 As the world goes, it would be deemed a very wicked 
 thing for a poor clerk to fall in love with the daughter of his 
 aristocratic employer. Some people would say it was un- 
 grateful in him thus to spirit away the affections of a con- 
 fiding girl, when his position and prospects did not warrant 
 his presuming to be her husband. 
 
 These questions are still open to the casuist. He may de- 
 bate them to his entire satisfaction ; but Mr. Danvers, either 
 because he was more sensible than many of the aristocratic 
 merchants of the day, or for some other equally potent rea- 
 son, neglected to make any fuss about the matter, and suf- 
 fered the clerk to wob and win his daughter, without even 
 remonstrating against the wickedness of the act. 
 
 But Sophia was deeply grieved by her sister's folly, as she 
 deemed it, and used all the arguments in the range of her 
 24*
 
 282 THE MERCANTILE AXGEL. 
 
 shallow sophistry to dissuade her from the folly and madness 
 of wedding a clerk. 
 
 Mary was obstinate. The only excuse she offered in pal- 
 liation of the flagrant misdemeanor was, that she loved him ; 
 and if she loved a scavanger, she would cling to him with 
 the last breath she was permitted to draw. 
 
 " A. ring ! " exclaimed Sophia, one day, when matters ap- 
 peared to have taken a very decided turn. " Well, well, I 
 suppose you are engaged." 
 
 " We are, Sophia," replied Mary, with a face radiant with 
 happiness. 
 
 " And* you intend to be married ? " 
 
 " Certainly we do ; that is the end of an engagement." 
 
 " My conscience ! to think that the daughter of a mer- 
 chant prince should become the wife of a poor, insignificant 
 clerk ! " 
 
 " Nothing very alarming about it, Sophy ; it wouldn't be 
 half so ridiculous as another daughter of a merchant prince 
 becoming the wife of an ex-journeyman barber. I believe 
 Mr. Augustus Fitzherbert was your beau ideal of what a 
 fashionable husband ought to be." 
 
 " The impostor ! " 
 
 " I am at least sure that Frederic is not an impostor a 
 humbug ; one would not be likely to assume the character 
 of a clerk." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but pray, sister, when do you intend to 
 become the wife of this counting room cherub ? " 
 
 " The day has not been fixed yet ; in the spring, probably." 
 
 " And may I ask what you intend to do with yourself? 
 His salary is only a thousand dollars a year."
 
 IHE MEHCANTILE AXGE1. 283 
 
 " We can get along very well on that sum." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so, and live in some ten footer in a dark 
 alley." 
 
 " We intend to live out of town, in a nice little cottage." 
 
 " Y-e-s ! a nice little cottage.! " drawled Sophia, in deris- 
 ion. " O sis, I will show you how to live when I am mar- 
 ried. None of your nice little cottages for me. But I 
 wonder when the new partner is coming." 
 
 " Papa told me this morning that he had deferred the ar- 
 rangement till next spring, and that the gentleman would 
 attend to his business at the south as heretofore." 
 
 " How provoking ! I have been reserving my affections 
 on purpose for him. I mean to make a conquest of him in 
 just one month." 
 
 " How foolish you talk, Sophy ! One would think you 
 had entirely forgotten your maidenly delicacy." 
 
 " Pooh ! I'm jesting ; it's between us ; " and Sophia re- 
 lapsed into a revery, which, we are almost sure, related 
 to the aforesaid new partner, who was not only a nice young 
 man, but was to put thirty thousand dollars into the concern 
 when he became a partner. 
 
 The winter passed away, and the spring came. Frederic 
 and Mary were to be married in a few days. Mr. Danvers, 
 to the infinite chagrin of Sophia, had readily consented to 
 the match. The proud sister though in the natural good- 
 ness of her heart she would not have had Mary's affections 
 blasted would fain have had a little opposition, to save 
 appearances. 
 
 The bridal day came, and after the ceremony had been 
 performed, the happy parties started f<}r their new residence
 
 284 THE MERCANTILE ANGEL. 
 
 in the suburbs. Sophia, who had acted as bridesmaid, was 
 to accompany them. 
 
 The carriage wound through an elm-shaded road, and 
 suddenly brought to the view of the delighted party a splen- 
 did country residence. 
 
 " That is the cottage," exclaimed the bride. 
 
 " That a cottage ! Why, Mary, it is a palace ! " replied 
 Sophia, in utter astonishment ; for she had never taken, 
 interest enough in her sister's affairs to visit her proposed 
 residence. 
 
 The carriage stopped before the door, which was half 
 hidden behind a vine-laced portico, and the party alighted. 
 
 The place was a perfect paradise, and many were the en- 
 comiums lavished upon it by the bewildered Sophia. 
 
 " You cannot think how surprised I was when I first be- 
 held it," said Mary, when she and Sophia were alone. " It 
 seemed more like a dream of fairyland than a reality. But 
 Frederic is so very odd about these things." 
 
 " I should think that he was ! Why, sis, it will certainly 
 ruin him, a poor clerk on a thousand dollars salary." 
 
 " Well, he knows best; he says the rent is nothing." 
 
 " Nothing, indeed ; but it will eat up his poor pittance." 
 
 " Well, I gave him a lesson on extravagance ; but he only 
 laughed in my face, and said he knew what he was about." 
 
 " But here are Frederic and father ; I am sure papa has 
 been scolding him for his recklessness." 
 
 " He does not look as though the scolding had produced a 
 very powerful effect," said Mary, as she saw her husband's 
 smiling countenance. 
 
 " What a beautiful house ! " exclaimed Sophia, as Fred- 
 eric Harlowe joined the group.
 
 THE MEBCANTIUE ANGEl. 285 
 
 " A fitting nest for my pretty bird," replied the husband, 
 gayly, as he chucked his blushing wife under the chin. 
 
 " I should think your thousand dollars a year would have 
 to suffer some," said Sophia, bluntly. 
 
 " O, your father has been so very good as to elevate me a 
 peg, so that I can well afford to incur the expense." 
 
 " Yes, my child," interposed Mr. Danvers ; " you know I 
 said something to you about entertaining angels unawares. 
 Sophy, Mr. Frederic Harlowe is the new partner." 
 
 " What an abominable cheat, papa ! I'll warrant you 
 told Mary of it in the beginning," said Sophia, with 
 abundant good humor. 
 
 " Nay, she knew nothing of it till a few days before her 
 marriage. This was all Mr. Harlowe's whim ; he must ex- 
 plain 'it for himself." 
 
 Mr. Harlowe did attempt to explain his motive in enter- 
 ing the family incog., but it was a lame explanation. Prob- 
 ably the reader, who readily penetrates the secret thoughts 
 of the hero of the story, has already divined his motive. 
 He wanted a wife, and had the sense to seek for genuine 
 goodness in preference to name and position in society. He 
 won the daughter of a merchant prince as a simple clerk ; 
 there was no doubt that she loved him. 
 
 Mary was very much surprised, and perhaps not a little 
 chagrined, to find the romance of marrying a clerk so sud- 
 denly disappear ; but in the wealth of a mutual love they 
 were richer than in the smiles of fickle fortune, which had 
 blessed thsm with an abundance of the good things of this 
 life.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN; 
 
 BEING THE SUBSTANCE OF WHAT SOME YOUNG MEN 
 THINK, BUT NEVER SAY. 
 
 CHAPTER T. 
 
 WHEN I was a boy, the schoolmaster succeeded in im- 
 pressing upon my mind the truth of that common saying 
 " If a man thinks nothing of himself, no one will think any 
 thing of him." The pedagogue believed it himself, and his 
 daily deportment was based upon it. Whether I learned 
 any thing else of him I cannot now say ; but I am sure I 
 learned to set a high value upon myself. 
 
 At the age of eighteen, I found myself in the service of 
 an eminent merchant of Boston, in the capacity of assistant 
 bookkeeper, on the paltry salary of four hundred dollars a 
 year. I was worth more I was sure of it. But perhaps 
 my employer had not yet come to a knowledge of the treasure 
 he possessed in me, and I wisely determined to wait till I 
 had a better opportunity to distinguish myself. 
 
 Certainly I took a great deal of pride in discharging the 
 duties of my position. I labored assiduously to please both 
 the merchant and the head bookkeeper, and they seemed to 
 regard me with satisfaction ; but I resolved to make myself so 
 necessary that the business could not be carried on without me, 
 
 (2W3)
 
 CONFESSIONS OP A CONCEITED MAN 287 
 
 Whether my imagination was more lively than my reason, 
 or not, I do not know ; but certainly, at the end of six months 
 I made up my mind that Mr. Bancroft could not possibly 
 continue in business a single month without me. As to my 
 superior, he would be perfectly powerless if I should leave. 
 In fact, I "conceited " that I was in reality the bookkeeper of 
 the concern, though he received the salary and did all the 
 dictating. 
 
 I was an ambitious young man. I built a great many 
 ery pretty castles in the air ; among them the idea 'of marry- 
 ng my employer's beautiful daughter was not the least 
 attractive. She was a splendid girl people called her the 
 belle of Boston and what to me was just as insinuating 
 she was an only child, and consequently the heiress of all 
 Mr. Bancroft's reputed wealth. 
 
 I never was one of that sort who wistfully dream over fine 
 things, without making an attempt to attain them. That 
 stale old maxim to the effect that " faint heart ne'er won fair 
 lady," was uppermost in my mind. I had come to the con- 
 clusion that_ Rosabel Bancroft should have the supreme 
 felicity of becoming my household deity. 
 
 But the way was full of difficulties. I had never seen the 
 peerless maiden, save on occasions when I had called at the 
 house in the capacity of an errand boy for the key of the 
 safe, to get Mr. Bancroft to sign a check, or something of 
 that sort. She was a proud beauty, and had never even 
 taken the pains to look at me. " Ah, my fine lady," thought 
 I, " when We are married, I will teach you what is what ! ' 
 
 Certainly I would ! And as for marrying her, why, that was 
 a settled fact in my mind I had resolved to do the deed. 
 
 1 flattered myself that I was a decidedly good-looking fel-
 
 288 CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN. 
 
 low, and a great many young men cherish this idea in these 
 progressive times. My looking glass had told me I was 
 handsome, and there was no going behind its impressive 
 declaration. But I was aware that my beauty needed a 
 little cultivation, and accordingly I applied to Bogle for 
 some of the " compounds," and in a few weeks, I had the 
 satisfaction of contemplating the addition of a downy 
 mustache upon my well-turned upper lip. I took a great 
 deal of pains with this beautifier of my physiognomy, and 
 felt perfectly sure that the charming Rosabel would be unable 
 to resist my killing attractions. 
 
 There was to be a grand ball at Union Hall, and I heard 
 that my divinity was to form one of the revellers. I will 
 not trouble the reader with a relation of the difficulties that 
 beset me in procuring a ticket for the affair was intended 
 solely for the " upper ten ; " but I got one, though it cost me 
 in the neighborhood of twenty-five dollars, to say nothing of 
 twenty-five more expended in a fancy vest, cravat, and other 
 little amiabilities. 
 
 When I was dressed for the occasion, the effect was per- 
 fectly stunning. Rosabel was certainly a goner ! 
 
 My entree into the drawing room seemed to create a pro- 
 found sensation. All the gentlemen stared at me, and I felt 
 assured of being the lion of the evening. It was plain that 
 my " personal " had created a furor among the aristocratic 
 dandies ; but I tried to treat them all with respect and po- 
 liteness. It is true I saw some of them turn up their noses 
 at me ; and all evinced a disposition to avoid me. But I 
 attributed all these unmannerly symptoms to the envy which 
 my superior personal attractions had roused in their narrow 
 minds. I did not resent their ill nature I could afford to 
 be magnanimous.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN. 289* 
 
 I walked like a king through the sumptuous apartments ; 
 indeed, I always prided myself on my gait. More than once, 
 when I have been leisurely promenading Washington Street t 
 I have felt sure that all the ladies had singled me out foi 
 especial admiration. 
 
 There was something magnificent about my style of walk- 
 ing, and I did not blame the dear creatures for sighing when 
 I passed them. It was a great pity that, in the illiberality 
 of our laws, only one lady could ever have the satisfaction of 
 calling me her husband. I am naturally of a sympathetic 
 temperament, and I assure the reader that it deeply grieved 
 me to think of the number of fair, promising ladies who 
 would be disappointed in winning my affections. I could 
 not love them all, and from the bottom of my heart I pitied 
 those who were doomed to be disappointed. 
 
 Rosabel Bancroft was destined to be my wife. I had 
 deliberately made^ up my mind, and though I thought, in 
 consideration of my condescension in choosing her from tho 
 thousands who would have rejoiced to win me, she ought to 
 meet me half way. But I was not over nice, and in deference 
 to the fashions of the times, I mentally consented to do all 
 the courting myself. 
 
 I succeeded in getting an introduction to her, and she 
 consented to dance with me. I was not much elated ; I re- 
 garded my progress as a matter of course. During the 
 quadrille, I did the agreeable to my own satisfaction, and 
 though the impression was not as marked and decided as I 
 had expected, I was assured that every thing was going on 
 well. 
 
 " Procrastination is the thief of time," said somebody, I 
 don't remember whether it was Plato or Diogenes. When 
 25
 
 290 CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN. 
 
 the dance was ended, and I had conducted her to the drawing 
 room, I made bold to express my admiration of her beauty 
 and grace. She blushed, smiled, and looked confused. 
 Poor thing ! how could she help it ? 
 
 Just then a dandy spoke a word to her, and then retreated. 
 I was not to be balked, and with all the eloquence I pos- 
 sessed and I would just hint that Demosthenes, Cicero, 
 or Daniel Webster couldn't hold a candle to me in making 
 a speech I popped the question ! 
 
 It was handsomely done, and Rosabel was taken all aback. 
 I expected all this I knew all about making love Ovid 
 couldn't tell me any thing about it. Girls, at this moment- 
 ous crisis, do not always mean half they say ; and I was 
 prepared to hear her declare it was rather sudden, that she 
 must ask papa about it, and all that sort of thing. 
 
 But my ardent confession seemed to throw her into a per- 
 spiration if I may so unpoetically express the confusion 
 which my declaration produced. 
 
 " You impudent puppy ! " exclaimed she, her pretty cheek 
 red with anger ; " so you are one of my father's clerks, and 
 have the presumption to ask me to dance with you, and then 
 to offer me such an indignity ! Leave my presence, sir, this 
 instant, or I will ask my friends to kick you away ! " 
 
 Whew ! I did feel sheepish for a moment ; but then, poor 
 thing, she did not know her own mind. Some of those 
 envious noodles had been exciting her prejudices against me. 
 That dandy had told her I was her father's clerk, before I 
 had had an opportunity to weave my spell upon her. 
 
 Comforting myself with the assurance that there Avere 
 thousands of heiresses who were more discriminating than 
 she, I whistled an air, and ambled away from her. If there
 
 CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN. 291 
 
 is any person on the face of the earth whom I pity more 
 than another, it is he or she who wilfully throws away a good 
 opportunity. 
 
 Poor Rosabel ! I pitied her ! I believe I was unselfish 
 enough to deplore her misfortune more acutely than I did 
 my own. I had lost nothing that might not be regained ; 
 she had cast away one of the most brilliant opportunities that 
 ever dawned upon the destiny of a maiden. 
 
 I have the credit, among those who know me best, of pos- 
 sessing firmness in a very remarkable degree ; and it was 
 melancholy to think she had cast me off forever, for, I am 
 sure, if she had fallen upon her knees, and begged and plead- 
 ed, I should have been as firm as a rock. Those insulting, 
 unlady-iike words, had " fixed her flint " to use a rather 
 homely phrase, which I believe did not originate either with 
 .Addison or Macaulay. 
 
 I did not dance any more that evening. I found that I 
 had fallen among fools, who could not appreciate me. And 
 strange as it may seem to the unphilosophical reader, the fact 
 did not in the least disturb my natural equanimity. Why 
 should it ? Did not Socrates experience the same coldness at 
 the hands of the fickle Athenians, who put him to death by 
 mixing poison with his " sherry cobbler " ? Why should I 
 expect a better fate than others whose misfortune it is to be 
 superior to the masses around them ? 
 
 I left the hall regretting only that the eighth part of my 
 year's salary had been wasted in the adventure. 
 
 When I went to the counting room next morning, Mr. 
 Bancroft summoned me to his private office. 
 
 " You are a fool, young man ! " said he, and his -face was 
 flushed with anger.
 
 292 CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN. 
 
 the ingratitude of the world ! This was a pretty return 
 for the distinguished honor I had intended for his daughter, 
 and which only her own wilfulness had prevented her from 
 receiving at my hands. 
 
 " If you ever presume to speak to my daughter again, 
 under "any circumstances, I will immediately discharge you 
 from my service," continued he, with the utmost coolness. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " thought I and I beg the reader will not 
 suppose I uttered this unseemly expression " you won't 
 do any thing of the kind. You know your own interest too 
 well." 
 
 Discharge me ! I should have liked to see him do it. I 
 "believe I should actually have gone, if he had said the word, 
 and left him. to take care of his business as best he might ! 
 If he had got me mad, I should just as lief seen him fail as 
 not it is my temperament. To a friend, I am a friend ; 
 to a foe, a foe of the most determined sort. 
 
 But he knew better than to provoke me too far. Bancroft 
 was a shrewd man. He knew just how far I would have 
 permitted him to go, in deference to the dignity of his po- 
 sition, and he did not exceed that limit. It was a lucky thing 
 for him that he did not. Disaster, mercantile ruin, would 
 have been the inevitable consequence of such an impru- 
 dent act ! 
 
 1 regret that my space does not permit me to give the 
 reader the details of my exploits in, the arena of Cupid for 
 the succeeding six months. They were rich and varied ; but 
 I am happy to console my friends and admirers with the 
 assurance that I am at present engaged in writing out the 
 history of the whole period, which in due time will appear, 
 complete in seven volumes, with portraits and illustrations.
 
 CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN. 293 
 
 From the events of this campaign I deduce the melancholy 
 conclusion that the fair sex are sadly wanting in good taste 
 and' nice discrimination. The fact that I am still a bachelor 
 is a sad commentary on this truth. The ladies " are not 
 what they are cracked up to be " to use a rather inelegant 
 expression, which I think was original with Hogg, the poet. 
 
 But disappointed of my matrimonial hopes, I determined to 
 make commerce the study of my life. I had about made up 
 my mind to offer my time and talents to Bancroft in short, 
 to offer to become his partner in business. I never was 
 much in favor of these complications of mercantile affairs, 
 and to become a partner of his might involve me in some 
 future sacrifices, which it might not be pleasant to make. 
 
 I thought it best, on the whole, to retain my present situ- 
 ation. But the salary was too small. I must wait upon 
 Bancroft, and consent to remain in his service, if he would 
 add a hundred dollars to my pay. Of course he could not 
 be so imprudent as to run the risk of failure and utter ruin 
 for so trifling a matter as this. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Bancroft," said I, in my blandest 
 tones, for even a highway robber is polite nowadays when 
 he blows a man's brains out "but I have taken the liberty 
 to wait upon you for the purpose of asking you to advance 
 my salary from four to five hundred dollars." 
 
 " Go to the devil ! " said he, rudely. 
 
 It is astonishing how some folks will even kick an angel 
 out of their presence. Poor Bancroft ! he " stood in his 
 own light," to borrow from Carlyle or Mephistophiles, I 
 forget which. 
 
 "You are dear help at two hundred a year; I don't wan*, 
 you any longer at any price," continued Bancroft. 
 25*
 
 294 CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN. 
 
 " There's stupidity for you ! " thought I. 
 
 My blood was up, and I determined to leave him, let the 
 consequences be what they might. 
 
 I did leave him, assured that the mercantile world would 
 be startled to its centre by a crash, in a very short time. 
 The concern has not broke down yet, but there is a moral 
 certainty that it must soon " go by the board," to quote 
 from Captain Cook, or Sir John Franklin, it is not very ma- 
 terial which. 
 
 I had not been out of business a week before I discovered 
 that literature was the proper sphere for me. I intend to 
 bring about a revolution in the world of letters, by introdu- 
 cing an entirely new style of composition, adapted both to 
 prose and poetry. I have several works under way, in- 
 cluding a complete History of the Musquito Kingdom, 
 Annals of Hull, and a poem in two hundred and seventy- 
 six cantos, on the "Want of Appreciation and Correct Taste 
 in the Female Sex, all of which will appear as soon aa 
 written and published.
 
 THE BACHELOR BEAU. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " I CAN no longer struggle against the current of misfor- 
 tune," exclaimed Mr. Whiting, a small merchant, who had 
 by the pressure of hard times become somewhat involved; 
 " I am ruined ! " 
 
 " Nay, my husband, do not be distressed. Worse calami- 
 ties than this might happen, and we will make the best 
 of it." 
 
 " But, wife, I must fail ; I cannot sustain myself another 
 day." 
 
 " You have done all you can to avert the misfortune, and 
 if it must come, let us not repine, but bear it like Christians." 
 
 " I will try to keep calm ; but it seems hard, after weath- 
 ering the worst of the storm, to be wrecked in sight of the 
 land." 
 
 " Perhaps your creditors will give you more time," sug- 
 gested Mrs. Whiting. 
 
 " I cannot hope it ; the note which comes due to-morrow, 
 and which I am utterly unable to pay, is in the hands of my 
 bitterest enemy." 
 
 " He will not distress you." 
 
 " I know him well. He is a villain ! " 
 
 " Whom do you mean ? " 
 
 (295)
 
 296 THE BACHELOR BEAU. 
 
 " Backer." 
 
 " God help us, if lie is your creditor ! " 
 
 " As near as I can learn, he bought the note on purpose t 
 perplex me, and perhaps to obtain his revenge." 
 
 " Why is he so bitter against you ? " 
 
 " Because I exposed a swindling operation, in which he 
 was engaged." 
 
 " How much is the note, father ? " asked a beautiful, 
 hazel-eyed girl, who had not before spoken, but who had 
 been listening with intense interest to the conversation be- 
 tween her father and mother. 
 
 " Three thousand dollars, Sarah," replied Mr. "Whiting, 
 fixing a glance of anxiety upon the fair girl. 
 
 " Can't you borrow it, father ? " 
 
 " Alas ! my child, my credit is very much impaired. My 
 notes have been too thick in State Street for me to borrow 
 without paying exorbitant interest ; and that, I think, would 
 wrong my creditors in case any thing should happen." 
 
 " It is not so very dreadful to ( fail, is it, father ? " 
 
 " It would be ruinous to me, my child. If I could pay 
 this note to-morrow, I could get along very well. I should 
 not have been embarrassed, had it not been for the failure 
 of Jones. But I suppose it must be, and we must content 
 ourselves to live a little more closely than we have been 
 accustomed to do." 
 
 Sarah asked no more questions, and though the conversa- 
 tion was continued by her father and mother, she seemed to 
 pay no attention to it. She appeared to be musing deeply 
 over something. 
 
 As the evening advanced, John Barnet, a clerk, who had 
 for some months been attentive to Sarah, and who, report
 
 THE BACHELOR BEATT. 297 
 
 said, was a favored suitor, made his accustomed evening 
 visit. Every body said that John Barnet was a nice young 
 man, and every way worthy of so beautiful and amiable a 
 wife as Sarah Whiting would undoubtedly make him. 
 
 If there is any thing in smiles and gentle words, th'e affec- 
 tion of the young clerk was warmly reciprocated by Sarah. 
 They were not engaged, however, though he called at Mr. 
 Whiting's house from four to seven evenings in a week. 
 
 Mr. Whiting and his wife retired at an early hour in the 
 evening, leaving the lovers " to have it out." 
 
 As usual, John Barnet begged her to make him happy by 
 promising to be his forever. To his utter surprise and con- 
 sternation, she told him she could never be his wife, and en- 
 treated him to think no more about her. Of course, the 
 lover pressed her for an explanation of this sudden and re- 
 markable change in her manner towards him. But she could 
 not even do this, and John took his leave, feeling that ho 
 had not another friend in the world. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SARAH WHITING had another suitor in the person of a 
 wealthy and eccentric old bachelor, who, after withstanding 
 the assaults of thousands of bright eyes and bewitching 
 smiles, had laid his heart at the feet of our beautiful heroine. 
 We don't blame the old fellow for falling in love with her, 
 any more than we blame Sarah for laughing at him when he 
 threw himself at her feet and " popped the question." 
 
 Mr. Landyke Somerset was only about forty, so that, if 
 Sarah had been less cruel, it would not have been exactly
 
 298 THE BACHELOR BEA.TT. 
 
 " May and December," but about June and November. Ho 
 loved her with all the fervor which the march of time had 
 left in his heart, and was actually disconsolate when she 
 told him " no." 
 
 Mr. Vandyke Somerset was not an ill-looking man, though 
 he was an old bachelor. True, his hair was not as black 
 and glossy as it had been twenty years before ; there was an 
 occasional iron-gray hair, which looked a little suspicious ; 
 yet, when he began to make his court to the divinity of his 
 dreams, even these suddenly disappeared, and people were 
 malicious enough to say it was through the influence of a 
 certain compound applied by the barber. True, also, there 
 was now and then a wrinkle in his face, which some young 
 ladies affect to dislike. But what of all these things ? Old 
 age is honorable, and the iron-gray hairs and the wrinkles 
 did not in the least mar the kindly expression of his phiz. 
 
 He was a very clever fellow, and though the merry little 
 Sarah Whiting could not help laughing when he " popped 
 the question " to her, she would very willingly have had 
 just such an uncle, or something of that sort. In short, she 
 liked him, but she didn't love him. 
 
 Mr. Landyke Somerset was a firm believer in the ancient 
 verity, that " faint heart ne'er won fair lady," and he deter- 
 mined not to faint or give up the chase till he had bagged 
 the game, or had seen her the wife of another. Consequent- 
 ly he held out all the inducements in his power to engage 
 her heart in his favor. 
 
 He was not what young ladies call an " old fool," for ho 
 had sense enough to feel that he should never be able to 
 gain the victory on the strength of his physical attributes 
 his personal beauty. But lie was an amiable man at heart,
 
 THE BACHEtOB BEAU. 299 
 
 and trusted solely to the influence of his moral and mental 
 qualities for success. They had thus far failed him, though 
 he still persevered. 
 
 Mr. Whiting, readily understanding what these attentions 
 meant, did all in his power to favor his suit ; for he was an 
 old-fashioned man, and placed more confidence in the power 
 of a good heart and plenty of money to make his daughter 
 happy, than he did in the more common attributes of youth 
 and good looks, even though the possessor of the first-named 
 commodities had passed the meridian of life. 
 
 But Sarah had a mind of her own in these matters, and 
 though she appreciated her kind father's motives, she could 
 not think of throwing herself away on a man of forty, even 
 if he was an angel. 
 
 It was only the afternoon of the day preceding the conver- 
 sation we have recorded, that Mr. Somerset had paid her a 
 visit, and renewed his protestations of love to her. She had 
 told him for the twentieth time, " no." 
 
 When she heard her father relate the particulars of his 
 embarrassment, the image of Mr. Somerset had involuntarily 
 presented itself to her mind. He was abundantly able to 
 assist them in this emergency, and for the love he bore her 
 perhaps he would. 
 
 But, then, if she applied to him, and he afforded the neces- 
 sary aid, she would be under an obligation to him, which 
 she might find it very inconvenient to discharge. 
 
 Ruin stared her father in the face. He had said it was 
 ruin, and she was sure it was. What right had she to be 
 selfish or over nice, when, perhaps, she had it in her power 
 to avert the dreadful calamity ? Her father was all in all to 
 her ; and though some girls are s6 sentimental as to sacrifice
 
 300 THE BACHELOR BEATI. 
 
 fatter, mother, home, friends, for a lover, she would sacrifice 
 a dozen lovers for her father alone, to say nothing of her 
 mother, who was at least worth two dozen more. 
 
 Let not the reader suppose the pretty Sarah did not love 
 him upon whom she had smiled she did ; but her bump 
 of veneration was bigger than that other bump on the back 
 of the head. 
 
 Her resolution was formed, and about eleven o'clock the 
 next day, she put on her bonnet, and walked up to the 
 Revere House, where Mr. Somerset boarded. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MR. LANDYKE SOMERSET was a nabob, and retained a 
 private parlor, to which the obsequious servant conducted 
 Sarah "Whiting. 
 
 Of course the bachelor was reasonably astonished at this 
 visit. 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Whiting, I am delighted to see you," ex- 
 claimed he, with rapturous enthusiasm. 
 
 " I knew you would be, and that's the reason I came," 
 laughed Sarah, and at the same time she blushed so sweetly 
 that Mr. Landyke Somerset had almost dissolved in a rap- 
 ture of delight. 
 
 " Ah, my dear JVliss Whiting, you are not always so kind 
 to me as you are to-day." 
 
 " But I always will be hereafter," and Sarah smiled 
 though her heart beat like the boundings of a race horse." 
 
 " Ah, you are so good, and so pretty, too." 
 
 " I will save you the trouble of all these useless adula-
 
 THE BACHELOR BEAU. 301 
 
 tions by saying that I have come to accept your oft-repeated 
 proposal." 
 
 " Indeed ! " and the bachelor was taken " all aback ; " he 
 could hardly believe the evidence of his own senses. 
 
 "What, sir! Do you recede from your offer?" said 
 Sarah, laughing with all her might a very convenient 
 cloak for young ladies sometimes. 
 
 " Capital joke, eh ? " and the bachelor laughed too. 
 
 " No joke, sir ; I am in earnest." 
 
 Sarah looked as sober as the matron of an orphan 
 asylum. 
 
 " Nay, nay, my pretty Sarah, do not make sport of me." 
 
 " I will give you my promise in writing, with my signa- 
 ture, if you desire it.** 
 
 " Is it possible that you mean so ? " said the doubtful 
 Mr. Somerset. 
 
 " Take my hand." 
 
 The bachelor took it, pressed it to his lips, and began to 
 think himself the happiest fellow in the world. 
 
 " I am yours, Mr. Somerset." 
 
 " Bless you, Sarah ! " 
 
 " On one condition." 
 
 " Name it." 
 
 Sarah recounted the story of her father's embarrassment. 
 
 " Fill me out a check for three thousand dollars, and I 
 promise to become your wife within one year." 
 
 Mr. Landyke Somerset mused. He appeared to be in 
 doubt. He was a high-souled man, and the idea of buying 
 the hand of his wife was to the last degree repugnant to him. 
 
 " You hesitate, sir ; I know you do not love me," said 
 Sarah, with apparent pique. 
 26
 
 THE BACHELOR BEAU. 
 
 " On my soul, I do ! I agree ; here is the check," replied 
 Mr. Somerset, as he seated himself at the tahle and drew 
 the check. 
 
 '* Now enclose it in a note to my father, saying you learned 
 his trouble from a mutual friend, and then beg the privilege 
 of loaning him the amount of the check." 
 
 " And you sacrifice yourself to your father, my fair Sa- 
 rah ! " said the bachelor, as he sealed the note. 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " You are an angel ! " 
 
 " Nay, I must go now." 
 
 The check did the business, and Mr. Whiting was as hap- 
 py as ever he was in his life. Bacher could not sleep that 
 night because he had been foiled in his revenge. 
 
 In the evening Mr. Somerset called at the house to see 
 his future bride. She treated him kindly, and permitted him 
 to sit by her side, hold her work basket, and pick up her 
 thimble when she dropped it which was glory enough for 
 an evening, to one as moderate in his wishes as the bachelor 
 beau of our heroine. 
 
 But about eight o'clock, to Sarah's utter consternation, 
 John Barnet paid his usual visit. The poor clerk was sadly 
 distressed, as well he might be, and had called to desire an 
 explanation of the cool manner in which he had been dis- 
 missed. 
 
 The presence of Mr. Somerset was all the explanation he 
 desired. He was uneasy ; he could not join in the conver- 
 sation, and aware that he. was making himself disagreeable 
 to the party, he determined to take his leave ; but how could 
 he leave her ? 
 
 He knew Mr. Somerset to be one of the best men in the
 
 THE BACHELOR BEAU. 303 
 
 world, and lie resolved to request an interview with him on 
 the spot. 
 
 The worthy bachelor kindly condescended to walk down 
 the street a short distance with him, and John Barnet told 
 him the whole story ; how he loved Sarah, and how he had 
 eveiy reason to believe that Sarah loved him. He was sure 
 that some unfair advantage had been taken, and he wanted 
 the matter explained. 
 
 " Come back to the house, young man, and I will give 
 you all the satisfaction you desire." 
 
 John consented. 
 
 A few minutes sufficed to explain to Mr. Whiting and the 
 discarded lover the nature of the sacrifice which the devoted 
 Sarah had made for her father's sake. 
 
 " Bless you, my child ! " exclaimed the merchant, his 
 eyes filling with tears of love, as he tenderly embraced his 
 noble-hearted daughter. 
 
 " You understand it now, don't you, Mr. Barnet ? " said 
 the bachelor, with a good-natured smile. 
 
 " I do, indeed," replied John, sorrowfully ; " she is a no- 
 ble girl, and I shall never cease to love her, though she 
 can never be mine." 
 
 Sarah cast a sad glance at him, and her eyes filled with 
 tears. She never knew till that moment how much she 
 loved the poor clerk. But it was all over now the bright 
 dreams of love had passed away, and she could never be 
 happy again. 
 
 " What, Sarah ! do you recede from your promise ? " 
 asked Mr. Somerset. 
 
 "Nay, I do not. Farewell, John! farewell forever!" 
 and the poor girl sobbed convulsively.
 
 304 THE BACHELOR BEAU. 
 
 " Farewell, Sarah ! " and the clerk seized his hat and 
 rushed towards the door. 
 
 *' Hallo ! stop, young man ! " exclaimed Mr. Somerset ; 
 " don't go off mad. Give me your hand." 
 
 The bachelor. took the clerk's hand. 
 
 " You are a good fellow ; I honor you. Your hand, Sa- 
 rah," and Mr. Somerset took the little white hand of the 
 weeping maiden, and placed it in that of John Barnet. 
 " Be happy ! " 
 
 " What do you mean, sir ? " asked Sarah, bewildered at 
 the actions of the bachelor. 
 
 " Mean ? You love him, don't you ? " 
 
 With all my soul ! " 
 
 " And you do not love me ? " 
 
 Sarah began to understand. 
 
 " I like you." 
 
 " You are his ; be happy ! You did not for a moment 
 suppose I could be so mean as to take advantage of such a 
 noble act of self-sacrifice as you performed to-day ? No ! I 
 love you, but I will not make you miserable." 
 
 Poor Sarah ! How happy she was, and how she pitied 
 poor Mr. Somerset, who loved her so much ! She felt that, 
 if she had never seen John Barnet, she would have been 
 glad to become his wife, iron gray and wrinkles to the 
 contrary notwithstanding he was such a dear, good soul ! 
 
 " Be happy ! and that isn't all ; when I die you shall have 
 half my fortune." 
 
 The bachelor kept his word, and though he didn't die of a 
 broken heart, he did not live many years ; yet when he did 
 die, the hand of woman of as true and loving a woman
 
 THE BACHELOR BEAU. 305 
 
 as ever made home a paradise smoothed his dying pillow, 
 and closed his eyes in their last sleep ; and there were sin 
 cere mourners over his hier. 
 
 Poor Mr. Landyke Somerset ! though he found not a wife 
 in Sarah Whiting, he found a true friend. 
 91*
 
 THE GRAND RECEPTION BALL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TIPTOP is somewhere in the State of Massachusetts ; but, 
 in consideration of the unpleasant nature of the details of 
 my story, I do not feel at liberty to state its precise geo- 
 graphical position. Undoubtedly, too, there are within the 
 limits of our ancient commonwealth a great many Tiptops, 
 and, by assigning it a specific locale, many whom the coat 
 fits will fail to put it on. 
 
 Tiptop was fully up with the times. The distinctions of 
 caste were as precisely defined and protected as in New York 
 or Philadelphia. It is true, a belle from one of the empo- 
 riums of fashion would not have felt at home there ; but 
 then the Tiptopites labored to -be as fashionable as the 
 metropolitans, and if they did not succeed, it was not their 
 fault. 
 
 There were balls, parties, and lyceums in Tiptop ; but, un- 
 fortunately for the luminous propensities of the " upper ten," 
 they were obliged to call in the aid of the canaille on these 
 occasions, in order to make the expense fall as lightly as 
 possible on the glorified few. 
 
 There was a great excitement in the place when it was 
 understood that the Hon. Mr. Silas Lumpkin, M. C., from 
 
 (306)
 
 THE GSAXD EECEPTION BALL. 307 
 
 one of the Western States, proposed to spend a few days with 
 Squire Rogers, his " chum " in college. 
 
 The Hon. Mr. Lumpkin was a distinguished man in his 
 day and generation. Though not thirty-five at the period 
 of our story, he had made a mark on the country which time 
 will not immediately obliterate. 
 
 But Mr. Lumpkin was a sensible man, notwithstanding 
 the temptations of his position to be otherwise. We hare 
 referred to the Congressional Globe, but we do not find that 
 he ever made a long speech, which, in our mind, fully es- 
 tablishes his reputation as a model Congressman. 
 
 The distinguished gentleman's visit to Tiptop promised to 
 be an epoch in the history of the place. The notables were 
 duly impressed with the honor which awaited them, and im- 
 mediately put their heads together to devise a suitable plan 
 for a public demonstration. They fully appreciated the great 
 man's condescension, and it only remained to make a proper 
 expression of it. 
 
 A voluntary committee of the most notable of the notables 
 waited on Squire Rogers in this emergency. Unfortunately, 
 the squire was a legal man, and did not feel competent to 
 advise in an affair of this kind ; and the squire, too, was a 
 sensible man, and had it not been for the fact that he was a 
 candidate for the office of representative to the next General 
 Court, would probably have expressed his disgust at the 
 whole thing. 
 
 But while the voluntary committee were discussing a 
 scheme for a public dinner in the town hall, the ladies de- 
 cided that a grand reception ball should be given on the 
 occasion of Mr. Lumpkin's arrival. 
 
 Of course the matter was settled, for Miss Araminta Pip-
 
 308 THE GRAND BECEPTION BALL. 
 
 kin and Annabellina Punkinton had said so. Miss Dorothea 
 Pilkinton -was opposed to it at first, on account of the short- 
 ness of the time ; hut Miss Pipkin was an Amazon in an 
 argument, and carried the day. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IT was after dark when the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin arrived at 
 Tiptop. The Lyceum Hall was already in a hlaze of bril- 
 liancy, and the revellers Avere rapidly gathering to do honor 
 to the man who had distinguished himself by holding his 
 tongue. 
 
 Mr. Lumpkin, all unconscious of the honors that were in 
 store for him, cordially grasped the hand of Squire Rogers 
 and entered the house. He drank several cups of particu- 
 larly strong tea, and found himself fully refreshed from the 
 fatigues of his journey. 
 
 " The hall was lighted as you passed, was it not ? " 
 asked the squire, thinking it time to broach the subject 
 of the complimentary ball. 
 
 " The building on the hill ? " 
 
 " Yes next to the meeting house." 
 
 " It was." 
 
 " Something grand there to-night ; we must go up." 
 
 " Political ? " 
 
 " No, nothing of the kind ; your friends in this place, 
 without distinction of party, propose to welcome you to 
 Tiptop in a grand reception ball." 
 
 " The dense they do ! " 
 
 "Fact!" and the squire grinned in sympathy with the 
 Hon. Mr. Lumpkin.
 
 THE GEAND RECEPTION BALL. 3Q9 
 
 " But, Rogers, it's silly." 
 
 " Public men must humor the follies of their constituency." 
 
 " Not my constituents, thank my stars ! I am not holden 
 to them for my office ; so I shall do them the honor to spend 
 the evening with you, Rogers." 
 
 " But, my dear Lumpkin, the affair was got up wholly 
 on your account." 
 
 "Infernally silly of them decidedly flat." 
 
 " They will be disappointed ; " and Squire Rogers looked 
 sad, for he happened to think at that moment that he was a 
 candidate for the legislature. 
 
 " No matter." 
 
 " But the aristocracy bah ! will be mortally offended 
 with me." 
 
 " The what ? " 
 
 " The affair was got up by our fashionables." 
 
 " So much the better. If they wish to make fools of 
 themselves, they shall not do it at my expense." 
 
 " But consider, my dear Lumpkin, what a terrible disap- 
 pointment it will be to them. They are even now waiting 
 your arrival. I have been appointed gentleman usher, to 
 conduct you to the hall, and do the honors." 
 
 "Good, Rogers ! " and Mr. Lumpkin, being a jolly, go6d- 
 natured Congressman, laughed heartily, notwithstanding the 
 consternation of his legal friend, who began to fear that his 
 want of tact would insure the victory, at the approaching 
 election, to his rival. 
 
 " But the ladies, Lumpkin." 
 
 This was a fortunate hit on the part of Squire Rogers. 
 Mr. Lumpkin was a bachelor, and, like bachelors in general, 
 he loved the ladies to distraction, while he kept them at a
 
 310 THE GRAIO) RECEPTION BALI. 
 
 safe distance. The thought of being the centre of attrac- 
 tion, amid a galaxy of bright eyes and blushing cheeks, was 
 rather inviting ; but Mr. Lumpkin could not forgive the Tip- 
 topites for making fools of themselves at his expense. 
 
 The honorable gentleman was a consistent man, and having 
 before decided not to go, it was against his principles to 
 change his mind. There was a villanous rumor in circula- 
 tion that Mr. Lumpkin, having unhappily fallen asleep 
 during the making of a certain motion, had suddenly woke 
 up and voted "yea," in opposition to his colleagues, and 
 against the instructions of his constituents. 
 
 Having always been considered sound on the question at 
 issue, every body was surprised at his vote. He did not dis- 
 cover his mistake until the following day ; but, being a con- 
 sistent man, he defended his course, and made the longest 
 speech he was ever known to make, on the folly of instruct- 
 ing public men who are sent to Congress for the good of 
 their country. He would have lost his subsequent election, 
 only that a majority, admiring his manly independence, saw 
 fit to give him their suffrages. 
 
 Mr. Lumpkin had said no, and it was an exceedingly diffi- 
 cult thing for him to reverse his sentiments, and say yes. 
 But the ladies, being as he eloquently expressed it, in his 
 speech on the necessity of reducing the duty on Cashmere 
 shawls, and making it specific, instead of ad valorem the 
 bright, particular luminaries of a republican nation, seemed 
 to beckon him to the ball to be recreant to his principle 
 of consistency. 
 
 But Mr. Lumpkin, in the true spirit of our glorious con- 
 stitution, resolved to compromise the matter, and go. There 
 was a codfish clique in Tiptop, and Mr. Lumpkin considered
 
 THE GRAND RECEPTION BALL. 311 
 
 it his duty to punish them. After making some arrange- 
 ments with his friend, whose urgent remonstrances were all 
 unheeded, he left the house. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LYCEUM HALL blazed with beauty and tallow candles. 
 All the elite of Tiptop were on tiptoe with expectation. 
 A-fter a long and rather stormy discussion, it was decided 
 hat Miss Pipkin should dance first with Mr. Lumpkin/ 
 
 Eight o'clock came, and the distinguished gentleman did 
 not make his appearance. The less pretentious portion of 
 the party began to grow impatient. They cared nothing at 
 all about Mr. Lumpkin ; they came to have a good time, and 
 were bound to enjoy themselves, whether Mr. Lumpkin and 
 his admirers did or not. 
 
 Joe Maple began to get a little mad. He came with Liz- 
 zie Lee, had paid for his ticket, and as he expressed it to 
 Mr. Adolphus Pipkin he'd like to know why they couldn't 
 go ahead without Mr. Lumpkin. 
 
 " Hang me if I stay cr pay for my ticket if they don't put 
 her through pootty soon," said he. 
 
 " What are they waiting for ? " asked a stranger by 
 his side. 
 
 " For Mr. Stumpkins, or some sich name ; but I ain't 
 a-going to wait any longer. What do you say, boys shall 
 we back out if they don't go ahead ? " 
 
 " Sartin ; go to the managers, Joe ; we'll back you up in 
 any thing you say," replied several. 
 
 " They ought to go on," suggested the stranger.
 
 312 THE GKAND BECEPTION BALL. 
 
 " Tew be sure they had ; so here goes for the managers, 
 They are so darn stuck up, they seem to think we ain't no- 
 body ; we'll larn 'em better ; " and Joe Maple marched for 
 the knot of gentlemen who had charge of the arrangements, 
 and who were wondering why the distinguished guest of the 
 evening did not appear. 
 
 At this moment Squire Rogers entered the hall. In reply 
 to the managers' queries, he said Mr. Lumpkin had left his 
 house half an hour before, promising to meet him at the 
 festive scene. 
 
 Joe Maple said the " boys " meant to have a time, any 
 how, and he insisted that the dance should be immediately 
 commenced, or the " boys " would make tracks for " hum." 
 
 Joe Maple's party were in a very decided majority, and 
 their appeal was irresistible. The band, who were prepared 
 to play "Hail Columbia" for the "grand entree" of Mr. 
 Lumpkin, were directed to commence a cotillon. 
 
 The sets were nearly formed, when the stranger who had 
 before questioned him requested Joe Maple to introduce him 
 to a partner. 
 
 " Sartin," said Joe, who was a good-natured, clever fel- 
 low ; " but I don't know ye. What's your name ? " 
 
 The stranger hesitated a moment, and then said it was 
 Smith. 
 
 " You don't say so ! You ain't the Smith that's just 
 moved on to the Pelatiah Hopkins place ? " 
 
 " Just so," replied Mr. Smith. 
 
 " Well, now, I am glad to see you ; " and Joe Maple cast 
 about him for a suitable partner for the new proprietor. 
 
 Joe was always up to some mischief, and it seemed as 
 though the very demon of mischief ruled, him when he
 
 THE GRAND KECEPTIOX BALI,. 313 
 
 glanced at Miss Araminta Pipkin, who was impatiently wait- 
 ing the arrival of her distinguished partner. 
 
 Now, Mr. Smith was certainly not very prepossessing in his 
 external appearance. He looked very much like a country 
 shopkeeper dressed up in his Sunday clothes, and Joe Maple 
 was perfectly satisfied that Miss Pipkin would never con- 
 descend to dance with him. But there was a prospect of 
 some sport, and though he and the amiable leader of the 
 Tiptop ton were not on speaking terms, he determined to 
 present Mr. Smith. 
 
 " I want to introduce Mr. Smith to you," said Joe, mus- 
 tering his most elegant expression. " He wants a pardner." 
 
 Miss Pipkin addressed a languid sneer, first to Joe Maple, 
 and then to Mr. Smith. 
 
 " No, I thank ye," replied she, briefly, turning away her 
 head from the suppliant at her feet. 
 
 " Hadn't ye better ? This is Mr. Smith, that has bought 
 the Pelatiah Hopkins place." 
 
 " You have my answer ; I dance with Mr. Lumpkin ; " 
 and Miss Pipkin looked unutterably scornful at the thought 
 of descending from a member of Congress even to the pro- 
 prietor of the Hopkins place. 
 
 " That is very plain speech," suggested Mr. Smith. 
 
 " Short as piecrust ; she's right down smart. But, Mr. 
 Smith, as you have bought that place, you shall dance with 
 the poottiest gal in the hall that's Lizzie Lee. She en- 
 gaged to dance with me " 
 
 " I could not think of disappointing you," interposed Mr. 
 Smith. 
 
 " I don't stand on trifles. The fact is, Lizzie and I under- 
 stand one another pootty well." 
 27
 
 314 THE GEAND RECEPTION BALL. 
 
 Mr. Smith was introduced to Lizzie, who was all the en- 
 amoured Mr. Maple had said she was. 
 
 But the sets were all full save one, in Avhich had been 
 reserved a place for Mr. Lumpkin and the sighing Miss Pip- 
 kin, who fondly hoped to make a conquest of the distin- 
 guished bachelor's heart. 
 
 This set was at the head of the hall, and of course the 
 three couples which now composed it were the cream of the 
 aristocracy. Mr. Lumpkin had not come, and Joe, who was 
 all attention to the new owner of the Hopkins place, directed 
 Mr. Smith to lead his partner to this vacant position. 
 
 Mr. Smith did so. He was perfectly innocent of any in- 
 tention to offend, and smilingly bowed to his pretty partner. 
 
 The three couples were aghast at the coolness and effront- 
 ery of Mr. Smith. Mr. Adolphus Pipkin felt outraged, and 
 stepped forward to remonstrate, suggesting to the new lord 
 of the Hopkins place that the head of the hall had been 
 reserved for Mr. Lumpkin and the accomplished Miss Pipkin. 
 
 "When he comes, /will go," replied Mr. Smith, quietly. 
 
 " How rude ! " exclaimed Miss Punkinton. 
 
 " "What horrible impoliteness ! " added Miss Pilkington. 
 
 " Brought up in the woods," suggested Miss Smythson. 
 
 " I declare, he smells of the cow yard," sneered Miss 
 Punkinton. 
 
 "Will you abandon your position?" asked Mr. Pipkin, 
 fiercely. 
 
 " No, sir," replied Smith, calmly. 
 
 " On with the dance ! " shouted Joe Maple. 
 
 And on it went, for the leader of the band, knowing who 
 nis strongest friends were, started the music. 
 
 " Sir, you are no gentleman," continued Mr, Pipkin.
 
 THE GBAND RECEPTION BALL. 315 
 
 " First couple, lead up to the right ! " shouted the caller. 
 
 Mr. Smith and Lizzie, heing the first couple, led up to 
 the right, and, in doing so, had nearly borne the enraged 
 Mr. Pipkin under their feet. 
 
 "Balancez ! " 
 
 " I demand satisfaction, sir." 
 
 " Chassez to the right ! " 
 
 Mr. Smith danced furiously; but the rest of the set, 
 horrified at the idea of dancing with such company as the 
 owner of the Hopkins place and Lizzie Lee, abandoned their 
 positions. Joe Maple instantly filled them again, and things 
 went on as merrily as a marriage bell. 
 
 Squire Rogers was repeatedly importuned for information 
 in regard to the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin, whose consistency 
 seemed quite as prominent as it had ever been before. Tho 
 squire assured them he would come that it was only ten 
 o'clock, and genteel folks never appeared till a late hour. 
 
 The Hon. Mr. Lumpkin did come at last. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BTTT when he came, the proprietor of the Pelatiah Hop- 
 kins place incontinently vamosed. 
 
 " Rogers," said Mr. Smith, " Lumpkin is come." 
 
 " High time," replied Rogers. 
 
 " Please announce the fact." 
 
 " There will be a tempest ; hadn't we better have the 
 smelling salts handy ? " 
 
 " Ay, cod-liver oil would do as well ; there is a smell of 
 codfish in this vicinity."
 
 316 THE GRAND RECEPTION BALL. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," began Squire Rogers to the 
 little knot of uppercrusts that occupied the head of the hall, 
 " I have /the honor of informing you that the Hon. Mr. 
 Lumpkin has come." 
 
 This announcement produced a very decided sensation. 
 Miss Araminta Pipkin heaved a deep sigh, and almost fainted 
 in anticipation of the presentation. 
 
 "Where is he?" asked Mr. Adolphus Pipkin, glancing 
 eagerly around the room. 
 
 " The illustrious gentleman is close at hand." 
 
 " Band, play the grand march." 
 
 The band struck up " Hail Columbia." 
 
 Mr. Smith, exhibiting a most wonderful command of him- 
 self, while every body else was excited by the event about to 
 transpire, stood by the side of Lizzie Lee, engaged in a ta- 
 miliar conversation. Joe Maple, in view of the very marked 
 attentions of Mr. Smith to his intended, had begun to grow 
 a little jealous, and half regretted that he had been so polite 
 to the owner of the Hopkins place. 
 
 " Mr. Lumpkin," said Rogers, breaking in upon the pleas- 
 ant conference, " the company wait your presence." 
 
 "Hey, squire ! this is Mr. Smith," said Maple. 
 
 " The Hon. Mr. Lumpkin," continued Rogers. 
 
 " You will pardon the little trick I have played upon 
 you," said Mr. Smith ; " my name is Lumpkin, M. C." 
 
 " You don't say so ! " exclaimed Joe Maple. 
 
 " Just so." 
 
 "And I've been talking to you jest as though you was a 
 common man." 
 
 " So T am " 
 
 " Mfl't you one of them 'ere Congress fellers ? "
 
 THE GRAND RECEPTION BALI,. 317 
 
 *' Certainly, but one of the people ; and, between you and 
 I and the barn, as we say out west, I am no friend of such 
 folks as these over here ; " and Mr. Lumpkin pointed signifi- 
 cantly to the elite of Tiptop. 
 
 " You are a brick, squire ! " and Joe hawhawed with 
 right good will ; " but I suppose we shan't see you again to- 
 night if you are going over there ? " 
 
 " Yes ; Miss Lee, I claim your hand for the next dance, 
 according to your promise." 
 
 " I shall be almost afraid to dance with you now," sim- 
 pered Lizzie. 
 
 " Hush, Liz ! talk up to him," whispered Joe ; " a Con- 
 gress chap ain't any better than any body else." 
 
 " Mr. Lumpkin, your admirers will become impatient," 
 suggested Squire Rogers, with an ironical smile. 
 
 " Excuse me for a few moments, Miss Lee ; " and Mr. 
 Lumpkin, taking the arm of the squire, walked towards 
 the head of the hall. 
 
 Joe Maple, whose keen relish for " some sport " did not 
 permit him to remain in the background, followed in their 
 wake. 
 
 " Miss Pipkin, the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin," said Squire Rogers. 
 
 The amiable lady raised her eyes, which had been fixed 
 in maidenly coyness upon the floor, and beheld the abomina- 
 ble Mr. Smith, the abhorred owner of the Pelatiah Hopkins 
 place ! 
 
 "Why I yes I declare I have met you be- 
 fore this evening," stammered the leader of the female ton. 
 
 " Should rather think you had ! " roared Joe Maple, who 
 has since declared that he thought " he should ha' died a 
 larfin'." 
 
 27*
 
 318 THE GKAND RECEPTION BAM,. 
 
 " We have ; I had the honor of he-ing refused the pleas- 
 ure of your hand at the first dance," said Mr. Lumpkin, with 
 a full display of congressional dignity. 
 
 " Mr. Pipkin, the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin, M. C., from the 
 west," continued Squire Rogers, who, notwithstanding he 
 felt a little nervous on account of the seat in the legislature, 
 was in very tolerable spirits, and heartily enjoyed the dis- 
 comfiture of the " codfish " party. 
 
 " Happy to know you, Mr. Pipkin. You demanded sat- 
 isfaction of me in the early part of the evening ; should he 
 happy to afford it." 
 
 " You will pardon me, sir ; there was some mistake ; I 
 would not of course have spoken in that manner to a mem- 
 ber of Congress." 
 
 Mr. Lumpkin, not being above the infirmities of human 
 nature, sneered rather rudely at the Tiptop exquisite, as 
 much as to say, "You ought to treat every body well, 
 whether they are public or private individuals." 
 
 The master of ceremonies discharged the duties of his 
 office with punctilious formality. It seemed to the sufferers 
 that he was unnecessarily minute in his presentation ceremo- 
 nial, permitting the distinguished gentleman to make a home 
 thrust at each one of the persons who had been so rude to 
 Mr. Smith. 
 
 The introductions were happily concluded, and a more 
 chopfallen set than the elite of Tiptop never gathered to- 
 gether in the same hall. 
 
 Miss Pipkin was in an agony. She had actually turned 
 up her nose to a member of Congress. Of course she could 
 no longer hope to make a conquest of his heart ; the vision 
 of being a distinguished lady melted quite away.
 
 THE GBA3TD BECEPTION BALL. 319 
 
 But then "it is an ill wind that blows no one any 
 good." If Miss Pipkin could not have a member of Con- 
 gress, she at least had the consolation of saying that she had 
 refused the hand of the Hon. Mr. Lumpkin, which, to a lady 
 of her peculiar turn of mind, was an immense satisfaction. 
 
 Mr. Lumpkin returned to the side of Lizzie Lee, who, 
 maugre her coyness, was tolerably sociable. Joe Maple, 
 from the abundance of his good nature, vowed he might 
 dance with her just as many times as he pleased. 
 
 About eleven o'clock, Miss Pipkin suggested to her broth- 
 er that the delicate state of her health would not permit her 
 to endure the excitement of the dance any longer, and when 
 the leader of the ton left, the followers went after her. 
 
 But the common folks " staid it out," and Mr. Lumpkin 
 confessed that he enjoyed the ball very much indeed ; for, 
 true to his duty as a public man, it had enabled him to ad- 
 minister a suitable reproof to the pretensions of the Tip- 
 topites. 
 
 Joe Maple and Lizzie Lee since Mrs. Maple have not 
 yet forgotten the part they acted, and perhaps they may be 
 pardoned for a slight display of vanity as they relate the 
 particulars of The Grand Reception Ball.
 
 GETTING AN INDORSEE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MY friend, Frank Howard, was a dry goods dealer on 
 "Washington Street. When I made his acquaintance, he 
 was one of the most active and successful salesmen in the 
 trade, and being a prudent man, had saved a small sum of 
 money, with which and the credit he might be able to ob- 
 tain, he proposed to commence business on his own account. 
 
 Among his acquaintances he had the good fortune to in- 
 clude a wealthy merchant, whose judgment had led him to 
 form a lofty estimate of the business capacity of my friend. 
 
 To him the young aspirant for mercantile honors stated 
 his case, and the conference ended in a voluntary proposition 
 on the part of the merchant to supply the goods necessary 
 to stock his store, taking his notes, the first of which would 
 fall due in one year, in payment. 
 
 The arrangement was competed, and in a few days Frank 
 found himself installed in a convenient store, on the best 
 part of the street, ready to strike for his fortune. 
 
 C320)
 
 GETTING AN INDORSEE. 321 
 
 The notes had not been signed, and one evening, on some 
 business connected with them, Frank called, by appointment, 
 at the princely mansion of his worthy benefactor. He was 
 ushered into the sitting room, where the merchant was read- 
 ing the evening paper. By his side sat a beautiful young 
 lady, to whom his patron politely introduced him. 
 
 My friend belonged to that anomalous class of beings 
 styled "handsome men; " at least the ladies all said he was 
 nandsome, though for the life of me I never could tell where- 
 in his beauty consisted. But as I have no particular fane) 
 for masculine beauty, it may have escaped my notice, or the 
 natural selfishness of mankind may have prejudiced my 
 judgment. 
 
 My friend was acknowledged by all the ladies to be a re- 
 markably handsome man ; and, probably, this was the secret 
 of his immense success as a salesman. Whether he reckoned 
 his beauty as one of the items of his stock in trade, when he 
 went into business, I am unable to say ; but I have not the 
 least doubt he based his hopes of success, to a great extent, 
 upon the influence of his prepossessing personal appearance. 
 
 Frank fixed his eyes on the young lady, as the merchant, 
 who had, when he entered, half read a money article in his 
 paper, turned to finish it. Miss Allen such was the name 
 by which she had been presented to him was busily en- 
 gaged in crocheting a little silk purse, and as she bent over 
 the work, Frank was perfectly satisfied that he had never 
 seen so pretty a face in his life. 
 
 And then the neatest, most graceful little foot in the 
 world protruded from beneath a light silk dress a foot 
 which completely turned Frank's head, so that he forgot all 
 about the notes and the merchant.
 
 322 GETTING AN INDORSEE. 
 
 Without the least regard to etiquette, politeness, good 
 breeding, and all that sort of thing, he stared mercilessly at 
 her, and never, for even the fraction of a moment, removed 
 his gaze, not even allowing himself the luxury of winking, 
 lest the time so employed should be lost. 
 
 Frank was perfectly sure that he had never before felt 
 exactly as he did at that halcyon moment. It seemed as 
 though all the divinities of paradise were concentrated in the 
 fair form before him, as though he had been transplanted to 
 an Elysium of love. 
 
 And the maiden was not altogether unmoved. The em- 
 bryo merchant several times detected her in the act of steal- 
 ing a glance at him through the long, fringing eyelashes that 
 adorned her peerless brow. He plainly saw her blush ; saw 
 her bosom heave with a flutter as she caught his earnest 
 gaze. 
 
 Frank Howard was a handsome man; and somehow or 
 other, men and women who are favored in this respect al- 
 ways contrive to find it out. Frank knew that he was a 
 handsome man, and never in his life did he more devoutly 
 thank his stars, which had given him personal beauty, than 
 at this particular moment. 
 
 The lady had already found out that he was handsome, 
 and if the stupid fellow had not stared so furiously at her, 
 she would no doubt have done the same thing he was doing. 
 
 Mr. Allen finished the money article, and laid down the 
 paper. Frank has owned to me that he wished it had been 
 twice, or even four times as long. 
 
 The details of the business were discussed, and the papers 
 drawn. While it was in progress, Frank more than once 
 detected the beautiful fairy in the act of looking at him ;
 
 GETTING AN INDORSEE. 323 
 
 several times detected her in the very act of blushing, when 
 their eyes met. 
 
 The business was finished at last, much to the regret of 
 my handsome friend, who, when he got into the street, went 
 straightway into a fit of abstraction, and had walked half 
 way across Charlestown bridge, on his way home, before he 
 happened to think that he lived at the South End. 
 
 It was all up with poor Frank ; he had fallen in love 
 was stark, staring mad in love with whom he knew not, 
 for it was well known that Mr. Allen had no daughter. She 
 was a relative, however, for she bore his name. 
 
 But if Frank was in love, there was some consolation in 
 the fact, that the fair creature who had stolen his heart was 
 in the same predicament. 
 
 The next day, she came a shopping at his store, and the 
 next, and the next ; indeed, almost every day. No conver- 
 sation had passed between them ; and, though he had been 
 introduced on the evening of his visit, he had been too much 
 overwhelmed to use words. 
 
 My friend, however, did not lack that necessary attribute 
 of a successful wooer, somewhat vulgarly termed " spunk." 
 He had no further business with the merchant ; but then his 
 case was a desperate one, and he made an errand. 
 
 Miss Allen blushed as he entered, but she was social and 
 agreeable to the last degree, so much so that Frank staid till 
 the bells rung for nine o'clock before he knew it. The ice 
 was broken, and my friend was in for it. 
 
 The lady was a niece of the merchant, twenty-one years 
 of age, and an heiress. In the course of a few months, 
 Frank's energy Avon the victory, and it was understood that 
 they were engaged.
 
 324 GETTING AN INDORSEE. 
 
 The merchant did not like it. Being somewhat exclusive 
 in his ideas of social intercourse, the prospective marriage 
 of his wealthy niece to a poor retailer was repugnant to the 
 last degree, and he resolved to thwart the purpose of the 
 loving couple. 
 
 At first, he appealed to the lady; but she only laughed at 
 him ; told him bluntly that she loved Mr. Howard, and would 
 have him. Then he reasoned with Frank on his ingratitude 
 to him, his benefactor. The young man was touched, and 
 promised to consider it. 
 
 He did consider it, and his loving inamorata helped him 
 consider it. After a hasty deliberation, it was unanimously 
 agreed to lay the whole matter " on the table." 
 
 Mr. Allen was informed of the decision, and as old fogies 
 always do when they cannot do any thing else, bit his lip and 
 swallowed his words, fully resolved to do something dread- 
 ful, Avhenever an opportunity occurred. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A TEAK after my friend went into business, as I passed 
 his Store one morning, I was not a little surprised to find it 
 closed. Before the window was that ominous white cloth, 
 denoting that the occupant had failed. 
 
 I entered the store. Frank stood at his desk, glancing 
 with a most woe-begone aspect at the pages of his leger. 
 
 " How's this, Frank ? " I asked ; and I never was moro 
 surprised in my life. 
 
 " Bu'st up ! don't you see? " replied he, rather petulantly 
 
 " But what does it mean ? "
 
 GETTING AN INDOESES. 325 
 
 " Mean ! Why, that I had a note of a thousand dollars, 
 due yesterday, which I could not pay ; and this morning 
 early, my amiable friend, Mr. Allen, put in a keeper 
 that's all." 
 
 " How does it happen ? I thought you were doing a 
 rushing business." 
 
 " So I was. I had the money to pay this note six weeks 
 ago, and let Smith have it at two per cent, a month," re- 
 plied he, with a ghastly smile. 
 
 " And Smith has failed ? " 
 
 " Not exactly. He has stopped ; but every body says he 
 is good, if he has time to turn himself." 
 
 " And you must make a fail of it in the mean time ? ". 
 
 " If I could only stave off Mr. Allen a couple of months, 
 I could get out of the crape with flying colors." 
 
 "Won't he wait?" 
 
 Frank shook his head ; he had mortally offended the proud 
 merchant, and there was no prospect that he would be leni- 
 ent in the slightest degree. 
 
 " Can't you raise the money ? " 
 
 " No ; times haven't been so hard for four years. Every 
 body is failing, and the money men wont trust their own 
 fathers." 
 
 At this moment Mr. Allen entered the store. He looked 
 stern and severe, like one who has the power in his own 
 hands, and is disposed to use it. I seated myself near the 
 desk, as he approached. 
 
 The merchant politely saluted the unfortunate dealer, 
 smiling as blandly as though nothing had happened; as 
 though he had no niece, and Frank were a Stoic. 
 
 " Mr. Howard, this is unfortunate ; but in the midst of 
 28
 
 326 GETTING AN INDOBSEB. 
 
 BO much, commercial disaster, you perceive that it was my 
 only course," said the merchant, soothingly. 
 
 " I suppose it was ; but you know the cause of my inabil- 
 ity to pay the note," returned Frank, with, a doleful ex- 
 pression. 
 
 " Ah, young man, you ought not to have lent the money 
 to Smith; if you had asked my advice, I could have told 
 you better." 
 
 " Smith was always supposed to be good." 
 
 The merchant shook his head. 
 
 "But, Mr. Allen, give me a short time, and I can pay the 
 note. Smith assures me he shall recover himself." 
 
 " Mr. Howard, I certainly wish you well ; I have done 
 all I could to give you a fair start." 
 
 " So you have, sir, and I am very grateful to you." 
 
 " Are you ? " and the merchant fixed a keen glance upon 
 the young man. 
 
 " I assure you that I am." 
 
 " How have you manifested it ? " continued the merchant, 
 sternly. "But no matter ; we meet now as business men." 
 
 " Well, what shall be done ? You have stopped me ; I 
 can do no more." 
 
 "I don't wish to be hard. I would wait if prudence 
 would justify it," said Mr. Allen, who was keenly sensitive 
 in regard to his reputation for generosity and fairness. 
 
 In fact, he was a man of good feelings, and only that he 
 meant to punish Frank for falling in love with his wealthy 
 niece, would not have disturbed him. 
 
 "You will be just as secure two months hence as now," 
 pleaded Frank. 
 
 " I have not that confidence in you, Mr. Howard, I say
 
 GETTING AN INDORSEE. 327 
 
 it frankly, which I had once. You have lost a thousand 
 dollars. I doubt if your stock, under the hammer, would 
 pay my notes." 
 
 Frank looked savage, for though he was crestfallen, he 
 was Frank Howard yet, and felt keenly the unjust imputa- 
 tion of the merchant. 
 
 " I wish to be fair, and even indulgent," continued Mr. 
 Allen, before Frank had time to utter the ungracious senti- 
 ment that rose to his lips. " Here is the note ; give me one 
 good indorser, and I will wait two months." 
 
 Frank looked up, and smiled in contempt at the miserable 
 subterfuge of the merchant, who meant to crush him, and 
 still preserve an appearance of fairness. He knew it would 
 be impossible for the young man, with his stock encum- 
 bered, to procure the security. 
 
 " Will you take Smith ? " asked Frank, hurriedly. 
 
 "Of course not," replied Mr. Allen, with a bland smile. 
 
 " I will see what can be done ; but I think the case is 
 hopeless." 
 
 The merchant withdrew, assured in his own mind that his 
 revenge was sure, and his reputation safe, at the same time. 
 
 Frank and myself canvassed the matter, but we could 
 think of no person whose milk of human kindness was suf- 
 ficiently abundant to prompt him to do such an insane act. 
 While we were debating the matter, Frank was struck up 
 by the entrance of Miss Allen. 
 
 "How gloomy you look here to-day, Frank," said she, 
 laughing, and showing in the act the prettiest row of pearly 
 teeth I ever saw. 
 
 "We are gloomy, indeed," replied Frank, mustering a 
 sickly smile. " But you know the reason ? "
 
 328 GETTING AN INDOESER. 
 
 " Why, what reason ? " asked she, her merry expression 
 relapsing into a serious one. 
 
 " You see that man ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " He is a keeper ! " replied Frank, with tragic effect. 
 
 '* A keeper ! of what ? Are you insane ? " responded the 
 lady, playfully ; for it must be confessed she was not ac- 
 quainted with the technicalities of business. 
 
 Frank laughed, and explained the disaster which had 
 overtaken him. 
 
 " Poh ! " exclaimed she, with an appearance of relief; and 
 I really believe, if the keeper and myself had not been in the 
 way, she would have thrown her arms around his neck, and 
 kissed away his mortification. 
 
 I had before been introduced to the lady, and at this mo- 
 ment advanced to join in the conversation. 
 
 " And my uncle is the wretch ? " continued she, merrily. 
 " But what can you do ? How can you get out of it ? " 
 
 Frank explained the proposition to procure an indorser 
 for the note. The light-hearted maiden appeared to have 
 but little sympathy for the misfortunes of her lover, and 
 asked all sorts of questions about indorsers, notes, and 
 business forms. 
 
 " Where is the note you are to have indorsed ? " asked 
 she. 
 
 " Mr. Allen has it." 
 
 " How can you have it indorsed, then ? " 
 
 " I can write another," replied Frank, smiling at the inno- 
 cence of his betrothed. 
 
 " Then write one," said she, promptly. 
 
 Frank looked at her a moment, to ascertain what mischief
 
 GETTING AN INDORSEE. 329 
 
 was lurking in her mind. She smiled, apparently without 
 the power to prevent it. 
 
 The lover, impelled by curiosity as much as any other 
 motive, wrote the note and signed it. 
 
 " Now how do you indorse it ? " asked she. 
 
 " By writing the name across the back." 
 
 The lady approached the desk, and turning the note, wrote, 
 with two dashes of the pen, " Isabel Allen," across it. 
 
 " It is indorsed," said she, with a smile, which told Frank 
 all she meant. 
 
 " But, Isabel " 
 
 "Good morning, Frank," interrupted she, and hastened 
 out of the store. 
 
 " Bravo, Frank ! " exclaimed I. 
 
 He smiled doubtfully. His pride was a little touched. 
 
 " Would you use it ? " said he, after a long pause. 
 
 " Use it ? to be sure ! " and he did use it. 
 
 In the afternoon Mr. Allen called, satisfied in his own 
 mind that he should witness the complete humiliation of the 
 young man, who had had the audacity to fall in love with an 
 heiress. Knowing at what hour he would call, I was careful 
 to be present. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Howard, how have you succeeded ? I have 
 really been in hopes you will be able to secure the paper," 
 said the merchant ; and I could plainly discern the malicious 
 chuckle on his face as he spoke. 
 
 " I have succeeded, Mr. Allen ; and I am infinitely obliged 
 to you for your good will." 
 
 The merchant was completely staggered at the reply. It 
 was wholly unexpected, and wholly unwelcome also. 
 
 " I trust y9u have procured a good one," said he, painfully. 
 28*
 
 330 GETTING AN INDOKSEB. 
 
 " A wealthy one, but a name unknown on State Street." 
 
 " Can't take it, then," answered the merchant, promptly, 
 and with renewed hope. 
 
 " But a name well known to you ! " and Frank handed 
 him the note. 
 
 Mr. Allen started back in surprise and anger, as he read 
 the name of the fair indorser. 
 
 "Very well, sir; when a man of any delicacy can resort 
 to such a trick as this, I have nothing more to do with him." 
 And the crestfallen merchant, after throwing the old note 
 on the counter, hastened indignantly from the store. 
 
 The keeper was withdrawn, and Frank heard no more 
 from Mr. Allen. A week after Smith paid the money, and 
 Frank took up his note. 
 
 Before another of the notes came due, Isabel Allen had 
 become Mrs. Frank Howard. The stock and stand were 
 sold out, the debts paid, and my handsome friend is as 
 happy as a beautiful wife, with a heart full of love, can 
 make him.


 
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