Chapter II (9)

What a bower did the happy Mr. Webb make of Oak Valley! Such a profusion of sweet-scented shrubs and flowers had never before been seen in the neighbourhood. Fruit trees soon made their appearance; and their crops of grain and grass were abundant and good. But what his wife most admired was, the regular supply of wood which he provided for the house—nicely cut and piled; a thing generally less attended to, and the cause of more vexatious disputes between the farmer and his wife than any other part of their arrangements. All things, therefore, considered, which Mrs. Webb was still in the habit of saying, “it really was preferable to live on such a pleasant, well regulated farm than in a narrow street or at lodgings.”

Then there was so much speculation about the right breed of cows and poultry. Mr. Webb first inclined to long-horns, then to short-horns; but Mrs. Webb cut the matter short by declaring for no horns; and to this day they have from ten to fifteen of these meek, subdued animals, so fat that they could not do much in the way of running from a cross cur if any such should attack them.

She had her own way, too, with the poultry. She soon banished the coarse, long-legged Buck’s county fowls, with their uncouth looking bodies. She said their tread was almost as heavy as a young colt’s; and, really, when she pointed to a dozen of them which were _picking_ their way over a strawberry bed, her husband submitted in silence to the order given to the farmer, to prepare them for market. “And, David,” said Mrs. Webb, after the man had chased the fowls from the garden, “see what prospect there is of selling off our stock of Bantoms. It takes twenty of their eggs to make a pudding, and they lay no more eggs a day than other hens—and, David, when you return from Wicklowe, cross over to neighbour Haywood’s, and see what he will take for two or three pair of those old fashioned kind of hens—those full, broad breasted, pale speckled ones; sometimes a dingy yellow and sometimes brown and gray, with large spreading tails. Those are the only kind. But above all, David, see that they have _flesh coloured_ legs; they fatten well; those with yellow or black legs are not worth raising—strange that people are so inattentive to such important matters.”

Sixteen years passed away, and time, as the little lady said, seemed to fly with them; every thing prospered. Mr. Banks, to their great surprise, never came near them. He contented himself with sending them a yearly present; and heard of the birth of each succeeding child with a fresh burst of merriment. Their children, all girls, were six in number; and their income was now about three thousand dollars a year.

Mr. Webb, in the most peaceable, unaccountable manner, had been allowed the pleasure of naming four of his children. Perhaps—for woman’s tenderness _will_ sometimes increase—perhaps she felt for his first disappointment; and, as it rose out of the caprice of a relative of her own, she determined on remaining quiet, only resolving to interfere if an outrageously romantic name presented itself to his imagination.

The first child literally had no name until the birth of the second; then, as the “child,” or the “baby” could no longer distinguish it, they took it to the font and had it christened. The clergyman, old Mr. Saxeweld, was then a stranger to them, for through very shame they would not apply to their own pastor. He did not rightly understand what Mr. Webb said, when he demanded the name of the child, for he never, for a moment, dreamed of Gulliver. He asked over and over again, and still the sound of Glumdalclitch came to his ear. “Is it a French name?” said he, looking angrily at Mrs. Webb, who, nothing disconcerted by all this hubbub about the name, was enjoying the triumph which she should have over her husband when she got home, in telling him that there was one other person in the world beside herself who had not read Gulliver’s Travels.

Mr. Webb was ready to sink in the earth; he felt that he could at that moment renounce the world and all its vanities, as well as the child’s income, which had caused all this disgrace.

“I presume,” said Mr. Saxeweld, willing to put an end to the scene, “I presume it is a French name. Colombe—what?” But Mr. Webb was past appeal; he felt a hollow ringing in his ears; and, in time to save him from fainting, the child was christened Colombe.

The clergyman, a testy old man, was so provoked at what he thought stupidity in the father of the child, that he felt disposed to rebuke him; and when poor Mr. Webb turned to him, as he was leaving the church, to offer him the accustomed fee, he not only refused it, but broke out in this way—“Never come to _me_ again; you, with a name bigger than your whole body; and which is too long for your mouth to utter. If it had not been for my knowledge of French, I should have christened your child Glumdalclitch, and it would have been serving you right if I had.”

After Colombe came Flora, then Rosa, then Imogen, then Christabelle; and, when the sixth was old enough for baptism, while Mr. Webb was deciding between Diana and Lilius, Mrs. Webb went to church during a week-day service, with a friend, and came home in triumph, with the only Christian name, as she said, in the family—it was Rebecca. Mr. Webb thanked his stars that it was no worse.

Old Mr. Banks made no other remarks, when he heard of the mistake in the child’s name, than that the income should now be divided between the children, as at the time he did not imagine that the little girl would ever have any rivals. When the little Rebecca was about two years old, the old gentleman took it into his head to pay the tiny family a visit, to see how they all looked together.

Early, one fine spring morning, he made his appearance at Oak Valley, accompanied by Stephen Haywood, with whose father he had long been acquainted. While on the way to the farm, he entertained our young friend Stephen with an account of his first interview with the little couple and their tiny little child. “How I shall stand it now,” said he, “I cannot tell; but I am sixteen years older, and a man of eighty has nearly expended all his laughter. It is high time, I think.”

Young Haywood, who, although not introduced to the family at that time, yet knew them well, from report, could not help smiling; but the old gentleman’s attention was soon directed to the neatness and order of the farm; and, when Stephen asked him if he had an idea that the children were all as small as their parents, he could scarcely answer.

“Assuredly they are; why, if any one of the six had been but an inch taller than themselves, they would have sent an express to me at Jamaica.”

A servant came to the door, and Mr. Banks asked eagerly, if Mr. and Mrs. Webb and the six little children were at home. The girl stared, but replied that Mr. and Mrs. Webb, and some of the children, were in the garden, and some of the younger ones were in the nursery; but that Miss Webb, the eldest daughter, was in the parlour. “Show me in, show me in,” said he; and into the room he nimbly stepped, winking aside to young Haywood, to express his glee. He seemed quite disappointed at seeing only a middle sized young lady sitting there. She arose on the old gentleman’s precipitate entrance, while he exclaimed, “I thought to find one of Mr. Webb’s tiny little children here.”

“I am Mr. Webb’s eldest daughter,” said the young lady, blushing, “my parents will be in presently—will you sit down?” and she presented each gentleman with a chair.

Never was man more amazed—this young lady his little niece’s daughter?—he certainly saw a likeness; but it was altogether a puzzle. At length he roused himself to say, “Why did not your mother write me word that they had a child as tall as you are? What is your name? Oh,—I remember—Colombe. It is a foolish name enough; but it might have been worse. Never mind, my dear, I will make you amends for your French name; better though than—but no matter; let me introduce you to Mr. Stephen Haywood.”

Just then the door opened, and his niece, with her husband, and the five children, made their appearance. But if Mr. Banks was amazed at seeing the respectable height of the eldest daughter, how much more so was he when he saw that there was not one of the diminutive stature of the parents. Even the youngest, a rosy little girl, just beginning to walk, bade fair to be as tall as her sisters.

Mrs. Webb enjoyed her uncle’s amazement; not without suspicion, however, that he was disappointed at bottom, because there were no dwarfs among them. But in a short time, the old gentleman’s good-natured eye glistened at the pictures of health, order and obedience of the children, and at the improved looks of the parents. He did not laugh once during his visit, which was of a week’s duration; and when he left them, he had the satisfaction of seeing that Stephen Haywood was following his advice; which was, to fall in love with his pretty pigeon as fast as possible.

THE BAKER’S DOZEN.

“Mrs. Bangs, look here,” said the cook, “look at this queer thing in the turkey’s craw; it looks for all the world like a brickbat.”

“O never mind the brickbat,” said Mrs. Bangs, “let that alone; ‘tis no concern of ours—only make haste and prepare the turkey for the spit. Your head is always running after things that don’t concern you.”

Thus spoke Mrs. Bangs, the mother of thirteen children, all girls. She was a strong, healthy woman of fifty years of age, and in the three characters of daughter, wife and mother, had been exemplary. She was the only child of a respectable farmer, and at her parent’s death inherited the farm which a few years after her marriage rose greatly in value. It was on the outskirts of a populous city which had increased so rapidly that at the birth of her second child the farm was laid out in streets, in every one of which they had sold several lots for buildings.

Her husband was a chemist, and his laboratory was very near this valuable property, so that he could attend to his business in the manufactory and look after the workmen who were building his houses. What Mr. Bangs learned during his apprenticeship, that he knew well, and on that stock of knowledge he operated all his life. He manufactured the best aqua ammonia in the country, free from that empyreumatic, old tobacco-pipe taste and smell, which it has in general when made in America, and his salt of tartar had not an opaque grain in it. Thus it was with all the drugs that he made, for he was more intent upon keeping up his good name than in making money speedily, and his pride was in having it said that Christopher Bangs’s word was as good as his bond. Further than this there was but little to be said, excepting that he was a disappointed man, and had the feeling of being ill used.

This disappointment consisted in not having a son—one, he said, who could take up the business when he laid it down—one to whom he could confide the few secrets of his trade.

When the birth of the first girl was announced, it was very well; not that he did not fret in secret, but he took it as a thing of course, and as he was daily in the habit of hearing Mrs. Bangs congratulate herself that the child was a girl, because she could assist her in her household cares, he was resigned to it, although it was full three months before his club mates were told of his having an increase of family. But he really did murmur when the second girl came. “Why, at this rate,” said he, indignantly, “I cannot have a child named after me at all. Christopher Bangs will end with me, and who is to be the better of all the valuable secrets of the laboratory?”

“Oh, la! my dear,” said his wife, “let that alone, it’s no concern of ours, and as to the child’s name, don’t fret about that, for can’t I name this dear chubby little thing Christina, the short of which is Kitty, and that is as good as Kit any day in the year; and only think what a help this dear, chubby little thing will be to her sister.”

Mr. Bangs sulked out of the room and went to his laboratory, and his wife went through her nursing and household duties with double alacrity. The third daughter came, and Mr. Bangs heard it with surprise that bordered on despair. “Never mind it, Kit,” said the contented, good-tempered Mrs. Bangs; “we’ll call this dear, chubby, little thing after your old uncle Joseph; Josephine is a very pretty name.”

“I don’t care what you call it,” said her crusty husband; “I consider myself as an ill used, injured man; only I hope, since you like girls so well, that you may have a round dozen of them.”

“Oh la! husband, what makes you so spiteful against girls?” said she—“but let that alone, it is no concern of ours—a dozen, indeed! how do you think we can manage to live in this small house with so large a family? You must build a bigger house, man; so, my dear Kit, set about it,”—and this was all the concern it gave her.

After that he troubled himself no more with inquiries about the sex of the child, and in due time, one after the other, the round dozen came. The only thing that troubled the contented, busy woman was the naming of the little girls. She certainly, when she could spare her thoughts from her increased cares, would have liked a boy now and then, to please her husband; but as this was not to be, she did the next best thing to it—she gave them all boys’ names. So, after the first, which was called Robina, came Christina, then Josephine, then Phillippa, Augusta, Johanna, Gabriella, Georgiana, and Wilhelmina. At the birth of her tenth child she paused—her father’s name was Jacob, and as she had named Gabriella after her husband’s father, Gabriel, she thought it but fair to honour her own likewise—but Jacob! However, she was not a woman to stop at trifles, even if she had the time; so the _poor_, little, chubby thing—for now she added _poor_ to the chubby—the poor, chubby, little thing was called Jacobina. Then in due time came the eleventh, which was Frederica—the twelfth, Benjamina—“and now,” said the still happy Mrs. Bangs, “what to call my baker’s dozen is more than I can tell. I have one more than Christopher wished me to have, but let that alone; ‘tis no concern of ours; only Robina, dear, step to the parlour and tell your father what a strait I am in about the name. There is his friend, Floss; he has a curly headed, chubby little boy by the name of Francis, and it is a girl’s name too; ask him if he would like to name the poor, dear, chubby, little thing after his friend’s son.”

“Tell your mother—are you Phillippy?” “No, father, I am Robina.” “You are all so much alike,” said he, “that I don’t know you apart; girls all look alike; now if one of you had been a boy, as any reasonable man had a right to expect, I could have told the difference. It is a hard thing that a man cannot tell one child from another, a thing that I could have done if they had been boys.”

“But mother knows us all apart,” said Robina, “and so do Hannah French and our dear grandfather and grandmother Bangs—they never are in doubt.”

“Don’t tell me this,” said surly Mr. Bangs, “for have I not heard your mother call you the one half of four or five names before she could hit on the right one? Does she not call out ‘Phil—Will—Fred—Jo—Ben—Robina, fetch me the poor, dear, chubby, little thing out of the cradle?’ Tell her that Fabius Floss won’t think it any compliment to name a girl after his fine little boy, and tell her that I am not going to stand godfather to any more of her children, for I am tired of it.”

“But the name, father—shall mother call it Frances?”

“She may call it _Souse_ if she likes; what is the name of a girl to me? it is all one, so go away, Robina, for I am busy.”

Christopher Bangs was now a rich man, and was cautious and prudent in all his money matters, but he had no more care of his children and household than if he were the great-grandfather. He arose early, went to the workshop, saw that every thing went right there, returned home at eight, with the certainty of finding the breakfast waiting for him. At this meal he only saw some of the eldest of the girls, but being a man of few words, and looking on women and girls as mere workers, and of a different race, he had no thoughts in common with them. The conversation, therefore, was all on the part of Mrs. Bangs, who told of the price of beef and poultry, and what her husband might expect at dinner. He nodded his head drily, but said nothing, being sure that, come what would, he should find an excellent meal. He gave her as much money as she wanted, a privilege which she never abused, and all he had to do was to build a new house whenever she presented him with another poor, chubby, little thing; for she had resolved that every child should have a house.

Exactly at one o’clock his dinner was ready, and at this meal all the children were assembled—for, as his wife observed, if he did not see them all together once a day, he might chance to forget some of them; so, in time, Frances, the baker’s dozen, came to sit on Mrs. Bangs’s lap. Every day he made the same remark on entering the dining room, the children all being seated before he entered, that the bustle of placing them might be over before he came—“What! here you all are, all waiting I see; well, keep quiet and help one another; don’t expect me to do more than carve.”

Mrs. Bangs had drilled the children well, for a more orderly, peaceable set were never seen. Her chief aim was to keep them from troubling their father. “Poor man,” she would say, “he must not be plagued with noise, for what with the business of the laboratory and building new houses, his hands are full—but let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours.”

She never thought of her own full hands; for she was of a nature that delighted in work, and in doing things regularly and methodically, and all the girls were like her. Busy, busy, busy, they all were from morning till night, and most happily busy. It was making, and mending, and razeeing, and cooking, and preserving, and housekeeping, and shopping, and keeping accounts. Was not this quite enough to occupy them?

Mr. Bangs built houses and Mrs. Bangs looked to the tenants and collected the rents. The only thing she knew, out of the routine of her family duties, was the various ways of disposing of money, and before she was the mother of three children she made herself fully acquainted with the meaning of the terms _dividends_, _stock_, _per centage_, _mortgages_ and _notes of hand_. She put the money in the bank as fast as she received it, and Mr. Bangs drew checks to any amount she chose—well he might.

Mrs. Bangs thought it more suitable and economical to have a governess for her daughters, so she hired a decent young person, who was an excellent needle woman, and who could write and cipher admirably. Reading and spelling, Mrs. Bangs said, seemed to come “by nature” with the poor, dear, chubby, little things; how else could they learn, for poor Hannah French was as deaf as a post. So eternally busy were they all from morning till ten at night, that Robina, a pretty, delicate girl, with a good understanding, and very excitable, had never found time to cultivate the acquaintance of any of the young girls of her own age, although in the abstract there was no unwillingness to it. Neither her father nor mother would have hindered her, but sisters and companions came so fast at home, and that home was made so happy by her active, well-principled mother, that there was no craving for out-door society.

Mrs. Bangs was a pious and benevolent woman too, and after going through all her home duties she thought of the poor, and three days she set apart in every month to sew for them. All the children, down to the baker’s dozen, felt this as part of their duty, and they no more thought it possible to break through the rule than not to eat when they were hungry. It was a _want_ which they sought to attain like any other want or comfort.

Mrs. Bangs never staid to inquire whether the poor wretches were worthy of her attentions—“Let that alone,” she would say, “‘tis no concern of ours.” She reverently left it to a higher power to judge of their worthiness. All she had to do was to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, choosing old age and infancy whenever she could, for the objects of her bounty. The children thus brought up, I should like to know,—as they did their own clear-starching, knitted stockings for their father, grandfather, and three aged uncles, made their own linen and worked all the baby caps, as well as sewed for the poor—I should like to know what time they had to gossip or make acquaintances, excepting with the poor?

They _had_ no time—even on Sunday their faces were not familiar to the congregation, for a cottage bonnet and a veil kept them from gazing about; so the conversation, when they returned, was not about the dress or spiteful looks of this person or that. If by accident an observation was made, indiscreetly, the mother would stop them immediately by her eternal saying—“Let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours.”

She kept her accounts in excellent order, initiating her children early in the mysteries of bank stock operations; for when it came to be explained to them in the mother’s simple way, the children understood it as well as A, B, C. It is the hard words, and the mystification, and solemn nonsense kept up about it that keeps women so ignorant and helpless in these matters, and makes them so entirely dependent on men, who nineteen times out of twenty cheat them when they become widows.

As their wealth increased, so were her benevolent feelings excited, and Mr. Bangs was no hinderance, for he had no love of hoarding now that there were no boys to inherit his property. “Never mind that, Christopher,” she would say, when this sore subject was touched upon, “let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours; but I am of opinion that every man should make a will, and here is one that I drew up, which I wish you to sign.” “I’ll tell you what it is, Molly Bangs,” said he, on reading the will, “I’ll do none of this. I’ve made my will already, and if you outlive me then all belongs to you; but if you die first, then I mean to marry again, because the chance is that I may have sons; for I tell you that such secrets as I have to disclose about my business ought not to die with a man.”

Mrs. Bangs knew her husband’s obstinacy too well to make further words about the matter, so she set herself to work to remedy the evil. Instead of wanting to build a hospital or an asylum for the poor and destitute, she built a row of houses in one of the back streets of her valuable lot of ground, for poor widows with young children, and she studied their comfort in every thing. Each division, for the row was uniform and fire-proof, consisted of four rooms, two below, and two above. The sitting room and bed-rooms were warmed by means of heated air from a furnace in the kitchen, which was so constructed that the cooking was done at the same fire. Even the stove pipe which was carried up to let off the gas and smoke, threw all the external heat into the room above, so that all was kept warm by one fire. The cistern of rain water was close to the kitchen, and the water was drawn within by means of Hale’s rotary pump. Drinking-water was likewise introduced by a pipe, and a drain carried off all the slops from the house. She could not bear to think that poor women should have to put up with so many inconveniences, when it cost so little to make them comfortable.

When a very rich man has a few lots in an out of the way place, he builds a row of houses for poor people and gets a good rent for them—enjoining it on his agent not to let a poor widow have any one of them; because, if she should be unable to pay her rent, he would be ashamed to sell her little furniture. His houses are miserably built, generally one brick thick, and with only one coat of plaster on the walls; no crane in the kitchen, no cistern, no well, no comfort of any kind. The poor tenants might think themselves well off with having the shell to cover them.

Mrs. Bangs knew that the life to come was a long one—to last for ever; so she thought it was not worth while to hoard up money for the very short time she had to live here. She had a great love of comfort herself, and so had all her children; and they could not bear to set a poor widow in an empty house, without even a closet to put her clothes in. So she had closets made between the two bed rooms, and likewise between the parlour and kitchen. And she gave them a chance of helping themselves still further by having a good deep, dry cellar, where they could keep their half barrel of fish, and their little joints of meat, and small pots of butter from the heats of summer, and their vegetables from the frosts of winter, and why coal and wood should be kept out of doors in winter was more than she could tell. It was easy to build a cellar, she thought, and so the cellars were made. “It seems to me,” she continued to say, “that men have no idea of comfort themselves, or they would not grudge it to their poor tenants; women understand these matters better, and as God has endowed them with greater sensibilities than the other sex, why it is incumbent on them to show their grateful sense of this partiality in their favour; and how can we show it but by attending to those little things which make up, by their great number, all the happiness of life? Men never view the subject in this light, but let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours.”

The thirty houses, with the plainest furniture that could be bought, cost exactly thirty thousand dollars—the precise sum she intended to appropriate to them. Fuel and repairs and taxes cost her twelve hundred a year; this with the interest on the thirty thousand, came to three thousand dollars a year. With an income of more than thirty thousand, and the prospect of a great rise in the value of her lots of ground, what was the annual loss of three thousand dollars?

As it was solely for poor widows that this charity was built, she did not allow a woman to live in one of the houses a moment after she married again; nor would she take a woman who had been twice a widow. When the children grew up and were no longer a burden to their mother, then this mother was allowed a dollar a week, and placed comfortably with one of her children elsewhere, and this sum was continued until the child was able to maintain her. To see that no one imposed upon her became one of her tasks; but she was seldom deceived, for she made many allowances for poor people. She even made more allowances for them, than for the rich; for poverty, she thought, was such an evil in itself that we should not expect all the virtues to centre in the poor alone. If she saw that some little unfair attempt was made to excite her pity, she would wink at it and say, “let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours; of one thing I am certain, deceive me in other things as they may, the poor things are in great want, and must be helped through with it.” Mr. Bangs did nothing towards all this; but still I wish him to keep some hold of my readers’ good opinion, for was it not a great merit to let his excellent wife manage as she liked?

To be sure the farm, and all the income ever to be derived from it, were made fast, by will to his wife and her heirs; but a man knows that there are one or two lawyers always at hand to pick flaws in a will; and a suit can be carried up to the court of errors, and there brought to issue in his favour, although neither law nor equity is on his side. So Mr. Bangs, knowing this, would not go to law; for, thought he, whether I should win or lose, the whole would go to the lawyers; and as the farm was really intended, by the father, to belong to her and hers, why e’en let them have it; but I must say it is hard that I can’t have a boy.

In the course of time Francis Floss, the foreman of the shop, had a regular invitation to sit in their pew at church, partake of their Sunday dinner, and join in their walk after church. Mr. Bangs begged the lad of his father when he was of a suitable age, for the laboratory, and he being of a curious and ingenious turn and very industrious, came not only to find out all the little secrets of the art, so tenaciously withheld from all eyes by simple Mr. Bangs, but to add more to the stock of knowledge. He could not but see that his apprentice had outwitted him, and that he more than rivalled him in his art; but he would not allow himself to get angry about it, for two reasons—one was, that if he quarrelled with him, the young man would leave him and set up for himself—the other reason was, that he intended Francis Floss for the husband of his wife’s baker’s dozen.

A young man in love with a beautiful girl, with the prospect of a handsome independence with her, does not pay particular attention to the extent of her acquirements. Inquisitive as Mr. Floss might be in general, he was in utter ignorance of all things that concerned the education of Mr. Bangs’s family. He fell in love with Fanny, before he thought of her mind or her qualifications. He knew how far the mind of Christopher Bangs stretched; but he had great reliance that all was right at home, for every body allowed that Mrs. Bangs was a sensible, notable, thrifty, shrewd, energetic, capable woman, and he knew that all the virtues and talent generally come from the motherly side of the house. Of the daughters no one knew any thing, excepting the shopkeepers and poor people; the former thought them sensible and modest, and the latter loved them entirely. All this, and he saw that she was docile and affectionate at home, was fortune enough for him, as he was thoroughly in love. He made proposals and was accepted—by all. Mr. Bangs for once in his life, would have asked the reason why, if he had been rejected. I think that all the girls loved Frank Floss nearly as well as Fanny did.

It was on the wedding day, and preparing the wedding dinner, that the cook called Mrs. Bangs’s attention to the piece of brickbat in the turkey’s craw. Four of her daughters were assisting likewise, but I guess that _they_ did not stop to inquire or even look at the stone. Their work was to attend to the jellies and pastry—pleasant work for women, rich or poor. If they had found a _whole_ brick in the craw, all their care would be to see that the cook got it out without breaking the skin. But let that alone, as Mrs. Bangs says, ‘tis no concern of ours.

The happy Francis Floss took his beautiful bride home to a handsome, well-furnished house; and never was there a bride that had less to do with sublunary affairs than Mrs. Bangs’s thirteenth daughter. For in the first place, there was she—the mother—both able and willing to relieve her darling of all the cares of marketing. There were Robina, Christina, Josephine and Philippa, by right of seniority and by having taught her to read and spell—for good Hannah French being very deaf could not make much display of erudition in these branches—and by making and mending for her all her brief life, were they not fairly entitled to do the same kind offices for her still, particularly as she had now a husband who would require all her time? There were Augusta, Johanna, Gabriella, and Georgiana, what suited them as well as to go from the garret to the cellar, and thence back again, to see that no dust or cobweb found a place there? Were there not Wilhelmina, Jacobina, Frederica, and Benjamina to fuss about the pantries and kitchen, and to keep the larders and store room filled with the choicest and best?

There was deaf Hannah French, too, to see that the fire was carefully raked up at night; for Hannah, on the evening of the wedding day, without question, or leave, or license—but to no one’s surprise—quietly took her night things and her little work basket, and followed the bride home. She took possession of a snug room in the back building, which room she kept till her dying day. And there was Mr. Bangs himself; did he not every night, on his way home from his club, where he had spent all his evenings, excepting Sunday, for thirty years; did he not open the street door with his night-key, walk to the back door, bolt that and then latch the inside parlour window-shutters? He did this at his own house, from the day of his marriage, for his wife left this part of housekeeping duty purposely for him, “to keep him in mind,” she said, “that he had a house and family to protect from thieves.” Fanny Floss thought it part of her duty to let her father do this for her likewise; and her husband was so accustomed to all their ways, that he naturally fell into these agreeable regularities himself.

Well, then, Mr. Floss was a happy man; he went to the laboratory and came home; went and came; went and came, for seven years; and whenever his step was heard in the hall Fanny ran to meet him, to give him a kiss. If it rained, there was a dry coat ready for him; and if the day were warm, then she stood in the hall with a thin coat and a glass of lemonade. Every evening he saw her in the rocking-chair, either sewing or knitting; for now the three days for the poor had grown to three times three. Her good temper and excellent nature never varied; she was the gentlest, the tenderest, the purest and the most devoted wife that man was ever blessed with—what could he desire more? Did he wish her altered? Would any man wish such a wife to change?

Mr. Floss, as I observed, had an inquiring mind, and he went on from one point to another until he became a man of consequence; and, as Mr. Bangs predicted, _when he saw his name up_, he was a candidate for Congress. Mrs. Bangs had some indistinct notion that a Congressman was a grandee; but it passed through her head like a dream; for it was only in her dreams that her fancy was ever excited. Her daughters never so much as pondered on the word; and as to Fanny, that sweetest and gentlest of human beings, it would have been cruel to mention the thing to her. Going to Congress would have sounded to her like going down a deep pit, among miners; or sailing in an open boat to Botany Bay. “Don’t tell Fanny of it, my dear Francis; it will only set her to wondering and crying, for she can’t understand it,” said good Mrs. Bangs; “but let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours.”

So Mr. Floss said nothing when he went home; and, in the evening, as Fanny sat in the rocking chair, singing an evening hymn, in a low, sweet voice, he looked steadily at her, for five minutes, and watched the innocent play of her beautiful modest face, and gave the matter up. “It will never do,” said he, “for as to leaving her behind, that is out of the question; neither of us could bear the separation; and as to taking her to Washington—Good Heavens!”

Well might he thus exclaim; for, excepting to knit, and sew, and work muslin, and do kind little offices for the poor, and love her father and mother, her twelve sisters—and, oh, best of all, her husband, what else did Fanny Floss know?—not an earthly thing.

It was some time after his marriage before Mr. Floss found it all out; but when the first surprise was over, he soon got used to it; and, after a few vain attempts to enlighten her, he gave it up, and let his mind flow into other channels. He made friends; had dinner parties—Could not _he_ give dinner parties, with so many able and willing coadjutors?—and nothing could show off to better advantage than his beautiful, modest wife, and four or five of her neat, happy sisters, scattered about the dinner table.

“What was it,” you ask, “that Fanny did not know?” All that she knew I have told you already, gentle reader. Do you think that she ever so much as dreamed that the earth moved around the sun?—that mahogany was once a tree?—that the carpet came from a sheep’s back?—that her bobbinet lace came from a cotton pod?—As to her silk dress, could it be supposed that her imagination ever ran riot so far as to believe that little worms spun the web? Does any one think for a moment, that she knew that quills were plucked from the wing of a goose?—that paper came from old rags?—that a looking-glass was ever any thing but the smooth, polished thing it now is? She saw loads of hay pass, and knew that horses were fed with it; but she never speculated on the manner in which it became hay. It is a chance if she knew that it was once grass. Not that Fanny had never read all this, when very young, in her little books; but she read without letting any thing make an impression. Nothing was a mystery to her; she never made a doubt of any thing; but took things and left them just as she found them, either in books or in conversation.

Once her husband said, “I wonder whether they pull the feathers from the tail of the ostrich while he is alive?” “Would it hurt him if they did?” said Fanny. “Yes, I presume it would,” replied he. “Then they wait till the poor thing dies,” quoth she—“only look, dear husband, see that merry little group of children, all boys too; how my father would rejoice if they were all his sons.”

You will ask whether Fanny ever took a walk. Yes, often; her husband had great delight in letting her hang on his arm, and walk up the long street with him. Sometimes, on Sunday, after church, they strayed as far as the commons; she, pouring out her grateful feelings for being allowed to enjoy the bright sunshiny day, and accustoming her husband to dwell on the Divine source whence all our blessings flow. Mr. Floss, himself, had a hard bringing up; to obey his father and mother; keep himself neat and clean; to bring home medals from school, and to be honest in his dealings, were all that he had to observe. Fanny never dipped into _his_ mind, or she would have seen how cold and barren all lay there; while, outward, all was so fair. She thought that every one’s heart—but no—Fanny never speculated on any thing; she talked to her husband as if his heart was of the same mould as hers. He dipped into her mind though; and the purity and excellence of it more than compensated for her want of worldly knowledge. So all the way from church he listened to the outpourings of her spirit; always fresh and animated, and clothed in a language peculiar to herself; for Fanny knew nothing of the forms and phrases in which bigots disguise the truth.

Her husband, therefore, listened and loved; and, at length, he loved the subject; so that her very simplicity was the means of his becoming a religious man. “To meet you in Heaven, my Fanny,” he said, one day, “I must strive to think on these subjects as you do. I am afraid I shall not be found worthy to join you there.”

“But you do think as I do, love,” said she, looking affrighted—“you do—and you think more than I do; you can argue better. I never think at all; all my feelings come naturally. You _will_ go to heaven, my Francis, for the prayers of the humble and penitent are heard; and is there a night, nay an hour in the day, that my spirit is not lifted up to ask for forgiveness for you and for us all?”

“You are so merry and cheerful, my dear Fanny, that one would not suppose you were in prayer so constantly.”

“Well, Francis, and is not that the time to pray?—why must God be addressed only in darkness, and when we are ill and sad? Then we pray through fear and selfishness. It is when I am happy and merry that I am most afraid of committing sin; and it is then, too, that I feel God’s goodness and mercy most. Dear Francis, what a pleasure it is to feel this bright, warm sun shine on our face; and see, that little dog barks in very gladness, too, for I see nothing near it to make it bark. He feels the warmth and it gives him pleasure; but he forgets it, you see, and falls to quarrelling with that little black dog, for the bone. God is ever present to me, my husband, and that keeps me merry and cheerful. I am sure I have no wish to quarrel for any thing.”

“I believe it, Fanny,” said her husband, as he pressed her arm closely to his heart; “and I will let this thought sink deep, that I may in time come to be merry and cheerful in your way.”

And then they would walk on till they reached the commons, where they were sure to meet some of the family; and there talk over the subjects of the sermon—when they could understand it, which was not very often the case. The exposition of a doubtful text never made any thing the clearer to these simple minded people. They had the Scriptures, and they believed in the holy book most sincerely; nothing was a mystery to them; they thought that the words and actions of our blessed Saviour were easy enough to comprehend; and that they were all-sufficient to our salvation. They could not imagine why clergymen darkened up a point by hard words and cramped unintelligible terms and phrases, when the meaning was so clear to them. As to the doctrine of the Trinity—even Fanny, the least gifted, as to acuteness of intellect—even she could believe all and adore; for a tree, the sun, moon and stars, a living, moving being, and, above all, that perpetual spring of love which she felt within her towards the Almighty, towards her family, and towards her husband—all this was quite as incomprehensible to her as what her religion enjoined on her to believe. So that Fanny never speculated even on this subject.

Mr. Bangs felt nothing of all this; and his Sunday walk was to the shipyards or arsenal; and his Sunday talk, scanty enough, was of laying that that are ship would outsail the other; and that that are cannon would do for the English. He never would walk with his daughters, because they were not boys; and he always wound up by saying, “Time enough to walk out with you when Fanny gives me a grandson; there will be some sense in my going then.”

But Mr. Bangs was doomed to disappointment; for the little boy did not come; nor was there any sister to put his nose out of joint; yet Mr. Floss did not grieve, for Fanny was pet enough for him. When he was tired out with business, and did not want to take up a book, she would talk over her thoughts and feelings. Heavens! what a gush of tenderness and pathos it was; and how the young man’s soul melted away in him as she talked—and yet, what could it be about?

You will ask, perhaps, if Fanny ever read. Not much. When a child, and learning to read, she had little story-books of good and naughty boys and girls, which she read over and over again—wept over often—but sensible Mrs. Bangs saw no use in all this, and she therefore seldom opened her polished, mahogany book-case. Fanny loved poetry, tender, pathetic poetry; but as she selected only such, and as it always set her crying and sobbing, why, poetry was interdicted too. Mrs. Bangs gave her son several hints on this point; a thing which he soon found out of himself, as Fanny was made perfectly unhappy for a whole week after he had read Keats’s Isabella to her. She had the most tender love for a virtuous and beautiful heroine; the mishaps and death, therefore, which overtook her, were taken to heart with such earnest grief that Mr. Floss, after that, wisely, read all such things to himself. In fact, it soon amounted to this, that he never read aloud at all; for works of wit and fancy were lost on his gentle wife—a repartee she thought must cost somebody pain, and that brought no pleasure to her.

While her husband read in the long winter evenings, she sat in her rocking-chair and knitted or sewed; and had many little pleasant chats with one or the other of her sisters or her mother—Fanny was never alone. Let us listen to what she is saying to Robina; raising her voice to its highest pitch, that poor Hannah French, who now and then made one of the evening party, might feel that she was considered as one of the family.

“Oh, Robina, dear, what a delightful walk we had. I just went up to the laboratory with Gabriella, to say how do you do to my dear husband, when, there he stood, ready for a walk, (here Mr. Floss laid down his book to listen too) so up the road we went; and the warm sunshine, and the brisk winds seemed to be playing with each other, and gambolling, as it were, before us. We both felt grateful that we did not meet a single beggar or a discontented face. So we walked around our own division and inquired of the widows how they were getting on; and their glad looks, when they saw my husband”—“It was you, Fanny,” said he, interrupting her, “I am certain it was your sweet face, and not my hard, sunburnt one, that made them brighten up so.”

“Hannah French, has my husband a hard, sunburnt face?” said Fanny, raising her voice very loud—for she knew how very handsome poor Hannah thought he was.

“Sunburnt!” exclaimed Hannah,—“no, indeed—sometimes I have seen it smutted with the stuff which he is cooking over the great pots in his furnace; but he is not sunburnt—he is fire-burnt.”

“There,” said Mr. Floss, laughing, “you will not appeal to Hannah French again about my beauty—but go on, dearest; tell Gabriella all about your walk. I should really be glad to know, too, for although I was with you, yet my mind was so occupied with what I had been cooking, as Hannah calls it, in that great pot, that I just followed where you led; and yet I was sensible, all the time, of what you were saying. Her voice, Gabriella, is always so musical that I feel its influence even when the _sound_ only makes an impression.”

“So mother always said,” answered the modest Gabriella. “Fanny never hurt her sweet voice by crying or getting in a passion, as some of us did when we were children.”

Well, Fanny was not elated by all this fond praise; she felt that it was love which had dictated it, and it came over her gentle nature like a sunbeam, where all was mild and gracious before; she laid her hand gently on her husband’s arm and proceeded.

“All this took up half an hour; and, cool as the weather was, I could not help thinking how much of summer still remained; for almost every window had rosebushes and geraniums in it, and our widows’ row looked like one long green-house; for every window, there too, had a rosebush, full of roses, in it. And that lemon tree belonging to Mrs. Green—did I tell you, Hannah, that I bought you that fine, large lemon tree? Poor Mrs. Green hated to part with it; but it was too large for her room. It has ten large, ripe lemons on it; and ever so many blossoms.”

For fear of a mistake, Hannah feigned a little more of deafness than belonged to her; but to have her hopes destroyed by misapprehension was painful; for, of all things, she coveted a lemon tree, she so loved the smell of its delicate white blossoms.

Fanny repeated it loud enough to bring conviction to poor Hannah; and in a few moments the ten lemons were appropriated to more uses than one hundred could satisfy. Custard! oh, how much superior was a boiled custard, with the gratings of a _fresh_ lemon; and many a glass of jelly did she fancy herself making with the sprightly _well ripened_ juice; so much sprightlier, and having so much more of a perfume with it, than the stale, unripe lemons of the shop—oh, how Hannah French, at that moment, despised the shop lemons. And then to surprise Mr. Floss with the half of a fine, well rolled, plump, ripe lemon on Sunday, to eat with his fish or cutlet—on Sunday, when none could be bought—and Hannah laughed out in very happiness. The deaf have many pleasant, innocent fancies.

I hope, gentle reader, you do not think that Fanny was an insipid kind of person. Oh, if you could but know how much of beauty and loveliness there is in a nature wherein truth dwells constantly, you would covet to be like my Fanny. Yet, although she never read any thing but the Bible, or some good little pattern book, now and then,—although she only visited the poor and comfortless, and knew nothing of a theatre, yet her conversation was full of life; and, I might say, poetry. Her soul was in such harmony with all God’s works; and there was such melody in her accents, and such eloquence in her eye and her smile—such devotion to those she loved, that no one ever dreamed that she was an ignoramus.

Mr. Floss, as I before observed, after the first surprise was over, doubted whether a woman more learned would have made him half so happy. He saw that other men did not care twopence for their wives’ sense or reading, after a month or so. Very few, he observed, talked out of book to their family, or seemed particularly pleased to hear that their wives were reading women.