Chapter I: Part 1

IN DOORS AND OUT;

OR,

VIEWS FROM THE CHIMNEY CORNER.

BY

OLIVER OPTIC.

BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.

NEW YORK: CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.

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

TO

MY OLD FRIEND

_THE HON. CHARLES KIMBALL,_

SHERIFF OF MIDDLESEX,

This Volume

IS RESPECTFULLY RE-DEDICATED.

PREFACE.

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

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

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

W. T. A.

DORCHESTER, Sept. 12, 1854.

PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION.

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

WILLIAM T. ADAMS.

DORCHESTER, OCTOBER 26, 1875.

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

CONTENTS.

PAGE.

GETTING AN INDORSER, 11

GOOD FOR NOTHINGS, 22

TWO DAGUERREOTYPES, 31

SIX HUNDRED A YEAR, 41

THE NEW MINISTER, 50

OUT NIGHTS, 64

BRING FLOWERS, 75

THE DOMESTIC ELEMENT, 86

BANG UP, 97

THE NEW CLOAK, 108

EVERY THING COMFORTABLE, 119

FAMILY JARS, 132

LIFE INSURANCE, 148

LAST DAY OF GRACE, 158

MONTAGUE AND LADY, 169

TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS, 183

CIGARS FOR TWO, 193

OUT OF BUSINESS, 203

SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE, 215

WORLD OF TROUBLE, 226

SEND FOR THE DOCTOR, 240

FOUR KINDS OF CAKE, 253

EXTREMES MEET, 263

THE MERCANTILE ANGEL, 274

CONFESSIONS OF A CONCEITED MAN, 285

THE BACHELOR BEAU, 295

THE GRAND RECEPTION BALL, 306

MARRYING A BEGGAR, 321

IN DOORS AND OUT.

GETTING AN INDORSER.

_CHAPTER I._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_CHAPTER II._

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

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

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

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

“But what does it mean?”

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

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

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

“And Smith has failed?”

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

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

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

“Won’t he wait?”

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

“Can’t you raise the money?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Smith was always supposed to be good.”

The merchant shook his head.

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

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

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

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

“I assure you that I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You see that man?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Allen has it.”

“How can you have it indorsed, then?”

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

“Then write one,” said she, promptly.

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

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

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

“By writing the name across the back.”

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

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

“But, Isabel----”

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

“Bravo, Frank!” exclaimed I.

He smiled doubtfully. His pride was a little touched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“GOOD FOR NOTHINGS.”

_CHAPTER I._

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

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

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

“I have been very fortunate in that respect.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ten! Is it possible?”

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

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

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

“I am sorry for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I let Bridget go every third Sunday.”

“You do?”

“I think it very reasonable.”

“Who gets your dinner Sundays?”

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

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

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

“But they take advantage.”

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

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

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

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

_CHAPTER II._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Bagley held up both hands in astonishment.

“What did she say?”

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

“Did you?”

“Indeed I did.”

“Well, what did she say then?”

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

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

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

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

“You?”

“If you have no objection.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To leave?”

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

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

“I don’t know about that.”

“But how did it happen?”

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

“Bridget? Impossible!”

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

“And she refused?”

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

“You couldn’t blame her, could you?”

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

“But it is not the custom here.”

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

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

“Not to blame?”

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

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

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

THE TWO DAGUERREOTYPES.

A TEMPERANCE TALE.

_CHAPTER I._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_CHAPTER II._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What d’ye want?” growled Jim.

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

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

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

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

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

“But, sir, I am able to pay.”

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

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

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

_CHAPTER III._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am.”

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

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

“I did, James.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SIX HUNDRED A YEAR.

_CHAPTER I._

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

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

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

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

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

“I refer to my salary, sir.”

“Well?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dixon lost all hope.

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

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

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

Dixon ventured to suggest that the times had changed.

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

“That is a matter of opinion, sir.”

“Humph!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got another situation?” asked he.

“No, sir.”

“Nothing in view?”

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

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

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

_CHAPTER II._

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

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

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

Phogie was all attention.

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

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

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

“No.”

“Blot the books?”

“No.”

“Inaccurate?”

“No.”

“Off too much?”

“No; nothing of the kind.”

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

“Yes.”

Wyman was perplexed by the taciturnity of the other.

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

Phogie was dumb.

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

“Not that I know of.”

“O, you didn’t want him?”

“No--that is--yes--but----”

“Exactly so!” exclaimed Wyman, laughing.

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

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

“No?”

“Yes; that is the whole story.”