Chapter V: Part 5

The fact was, the young merchant had just begun to find out that a thousand dollars a year would not “keep house” like a nabob. Certain notes were about to fall due, and little debts without number had been contracted. The unpleasant truth began to dawn upon him that he was going faster than his means would permit.

In view of the consequences, he could already hear Mrs. Harding’s triumphant “I told you so.” He had resolved to reduce his expenses, to give over roast turkeys for his Sunday dinner, and come down to plain, old-fashioned pork and beans; but the idea of giving in that the odious mother-in-law was in the right was not to be harbored. He had postponed the contemplated retrenchment till those said certain notes began to cast ominous shadows in his pathway. It must be done, and Mrs. Harding’s presence became doubly troublesome.

_CHAPTER II._

The poor, despised mother-in-law was so unfortunate as to overhear some portion of the conversation which so nearly concerned her; and the consequence was, that in less than a week after, she left the house, bag and baggage, for the home of another daughter, who had repeatedly pressed her to come and live with her.

Mrs. Harding might have been provoked with her son-in-law, but she prudently held her tongue, and made no mention of the reason for her sudden departure.

Samuel felt quite a relief the very hour she left, and in the evening, while they were seated in the little parlor, the baby sleeping in the crib between them, he was so ungenerous and unkind as to express himself to this effect.

“But, Samuel, you can’t think how lonesome I shall be; you are in town all day,” said the poor wife.

“Well, perhaps you will be for a few days; but you will get used to it.”

Mrs. Lawton sighed.

“And then,” continued Mr. Lawton, “you have the baby to occupy the time.”

Just then there came from the cradle a single rough, ringing cough--that peculiar, metallic-sounding cough which is like the knell of death to the ear of the loving mother.

“O mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Lawton, in tremulous tones, as she sprang to the side of the cradle.

“What’s the matter Lottie?” asked Samuel.

“Didn’t you hear that cough?” and the poor mother’s frame trembled, and her teeth chattered with alarm.

“I suppose Sammy has got a little cold.”

“It’s the croup, Samuel! Do run for the doctor as quick as you can.”

“To-night?”

“O Samuel, he may be dead before morning!” and the tears coursed freely down the cheek of the anxious mother.

“Nay, Lottie, you are nervous.”

“I know it; but do go for the doctor.”

“I will go if there is any need of it; but, really, I do not see that there is;” and Samuel bent over the cradle to discover what had so alarmed his wife.

But the child still slept, and apparently breathed as freely as ever.

“Nay, Samuel, go; you know what the croup is.”

“Certainly, I will go if you wish;” and the young husband put on his overcoat and left the house.

The residence of the young merchant was in D----, a town adjoining Boston, and the physician’s house was full half a mile distant. He could hardly restrain a smile at the idea of going for a doctor when the baby had only coughed once.

Dr. F---- was fortunately at home, and the two proceeded on their return together. The physician considered the case much more serious than the inexperienced father had deemed it.

On their arrival, they found the child awake. The little patient was breathing laboriously, and occasionally that brazen cough rang from his throat.

“Croup!” said the doctor, the moment he entered the room.

“O, doctor, do you think he will die?” exclaimed the agonized mother.

“No, no, no!” replied Dr. F----, confidently.

The physician was a good-natured, good-hearted German, who was thoroughly master of his profession. He had been eminently successful in his practice, especially with children, and his words were like oil upon the troubled waters to the anxious mother.

“I am so frightened, doctor!”

“There is nothing to fear; we have the case in season, and there is no danger. Suppose you wait till to-morrow morning before you call me? I shrug my shoulders, and tell you the child must die.”

“O Samuel!” exclaimed Lottie, looking at her husband.

Mr. Lawton was appalled by the significant words. His frame shook with terror. The child was his idol. He knew nothing of the symptoms of the insidious and terrible disease that menaced the life of his darling little one; he was nervous and uneasy. Death seemed to cast a broad shadow upon his home.

The doctor gave the child a little white powder, and placed some bandages wet in cold water upon its throat and chest. The effect was instantaneous; the child instantly breathed easier. Leaving the necessary medicines, Dr. F---- took his leave, assuring the anxious parents that the little one would be nearly well by morning.

But Mr. Lawton was uneasy, and Lottie was uneasy. An undefinable dread had taken possession of their hearts. Samuel was troubled. The child breathed with a sad, groaning sound, which shook every fibre in the nervous system of the father and mother. He was conscious of their inexperience; the child might relapse, and symptoms which they did not understand might appear.

“How I wish mother was here, Samuel!” said poor Lottie, awed by the fearful responsibility that rested upon her.

Mr. Lawton had wished so before, and thought if he once more had her in the house, he would give the world to keep her there--mothers-in-law are so exceedingly useful at times!

Samuel made no reply. Even in his terrible anxiety for the life of his child, pride had not entirely deserted him.

Lottie shed a flood of tears. For the first time in her life, her husband seemed cold and unfeeling, and it was cruel in him not to second her wish in such an hour of trial.

“If he should grow worse, Samuel!” continued the poor wife. “O, I am so fearful!”

“I will go for your mother if you wish,” replied Mr. Lawton, the anguish of his wife getting the mastery of his feelings.

“She has got cold; I don’t know as she would dare to come out in the night air.”

“I will try, at least.”

Mr. Lawton left the house. Mrs. Harding’s new home was not far off. He succeeded in rousing her, and, in spite of her cold, she was ready in five minutes to accompany him.

His heart smote him as he thought how hard he had been upon her--how he had almost attempted to drive her from his roof; and in his soul he thanked God that she did not know how mean he had been.

Her advice had been good. She had spoken to him for his interest, not for her own; and if she had not spoken it exactly as he wished, why, it was only because she was human, and had infirmities, like all the rest of mankind.

In the moment of peril and trial, he felt what a blessing it was to have a mother-in-law.

Mrs. Harding soon comforted Lottie. She understood the case, and perceived that the danger was past. Her presence was like that of an angel. It restored the drooping spirits of the devoted parents, and by midnight, worn out with anxiety, they went to sleep by the side of the child, whose slumbers, though troubled, were deep and sound.

The next morning, as Dr. F---- had predicted, Sammy was nearly well, and Mr. Lawton went to his business as usual; but there was trouble brewing around him. He spent nearly all the forenoon in vain attempts to raise the money to meet one of his notes which came due that day. He was unsuccessful, and, worn out and dispirited by his anxiety on the previous night, he gave up in despair, and went home, resolved to let the note be protested.

“You come home early, Samuel,” said his wife.

The young merchant made no reply, but threw himself, with a heavy sigh, into a chair.

“Why, what’s the matter, Samuel?”

“I am ruined, Lottie!” replied he, gloomily. “I must fail. This is the last day of grace, and I have left a note to be protested.”

Lottie was appalled by this intelligence. Mrs. Harding, who sat by the fire, holding little Sammy, merely glanced at him. She did not use those awful words, “I knew it would be so.”

“Mother, you were right; I have been too fast,” said Mr. Lawton, gazing sheepishly at her. “I thought very hard of you for telling me I lived better than I could afford; but you were right; I may as well own it.”

“I am sorry for you, Samuel. How much is the note?” said Mrs. Harding, with a gentle look--a look so kind and forgiving that it wrung his soul.

“Eight hundred dollars,” replied Lawton.

“Will you take the baby a moment, Lottie?” continued Mrs. Harding, who, giving Sammy into the hands of his mother, went to the secretary, and wrote a check on her bank for the amount.

“Why, mother, you wrong yourself,” exclaimed the astonished Lawton, as she handed him the check.

“Take it, Samuel; pay your note, and live and learn,” replied she, with a benignant smile.

Lawton took the money, and hastened back to the city to pay his note. His credit was saved, and hope again smiled upon him.

In the course of conversation that evening, Lawton was so far humiliated as to make this remark,--

“Mother, you will come and live with us again, won’t you?”

“What! after you have wished me out of the house?” replied Mrs. Harding, with a smile. “I heard your conversation the other day.”

“Forgive me, mother.”

“Perhaps, Samuel, I am not always just as I ought to be; but we all have our weaknesses. I mean to do right.”

“I know you do; I understand you now. Last night and to-day have taught me your value; and if I had heeded your counsel, I need not have been pressed for money to-day. Forgive me, mother.”

“Freely, Samuel. I live only to make my children happy.”

Mrs. Harding resumed her residence at Lottie’s, and from that time to this she has been appreciated. Mr. Lawton learned a lesson. The long proposed retrenchment was executed, and the prospect now is that he will die a rich man, if he don’t die too soon.

* * * * *

We were provoked to write this sketch by that contemptible squib from Punch, to the effect that Adam was a happy man because he had no mother-in-law. If Cain or Abel, in their babyhood, had the croup, measles, whooping cough, or any thing of that sort, we warrant he sighed for that squib-ridden, conundrum-defamed commodity--a MOTHER-IN-LAW.

MONTAGUE AND LADY.

A LESSON FOR HUSBANDS.

_CHAPTER I._

“Another new dress!” exclaimed Mr. Simeon Montague to his wife. “It does not seem to be more than three weeks since you had one.”

“Just two months, Simeon.”

“And you need another?”

“I should not ask for the money if I did not. And Franky must have a new jacket, and Nellie a new cloak.”

Mr. Montague sighed.

“I gave you fifteen dollars only a week ago.”

“What is fifteen dollars? Do you think it will clothe me and the children a year?” replied Mrs. Montague indignantly.

“Money comes hard,” suggested Mr. Montague.

“I suppose it does; but if you wish me and the children to go half clothed, why, only say so.”

“Of course, I wish nothing of the kind; I only want you to be as prudent as possible.”

“I intend to be so.”

“These are dreadful tight times.”

“I should think they were,” replied the lady, with a palpable sneer on her lip. “They have been just so, though, ever since we have been married.”

“Won’t next week do?”

“I engaged a dressmaker for next Friday.”

“I don’t see how I can spare fifteen dollars to-day,” said Mr. Montague, musing, apparently, upon his financial affairs. “I have a note to pay to-day.”

“You have had a note to pay every time I have asked you for money since we were married.”

“I will try and have it for you to-morrow.”

“I want to go out shopping to-day; I can’t go to-morrow.”

“I cannot possibly spare it to-day. Won’t ten dollars answer your purpose?”

“Perhaps I can make it do.”

“If you can, I wish you would,” replied the husband, as he took out his pocket book and handed her that amount.

“I can only get a calico for myself.”

“Well, won’t that answer?”

“Are you willing to go to church with me with a calico dress on?”

“Certainly, my dear. Why not?”

“I thought you had some pride.”

“I have, but no foolish pride.”

“A twenty-five dollar coat is hardly good enough for you to wear to church.”

“But I don’t have one every month.”

“You have two every year.”

Mr. Montague did not think it was prudent to say any more; and putting on his hat, which he had just been brushing with the most scrupulous care, he surveyed his person before the looking glass. His collar needed a little elevating, his cravat had to be re-adjusted, and he discovered a speck of dirt on his black coat, which was carefully removed. His lady looked at him with a smile as he stood before the glass.

“Calico dress, indeed,” thought she. “There is not a prouder man walks Washington Street, than my husband.”

Mr. Montague smoothed down his whiskers, and was leaving the room, when a gentleman wishing to see him was announced.

“Ah, Butler,” said he, as the gentleman entered the room.

“I called at your store yesterday, but did not find you,” said Butler, handing him a little paper.

“Just so,” said he, opening it.

Mrs. Montague was impertinent enough to look over his shoulder as he read the paper. It ran as follows:--

“Mr. Simeon Montague

To Apollo Club Rooms, Dr.

To your Quarterly Assessment, $25,00
“1 Basket Heidsick Champagne, 16,00
“100 Concha Cigars, 4,00
------
$45,00

Received Payment,
B. BUTLER, Steward.”

“Just so,” repeated Mr. Montague, throwing the bill on the table, and taking out his pocket book. “Sorry to trouble you; meant to have paid it last night.”

“No trouble at all,” replied Butler.

“Forty-five, is it?” continued Montague, as he counted out the money.

“Forty-five.”

The steward of the “Apollo Club Rooms” put the money in his pocket, and bade his liberal patron good morning.

“It was too bad to make him call twice for that money, wasn’t it, Simeon?” asked Mrs. Montague, when the steward had gone.

“Of course I was sorry to give him any unnecessary trouble,” replied Mr. Montague.

“I thought you had a note to pay to-day?”

“So I have.”

“But can’t you spare me the other five dollars for which I asked you?”

“Can’t, possibly.”

“I think your family ought to receive as much consideration as the Club House, at least.”

“I must go to the store, my dear; I am in a great hurry.”

“Sixteen dollars for champagne,” said the wife, reading from the bill, which she had picked up from the table. “I only asked for fifteen.”

“You would not have me niggardly at the Club Rooms, would you?”

“I would not have you go there at all. I suppose it is nothing to be niggardly in your family?”

“Am I niggardly?” asked Mr. Montague, rather sternly.

The lady was silent.

“One would think that I was made of money, by the way you ask me for it,” continued Mr. Montague.

“One would think you were, to see you paying forty-five dollars a quarter at the Club House,” replied Mrs. Montague, meekly. “A married man too.”

“I wasn’t born to be tied to a woman’s apron-string,” added Mr. Montague, rushing from the house.

The lady looked at the door which had just closed upon him. Her heart was sad, and she burst into tears.

_CHAPTER II._

Mr. Simeon Montague thought the money he bestowed upon his family was as good as wasted. He was not a domestic man. He had married his wife, with a reasonable show of affection, because her father was rich, and she was an only daughter. Of course, he would not even confess to his own heart that he was so selfish and cruel as to marry for sordid motives--that he had prostituted the holy altar of Hymen by sacrificing to Plutus upon it; but it was none the less true because he denied it to himself and every body else.

Mrs. Montague’s father at her marriage was only about forty-five years of age; yet his health was so feeble that there was not one chance in ten of his living another year. But the old gentleman had revived, and now, after twelve years had expired, seemed to be completely rejuvenated. He was hale and hearty, and gave the promise of living twenty years more. Of course the sordid son-in-law was disappointed. He had thrown himself into the sea of matrimony with an unworthy motive, and if he had been drowned there it would have served him just right.

Poor Mrs. Montague! Her bright hopes were all wrecked. Instead of the world of affection she had anticipated in the connubial relation, she found nothing but coldness and sordid selfishness. Her husband still frequented the Club House; and when at home, he seemed to have no sympathy with her. His business seemed to engross all his attention, and he had no time to think of his wife, none to devote to his children.

Yet Mr. Montague was not a morose or an ill-natured man. He loved the good opinion of the world, and would have made almost any sacrifice rather than have had an imputation cast upon his domestic character. He paid the most scrupulous attention to all the forms of life, walked to church every Sunday with his wife on his arm, always found the place in the hymn book for her, and never failed abroad to manifest the most lively interest in his family. He always called his wife “my dear,” and spoke affectionately to the children in the presence of company.

The eye of affection could penetrate all this mass of conventionalism, and the poor wife, in less than a year after her marriage, realized that she had thrown herself away upon a hollow-hearted man--one who, without loving her, would keep the peace at almost any sacrifice--one who would compel the world to believe that he was the most tender and devoted husband, even while his heart was petrified and cold. His devotion was mere mechanism; it was a kind of habit, acquired by an active desire to secure the good will of all his friends.

Perhaps, even if there had been none to see him, Mr. Montague would not have been harsh; it was not his nature. He was a smooth-tongued, plausible man under all circumstances. He could appear to love when his heart was perfectly indifferent. He could avoid the most palpable of his domestic duties even while he professed the most earnest devotion to the welfare of his family.

Twelve years had in a measure reconciled the disappointed wife to her lot. She was contented with it because her maiden visions of connubial bliss had evaporated, and she knew no other existence than that to which she had been so long accustomed. Her air castles, reared in the sunny years of her girlhood, had long since tumbled to the ground, and left her in a world of reality, cold and repulsive at first, but rendered tolerable by long endurance.

Her husband was sordid and selfish. He never felt a hundred dollars expended in champagne suppers at the Club House; but half that sum given to his wife wrung his soul. Though he was in a good business, lived in good style, and always had money at his command, his brow always darkened when his wife asked him for any sum to be expended upon herself or her children. He was absolutely unwilling to give it, though he could not possibly have endured the mortification of seeing them shabbily dressed.

Mr. Montague is not an anomaly among men. There are thousands as sordid and inconsistent as he was--thousands who wish to have their wives and children appear well in the world, and at the same time deny them the means of doing so.

Mrs. Montague was in tears. She was both grieved and provoked at the conduct of her husband. The promptness with which he had paid his Club House bill, while he denied her the trifling sum she had asked, was a sad commentary on his devotion. For more than an hour she thought the matter over, and became fully assured that she was a much injured wife. Her spirit was roused, and, putting on her bonnet, she left the house to do her shopping.

The calico dress her husband had professed to think was good enough for her to wear to church was purchased, and before Sunday was made up.

The second bells were ringing for church. Mr. Montague, elegantly dressed, was all ready, and stood before the glass, contemplating his prepossessing appearance.

“Are you ready, Ellen?” said he, calling to his wife, who was up stairs.

“I shall be in a moment. Walk along slowly with Franky, and I will overtake you,” replied she.

Mr. Montague took his son by the hand, and walked up the street. He looked like a model head of the family--so benignant and dignified on that Sabbath morning.

His wife did not overtake him till he had got half way to church.

“Why, my dear, what have you got on?” asked Mr. Montague, when, to his horror, he saw her clothed in a common calico dress.

“My new calico,” replied she, coolly, as she took his arm.

“Are you mad, Ellen?”

“It was the best I could buy with the money you gave me.”

“But you are not going to church in that shape?”

“Why, Simeon, didn’t you say you were willing to go to church with me with a calico dress on?”

“Pshaw! Hadn’t you sense enough to see that I was jesting?”

“Jesting! If you were, it was the first time I ever knew you to jest in your own house.”

“Don’t be foolish, Ellen.”

“Come; we shall be late, and all the folks in the street are staring at us.”

“Staring at you. What a ridiculous figure you make in that attire! Your Irish girl is better dressed than you are.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Pray, go home.”

“I am going to church.”

“Not with me, Ellen, in that plight.”

“Then I leave you,” said she, taking Franky by the hand, and continuing her walk.

Mr. Montague was bewildered. It was a very awkward position; but the natural duplicity of his character came to his aid, and, placing his hand upon his forehead, as though suffering a severe headache, he retraced his steps homeward.

_CHAPTER III._

Mr. Montague was greatly incensed at the conduct of his wife; but an experience of a dozen years had fully convinced her that her husband could not be easily reformed. During that long period, while he was living in plenty, was throwing away hundreds, and she did not know but thousands, on his club, his champagne suppers, and other selfish gratifications, she had found it exceedingly difficult to wring from his hard grasp the money to clothe herself and children. To ask for it was a loathsome task, and nothing but the most urgent necessity could induce her to do so.

Much as her husband had resented her conduct on the occasion mentioned, he did not offer the means of supplying her wants. The lady had become so disgusted with his niggardly conduct, that she had fully determined never to ask him for another dollar. Her father was rich, and very indulgent to her, his only child. To him she disclosed her grievances; and though it was repugnant to her sense of delicacy to speak ill of her husband, she gave her father a complete history of her financial experience. The old gentleman was exceedingly indignant, as a matter of course, and stormed like a madman at the sordid character of his son-in-law.

“But don’t you say a word to him, pa, nor to any one else,” pleaded the daughter.

“I will blow him sky high! He shall never darken my door again!”

“Nay, nay, pa, for my sake, do not mention it.”

The old man stopped to think.

“You are right, Nellie; not a word,” said he, rubbing his bald head.

“It would sound very bad abroad, pa.”

“So it would; but, Nellie, hand me that book, and the pen and ink.”

The daughter obeyed, and the old gentleman wrote a hasty note.

“Now ring the bell, Nellie.”

Mrs. Montague did as she was requested, and a servant appeared.

“Here, John, take that to No. 10 Court Street,” said the old gentleman, as he opened the book and wrote a check for five hundred dollars. “Now, Nellie, spend it as fast as you can, and when that is gone, come and get some more.”

Mrs. Montague kissed her fond father, and left him to ruminate upon the astonishing fact which had been revealed to him.

“Not give her any money!” muttered he. “The scoundrel!”

His lips were frequently compressed, and occasionally he rose and strode with hasty step across the room. The arrival of the lawyer for whom he had sent, seemed to relieve him.

Mrs. Montague appeared the next Sunday in an elegant brocade silk, a new bonnet, and a most magnificent mantilla. Her husband, who was an importer and jobber of dry goods, could readily perceive that she wore at least two hundred dollars upon her person. He was confounded. She had asked him for no money lately. He was uneasy. What could it mean? Mrs. Montague refused to answer any questions.

Six months passed by, and the lady still remained independent of her husband. She always had money in abundance, but she positively refused to converse upon the subject. Of course he could understand that her father furnished her with funds. He was perplexed to discover the circumstances under which he supplied her. Had his wife told him that she was refused by her husband? Had she been to her father with her grievances? He would not have had such a thing happen for all the world; his reputation, which he valued more highly than his integrity, would be sacrificed. He was sorely troubled.

One day, about this time, when he came home to dinner, he found that his father-in-law had been prostrated by an apoplectic fit, and that his wife had gone to attend him. Before he could finish his dinner, a messenger announced his death.

Mr. Montague was very much grieved, of course. He mourned in bitterness of spirit for more than a month after the funeral, his father-in-law was such a kind-hearted, noble old gentleman; he thought there were few men like him in the world.

Every thing went on as usual in the Montague family. Not a word was said about the large property of the deceased. Mr. Montague felt some delicacy in mentioning the subject to his wife, and no one else appeared to know any thing about the business. He wondered that nothing had been said to him about being executor or administrator. Of course he was the only proper person to execute this trust.

He hinted at the matter as broadly as he dared; but his wife refused to take the hint. One morning, however, as he was looking over the paper, he noticed an advertisement concerning the probate of the will; he pointed it out to his wife.

“Then your father made a will?” said he.

“He did.”

“I was not aware of it; but then I haven’t devoted even a thought to his property.”

Mrs. Montague looked at him.

“Your father was one of the best of men,” continued he, seriously.

“He was.”

“Did you learn who had been named as executor?”

“My uncle John.”

“Ah! a capital selection; your father was an excellent business man.”

“And three of his personal friends were appointed trustees.”

“Trustees!” exclaimed Mr. Montague, with a violent start.

“Yes; but you have not seen the will?”

“No.”

“I have a copy here,” said the wife, taking the document from a drawer.

With a beating heart, Mr. Montague opened the copy, and proceeded to read it.

His cheek blanched and his lip quivered as he read. The property was much greater than he had ever suspected, amounting to over a hundred thousand dollars. It was all secured to his wife, to the entire exclusion of her husband; and the instrument was so adroitly drawn up that he could not even touch the income of the estate without her permission.

He was thunderstruck; his matrimonial hopes were all blasted, and, what added to his chagrin, his own affairs, in the stringency of the time, had become hopelessly embarrassed.

“What does this mean, Ellen?” asked he, in a husky voice.

“You just remarked that my father was an excellent business man; don’t you understand it?”

“If I had been a drunkard or a gambler, it would have been plain to me. As it is, it looks like an entire want of confidence in me, on the part of your deceased father; not that I care about the property,” whined Mr. Montague.

“Of course you don’t care for _that_.”

“I was not aware before that your father was prejudiced against me. Did he ever mention this matter?”

Mrs. Montague was silent, and the husband pressed her for an answer.

“There was something said.”

“What, my dear?”

“When I went to him for money, of course that led to some explanations.”

“You went to him for money?” gasped Mr. Montague.

“I could not get it from you.”

Mr. Montague used an exceedingly hard word, which I dare not transfer to my page, and rushed out of the house.

In a month he failed,--made a bad failure,--and it took him a year to get out of the difficulty. The assignees had every thing; he could not put his hand upon a single dollar. His domestic affairs somehow got into the street, and nobody would trust him; every body despised him.

But Mrs. Montague was not so sordid as he had been, and when he had received a discharge from his debts, she furnished the means for him to commence business again. The club and champagne suppers are abandoned; matters are reversed. The lady is always “flush,” the gentleman generally short; and, poor fellow, he is sometimes so hard pressed as to ask her for a few hundred dollars “to help him out.”

TAKING THE NEWSPAPERS.

_CHAPTER I._

“Talk to me about your newspapers! I tell you, neighbor Parker, they are a consarned humbug!” exclaimed Farmer Cheney.

“That’s a great mistake of yours, neighbor. For my part, I would rather live on two meals a day, than be without a good newspaper.”

“Git out! I wonder what the world’s a comin’ to. There’s my gals have teased me to take Harper’s Magazine, till I hadn’t any peace o’ my life. But I put my foot right down; you can’t humbug me with such trash;” and Farmer Cheney complacently wiped away the tobacco juice which was streaming down from the corners of his mouth.

“You are in the wrong, neighbor Cheney.”

“No, I ain’t, nuther. Then Tom wan’t satisfied, and nothin’ would do but I must take the American Union and the Practical Farmer. But it wan’t no use; I wouldn’t have the trash in the house, say nothin’ o’ wastin’ money on it.”

“Do you ever read the papers?”

“Me! no, not I; I’ve got a better use for my time.”

“But the long winter evenings?”

“Well, we allers have corn to shell.”

“Not all winter?”

“No; but when I can’t find no work to do, I’d a nuff sight rather set in the corner, and go to sleep.”

“But your son Reuben takes the papers.”

“Yes; but I never brought him up to do any sich thing. He takes the Union and the Farmer both, and stews his brains over ’em half the time. That ain’t the wo’st on’t, nuther.”

“No evil effects have followed from it, I trust?”

“Yes, there has; there’s my youngest boy, Tom, read sunthin’ or nuther over to Reuben’s t’other day about a ‘chance for young men,’ and nothin’ll do but he must go right into it; he’s off to Boston next week. So much for havin’ newspapers round.”

“But perhaps he may improve the opportunity, and make money by it.”

“No sich thing. He’s got two hundred dollars, and when that’s all gone, he’ll be back again; see if he don’t.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Well, my mind’s made up about it; but between you and I and the side of that gate post, I wouldn’t mind givin’ Reuben the price of the papers if he only wouldn’t take ’em.”

“But Reuben has the reputation of being one of the best farmers in town.”

“That’s all true enough; but he didn’t learn how to farm it from his newspapers, let me tell you. He was brought up in the good old way, when there wan’t no books round but the Bible and the almanac.”

“You will grant that he does not follow all the old-fashioned methods?”

“Well, pooty much all; he’s got some notions of his own, though.”

“How was it about planting corn in rows, neighbor Cheney?”

“That’s one of Reuben’s notions, to plant in rows.”

“And he got seventy bushels to the acre, you know.”

“Yes; but the ashes did the business.”

“The ashes, the rows, and the cultivator, between them.”

“Well, there ain’t no doubt but what that’s the best way to raise corn. At any rate, all the neighbors foller it now.”

“It is not the old-fashioned way.”

“No; it’s Reuben’s way.”

“Where do you suppose Reuben got it?”

“I don’t know; not from your darn newspapers, though.”

“But he did.”

“Git out!”

“It is a fact.”

“Now, neighbor Parker, you don’t mean to say that them fellers in Boston, that never saw a cornfield in their life, can tell me how to raise corn,” said Farmer Cheney, a little warmly.

“They have correspondents all over the country, and the subscribers have the benefit of their united experience.”

“Don’t believe a word on’t.”

But it was no use arguing the matter, and the two farmers separated. When Farmer Cheney got home, he found a visitor a waiting him.

_CHAPTER II._

“I understood you had a large quantity of corn for sale,” said the stranger.

“Well, I’ve got consider’ble, but I don’t care no great about sellin’ it.”

“I should like to buy.”

“I can spare a couple o’ hund’ed bushels for a fair price.”

“What do you ask for it?”

“Well, I don’t know; how is corn nowadays?”

“Last sales in Boston were sixty-eight to seventy cents.”

“Rather low; I meant to git seventy-one for mine,” returned Farmer Cheney, who was disposed to be shrewd.

“What will you take for the lot?”

“Seventy-one.”

“Say seventy, and we won’t stand about trifles.”

“Can’t do it; seventy-one is my lowest price,” replied Farmer Cheney, finding that he had got an available customer.

“Split the difference, and it’s a trade,” said the stranger, nervously.

“Couldn’t do it.”

“I’ll take it then. Give me a receipt for this cash to bind the bargain.”

Farmer Cheney, congratulating himself on the good trade he had made, wrote the receipt after considerable labor, and put the money in his pocket book.

“Know of any one else who has got any corn to sell?”

“My neighbor Parker, I rather guess, has got some.”

“You won’t say a word that I paid you seventy-one for yours? It might spoil a trade.”

“Not a word,” replied Farmer Cheney.

* * * * *

Towards night our two farmers happened to meet again.

“Sold your corn to-day, neighbor Parker?” inquired Farmer Cheney.

“Every speck of it,” replied Parker.

“Did you? What did you get?”

“Eighty-one.”

“How much?”

“Eighty-one.”

“You didn’t, though, did ye?” exclaimed the man who would not take the newspaper.

“That is just what I got, and I think I could have got eighty-two if I had stuck a little longer.”

“You don’t, though!”

“The same man bought yours, I believe.”

“Yes,” replied Farmer Cheney, edging off.

“What did you get--eighty-two?”

“Well, I guess I didn’t git quite that.”

“O, eighty-one. Well, after all, that is a good price, and ten cents on a bushel more than I had any idea of getting.”

“I did not get eighty-one,” replied Farmer Cheney, rather crestfallen.

He did not like to deceive his neighbor; he had studied the Bible and the almanac enough to know better than that; but it came “dreadful hard” to own up the truth.

“How much did you get?”

“I dar’sent tell.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got took in if the feller gave you eighty-one.”

“What did you get, though, neighbor--seventy-five?”

“Seventy-one.”

“Well, you have been taken in, then; I guess you haven’t heard the news.”

“No--what?”

“Crops failed in the west.”

“How you talk!”

“And the prospect of a war in Europe; so that our breadstuffs will be extensively exported, which run up the price of flour and grain.”

“What war?”

“Between Russia and Turkey.”

“Turkey! Well, I hope them cu’sed Turks will get licked!” exclaimed Farmer Cheney, whose ideas were somewhat antiquated.

“You differ from the world in general. The sympathies of all civilized nations go with Turkey in this quarrel.”

“You don’t say so! When I was a boy, the schoolmaster used to teach us to hate the Turks. They are a barbarous race.”

“I think, neighbor Cheney, you will confess now that you had better take a paper.”

“Confess no sich thing; I wouldn’t have one round the house.”

“If you had taken the papers, you would have known about this rise in grain.”

“Perhaps I should; but Reuben generally tells me about these things.”

“It was only in the paper that came to-day; I read it since I saw you this morning. But I should no more think of selling any thing of any consequence without seeing how the Boston markets were, than I should think of cutting my own throat.”

“Kind of a dog’s life to be tied to a newspaper,” sneered Farmer Cheney.

“But if you had taken a newspaper, neighbor, and read it, you would have made twenty dollars by it in this one trade; twenty dollars, neighbor--enough to pay for the paper ten years.”

“Git out! These things look well enough as you book farmers figger ’em up; but, you see, when you come to the scratch, they ain’t nowhere.”

“It looks to me like a plain case.”

“Now, ’spose I could make twenty dollars by takin’ the paper; it would do me a darn sight more mischief than that.”

“How?”

“Why, the newspaper puts the very devil in the gals’ heads. Now, they never use to have their cu’sed picnics round here, till the gals got to readin’ on ’em in the papers. And then the buryin’ ground, they couldn’t even let that alone. Some feller put a piece in the paper about Mount Auburn, Sorrel Hill, Greenbush, and some sich place, and the fust thing we know the gravestones are all jumbled up in a heap, gravel is carted in, and posies set out all over it. Now they call it a ‘symmetry,’ I b’leve.”

“A cemetery, neighbor; but we who read the newspapers like these things. There is something pleasant in ornamenting with flowers the resting place of our dead.”

“It looks to me more like ‘sacrelation.’”

“Sacrilege! O, no; far from it.”

“Well, I think so; and then we’ve got to have new school houses, a new town house, and the roads must all be ‘McDonalized.’”

“McAdamized.”

“Well, no matter what it is; it all comes of these cu’sed newspapers. My taxes are twenty dollars a year more than they used to be.”

“And you sell the produce of your farm for five hundred dollars more.”

“Well, that’s true; but there’s no kind of need of makin’ the taxes any more, all for newspapers.”

“But you must think how much better and wiser your family would be with a newspaper to read.”

“By mighty! I should think they would! Only look at Deacon Craig’s folks. Them gals cost him a fortin every year in books and new gowns. The newspapers won’t do; they must have books, and waste half their time readin’ on em.”

“But it is a very worthy and intelligent family, and the deacon’s income, owing to his more enlightened method of conducting business, is at least ten times as great as it used to be, and he can well afford to spend all he does in educating his children.”

“No use o’ talkin’ about it; give me the good old way; and when I’m dead, I ain’t at all particular about havin’ buttercups and whiteweed growin’ on my grave;” and Farmer Cheney went off, “wondering what the world was coming to.”

_CHAPTER III._

About a year after their conversations, Tom Cheney came home to visit his father. The ambitious youth, who had acquired half his education by reading the newspapers, had not written his father concerning his business prospects.

“Why, Tom, what have you been about all this time?” asked the old gentleman, as he surveyed Tom’s spruce appearance.

“Making money, father,” replied the hopeful son.

“Have you made any, Tom?”

“A little.”

“A little! Guess you’d better staid at home, and worked on the farm. You was doin’ well here.”

“Done pretty well as it is.”

“How much you made, Tom?”

“Five thousand.”

“Git out! You are jokin’, Tom.”

“True as preaching.”

“How did you do it?”

“Well, I went into that ‘chance for young men;’ but that wan’t much; so I looked into the newspapers for something better.”

“Newspapers again,” sneered Farmer Cheney.

“The first thing I saw was, that peaches were selling down south for ten cents a bushel, while they brought two dollars here. You see, the risk of transporting them makes the difference. Then I saw in the same paper that preserved peaches brought two shillings a pound north; so I put that and that together, and hatched out a speculation. I bought the sugar, and sent it down to Delaware, where the peaches were cheap, and went to making preserves there. In this way I made money.”

“You are a shrewd one, Tom.”

“All owing to the newspapers, father.”

“Git out!”

“I see by the papers that the Chinese empire has been divided, and the rebels are in a fair way of making China a Christian country. I have a great notion of going out there to establish a line of stages between Shanghae and Nankin. What do you think about it?”

“Don’t know what to think. I’m done thinkin’; but, Tom, when you go to Boston again, just drop in and tell ’em to send me the American Union and the Practical Farmer for one year. Here’s the three dollars.”

“Bravo! you are a brick, after all, pa!”

“CIGARS FOR TWO;”

OR,

CURING A SMOKER.

_CHAPTER I._

“Smokes, does he? The abominable wretch!” exclaimed Mrs. Volant to her friend, Mrs. Washburn, a young wife who had just gone to housekeeping.

“He smokes, but he is not an abominable wretch--I am sure he is not,” replied Mrs. Washburn, a little startled by the hard name applied to her husband, whom she both loved and esteemed.

“Not a wretch?”

“No, I’m sure he is not!”

“Yes, he is; any husband, especially one who has been married only a year, and won’t leave off smoking when his wife desires it, must be a wretch.”

“No, you overstate the case. He is every thing a husband ought to be--so kind, so devoted, so indulgent. But then, I do wish he would not smoke.”

“You must break him of it--the cruel monster.”

“Nay, do not call him such hard names; I love him with all my heart, though he does smoke.”

“Well, I suppose you do; young wives are apt to be foolish.”

“Foolish!”

“Yes; he sees, I dare say, that you love him, and so he takes the advantage of you.”

“Why, Mrs. Volant, don’t you love your husband?”

“Well, suppose I do; there is no need of telling him of it. I make him think I don’t care any thing about him. Why, I can manage him as easily as I could a kitten.”

“I don’t like that; I think there ought to be love and confidence between man and wife.”

“Pooh!”

“You cannot be happy with him.”

“I should not be if I became his slave.”

“Not his slave!”

“Don’t you believe it! When you have been married as long as I have, you will get rid of some of these sentimental notions, which answer very well for the first year or so, but become very inconvenient after that.”

“For my part, I always mean to love my husband as much as I do now, even if it is sentimental.”

“See if you do! Husbands must be carefully managed, or they become tyrants. Now, my husband smoked the first year after marriage; but then he was a little careful about bringing his cigar into the house, for I told him, up and down, I wouldn’t have it.”

“I should suppose he would have rebelled.”

“He did, but not at first. One night, nearly a year after we were married, he brought home a whole bundle of cigars, and put them on the mantel-piece. Taking one, he very coolly lighted it, and proceeded to read the evening paper.”

“That’s just the way my husband does.”

“I was downright mad at his impudence; but I did not say a word. The next day I bought a monstrous great snuff box, and filled it full of rappee. In the evening he lighted his cigar as before; but no sooner had he done so, than I seated myself opposite to him, and drawing out my snuff box, I took a generous pinch, snuffing the filthy stuff into my nostrils, at the risk of sneezing my head off.”

“How funny!”

“My husband did not think so. He looked at me with astonishment. ‘You take snuff?’ said he. ‘I do; at least, I mean to learn,’ I replied. ‘It is a filthy habit,’ says he. ‘No worse than smoking,’ says I. We debated the matter for a long time, and at last he gave up the point, and promised to throw away his cigars if I would throw away my snuff. My point was gained, and of course I gave up my snuff.”

“And he never smoked any more?” asked Mrs. Washburn, laughing.

“Yes, he began once after; but I took to the snuff again, and he gave it up.”

“Are you sure he don’t smoke now?”

“If he does, he never lets me see him. My sitting room is not all smoked up as yours is.”

“It was a glorious trick!”

“That it was, and I advise you to try it upon Mr. Washburn.”

“I! I couldn’t take a pinch of snuff any more than I could swallow an elephant.”

“Smoke, then. There are some nice little cigars sold at the apothecaries, made on purpose for ladies. They are so mild that they wouldn’t make you sick; though, even if they did, you wouldn’t mind, so they cure your husband of smoking.”

“It seems too bad to play such a trick upon him--he is always so kind, and permits me to do just as I please,” said the tender-hearted Mrs. Washburn.

“What else could he do?”

“It looks kind of mean to me.”

“Not a bit.”

“I don’t know as it would succeed.”

“Nonsense! I am sure it would. He never would let you smoke, for these husbands have an awful horror of any impropriety in their wives.”

“Then, he says he has always smoked, and can’t leave it off.”

“Pshaw! The old story!”

“I am almost tempted to try it.”

“I would.”

“It seems so unkind, though, that I have hardly the heart to do it.”

“You are notional, my dear Mrs. Washburn. When you have been married--”

The remark was broken off by the abrupt entrance of the “abominable wretch” himself. Mrs. Washburn rose as he entered, and in spite of the abominable odor that his breath must have exhaled, printed a kiss upon his tobacco-stained lips.

The lady “who had been married several years” was disgusted, and after a few words concerning the weather, took her leave.

_CHAPTER II._

Mrs. Washburn was a pretty, affectionate, gentle-hearted wife. Her whole existence was bound up in her husband, as well it might be; for never was husband more devoted to his wife than he was. To our mind she was a model wife; none of your stormy vixens, that set their hearts upon attaining a point, and will pull the house down upon your head but they _will_ attain it.

In her eye, Mr. Washburn had only one fault; and that was the villainous habit of smoking, which all her eloquence had been powerless to overcome. She didn’t “put her foot down,” as her friend, Mrs. Volant, had done; for--poor, gentle-hearted creature--she couldn’t think of provoking a quarrel with him, and had about concluded to make the best of it, and let him smoke in peace.

But there was something so irresistibly funny about Mrs. Volant’s plan, that she determined to try it, and, accordingly, on the afternoon of the next day, she sent the Irish girl to the apothecary’s shop for a bunch of “Bagdad cigars.” Disposing a few of them in her work basket, ready for the momentous occasion, her mind pictured the scene that would ensue when she should light one of them. It was so funny that she laughed out loud at the idea. Wouldn’t he be surprised to see her, who had teased him so much to leave off smoking, commence the practice herself! Wouldn’t his eyes stick out, when he should see her puffing a cigar at her sewing, as he did when he read the evening paper!

She was so pleased with the plan, that she would have put it in execution, even if it had been only for the sport it promised her, independently of any good result which might flow from it. Wouldn’t he beg her to smoke no more! Wouldn’t he be mortified, and wouldn’t she win the day, and glory over his defeat! Wouldn’t he be glad to promise her that he wouldn’t smoke another cigar as long as he lived! She was so delighted that she could hardly contain herself.

Mr. Washburn came home to tea, and, as usual when he entered the house, he gave her a kiss, and a tender greeting. They were seated at the tea table; Mrs. Washburn was so full of mirth, that she came near scalding herself with the hot tea when she poured it out. Her merry, mischievous laugh rang pleasantly on her husband’s ear, who, poor fellow, could have had no idea of the terrible ordeal through which he was doomed to pass.

When tea was over, the astral lamp transferred to the lightstand, and Mr. Washburn had stretched himself into a comfortable position in the large easy rocking chair, with his legs lazily reposing in another chair, the everlasting cigar was produced, lighted, and began to diffuse its fragrance through the room.

Mrs. Washburn could hardly control her inclination to burst into a laugh at the mere thought of what she was about to do. Seating herself at the side of the table opposite her husband, she took from the work basket, with an air as brave and solemn as a judge, one of the “Bagdads.” Placing the filthy roll between her ruby lips, she glanced at her husband.

“Now, Mr. Smoker,” thought she,--it would have spoiled the joke to have said it,--“we will see whether you don’t abandon that nasty habit.”

Mr. Washburn happened to glance at her; but, contrary to her expectation, he manifested no surprise, and went on reading the Transcript.

“So, so, Mr. Smoker,” thought she again, “you think I am joking, do you? I will soon convince you;” and the lady took a taper, and applied a light to the cigar.

But Mrs. Washburn was rather inexperienced in the _modus operandi_ of lighting a cigar, and she was unable to make it “go.” She lit another taper, and puffed away with all her might; but the Bagdad was as resolute as the great caliph himself. She persevered, till her extraordinary exertions again attracted the attention of Mr. Washburn.

“You are lighting the wrong end, my dear,” said he, with the utmost _nonchalance_.

“How provoking he is!” thought Mrs. Washburn. “Why don’t he remonstrate?”

“You should bite off the twisted end, and then put it in your mouth,” continued the husband, turning to the paper again.