Chapter VI: Part 6

Aided by these directions, the lady took another cigar, which she succeeded in lighting. The first taste of the tobacco smoke was horrible; but she had determined to be a martyr for her husband’s sake; and taking her sewing, she continued to puff away as she plied her needle, till a certain nausea compelled her to abandon the experiment for that time. Casting the Bagdad into the grate, she began to wish she had not listened to Mrs. Volant.

“What is the matter, my dear? Wasn’t it a good cigar? Try mine; they are Monte Christos of the first quality,” and the imperturbable Mr. Washburn offered her a choice from his case.

“No, I thank you, my dear; I will not smoke any more to-night.”

“But what’s the matter, Mary? You are as pale as a sheet!”

“I feel a little faint; I shall be better in a moment,” and Mrs. Washburn was obliged to leave the room.

Poor woman! she was sick all the evening! But the next day, Mrs. Volant, who had called to learn the success of the experiment, advised her to try again, assuring her it would not make her sick the second time.

_CHAPTER III._

Mr. Washburn had a couple of his intimate friends at his house to play a game of whist the next evening, and the devoted wife resolved to try the effect of a smoke in their presence.

When the party were seated, Mr. Washburn passed round his cigar case.

“Won’t you smoke, my dear?” asked he, tendering the cigars to his wife.

“I will; but you know, Joseph, that I never smoke _your_ cigars; they do not suit my taste.”

Whew! that was cool!

Mrs. Washburn lit a Bagdad.

“Is it possible you smoke, Mrs. Washburn?” asked Mr. Barnes, astonished at the singular spectacle of a woman puffing away at a cigar, for all the world, like a loafer in a bar room.

“Occasionally, just to please my husband,” replied Mrs. Washburn, after she had blown out a long wreath of blue smoke.

“Yes, Barnes,” interposed Mr. Washburn; “it is more sociable, you know, to have company when one smokes. We are generally alone in the evening, and she is so kind as to smoke with me. Ah, Barnes, teach _your_ wife to smoke, it is so pleasant to smoke with one’s wife.”

The lady was thunderstruck. Was it possible that he had no more respect for the proprieties of life than that? She smoke? She had already acquired the reputation of being a smoker, without having produced any of the anticipated good results.

Mrs. Washburn threw the lighted Bagdad into the stove. She had almost cried with vexation.

“Not smoke, my dear?” said her husband.

“I think you can be sociable to-night, if I don’t smoke.”

“_Do_ smoke, my dear; it gives me so much pleasure to see _you_ enjoy a good cigar.”

“That’s too bad, Joseph.”

Mr. Washburn laughed outright, and throwing down his cards, explained the event of the preceding evening.

“I will own up; I did it to break him of the habit. I give it up!”

When the gentlemen had taken their leave, Mrs. Washburn explained by whose advice she had adopted the plan.

“Mrs. Volant has the reputation of being a perfect shrew. Her husband is a laughing stock for all State Street. She is a bad adviser.”

“How slick you have turned the joke upon me!” said Mrs. Washburn, laughing heartily.

“To tell the truth, I overheard some of your conversation when the plot was laid.”

“O, ho! you did? No wonder it failed, then.”

“I did; but, Mary, are you so very much against my smoking? I love the weed, but I love you more;” and Mr. Washburn kissed her tenderly.

“Nay, I will say no more about it. Perhaps I was selfish.”

“Not selfish; I will leave it off, my dear, for your sake.”

“No, no; I don’t want you to do so. If you are so very fond of smoking, I never will say another word about it.”

And Mr. Washburn has smoked his cigar in peace ever since.

“OUT OF BUSINESS;”

OR,

THE HISTORY OF A SPLENDID “BUST-UP.”

_CHAPTER I._

“Out of business, are you, Ned? Well, that is bad,” said Mr. Joseph Murdock, a stock broker, to his nephew.

“Decidedly bad.”

“But why did you leave Green & Smith? That is a good concern.”

“Salary was too small.”

“Better than you get _now_, at all events,” replied the worthy old gentleman, with a look of displeasure.

“Couldn’t pay my way on it.”

“Not on five hundred dollars!” and ‘uncle Joe,’ as he was commonly called, held up both hands in astonishment.

“I am in debt at this moment,” returned Ned, with a rueful glance at his uncle.

“And likely to be. Of course you don’t expect to pay your debts by wandering about the streets.”

“I expect to find business again.”

“You do not expect to get five hundred dollars the first year, do you?”

“I intend to strike for a thousand.”

“Strike! you won’t hit it.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

“Ned, you are going to the deuse as fast as high living and dissipation in general will carry you.”

“Why, uncle, I’m sure you don’t know me.”

“Sit down, Ned; let us talk it over. I want a young man in my office, and perhaps we can make a trade.”

“Thousand dollars, uncle Joseph;” and Ned Murdock attempted to look sly.

“Not out of me, Ned.”

“Can’t live on less.”

“Better die then. I want a young man to assist my bookkeeper, run of errands----”

“An errand boy, you mean;” and Ned felt hurt at the slight put upon his dignity.

“An errand boy, then. My clerk intends to go into business for himself one of these days, and if you are attentive to business, here is an opportunity to advance yourself;” and uncle Joe looked seriously into the face of his nephew.

“What is the salary?”

“Four hundred, for the present.”

“I should starve on it.”

“Live within your means. When I was of your age, I lived on two hundred.”

“Times have changed since then.”

“What do you pay for board, Ned?”

“Six dollars a week. I board at a hotel.”

“Six dollars a week! Ned, you are crazy;” and uncle Joe’s eyes stuck out “like two tallow candles.”

“Two of us room together in the attic, so that they board us low.”

“Should think they did--low for them, but high for you. Costs you a hundred for clothes, I suppose, don’t it?”

“About that,” replied Ned, evasively.

“Do you go to the ‘play’ often?”

“Not above once a week, except when there are ‘stars’ on.”

“Not _above_ once a week! Ned, you are an extravagant dog; you will die in the poorhouse!”

“Pshaw! Uncle Joseph, _you_ are old-fashioned!”

“If it is old-fashioned to live within one’s means, to pay one’s debts, and wear an honest face, then--thank God!--I _am_ old-fashioned,” replied the worthy old gentleman, with considerable spirit.

“I mean to be honest, and practise all your old-fashioned virtues.”

“You can’t do it, Ned, on five hundred dollars a year with your habits.”

“Can’t be honest?”

“No; it is not honest to run up a bill at your tailor’s which you have not the ability to pay; it is not honest to get in debt to support extravagant habits.”

“You don’t mean to say that I am _dis_honest, uncle Joseph?” asked the young man, with a blush on his cheek.

“Well, well, we won’t talk about _that_, now. I want a young man, and if you have a mind to lay aside your extravagances, and go into my office determined to stick to your business, I will see to the rest.”

“What salary shall I have, uncle Joseph?”

“Four hundred the first year,” replied uncle Joseph, firmly.

“But I can’t live on that.”

“Yes, you can. Leave your hotel and board in a private family. Quit the theatre and the opera, and pay as you go.”

“But my debts?”

“How much do you owe?”

“About two hundred and fifty dollars.”

Uncle Joe scratched his head, contracted his eyebrows, and looked decidedly stormy.

“Bad business, Ned,” said he, after a few moments’ consideration. “I could easily get you out of the scrape, provided I saw any hope of amendment on your part. You don’t even say that you will reform.”

“To be serious, uncle Joseph, I can’t see how I can reform. I must _live_, you know.”

“And you must live within your means.”

At this moment the penny post deposited a letter on the table, by the side of the stock broker, the contents of which perfectly amazed him.

_CHAPTER II._

The letter was from the attorney of Miss Mary Marker, a maiden aunt of Ned Murdock, formerly residing at the west. It contained the intelligence of the spinster’s death. The old lady, happening to have a fit of generosity when she made her will, had bequeathed to her graceless nephew the sum of ten thousand dollars.

Here was a godsend, and Ned leaped up six feet in the air, with astonishment and delight.

But the worthy stock broker was troubled; for although he was a broker, he was a good Christian, and had the welfare of his dissolute nephew near his heart. There was something about the youth that he liked, notwithstanding he went to the play and boarded at a fashionable hotel.

His only object was the reformation of the young man, whose ruin and premature decay were foreshadowed in his daily habits. His proposition to employ him in his own office was merely a stratagem to obtain a hold upon him.

This legacy seemed to step between him and the accomplishment of his benevolent purpose.

“What are you going to do with this money, Ned?” asked he with a troubled countenance; “I am named, as your guardian, you perceive.”

“Bah, guardian! I am twenty-one next week, uncle Joseph,” replied the young man, unable to conceal the elation the astounding intelligence had produced in his mind.

“True; but this legacy may be the ruin of you, Ned.”

“You are absurd, uncle.”

“I am sorry your aunt died so soon; I wish she could have been prevailed upon to live till you had come to the years of discretion.”

“If I had known she intended to remember me in her will, I should certainly have expressed my desire that she might have lived forever, or some such hyperbole.”

“What are you going to do, Ned? It is rather a serious question.”

“Time enough to decide it when I get the money.”

“Take my advice Ned; settle yourself down in some quiet position; get another clerkship; don’t go into business till you are more experienced in the ways of the world. You had better accept my offer, and take your first lesson in learning to live within your means.”

“Be an errand boy on four hundred dollars a year, when I have ten thousand dollars in my possession? Did they do so in old times?” and Ned bestowed a good-natured sneer upon his quiet old uncle.

“They learned to creep before they walked. If it will make any difference, I will give you the same salary you received at Green & Smith’s.”

“Couldn’t think of it, uncle Joseph. A thousand would not procure my services _now_.”

The stock broker sighed. Ned was as good as lost, in his opinion. There was no hope for him, and much as it troubled him, he saw no method of preventing the catastrophe.

For an hour longer, uncle Joe tried to prevail upon his wilful nephew to adopt a system of prudent living, and preserve his capital until a favorable opportunity occurred for investing it.

Ned was resolute. Visions of balls, operas, theatres, fast horses, and a rich wife, flitted before his excited imagination. The sum of ten thousand dollars appeared to be inexhaustible. In vain uncle Joe reasoned that its possession was only equivalent to an income of six hundred dollars. Ned was sure of being worth twenty thousand in five years, and fifty in ten. It never occurred to him that fast horses and the opera could not be supported without encroaching upon the principal.

_CHAPTER III._

While they were debating the question, Tom Murdock, a cousin of Ned, entered the office.

“Ah, Tom,” said Ned, “here we are; I had quite forgotten to inform our good uncle that you too were out of business.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed uncle Joseph. “Both out of business? I hope you have not been foolish, Tom.”

“No, uncle, Tom is never foolish--one of your dignified boys--proper, and all that sort of thing,” replied Ned.

“My services were no longer required. You know I only supplied the place of another,” added Tom.

“You have been there three months.”

“Yes.”

“On thirty dollars a month!” added Ned, “and saved money at that. Tom will just fit your place, uncle.”

“Do you want a clerk, uncle Joseph?” asked Tom, meekly.

“I thought of having another; but it is very small pay,” answered the stock broker, a little nettled; for he had created the want only to save the reputation of Ned.

“I should be very glad to enter your service, even at a small salary. Anything is better than being out of business.”

“Right, Tom, right!” exclaimed the old gentleman. “The salary is four hundred, and you shall have the place.”

And Tom took the place, while Ned, instead of adopting his uncle’s excellent advice, moved down two flights at the hotel, rode out to Porter’s every day, and went to the opera every night.

In due time the legacy reached uncle Joseph, who placed Ned in full possession.

In another month a large gilt sign, bearing the “name and style” of a new firm, (E. Murdock & Co.,) astonished the mercantile world, and Ned was no longer out of business.

The dignity of the new firm--the “Co.” was merely a flourish of the artist’s pencil to give _éclat_ to the thing--demanded that the senior partner should have a wife. Fortunately for the felicitous carrying out of Ned’s idea on this subject, things had for several months been progressing towards this event.

Our young merchant had paid his addresses to the daughter of a mercantile man, reputed to be wealthy; and now that he “had come to his possessions,” there was no obstacle to an immediate marriage.

A house in a fashionable street was procured; the cage being ready, the bird was caught, and Ned found himself in the full enjoyment of life. He was no nigger, and things went on swimmingly. Dinner parties, and tea parties, and evening parties followed each other in rapid succession.

Money flowed like water. Notes on three, six, and nine months were given, and Ned said the business was bound to prosper.

One half of his legacy only had been invested in his business at the commencement of the operation. Six, nine, and twelve months did the rest. But his housekeeping affairs absorbed the other half in less than six months. His wife was from a rich family, he reasoned, and must be supported in state.

At the end of those six months, when the first of the notes became due, Ned was not a little astonished to find that he had nothing to pay them with. He looked over his books to see where the ten thousand had gone to; it was only dust in the balance when weighed against his business and his family expenditures.

Bad debts and unfortunate speculations stared him in the face from every page, and Ned began to be a little troubled. A dim consciousness that he had been going too fast crept into his mind. It was a disagreeable reflection, and when he went home to dinner that day, he dodged round a corner to avoid meeting uncle Joe.

In the mean time, Tom had acquitted himself to the entire satisfaction of his uncle. The head clerk had left, and he had been installed in his place. Living within his means, indulging in no fashionable dissipations, the future was bright with hope.

_CHAPTER IV._

One morning, while Ned was pondering the unsatisfactory state of his affairs, a neighbor brought him the news of the failure of his wife’s father.

Ned was horrified, for, it must be confessed, that in his present emergency, he had based some rather extravagant hopes on the fact of having a rich father-in-law.

It was a heavy stroke to his philosophy. The little financial theory based upon his rich wife, which he had matured to meet the approaching emergency, suddenly and violently exploded.

A five hundred dollar note came due that day, and he had been thinking of dropping into his father-in-law’s counting-room about one o’clock, to see if he had “any thing over.”

The thought of applying to uncle Joe occurred to him; but the worthy old gentleman was too blunt by half, and would be likely to tell him some homely truths.

The day wore away with vain devisings of means to extricate himself from his embarrassments. The note was not paid--was protested.

The next day, people, who had long suspected that Ned was travelling too fast, began to see with a clear vision the true state of the case. Before two o’clock, Ned was in chancery!

“How is this, Ned?” asked uncle Joseph, entering the counting room.

“Don’t mention it, uncle; don’t mention it! Before you say a word, I will own that you were all right, and I was all wrong,” replied Ned, groaning in spirit.

“I did not come to reproach you, Ned; far from it. I gave the best advice I was capable of giving; but as you did not deem it advisable to follow it, of course I shall not taunt you in your troubles.”

This was kind of uncle Joseph, and it was spoken in a kindly manner, without the slightest appearance of that triumphant “I knew it would be so,” which wise old men sometimes assume. It went to Ned’s heart, for Ned had a heart, notwithstanding the little foibles of his character.

“Why did you not come to me for assistance, Ned? I always meant well by you.”

“My case was a hopeless one; and to tell the truth, uncle Joseph, after what passed between us, I was ashamed to meet you.”

“Fie, Ned!” and the old gentleman was highly flattered by his nephew’s humility.

“I wish I had accepted your offer, even at a salary of four hundred dollars a year. I should have been a great deal better off now.”

“Well, well, we will not mind that now. The place is still open.”

“Is it?” asked Ned, eagerly.

“Tom is my head clerk. Of course I could not displace him.”

“No, certainly not.”

“But as you have a wife, I will make the salary six hundred now.”

“Thank you, uncle; I will gladly accept the place.”

Ned did accept it, and though it was a sad fall from his former position, he took his place at the desk in his uncle’s office as the assistant of Tom, with the best grace in the world.

It is surprising how misfortunes will humble a man; how they will make him accept with joy a position at which, in the days of his prosperity, he turned up his nose in disgust.

Mrs. Murdock, was, in the main, a sensible person, and made the best of her altered circumstances. Three rooms in a retired street were obtained, to supply the place of the fashionable residence in Tremont street, and the young couple went to housekeeping on a reduced scale.

Ned kept within his means this time. The humiliation of his fall gradually wore away, and he was surprised to find himself and his wife much happier than when they had been surrounded by all the appliances of wealth and luxury.

Ned remained three years with uncle Joseph, who annually increased his salary, thus enabling him to add to the comforts of life, and still keep within his means.

At the end of this period, the old gentleman, finding himself old enough and rich enough to retire, gave up his business to his two nephews, who, we are happy to record, are now doing remarkably well.

* * * * *

MORAL.--When you are out of business, do not be over nice; and when you have a legacy left to you, do not be rash.

“SIX MONTHS AFTER DATE.”

_CHAPTER I._

“You are of course aware of the object of my repeated visits at your house, Mr. Miller?” stammered George Harrison to the father of his intended.

“O, yes, of course,” replied the father, carelessly.

“And you must be favorably disposed towards the matter, or you would not have permitted it to continue as long as it has.”

“Well, Mr. Harrison, those are affairs that I don’t like to meddle with, though my opinion is, a great deal of judgment ought to be used in relation to them.”

“Certainly, sir; they affect the parties for life,” replied George, seriously.

“You do not intend to be married at present, do you?”

“Yes, sir; we have been thinking of it; that is, not under a month.”

“A month! Pray, Mr. Harrison, what have you got to support a wife with?” asked the careful father, gazing with considerable astonishment into the face of the candidate for matrimony.

“Well, sir, I have not got much now, it is true; but I think I shall be able to pay my way.”

“You _think_ so, but you may be laboring under a mistake. Young men are apt to be rash.”

“I am going into business, as you are aware, next week. I have hired a store, and have no doubt I shall do well.”

“I suppose not. Have you the capital wherewith to stock your store?”

“My capital is small, but I have friends.”

“Every body has friends. Who are they?”

“There is Mr. Redman, who offers to let me have half my stock on six months.”

“And the other half?”

“I can obtain it on the same terms from other parties.”

“And you propose to lay in all your stock on six months’ credit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rather a dangerous scheme, young man.”

“I think not. I have no doubt that I shall be able to sell goods enough to pay most of the notes; if not, I can easily get them renewed.”

“You are confident.”

“Perhaps I am vain; but I trust a great deal to my ability as a salesman. Why, Smith, Jones, & Co. offered me a thousand dollars for the next year if I would stay with them.”

“You had better accept the offer, young man.”

“I think not; if I am worth a thousand dollars to them, I am worth it to myself. No, sir; I mean to have the benefit of my own talents.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the prudent Mr. Miller.

“Perhaps I _am_ vain.”

“You are, Mr. Harrison. You will find that your ability in a concern like that of Smith, Jones, & Co. is much more available than it would be in your own hands.”

“We differ in that matter,” replied George Harrison, with some display of wounded dignity. “If you please, we will turn to the subject to which my present visit relates.”

“To be sure, young man, if you wish. I have no desire to force my advice upon you, though I cannot help thinking you had better heed the counsel of those who are older and more experienced than you are.”

“I am very willing to hear any advice.”

“More willing to hear it than to follow it.”

“I wish to be reasonable. If a young man never attempts to better his condition, it is plain that he never will get ahead in the world.”

“Very true; but let him labor as hard as he may, without proper discretion, he never will succeed.”

“You question my judgment, do you, sir?” asked George, rather sharply.

“Excuse me, Mr. Harrison, but I do. The relation in which you stand to my family prompts me to speak very plain. No man in his senses would stock his store on six months’ credit, and expect to succeed. How can you pay your notes, coming all together as they do?”

“With your leave, I will take care of that matter,” replied George, with dignity.

“Very well,” replied Mr. Miller, smiling at the young man’s warmth. “You propose to be married in about a month?”

“We do.”

“Have you got a house?”

“I have looked at one.”

“Have you the means of furnishing it?”

“Rowe & Co. have offered to sell it to me on six months.”

“Then in six months, Mr. Harrison, I will talk with you about marriage. In the mean time, I must decline all negotiation.”

_CHAPTER II._

George Harrison was a “crack salesman,” and save and excepting that he rather over-estimated his talents and business ability, he was a fine fellow.

He did not believe in looking on the dark side of things. His heart was full of hope, and he confidently expected that whatever he put his hand upon would be instantly turned into money.

George was a young man of spirit, and he did not relish the manner in which his prospective father-in-law had treated him.

“He used me like a boy,” mumbled George, as he left the counting room of Mr. Miller; “just as though he knew every thing, and I didn’t know any thing. But I’ll teach him better than that.”

Directing his steps to the house of Mr. Miller, he found Hannah, his lady love, arrayed for a walk.

“I have bad news, my dear,” said he.

“Bad news! Why, what, George?”

“Let us walk to the Common, and I will tell you all about it.”

Seated on one of the stone seats by the “Frog Pond,” George narrated the substance of his interview with Mr. Miller.

“But he only postponed the matter for six months George,” said Hannah, relieved by his statement. “Perhaps it would be better to put it off.”

“You know, dearest, we intended to be married next month.”

“Still, we can wait.”

“There is no need of waiting, Hannah.”

“Perhaps there is not; but if my father thinks so, hadn’t we better humor him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why, what would you do?”

“Be married;” and George told her how romantic it would be to run away to New York, and come home man and wife--how it would surprise their friends.

Hannah’s “spirit” was fully equal to that of George; and the moment she began to feel that her “cruel father” was persecuting them, she was ready for any thing, even for an elopement.

The arrangement was made, and George hired the house he had looked at. Rowe & Co. furnished it, and took George’s note on six months in payment, with a mortgage for security.

The new store was opened, and things went on “swimmingly.” Business was good, and every body said George was making money “hand over fist.”

At the appointed time the elopement took place. The newspapers duly chronicled the event, and, for a time, George was a lion. The ladies, eager to behold and converse with a gentleman who had the “spunk” to tear a persecuted daughter from the grasp of a cruel father, and elope with her, flocked to his store. The elopement was a decided hit, and George’s gains were largely augmented by it.

The happy couple took up their residence in the new house. It was beautifully furnished, and Hannah felt that she was a queen in paradise. To her the day was not long enough to hold all the happiness that crowded upon her.

And her father, too, instead of treating her harshly after the rash step she had taken, came to see her, was as kind to her as though nothing had happened, and never said a single word about the elopement. Her cup of joy was full.

George was a prince. He was coining money; he snapped his fingers at the notes, and wondered what Mr. Miller said now!

Flushed with success, he returned home one night after an unusually good day’s sale, and, after kissing his wife--they were just married,--and playfully chucking her under the chin, he vented his exuberant satisfaction in a rhapsody on the joys of life.

“Happy as princes!” exclaimed he. “The money pours in as fast as I care to handle it.”

“How glad I am!” responded Hannah, artlessly.

“We have nothing more to wish for, have we, Hannah?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know! Why, I thought you were perfectly happy.”

“So I am, dear George; but I was thinking, the other day, how pleasant it would be to have a piano in the house,” replied she, with some little diffidence.

“So it would, Hannah; what a dolt I have been not to think of it! I have felt all along as though there was some thing wanting.”

“But I hope, George, you will not buy one if you cannot afford to do so.”

“Afford to! Certainly I can; I shall be a rich man in one year. You shall have one of Chickering’s best to-morrow.”

On the following day the piano came. George paid cash for it from his surplus funds. But no sooner had the piano come than Hannah began to feel that the rest of their furniture in the parlor did not correspond with it. George agreed with the proposition, and their parlor furniture was sent to Leonard’s forthwith. A new and expensive set was furnished, and paid for in cash.

Thus things went on for several months. It took all of George’s profits to keep house and buy the new things which were every day discovered to be wanting.

The dull season had come on, and George suddenly found that there was no more business to be done. He had not even money enough at the end of six months to pay his second quarter’s rent, to say nothing of the notes which came due at that time.

_CHAPTER III._

The six months had fully expired, even down to the last day of grace.

Hannah sat at the piano, playing “Home, sweet home,” anxiously waiting the return of George. The hour at which he usually came home had gone by, and she occasionally cast an impatient glance at the clock.

She had observed that for several days he had worn a troubled air, and had even been so cross as to repulse her when she offered her accustomed caress; but the thought that his business matters were in an embarrassed condition never occurred to her. He had often boasted of his success, and of course she had no reason to dread the calamity which her father had pointed out to her before her marriage.

A violent pull at the door bell started her from the piano. A rough-looking person was ushered into her presence.

“Very sorry, ma’am,” said he, with an awkward bow; “but I’ve come to take possession.”

“What do you mean, sir?” exclaimed Hannah, affrighted by the crowd of disagreeable thoughts that rushed to her brain.

“Why, simply, ma’am, that the notes haven’t been paid, and Mr. Harrison’s creditors have attached the property. This furniture now belongs to Messrs. Rowe & Co.”

The deputy sheriff, having placed a keeper over the goods, politely bowed himself out, leaving Hannah a prey to a thousand anxious forebodings.

The arrival of George was an intense relief to her.

“Just as I supposed!” exclaimed he. “My creditors have had their heads together, and every thing has gone by the board at once.”

“Pray, what does it all mean, George?” asked Hannah.

“I have failed; my creditors have driven me into an assignment. I am a beggar.”

“Why, George, I thought you were doing remarkably well.”

“I was; but, with all the business I have done, I doubt if I could ever have met these notes.”

“But how much do you owe, George? Can’t you sell the piano, and pay it?”

“It would be only a drop in the bucket. To come right to the fact, I suppose my creditors saw that I lived up to my income, and so it was no use for them to be gentle. I must find a situation now as a salesman, and we must give up this house, and board.”

“You ought not to have bought that piano; you know I didn’t want you to if you couldn’t afford it.”

“And a thousand other things ought not to have been bought. If I had saved the money, my creditors would probably have given me an extension on my paying a part of their demands. But it is too late now; I have been a fool. Your father was right after all.”

“I am afraid he was; but here he comes.”

“Six months after date,” said Mr. Miller, entering the room.

“You were right, sir; I have been a fool,” replied George, with due humility.

“Well, the victory is half won when you see the error. But I have not come to reproach you for your folly, George. How much do you owe?”

George stated the amount.

“Very well,” continued Mr. Miller. “I have already seen your creditors, and with my name on your paper, they have agreed to give you an extension.”

“Sir!” exclaimed George, starting back in amazement.

“But you must let Messrs. Rowe & Co. take these useless traps; your house is furnished well enough for a prince.”

“George is fully sensible where the error lies, father; we are ready to profit by the lesson.”

“All right. Young folks _think_ that old folks are fools, and old folks _know_ that young ones are. Well, well; we must live and learn.”

“I am _very_ grateful to you, sir,” began George.

“There, there! that will do. All I desire is, your prosperity. When I objected to your marriage, I foresaw the event which has now happened. You have done remarkably well in your business; but the best business in the world wouldn’t pay for a stock of goods in six months, to say nothing about a thousand dollars in furniture and knick-knacks.”

* * * * *

George went to work again on a better principle. When he entered a note on his “Bills Payable,” it was not until after he had made a close calculation upon the means of meeting it. He was successful at last, though, like a majority of young men on the same street, he won his way to success through failure and disaster, over the rough road of bitter experience.

A smaller house was procured, and furnished in a neat and plain style, and Hannah is quite as happy as she was during the honeymoon in her more ample establishment, especially as George--who is now never embarrassed by money matters--is always cheerful, contented, and withal a loving and devoted husband; and the prospect now is, that he will be so “_Six Months after Date_.”

A WORLD OF TROUBLES.

_CHAPTER I._

“I am so glad you have come, Thomas!” exclaimed Mrs. Butler, a pale, care-worn young wife, as her husband entered the room in which she had prepared the evening meal.

“Why, what is the matter _now_?” returned the husband, laying a wicked emphasis upon the word “now,” as though he meant to imply that there always was something the matter.

“Nothing; only I wanted you to bring in a pail of water, for I am _so_ tired, that I declare I can hardly keep upon my feet.”

“Is that all? I did not know but what the baby had had a fit, or got scalded, or something of that sort.”

“Nothing of the kind; I have trouble enough to get along with, without sickness in the family. I feel just as though I should die every night when I get my work done;” and Mrs. Butler sighed, as she placed the smoking tea upon the table, and threw herself into a chair, apparently so exhausted that she could not have stood another moment.

“You must have a girl, Mary; you know I don’t want you to work so hard. I have often told you so before,” said Mr. Butler.

“A girl, indeed! Can you afford to keep a girl, Thomas?”

“Certainly, I can. I am earning twelve dollars a week now, and I am sure our expenses are not above eight. A dollar and a half a week added to this sum would leave me a handsome surplus.”

“Just like you, Thomas; that is one of your calculations.”

“Certainly, that is one of _my_ calculations,” replied Mr. Butler, a little tartly.

“I suppose you wouldn’t reckon any thing for a girl’s board,” sneered the wife.

“A mere trifle.”

“Every thing is a mere trifle with you.”

Thomas stuffed half a hot biscuit into his mouth to help him keep his temper.

“And then she would waste double her wages,” continued the lady.

“Pshaw! that is an old woman’s bugbear,” replied Butler, impatiently.

“Yes; that’s just the way you always talk.”

“It is correct talk, though.”

“Girls don’t waste, I suppose?”

“I presume they do, many of them; but you abominably exaggerate the amount.”

“No, I don’t; I say they waste double their wages.”

“No such thing.”

“Ask any one who has kept them.”

“What articles do they waste to such an enormous extent?”

“Every thing--provisions, groceries; and they burn up twice as much fuel as there is any kind of need of.”

“Twice as much?”

“Yes; _twice_ as much.”

“Let me see;” and Thomas pulled out a bit of paper and a pencil, and went to figuring with all his might. “We use three tons of coal in six months. Twice as much would be six tons, which would come to forty-two dollars, or twenty-one dollars waste. That is eighty cents a week.”

“Clear waste!” exclaimed Mrs. Butler, with palpable horror depicted on her countenance.

“Now, allow that she wastes one-half the provisions and one-half the groceries, which is absurd, and she would just double my bills. They were fifty-two dollars for the last six months, which makes a waste of two dollars per week. Why, Mary, we have only made the waste to be two dollars and eighty cents even with these figures. Double her wages would be three dollars.”

“She would waste enough, as you would find out to your sorrow, if you kept one,” added Mrs. Butler, not pleased with the state of her side of the argument.

“You don’t believe she _could_ waste half the fuel and stores?”

Mrs. Butler did not believe it, but she did not like to say so.

“Probably, my dear, under your excellent supervision, she could not possibly waste more than fifty cents a week.”

“Well, that is twenty-six dollars a year.”

“But I can afford to lose that, rather than that you should make a slave of yourself.”

“I don’t want a girl; it would be more work to look after her than it would be to do the work myself.”

“As you please, my dear.”

“I don’t want your friends to think, you have got an extravagant wife.”

“Fudge on my friends!”

“Yes, it is easy enough for _you_ to say so.”

“And for you, too, if you choose.”

“I don’t want to spend all we get.”

“Nor I, my dear; but, to be very plain with you, I had much rather do it, than hear you everlastingly complain how hard you have to work.”

“Don’t I work hard?”

“I don’t know but you do.”

“Just think what I have to do.”

“Well, I have to work hard, too; but I am sure it does not make one feel any better to be continually grumbling about it.”

“Who’s grumbling? Can’t a body speak without being accused of grumbling?” said Mrs. Butler, rather pettishly.

“I only mean to say, that you work twice as hard with your imagination as you do with your hands; your thoughts make the work hard.”

“Yes, it is easy for you to say so,” said the wife, wiping away the tears from her wan cheeks.

“When have I come into the house, Mary, for the last six months, and you have not told me a heap of troubles as big as a mountain? I can’t stand it.”

“I never thought you _could_ be so harsh to _me_. You did not use to speak to me in that way,” sobbed Mary, feeling that she was the most cruelly used wife in the world.

“You irritate me with your troubles.”

“I can’t help my troubles; I do the best I can to keep your house in order, and take good care of the baby.”

“I never found any fault with your management. I am abundantly pleased with all you do, save and except your croaking and grumbling.”

“What can I do?”

“Go about your work cheerfully, and with a disposition to make the best of every thing. By a cheerful and contented disposition, you will make even the hardest day of toil a day of satisfaction. You look darkly upon your lot, and that makes it black.”

“I can’t help my feelings.”

“Yes, you can, Mary. At any rate, you ought not to imbitter my existence with your incessant complainings.”

“I have tried to make you happy.”

“If you have, you have signally failed; for it has come to that, I almost hate to come into the house, so much do I dread to hear your tale of woe.”

“I will try to do better.”

“Do, Mary; home will become a curse to me instead of the brightest spot upon earth, as it ought to be, if you do not.”

The baby cried at this point of the conversation, and Mrs. Butler wiped away her tears, and took the little cherub from the cradle where he had been sleeping, all unconscious of the matrimonial squall which had been blowing around him.

_CHAPTER II._

When Mrs. Butler was married, she was a bright, cheerful, and happy maiden. For more than a year she and her devoted husband had not known the meaning of matrimonial strife. It was a new state of existence to her, and while the novelty of the thing lasted, she was as happy as the day was long.

But in the course of events, she was deprived of the pleasure of going abroad much, and the pretty home in which she had spent a year of joy, began to rust on her imagination. Not that her husband was less devoted; though he might not have been quite so dreamy and sentimental as he was in the days of their courtship, yet he was all that a reasonable wife could expect. He was indulgent, kind, and sympathized deeply with her in all those matters wherein a young wife needs tenderness and care.

Little Bobby was born; but the little stranger made such a heap of work for the fond mother, that she declared she should die under the infliction. She would not listen to her husband’s suggestion to keep a girl. She had a kind of vanity in her composition, which led her to endure rather than subject her husband’s purse to such an expenditure. She feared folks would say she was not as “smart” as she wished to be considered, or that Thomas’s relations would deem her extravagant and lazy.

She continued to do her work, though each day was a day of misery. Before she got breakfast, dinner, or tea, she sat and moped over it, thinking what a terrible hard job it was for her to perform. She dreaded washing day from about Friday morning; and over the washtub she was as miserable as soapsuds and a rubbing-board could possibly make her.

The reader may imagine that she was lazy; but I do not think so. She lived in a “world of trouble;” she looked upon the dark side of every thing. Of course, there were many hardships she was called upon to endure--as who is not? She was obliged to keep occupied most of the time in the duties of the household and the care of the baby. Her position was undoubtedly one of trial and vexation, as those who are experienced in these matters will readily understand.

But the principal difficulty was to be found in Mrs. Butler’s unhappy disposition. She was not cheerful and contented with her lot. Her morbid imagination magnified the little trials of every-day life into monstrous woes, and she suffered intolerably in her mind, which was communicated to the body. She was the most miserable of women--the most unreasonably miserable.

Of course, her husband, who was of a directly opposite temperament, was rendered miserable, also. Mrs. Butler seemed so wedded to her woe, that every effort on his part to alleviate it was promptly repulsed. He had grown disgusted. His wife was always complaining. He never came into the house without being assailed by a relation of her woes. He cursed his stars--blamed himself for ever becoming a husband.

But, then, poor fellow, what could he do? Mary was as gentle and pleasant a maiden before her marriage as one often finds. She had never been placed in a position to try her character. He might have heard her fret over a new dress that did not fit, or something of that sort; but he never dreamed that a tempest could ever blow out of such a little cloud. It was only when she felt the cold touch of life’s realities, that she showed out exactly what she was.

It was too late now; the mischief had been done. She was his wife; she was the mother of little Bobby. He loved her still, though his affections had been terribly shocked by her thoughtless grumbling.

Mary had promised to do better; but, alas for the vanity of human promises, they were words written in sand. The habit had become deep, rooted. Thomas was in despair. He had tried by threats and by persuasions to make her reasonable, but all in vain. His house was a hell to him. If she had scolded him, been negligent of her household duties, a gadder in the street, a gossip--anything but a grumbler, he felt that he could have endured it, loved her, and continued to be happy.

But it was an ever present leaf of woe her countenance presented to him, and when home had ceased to be a pleasant place, he gradually absented himself, and the still loving but incorrigible wife smelt the rum in his breath when he returned from his evening amusements.

One night, about two months after the conversation we have narrated, as the clock was striking the midnight hour, he was brought home, helplessly drunk, in the arms of two watchmen, who had picked him up in the street.

What a sight for a young and loving wife, to behold the father of her child drunk! They placed him in bed, and she spent a sleepless night in weeping over his senseless, imbruted form. O, the agony of that bitter time! Her husband a drunkard! she a drunkard’s wife! Earth has its miseries, but none like those of the inebriate’s wife.

Want, shame, the poorhouse, the court, and the prison rose before her with terrible vividness. A train of woes--real woes,--so long she could not see the end of it, marched in solemn procession before her. There was her child in rags, her husband a homeless, idle, degraded sot. There was the gaunt form of Hunger, the glaring eyes of the demons of crime--there was every thing there, from which the heart of woman would instinctively shrink.

Thomas rose next morning and ate his breakfast in silence--the silence which shame seemed to impose upon him. He was about to leave his house for his workshop, when Mary spoke.

“Thomas,” said she, in the subdued tones of anguish, while a flood of tears rained down her wan cheek.

He looked at her, as though he had already divined what she meant to say.

“Thomas, you can’t think how unhappy I was last night, when you were--when you came home.”

“Well, what’s the matter now?” answered Thomas, sullenly.

“O, Thomas, last night!”

“Well, what of it?”

Mary was amazed that no appearance of contrition mitigated his flagrant error.

“You don’t come home in the evening now.”

“No.”

“But you will come to-night, Thomas?”

“Perhaps I will.”

“Nay, you _will_?”

“What for?”

“Come for my sake, Thomas.”

“Your sake! Well, that _is_ a good one,” replied he, coarsely.

Mary was shocked.

“Last night, you were--were----” she could say no more.

“Yes, I _was_.”

“You were----”

“Drunk! Out with it.”

“O, Thomas!”

“Well?”

“What misery is in store for us!”

“Can’t help it.”

“Nay, Thomas, promise that you will not----”

“Get drunk,” laughed Thomas.

“Do not again.”

“Can’t promise.”

“O God! has it come to this!”

“Fact!”

Mary threw herself into a chair, and wept as though her heart would break. The sight seemed to move the husband, who was not yet lost in transgression. A tear stole into his eye and he bent over her and took her hand.

“Mary, I have sinned.”

“You will not again?” said she, eagerly.

“But, Mary, is there no fault on your part?”

“My part?”

“My home is hateful to me. Even the presence of that sleeping, innocent child removes not the curse which seems to hang over it.”

“Why, Thomas, what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Have I not often reasoned with you?”

“O God!” exclaimed Mary, burying her face between her hands, conscious that the misery which menaced her was of her own seeking.

“I never will complain of anything again as long as I live!” she continued.

“Ah, Mary, I have often heard you say so before.”

“Trust me, this time, Thomas.”

“I will, Mary.”

“Come home to-night; you shall find me all that you could wish.”

“Bless you, Mary. I trust for your sake as well as my own, and for the sake of our own dear boy, that you may be true to your resolution.”

“I will, Thomas,” replied she, with a gathering smile, as her husband kissed her.

“And I promise never again to taste the fatal cup. You shall be the guardian of this my solemn pledge; for in no way can you more effectually secure the keeping of my promise, than by observing your own--in short, by making home happy.”

Again the husband kissed her, and then went to his work.

_CHAPTER III._

A drunkard’s wife! This was a real woe. What were all her little vexations compared with it? Mary’s resolution was a firm one, and in her earnestness to observe it, she knelt and prayed for strength from above to enable her to be equal to the duty before her.

Last night a terrible fate had menaced her. The lot of a drunkard’s wife--the most appalling woe that can overtake a woman--had threatened to be her portion. The sombre cloud had risen, and her destiny was in her own hands.

She knew her husband well enough to be satisfied that his pledge would be held sacred--that, till she drove him from his home by her unamiable peculiarity, he would be true to the words he had spoken.

Grumbling is only a habit. It may even have a root in the natural temperament of the individual; but it is not an incurable disease. Mary felt that happiness here and hereafter depended upon her fidelity to the promise she had made--that a single complaining word would be like a match placed near the magazine--and another word would involve her in hopeless ruin.

But she had sense enough to know, and she strove to feel that it were useless to avoid the word, while the disposition existed. It were useless to whitewash a sepulchre--it is still “full of dead men’s bones.” She determined to perform a radical cure. She resolved to _be_ contented, and then the hasty word would not be spoken.

She went about her daily duties with a feeling that a mountain had been removed from her heart. She was cheerful--happy--happy to feel that it was in her power to avert the terrible catastrophe which had menaced her--that she could avoid the yawning abyss that was before her.

All her trials and vexations dwindled into trifles compared with the fate which last night had been so vividly presented to her imagination, and the comparison made her happy.

Punctual to his accustomed hour, Thomas came home. He had not drank any thing, and he appeared cheerful and happy. She met him with a smiling face, and never mentioned a word of the difficulty that had beset her. She had even been so far as to draw a pail of water herself, and bring up a hod of coal; but she said nothing about it.

They were happy again; but perhaps it was as much the effect in the contrast as the actual change in the circumstances. Thomas fondled little Bobby on his knees, and undressed and put him to bed himself. Mary was delighted, and from her soul she prayed that her own weakness might not dissolve the blissful picture of domestic happiness their home at that moment presented.

A year passed by. Thomas was true to his vow, and Mary to hers. Whenever things went wrong with her, and the old spirit rose in her heart, her husband had only to say--

“You absolve me from my oath, Mary?” and she became gentle and cheerful in an instant.