Chapter VI: Part I: The Reading-Club (4)

But alas! you are deaf to my harp’s fond endeavor,
Or I’d sing in this beautiful fashion forever!
You have eyes, but you see not; you’re deaf as a drum;
And as none else will listen, like you I’ll be dumb.

Tater! tater! When I leave mortal Nater,
Let the world calmly think what I thought of a tater!
_W. O. Eaton._

“AN UNKNOWN MAN, RESPECTABLY DRESSED.”

“An unknown man, respectably dressed,”
That was all that the record said:
Wondering pity might guess the rest;
One thing was sure,—the man was dead.

And dead, because he’d no heart to live;
His courage had faltered, and failed the test:
How little the all we now can give,—
A nameless sod to cover his breast!

“Respectably dressed!” The thoughtless read
The sentence over, and idly say,—
“What was it, then, since it was not need,
Which made him thus fling his life away?”

“Respectably dressed!” How little they know,
Who never have been for money pressed,
What it costs respectable poor to go,
Day after day, “respectably dressed!”

The beggars on sidewalks suffer less;
They herd all together, clan and clan;
Alike and equal in wretchedness,
No room for pride between man and man.

Nothing to lose by rags or by dirt,
More often something is gained instead;
Nothing to fear but bodily hurt,
Nothing to hope for save daily bread.

But respectable poor have all to lose;
For the world to know, means loss and shame;
They’d rather die, if they had to choose;
They cling as for life to place and name,—

Cling, and pretend, and conceal and hide;
Never an hour but its terror bears;
Terror which slinks like guilt to one side,
And often a guiltier countenance wears.

“Respectably dressed” to the last; ay, last!
Last dollar, last crust, last proud pulse-beat;
Starved body, starved soul, hope dead and past:
What wonder that any death looks sweet?

“An unknown man, respectably dressed,”
That was all that the record said.
When will the question let us rest,—
Is it fault of ours that the man was dead?
_Helen Jackson._

“BAY BILLY.”

You may talk of horses of renown,
What Goldsmith Maid has done,
How Dexter cut the seconds down,
And Fellowcraft’s great run:
Would you hear about a horse that once
A mighty battle won?

’Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg,—
Perhaps the day you reck,—
Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine,
Kept Early’s men in check.
Just where Wade Hampton boomed away,
The fight went neck and neck.

All day we held the weaker wing,
And held it with a will;
Five several stubborn times we charged
The battery on the hill,
And five times beaten back, re-formed,
And kept our columns still.

At last from out the centre fight
Spurred up a general’s aide;
“That battery _must_ silenced be!”
He cried as past he sped.
Our colonel simply touched his cap,
And then, with measured tread,—

To lead the crouching line once more
The grand old fellow came;
No wounded man but raised his head,
And strove to gasp his name,
And those who could not speak or stir
“God blessed him” just the same.

For he was all the world to us,—
That hero gray and grim;
Right well he knew that fearful slope
We’d climb with none but him,
Though while his white head led the way
We’d charge hell’s portals in.

This time we were not half way up,
When, midst the storm of shell,
Our leader, with his sword upraised,
Beneath our bayonets fell;
And as we bore him back, the foe
Set up a joyous yell.

Our hearts went with him. Back we swept,
And when the bugle said,
“Up, charge again!” no man was there
But hung his dogged head.
“We’ve no one left to lead us now,”
The sullen soldiers said.

Just then, before the laggard line
The colonel’s horse we spied,—
Bay Billy, with his trappings on,
His nostril swelling wide,
As though still on his gallant back
The master sat astride.

Right royally he took the place
That was of old his wont,
And with a neigh that seemed to say
Above the battle’s brunt,
“How can the Twenty-second charge
If I am not in front?”

Like statues we stood rooted there,
And gazed a little space:
Above that floating mane we missed
The dear familiar face;
But we saw Bay Billy’s eye of fire,
And it gave us heart of grace.

No bugle-call could rouse us all
As that brave sight had done.
Down all the battered
line we felt
A lightning impulse run:
Up, up the hill we followed Bill,
And captured every gun!

And when upon the conquered height
Died out the battle’s hum,
Vainly ’mid living and the dead
We sought our leader dumb;
It seemed as if a spectre steed
To win that day had come.

And then the dusk and dew of night
Fell softly o’er the plain,
As though o’er man’s dread work of death
The angels wept again,
And drew night’s curtain gently round
A thousand beds of pain.

All night the surgeons’ torches went
The ghastly rows between;
All night with solemn step I paced
The torn and bloody green:
But who that fought in the big war
Such dread sights has not seen?

At last the morning broke. The lark
Sang in the merry skies
As if to e’en the sleepers there
It bade, Wake, and arise!
Though naught but that last trump of all
Could ope their heavy eyes.

And then once more, with banners gay,
Stretched out the long brigade;
Trimly upon the furrowed field
The troops stood on parade,
And bravely ’mid the ranks were closed
The gaps the fight had made.

Not half the Twenty-second’s men
Were in that place that morn,
And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon
Stood six brave fellows on,
Now touched my elbow in the ranks,
For all between were gone.

Ah! who forgets that dreary hour
When, as with misty eyes,
To call the old familiar roll
The solemn sergeant tries,
One feels that thumping of the heart
As no prompt voice replies?

And as in faltering tone and slow
The last few names were said,
Across the field some missing horse
Toiled up with weary tread.
It caught the sergeant’s eye, and quick
Bay Billy’s name was read.

Yes! there the old bay hero stood,
All safe from battle’s harms;
And ere an order could be heard,
Or the bugle’s quick alarms,
Down all the front, from end to end,
The troops presented arms!

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth
Could still our mighty cheer;
And ever from that famous day,
When rang the roll-call clear,
Bay Billy’s name was read, and then
The whole line answered “Here!”
_Frank H. Gassaway._

HIRING HELP.

CHARACTERS.—MRS. MERVIN;
EMMA, _her daughter_;
BRIDGET ROONEY;
NORAH MCCARTY;
ELLEN FLYNN;
JOANNA O’NEIL;
ANGELINA SIMPER;
MARY AMES.

SCENE.—MRS. MERVIN’S _Sitting-room_.

_Emma._ Well, mother, as our advertisement appeared in the paper last evening, I suppose we may expect any amount of answers in the shape of Irish girls.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Quite likely; and I must confess I dread the ordeal. It is better, however, to advertise, and have the girls call at the house, than to seek them at the intelligence office.

_Emma._ Oh, yes, indeed! I made a vow the last time you sent me there for a girl, that if I could possibly help it I would never enter such a place again.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Well, I hope our present plan will be successful, and we shall be fortunate enough to secure a good girl. If we had less company, and our family were not so large, we would try to do the work together, and get along without help.

_Emma._ I wish we might, mother. I have often felt, after the disorderly reign of some tyrannical Bridget, that I would like to banish them all from whence they came, and wield the kitchen sceptre alone. (_Bell rings._) There comes number one, I’ll warrant.

_Enter_ BRIDGET ROONEY.

_Bridget._ The top of the mornin’ to ye, ma’am; and sure is yer name Mervin?

_Mrs. Mervin._ It is; and I suppose you have come to answer my advertisement for a girl.

_Bridget._ Indade I have, ma’am. Is it a cook ye would be afther wantin’?

_Mrs. Mervin._ I wish a girl to do general housework, and of course that includes a knowledge of plain cooking. Would you like such a place?

_Bridget._ And sure I can’t tell, ma’am, till I ax ye a few questions, and finds out the characther of the place intirely. What wages do ye give?

_Mrs. Mervin._ Three dollars.

_Bridget._ And how many have ye in the family, ma’am?

_Mrs. Mervin._ Seven persons.

_Bridget._ Well, indade, and if ever I heard the like! Sivin persons, and only three dollars wages! Shure me cousin, Kate Murphy, gits four dollars, and there’s only three in the house. I’ll come for no three dollars, unless yer house has all the modern convainyences. Do ye have gas in the kitchen and girl’s room?

_Mrs. Mervin._ We have gas in the kitchen, but we do not think it necessary in the girl’s sleeping-room.

_Bridget._ And, faith, it’s as much wanted there as anywhere. A poor girl doesn’t want to be groping about with a nasty kerosene-lamp. How much time in a week do you give a girl to herself, ma’am?

_Mrs. Mervin._ One afternoon and evening a week. I believe that is a general rule.

_Bridget._ It’s not a rule I goes by, ma’am. I wants two afternoons a week, and every evenin’ besides, and I’m used to have my friends come whenever I like.

_Mrs. Mervin._ I see you wouldn’t suit me at all, so you had better not remain here any longer. I don’t intend to pay a girl wages, and give her half her time besides.

_Bridget._ And shure yer no lady, ma’am; and I wouldn’t set fut in yer house if ye’d give me five dollars a week, bad luck to ye.

[_Exit_ BRIDGET.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Not a very promising specimen to begin with, surely.

_Emma._ I should think not, indeed. The idea of her asking four dollars a week, and wanting, as you said, nearly half her time! (_Bell rings._) There’s another. I shall find full employment in tending the door-bell, at this rate.

_Enter_ NORAH MCCARTY.

_Norah._ Are you the lady, ma’am, the paper said wanted a girl?

_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes, I advertised for one yesterday. Can you do general housework?

_Norah._ Faith I can, ma’am; it’s a gineral’s housework I’ve been doing, and I might have staid in the place foriver, only that herself was that fussy that niver a soul could plaze her.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Can you make good bread?

_Norah._ Good bread is it ye say? And indade I can make that same. I makes it with imtens, ma’am; and if it sours a bit, I puts a handful of salerathus into it, and it comes out of the oven as swate as a nut, and a fine color on it besides.

_Emma._ Dear me! I should think it might have a fine color with a handful of saleratus in it!

_Mrs. Mervin._ At what other place have you lived besides the one you mentioned?

_Norah._ Nowheres at all, ma’am; that’s the first place I wint when I came from the ould counthry.

_Mrs. Mervin._ How long did you live there, and what part of the work did you do?

_Norah._ Well, ma’am, I lived there three weeks, ’liven days, and a fortnight—barrin’ the two days that I staid out to take care of me cousin Mike; and I did the fine work, mostly, ma’am,—scrubbing, sifting ashes, and ’the likes of that. Do ye think ye would like to hire me, ma’am?

_Mrs. Mervin._ I guess not. I am afraid you haven’t had experience enough to do my work properly.

_Norah._ Well, ma’am, if that’s any thing I could buy at the store, I would be willing to spend a thrifle to get some, for the sake of livin’ wid ye.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Experience in housework cannot be bought at the stores; so you had better look somewhere else for a place.

[_Exit_ NORAH.

_Emma._ Well, mother, did you ever hear of such stupidity before?

_Mrs. Mervin._ She’s the greenest specimen I’ve seen yet. I wonder who will come next? (_Bell rings._)

_Emma._ We shall soon see.

_Enter_ ELLEN FLYNN.

_Ellen._ A fine day, ma’am. Is it yerself that wants a girl?

_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes, if I can find a good one; but I am sorry to say they seem to be growing very scarce.

_Ellen._ You are mistaken there, ma’am; it’s good places that’s gittin’ scarce. How big a family do ye have?

_Mrs. Mervin._ There are seven of us, and we of course have company occasionally.

_Ellen._ That’s too many intirely; but I s’pose with all thim ye keep two girls and a man besides.

_Mrs. Mervin._ No, we keep but one servant.

_Ellen._ Servint is it! Well, ma’am, that’s what I niver allows meself to be called. What sort of convainyences is there in the house? Is there a rocking-chair in the kitchen, where I can rest meself while the pot’s a-bilin’?

_Mrs. Mervin._ No, I don’t consider that a necessary article of kitchen furniture.

_Ellen._ We differs there, ma’am; I can’t do without a rocking-chair. I see you have a pianny. I s’pose ye wouldn’t mind if I learned to play on it afther me work is done—would ye?

_Mrs. Mervin._ I should object very strongly to giving a girl such a privilege.

_Ellen._ Well, ma’am, it’s gittin’ quite the fashion for the ladies that live out to play. Me cousin Kate Donnelly plays “St. Pathrick’s Day in the Mornin’,” and “Rory O’More,” illigant; and I’ve made up me mind I’ll live in no place agin where I can’t have the chance to play the pianny.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Then the quicker you look for such a place, the better. It isn’t worth while for me to spend any more time talking with you.

_Ellen._ Indade, it’s a very uncivil tongue ye have, ma’am; and it’s meself that ought to grumble for spendin’ me precious time talkin’ to the likes of you.

[_Exit_ ELLEN.

_Emma._ It grows worse and worse, mother! What are we coming to?

_Mrs. Mervin._ Dear me! I don’t know! I am fairly discouraged! (_Bell rings._)

_Enter_ JOANNA.

_Joanna._ Are ye afther wantin’ a girl, ma’am?

_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes; I want a good one.

_Joanna._ Faith, thin, it’s glad I am that my brother Pathrick read me the scrap in the paper last night, for I’m wantin’ a place.

_Mrs. Mervin._ What can you do?

_Joanna._ Well, thin, I can do any thing at all that ye likes. I washes beautiful; and me clothes has such a fine blue color on thim, when I takes thim in, it would do yer sowl good to see thim.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Oh, dear! I don’t like so much bluing in my clothes.

_Joanna._ Faith, thin, I’ll jist lave out the blue a few times, and they’ll be as fine a yaller as ye wish; any thing to suit ye, ma’am.

_Emma._ Can you do common cooking?

_Joanna._ I niver does any thing common, miss; all I cooks is in the fust style. I can make Meringo pies that would melt in your mouth, Charlotte Russians, and Blue Munge, too.

_Emma._ Indeed! you seem quite like an adept in cooking.

_Joanna._ I don’t know what an adipt is; but if you mean I’m a good cook, I am that. Ye ought to see the fine roast pig I cooked the other day; sich a handsome baste was niver set before on a gintleman’s table, I’ll warrant.

_Mrs. Mervin._ You seem to despise common cooking. I have very little else done in my family. We live quite plainly, and I hardly think you would suit me.

_Joanna._ Well, now, ma’am, we won’t let the cooking come betwixt us. I can cook plain, if I like; so, if ye plaze, I’d like to come and try.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Can you bring me a certificate of good character from the lady who last employed you?

_Joanna._ A stifkit! What’s that, shure?

_Mrs. Mervin._ A paper, stating what character you bear.

_Joanna._ Indade, ma’am, I niver carries my charactercher round in a dirty piece of paper, that’s liable to be torn up any day. I thinks more of meself than that.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Very well; I cannot take you, unless you can bring me such a paper.

_Joanna._ Faith, ye won’t have the chance; and I’m thinkin’ it’ll be a long time before ye gets suited. Ye’ll find no dacent girl will carry her charactercher loose in her hand.

[_Exit_ JOANNA.

_Emma._ Another verdant specimen. These interviews grow interesting. I’m beginning to enjoy them. I wonder who will come next? (_Bell rings._)

_Mrs. Mervin._ We shall soon see who has given the bell such a gentle pull.

_Enter_ ANGELINA SIMPER.

_Angelina._ Are you the lady who manifested her desire to secure an assistant in her family, by inserting an advertisement in “The Gazette” of last evening?

_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes; I advertised for a servant-girl. Do you wish such a situation?

_Angelina._ I might be induced, madam, to accept a position in your family for a sufficient consideration.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Are you familiar with housework?

_Angelina._ Yes, in a certain way. I am in the habit of idealizing and etherealizing every thing which I undertake. I think I have discovered the method of extracting the poetry from housework; and instead of regarding it as a wearisome drudgery, I make it a grand poem.

_Emma._ I think you must be an inventive genius if you can find any poetry in washing greasy dishes, or scrubbing kitchen floors.

_Angelina._ Ah, miss, there is poetry in every thing. I revel in it, morning, noon, and night. Its glorious beams brighten my pathway at every step of my earthly progress. I have written a volume of sweet verses; and if they can only be properly brought before the public, my name will be immortalized, and the poet’s laurels forever crown my brow. It is to gain a sufficient sum to publish this gem among poetical works, that I have decided, for a short time, to put in practice my ideal method of housekeeping.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Can you make bread, and do up shirts?

_Angelina._ Yes: I can insert the rising element in a liquid form into the snowy flour; or I can use those subtile powders that permeate the mass of doughy particles, and make them rise in comely proportions.

_Emma._ Indeed! but how about the shirts?

_Angelina._ Well, after bringing them in from their bath in the sunlight, I immerse them in starch of pearly whiteness, and after sufficient time has elapsed I press to their bosoms a hot iron. I am reminded by this that only through fiery trials we can be made to shine with becoming lustre ourselves.

_Mrs. Mervin._ I think you will have to find some other place in which to practise your fine ideas of housework. You soar quite too high for us.

_Angelina._ Adieu; this weary birdling seeks another nest.

[_Exit_ ANGELINA.

_Emma._ O, mother! I thought I should burst out laughing in her face. She is an escaped lunatic, I do believe.

_Mrs. Mervin._ I should think she was. (_Bell rings._) There’s another; this time an artist, perhaps. I’ll go straight to the office, and have that advertisement taken out.

_Enter_ MARY.

_Mary._ Is this Mrs. Mervin who advertised for a girl?

_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes, I am the lady. Do you know of any good girl?

_Mary._ I would like to get a place myself. I have worked in a shop since I left my home in the country, three years ago; but I find the confinement doesn’t agree with me, and I had rather do housework.

_Mrs. Mervin._ You understand it, then, I suppose.

_Mary._ Oh, yes! I am next to the oldest in a family of nine children, and my mother commenced teaching me to do housework almost as soon as I could go alone. As soon as the sister next me could take my place, I left home to see if I could earn something to help along. A man like my father, with a small farm and a large family of children, finds it rather hard to get along sometimes.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes, he must find it hard to feed and clothe so many, with so little ready money as farmers generally have. You are a dutiful daughter to endeavor to assist him what you can; but would your parents approve of your living out in the city?

_Mary._ Yes: ever since my side has ached with such constant sewing, mother has been urging me to live out; and I should have tried to get a place long before this, only I dreaded so much to go to an intelligence-office. When I saw your advertisement, I decided to apply here immediately.

_Mrs. Mervin._ I am very glad you did, for I should like to engage you without further delay. How soon can you come?

_Mary._ To-night, if you wish; my week is out at my boarding-place, and I shouldn’t care to commence another.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Very well, you can come, then, and I will give you three dollars a week. Will that be satisfactory?

_Mary._ Quite so: that is more than I clear some weeks now; and it will be such a relief to have done with so much sewing. Good-morning, ma’am. I’ll be here about five o’clock.

[_Exit_ MARY.

_Emma._ There, mother, see what has come by advertising in a respectable paper. I think you have secured a jewel,—so tidy and civil,—and I know by her looks she knows how to do every thing.

_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes, I am greatly pleased with her appearance; and how much more sensible in her to do housework than kill herself sewing in a shop! I hope the time will soon come when a great many more in her circumstances will go and do likewise.

_Mrs. S. E. Dawes._