Chapter VIII (2)

Mr. John Howard, editor and proprietor of the Weekly Chronicle, went upon the principle of paying nothing where nothing would pay, and paying as little as possible where he could get something for next to nothing. It was a fixed principle and confirmed practice with him, never to pay anything for contributions to the Chronicle. He considered that the great advantage that would accrue to an author from having his or her articles in his paper, would be ample remuneration. At the moment Will’s eye first fell upon him, he was reposing in a huge leathern arm-chair, in the corner of his sanctum. His proportions very much resembled an apoplectic bag of flour, surmounted by an apple. His head was ornamented with sparse spires of fiery red hair; on his cheeks, a pair of cream-coloured whiskers were feebly struggling into life; and sundry tufts of the same colour, under his chin, shadowed forth his editorial sympathy with the recent “Beard Movement.” Before him was a table of doubtful hue and architecture, laden with manuscripts, accepted, rejected, and under consideration; letters of all sizes, opened and unopened, prepaid and unpaid, saucy and silly, defiant and deprecatory. There was also an inkstand, crusted with dirt and cobwebs; a broken paper weight, pinning down some had money paid by distant subscribers, a camphine lamp with a broken pedestal, propped up by a directory on one side, and Walker’s Dictionary on the other; sundry stumps of cigars; a half eaten apple; a rind of an orange; a lady’s glove; and a box of bilious pills.

Will stepped before him, and made known his errand. Mr. John Howard looked at him with a portentious scowl, inspected him very much as he would a keg of doubtful mackerel, and then referred him to the foreman of the office, Mr. Jack Punch. Jack had been victimized, in the way of office boys, for an indefinite period with precocious city urchins, who smoked long nines, talked politics, discussed theatricals, and knew more of city haunts than the police themselves. Of course he lost no time in securing a boy to whose verdant feet the plough-soil was still clinging. Will’s business was to open the office at half-past six in the morning, sweep it out, make the fires, go to the post-office for letters and exchanges, wrap up papers for new subscribers, carry them to the post, and see that the mail was properly “got off.” To all these requirements, Will immediately subscribed.

On Will’s daily tramps to and from the office, he was obliged to pass Lithe and Co’s magnificent show window, where the choicest pictures and engravings were constantly exposed for sale. There he might be seen loitering, entranced and spell-bound, quite oblivious of the Chronicle, hour after hour, weaving bright visions—building air castles, with which his overseer, Mr. Jack Punch, had little sympathy. Yes; Will had at length found out what he was made for. He knew _now_ why he had lain under the trees, of a bright summer day, watching the fleecy clouds go sailing by, in such a dreamy rapture; why the whispering leaves, and waving fields of grain, and drooping branches of graceful trees, and the mirror-like beauty of the placid lake, reflecting a mimic heaven; why the undulating hills, and mist-wreathed valleys, with their wealth of leaf, and bud and blossom, filled his eyes with tears and his soul with untold joy, and why, when slumber sealed each weary lid under the cottage eaves, he stood alone, hushing his very breath, awe-struck, beneath the holy stars.

Poor Will, his occupation became so distasteful! Poor Will, winged for a “bird of paradise,” and forced to be a mole, burrowing under the earth, when he would fain try his new-found pinions! To Jack’s intense disgust, he soon detected Will drawing rude sketches on bits of paper, stray wrappers, and backs of letters; even the walls were “done in crayons,” by the same mischievous fingers. His vision was so filled “with the curved line of beauty,” that he was constantly committing the most egregious blunders. He misplaced the bundles of newspapers which he carried to the post-office; placing the “north” packages on the “south” table, the east on the north, the south on the east, &c.; mixing them up generally and indescribably and inextricably, so that the subscribers to the “Weekly Chronicle” did not receive their papers with that precision and regularity which is acknowledged to be desirable, particularly in small country places, where the blacksmith’s shop, the engine house, and “the newspaper” form a trio not to be despised by the simple-hearted primitive farmers.

Jack, whose private opinion it was that he should have been christened Job, being obliged to shoulder all the short-comings of his assistants, and being worked up to a pitch of frenzy by letters from incensed subscribers, which Mr. Howard constantly thrust in his face, very unceremoniously ejected Will from the premises, one morning, by a vigorous application of the toe of his boot.

The world was again a closed oyster to Will. How to open it? that was the question. Our hero thought the best place to consider the matter was at “Lithe & Co’s.” shop window. Just as he reached it, a gentleman passed out of the shop, followed by a lad bearing a small framed landscape. Perhaps the gentleman was an artist! Perhaps he could employ him in some way! Will resolved to follow him.

Up one street and down another, round corners and through squares—the gentleman’s long legs seemed to be shod with the famed seven-leagued boots. At length he stopped before the door of an unpretending looking building, and handing the lad who accompanied him a bit of money, he took from him the picture, and was just springing up the steps, when he lost his balance, and the picture was jerked violently from his hand, but only to be caught by the watchful Will, who restored it to its owner uninjured.

“Thank you, my boy,” said the gentleman, “you have done me a greater service than you think for;” at the same time offering him some money.

“No, I thank you,” said Will proudly. “I do not wish to be paid for it.”

“As you please, Master Independence,” replied the gentleman, laughing; “but is there no other way I can serve you?”

“Are you an artist?” asked Will.

The gentleman raised his eyebrows, with a comical air, and replied, “Well, sometimes I think I am; and then, again, I don’t know; but what if I were?”

“I should _so_ like to be an artist,” said Will, the quick flush mounting to his temples.

“You!” exclaimed the gentleman, taking a minute survey of Will’s nondescript _toute ensemble_. “Do you ever draw?”

“Sometimes,” replied Will, “when I can get a bit of charcoal, and a white wall. I was just kicked out of the Chronicle office for doing it.”

“Follow me,” said the gentleman, tapping him familiarly on the cheek.

Will needed no second invitation. Climbing one flight of stairs, he found himself in a small studio, lined on all sides by pictures; some finished and framed, others in various stages of progression. Pallets, brushes, and crayons, lay scattered round an easel; while in one corner was an artist’s lay figure, which, in the dim light of the apartment, Will mistook for the artist’s wife, whose presence he respectfully acknowledged by a profound bow, to the infinite amusement of his patron.

Mr. Lester was delighted with Will’s _naive_ criticisms on his pictures, and his profound reverence for art. A few days found him quite domesticated in his new quarters; and months passed by swift as a weaver’s shuttle, and found him as happy as a crowned prince; whether grinding colours for the artist, or watching the progress of his pencil, or picking up stray crumbs of knowledge from the lips of connoisseurs, who daily frequented the studio; and many a rough sketch did Will make in his little corner, that would have made them open their critical eyes wide with wonder.

* * * * *

“What a foolish match!” Was an engagement ever announced that did not call forth this remark, from some dissenting lip? Perhaps it _was_ a “foolish match.” Meta had no dower but her beauty, and Will had no capital but his pallet and easel. The gossips said she “might have done much better.” There was old Mr. Hill, whose head was snow white, but whose gold was as yellow and as plentiful as Meta’s bright ringlets; and Mr. Vesey, whose father made a clergyman of him, because he didn’t know enough to be a merchant; and Lawyer Givens, with his carrotty head and turn-up nose, and chin that might have been beat; and Falstaff-ian Captain Reef, who brought home such pretty China shawls and grass cloth dresses, and who had as many wives as a Grand Turk. Meta might have had any one of these by hoisting her little finger. Foolish Meta! money and misery in one scale, poverty and love in the other. Miserable little Meta! And yet she does not look so _very_ miserable, as she leans over her husband’s shoulder, and sees the landscape brighten on the canvas, or presses her rosy lips to his forehead, or arranges the fold of a curtain for the desired light and shade, or grinds his colours with her own dainty little fingers; no, she looks anything but miserable with those soft eyes so full of light, and that elastic step, and voice of music, that are inspiration to her artist husband. No; she thinks the “old masters” were fools to her young master, and she already sees the day when his studio will be crowded with connoisseurs and patrons, and his pictures bring him both fame and fortune; and then they will travel in foreign countries, and sleep under Italia’s soft blue skies, and see the Swiss glaciers, and the rose-wreathed homes of England, and the grim old chateaux of France, and perhaps even the Emperor himself. Who knows? Yes; and Will should feast his eyes on beauty, and they’d be as happy as if care and sorrow had never dimmed a bright eye with tears, since the seraph stood, with flaming sword, to guard the gate of Eden. Hopeful, happy, trusting Meta! the bird’s carol is not sweeter than yours;—and yet the archer takes his aim, and with broken wing it flutters to the ground.

Yes: Meta was an angel. Will said it a thousand times a day, and his eyes repeated it when his tongue was silent. Meta’s brow, and cheek, and lips, and tresses were multiplied indefinitely, in all his female heads. Her dimpled hand, he rounded arm, her plump shoulder, her slender foot, all served him for faultless models.

Life was so beautiful to him now; his employment so congenial, his heart so satisfied. It _must be_ that he should succeed. The very thought of failure—“but then, he _should not_ fail!” Poor Will! he had yet to learn that garrets are as often the graves as the nurseries of genius, and that native talent goes unrecognized until stamped with _foreign_ approbation. Happily—hopefully—heroically he toiled on; morning’s earliest beam, and day’s last lingering ray finding him busy at his easel. But, alas! as time passed, though patrons came not, creditors did; and one year after their marriage, Meta might have been seen stealthily conveying little parcels back and forth to a small shop in the neighbourhood, where employment was furnished for needy fingers. It required all her feminine tact and diplomacy to conceal from Will her little secret, or to hide the tell-tale blush, when he noticed the disappearance of her wedding ring, which now lay glittering in a neighbouring pawnbroker’s window; yet never for an instant, since the little wife first slept on Will’s heart, had she one misgiving that she had placed her happiness unalterably in his keeping.

Oh, inscrutable womanhood’! Pitiful as the heart of God, when the dark cloud of misfortune, or shame, bows the strong frame of manhood; merciless—vindictive—implacable as the Prince of Darkness, towards thy tempted, forsaken, and sorrowing sisters!

* * * * *

The quick eye of affection was not long in discovering Meta’s secret; and now every glance of love, every caress, every endearing tone of Meta’s, gave Will’s heart a sorrow-pang.

Meta! who had turned a deaf ear to richer lovers, to share _his_ heart and home; Meta! whoso beauty might grace a court, whoso life should be all sunshine: that Meta’s bright eyes should dim, her cheek pale, her step grow prematurely slow and faltering, for him!—the thought was torture.

* * * * *

“To-morrow, Will—you said to-morrow,” said Meta, hiding her tears on her husband’s shoulder; “the land of _gold_ is also the land of _graves_,” and she gazed mournfully into his face.

“Dear Meta,” said her husband, “do dot unman me with your tears; our parting will be brief, and I shall return to you with gold—gold! Meta; and you shall yet have a home worthy of you. Bear up, dear Meta—the sun will surely break through the cloud-rift. God bless and keep my darling wife.”

Poor little Meta! for hours she sat stupefied with sorrow, in the same spot where Will had left her. The sun shone cheerfully in at the little window of her new home, but its beams brought no warmth to Meta’s heart. The clinging clasp of Will’s arms was still about her neck: Will’s kiss was still warm upon her lips, and yet—_she was alone_.

She thought, with a shudder, of the treacherous sea; of the pestilence that walketh in darkness; of a sick-bed, on a foreign shore; of the added bitterness of the death pang, when the eye looks vainly for the _one loved face_; and bowing her face in her hands, she wept convulsively.

* * * * *

“Dear heart! Goodness alive!” said Meta’s landlady, peeping in at the door. “Don’t take on so; bless me, how long have you been married? you’re nothing better than a child _now_. Why didn’t you go to Californy with your husband? Where’s your folks?—whose picter is that? Ah! I see now, it is meant for you. But why didn’t you have on a gown, dear, instead of being wrapped up in them clouds? It makes you look like a spirit. Come now, don’t sit moping here; come down stairs and see me work; it will amuse you like. I’m going to make some brown bread. I dare say you never made a bit of brown bread in your life. I put a power of ingin in mine. I learned that in the country. I was brought up in the country. I hate city folks; they’ve no more heart than a sexton; much as ever they can stop frolicking long enough to bury one another. They’ll sleep, too, like so many tops, while the very next street is all of a blaze, and their poor destitute fellow-creatures are turned naked into the streets. They’ll plough right through a burying ground, if they take a notion, harrowing up dead folks, and _live_ ones, too, _I_ guess. And as to Sunday—what with Jews, and Frenchmen, and down Easters, and other foreigners, smoking and driving through the streets, ’tisn’t any Sunday at all. Well, I never knew what Sodom meant till I came to the city. Why Lot’s wife turned round to take a second look at it, is beyond me. Well, if you won’t come downstairs I must leave you, for I smell my bread burning; but do cheer up—you look as lonesome as a pigeon on a spout of a rainy day.”

A letter from the best beloved! How our eye lingers on the well-known characters. How we torture the words to extract hidden meanings. How tenderly we place it near the heart, and under the pillow. How lingeringly comes the daylight, when our waiting eyes would re-peruse what is already indelibly written on the heart!

Will’s voyage had been prosperous—his health was good—his hope and courage unabated. Meta’s eye sparkled, and her cheek flushed like a rose, as she pressed the letter again and again to her lips; but, after all, it was _only_ a letter, and time dragged _so_ heavily. Meta was weary of sewing, weary of reading, weary of watching endless pedestrians pass and repass beneath her window, and when _twilight_ came, with its deepening shadows—that hour so sweet to the happy, so fraught with gloom to the wretched—and Meta’s eye fell upon the little house opposite, and saw the little parlour lamp gleam like a beacon light for the absent husband, while the happy wife glided about with busy hands, and lightsome step, and when, at last, _he_ came, and the broken circle was complete, poor Meta turned away to weep.

Joy, Meta, joy! dry your tears! Will has been successful. Will is coming home. Even now the “Sea-Gull” ploughs the waves, with its precious living freight. Lucky Will! he _has_ “found gold,” but it was dug from “the mine” of the artist’s brain. Magical Will! the liquid eyes and graceful limbs of Senor Alvarez’s only daughter are reproduced on canvas, in all their glowing beauty, by your magic touch! The Senor is rich—the Senor is liberal—the Senor’s taste is as unimpeachable as his credit—the Senor has pronounced Will “a genius.” Other Senors hear it; other Senors have gold in plenty, and dark-eyed, graceful daughters, whose charms Will perpetuates, and yet _fails to see_, for _a sweeter face which comes between_.

Dry your tears, little Meta—smooth the neglected ringlets—don _his_ favourite robe, and listen with a flushed cheek, a beating heart, and a love-lit eye, for the long absent but well remembered footstep.

Ah! Meta, there _are_ meetings that o’erpay the pain of parting. But, dear Reader, you and I are _de trop_.

* * * * *

You should have seen how like a little brigand Will looked, with his bronzed face and fierce beard and moustache—so fierce that Meta was half afraid to jump into his arms; you should have seen Meta’s new home to know what a pretty little nest love and taste may weave for a cherished bird; you should have seen with what a Midas touch Will’s gold suddenly opened the eyes of people to his wonderful merit, as an artist; how “patrons” flocked in, now that he lived in a handsome house in Belgrave Square; how Mr. Jack Punch repented, with crocodile tears, that he had ever kicked him out of “the Chronicle office,” and how Will immortalized him on canvas, in the very act; not forgetting to give due prominence, in the foreground, to the figure of his philanthropic employer, Mr. John Howard, who, in the touching language of his Prospectus, always made it a point to “exalt virtue, however humble!”

TABITHA TOMPKINS’ SOLILOQUY.

Have I, Tabitha Tompkins, a right, to my share of fresh air uncontaminated? or have I not? I ask the question with my arms akimbo. I might as well say what I’ve got to say, pop-gun fashion, as to tiptoe round my subject, mincing and curtsying when I’m all ablaze with indignation.

I ask again: Have I a right to my share of fresh air uncontaminated? or have I not?

Do I go out for a walk? Every man I meet is a locomotive chimney. Smoke—smoke—smoke—smoke:—great, long tails of it following in their wake, while I dodge, and twist, and choke, trying to escape the coils of the stifling anaconda, till I’m black in the face. I, Tabitha Tompkins, whose grandfather was one of the “signers” of the Declaration of Independence! I feel seventy-six-y! I have borne it about as long as I can without damage to hooks and eyes.

If I try to escape it, by getting into an omnibus, there it is again! If it does not originate inside, some “gentleman” on the box or top wafts it into the windows. If I take refuge in a ferry-boat, I find “gentlemen requested not to smoke” (as usual) a dead letter,—no more regarded than is the law against gaming, or the Sunday liquor traffic. Do I go to a concert at Castle Garden, and step out on the balcony between the performances for a breath of fresh air?—myriads of lighted Havannas send me dizzy and staggering back into the concert room. Does a gentleman call to see me of an evening?—the instant he shakes his “ambrosial curls,” and gives “a nod,” I have to run for my vinaigrette.

Do I advertise for lodgings; and after much inspection of rooms and wear and tear of patience and gaiter boots, make a final selection? Do I emigrate with big trunk, and little trunk, and a whole nest of bandboxes? Do I get my rocking-chair, and work-table, and writing-desk, and pretty little lamp, all safely transported and longitudinized to my fancy? Do I, in a paradisaical state of mind (attendant upon said successful emigration) go to my closet some fine morning, and take down a pet dress?—asafœtida and onions! what an odour! All the “pachouli” and “new mown hay” in New York wouldn’t sweeten it. Six young men the other side of that closet, and all smokers!!! Betty, you may have that dress;—I wouldn’t touch it with a pair of tongs.

Do I lend a masculine friend my copy of Alexander Smith’s Poems?—can I ever touch it again till it has been through quarantine? Does he, by mistake, carry home my tippet in his pocket after a concert?—can I compute the hours it must hang dangling on the clothes line before it can be allowed to resume its place round my neck?

Do I go to church on Sunday, with a devout desire to attend to the sermon?—my next neighbour is a young man, apparently seated on a nettle cushion: he groans and fidgets, and fidgets and groans; crosses his feet and uncrosses them; kicks over the hassock; knocks down his cane; drops the hymn-book; and finally draws from his coat pocket a little case, takes out one cigar after another, transposes them, applies them to the end of his nose, and pats them affectionately; then he examines his watch; then frowns at the pulpit; then glancing at the door, draws a sigh long enough and strong enough to inflate a pair of bellows, or burst off a vest button.

With a dolorous whine this same young man deplores (in public) his inability to indulge in the luxury of a wife, “owing to the extravagant habits of the young ladies of the present day.” I take this occasion to submit to public inspection a little bit of paper found in the vest pocket of this fumigated, cork-screwed, pantalooned humbug, by his washerwoman:—

NEW YORK, October 1st, 1853.

MR. THADDEUS THEOPHILUS STUBBS,

TO JUAN FUMIGO, Dr.

To Cigars for Sept., 1853. Dols.
Cents.

Sept. 1—To 20 Trabucos, at 5c. 1 00

„ To 12 Riohondas, at 6d. 75

„ 3—To 12 Los Tres Castillos, at 6d. 75

„ To 12 La Nicotiana, at 6d. 75

„ 4—(Sunday—for Cigars for a party) 10 Palmettoes, 10
Esculapios, 12 La Sultanos, 12 El Crusados, 20 Norriegos,
16 L’Alhambros, at 4c. 3 20

„ 6—To 50 L’Ambrosias, at 4c. 2 00

„ 10—To 30 Cubanos, at 8c. 2 40

„ 12—To 50 Londres, at 4c. 2 00

„ 15—To 30 Jenny Linds (for concert party), at 8c. 2 40

„ 24—To 50 Figaros (for party to see Uncle Tom, at the
National), at 8c. 4 00

„ 26—To 100 Mencegaros (for party of country relations and
friends), at 2c. 2 00

„ 30—To 40 Imperial Regalias, at 1s. 5 00

—————

26 25

_Received Payment_——
(Mr. Stubbs is earnestly requested to call and settle the above at his
earliest convenience. J. F.)

Consistent Stubbs! But, then, his cigar bill is not receipted!

SOLILOQUY OF A HOUSEMAID.

Oh, dear, dear! Wonder if my mistress _ever_ thinks I am made of flesh and blood? Five times, within half an hour, I have trotted up stairs, to hand her things, that were only four feet from her rocking-chair. Then, there’s her son, Mr. George—it does seem to me, that a great able-bodied man like him, need n’t call a poor tired woman up four pair of stairs to ask “what’s the time of day?” Heigho!—its “_Sally_ do this,” and “_Sally_ do that,” till I wish I never had been baptized at all; and I might as well go farther back, while I am about it, and wish I had never been born.

Now, instead of ordering me round so like a dray horse, if they would only look up smiling-like, now and then; or ask me how my “rheumatiz” did; or say “Good morning, Sally;” or show some sort of interest in a fellow-cretur, I could pluck up a hit of heart to work for them. A kind word would ease the wheels of my treadmill amazingly, and would n’t cost _them_ anything, either.

Look at my clothes, all at sixes and sevens. I can’t get a minute to sew on a string or button, except at night; and then I’m so sleepy it is as much as ever I can find the way to bed; and what a bed it is, to be sure! Why, even the pigs are now and then allowed clean straw to sleep on; and as to bed-clothes, the less said about them the better; my old cloak serves for a blanket, and the sheets are as thin as a charity school soup, Well, well; one would n’t think it, to see all the fine glittering things down in the drawing-room. Master’s stud of horses, and Miss Clara’s diamond ear-rings, and mistresses rich dresses. I _try_ to think it is all right, but it is no use.

To-morrow is Sunday—“day of _rest_,” I believe they _call_ it. H-u-m-p-h!—more cooking to be done—more company—more confusion than on any other day in the week. If I own a soul I have not heard how to take care of it for many a long day. Wonder if my master and mistress calculate to pay me for _that_, if I lose it? It is a _question_ in my mind. Land of Goshen! I aint sure I’ve got a mind—there’s the bell again!

CRITICS.

“Bilious wretches, who abuse you because you write better than they.”

Slander and detraction! Even I, Fanny, know better than that. _I_ never knew an editor to nib his pen with a knife as sharp as his temper, and write a scathing criticism on a book, because the authoress had declined contributing to his paper. I never knew a man who had fitted himself to a promiscuous coat, cut out in merry mood by taper fingers, to seize his porcupine quill, under the agony of too tight a _self-inflicted_ fit, to annihilate the offender. I never saw the bottled-up hatred of years concentrated in a single venomous paragraph. I never heard of an unsuccessful masculine author, whose books were drugs in the literary market, speak with a sneer of successful literary feminity, and insinuate that it was by _accident_, not _genius_, that they hit the popular favour!

By the memory of “seventy-six,” No! Do you suppose a _man’s_ opinions are in the market—to be bought and sold to the highest bidder? Do you suppose he would laud a vapid book, because the fashionable authoress once laved his toadying temples with the baptism of upper-tendom? or, do you suppose he’d lash a poor, but self-reliant wretch, who had presumed to climb to the topmost round of Fame’s ladder, without _his_ royal permission or assistance, and in despite of his repeated attempts to discourage her? No—no—bless your simple soul; a man never stoops to do a mean thing. There never was a criticism yet, born of envy, or malice, or repulsed love, or disappointed ambition. No—no. Thank the gods, _I_ have a more exalted opinion of masculinity.

FORGETFUL HUSBANDS.

“There is a man out west so forgetful, that his wife has to put a
wafer on the end of her nose, that he may distinguish her from the
other ladies; but this does not prevent him from making occasional
mistakes.”

Take the wafer off your nose, my dear, and put it on your lips! Keep silence, and let Mr. Johnson go on “making his mistakes;” you cannot stop him, if you try; and if he has made up his mind to be near-sighted, all the guide-boards that you can set up will only drive him home the longest way round!

So trot your babies, smooth your ringlets, digest your dinner, and—agree to differ! Don’t call Mr. Johnson “my dear,” or he will have good reason to think you are going to quarrel with him! Look as pretty as a poppet; put on the dress he used to like, and help him to his favourite bit at table, with your accustomed grace, taking care not (?) to touch him _accidentally_ with your little fat hand when you are passing it. Ten to one he is on the marrow bones of his soul to you in less than a week, though tortures couldn’t wring a confession out of him. Then, if he’s worth the trouble, you are to take advantage of his silent penitence, and go every step of the way to meet him, for he will not approximate to you the width of a straw! If he has not frittered away all your love for him, this is easily done, my dear, and for one whole day after it he will feel grateful to you for sparing him the humiliation (?) of making an acknowledgment. How many times, my dear “Barkis,” you will be “willing” to go through all this depends upon several little circumstances in your history with which I am unacquainted.

SUMMER FRIENDS.

“If every pain and care we feel
Could burn upon our brow,
How many hearts would move to heal
That strive to crush us now.”

Don’t you believe it! They would run from you as if you had the plague. “Write your brow” with anything else but your “troubles,” if you do not wish to be left solus. You have no idea how “good people” will pity you when you tell your doleful ditty! They will “pray for you,” give you advice by the bushel, “feel for you”—everywhere but in their pocket-books; and wind up by telling you to “trust in Providence;” all of which you feel very much like replying, as the old lady did when she found herself spinning down hill in a wagon,—“I trusted in Providence till the tackling broke!” Now, listen to me. Just go to work, and hew out a path for yourself; get your head above water, and then snap your fingers in their pharisaical faces! Never ask a favour until you are drawing your last breath; and never forget one. “Write your troubles on your brow?” That man was either a knave, or, what is worse, a fool. I suppose he calls himself a poet; if he does, all I have to say is, it’s high time the city authorities took away his “license.”

HOW THE WIRES ARE PULLED:
OR,
WHAT PRINTER’S INK WILL DO.

“Isn’t it extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs, how Mr. Simpkins can always be dressed in the last tip-top fashion? Don’t you and I, and all the world know, that old Allen has a mortgage on his house, and that he never has a dollar by him longer than five minutes at a time. Isn’t it extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs?”

“Not at all—not at all—my dear,” said Mr. Stubbs, knocking the ashes from his Havana; “to an editor all things are possible;” and he unfolded the damp sheets of the _Family Gazette_, of which Mr. Simpkins was editor, and commenced reading aloud the following paragraph:—

“‘We yesterday had the gratification of visiting the celebrated establishment of the far-famed Inman & Co., Hatters, No. 172 Wideway. We pronounce their new style of spring hat, for lightness beauty, and durability, to be unrivalled; it is aptly designated the ‘Count D’Orsay hat.’ The gentlemanly and enterprising proprietors of the establishment are unwearied in their endeavours to please the public. There is a _je ne sais quoi_ about _their_ hats which can be found nowhere else in the city.’”

“Well, I don’t see,” said Mrs. Stubbs, “I——”

“Sh—! sh—! Mrs. Stubbs; don’t interrupt the court—here’s another:

“‘Every one should visit the extensive ware-rooms of Willcut and Co., Tailors, 59 Prince Albert Street. There is science wagging in the very tails of Mr. Willcut’s coats; in fact, he may be said to be the only tailor in the city who is a thorough _artist_. His pantaloons are the _knee_-plus ultra of shear-dom. Mr. Willcut has evidently made the anatomy of masculinity a study—hence the admirable result. The most casual observer, on noticing Mr. Willcut’s fine phrenological developments, would at once negative the possibility of his making a _faux pas_ on broadcloth.’

“Keep quiet, Mrs. Stubbs; listen:”

“‘The St. Lucifer Hotel is a palatial wonder; whether we consider the number of acres it covers, the splendour of its marble exterior, the sumptuousness of its drawing-rooms, or the more than Oriental luxuriousness of its sleeping apartments, the tapestry, mirrors and gilding of which remind one forcibly of the far-famed Tuileries. The host of the St. Lucifer is an Apollo in person, a Chesterfield in manners, and a Lucullus in _taste_; while those white-armed Houris, the female waiters, lap the soul in Elysium.’”

Mr. Stubbs lifted his spectacles to his forehead, crossed his legs, and nodded knowingly to Mrs. Stubbs.

“That’s the way it’s done, Mrs. Stubbs. That last notice paid his six months’ hotel bill at the St. Lucifer, including wine, cigars, and other little editorial perquisites. Do you want to know,” said Stubbs (resuming the paper), “how he gets his carriages repaired, and his horses shod for nothing, in the village where his country seat is located? This, now, is a regular stroke of genius. He does it by two words. In an account of his visit to the Sybil’s Cave, in which he says, ‘MY FRIEND, the blacksmith, and I soon found the spot,’ &c., (bah!). Then here is something that will interest you, my dear, on the other page of the Gazette. Mr. Simpkins has used up the dictionary in a half-column announcement of Miss Taffety (the milliner’s) ‘magnificent opening at —— street.’ Of course she made his wife a present of a new Paris bonnet.”

“Well, I never—” said the simple Mrs. Stubbs. “Goodness knows, if I had known all this before, I would have married an editor myself. Stubbs, why don’t _you_ set up a newspaper?”

“M-r-s. S-t-u-b-b-s!” said her husband, in an oracular tone, “to conduct a newspaper requires a degree of tact, enterprise, and ability to which Jotham Stubbs unfortunately is a stranger. The _Family Gazette_ or its founder is by no means a fair sample of our honourable newspapers, and their upright, intelligent, and respected editors. Great Cæsar!—no!” said Stubbs, rising from his chair, and bringing his hand down emphatically on his corduroys, “no more than you are a fair sample of feminine beauty, Mrs. Stubbs!”

WHO WOULD BE THE LAST MAN?

“Fanny Fern says, ‘If there were but one woman in the world, the men
would have a terrible time.’ Fanny is right; but we would ask her what
kind of a time the _women_ would have if there were but _one man_ in
existence?”

What kind of time would they have? Why, of course no grass would grow under their slippers! The “Wars of the Roses,” the battles of Waterloo and Bunker Hill would be a farce to it. Black eyes would be the rage, and both caps and characters would be torn to tatters. I imagine it would not be much of a millenium, either to the moving cause of the disturbance. He would be as crazy as a fly in a drum, or as dizzy as a bee in a ten-acre lot of honeysuckles, uncertain where to alight. He’d roll his bewildered eyes from one exquisite organization to another, and frantically and diplomatically exclaim—“How happy could I be with either, were t’ other dear charmer away!”

“What kind of time would the women have, were there only one man in the world?”

What kind of time would they have? What is that to _me_? They might “take their own time,” every “Miss Lucy” of them, for all _I_ should care; and so might the said man himself; for with me, the limited supply would not increase the value of the article.

“ONLY A COUSIN.”

How the rain patters against the windows of your office! How sombre, and gloomy, and cheerless it looks there! Your little office-boy looks more like an imp of darkness than anything else, as he sits crouched in the corner, with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands.

You button your overcoat tight to your chin, cut possible clients, and run over to see your cousin Kitty. Ah! that is worth while! A bright, blazing fire; sofa wheeled up to it, and Kitty sitting there, looking so charming in her pretty _negligé_. She looks up sweetly and tranquilly, and says: “Now, that’s a good Harry; sit down by me and be agreeable.”

Well, you “sit down,” (just as close as you like, too!) tell her all the down-town male gossip; consult her confidentially about trimming your whiskers; and desire her candid, unbiased opinion about the propriety and feasibility, with the help of some Macassar, of _coaxing out_ a moustache! Then you make a foray into her work-basket, tangling spools most unmercifully, and reading over all the choice hits of poetry that women are so fond of clipping from the newspapers. Then you both go into the china closet, and she gets you a tempting little luncheon; and you grow suddenly merry, and have a contest which shall make the worst pun; you earn for yourself a boxed ear, and are obliged, in self-defence, to imprison the offending hand. Your aunt comes in; let her come! are not you and Kitty cousins?

There’s a ring at the door, and Mr. Frank —— is announced. You say, “Unmitigated puppy!” and begin a vehement discussion with your aunt, about anything that comes handy; but that don’t prevent you from seeing and hearing all that goes on at the other side of the room. Your aunt is very oblivious, and wouldn’t mind it if you occasionally lost the thread of your discourse. Kitty is the least bit of a coquette! and her conversation is very provocative, racy and sparkling. You privately determine to read her a lecture upon it, as soon as practicable.

It seems as though Mr. Frank —— never would go. Upon his exit, Kitty informs you that she is going to Madame ——’s concert with him. You look serious, and tell her you “should be very sorry to see a cousin of yours enter a concert room with such a brainless fop.” Kitty tosses her curls, pats you on the arm, and says, “_Jealous_, hey?” You turn on your heel, and, lighting a cigar, bid her “good morning,” and for a little eternity of a week you never go near her. Meantime, your gentleman-friends tell you how “divine” your little cousin looked at the concert.

You are in a very bad humour; cigars are no sedative—newspapers neither. You crowd your beaver down over your eyes and start for your office. On the way you meet Kitty! Hebe! how bright and fresh she looks! and what an unmitigated brute you’ve been to treat her so! Take care! she knows what you are thinking about! Women are omniscient in such matters! So she peeps archly from beneath those long eye-lashes, and says, extending the tip of her little gloved hand—“Want to make up, Harry?”

There’s no resisting! That smile leads you, like a will-o’-the-wisp, anywhere! So you wait upon her home; nobody comes in, not even your respected aunt; and you never call her “cousin,” after that day; but no man living ever won such a darling little wife, as Kitty has promised to be to you, some bright morning.

THE CALM OF DEATH.

“The moon looks calmly down when man is dying,
The earth still holds her sway;
Flowers breathe their perfume, and the wind keeps sighing;
Naught seems to pause or stay.”

Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast—they’ve no more work to do; close the weary eyes—they’ve no more tears to shed; part the damp locks—there’s no more pain to bear. Closed is the ear alike to Love’s kind voice, and Calumny’s stinging whisper.

Oh! if in that stilled heart you have ruthlessly planted a thorn; if from that pleading eye you have carelessly turned away; if your loving glance, and kindly word, and clasping hand, have come—_all too late_—then God forgive you! No frown gathers on the marble brow as you gaze—no scorn curls the chiselled lip—no flush of wounded feeling mounts to the blue-vein temples.

God forgive you! for _your_ feet, too, must shrink appalled from death’s cold river—your faltering tongue ask, “Can this be death?”—your fading eye linger lovingly on the sunny earth—your clammy hand yield its last faint pressure—your sinking pulse give its last feeble flutter.

Oh, rapacious grave; yet another victim for thy voiceless keeping! What! no word or greeting from all thy household sleepers? No warm welcome from a sister’s loving lips? No throb of pleasure from the dear maternal bosom?

_Silent all!_

Oh, if these broken links were _never_ gathered up! If beyond Death’s swelling flood there were _no_ eternal shore! If for the struggling bark there were no port of peace! If athwart that lowering cloud sprang no bright bow of promise!

Alas for Love, if _this_ be all,
And _naught beyond_—oh earth!

MRS. ADOLPHUS SMITH SPORTING THE “BLUE STOCKING.”

Well, I think I’ll finish that story for the editor of the “Dutchman.” Let me see; where did I leave off? The setting sun was just gilding with his last ray—“Ma, I want some bread and molasses”—(yes, dear) gilding with his last ray the church spire—“Wife, where’s my Sunday pants?” (_Under the bed, dear_,) the church spire of Inverness, when a—“There’s nothing under the bed, dear, but your lace cap”—(Perhaps they are in the coal hod in the closet) when a horseman was seen approaching—“Ma’am, the _pertators_ is out; not one for dinner” (Take some turnips) approaching, covered with dust, and—“Wife! the baby has swallowed a button”—(_Reverse him_, dear—take him by the heels) and waving in his hand a banner, on which was written—“Ma! I’ve torn my pantaloons”—liberty or death! The inhabitants rushed _en masse_—“Wife! WILL you leave off scribbling?” (Don’t be disagreeable, Smith, I’m just getting inspired) to the public square, where De Begnis, who had been secretly—“Butcher wants to see you, ma’am”—secretly informed of the traitors’—“Forgot _which_ you said, ma’am, sausages or mutton chop”—movements, gave orders to fire; not less than twenty—My gracious! Smith, you haven’t been _reversing_ that child all this time? He’s as black as your coat; and that boy of YOURS has torn up the first sheet of my manuscript. There! it’s no use for a married woman to cultivate her intellect.—Smith, hand me those twins.

CECILE VRAY.

“Died, in ——, Cecile, wife of Mortimer Vray, artist. This lady died in
great destitution among strangers, and was frequently heard to say, ‘I
wish I were dead!’”

A brief paragraph, to chronicle a broken heart! Poor Cecile! We little thought of this, when conning our French tasks, your long raven ringlets twining lovingly with mine; or, when released from school drudgery, we sauntered through the fragrant woods, weaving rosy dreams of a bright future, which neither you nor I were to see.

I feel again your warm breath upon my cheek—the clasp of your clinging arms about my neck; and the whispered “Don’t forget me, Fanny,” from that most musical of voices.

Time rolled on, and oceans rolled between; then came a rumour of an “artist lover”—then a “bridal”—now the sad sequel!

Poor Cecile! Those dark eyes restlessly and vainly looking for some familiar face on which to rest, ere they closed for ever; that listening ear, tortured by strange footsteps—that fluttering sigh, breathed out on a strange bosom. Poor Cecile!

And _he_ (shame to tell) who won that loving heart but to trample it under foot, basks under Italy’s sunny skies, bound in flowery fetters, of a foreign syren’s weaving.

God rest thee, Cecile! Death never chilled a warmer heart; earth never pillowed a lovelier head; Heaven ne’er welcomed a sweeter spirit.

* * * * *

On foreign shores, from broken dreams, a guilty man shall start, as thy last sad, plaintive wail rings in his tortured ear, “_Would I were dead!_”

SAM SMITH’S SOLILOQUY.

By the beard of the Prophet! what a thing it is to be a bachelor! I wonder when this table was dusted last! I wonder how long since that mattress was turned, or that carpet swept, or what was the primeval colour of that ewer and wash-basin.

Christopher Columbus! how the frost curtains the windows; how dirge-like the wind moans; how like a great, white pall the snow covers the ground. Five times I’ve rung that bell for coal for this rickety old grate; but I might as well thump for admittance at the gate of Paradise.

And speaking of Paradise—Sam Smith, you must be married: you haven’t a button to your shirt, nor a shirt to your buttons either.

Wonder if women are such obstinate little monkeys to manage? Wonder if they must be bribed with a new bonnet every day to keep the peace? Wonder if you bring home a friend unexpectedly to dinner, if they always take to their bed with the sick headache? Wish there was any way of finding out but by experience. Well, Sam, you are a Napoleonic looking fellow: if _you_ can’t manage a woman, who can?

How I shall pet the little clipper. I’ll marry a blue-eyed woman; they are the most affectionate. She must not be too tall: a man’s wife shouldn’t _look down_ upon him. She must not know too much: the Furies take your pert, catamount-y, scribbling women, with a repartee always rolled up under their tongues. She mustn’t be over seventeen; but how to find that out, Sam, is the question: it is about as easy as to make an editor tell you the truth about his subscription list. She must be handsome—no, she mustn’t either. I should be as jealous as Blue Beard. All the corkscrew, pantalooned, perfumed popinjays would be ogling her. But then, again, there’s three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, and three times a day I must sit opposite that connubial face at the table. What’s to be done? Yes; she _must_ be handsome; that is as certain as that Louis Napoleon has a Jewish horror of _Ham_.

Wonder if wives are expensive articles? Wonder if their “little hands were ever made to scratch out husbands’ eyes?” Wonder if Caudle lectures are “all in your eye,” or—occasionally in your ear? Wonder if babies invariably prefer the night-time to cry?

To marry or not to marry, Sam? Whether ’tis better to go buttonless, and to shiver; or marry, and be always in hot water?

There’s Tom Hillot. Tom’s married. I was his groomsman. I would have given a small fortune to have been in his white satin vest—what with the music, and the roses, and the pretty little bridesmaid! Didn’t the bride look bewitching, with the rose-flush on her cheek and the tear on her eyelash? And how provokingly happy Tom looked, when he whirled off with her in the carriage to their new home; and what a pretty little home it was, to be sure. It is just a year to-day since they were married. I dined there yesterday. It strikes me that Tom don’t joke as much as he used in his bachelor days; and then he has a way, too, of leaving his sentences unfinished. And I noticed that his wife often touched his foot with her slipper under the table. What do you suppose she did that for? Just as I was buttoning up my coat to come away, I asked Tom if he would go up to Tammany Hall with me. He looked at his wife, and she said, “Oh, _go_ by all means, Mr. Hillot;” when Tom immediately declined. I don’t understand matrimonial tactics; but it seems to me he ought to have obliged her.

Do you know John Jones and his wife? (peculiar name that—“Jones!”) Well, they are _another_ happy couple. It is enough to make bachelor eyes turn green to see them. Mrs. Jones had been four times a widow when she married John. She knows the value of husbands. She takes precious good care of John. Before he goes to the office in the morning, she pops her head out the window to see if the weathercock indicates a surtout, spencer, cloak, or Tom and Jerry; this point settled, she follows him to the door, and calls him back to close his thorax button “for fear of quinsy.” Does a shower come up in the forenoon? She sends him clogs, India rubbers, an extra flannel shirt, and an oilcloth overall, and prepares two quarts of boiling ginger tea to administer on his arrival, to prevent the damp from “striking in.” If he helps himself to a second bit of turkey, she immediately removes it from his plate, and applying a handkerchief to her eyes, asks him “if he has the heart to make her for the fifth time a widow?” You can see, with half an eye, that John must be the happiest dog alive. I’d like to see the miscreant who dares to say he is not!

Certainly—matrimony is an invention of ——. Well, no matter who invented it. I’m going to try it. Where’s my blue coat with the bright brass buttons? The woman has yet to be born who can resist that; and my buff vest and neck-tie, too: may I be shot if I don’t offer them both to the little Widow Pardiggle this very night. “Pardiggle!” Phœbus! what a name for such a rose-bud. I’ll re-christen her by the euphonious name of Smith. She’ll _have_ me, of course. She wants a husband—I want a wife: there’s one point already on which we perfectly agree. I hate preliminaries. I suppose it is unnecessary for me to begin with the amatory alphabet. With a widow, I suppose you can skip the rudiments. Say what you’ve got to say in a fraction of a second. Women grow as mischievous as Satan if they think you are afraid of them. Do _I_ look as if _I_ were afraid? Just examine the growth of my whiskers. The Bearded Lady could n’t hold a candle to them (though I wonder she don’t to her own). _Afraid?_ h-m-m! I feel as if I could conquer Asia. What the mischief ails this cravat? It must be the cold that makes my hand tremble so. There—that’ll do: that’s quite an inspiration. Brummel himself couldn’t go beyond that. Now for the widow; bless her little round face! I’m immensely obliged to old Pardiggle for giving her a quit claim. I’ll make her as happy as a little robin. Do you think I’d bring a tear into her lovely blue eye? Do you think I’d sit after tea, with my back to her, and my feet upon the mantel, staring up the chimney for three hours together? Do you think I’d leave her blessed little side to dangle about oyster-saloons and theatres? Do I _look_ like a man to let a woman flatten her pretty little nose against the window-pane night after night, trying to see me reel up the street.

* * * * *

_Re_fused by a widow! Who ever heard of such a thing? Well; there’s one comfort: nobody’ll ever believe it. She is not so very pretty after all; her eyes are too small, and her hands are rough and red-dy:—not so very _ready_ either, confound the gipsy. What amazing pretty shoulders she has! Well, who cares?

“If she be not fair for me,
What care I how fair she be?”

Ten to one she’d have set up that wretch of a Pardiggle for my model. Who wants to be Pardiggle second? I am glad she didn’t have me. I mean—I’m glad I didn’t have _her_!

LOVE AND DUTY.

The moon looked down upon no fairer sight than Effie May, as she lay sleeping on her little couch that fair summer night. So thought her mother, as she glided gently in, to give her a silent, good-night blessing. The bright flush of youth and hope was on her cheek. Her long dark hair lay in masses about her neck and shoulders; a smile played upon the red lips, and the mother bent low to catch the indistinct murmur. She starts at the whispered name, as if a serpent had stung her; and as the little snowy hand is tossed restlessly upon the coverlet, she sees, glittering in the moonbeams, on that childish finger, the golden signet of betrothal. Sleep sought in vain to woo the eyes of the mother that night. Reproachfully she asked herself “How could I have been so blind? (but then Effie has seemed to me only a child!) But he! Oh, no; the _wine-cup_ will be my child’s rival; it must not be.” Effie was wilful, and Mrs. May knew she must be cautiously dealt with; but she knew, also, that no mother need despair who possesses the affection of her child.