Chapter VIII (7)

“There’s no calculating the difference between men and women boarders. Here’s Mr. Jones, been in my house these six months, and no more trouble to me than my gray kitten. If his bed is shook up once a week, and his coats, cravats, love-letters, cigars, and patent-leather boots left undisturbed in the middle of the floor, he is as contented as a pedagogue in vacation time.

“Take a woman to board, and (if it is perfectly convenient) she would like drapery instead of drop-curtains; she’d like the windows altered to open at the top, and a wardrobe for her flounced dresses, and a few more nails and another shelf in her closet, and a cricket to put her feet on, and a little rocking-chair, and a big looking-glass, and a pea-green shade for her gas-burner.

“She would like breakfast about ten minutes later than your usual hour; tea ten minutes earlier, and the gong, which shocks her nerves _so_, altogether dispensed with.

“She can’t drink coffee, because it is exhilarating; broma is too insipid, and chocolate too heavy. She don’t fancy cocoa. ‘English breakfast tea’ is the only beverage which agrees with her delicate spinster organization.

“She can’t digest a roast or a fried dish; she might _possibly_ peck at an egg, if it were boiled with one eye on the watch. Pastry she never eats, unless she knows from what dairy the butter came which enters into its composition. Every article of food prepared with butter, salt, pepper, mustard, vinegar, or oil; or bread that is made with yeast, soda, milk, or saleratus, she decidedly rejects.

“She is constantly washing out little duds of laces, collars, handkerchiefs, chemisettes and stockings, which she festoons up to the front windows, to dry; giving passers-by the impression that your house is occupied by a _blanchesseuse_;—then jerks the bell-wire for an hour or more, for relays of hot smoothing irons, to put the finishing stroke to her operations.

“She is often afflicted with interesting little colds and influenzas, requiring the immediate consolation of a dose of hot lemonade or ginger tea; choosing her time for these complaints when the kitchen fire has gone out and the servants are on a furlough. Oh! nobody knows, but those who’ve tried, how immensely troublesome women are! I’d rather have a whole regiment of men boarders. All you have to do is, to wind them up in the morning with a powerful cup of coffee, give them _carte-blanche_ to smoke, and a night-key, and your work is done.”

HENRY WARD BEECHER.

What a warm Sunday! and what a large church! I wonder if it will be half-filled! Empty pews are a sorry welcome to a pastor. Ah! no fear; here come the congregation in troops and families; now the capacious galleries are filled; every pew is crowded, and seats are being placed in the aisles.

The preacher rises. “What a young David!” Still, the “stone and sling” will do their execution. How simple, how child-like that prayer; and yet how eloquent, how fervent. How eagerly, as he names the text, the eye of each is riveted upon the preacher, as if to secure his individual portion of the heavenly manna.

Let us look around upon the audience. Do you see yonder gray-haired business man? Six days in the week, for many years, he has been Mammon’s most devoted worshipper. According to time-honoured custom, he has slept comfortably in his own pew each Sunday, lulled by the soft voice of the shepherd who “prophesieth smooth things.” One pleasant Sabbath chance (I would rather say an overruling Providence) led him here. He settles himself in his accustomed Sunday attitude; but sleep comes not at his bidding. He looks disturbed. The preacher is dwelling upon the permitted but fraudulent tricks of business men, and exposing plainly their turpitude in the sight of that God who holds “evenly the scales of justice.” As he proceeds, Conscience whispers to this aged listener, “Thou art the man!” He moves uneasily on his seat; an angry flush mounts to his temples. What right has that boy-preacher to question the integrity of men of such unblemished mercantile standing in the community as himself? He is not accustomed to such a spiritual probing knife. _His_ spiritual physician has always “healed the hurt of his people slightly.” He don’t like such plain talking, and sits the service out only from compulsion. But when he passes the church porch, he does not leave the sermon there, as usual. No. He goes home perplexed and thoughtful. Conscience sides with the preacher; self-interest tries to stifle its voice with the sneering whisper of “priest-craft.” Monday comes, and again he plunges into the maelstrom of business, and tries to tell the permitted lie with his usual _nonchalance_ to some ignorant customer, but his tongue falters, and performs its duty but awkwardly; a slight blush is perceptible upon his countenance; and the remainder of the week chronicles similar and repeated failures.

Again it is Sunday. He is not a church-member: he can stay at home, therefore, without fear of a canonical committee of Paul Prys to investigate the matter: he can look over his debt and credit list if he likes, without excommunication: he certainly will not put himself again in the way of that plain-spoken, stripling priest. The bells peal out, in musical tones, seemingly this summons: “Come up with us, and we will do you good.” By an irresistible impulse he finds himself again a listener. “Not that he _believes_ what that boy says!” Oh, no; but, somehow, he likes to listen to him, even though he attack that impregnable pride in which he has wrapped himself up as in a garment.

Now, why is this? Why is this church filled with such wayside listeners?

Why, but that all men—even the most worldly and unscrupulous—pay involuntary homage to earnestness, sincerity, independence and Christian boldness, in the “man of God?”

Why? Because they see that he stands in that sacred desk, not that his lips may be tamed and held in, with a silver bit and silken bridle: not that because preaching is his “trade,” and his hearers must receive their _quid pro quo_ once a week—no, they all see and feel that his _heart_ is in the work—that he _loves_ it—that he comes to them fresh from his closet, his face shining with the light of “the Mount,” as did Moses’.

The preacher is remarkable for fertility of imagination, for rare felicity of expression, for his keen perception of the complicated and mysterious workings of the human heart, and for the uncompromising boldness with which he utters his convictions. His earnestness of manner, vehemence of gesture and rapidity of utterance, are, at times, electrifying; impressing his hearers with the idea that language is too poor and meagre a medium for the rushing tide of his thoughts.

Upon the lavish beauty of earth, sea, and sky he has evidently gazed with the poet’s eye of rapture. He walks the green earth in no monk’s cowl or cassock. The tiniest blade of grass with its “drap o’ dew,” has thrilled him with strange delight. “God is love,” is written for him in brilliant letters on the arch of the rainbow. Beneath that black coat, his heart leaps like a happy child’s to the song of the birds and the tripping of the silver-footed stream, and goes up, in the dim old woods, with the fragrance of their myriad flowers, in grateful incense of praise, to Heaven.

God be thanked, that upon all these rich and rare natural gifts, “Holiness to the Lord” has been written. Would that the number of such gospel soldiers was “legion,” and that they might stand in the forefront of the hottest battle, wielding thus skilfully and unflinchingly the “Sword of the Spirit.”

AN OLD MAID’S DECISION.

“I can bear misfortune and poverty, and all the other ills of life, but
to be an _old maid_—to droop and wither, and wilt and die, like a
single pink—I can’t _endure_ it; and _what’s more, I won’t_!”

Now there’s an appeal that ought to touch some bachelor’s heart. There she is, a poor, lone spinster, in a nicely furnished room—sofa big enough for _two_; _two_ arm-chairs, _two_ bureaus, _two_ looking-glasses—everything hunting in couples except herself! I don’t wonder she’s frantic! She read in her childhood that “matches were made in Heaven,” and although she’s well aware there are some _Lucifer matches_, yet she has never had a chance to try either sort. She has heard that there “never was a soul created, but its twin was made somewhere,” and she’s a melancholy proof that ’tis a mocking lie. She gets tired of sewing—she can’t knit for ever on that eternal stocking—(besides, _that_ has a _fellow_ to it, and is only an aggravation to her feelings). She has read till her eyes are half blind—there’s nobody to agree with her if she likes the book, or argue the point with her if she don’t. If she goes out to walk, every woman she meets has her husband’s arm. To be sure, they are half of ’em ready to scratch each other’s eyes out; but that’s a little business matter between themselves. Suppose she feels devotional, and goes to evening lectures?—some ruffianly coward is sure to scare her to death on the way. If she takes a journey, she gets hustled and boxed round among cab-drivers, and porters, and baggage-masters; her bandbox gets knocked in, her trunk gets knocked off, and she’s landed at the wrong stopping-place. If she wants a load of wood, she has to pay twice as much as a man would, and then she gets cheated by the man that saws and splits it. She has to put her own money into the bank and get it out, hire her own pew, and wait upon herself into it. People tell her “husbands are often great plagues,” but she knows there are times when they are indispensable. She is very good looking, black hair and eyes, fine figure, sings and plays beautifully; but she “can’t be an old maid, and _what’s more_—SHE WON’T.”

FATHER TAYLOR, THE SAILOR’S PREACHER.

You have never heard FATHER TAYLOR, the Boston Seaman’s preacher? Well—you should go down to his church some Sunday. It is not at the court-end of the town. The urchins in the neighbourhood are guiltless of shoes or bonnets. You will see quite a sprinkling of “Police” at the corners. Green Erin, too, is well represented: with a dash of Africa—checked off with “dough faces.”

Let us go into the church: there are no stained-glass windows—no richly draperied pulpit—no luxurious seats to suggest a nap to your sleepy conscience. No odour of patchouli, or _nonpareil_, or _bouquet de violet_ will be wafted across your patrician nose. Your satin and broadcloth will fail to procure you the highest seat in the synagogue—they being properly reserved for the “old salts.”

Here they come! one after another, with horny palms and bronzed faces. It stirs my blood, like the sound of a trumpet, to see them. The seas they have crossed! the surging billows they have breasted! the lonely, dismal, weary nights they have kept watch!—the harpies in port who have assailed their generous sympathies! the sullen plash of the sheeted dead, in its vast ocean sepulchre!—what stirring thoughts and emotions do their weather-beaten faces call into play! God bless the sailor! Here they come; sure of a welcome—conscious that they are no intruders on aristocratic landsmen’s soil—sure that each added face will send a thrill of pleasure to the heart of the good old man, who folds them all, as one family, to his patriarchal bosom.

There he is! How reverently he drops on his knee, and utters that silent prayer. Now he is on his feet. With a quick motion he adjusts his spectacles, and says to the tardy tar doubtful of a berth, “Room here, brother;” pointing to a seat _in the pulpit_. Jack don’t know about _that_! He can climb the rigging when Boreas whistles his fiercest blast; he can swing into the long boat with a stout heart, when creaking timbers are parting beneath him: but to mount the _pulpit_!—Jack doubts his qualifications, and blushes through his mask of bronze. “Room enough brother!” again reassures him; and, with a little extra fumbling at his tarpaulin, and hitching at his waistband, he is soon as much at home as though he were on his vessel’s deck.

The hymn is read with a _heart-tone_. There is no mistaking either the poet’s meaning or the reader’s devotion. And now, if you have a “scientific musical ear” (which, thank heaven, I have not), you may criticise the singing, while I am not ashamed of the tears that steal down my face, as I mark the effect of good _Old Hundred_ (minus trills and flourishes) on Neptune’s honest, hearty, whole-souled sons.

—The text is announced. There follows no arrangement of dickeys, or bracelets, or eye-glasses. You forget your ledger and the fashions, the last prima donna, and that your neighbour is not one of the “upper ten,” as you fix your eye on that good old man, and are swept away from worldly moorings by the flowing tide of his simple, earnest eloquence. You marvel that these uttered truths of his never struck your thoughtless mind before. My pen fails to convey to you the play of expression on that earnest face—those emphatic gestures—the starting tear or the thrilling voice—but they all _tell_ on “Jack.”

And now an infant is presented for baptism. The pastor takes it on one arm. Oh, surely he is himself a father, else it would not be poised so gently. Now he holds it up, that all may view its dimpled beauty, and says, “Is there one here who doubts, should this child die to-day, its right among the blessed?” One murmured, spontaneous _No!_ bursts from Jacks’ lips, as the baptismal drops lave its sinless temples. Lovingly the little lamb is folded, with a kiss and a blessing, to the heart of the earthly shepherd, ere the maternal arms receive it.

Jack looks on and weeps! And how can he help weeping? _He_ was once as pure as that blessed innocent! His _mother_—the sod now covers her—often invoked heaven’s blessing on _her_ son; and well he remembers the touch of her gentle hand and the sound of her loving voice, as she murmured the imploring prayer for him: and how has her sailor boy redeemed his youthful promise? He dashes away his scalding tears, with his horny palm; but, please God, that Sabbath—that scene—shall be a talisman upon which memory shall ineffaceably inscribe,

“Go, and sin no more.”

SIGNS OF THE TIMES.

E-Q-U-I—equi, D-O-M-E—dome, “Equidome.” Betty, hand me my dictionary.

Well, now, who would have believed that I, Fanny Fern, would have tripped over a “stable?” That all comes of being “raised” where people persist in calling things by their right names. I’m very certain that it is useless for me to try to circumnavigate the globe on stilts. There’s the “Hippodrome!” I had but just digested that humbug: my tongue kinked all up trying to pronounce it; and then I couldn’t find out the meaning of it; for Webster didn’t inform me that it was a place where vicious horses broke the necks of vicious young girls for the amusement of vicious spectators.

“Jim Brown!” What a relief. I can understand that. I never saw Jim, but I’m positively certain that he’s a monosyllable on legs—crisp as a cucumber. Ah! here are some more suggestive signs.

“Robert Link—Bird Fancier.” I suggest that it be changed to Bob-o’ Link; in which opinion I shall probably be backed up by all musical people.

Here we are in Broadway junior, alias the “Bowery.” I don’t see but the silks, and satins, and dry-goods generally, are quite equal to those in Broadway; but, of course, Fashion turns her back upon them, for they are only half the price.

What have we here, in this shop window? What are all those silks, and delaines, and calicoes, ticketed up that way for?—“Superb,” “Tasty,” “Beautiful,” “Desirable,” “Cheap for 1_s._,” “Modest,” “Unique,” “Genteel,” “Grand,” “Gay!” It is very evident that Mr. Yardstick takes all women for fools, or else he has had a narrow escape from being one himself. There’s a poor, distracted gentleman in a milliner’s shop, trying to select a bonnet for his spouse. What a _non compos_! See him poise the airy nothings on his great clumsy hands! He is about as good a judge of bonnets as I am of patent ploughs. See him turn, in despairing bewilderment, from blue to pink, from pink to green, from green to crimson, from crimson to yellow. The little witch of a milliner sees his indecision, and resolves to make a _coup d’état_; so, perching one of the bonnets (blue as her eyes) on her rosy little face, she walks up sufficiently near to give him a magnetic shiver, and holding the strings coquettishly under her pretty little chin, says:

“Now, I’m sure, you can’t say _that_ isn’t pretty!”

Of course he can’t!

So, the bonnet is bought and band-boxed, and Jonathan (who is sold with the bonnet) takes it home to his wife, whose black face looks in it like an overcharged thunder-cloud set in a silver lining.

Saturday evening is a busy time in the Bowery. So many little things wanted at the close of the week. A pair of new shoes for Robert, a tippet for Sally, a pair of gloves for Johnny, and a stick of candy to bribe the baby to keep the peace while mamma goes to “meetin’” on Sunday. What a heap of people! What a job it must be to take the census in New York. Servant girls and their beaux, country folks and city folks, big boys and little boys, ladies and women, puppies and men! There’s a poor labouring man, with his market basket on one arm and his wife on the other. He knows that he can get his Sunday dinner cheaper by purchasing it late on Saturday night, when the butchers are not quite sure that their stock will “keep” till Monday. And then it is quite a treat for his wife, when little Johnny is asleep, to get out to catch a bit of fresh air, and a sight of the pretty things in the shop windows, even if she cannot have them; but the little feminine diplomatist knows that husbands always feel clever of a Saturday night, and that then’s the time “_just to stop and look_” at a new ribbon or collar.

See that party of country folks, going to the “National” to see “Uncle Tom.” Those pests, the bouquet sellers, are offering them their stereotyped, cabbage-looking bunches of flowers with,

“Please buy one for your lady, sir.”

Jonathan don’t understand dodging such appeals; beside, he would scorn to begrudge a “quarter” for _his lady_! So he buys the nuisance, and scraping out his hind foot, presents it, with a bow, to Araminta, who “walks on thrones” the remainder of the evening.

There’s a hand-organ, and a poor, tired little girl, sleepily playing the tambourine. All the little ragged urchins in the neighbourhood are grouped on that door-step, listening. The connoisseur might criticise the performance, but no Cathedral _Te Deum_ could be grander to that unsophisticated little audience. There is one little girl who, spite of her rags, is beautiful enough for a seraph. _Poor and beautiful!_ God help her.

WHOM DOES IT CONCERN?

“Stitch—stitch—stitch! Will this _never_ end?” said a young girl, leaning her head wearily against the casement, and dropping her small hands hopelessly in her lap. “Stitch—stitch—stitch! from dawn till dark, and yet I scarce keep soul and body together;” and she drew her thin shawl more closely over her shivering shoulders.

Her eye fell upon the great house opposite. There was comfort there, and luxury, too; for the rich satin curtains were looped gracefully away from the large windows; a black servant opens the hall door: see, there are statues and vases and pictures there: now two young girls trip lightly out upon the pavement, their lustrous silks, and nodding plumes, and jewelled bracelets glistening, and quivering, and sparkling in the bright sunlight. Now poising their silver-netted purses upon their daintily gloved fingers, they leap lightly into the carriage in waiting, and are whirled rapidly away.

That little seamstress is as fair as they: her eyes are as soft and blue; her limbs as lithe and graceful; her rich, brown hair folds as softly away over as fair a brow; her heart leaps, like theirs, to all that is bright and joyous; it craves love and sympathy, and companionship as much, and yet she must stitch—stitch—stitch—and droop under summer’s heat, and shiver under winter’s cold, and walk the earth with the skeleton starvation ever at her side, that costly pictures, and velvet carpets, and massive chandeliers, and gay tapestry, and gold and silver vessels may fill the house of her employer—that _his_ flaunting equipage may roll admired along the highway, and India’s fairest fabrics deck his purse-proud wife and daughters.

* * * * *

It was a busy scene, the ware-room of Simon Skinflint & Co. Garments of every hue, size, and pattern, were there exposed for sale. Piles of coarse clothing lay upon the counter, ready to be given out to the destitute, brow-beaten applicant who would make them for the smallest possible remuneration; piles of garments lay there, which such victims had already toiled into the long night to finish, ticketed to bring enormous profits into the pocket of their employer: groups of dapper clerks stood behind the counter, discussing, in a whisper, the pedestals of the last new _danseuse_—ogling the half-starved young girls who were crowding in for employment, and raising a blush on the cheek of humble innocence by the coarse joke, and free, libidinous gaze; while their master, Mr. Simon Skinflint, sat, rosy and rotund, before a bright Lehigh fire, rubbing his fat hands, building imaginary houses, and felicitating himself generally, on his far-reaching financial foresight.

“If you could but allow me a trifle more for my labour,” murmured a low voice at his side; “I have toiled hard all the week, and yet—”

“Young woman,” said Mr. Skinflint, pushing his chair several feet back, elevating his spectacles to his forehead, and drawing his satin vest down over his aldermanic proportions, “young woman, do you observe that crowd of persons besieging my door for employment? Perhaps you are not aware that we turn away scores of them every day, perhaps you don’t know that the farmers’ daughters, who are at a loss what to do long winter evenings, and want to earn a little dowry, will do our work for less than we pay you? But you feminine operatives don’t seem to have the least idea of trade. Competition is the soul of business, you see,” said Mr. Skinflint, rubbing his hands in a congratulatory manner. “Tut—tut—young woman; don’t quarrel with your bread and butter; however, it is a thing that don’t concern me at all; if you _won’t_ work, there are plenty who _will_,” and Mr. Skinflint drew out his gold repeater, and glanced at the door.

A look of hopeless misery settled over the young girl’s face, as she turned slowly away in the direction of home. _Home_ did I say? The word was a bitter mockery to poor Mary. She had a home once, where she and the little birds sang the live-long day: where flowers blossomed, and tall trees waved, and merry voices floated out on the fragrant air, and the golden sun went gorgeously down behind the far-off hills; where a mother’s loving breast was her pillow, and a father’s good-night blessing wooed her rosy slumbers. It was past now. They were all gone—father, mother, brother, sister. Some with the blue sea for a shifting monument; some sleeping dreamlessly in the little churchyard, where her infant footsteps strayed, Rank grass had o’ergrown the cottage gravel walks; weeds choked the flowers which dust-crumbled hands had planted; the brown moss had thatched over the cottage eaves, and still the little birds sang on as blithely as if Mary’s household gods had not been shivered.

Poor Mary! The world was dark and weary to her: the very stars, with their serene beauty, seemed to mock her misery. She reached her little room. Its narrow walls seemed to close about her like a tomb. She leaned her head wearily against the little window, and looked again at the great house opposite. How brightly, how cheerfully the lights glanced from the windows! How like fairies glided the young girls over the softly carpeted floors! How swiftly the carriages whirled to the door, with their gay visitors! Life was such a rosy dream to _them_—such a brooding nightmare to _her_! Despair laid its icy hand on her heart. Must she _always_ drink, unmixed, the cup of sorrow? Must she weep and sigh her youth away, while griping Avarice trampled on her heart-strings? She could not weep—nay, worse—she could not pray. Dark shadows came between her soul and heaven.

* * * * *

The little room is empty now. Mary toils there no longer. You will find her in the great house opposite: her dainty limbs clad in flowing silk; her slender fingers and dimpled arms glittering with gems: and among all that merry group, Mary’s laugh rings out the merriest. Surely—surely, this is better than to toil, weeping, through the long weary days in the little darkened room.

Is it, Mary?

* * * * *

There is a ring at the door of the great house. A woman glides modestly in; by her dress, she is a widow. She has opened a small school in the neighbourhood, and in the search for scholars has wandered in here. She looks about her. Her quick, womanly instinct sounds the alarm. She is not among the good and pure of her sex. But she does not scorn them. No; she looks upon their blighted beauty with a Christ-like pity; she says to herself, haply some word of mine may touch their hearts. So she says gently, “Pardon me, ladies, but I had hoped to find scholars here; you will forgive the intrusion, I know; for, though you are not mothers, you have all _had_ mothers.”

Why is Mary’s lip so ashen white? Why does she tremble from head to foot, as if smitten by the hand of God? Why do the hot tears stream through her jewelled fingers? Ah! Mary. That little dark room, with its toil, its gloom, its _innocence_, were Heaven’s own brightness now to your tortured spirit.

* * * * *

Pitilessly the slant rain rattled against the window panes: awnings creaked and flapped, and the street lamps flickered in the strong blast: full-freighted omnibuses rolled over the muddy pavements: stray pedestrians turned up their coat-collars, grasped their umbrellas more tightly, and made for the nearest port. A woman, half-blinded by the long hair which the fury of the wind had driven across her face, drenched to the skin with the pouring rain—shoeless, bonnetless, _homeless_, leans unsteadily against a lamp-post, and in the maudlin accents of intoxication curses the passers-by. A policeman’s strong grasp is laid upon her arm, and she is hurried, struggling, through the dripping streets, and pushed into the nearest “station-house.” Morning dawns upon the wretched, forsaken outcast. She sees it not. Upon those weary eyes only the resurrection morn shall dawn.

No more shall the stony-hearted shut, in her imploring face, the door of hope; no more shall gilded sin, with Judas smile, say, “Eat, drink, and be merry;” no more shall the professed followers of Him who said, “Neither do I condemn thee,” say to the guilt-stricken one, “Stand aside—for I am holier than thou.” No, none may tempt, none may scorn, none may taunt her more. A pauper’s grave shall hide poor Mary and her shame.

God speed the day when the Juggernaut wheels of Avarice shall no longer roll over woman’s dearest hopes; when thousands of doors, now closed, shall be opened for starving Virtue to earn her honest bread; when he who would coin her tears and groans to rear his palaces, shall become a hissing and a bye-word, wherever the sacred name of Mother shall be honoured.

“WHO LOVES A RAINY DAY?”

The bored editor; who, for one millennial day, in slippered feet, controls his arm-chair, exchanges, stove, and inkstand; who has time to hunt up delinquent subscribers; time to decipher hieroglyphical manuscripts; time to make a bonfire of bad poetry; time to kick out lozenge boys and image vendors; time to settle the long-standing quarrel between Nancy the type-setter, and Bill the foreman, and time to write complimentary letters to himself for publication in his own paper, and to get up a new humbug prospectus for the dear, confiding public.

Who loves a rainy day?

The little child of active limb, reprieved from bench, and book, and ferule; between whom and the wire-drawn phiz of grim propriety, those friendly drops have drawn a misty veil; who is now free to laugh, and jump, and shout, and ask the puzzling question—free to bask in the sunny smile of her, to whom no sorrow can be trivial that brings a cloud over that sunny face, or dims the brightness of that merry eye.

Who loves a rainy day?

The crazed clergyman, who can face a sheet of paper, uninterrupted by dyspeptic Deacon Jones, or fault-finding brother Grimes; or cautious Mr. Smith; or the afflicted Miss Zelia Zephyr, who, for several long years, has been “unable to find out the path of duty or the zealous old Lady Bunce, who hopes her pastor will throw light on the precise locality fixed upon in the future state for idiots, and those heathen who have never seen a missionary.

Who loves a rainy day?

The disgusted clerk, who, lost in the pages of some care-beguiling volume, forgets the petticoat destiny which relentlessly forces him to unfurl endless yards of tinsel lace and ribbon, for lounging dames, with empty brains and purses, whose “chief end” it seems to be to put him through an endless catechism.

Who loves a rainy day?

The tidy little housewife, who, in neat little breakfast-cap and dressing-gown, overlooks the short-comings of careless cook and house-maid; explores cupboards, cellars, pantries, and closets; disembowels old bags, old boxes, old barrels, old kegs, old firkins; who, with her own dainty hand, prepares the favourite morsel for the dear, absent, toiling husband, or, by the cheerful nursery fire, sews on the missing string or button, or sings to soothing slumbers a pair of violet eyes, whose witching counterpart once stole her girlish heart away.

Who loves a rainy day?

_I do!_ Let the rain fall; let the wind moan; let the leafless trees reach out their long attenuated fingers and tap against my casement; pile on the coal; wheel up the arm-chair; all hail loose ringlets and loose dressing-robe. Not a blessed son or daughter of Adam can get here to-day! Unlock the old writing-desk; overlook the old letters. There is a bunch tied with a ribbon blue as the eyes of the writer. Matrimony quenched their brightness long time ago.

Irish _help_ (!) and crying babies,
I grieve to say, are ’mong the may-be’s!

And here is a package written by a despairing Cœlebs—once intensely interested in the price of hemp and prussic acid; now the rotund and jolly owner of a princely house, a queenly wife, and six rollicksome responsibilities. Query; whether the faculty ever dissected a _man_ who had died of a “broken heart?”

Here is another package. Let the fire purify them; never say you _know_ your friend till his tombstone is over him.

What Solomon says, “handwriting is an index of character?” Give him the cap and bells, and show him those bold pen-marks. They were traced by no Di Vernon! Let me sketch the writer:—A blushing, smiling, timid, loving little fairy, as ever nestled near a true heart; with a step like the fall of a snow-flake, and a voice like the murmur of a brook in June. Poor little Katie! she lays her cheek now to a little cradle sleeper’s, and starts at the distant footstep, and trembles at the muttered curse, and reels under the brutal blow, and, woman-like—loves on!

And what have we here? A sixpence with a ribbon in it! Oh, those Saturday and Wednesday afternoons, with their hoarded store of nuts and candy—the broad, green meadow, with its fine old trees—the crazy old swing, and the fragrant tumble in the grass—the wreath of oak leaves, the bunch of wild violets, the fairy story book, the little blue jacket, the snowy shirt-collar, the curly, black head, with its soft, blue eyes. Oh, first love, sugar-candy, torn aprons, and kisses! where have ye flown?

What is this? Only a pressed flower; but it tells me of a shadowy wood—of a rippling brook—of a bird’s song—of a mossy seat—of whispered leaf-music—of dark, soul-lit eyes—of a voice sweet, and low, and thrilling—of a vow never broken till death chilled the lips that made it. Little need to look at the pictured face that lies beside me. It haunts me sleeping or waking. I shall see it again—life’s trials passed.

A CONSCIENTIOUS YOUNG MAN.

“There is no object in nature so beautiful as a conscientious young
man.”—_Exchange._

Well; I’ve seen the “Sea-Dog,” and Thackeray; and Tom Thumb and Kossuth; the “Bearded Lady,” and Father Matthew; the whistling Canary, and Camille Urso; the “white negro,” and Mrs. Stowe; “Chang and Eng,” and Jenny Lind; and Miss Bremer and Madame Sontag. I have been to the top of the State House, made the tour of the “Public Garden,” and crossed the “Frog Pond.” I’ve seen Theodore Parker, and a locomotive. I’ve ridden in an omnibus, heard a Fourth-of-July oration, and I once saw the sun rise; but I never, never never saw “a conscientious young man.”

If there is such an “organization” on the periphery of this globe, I should like to see him. If he _is_, _where_ is he? Who owns him? Where did they raise him? What does he feed on? For whom does he vote? On what political platform do his conscientious toes rest? Does he know the difference between a Whig and a Democrat? between a “Hunker” and a “Barn-burner?” between a “hard-shell” and a “soft-shell?” between a “uniform national currency” and a “sound constitutional currency?” Does he have chills or a fever when he sees a bonnet? Does he look at it out of the sides of his eyes, like a bashful, barn-yard bantam, or dare he not look at all? Does he show the “white feather,” or crow defiance? Does he “go to roost” at sun-down? and does he rest on an aristocratic perch? I’m all alive to see the specimen. My opera-glass is poised. Will he be at the World’s Fair? Might I be permitted to shake hands with, and congratulate him? I pause for a reply.

CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE.
NUMBER ONE.

“Each to his taste,” somebody says: so say I: so says Gotham. Look at that splendid house, with its massive door-way, its mammoth plate-glass windows, its tasteful conservatory, where the snowy Orange-blossom, and clustering Rose, and crimson Cactus, and regal Passion-flower, and fragrant Heliotrope breathe out their little day of sweetness. See that Gothic stable, with its faultless span of horses, and liveried coachman, and anti-republican carriage, whose coat of arms makes our National Eagle droop his fearless pinions. Then cast your eye on that tumble-down wooden grocery adjoining, sending up its reeking fumes of rum, onions, and salt fish, into patrician nostrils! Go where you will in New York, you see the same strong contrasts. Feast your eyes on beauty, and a skeleton startles you at its side. Lazarus sitteth ever at the Gate of Dives.

Here is a primary school: what a host of little ragged urchins are crowding in! Suppose I step in quietly among them. Now, they take their places in seats terraced off one above another, so that each little face is distinctly visible. What a pretty sight! and how Nature loves to compensate! sending beauty to the hovel, deformity to the hall. There’s a boy, now, in that ragged jacket, who is a study for an artist. See his broad, ample forehead; mark how his dark eyes glow: and that little girl at his side, whose chestnut curls droop so gracefully over her soft-fringed eyes and dimpled shoulders. And that dream-child in yonder corner, with blue-veined transparent temples, whose spiritual eyes even now can see that fadeless shore to which bright angels beckon him. Deal gently with him—he is passing away!

Here comes the teacher, brisk, angular, and sharp-voiced. Heaven pity the children! She’s a human icicle—pasteboard-y and proper! I already experience a mental shiver. Now she comes up and says (apologetically to my new satin cloak), “You see, madam, these are _only_ poor children.” The toadying creature! Lucky for her that I’m not “a committee.” Can’t her dull eyes recognise God’s image in lindsey-woolsey? Can she see no genius written on yonder broad forehead? No poetry slumbering in yonder sweet eyes? Did Franklin, Clay, and Webster study _their_ alphabet in silk and velvet? Now she hands me a book in which visitors’ names are inscribed, and requests me to write mine. Certainly. “Mrs. John Smith there it is. Hope she likes it as well as I do.

Speaking of names, I read on a sign yesterday that “Richard Haas:” to-day I saw, down street, that “John Haas.” I’m sure I’m glad of it. I congratulate both those enterprising gentlemen. There goes a baker’s cart, with “Ernest Flog-er” painted on the side. It is my impression that if you do it, Ernest, “_your_ cake will be dough;” 1854 being considered the millennium of “strong-minded women.” Here we are, almost to the Battery. “_Fanfernot_ & Dulac:” that must be a chain-lightening firm. Wonder if “Fanfernot” is the _silent_ partner?

Here’s a man distributing tracts. Now, if he hands me one, I’ll throw it down. See how meekly he picks it up, and hands me another. “That’s right, friend Colporteur. I only wanted to see if you were in earnest: glad to see you so well employed.”

“Yes Ma’am,” he says, much relieved; “sinners here in New York need waking up”—which sentiment I endorse, and advise him to call at the _N. Y. Tribune_ office.

Down comes the rain: had I taken my umbrella not a drop would have fallen. “I ’spect” I was born on a Friday; but as that can’t be helped now, I’ll step into that book-store till the shower is over. The owner politely gives me a chair, and then hands me, for my edification, the _last fashion-prints_! F-a-n-n-y F-e-r-n! can it be possible that you look so frivolous? Tracts and fashion-prints, both offered you in one forenoon: Wonder if there’s a second-hand drab Quaker bonnet anywhere that will subdue your “style?”

See that little minstrel in front of the store, staggering under the weight of a hand-organ. What a crowd of little beggar-boys surround him, petitioning “for _just one tune_.” Now, I wonder if the rough school that boy has been in, has hardened his heart? Has he grown prematurely worldly-wise and selfish? Will he turn, gruffly away from that penniless, Tom Thumb audience, or will he give them a _gratuitous_ tune? God be thanked, his childish heart yet beats warm and true under that tattered jacket. He smiles sweetly on the eager group, and strikes up “Lang Syne.” Other than mortal ears are listening! That deed, unnoticed by the hurrying Broadway throng, is noted by the Recording Angel. “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.”

Sunshine again! dripping awnings and sloppy pavements. There’s a man preaching an out-door temperance sermon: what a bungling piece of work he makes of it! If he would lend me that _pro tem_ barrel-pulpit, I’d astonish _him_, and take the feather out of “Miss Lucy Stone’s” bonnet.

Let us cross the Park. There’s an Irishman seated on the withered grass, with his spade beside him, leaning wearily against that leafless tree. I wonder is he ill? I must walk that way and speak to him. What a sudden change comes over his rough face! it looks quite beautiful. Why do his eyes kindle? Ah, I see: a woman approaches from yonder path; now she seats herself beside him on the grass, and drawing the cover from a small tin kettle, she bends over the steaming contents, and says with a smile that is a perfect heart-warmer, “_Dear_ Dennis!” Oh, what a wealth of love in those two simple words; what music in that voice! Who says human nature is _all_ depravity? Who says this earth is but a charnel-house of withered hopes? Who says the “Heart’s Ease” springs never from the rock cleft? Who says it is only on _patrician_ soil the finer feelings struggle into leaf, and bud and blossom? No—no—that humble, faithful creature has travelled weary miles with needful food, that “Dennis” may waste no unnecessary time from labour. And there they sit, side by side, happy and blessed in each other, deaf to the ceaseless tide of business and pleasure flowing past, blind to the supercilious gaze of the pompous _millionaire_, the curious stare of pampered beauty, the derisive laugh of “Young America,” and the little romances they have set my brain a-weaving! What a pretty episode amid all this Babel din! What a delicious little bit of nature amidst this fossil-hearted Gotham!

How true—how beautiful the words of Holy Writ! “Better is a dinner of herbs _where love is_, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.”

* * * * *

What an immensely tall man! he looks like a barber’s pole in those serpentine pants. Why does he make those gyrations? Why does he beckon that short man to his side? Well, I declare! everything comical comes to my net! He has taken out a slip of paper, and using the short man’s head for a writing-desk, is scribbling off some directions for a porter in waiting! The lamb-like non-resistance of the short man is only equalled by the cool impudence of the scribe! What a picture for Hogarth!

CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE.
NUMBER TWO.

The fashionables are yet yawning on their pillows. Nobody is abroad but the workies. So much the better. Omnibus drivers begin to pick up their early-breakfast customers. The dear little children, trustful and rosy, are hurrying by to school. Apple women are arranging their stalls, and slily polishing their fruit with an old stocking. The shopkeepers are placing their goods in the most tempting light, in the store windows; and bouquet vendors, with their delicious burdens, have already taken their stand on the saloon and hotel steps.

Here come that de-socialized class, the New York business men, with their hands thrust moodily into their coat pockets, their eyes buttoned fixedly down to the side-walk, and “the almighty dollar” written legibly all over them. If the automatons would but show _some_ sign of life; were it only by a whistle. I’m very sure the tune would be

“I know a—_Bank_!”

See that pretty little couple yonder, crouched upon the side-walk? What have you there, little ones? Five little, fat, roly-poly puppies, as I live, all heads and tails, curled up in that comical old basket! And you expect to get “a dollar a-piece” for them? Bless your dear little souls, Broadway is full of “puppies,” who never “bring” anything but odious cigar smoke, that ever I could find out. Puppies are at a discount, my darlings. Peanuts are a safer investment.

Here we are at Trinity Church. I doubt if human lips within those walls ever preached as eloquently as those century gravestones. How the sight of them involuntarily arrests the bounding footstep, and the half-developed plan of the scheming brain, and wakes up the slumbering immortal in our nature. How the eye turns a questioning glance from those moss-grown graves, inward—then upward to the soft, blue heavens above us. How for a brief moment the callous heart grows kindly, and we forget the mote in our brother’s eye, and cease to repulse the outspread palm of charity, and recognise the claims of a common brotherhood; and then how the sweeping tide comes rolling over us, and the clink of dollars and cents drowns “the still small voice;” and Eternity recedes, and Earth only seems tangible, and Mammon, and Avarice, and Folly rule the never returning hours.

Now glance over the churchyard yonder into the street below. Cholera and pestilence, what a sight! flanked on one side by the charnel-house, on the other by houses whose basements are groggeries and markets, and at whose every pane of glass may be seen a score of dirty faces; the middle of the street a quagmire of jelly-mud, four inches deep, on which are strewn, _ad infinitum_, decayed potatoes and cabbage stumps, old bones and bonnets, mouldy bread, salt fish, and dead kittens. That pussy-cat New York corporation should be put on a diet of peppered thunder and gunpowder tea, and harnessed to a comet for six months. I doubt if even then the old poppies would wake up.

Do you see that piece of antiquity playing the bagpipe? He is as much a fixture as your country cousin. There he sits, through heat and cold, squeezing out those horrible sounds with his skinny elbow, and keeping time with his nervous eyewinkers. He gets up his own programme, and is his own orchestra, door-keeper, and audience; nobody stops to listen, nobody fees him, nobody seems to enjoy it so hugely as himself.

Who talks about wooden nutmegs in the hearing of Gotham? Does a shower come up? Men start up as if by magic, with all-sized India rubbers for sale, and ragged little boys nudge your elbows to purchase “cheap cotton umbrellas.” Does the wind veer round south? A stack of palm-leaf fans takes the place of the umbrellas. Have you the misfortune to trip upon the side-walk? a box of Russia salve is immediately unlidded under your nose. Do you stop to arrange your gaiter boot? whole strings of boot-lacings are dangled before your astonished eyes. Do your loosened waistbands remind you of the dinner hour? before your door stands a man brandishing “patent carving knives,” warranted to dissever the toughest old rooster that ever crowed over a hen-harem.

Speaking of hens—see that menagerie, in one of the handsomest parts of Broadway, defaced by that blood and murder daub of a picture, representing every animal that ever flew or trotted into Noah’s ark, beside a few that the good old gentleman never undertook to perpetuate. See them lashing their tails, bristling their manes, ploughing the air and tossing high above their incensed horns, that distracted gory biped, whose every individual hair is made to stand on end with horror, and his coat-tail astonishingly to perpendicularize. Countrymen stand agape while pickpockets lighten them of their purses; innocent little children, with saucer eyes, shy to the further edge of the side-walk, and hurry home with an embryo nightmare in their frightened craniums. “Jonathan” pays his “quarter,” and is astonished to find upon entering a very tame collection of innocent beasts and beastesses, guiltless of any intention to growl, unless poked by the long pole of curiosity. Dissatisfied, he descends to the cellar, to see the elephant, who holds a sleepy levee, for all who feel inclined to pack his trunk with the apples and cakes, which a shrewd stall-keeping Yankee in the corner disinterestedly advises them to buy, “just to see how the critter eats.”

Well; two-headed calves, one-eyed buffaloes, skeleton ostriches, and miles of serpents, are every day matters; but yonder is an announcement that “Two Wild Men from Borneo” may be seen within. Now that interests me. “They have the faculty of speech, but are deficient in memory.” Bless me, you don’t mean to say that those little Hop-o’-my-Thumbs have the temerity to call themselves “_Men_?” little humbugs, pocket editions. But what pretty little limbs they have, and how they shiver in this cold climate, spite of the silk and India-rubber dress they wear under those little tights. “The youngest weighs only twenty-seven, the oldest thirty-four pounds;” so the keeper says, who, forming a circle, lays one hand on the head of each, and commences his stereotyped, menagerie exordium, oblivious of commas, colons, semicolons, periods, or breath; adding at the close, that the Wild Men will now shake hands with any child who may be present, but will _always bite an adult_. Nothing like a barrier to make femininity leap over. I’m bent upon having the first “adult” shake. The keeper says, “Better not, Ma’am” (showing a scar on his finger), “they bit that een-a-most to the bone.” Of course, snapping at masculinity is no proof to me of their unsusceptibility to feminine evangelization; on the contrary. So, taking a cautious patrol around the interesting little savages, I hold out my hand. Allah be praised! they take it, and my five digits still remain at the service of printers and publishers!

CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE.
NUMBER THREE.

What a never-ceasing bell-jingling, what a stampede of servants, what a continuous dumping down of big trunks; what transits, what exits, what a miniature world is a hotel! Panorama-like, the scene shifts each hour; your _vis-a-vis_ at breakfast, supping, ten to one, in the Rocky Mountains. How delightful your unconsciousness of what you are fore-ordained to eat for dinner; how _nonchalantly_ in the morning you handle tooth-brush and head-brush, certain of a cup of hot coffee whenever you see fit to make your advent. How scientifically your fire is made, without any unnecessary tattooing of shovel, tongs and poker. What a chain-lightning answer to your bell summons; how oblivious is “No. 14” of your existence; how indifferent is “No. 25” whether you sneeze six or seven times a day; how convenient are the newspapers and letter-stamps, obtainable at the clerk’s office; how digestible your food; how comfortable your bed, and how never-to-be-sufficiently-enjoyed the general let-aloneativeness.

Avaunt, ye lynx-eyed “private boarding-houses,” with your two slip-shod Irish servants; your leaden bread, leather pies, ancient fowls, bad gravies, omnium gatherum bread puddings, and salt fish, and cabbage-perfumed entries; your washing-day “hashes,” your ironing-day “stews,” and all your other “comforts of a home” (?) not _explicitly_ set forth in your advertisements.

Rat-tat, rat-tat-tat! what a fury that old gentleman seems to be in. Whoever occupies No. 40, must either be deaf or without nerves. Rat-tat! what an obstinate human; there he goes again! ah, now the door opens, and a harmless-looking clergyman glides past him, down the stairs. Too late—too late, papa,—the knot is tied; no use in making a fuss. Just see that pretty little bride, blushing, crying, and clinging to her boy-husband. Just remember the time, sir, when the “auld wife” at home made _you_ thrill to the toes of your boots; remember how perfectly oblivious you were of guide-boards or milestones, when you went to see her; you how you used to hug and kiss her little brother Jim, though he was the ugliest, mischievous est little snipe in Christendom; how you used to read books for hours upside down, and how you wondered what people meant by calling the moon “cold;” how you wound up your watch half-a-dozen times a-day, and hadn’t the slightest idea whether you were eating geese or grindstones for dinner; how affectionately you nodded to Mr. Brown, of whom her father bought his groceries; how complacently you sat out the minister’s seventh-lie by her side at church; how wolfy you felt if any other piece of broadcloth approached her; how devoutly you wished you were that little bit of blue ribbon round her throat; and how, one moonlight night, when she laid her head against your vest pattern, you——didn’t care a mint julep whether the tailor ever got paid for it or not! Now, just imagine her papa, stepping in and deliberately turning all _that_ cream to vinegar; wouldn’t _you_ have effervesced? Certainly.

See that little army of boots in the entry outside the doors. May I need a pair of spectacles, if one of their owners has a neat foot! No. 20 turns his toes in, No. 30 treads over at the side; No. 40 has a pedestal like an elephant. Stay!—there’s a pair now—Jupiter what a high instep! what a temper that man has! wonder if those! are married boots? Heaven help _Mrs._ Boots, when her husband finds a button missing! It strikes me that I should like to _mis-mate_ all those boots, and view, at a respectful distance, the young tornado in the entry, when the gong sounds!

Oh, you cunning little curly-headed, fairy-footed, dimple-limbed pet! Who is blessed enough to own you? Did you know, you little human blossom, that I was aunt to all the children in creation? Your eyes are as blue as the violets, and your little pouting lip might tempt a bee from a rose. Did mamma make you that dainty little kirtle? and papa find you that horsewhip?

“Papa is dead, and mamma is dead, too. Mamma can’t see Charley any more.”