BY D. W. BELISLE.
LEO.—This is one of the most clearly defined and brilliant constellations in the winter hemisphere, containing an unusual number of very bright stars. It is situated east of Cancer, and comes to the meridian the sixth of this month. This constellation contains ninety-five stars visible to the naked eye.
"Two splendid stars of highest dignity,Two of the second class the Lion boasts,And justly figures the fierce summer's rage."
"Two splendid stars of highest dignity,Two of the second class the Lion boasts,And justly figures the fierce summer's rage."
"Two splendid stars of highest dignity,Two of the second class the Lion boasts,And justly figures the fierce summer's rage."
"Two splendid stars of highest dignity,
Two of the second class the Lion boasts,
And justly figures the fierce summer's rage."
Five very bright stars in this constellation are grouped in the form of a sickle. Regulus, in the shoulder of Leo, is the lowest of this group, and forms the end of the handle in the sickle. It is the brightest star in the cluster, and is of great use to nautical men in determining their longitude at sea. Eta, a small glittering star, marks the other end of the handle, while Al Gieba Adhafera, Ras al Asad, and Lambda form the blade. Two small stars, at an equal distance from Lambda, form a small right-angled triangle. Denebola, in the brush of the tail, is a star of the first magnitude, and, with Zozma in the back, and Theta in the thigh, form a triangle whose vertex is Denebola.
According to Greek mythology, the Lion was one of the formidable animals killed by Hercules in the forests of Nemæa, and was placed by Jupiter in the heavens to commemorate the event. Egyptian mythologists claim the honor of having placed it there, asserting it was placed in the heavens to commemorate the haunting of the banks of the Nile during the heat of summer by these monsters, the river then being at its highest elevation.
LEO MINOR.—This constellation is of modern origin, occupying the space between Ursa Major and Leo Major. The stars in the cluster are of the third and fourth magnitude, with no particular interest attached to them. It comes to the meridian the 6th of April.
SEXTANT.—This is a small constellation south of Leo, and contains forty-one stars, all very small and unimportant, and comes to the meridian the 6th of April. This constellation is sometimes called Urania's Sextant, in honor of one of the muses who presided over Astronomy. Urania was daughter of Jupiter and Mnemosyne.
HYDRA.—This is an extraordinary constellation, winding through a vast space from east to west for more than one hundred degrees. It lies south of Cancer, Leo, and Virgo, and reaches from Canis Minor to Libra. It contains sixty stars, principally of the second, third, and fourth magnitudes. The head of Hydra may readily be distinguished by four bright stars south of Acubens, in the Crab. They form a rhomboidal figure. The three upper stars form a beautiful curve, and are too distinct and conspicuous to be forgotten when once seen. Alphard, twenty-three degrees south south-west of Regulus, is a very brilliant star of the second magnitude, andis in the heart of Hydra, and comes to the meridian twenty minutes before nine o'clock on the 1st of April. When the head of the Hydra is on the meridian, its other extremity is many degrees below the horizon, so that its whole length cannot be traced out in the heavens until its centre is on the meridian.
"Near the Equator rollsThe sparkling Hydra, proudly eminent,To drink the Galaxy's refulgent sea;Nearly a fourth of the encircling curveWhich girds the ecliptic his vast folds involve;Yet ten the number of his stars diffusedO'er the long track of his enormous spires;Chief beams his heart, sure of the second rank,But emulous to gain the first."
"Near the Equator rollsThe sparkling Hydra, proudly eminent,To drink the Galaxy's refulgent sea;Nearly a fourth of the encircling curveWhich girds the ecliptic his vast folds involve;Yet ten the number of his stars diffusedO'er the long track of his enormous spires;Chief beams his heart, sure of the second rank,But emulous to gain the first."
"Near the Equator rollsThe sparkling Hydra, proudly eminent,To drink the Galaxy's refulgent sea;Nearly a fourth of the encircling curveWhich girds the ecliptic his vast folds involve;Yet ten the number of his stars diffusedO'er the long track of his enormous spires;Chief beams his heart, sure of the second rank,But emulous to gain the first."
"Near the Equator rolls
The sparkling Hydra, proudly eminent,
To drink the Galaxy's refulgent sea;
Nearly a fourth of the encircling curve
Which girds the ecliptic his vast folds involve;
Yet ten the number of his stars diffused
O'er the long track of his enormous spires;
Chief beams his heart, sure of the second rank,
But emulous to gain the first."
According to mythology, the Hydra was a terrible monster that infested the Lake of Lerna, in the Peloponnesus. It was reported to have had a hundred heads, and, as soon as one of these was cut off, two grew in its place, unless the wound was stopped by fire.
"Art thou proportioned to the Hydra's length,Who, by his wounds, received augmented strength?He raised a hundred hissing heads in air;When one I lopped, up sprang a dreadful pair."
"Art thou proportioned to the Hydra's length,Who, by his wounds, received augmented strength?He raised a hundred hissing heads in air;When one I lopped, up sprang a dreadful pair."
"Art thou proportioned to the Hydra's length,Who, by his wounds, received augmented strength?He raised a hundred hissing heads in air;When one I lopped, up sprang a dreadful pair."
"Art thou proportioned to the Hydra's length,
Who, by his wounds, received augmented strength?
He raised a hundred hissing heads in air;
When one I lopped, up sprang a dreadful pair."
The formidable monster was at last destroyed by Hercules, with the assistance of Iolaus, and who afterwards, dipping his arrows in the gall of the Hydra, rendered every wound inflicted by them incurable and mortal.
THE CUP.—This small constellation lies south of the Lion, and rests upon the Hydra. Six of the principal stars form a crescent or semi-circle, opening to the west. The crescent of the Cup is so striking and clearly defined, when the moon is absent, that no description is necessary to point it out, as it is the only one of the kind in that part of the heavens.
COMETS.—These objects of extraordinary interest form a part in the economy of the solar system. Since the time when the presence of a comet was considered by nations to be the sure precursor of war, famine, and pestilence, up to the present period, these visitors have created much speculation and excitement; and, no longer ago than the fall of 1853, it was predicted by an eminent "professor" that one of these waifs in the heavens would come in collision with the earth, and destroy a portion of China. This, however, like many other pieces of mischief which had been predicted it would accomplish, failed, and the professor has retired from observation covered with the laurels won by his research.
A comet, so brilliant that it could be seen at noonday, made its appearance seventy-three years before the birth of our Saviour. This date was just after the death of Julius Cæsar, and by the Romans the comet was believed to be his metamorphosed soul, armed with fire and vengeance. This comet appeared again in 1106, and then resembled the sun in brightness, being of great size, and having an immense trail.
In 1456, a large comet made its appearance. The terror it created extended through all classes, and the belief was universal that the day of judgment was at hand. At this time, the Turks, with their victorious armies, seemed destined to overrun all Europe. This added to the gloom and terror. The people became regardless of the present, and anxious only for the future. To prepare the world for its expected doom, Pope Callixtus III. ordered the Ave Maria to be repeated three times instead of twice a day, and to it was added, "Lord, save us from the Devil, the Turk, and the Comet!" and thrice each day these obnoxious personages suffered excommunication. At length, the comet began to retire from eyes in which it found no favor, and the Turks retired to their own dominions.
The comet of 1680 was of the largest size, having a trail ninety-six millions of miles in length. Dawning science, however, robbed it of its terrors, assisted by the signal failure of its illustrious predecessor.
Such are many of the fantasies which these peculiar visitors have called up. The beautiful comet of 1811, the most splendid of modern times, was considered, even by many intelligent persons, as the harbinger of the war which was declared the spring following; and the remembrance will be fresh in the minds of many of an indefinite apprehension of some dreadful catastrophe, which pervaded both continents, in anticipation of Bela's comet in 1832.
Comets, unlike the planets, observe no one direction in their orbits, but approach to and recede from their great centre of attraction in every possible direction. Some seem to come up from immeasurable depths below the ecliptic, and, having doubled the heaven's mighty cape, again plunged downward with their fiery trains,
"On the long travel of a thousand years."
Again, they seem to come from the zenith of the universe, and, after doubling their perihelion about the sun, reascend far above human vision. Others, again, seem to be dashing through the solar system in every conceivable direction, apparently in an undisturbed path; others are known, however, to obey laws like those whichregulate planets. Nothing is known with certainty as to the composition of these bodies, although it is certain they contain very little matter, for they produce little or no effect on the motions of planets when passing near those bodies. Upon what errands they come, what regions they visit when they pass from view, what is the difference between them, the sun, and planets, and what is their mission in the economy of the universe, are questions often pondered over, but the solution of which is beyond the limited powers of human understanding.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "MISS BREMER'S VISIT TO COOPER'S LANDING," "GETTING INTO SOCIETY," "MUSTARD TO MIX," ETC. ETC.
"ISN'Tit perfect?" said young Mrs. Murden, drawing her husband towards a shop window as she herself made a halt in front of it. "I think it is the loveliest shade I ever saw, and that satin stripe gives it such an air so perfectly genteel!"
"What?" asked Mr. Murden, simply, roused from his calculation of percentage on certain articles just consigned to him. "It" was certainly an indefinite pronoun, with all that display of elegant silks, ribbons, laces, and embroideries, so skilfully arranged to attract the promenaders of Chestnut Street.
"Why, that silk. I've stopped to look at it twice this week."
"That blue and red plaid? Yes, it is very handsome; just the pattern of your woollen shawl, isn't it?"
"Plaids!" exclaimed Mrs. Murden, contemptuously. "Why, that's only a dollar silk; besides, everybody wears plaids—they'reso common!"
"Then a thing is not pretty when it's common?"
"Why, of course not. I heard Mrs. George Barker say yesterday that no real lady wore such gay colors on the street; that, in Paris, plain colors are all the rage. I mean that rich purple, with the thick satin stripe. It's perfect."
Young Mrs. Murden had thought the plaids the very height of fashion, until she overheard this conversation between Mrs. George Barker and her mother. Who should know what was stylish, if Mrs. George Barker did not, when she lived in a house with a marble front, had a coachman in livery, and the family arms, done in the best manner, on the panel of her crimson lined carriage?
People said she had made a mistake in the last, however; that the stately swan of the crest should have been a tailor's goose. But, then, these were people who had no carriage of their own, and were obliged to patronize omnibuses. No doubt, if they could have afforded it, the paternal awl and lapstone would have been transposed into a dagger and shield, in a similar manner; so their opinion is no manner of consequence.
Mrs. Murden had gone into Evans & Gilman's to "price," as she called it, the very plaid she now scorned—for her best silk was giving way—when she overheard its sentence pronounced by those red lips, with a shrug of the sable-caped shoulders of the fashionable lady. Mrs. Barker pronounced the purple "exceedingly stylish;" Mrs. Murden "caught the verdict as it fell;" and, from that moment, her affections were centred upon it.
Not that she had any claims to being stylish herself; on the contrary, her little home, in a far away cross street, was exceedingly plain; but the young wife had undeveloped aspirations towards a less humble sphere, shown by being, in some sort, a leader of the circle in which she visited. It was not large, or very select, but there were some well-educated, well-bred people, some very warm, true hearts, and, as the case will always be, others as empty-minded, selfish, and frivolous as if they were really in fashionable life. Mrs. Murden, as her husband sometimes noticed, had rather an inclination to court the latter party, as they dressed and furnished the most showily, and, in fact, to outvie them—a disposition which the far-sighted Mr. Murden dreaded not a little.
He was decidedly a domestic man, and, besides, as his wife often said, so her dress was put on properly, with a clean collar and undersleeves, he did not know half the time whether it was silk or calico. Indeed, he had brought quite a serious attack of pouting upon himself, by calling his wife's new green foulard a calico. You may be sure, he had entirely forgotten that purple silks were ever manufactured by the next day at dinner, when he was reminded of it by Mrs. Murden abruptly terminating a long fit of musing by the exclamation—
"I should be perfectly happy, if I had it."
Mr. Murden, foolish man, supposed at first that she meant a picture of the children, who were marvellously near of an age—two of them.
"Well, dear, when shall we take them down to Root's? Say the word." For Mr. Murden himself thought it a great pity that such remarkable beauty should be lost to the world. No doubt, Root would insist on a duplicate for his show-case.
"Root's! I was talking aboutthat silk, Mr. Murden. What has Root got to do with it, I'd like to know?" Mrs. Murden seemed inclined to help to tarts before the dessert was served.
"Oh!" And Mr. Murden resumed his carver, helping himself to a second cut of beef. "Bless my soul, how much women do think of dress! Who's going to have a new one?"
"It's high time I had, dear. Only think, we've been married three years next month, and I've only had one silk in that while."
"Why, you had one in the summer—that striped frock and cape."
"That's an India; we don't call these thin things anything. I mean a good, heavypoult de soie, like my mazarine blue I had when we were married. It's fairly gone now, careful as I have been. It's been turned and cleaned, and now it's so shabby I hate to put it on."
"I'm sure, you never look better in any dress you've got," insisted Mr. Murden, who had very pleasant associations connected with their early married life and the dress in question.
"Why, it's a perfect fringe around the bottom, and has two great stains on the skirt. What are you thinking of, John?"
"Well, well, I'll give it up. I like it, that's all. How much will a new one cost?"
Mrs. Murden, slightly diplomatic, could not present an estimate. Her husband had told her of a business loss when he came in; it was not a very favorable moment.
Wonderful as it seemed to her, the purple silk was still unsold when a week had passed; but, then, it is a color very few dare to try their complexions by, which Mrs. Murden did not reflect upon. The celebrated "Purple Jar" was not more attractive to "Rosamond," as chronicled by Miss Edgeworth, than was the dress to its constant worshipper, who made an errand into Chestnut Street daily that she might pause for a moment before it. Mr. Murden said she reminded him of his father's old pony, who always halted of his own accord at the houses of the doctor's principal patients. Mrs. Murden "did not thank him" for any such comparisons.
That same evening there was a perceptible rise of spirits observable in the father of the family. He tossed the baby, accordingly, so far that its anxious mother was sure its poor little head would be dashed against the ceiling; he gave George Washington, the eldest hope, three several rides on his boot, and carried him up to bed in a fashion best known to nurses as "pig-a-back." Mrs. Murden wondered what had happened; she little knew the good fortune in store for her.
"Well, Barney"—Mr. Murden always called his wife Barney when in particularly good humor, though her name was a very romantic one, Adelaide Matilda—"how about that dress? Tell us, out and out, how much it would cost. Let's see if it would break a fellow."
"It's a splendid piece," began Mrs. Murden.
"So I have been told every day for two weeks."
"You know I'm notveryextravagant; and, once in a while, dear, Idotake a fancy for something handsome."
Mr. Murden thought the proposition would have been stated correctly, if she had said, "every little while;" but Mrs. Murden was warming his slippers for him, and looking very pretty in the bright firelight, so he made no ungracious comment; he only said—
"Come, Barney, out with it. What's the entire figure?"
"Well, it's a two dollar silk, I find"—Mrs. Murden made a desperate attempt to look unconcerned—"and it will take ten yards."
"Whew!" Mr. Murden had thought a ten dollar gold piece would have been all-sufficient, and was turning one over in his pocket at the moment. "Why, as much as an overcoat almost."
"And will last twice as long, dear; just remember that."
"Well, well, for once in my life—there's a nice piece of extravagance; but, as you've set your heart upon it, you shall be indulged, Barney. Take them both." And he dropped the two eagles, received that afternoon for what he had considered a bad debt, into her outstretched hand.
It was thus that Mrs. Murden came into possession of her two dollar silk, the envy of her next door neighbor, Mrs. Keyser, her intimate friends, Mrs. Hopkins and Miss Lippincott, to whom it was shown in the piece.
"How are you going to have it made?" askedMrs. Keyser. "I'd have a basque, by all means, and have it open." Mrs. Keyser was one of those ladies who accomplish so much on a committee of foreign affairs, and so little in the home department.
"Oh, so would I," said Miss Lippincott, who always assented to everything that was said.
"I don't believe a basque would be becoming," enviously interposed Mrs. Hopkins, who was herself remarkably stout and dumpy in figure.
"Perhaps not," said Miss Lippincott; "very likely not."
"I don't believe Miss Johns could fit a basque either," pursued Mrs. Hopkins, who had no intention of being outdone by her neighbor;herdresses were all made for the winter.
"Nor I," added Miss Lippincott.
"I wouldn't trust Miss Johns to put scissors intothatsilk anyhow," Mrs. Keyser said; for, having relations living in Spruce Street, she was considered to have unusual claims to knowingness in matters of fashion, and was not slow to put them forth.
"Surely," thought Mrs. Murden, "it never would do. Miss Johns was well enough for a plain dress; but atwo dollar silk!"
"How I wish you could afford to have it made at Miss Stringer's now," continued Mrs. Keyser. "Emma Louisa always has everything done there, and so does Mrs. Coleman, she's so intimate with, and Mrs. George Barker. You never saw such splendid fits."
It is presumed that Mrs. Keyser didnotallude to convulsions; but Mrs. Hopkins always elevated her little flatnezon a mention of these Spruce Street relatives; for every one knows she said to Miss Lippincott, as they walked down the street together—
"Every one knows that she never is invited there when any one else is expected, not even to the wedding.Iwouldn't own such relations, if I had shoals of them; would you, Miss Lippincott?"
"No, indeed," returned that lady, with unusual animation for her, for she was rather worn out with allusions to the Spruce Street relations herself, in an intimacy of some months' standing.
It was a very daring thing, but young Mrs. Murden, revolving all these things in her mind, the basque, the open front, Miss Johns's lack of style, and that she was employed by all her acquaintances, came to the conclusion that her dress should be made at a Chestnut Street shop, although she had never had anything made out of the house before. "But it's once in a lifetime," as she said to Mr. Murden, walking down with him after dinner; and he, who had never seen a fashionable mantuamaker's bill, thought it of very little consequence to whom the important commission was intrusted.
The little woman felt rather nervous, it is true, on entering such awful precincts as the shop of Miss Stringer, which was by no means diminished by the manner of the lady in waiting, who pursued, at the same time, her gossip with another damsel seated in the window with a "dummy" on her knee, shaping a cap on its unconscious head, not less empty, perhaps, than the one it was destined to grace.
"I should like a dress made, if you could do it," stammered forth Mrs. Murden as the girl leisurely surveyed her from head to foot, taking an exact inventory of her dress, and knowing to a fraction the cost of every article.
"Certainly, madam." And then over her shoulder to the cap-maker at the window: "Is it possible that she has white feathers on a blue bonnet? I wouldn't wear such a thing myself. Who's with her?"
"Young Rushton," returned the street surveyor, turning dummy's blank face for another fold of lace. "He's devoted, they say."
"I beg your pardon, madam." It was not a pardon asked for inattention, but a suggestion to Mrs. Murden to finish her business.
"A dress," continued Mrs. Murden, falteringly. "When could you make it?"
"Next week, or week after, perhaps, or early next month. You can call on Wednesday, and Miss Stringer will make an appointment to fit you," vouchsafed the attendant with the Jenny Lind silk apron. "You can send round the material in the mean time. Street or evening-dress?"
Strictly speaking, Mrs. Murden never had had an evening-dress; her silks were worn to the parties she usually attended. She had the precious purchase with her, and she considered it quite handsome enough for any ball that ever was given; but she would not have offered it to the young woman then on any consideration. She felt convicted of carrying her own bundles, and consequently carried this one home again, to be left next day by Mr. Murden on his way to the store.
Wednesday, and Mrs. Murden, dressed in her best, waited again upon Miss Stringer. This time, the lady herself appeared, and proved not to be quite sowitheringas her assistant—principals seldom are. There were several fashionable ladies in waiting, all on the most gossipping and familiar terms with Miss Stringer, who was besieged with petitions for impossible work tobe done in incredible haste, enforced by "You kind, good creature," and other terms of endearment written in the wheedling vocabulary. According to their piteous statements, not one of these splendidly attired women had a dress to cover them, or a cloak to shield them from the cold. Mrs. Murden had a fine opportunity of seeing and hearing while she waited exactly one hour for Miss Stringer. She had never been in such close contact with fashionable women before. Like many others of her own position in life, they had always been her envy and her admiration from a distance, as they swept across the pavement from their carriages, or brushed past her at the entrance of Bailey's or Levy's, at whose fascinating windows she was spell-bound. They could not have a wish ungratified, she was sure; their lives must pass like a fairy tale, all flowers and music. But, now that she saw them nearer, the wan and restless eyes, the half hidden wrinkles painfully distended in the glare of a bright winter's morning, and the querulous, fretful tones, told another story.
"They were tired to death"—they whose feet scarcely touched the pavement, and who had servants at every call. "The party of last night was so stupid!" "The ball of Thursday wouldn't be worth the trouble of dressing for." "What should they wear? Miss Stringer must tell them." "Did she know Rushton's engagement was broken with Bell Hamilton? Her ill health, it was said; but every one knew, because he had been flirting so all winter with Mrs. McCord. But then she had such a brute of a husband, Coleman McCord, who could blame her? He was devoted to the southern beauty, Miss Legree." "Was lemon color quite out of date? and should they get crimson fuchsias with gold tips for the wreath?"
Mrs. Murden was so deep in moral reflections suggested by this style of conversation, that she did not perceive Miss Stringer was ready for her at first. She was almost sorry when the moment arrived, for she dreaded an interview with this maker of fine ladies, who dictated to them so coolly, and was so besieged, and coaxed, and petted by them. The lady's distant, preoccupied manner added to her embarrassment, when, finding she had an unoccupied half hour, she proposed to fit her forthwith, and asked Mrs. Murden into the inner apartment, with its curtains and lounges, its cheval glass reflecting the little woman's figure from head to foot, and reminding her that the dress she wore was at least two inches shorter than the flowing robes of the birds of paradise who had just taken their departure. Silly little body, she felt so awkward and old-fashioned, and wished in her heart she was in her own back parlor, with Miss Johns and her heart-shaped pin-cushion. She was quite a mirror of fashion to Miss Johns, who was indebted to Mrs. Murden for half her new sleeves and trimmings, caught by those observing black eyes, and shaped out at home with the aid of old newspapers. But here it was the mantuamaker's place to dictate.
"A basque, of course, or is it an evening-dress? What name?"
"Murden—Mrs. Murden." And she knew perfectly well it was one entirely foreign to the ears that caught it, low as was her tone. But when Miss Stringer came to see that silk her opinion might change. Mrs. Murden longed to have it brought forth and note the effect.
"A silk; for the street, I suppose? Basque, of course. We only make bodices in full dress. Open body?" And Miss Stringer's rapid fingers measured the shoulders, the waist, the arms, presented to her, mechanically. Customers were but lay figures to the fashionablemodiste, to be made up at pleasure. "Miss Elbert, Mrs. Murden's silk."
But Miss Elbert feigned entire ignorance of its reception. "Mrs. Murden—she could not remember the name." And a bustle of search ensued, while the forewoman from the work-room made her appearance for orders, bringing skirts and waists of such rich and dazzling materials as Mrs. Murden had never dreamed of, while she trembled for the fate of her own precious purple. Two errand girls, charity children they looked like, with their little sharp, thin faces and faded shawls, were dispatched to match buttons, and gimps, and galloons, with handsful of patterns, and heads full of instructions, which last did not stay where they were put, which accounted for Miss Lawrence appearing at the Thursday ball with yellow fringe on a lemon-colored dress, and Mrs. Johnson Rogers finding her gray silk—she was in half mourning for the late lamented Mr. Johnson Rogers—decorated by brown velvet acorn buttons. However, both passed for Parisian novelties, and were greatly admired; so Miss Stringer, and not the stupid errand girls, who came back too late to admit of a change, received the credit of these novel decorations.
Much to Mrs. Murden's relief, the silk was at last forthcoming, from an out-of-the-way drawer, and she awaited with inward satisfaction Miss Stringer's inspection. But two-dollar silks were everyday bread and butter to that lady, whomerely glanced at it, and tossed the package upon a neighboring sofa, as if it had been so many yards of crash towelling.
"Very good quality," she remarked. "You got it at Evans & Gilman's. Trying to most complexions.What now, Miss Elbert? No, I shall nottouchMrs. Cadwalader's dress before Monday. Tell her she can wear her whitemoire d'antique; she's only worn it twice this season to my knowledge. Tell her to wear her Honiton scarf, and no one will know what kind of a dress she has on. That will do, Mrs.—I beg your pardon—Mudon. You can come again on Thursday week. How will you have it trimmed?"
Mrs. Murder did not venture to suggest a trimming, and prudently left the whole matter to Miss Stringer's abler hands. Prudently, in one sense; she had never seen a bill from a fashionable shop, recollect. She had been just about to inquire what Miss Stringer would charge. Fortunate escape! The question would have been met with paralyzing coldness. It is a risk to procure your own trimming; but to seek to place a limit as to ultimate expense—unpardonable in the eyes of an autocrat of fashion.
So Mrs. Murden departed very much cast down, and very insignificant in her cashmere dress and the fur she had thought so handsome—so it was in her own set; but her eyes had been dwelling upon velvet cloaks and sable victorines the past two hours. Alas! for her last year's mantle, pretty as it had been; embroidered merinos looked socommon—fatal word.
Miss Stringer had entirely forgotten the appointment when she presented herself again on Thursday week. Meantime, it had been very difficult to parry the inquiries of her trio of intimates as to when and how the dress was to be made, without betraying her all-important secret. But she succeeded to admiration. It was in vain for Mrs. Hopkins to remark that Miss Johns was engaged for nearly all the week, to her certain knowledge, or for Mrs. Keyser to allude to Emma Louisa's green poplin, the "sweetest" thing she had ever seen; Mrs. Murden did not give out a clue. She saw the identical green poplin at Miss Stringer's, on her second audience, and heard Miss Elbert remark, with her accustomed freedom, upon its possessor, who was set down by Miss Stringer's young woman as decidedly vulgar and over-dressed. Mrs. Keyser never would have survived overhearing this assault upon her kinswoman. Mrs. Murden treasured it up for future remembrance.
"It does make me sick," remarked Miss Elbert, "to see people load on such things. Thank my stars, I'm not a rich woman! Poor things, I pity them! in a fever from morning till night about a dress or a cloak. Half of them murder the king's English. Don't you say so, Miss Replier?"
Miss Replier, who still fitted "dummy" to one unending round of caps, assented with a nod.
"Then they're so afraid some one else will have something," continued this free-spoken, candid young person. "Did you see Mrs. James Thomas, the day of our opening, take up that garnet hat Miss Stringer had ordered out for Mrs. McCord? Mrs. McCord wouldn't have it, after all, when she heard there was one made from it. And there's Miss Thornton thinks she's got the onlyEugenierobe in the country. Levy imported three to my certain knowledge. For my part, it makes me sick as the head boy at a confectioner's. If I was as rich as Mrs. Rush, I wouldn't have a thing better than I have now." And here she condescended to see if Miss Stringer was disengaged, and ushered the possessor of the purple silk into the fitting-room.
It was quite a picture as Mrs. Murden entered it. The lounges spread with dresses that surpassed her imagination. Two bonnets, all lace and flowers, the frame seeming only intended to support them, were on stands in one corner, and wreaths, gloves, ribbons, and embroideries made up the graceful confusion. Miss Stringer was on her knees before a large deal box, folding and packing these wonderful creations.
"A bridal order," she said, "for the South. Look around, if you would like to."
Mrs. Murden would not have touched any of them for a kingdom; it seemed as if a breath would soil the gossamer-like evening-dresses, with their light garlands of flowers. A velvet robe fit for a queen, destined for the mother of the bride; a morning-dress of French cambric embroidery, over a violet-colored silk; flounced dresses, with borders of woven embroidery, in the most delicate contrasting shade; glove-knots, shoulder-knots, breast-knots, of ribbon and gold lace, were some of the items of this costlytrousseau.
The cherished purple silk faded, as if it had been exposed to a summer sun, in Mrs. Murden's eyes. It looked so very "common"—to think of a two dollar silk being common—beside those brocades and flounced taffetas, when it came to be tried on; and then the prices dealt out in the most amiable manner by Miss Stringer conscious that she had made a good thing of it.
The velvet had cost a hundred dollars "before scissors had touched it." The lace on the skirtof the bridal-dress was seventy-five dollars a yard; the morning-dress was a robe imported, of course, at sixty dollars; and so on to the ermine-bordered mantle, at four hundred and fifty.
Mrs. Murden asked when her dress would be sent home, as she resumed her bonnet and cloak. She had lost nearly all interest in it, as Miss Stringer pulled and puckered, let out, and let in, the nicely fitting basque. It was not lost, perhaps, but swallowed up for the time in the contemplation of so much elegance, which, come what would, she could never hope to attain. And she colored, we grieve to record it, as she gave the lynx-eyed Miss Elbert her address, so far away from the fashionable quarter. Perhaps she saw the glance exchanged with Miss Replier as it was named.
Mrs. Murden anticipated the arrival of the purple silk with dread forebodings. She hoped her husband would not be at home if the bill came with it. "Making up" was a trifle when she sewed with Miss Johns, and found her own trimmings. She knew that Mr. Murden had not calculated on any extra demands, the dress once purchased. Besides, he had been losing money all the week, and besides, she had anticipated the last dollar of her month's allowance. She was more abstracted than ever as the time drew near.
But it came, and there was no help for it—on Saturday evening, the night of all others when Mr. Murden was sure to be at home. It was very, very stylish; the trimming, a broad embossed velvet ribbon, matched the shade to perfection. Mr. Murden wanted to have it tried on at once, and did not think the absence of a chemisette detracted at all from thetout ensemble.
He felt very much pleased with himself for having allowed his pretty wife to have her own way, and gave her a kiss by way of approval to her taste, which chaste matrimonial salute was interrupted by the reappearance of their one servant, to say that the girl was waiting in the hall, as the bill was receipted.
"Ah, the bill!" There it was, pinned conspicuously on the flap of the basque. Mr. Murden detached it, and read the amount: "$13 29 cts. Received payment, Ann Stringer."
"Good gracious, my dear, what a mistake! More than half as much as the dress cost!"
Mrs. Murden caught at the straw. Perhaps it was a mistake, and the wrong bill had been sent to her. But there was no such good fortune; there it was, in Miss Elbert's own hard, angular handwriting, item by item. And Mr. Murden paid it on the spot, for he never allowed a bill to be presented twice; but he went out without returning to the parlor, and shut the front door with a bang, to countermand the new overcoat which he had been measured for that afternoon, and which he needed badly.
It was weeks before the purple silk was again alluded to by him, and spring before Mrs. Murden could afford to purchase undersleeves and a chemisette to wear with it. She walked to church in the mazarine blue beside the shabby overcoat, with its threadbare sleeves and rusty collar, a humbler and a better woman. It was only when Mr. Murden discovered what a cure the surfeit of finery in Mrs. Stringer's fitting-room had wrought, that he quite pardoned the folly and extravagance of the purple silk. "For," as Mrs. Murden said, "there must always be a great many people better dressed, spend what she would, so where was the use? And, after all, comfort was the thing, not show."
The purple silk became quite a favorite eventually, for Mr. Murden did not consider the lesson dearly bought at thirty-three dollars and twenty-nine cents, since it was to last a lifetime.
BYrequest of a correspondent, we publish the following from Mrs. Hale's "New Household Receipt-Book:"—
"Canary birds that are kept tame will breed three or four times in the year. Towards the middle of March begin to match your birds, putting one cock and hen into the breeding-cage, which should be large, so that the birds may have room to fly and exercise themselves. Place two boxes or little basket-nests in the cage, for the hen to lay her eggs in, because she will sometimes have a second brood before the first are fit to fly, leaving the care of them to the father bird, who feeds and brings them up with much care, while she is sitting on her second nest of eggs. Whilst your birds are pairing feed them, besides the usual seeds, with the yolks of hard-boiled eggs, bread that has been moistened, or, if hard, grated fine, and pounded almond-meat. When the young birds are to be fed, give the same soft food, and be sure have it fresh every day; also furnish the old birds with fresh greens, such as cabbage-lettuce, chickweed, groundsel, &c. Give fresh water every day, and a clean bath every morning. The hen lays, commonly, four or five eggs, and sits fourteen days. When the young are hatched, leave them to the care of the old birds to nurse and bring up till they can fly and feed themselves, which is, usually, in about twenty days."
Fig. 36 shows the position of the two ellipsesaandb, which form the bases of the ornamental sketch shown in Fig. 37. In like manner, the half-ellipse, formed on the horizontal line in Fig. 38, is the foundation of the sketch shown in Fig. 39. So also is the foundation of a flower-petal, shown in Fig. 40, made clear by the analytical sketch in Fig. 41, where the preliminary forms are shown drawn. Again, the ornamental scroll in Fig. 42 is drawn by sketching a half-ellipse on the horizontal line.
The convolvulus flower and stem in Fig. 43 are also drawn by previously sketching an ellipse to form the flower.
In sketching the flower in Fig. 44, the pupil must first draw an outline which will take in the whole figure, making it as near the shape of the sketch as the eye dictates. After the correct outline is formed, the details must be drawn.
The flower, stem, and leaves of the sketch in Fig. 45 must be drawn in, the form being estimated chiefly by the eye; the stem ought to be put in first, thereafter the distances between the leaves, and then filling in the details. The ivy-leaf in Fig. 46 is to be drawn in the same way as the last. The ivy-stem and leaves shown in Fig. 47 should be drawn by first sketching out the length, form, and direction of the stem, then ascertaining and marking the distances between the leaves, and filling in the details as before. The leaf in Fig. 48, and the leaves in Fig. 49,should next be copied. Fig. 50 is the leaf of the common "dock." It is to be copied by first drawing an ellipse, thereafter filling in the details. Fig. 51 is the stem and leaves of the "burdock." The sketch may be put in at once by the assistance of the eye; it may be better, however, to draw a circle for the parta, and an ellipse for that ofb.
Fig. 50.
Fig. 50.
Fig. 50.
Fig. 51.
Fig. 51.
Fig. 51.
The scroll in Fig. 52 may be sketched by drawing an outline which would touch all the parts of the design, thereafter filling up the details.
Fig. 52.Fig. 53.
Fig. 52.Fig. 53.
Fig. 52.Fig. 53.
In drawing the sketch shown in Fig. 53, the pupil will have to trust greatly to the eye. The stem should be drawn first, its length and direction being carefully noted; the distances of the extremities of the leaves from the stem should next be marked off; next, their general outline, and thereafter the details. The proportions the parts bear to one another must be attended to.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
(Continued from page 227.)
THEefforts made by Perkins to find the residence of the stranger proved unavailing. Half suspecting that Michael had deceived him, he returned to the shop of Mr. Berlaps, and asked the direction anew. It was repeated precisely as at first given.
"But I have been there."
"Well, wasn't she at that number?"
"No."
"I don't know anything about her, then. It often happens that these sewing-girls deceive us as to their whereabouts."
Perkins turned away disappointed, but with his interest in the stranger more than ever excited.
"Who and what can she be? and why do I feel so deep an interest in a perfect stranger, who cannot possibly be anything to me?" were involuntary questions which the young man endeavored, but in vain, to answer.
That night, as he sat alone in his room, his friend Milford came in and found him with the miniature before alluded to in his hand.
"Whose sweet face is that? Bless me! But she is a lovely creature!" said Milford, as his eye caught a glimpse of the picture which Perkins made a movement to conceal. "Aha! Mr. Sobersides! have I found you out at last?"
But seeing that his remarks had the effect to disturb, even agitate his friend, he said, in a changed tone—
"Forgive me if I have thoughtlessly jarred a string that vibrates painfully! I knew not that you carried in your heart an unhealed wound."
"And yet I do, my friend. A wound that, I fear, will never cicatrize. Five years have passed since I parted with the living original of this picture. The parting was to be only for a few months. We have never met since, and never will, in this world! The sea gives not up its dead!"
There was a solemn earnestness in the voice of Perkins that showed how deeply the loss still affected him.
"To me," said his companion, after a pause, "it seems strange that you should never have alluded to this subject, even to your nearest friend."
"I could not, Milford. The effort to keep my feelings under control has been severe enough, without permitting myself to speak of the matter at all. But now that it has been alluded to, I feel inclined to talk upon the subject, if you have any desire to hear."
"I certainly have an anxious desire to hear," replied Milford.
Perkins shaded his face for a few moments with his hand, and sat silent and thoughtful. He then gave, in a calm voice, the following narration:—
"You are aware that, when I came to this city to reside, a few years since, I removed from Troy, New York. That is my native place—or, at least, I had lived there from boyhood up, when I removed to Boston. It is now about ten years since a man named Ballantine, who seemed to possess considerable wealth, made his appearance in the place, accompanied by his daughter, a young girl about thirteen years of age. He came from New Orleans, where his wife had died, and where he was still engaged in business. His object in coming north with his child was to secure for her the advantages of a good seminary. He seemed to prefer Troy, and after remaining there for some months, concluded to place his child in the family of a newly-married man, whose wife, somewhat matronly in age and in habits, happened to please his fancy, as a maternal guardian for his child. After making every requisite arrangement in regard to her education, he returned to New Orleans, from which city money to defray her expenses was regularly transmitted. Once a year he came north to visit her, and remained in our town for a few weeks.
"I happened to know the family in which Eugenia Ballantine was placed, and became acquainted with her immediately. I was then but a boy, though some four years her senior, yet old enough to feel for her, from the beginning,something more than a mere fraternal regard. And this sentiment was reciprocal. No place was so pleasant to me as that which was cheered by her presence—no smile warmed my heart like her smile; and I could always see her countenance brighten the moment I came where she was.
"Gradually, as year after year passed, and she still remained among us, our early preference for each other, or rather our early affection, assumed a more serious character. We loved each other; she was just seventeen, and I twenty-one, when I ventured to tell her how deeply, fervently, and purely I loved her. The formal announcement did not seem to create surprise, or agitate her in the least.
"'I never doubted it,' was her innocent reply, looking me tenderly in the face.
"'And do you love me as truly as I love you, Eugenia?' I asked.
"'Have you ever doubted it?' was her quiet response to this, also.
"From that moment I was bewilderingly happy. My family was one of wealth and standing, and I immediately wrote to Mr. Ballantine, who, after sufficient time to make inquiry in regard to the character and position of his daughter's lover, returned a cordial assent to my proposal for her hand. Thus far everything had gone on as smoothly as a summer sea. We smiled sometimes together at the carping adage, 'The course of true love never did run smooth,' and referred to our own case as a signal instance of its falsity.
"During the summer succeeding our engagement, Mr. Ballantine did not come on to the north. In the ensuing spring, Eugenia's term of instruction closed at the seminary, after having been in Troy nearly five years. She was a tall, beautiful woman, with a mind highly cultivated, and externally accomplished in every respect. I was proud of her beauty and acquirements, at the same time that I loved her with fervent devotion. Spring passed away and summer came; with the advancing season her father arrived from the south. He had not seen his child for two years, during which time she had grown up into a mature and lovely woman. I could forgive the jealous pride with which he would look into her face, and the constant tenderness of his allusions to her when she was away from his side.
"'I do not think, Mr. Perkins,' he would say to me, sometimes, 'that I can let you have my Eugenia, unless you will go south. I am sure I cannot part with her again.'
"'Why not come north, Mr. Ballantine?' I would suggest.
"But he would shake his head as he made some disparaging remark in regard to the north, and playfully insist that I must go with him to the sunny south. It was about the first of September that I asked that our marriage might take place at an early day. But the father shook his head.
"'Be content that the flower is to be yours. Do not become too eager to pluck it from its parent stem. I must have my dear girl with me for at least one winter. In the spring she shall be yours.'
"'Oh, no! Mr. Ballantine,' I said, in alarm, 'you are not going to rob me of her for so long a time?' I spoke with warmth.
"'Rob you of her!' ejaculated the father, in seeming half indignation. 'You are unreasonable and very selfish, my dear boy! Here you have had her for five years, and after a little while are to have her for life, and yet are unwilling to give me even the boon of a few short months with my own child. You are not generous!'
"I felt the rebuke, and confessed that I had been moved by too selfish feelings.
"'If you think the time long,' he added, 'all you have to do is to take a packet and come round—we shall welcome you with joy.'
"'That I shall no doubt be compelled to do, for I will not be able to exist for five or six long months away from Eugenia.'
"'So I should suppose. Well, come along, and after I get you there, I will see if I can't inoculate you with a love of Southern people, Southern habits, and Southern manners. I am sanguine that you will like us.'
"'Well, perhaps so,' I said. 'But we will see.'
"The time for the departure of Mr. Ballantine and his daughter was set for the first of October. The few remaining days passed on fleet wings, and then, after completing the necessary arrangements, Eugenia left Troy with her father for New York, thence to go by sea to her native city. I accompanied them down the river, and spent two days with them in the city, previous to the sailing of the ship Empress, in which they were to embark. Our parting was tender, yet full of hope for a speedy meeting. I had already made up my mind to visit New Orleans about January, and remain there during the winter. Our marriage was then to be solemnized.
"After the sailing of the Empress, I returnedto Troy, to await the news of her safe arrival at New Orleans. I felt gloomy and desolate, and for my uncompanionable humor received sundry playful jibes or open rebukes from my friends. In about a week I began to examine the shipping lists of the New York papers, in the hope of seeing some notice of the good ship that contained my heart's best treasure. But no record of her having been spoken at sea met my eyes as I scanned the newspapers day after day with an eager and increasing hope, until four, five, and six weeks had passed away. So much troubled had I now become, that I went down to New York to see the owners of the ship.
"'Has the Empress arrived out yet?' I asked, on entering their counting-room.
"'Not at the latest dates,' was the reply, made in a voice expressive of concern.
"'Is not her passage a very long one?'
"'We should have had news of her arrival ten days ago.'
"'Has she been spoken on the passage?'
"'Never but once, and that after she was three days out.'
"'Is she a good ship?' I next inquired.
"'None better out of this port,' was the prompt answer.
"For ten days I remained in New York, eagerly examining each morning the shipping lists, and referring to all the southern papers to which I could get access. I met during that time but one reference to the Empress, and that was contained in a paragraph alluding to her long passage, and expressing great fears for her safety. This thrilled my heart with a more palpable and terrible fear. On the next day but one, I met in a New Orleans paper a farther allusion to her, coupled with the remark that a suspicious-looking vessel, clipper-built, with a black hull, had been seen several times during the past few weeks cruising in the Gulf, and expressing a fear lest she had come across the Empress. I thought this would have driven me beside myself. But why prolong this painful narration by attempting to describe my feelings, as day after day, week after week, and month after month passed, and no tidings came of the missing ship? From the day I parted with Eugenia, I have neither seen her nor heard from her. The noble vessel that bore her proudly away neither reached her destination, nor returned back with her precious freight. All—all found a grave in the dark depths of the ocean.
"It is a terrible thing, my friend, to bethusreft of all you hold dearest in life. If I had seen her touched by the hand of disease, and watched the rose fading from her cheek, leaf after leaf falling away, until death claimed at last his victim, I could have borne the severe affliction with some degree of fortitude. Even if she had been struck down suddenly at my side, there would have been something for the bruised heart to rest upon. But to be taken from me thus! her fate shrouded in a most fearful mystery! Oh! it is terrible!"
And the young man set his teeth firmly, and clenched his hands, in a powerful struggle with his still o'ermastering feelings. At length he resumed, in a calmer voice—
"No matter what terrors or violence attended her death—no matter how deep she lies in the unfathomable sea, her spirit is with the blessed angels, for she was pure and good. This ought to be enough for me. The agonies of a fearful departure are long since over. And why should I recall them, and break up afresh the tender wounds that bleed at the slightest touch? Henceforth I will strive to look away from the past, and onward, in pleasing hope, to that future time when we shall meet where there will be no more parting."
"She must have been a lovely creature, indeed," said Milford, some minutes after his friend had ceased, holding, as he spoke, the miniature in his hand, and looking at it attentively.
"She was lovely as innocence itself," was the half abstracted reply.
"Although I never saw her, yet there is an expression in her face that is familiar"—Milford went on to say—"very familiar; but it awakens, I cannot tell why, a feeling of pain. This face is a happy face; and yet it seems every moment as if it would change into a look of sadness—yea, of deep sorrow and suffering."
"This may arise, and no doubt does, from the melancholy history connected with her, that I have just related."
"Perhaps that is the reason," Milford returned, thoughtfully. "And yet I know not how to account for the strangely familiar expression of her face."
"Did you ever see a picture in your life that had not in it some feature that was familiar?" asked Perkins.
"Perhaps not," the friend replied, and then sat in mental abstraction for some moments. He was not satisfied with this explanation, and was searching his memory for the original of that peculiar expression which had struck him so forcibly. He was sure that it did exist, and that he had looked upon it no very long time before. But he tried in vain to fix it. The impression floated still in his mind only as a vague idea.
"There! I have it!" he at length exclaimed, but with something of disappointment in his tones. "I remember that the young seamstress we were speaking of a few days ago, a single glimpse of whose face I obtained, had that very look which strikes me as familiar in this picture. I thought I had seen it somewhere else."
Perkins started, and looked surprised and agitated. But this was only momentary.
"Now you speak of her," he said, calmly, "I remember that I always thought of Eugenia when I saw her, which is no doubt the reason why I have felt strongly interested for the young stranger, who has doubtless seen better days. I related to you, I believe, the adventure I had near the bridge, in which she was concerned?"
"You did. I wonder what in the world takes her over to Charleston so often? She goes, I believe, almost every day, and usually late in the afternoon. Several persons have spoken of her to me; but none seemed to know her errand there, or to have any knowledge of her whatever."
"There is some mystery connected with her, certainly. This afternoon I went in to make some inquiries in regard to her of Berlaps. I was just in time to hear Michael, his salesman, give her some insulting language, for which I rebuked the fellow sharply."
"Indeed! How did she take it?" said Milford.
"She did not seem to notice him, but glided quickly past, as he bent over the counter towards her, and left the store."
"Did you see her face?"
"No. Her veil was closely drawn, as usual," answered Perkins.
"I don't know why it is, but there is something about this young female that interests me very much. Have you yet learned her name?"
"It is Lizzy Glenn—so I was told at the clothing store for which she works."
"Lizzy Glenn? An assumed name, in all probability."
"Very likely. It sounds as if it might be," said Perkins.
"If I were you," remarked the friend, "I would learn something certain about this stranger; if for no other reason, on account of the singular association of her, in your involuntary thought, with Miss Ballantine. She may be a relative; and, if so, it would afford a melancholy pleasure to relieve her from her present unhappy condition, for the sake of the one in heaven."
"I have already tried to find her; but she was not at the number where Michael said she resided."
"She may not have given him the right direction," said Milford.
"So he pretends to infer. But I would rather believe that Michael has purposely deceived me than that she would be guilty of falsehood."
"If I see her again," said Milford, "I will endeavor, by all means, to discover her place of residence."
"Do, if you would oblige me. It is my purpose not to lose sight of her at our next meeting, be it where it may. Our present conversation has awakened a deeper interest, and stimulated a more active curiosity. I am no blind believer in chance, Milford. I do not regard this meeting with the stranger as something only fortuitous. There is a Providence in all the events of life, and I am now firmly assured that these encounters with the seamstress are not merely accidental, as the world regards accidents, but events in a chain of circumstances that, when complete, will result in positive good. Of the nature of that good—as to who will be blessed or benefited—I do not pretend to divine. I only feel ready to act my part in the drama of life. I must and will know more about this stranger."
ASlittle Henry, after parting with his mother, hurried on by the side of Mr. Sharp, who took his way directly across the bridge leading over to Charleston, where he had left the chaise in which he had ridden from Lexington, a handsome carriage, containing a mother and three happy children, about the age of himself, Emma, and the sister who had just died, drove rapidly by. The children were full of spirits, and, in their thoughtless glee, called out gayly, but with words of ridicule, to the poor, meanly clad child, who was hurrying on at almost a run beside the man who had become his master. Their words, however, were heeded not by the full-hearted boy. His thoughts were going back to his home, and to his much-loved mother.
This incident is mentioned here, as a striking illustration of the practical working of that system of grinding the poor, especially poor females, by which many men make fortunes, or at least acquire far more than a simple competence for life. That carriage belonged to Berlaps, and those happy children were his. But how could he buy a carriage and horses, and build fine houses, and yet not be able to pay more than the meagre pittance for his work that the reader hasseen doled out to his half-starving workwomen? How could his children be fed and clothed sumptuously every day, and the widow, who worked for him from early dawn until the silent watches of midnight, not be able to get wholesome bread and warm garments for her little ones,unless he took more than his just shareof the profits upon his goods? If he could only afford to pay seven cents for coarse shirts, and so on, in proportion, up through the entire list of articles made, how came it that the profits on these very articles enabled him to live in elegance, build houses, and keep his own carriage and horses?
Such questions apply not alone to the single instance of Berlaps, here introduced. They are pertinent in their application to all who add to their profits for the purpose of a grand aggregate, at the expense of reducing the pay, even a few cents, upon the hard toiling workwoman whose slender income, at best, is barely sufficient to procure the absolute necessaries of life. This cutting down of women's wages, until they are reduced to an incompetent pittance, is a system of oppression too extensive, alas! in this, as well as many other countries. It is one of the quiet and safe means by which the strong oppress the weak—by which the selfish build themselves up, cruelly indifferent to the sufferings of those who are robbed of a just compensation for their labor. The record of a conversation overheard between two of the class alluded to will illustrate this matter. They were tailors—or, rather, what are sometimes called slop-shop or clothing men. Let it not be supposed that tailors alone are the oppressors of workwomen. In most of the employments at which females engage, especially such as admit of a competition in labor, advantage is taken of the eager demands for work, and prices reduced to the lowest possible standard. In the eager scramble for monopolizing more than a just share of custom, or to increase the amount of sales by the temptation of extremely moderate rates, the prices of goods are put down to the lowest scale they will bear. If, in doing this, the dealer was content with a profit reduced in some proportion to the increase of his sales, no one would have a right to complain. He would be free to sell his goods at cost, or even below cost, if that suited his fancy. Instead of this, however, the profits on his articles are often the same that they were when prices were ten or fifteen per cent. higher, and he reaps the advantage of a greatly increased sale, consequent upon the more moderate rates at which he can sell. The evil lies in his cutting down his operatives' wages; in taking off of them, while they make no party to his voluntary reduction of prices, the precise amount that he throws in to his customer as a temptation to buy more freely. But to the promised dialogue:—
"Money don't come in hand-over-fist, as it ought to come," remarked Grasp, of the flourishing firm of Grasp & Co., Merchant Tailors, of Boston, to the junior partner of the establishment. "The nimble sixpence is better than the slow shilling, you know. We must make our shears eat up cloth a little faster, or we sha'n't clear ten thousand dollars this year by one-third of the sum."
"Although that would be a pretty decent business these times."
"I don't call any business a decent one that can be bettered," replied Grasp, contemptuously.
"But can ours be bettered?"
"Certainly!"
"How?"
"By selling more goods."
"How are we to do that?"
"By putting down the prices, and then making a confounded noise about it. Do you understand?"
"I do. But our prices are very low now."
"True. But we may reduce them still further, and, by so doing, increase our sales to an extent that will make our business net us beyond the present income quite handsomely. But, to do this, we must cut down the prices now paid for making up our clothes. In this way, we shall be able to greatly increase our sales, with but a slight reduction upon our present rates of profit."
"But will our workmen stand it? Our needle-women, particularly, work very low now."
"They'll have to stand it!" replied Grasp; "most of them are glad to get work at any price. Women, with half a dozen hungry mouths around them, don't stand long to higgle about a few cents in a garment, when there are so many willing to step in and take their places. Besides, what are three or four cents to them on a vest, or pair of pants, or jacket? The difference in a week is small and will not be missed—or, at the worst, will only require them to economize with a little steadier hand; while upon the thousands of garments we dispose of here, and send away to other markets, it will make a most important aggregate on the right side of profit and loss."
"There is no doubt of that," replied the partner, the idea of the aggregate of three or four cents on each garment occupying his mind, and obscuring completely, for a time, every other idea. "Well, I'm with you," he said, after alittle while, "in any scheme for increasing profits. Getting along at the rate of only some two or three thousand a year is rather slow work. Why, there's Tights, Screw, & Co., see how they're cutting into the trade, and carrying everything before them. Tights told me that they cleared twenty thousand dollars last year."
"No doubt of it. And I'll make our house do the same before three years roll over, or I'm no prophet."
"If we are going to play this cutting down game, we had better begin at once."
"Oh, certainly. The sooner the better. But first, we must arrange a reduced scale of prices, and then bring our whole tribe of workwomen and others down to it at once. It will not do to hold any parley with them. If we do, our ears will be dinned to death with trumped-up tales of poverty and distress, and all that sort of thing, with which we have no kind of concern in the world. These are matters personal to these individuals themselves, and have nothing to do with our business. No matter what prices we paid, we would have nothing but grumbling and complaint, if we allowed an open door on that subject."
"Yes, there is no doubt of that. But, to tell the truth, it is a mystery to me how some of these women get along. Very few make over two dollars a week, and some never go beyond a dollar. Many of them are mothers, and most of them have some one or more dependent upon them. Food, rent, clothes, and fuel, all have to come out of these small earnings. By what hocus-pocus it is done, I must confess, puzzles me to determine."
"Oh, as to that," returned Grasp, "it is, no doubt, managed well enough. Provisions, and everything that poor people stand in need of, are very cheap. The actual necessaries of life cost but little, you know. How far above the condition of the starving Irish, or the poor operatives in the manufacturing portions of England, is that of the people who work for us! Think of that for a moment."
"True—very true," replied the partner. "Well," he continued, "I think we had better put the screws on to our workwomen and journeymen at once. I am tired of plodding on at this rate."
"So am I. To-night, then, after we close the store, we will arrange our new bill of prices, and next week bring all hands down to it."
And they were just as good as their word. And it happened just as they said—the poor workmen had to submit.
But we must return from our digression.
The child who, under the practical operation of a system of which the above dialogue gives some faint idea, had to go out from his home at the tender age of ten years, because his mother, with all her hard toil early and late, at the prices she obtained for her labor, could not earn enough to provide a sufficiency of food and clothes for her children—that child passed on, unheeding, and, indeed, unhearing the jibes of the happier children of his mother's oppressor, and endeavored, sad and sorrowful as he felt, to nerve himself with something of a manly feeling. At Charlestown, Mr. Sharp got into his chaise, and, with the lad he had taken to raise, drove home.
"Well, here is the youngster, Mrs. Sharp," he said, on alighting from his vehicle. "He is rather smaller and punier than I like, but I have no doubt that he will prove willing and obedient."
"What is his name?" asked Mrs. S., who had a sharp chin, sharp nose, and sharp features throughout; and, with all, rather a sharp voice. She had no children of her own—those tender pledges being denied her, perhaps on account of the peculiar sharpness of her temper.
"His name is Henry," replied her husband.
"Henry what?"
"Henry Gaston, I believe. Isn't that it, my boy?"
Henry replied in the affirmative. Mr. Sharp then said—
"You can go in with Mrs. Sharp, Henry. She will tell you what she wants you to do."
"Yes, come along." And Mrs. Sharp turned away as she spoke, and retired into the more interior portion of the house, followed by the boy.
"Mrs. Sharp will tell you what she wants you to do!" Yes, that tells the story. From this hour the child is to become the drudge—the hewer of wood and drawer of water—for an unfeeling woman, whose cupidity and that of her husband have prompted them to get a little boy as a matter of saving—one who could do the errands for the shop and the drudgery for the house. There was no thought for, and regard towards, the child to be exercised. He was to be to them only an economical little machine, very useful, though somewhat troublesome at times.
"I don't see that your mother has killed you with clothes," said Mrs. Sharp to him, after taking his bundle and examining it, and then surveying him from head to foot. "But I suppose she thinks they will do well enough; and I suppose they will. There, do you see that wooden pail there? Well, I want you to take it and goto the pump across the street, down in the next square, and bring it full of water."
Henry took the pail, as directed, and went and got the water. This was the beginning of his service, and was all well enough, as far as it went. But from that time he had few moments of relaxation, except what the night gave him, or the quiet Sabbath. All through the first day he was kept busy either in the house or shop, and, before night, had received two or three reprimands from Mrs. Sharp, administered in no very affectionate tones.