“Stop, cousin,” said he, taking it from her, “upon second thoughts, I cannot let you have that—I remember now, I bought it for Aunt Vi’let.”
Aunt Vi’let was called in, the others following in her wake, and the present unfolded before her admiring eyes. Her usually grim features were softened into benignity at the sight.
“That aint for me, Misser George! Well, it is a parfec’ speck, I ’clare!”
She could say no more. Her vocabulary, rich in epithets of vituperation only, was soon exhausted, when drawn upon for expressions of satisfaction. Her pleasure was shown in silence. A gay Madras handkerchief for the head was given to Flora, who received it with a modest curtsey, and displaying a row of ivory, and a dimple which many a fairer belle might have envied. On Peter’s looking rather solemn at thinking himself forgotten, his young master told him that his present had not come up from the vessel yet, he had brought him a fine parrot, which could talk nearly as well as himself; at which Peter’s joy knew no bounds. He capered about the room, regardless where he was, and in whose presence, until brought to his senses by a smart rap upon the head by Vi’let, with—
“Please to walk off into the kitchen, sir, till you can larn to ’have yeself.” Off went Peter, Vi’let and Flora following, each with her present tucked under her arm.
George now brought from under a pile of other things a large roll, carefully wrapped in several covers. He put it into Mrs. Wendell’s hand.
“There, cousin, I’ve brought you something, but I’m afraid you will not like it so well as the yellow calamanco.”
Mrs. Wendell took the roll, and with her aunt’s assistance removed wrapper after wrapper. When the last was off, the wrong side of some fabric appeared, presenting a brown surface, without lustre, on which were seen rows of floss silk of various gay colors, lying without any apparent order. The right side drew an exclamation of admiration from both aunt and niece, for never had eyes in Salem, beheld a brocade so magnificent. The figure was a gigantic crimson peony, and a bunch of cherries alternately, each with its appropriate green leaves; on a ground of lustrous chocolate colored satin, firm and thick as leather.
“Oh, George!” his cousin exclaimed, “how could you have brought such a silk for me! I had no idea you were in earnest—how much it must have cost! (looking at her uncle.) I really cannot take it.”
“Oh! if you do not like it, you can let Mr. Wendell have it for arobe de chambre.”
“Take it, Amy,” interrupted his father. “I am glad he has shown so good a taste.”
“Yes,” added her aunt, “he has only done just what we could have wished; remember you are our only daughter, and Mr. Wendell is like another son to us.”
Amy did not attempt to reply, but laid the rich present aside, carefully. A black case of dog-fish skin of peculiar form was now brought forth. Mr. Fayerweather seized upon this, and undoing the little hooks which served as fastenings, opened it, and displayed a gold watch with its chain and seals, all richly chased, luxuriously reposing on crimson velvet.
“You gave Haliburton my letter then,” he said, as he took the measure of old Time from its bed, and examined the whole carefully. Then appearing to be satisfied with the workmanship, he wound up the watch, and fastening its large golden hook into the binding of madam’s apron, it hung at her side, on its chain, loaded with rich seals, and ticked away merrily, as if wonderfully refreshed by its long nap, and in liable to show off with its new mistress.
She, finding the costly present really for herself, expressed her gratification, though with glistening eyes, in the quiet way which best pleased her husband. George then rapped his brother over the head with a silver-mounted flute. His father finding that all had had their presents, then asked him if he brought nothing forhim.
“I have something here, sir, which Mr. Haliburton said, he thought would be valuable to you.”
All looked in eager expectation, when George diving with his hand down to the very bottom of the chest, and bringing up something, which in its egress turned topsy turvy check-shirts, trowsers, pea-jackets, etc., etc. It was a stout oaken staff, which he put into his father’s hand. The latter bore quietly the merriment which succeeded; though madam could not forbear expressing some indignation, at what she took almost as an insult from their old friend to her husband, who, moving the huge baton slowly through his fingers, appeared to be examining closely the grain of the wood for some time in silence.
“Haliburton judged right,” at length he said; “there are few things I should have valued so much. This staff came from Narley Wood, the old family estate in Leicestershire, and was cut from an oak planted by my great grandfather’s own hand. (He pointed to some letters rudely cut in the wood.) Wendell shall have my gold-headed cane. I shall never carry any but this in future.”
Mrs. Wendell was beginning to speak, when a violent uproar was heard from the precincts of the kitchen, in which the yelping of a dog and the screams of a cat predominated. It drew near, and the door burst open suddenly, when in rushed a large black and white dog, yelling fearfully, as if in the extremity of pain and terror, with old tabby on his back, her tail erect, and looking like the cylindrical brush used in these latter days to clear stove-pipes, her talons apparently dug deep into his skin; while Vi’let followed, belaboring him with a broom-handle. Leaping over the chest, he made his way to George, on whose knees he laid his head, whining piteously.
“Why, Jaco! how did you find your way here? I left you in the vessel—poor fellow,” said George. The dog was released from his feline foe by Vi’let, when she found to whom he belonged. He then leaped upon his master, with strenuous endeavors to lick his face, and made other extravagant demonstrations of joy at finding him.
George then mentioned that he had bought him in Italy, of a person who kept him to show off in the celebrated Grotto del cane.
“I had no great curiosity to see the poor devil die and come to life again, so I tried to beg him off. His master only laughed, and was forcing him into the cave by blows, when he seemed to have understood what I said, for he made out to clear himself, and came and fawned on me. After this, I could not help taking him under my protection, so I persuaded the rascal to sell him to me.”
“It would have been more like you to have knocked the fellow down, and taken the dog away in spite of him,” said his father. “I am glad you have learned a little prudence. What did you call him? Jaco.”
“That’s the name the sailors called him; it is a corruption they made of his Italian name, Cicco, meaning blind—he’s blind of one eye. He’s a good fellow, though no great beauty.”
“Poor fellow!” said madam, patting him, “he must be hungry. John, my dear—do ask Vi’let to give him something to eat.”
John immediately disappeared, and soon returned bringing in nearly half the contents of Vi’let’s larder, when all gathered round to see Jaco eat; Mrs. Wendell for the time forgetting the baby at home. Poor Jaco, forgetting his first rough reception, thought he was in Elysium, having doubtless heard of such a blissful region in the classic land of his nativity, and in his poor silly brain, not conceiving it could be appropriated to one species only of created beings, and that, the remorseless tyrant of all the others. He stuffed till he could scarcely see out of his remaining eye; then laying himself down at his master’s feet, “the sober certainty of waking bliss” was soon lost in a comfortable nap.
After a short time, George went out to see some of his numerous friends. He made a call at his Aunt Brinley’s, and laughed and jested with his cousins; he then shaped his course to Neptune street, where he made so long a stay that dinner had been ready to put on the table some time before he came home. Whom he could have gone to see it is not easy to conjecture; not his friend Dick, for the latter had called twice to see him during his absence. Where-ever he might have been, he came home in high good-humor.
Seeing his brother, who was watching for him at the gate, he stooped and took him, passive and unresisting, on his arm, as a nurse would a child of a year old, and carried him into the house. Peter was bringing in dinner as he opened the door, and his mother had already taken her seat at table. He then went up to his father, who had not yet risen from his seat by the fire, slipped softly behind him, and seizing the chair on which Mr. Fayerweather was sitting, by the two arms, he said, “By your leave, sir,” and holding the chair out at arm’s length, he described with it a semi-circle, himself the centre, which brought his father directly before the smoking sirloin. He then stood at his own place at table while Mr. Fayerweather asked the blessing. The remainder of the day George passed by the fireside, making his mother laugh and scold alternately, as he related the pranks of Dick and himself on board the vessel, as well as on shore.
This winter George remained at home, and managed to pass away the time in making the model of a fine ship he had seen at Deptford; a little mathematics with John during the college vacation, but more skating; and occasionally a sleigh-ride with his aunt and cousins, with whom he was a great favorite. Molly had arrived at an age to be admitted to the assemblies, and was the acknowledged belle of the season; she, moreover, had made a decided impression on Sir Harland Hartley, a young baronet who had arrived in Boston with some dispatches the previous year, and was visiting Salem.
The next spring young Fayerweather and his friend Seaward again set sail. With intervals of a month or two between, they made several succeeding voyages together; during one of which, their vessel was captured by a French privateer, part of the crew taken out, and a French captain and crew, nearly double their own remaining number, put on board. This event gave the two young men the glorious occasion they had long desired, for displaying their courage and prowess, which until then had been wasted or thrown away in feats of strength or hardihood to excite the wonder of the bystanders. With their little band they rose upon their captors, and succeeded in retaking their vessel, which they carried in triumph to its destined British port. Their promotion followed of course, and each returned home master of a fine merchantman.
George’s engagement with Judith Stimpson took place soon after, naturally occasioning some dissatisfaction to his family on account of her plebeian origin; this, however, soon wore off, or was conquered by the sweetness of the fair young girl, who soon gained so entirely upon Madam Fayerweather’s affections, that she declared, “She could not have loved Judith better if she had been the daughter of King George himself;” which was saying much, for madam prided herself on her loyalty.
Sir Harland Hartley was now the declared suitor of Molly Brinley, and great preparations were making for the wedding. The baronet, being anxious to return to Quebec as soon as possible, in order to present his bride to some of his near connections, who were soon to embark for England, could not remain in Salem long enough for the three weeks’ sitting up for company. In this dilemma Madam Brinley concluded, after several long and deep consultations with her sister and niece, to make a great wedding, to be followed by a ball and supper, and to invite all the Salem world, with the court which was then sitting, and theéliteof Boston.
The preparations for this grand event occupied the heads and hands of all the female part of the three families for ten days. Aunt Vi’let being great in the roasting line, was a very important personage, and the whole direction of this department was given to her, she felt her consequence accordingly.
Molly Brinley was glad to choose a bridemaid in Judith, whose beauty would contribute to theéclatof her wedding; feeling too secure in her own charms and in Sir Harland’s devotion to her to fear a rival, and Captain and Mrs. Stimpson were among the earliest bidden. What was the trepidation of the latter on her own account in preparing for her first appearance in thebeau monde. The captain, determined to spare no expense for his wife and daughter on so proud an occasion, took a journey to Boston to make the necessary purchases; his taste, in dress being unquestioned. The whole family were up by daybreak to set him off; the expedition requiring the whole of a long day at that time, though now the distance is traversed by the rail-cars in half an hour.
After ransacking every shop in Boston, he bought for his wife a grass-green damask for a sack, with a bright-pink lustring for a petticoat; these being the colors in which she had captivated him, at the never-to-be-forgotten ordination of Parson Slocum. It may be well to inform the reader that the sack was a dress, open before, discovering half the petticoat, which was usually of the same material. For Judith he chose better; a delicate buff-colored satin. This was so much admired that Madam Brinley sent for some of the same piece for Lizzy, who was her sister’s other bridemaid. For himself, the captain bought a full suit of mulberry color, with a blue-satin waistcoat, magnificently flowered with red, green and purple; and a new wig, with a bag, lately come into fashion, he had always worn a tie.
On the day of the wedding it was thought expedient to try on their new habiliments to see if they fitted, and how they all looked together. Mrs. Stimpson, after surveying herself in the glass before and behind and on each side, pleased and slightly agitated at the unwonted elegance of her appearance, threw herself into a chair and heaving a deep sigh, to throw off her embarrassment, said to her husband—
“Oh dear! Mr. Stimpson, we must think over a little what we shall have to do. I suppose, when we go into the room, Judith must be on your right hand, and I on your left—no, I must be on your right hand and Judith on your left—”
“I think, Miss Stimpson,” said the captain, consequentially, “it will be more becoming for me to go in first, and for you and Judith to take hold of hands and follow me.”
“Why, no, Mr. Stimpson; that doesn’t seem to me to be the right way—it wasn’t so at Nanny Dennis’s wedding, if I remember me rightly.”
“But, ma,” interrupted their daughter gently, “I do not think this will be exactly like Mrs. Brayton’s wedding.”
“No more it wont,” replied her father, “and we must go and take pattern by the others; I was always a good hand at taking a hint, and I don’t doubt we shall appear as well as any on ’em.”
Here Mrs. Stimpson broke in with—“Oh, Judith, do think me on’t to make a courtesy when I go in; like as not I shall forget it in my hurry. I remember we all courtesied round at Nanny Dennis’s, we had each of us a white rosy in our hands, and it was the beautifullest sight! But, where’s my fan? Do run and get it Judith.”
Judith tripped out of the room to get the fan, and as she closed the door, grandsir, who was not as usual dozing, but was listening to their conversation, and in fact, taking considerable interest in it, spoke out—
“I am sorry, my children, to see you are so much overtaken with the pomps and vanities of this world; more it seems to me than that young child, that we might expect it of. You should strive to have the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, and remember that pride comes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”
“So it does, grandsir,” answered his daughter-in-law meekly, after a moment of silence; “and I wont wear this elegant dress, but will put on my brown paduasoy; that was always thought good enough for me.” Showing that she had the requisite ornament, and that the Scripture he quoted was not applicable to her.
“No, no child,” he replied quickly; “that would be disrespectful to your husband. I suppose you will be expected to have some worthy adornments, and I must say you become the dress.”
“That she does,” added his son, forgetting the old gentleman’s exordium in his conclusion, “and I don’t believe there will be a more personable woman there than Captain Robert Stimpson’s wife.”
“Oh, Mr. Stimpson,” said his wife, with recovered spirits, “do remember to shut up Trip; if you don’t he’ll follow us to the wedding; and if I was to see him in that room I do believe I should be mortified to pieces.”
The evening at length arrived, and the company assembled in Madam Brinley’s parlor, which was used on this occasion for the reception-room. This was a fine room in the fashion of the day, and so lofty that a reasonably tall man might walk across it with his hat on, without fear of having it knocked off by the large beam which crossed the centre of the ceiling. A rich Turkey carpet, betokening very high style in those days of sanded floors, formed the centre-piece of the room. High-backed leather-seated chairs, thickly studded with brass nails, stood stiffly against the walls. The fireplace, ornamented with Dutch tiles, was furnished with andirons of polished steel; and the shovel and tongs of the same metal, seemed, as the merry blaze danced on their bright surfaces, to cast significant glances at each other across the hearth. A large mantel-glass surmounted the fireplace, on each side of which hung in rich black and gold frames, the respective arms of the Brinley and Borland families, the lady of the house belonging to the latter. A large pier-glass hung between the two front windows, in which each lady might survey her goodly person, and compare it with that of her neighbor; beneath this was a slab of gray marble, with highly ornamented iron supporters fastened into the wall. A tall, oaken desk and book-case stood in one corner of the room, opposite to which, a round snap-table of black mahogany, with claw feet, displayed its disc turned down, of so remarkable a polish, that little Trip—who, notwithstanding all his master’s care in shutting him up at home, had managed to escape from his confinement, and had followed his mistress into the room unperceived—on seeing his image so truly reflected, ran up to it with great glee, sniffing and wagging his tail, delighted at having found, as he supposed, a comrade of his own species to bear him out in his audacity. Mrs. Stimpson turned all manner of colors, and cast many imploring looks at her husband, who pretended to be wholly absorbed in the contemplation of a fire-screen which stood near. On a servant’s attempting to drive Trip out, he set up a shrill bark, and ran on his little bow-legs, with his feet turned out, to his mistress for protection; jumped into her lap—on her very pink lustring petticoat—and, putting his black paws on her shoulders, began whining and licking her face with great affection. On seeing which, John Fayerweather took his little four-footed acquaintance in his arms, and put him in a place of safety; while Captain Stimpson electrified the company by a more than usually sonorous h-m-gh.
Madam Brinley in crimson velvet, and looking finely, occupied a large arm-chair, curiously carved, on one side the fireplace. Madam Fayerweather, in a beautiful white-grounded brocade, and looking as if she was wishing every body joy, was on her right. Next to her sat Mrs. Wendell, plainly, though handsomely dressed. She could boast of but little beauty, excepting a pair of fine eyes, beaming with intellect and benevolence; her wit and fine sense, however, rendered her the centre of attraction at every party.
Mrs. Stimpson had the honor of sitting next Madam Brinley on the left, her husband as near her as possible, as if for mutual protection. The other guests stationed themselves with great exactness, according to their rank and affinity to the hostess.
The bridal party entered. The bride, a sparkling brunette, with an exquisite figure, was arrayed in a sack of white brocade, embroidered with large silver-flowers; a necklace of oriental pearl encircled her throat, and pendants of the same hung from her ears. Her hair combed back from her beautiful forehead, was turned over a cushion on the top of her head, where it was confined by a diamond bodkin, falling from the back of her head in glossy ringlets, whose jetty hue contrasted finely with her white neck. Altogether she was as fair a bride as one would wish to see.
The bridegroom, a handsome man of two and thirty, appeared to be fully sensible of his importance, at the same time to be sufficiently enamored of his bride, and to applaud himself on the taste he had displayed in his choice. The fair bridemaids “looked sweetly” in their buff-colored satins, with aprons of Brussels’ lace, and triple ruffle cuffs of the same. The groomsmen were Mr. Lindsey, a gay young Englishman, and George Fayerweather. The latter, from his stature and noble proportions, was the most conspicuous figure in the assemblage; towering over every other by at least three inches. He was in a coat of light-blue, with under-garments of white silk. His countenance was an expansion of all the good-humor and happiness of his mother’s, with a dash of fun and frolic, under which might be detected traces of thought and deep feeling. John, “a pale, intellectual-looking student,” was too reserved and diffident to become an actor in the scene, but sat retired, and observed every thing going on in quiet enjoyment, admiring Judith nearly as much as his brother.
The solemn ceremony, which was very impressively performed by Mr. McGregor, being over and the cake cut and distributed, arrangements were made by the master-of-ceremonies, Mr. Wendell, for the ball. The door being thrown open, the company were ushered into the dancing-room, brilliantly lighted up for the occasion. After a short pause, Mr. Wendell called upon the governor to lead out the bride for the opening minuet, which was danced in a very gubernatorial and bridal manner. The bridegroom and Madam Brinley followed, and then Judge Wentworth of Boston and Madam Fayerweather, who was still celebrated for her minuet. Her husband never danced, and Mr. Wendell then called out Captain Fayerweather and Miss Stimpson, though scarcely expecting that Judith would be prevailed upon to dance.
To his surprise, after a little hesitation, with a smile and a blush, she rose, and as her partner led her to the head of the room, an involuntary murmur of admiration ran round the assembly—for never had a pair appeared of more singular beauty. They stood side by side, while the accustomed prelude was played, the blue and white of his habit, contrasting beautifully with the color of hers, as did his stately figure with hers of bird-like lightness; she extended her dress to its greatest width in her delicate fingers; she cast a timid glance around the room, he one of manly greeting, her little foot slid to the right, and she made a low and graceful courtsey, while his tall figure was bending to the floor in perfect time to the measure, in this salute to the company. Then rising slowly, they stood for a moment with one foot in advance, awaiting the proper signal from the music, when they turned, and he, with sparkling eyes, and she, with the delicate bloom on her cheek heightened to a rose, made a like lowly reverence to each other. Then, as the pair became animated with the music, and they floated round the room, now advancing now receding, in their magic evolutions crossing and re-crossing, their graceful forms rising and falling in measured waves to the time—all their attitudes, and all their motions of elegance and delicacy combined; they might have seemed some fair beings of another sphere, weaving a mystic spell to drive afar all sorrow. This was the old-fashioned minuet. How has its place been supplied in the ball-room, by the waltz and its varieties, the mazurka, the polka, etc.
What were Judith’s father and mother doing all the while? Entirely forgetting the rest of the company, and following their daughter with their eyes, Captain Stimpson, with his lips firmly compressed, moved his head from side to side in time to the music, or rather with involuntary imitation of Judith’s motions.
“Did you ever! Mr. Stimpson,” said his wife, in an irrepressible ecstasy, as Judith slowly glided through a peculiarly beautiful part of the figure.
“I sartainly never did,” said the captain, drawing in a very long breath.
“But, after all,” rejoined Mrs. Stimpson, “she has the same solemn eyes of my poor, dear mother; and it seems to me more so than ever to-night.”
“Look like her grandmother!” said her husband, with strong emphasis; “she looks more like a bird of paradise, such as I’ve seen in Ingee. That yaller satin becomes her most remarkably; she sartainly is the comeliest person that ever I clapped my eyes on.”
Here Madam Fayerweather joined them, and laying her hand impressively on the arm of Mrs. Stimpson, interrupted them as she pointed to Judith, “She’s the prettiest, the dearest creature that ever was seen, and as good as she is pretty;” and as the object of her encomiums came up to them with glowing cheeks, the minuet being finished, Madam could not refrain from kissing her, saying, “My dear, you did dance charmingly.”
George would willingly have made one of the group, but was called away reluctantly by his co-adjutor, the young Englishman, who asked him with more freedom than George approved of, “What he would take for his bargain?” then surveying his noble figure with internal admiration, he added, after a short pause, “Fayerweather, you are a lucky dog.” Afterward, in the course of the evening, he managed to pay Judith so much attention as to distress the modest girl not a little, and to give some pain to George, whose office as groomsman, did not allow him to be exclusively devoted to her. Mr. Lindsey manœuvered to be beforehand with every one else in inviting her to be his partner in the country dances, and her refusal necessarily obliging her to sit still, he took his seat by her, and persisted in keeping it until supper was announced, when he took her hand, which she had no pretence for refusing, and led her in triumph to the supper-table.
Mr. Fayerweather, who had intended to perform this office himself, in order to do particular honor to his son’s choice, felt no slight displeasure at such presumption, with a strong disposition to make known to Mr. Lindsey, that “he considered him an impertinent coxcomb.” He refrained, however, and advancing toward Judith’s father and mother, he begged to have the honor of leadingMadamStimpson to the supper-table. Madam Stimpson bridled up and looked at her husband; the dignified frown on whose brow was contradicted by the complacent smile which, in spite of his endeavor, lurked about his mouth; then making her courtsey—and a very good one it was—she gave her hand to Mr. Fayerweather; and the three proceeded in state to the supper-room—the captain marching with head erect on the other side of his wife. It was a proud evening for Captain Bob Stimpson.
On the whole, the wedding went off with greatéclat. The happy pair set off the next day for Boston, to embark for Quebec. On the following week, Captain Fayerweather was to set sail on a two years’ voyage—on his return from which he was to claim his bride.
On the day previous to George’s departure, he gave his father a cabinet of ebony, curiously inlaid, and of costly and peculiar workmanship, which a French prisoner, whose release he had been instrumental in procuring in one of the British ports, had prevailed upon him to accept as a token of gratitude for the service.
“Thank you, my son,” said Mr. Fayerweather, not a little gratified; “that will be just the thing for my valuable papers, the little trunk I keep them in is too crowded.”
“I wish you would let me have that, sir, to take with me; I always took a fancy to it,” rejoined his son.
“You shall have it, and Judith shall have a jewel-box well filled on her wedding-day, too.” So saying, Mr. Fayerweather ran down stairs to the counting-room and quickly returned with the little trunk in his hand to his own chamber, where he and his son had been communing. He sat down panting, and remained a minute or two without speaking, with his hand on his side.
“What’s the matter, sir, that you are so out of breath?” his son anxiously inquired; “why didn’t you let me go for you? I didn’t know what you left the room for.”
“Oh, it’s nothing but a slight palpitation of the heart, to which I have been subject a little of late—it will soon go off.”
It did not go off, however, and the attack continued longer than usual; but Mr. Fayerweather without heeding it, or suffering any indications of it to appear before his son, proceeded to remove the papers into their new place of deposit—and George took the little trunk into his own possession. The day after Mr. Fayerweather felt more unwell than he was willing to make known, wishing to spare his family any additional weight upon their spirits, at the time of his son’s departure. After this his attacks became more frequent and of longer duration, rendering it impossible to conceal them any longer from Madam, who, in alarm, sent immediately for Dr. Holly. The latter, upon inquiring into the symptoms, and examining the pulse of his patient, looked grave. His prescriptions were successful, however, and Mr. Fayerweather in a few weeks appeared to be restored to his usual health.
But to return to George; his usual gay spirits deserted him as he was taking his leave of Judith, and a depression wholly unknown to him before seized him, as the boat which was to bear him to the vessel appeared merrily dancing over the waves to the wharf, opposite the window near which they were standing.
“Farewell, Judith!” said he, then adding playfully, but with a voice not wholly free from a slight tremor, “when I return, do not let me find you the bride of some dashing Englishman.”
“Oh, George! how can you say so?” she replied, the tears gushing into her eyes; “how can you think I could ever be the bride of any man but you; but if there is any truth in dreams, the one I had last night, tells me I shall never be a bride.”
“Oh, psha upon dreams!” he said, running off to hide the tears which, in spite of his manliness, were now streaming down his own cheeks. She saw him spring into the boat, which she kept in sight until it reached the vessel. Then going up to her own room, with a spy-glass she watched the vessel as it gradually receded from view, until its tallest mast sunk beneath the waves. She yielded to a burst of anguish, which she in vain attempted to control, and sat for some moments sobbing, then her tears ceased to flow, and her countenance resumed its wonted serenity; she then went below, superintended old Mary, and prepared her grandfather’s supper with more than usual care, her generous nature not suffering her own private feelings to interfere with the comfort or happiness of others.
[Conclusion in our next.
JOY AND SORROW.
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BY RICHARD COE.
———
“I amhappy, O, how happy!”Said a little child, one day,At his play,With his ball of twine and kite,That to his supreme delight,To the skiesDid arise,Far from human sight.Came a sudden gust and squall,Gone was kite and twine and all;Tears were in his eyes!“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a maiden young and fair;On the air,Scarce the words had fallen, when,Lo! her lover, down the glen,Now she sees,On his knees,Like to other men,Vowing love to fairer maid;Words she overheard he saidThat her soul did freeze!“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a gay and laughing bride;By her sideStood the husband of her choice,Who did in his strength rejoice:Months have fled;O’er the deadNow she lifts her wailing voice!From her lonely pillow nowWho may lift her pallid brow?Who may raise her head?“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a mother fair and mild;On her childGazing with her love-lit eyes—The sweet cherub from the skies,That in love,Like a dove,Strayed from Paradise:Lo! the angel Death, one day,Took her darling one away,Beckoning her above!“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a Christian on his bed,With his headTurned toward the setting sun:“Soon my labor will be done,Then will I,With a sigh,To the mighty One,Who is e’er the Christian’s friendAll my anxious cares commend,And will calmly die!”
“I amhappy, O, how happy!”Said a little child, one day,At his play,With his ball of twine and kite,That to his supreme delight,To the skiesDid arise,Far from human sight.Came a sudden gust and squall,Gone was kite and twine and all;Tears were in his eyes!“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a maiden young and fair;On the air,Scarce the words had fallen, when,Lo! her lover, down the glen,Now she sees,On his knees,Like to other men,Vowing love to fairer maid;Words she overheard he saidThat her soul did freeze!“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a gay and laughing bride;By her sideStood the husband of her choice,Who did in his strength rejoice:Months have fled;O’er the deadNow she lifts her wailing voice!From her lonely pillow nowWho may lift her pallid brow?Who may raise her head?“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a mother fair and mild;On her childGazing with her love-lit eyes—The sweet cherub from the skies,That in love,Like a dove,Strayed from Paradise:Lo! the angel Death, one day,Took her darling one away,Beckoning her above!“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a Christian on his bed,With his headTurned toward the setting sun:“Soon my labor will be done,Then will I,With a sigh,To the mighty One,Who is e’er the Christian’s friendAll my anxious cares commend,And will calmly die!”
“I amhappy, O, how happy!”Said a little child, one day,At his play,With his ball of twine and kite,That to his supreme delight,To the skiesDid arise,Far from human sight.Came a sudden gust and squall,Gone was kite and twine and all;Tears were in his eyes!
“I amhappy, O, how happy!”
Said a little child, one day,
At his play,
With his ball of twine and kite,
That to his supreme delight,
To the skies
Did arise,
Far from human sight.
Came a sudden gust and squall,
Gone was kite and twine and all;
Tears were in his eyes!
“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a maiden young and fair;On the air,Scarce the words had fallen, when,Lo! her lover, down the glen,Now she sees,On his knees,Like to other men,Vowing love to fairer maid;Words she overheard he saidThat her soul did freeze!
“I am happy, O, how happy!”
Said a maiden young and fair;
On the air,
Scarce the words had fallen, when,
Lo! her lover, down the glen,
Now she sees,
On his knees,
Like to other men,
Vowing love to fairer maid;
Words she overheard he said
That her soul did freeze!
“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a gay and laughing bride;By her sideStood the husband of her choice,Who did in his strength rejoice:Months have fled;O’er the deadNow she lifts her wailing voice!From her lonely pillow nowWho may lift her pallid brow?Who may raise her head?
“I am happy, O, how happy!”
Said a gay and laughing bride;
By her side
Stood the husband of her choice,
Who did in his strength rejoice:
Months have fled;
O’er the dead
Now she lifts her wailing voice!
From her lonely pillow now
Who may lift her pallid brow?
Who may raise her head?
“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a mother fair and mild;On her childGazing with her love-lit eyes—The sweet cherub from the skies,That in love,Like a dove,Strayed from Paradise:Lo! the angel Death, one day,Took her darling one away,Beckoning her above!
“I am happy, O, how happy!”
Said a mother fair and mild;
On her child
Gazing with her love-lit eyes—
The sweet cherub from the skies,
That in love,
Like a dove,
Strayed from Paradise:
Lo! the angel Death, one day,
Took her darling one away,
Beckoning her above!
“I am happy, O, how happy!”Said a Christian on his bed,With his headTurned toward the setting sun:“Soon my labor will be done,Then will I,With a sigh,To the mighty One,Who is e’er the Christian’s friendAll my anxious cares commend,And will calmly die!”
“I am happy, O, how happy!”
Said a Christian on his bed,
With his head
Turned toward the setting sun:
“Soon my labor will be done,
Then will I,
With a sigh,
To the mighty One,
Who is e’er the Christian’s friend
All my anxious cares commend,
And will calmly die!”
STANZAS.
———
BY R. PENN SMITH.
———
Thetears of morn that steep the roseA zephyr soon may kiss away;Sporting ’midst odor to uncloseThe virgin bud to foliage gay.But then at eve the fragrant flower,Oppressed with dews, will droop—decay;For zephyr hath no longer powerTo kiss the dews of night away.Our childhood’s tears like dew-drops flow;A mother’s kiss soon dries the tear;But tears the aged shed in wo,Are only dried up on the bier.
Thetears of morn that steep the roseA zephyr soon may kiss away;Sporting ’midst odor to uncloseThe virgin bud to foliage gay.But then at eve the fragrant flower,Oppressed with dews, will droop—decay;For zephyr hath no longer powerTo kiss the dews of night away.Our childhood’s tears like dew-drops flow;A mother’s kiss soon dries the tear;But tears the aged shed in wo,Are only dried up on the bier.
Thetears of morn that steep the roseA zephyr soon may kiss away;Sporting ’midst odor to uncloseThe virgin bud to foliage gay.
Thetears of morn that steep the rose
A zephyr soon may kiss away;
Sporting ’midst odor to unclose
The virgin bud to foliage gay.
But then at eve the fragrant flower,Oppressed with dews, will droop—decay;For zephyr hath no longer powerTo kiss the dews of night away.
But then at eve the fragrant flower,
Oppressed with dews, will droop—decay;
For zephyr hath no longer power
To kiss the dews of night away.
Our childhood’s tears like dew-drops flow;A mother’s kiss soon dries the tear;But tears the aged shed in wo,Are only dried up on the bier.
Our childhood’s tears like dew-drops flow;
A mother’s kiss soon dries the tear;
But tears the aged shed in wo,
Are only dried up on the bier.
LETTY RAWDON.
AN EPISODE IN AMERICAN LIFE.
———
BY THOS. R. NEWBOLD.
———
Theever-changing hues of the kaleidoscope, and the varying tints of our autumnal forests do not present more changeful or varied scenes than are to be found in real life in this country. The decay of one family, the rise of another, depending as they do on the pecuniary fortunes of their possessors, render American society a scene of constant excitement, and he who is at the top of the social ladder to-day, falls to-morrow with the fall of stocks to the bottom. The little tale which follows is but a type of what is daily occurring around us, and is presented as a general outline, which all may fill up at their leisure to suit their pleasure.
Letitia, or as she was usually called in her girlhood, Letty Rawdon, was the only daughter of old Elias Rawdon, a thrifty and prosperous tailor in the pleasant village of Middlebury. The old man had married rather late in life, after he had in his own phrase “got a little something snug about him.” She followed the usual course of village girls, and at the dame’s school had learned those difficult arts of reading, writing, and ciphering. In her young days, the road to learning was not the plank or rail-road track on which our young people now travel so readily. The A, B, C, required some study to ponder out, and in 179—, the portals to learning were not thrown so wide open as they are in the year of grace 1852. Be that as it may, Letty, however, mastered them. From her earliest years she had been an ambitious child, never content unless she was among the foremost; as eager for superiority over her little schoolmates in play as in study, as if she had been born to rule them. She was not what would be termed a handsome child, but her features were delicate, and her full hazel eye looked out from its long lashes with a glance that showed full well the determined soul within. She was her father’s darling, who denied her nothing, whence she soon obtained a complete ascendancy in the dwelling of the old tailor.
When Letty was about thirteen years of age, a fashionable boarding-school was opened in the village, and the old man yielded at once to her wishes to become a day-scholar at it. Here her ambition carried her rapidly onward, and if Letty, when she entered it, was comparatively a raw, ignorant country-girl, no one who saw her at the termination of her course of studies there, could have recognized in the graceful, intelligent, and accomplished girl before him, the little awkward being, who, four years before had there commenced her career. The principal of the school, an elegant and accomplished lady, was early attracted to her by her aptitude for learning, and her desire to acquire it, and Letty was soon a favorite pupil. Nor whilst cultivating her mind did she neglect her person. The elegant manners of her preceptress made a most decided impression on her; gradually she found her own forming on the model before her, and in process of time, though she made no pretensions to great beauty, it would have been difficult to have found a more attractive person than Letty Rawdon, the tailor’s daughter.
The young men of the village and neighborhood were the first to make this discovery, and at all the general merry-makings which occurred, Letty Rawdon was, beyond all rivalry, the village belle. We say general merry-makings, for our village, like all others large and small, had its aristocracy, and in the eyes of the “upper circle,” we mean the female part of it, of its fifteen hundred inhabitants, she was only “that conceited, forward thing, the daughter of old Rawdon, the tailor.” Mrs. Baxter, the wife of the leading lawyer of the place, in an interview with Mrs. Danforth, the wife of the physician, had settled—“that, although they supposed in their small place they must know the tailor’s daughter when they met her in the street, or at church, or other public place, still she was not to be on any account admitted into their set.” How often has many a lovely girl been thus tabooed, not that she would not confer honor on them, but she might mayhap be in the way of an advantageous settlement of some marriageable daughters, perchance less attractive than herself.
Letty soon found that there was a determination in the female magnates of the village to crush her rising into any importance among them. But the spirit of the girl rose with the occasion. In a short time it became generally known that she was to be kept at a distance by the village fashionables. What cared she? Her father had accumulated a snug little competency, and few girls in the neighborhood would be as well dowered as Letty. On this she was allowed to draw as she pleased. New and tasty furniture adorned the best “sitting-room,” and Letty’s brilliant performance on by far the best piano in the village, caused many a hasty step to loiter on its way, as it passed the tailor’s door. Nor were the listeners confined to the outside of the house, for within were frequently found all the “most desirable” young men, who showed a decided preference for Letty’s fine music and lively conversation, to the more dignified, but less agreeable assemblages of the exclusives of the place. Nor abroad did she attract less admiration than at home, and envy itself was at length compelled to confess that Letty Rawdon was by far the best dressed and most stylish girl in the village.
As a natural consequence, suitors followed. Phil Dubbs, the only child of the wealthiest farmer in the neighborhood; young Harry Edmonds, just called to the bar, and for whom his friends already predicted a brilliant career; Edward Simpson, the junior partner of the principal mercantile firm in the place, were prominent among these. Each wooed in his peculiar way. Dubbs had enjoyed no advantages of education beyond what the village grammar-school afforded; but then he was an accomplished graduate in all rural sports. No young man in the country had as good a horse, or rode him as well; he had the best pointers, and was the best shot to be found in 20 miles round, and was in all such accomplishments perfect. To him Letty was under obligations for finishing completely one part of her education; for he broke a favorite colt for her especial use, and under his skillful tuition she became a fearless and accomplished horse-woman. Edmonds quoted Byron and Moore to her constantly, when he had better have been employed over Coke and Starkie; and spoiled as much paper in perpetrating bad verses to her, as would have sufficed for his pleas and declarations during a year’s practice; and Simpson never returned from “the city,” whither he went to make the purchases of goods for his firm, without a selection of the choicest articles for Letty’s especial use, accompanied with directions as to the latest style of making them up.
Thus strengthened and fortified, Letty saw her foes gradually yielding before her. One by one they surrendered at discretion, until Mrs. Baxter, herself, at last sought the acquaintance, and at twenty years of age, Letty Rawdon, the tailor’s daughter, stood the supreme arbitress oftonin her native village. Although she was grateful to her allies for the assistance they had afforded her, she was by no means disposed to bestow herself in return on any of them. She was not one of those whose hearts are easily won. She was prodigal of her smiles; she was ready to do a kind act, or say a kind word, but the surrender of her heart and hand was another matter. She was ambitious of social distinction. She had achieved the highest place at home, and she panted for triumphs yet to come on a wider and loftier stage. Since she had left school her time had not been misspent. She continued to cultivate, under the tuition of her former master, her very decided musical talents; her mind was strengthened and enlarged by a course of judicious reading, for which Harry Edmonds supplied her with the material; and the foreign languages she had acquired were not forgotten. She felt herself far superior to all her companions, and that her genius was hidden in the comparatively obscure place in which her lot was cast.
There are few women who do not at some period or other, or in some form or other, meet their fate in the shape of a man. Happy, they, who are exempt from this general calamity of the sex; for calamity in too many cases we believe it to be. For our part, we plead guilty to a sneaking liking to single women, yclept by vulgar minds, old maids. Under this denomination, we do not, however, include that numerous bond of “single sisters,” hovering between the ages of 35 and 45, to whom a superannuated bachelor, or an interesting widower, especially if he be a parson with a half a dozen responsibilities, is a god-send. Oh, no! we mean none of these, but one of these dignified ladies, of nameless age and easy fortune, of whom all of us count one or more among our acquaintance. Where are such complete establishments to be found as among these? Go to visit them, and your ears are not deafened by a practicing miss of 14, thumping an unfortunate piano, until if it had any powers of speech it would certainly cry out “pianissimo;” or by one of those lively squalls from the upper regions, which resembles nothing earthly but the serenade of an amatory cat at midnight. From these, and such like annoyances you are exempt, and then if you enjoy the privilege of an intimacy which admits you to the tea-table—where else is such superb Imperial or glorious Souchong to be found? Piping hot, it is poured into a cup of such clean and delicate texture, that the fragrance of the grateful shrub is heightened thereby. The water with which it has been compounded has certainly boiled. Just the right quantity has been admixed. It does not require to be ruined, by having a supply of tepid water added to it after it has been poured in to your cup; nor does it come on table a tasteless slops, at which even a four-footed animal, unmentionable to ears polite, would utter a grunt of dissent if presented to it. No. Commend me to one of those tea-tables. The muffins also, are so hot, so “just done;” or the toast without being burned to a cinder, or hardened to a board, is crisp and delightful as the most fastidious could require. The cream, too—please do not mention it—the same milk-man may serve her next door neighbor, but in her mansion no skim-milk is mixed therewith, to eke out to a large family the amount required in the compound used therein, and which is called by courtesy, tea. And then the sugar, sparkling as so many diamonds in the antique silver bowl in which it rests; no “broken-topped” or “crushed,” but “Stewart’s” or “Lovering’s extra loaf” is alone used here. It sometimes happens that a “petit souper” is substituted for the tea-table. The oysters, Morris river coves, when they can be had, certainly: the terrapins, none but the genuine Egg-harbors ever enter her doors, and the inimitable John Irwin has exhausted on them all the resources of his skill. All the appliances of her table are in keeping, and as you admire the dignified courtesy with which she attends to the wants of each guest, or leads the conversation into channels she thinks most acceptable to those around her, the mind involuntarily recurs to the days of hoops and hair-powder, trains and high-heeled shoes.
In those days, rail-roads were a thing which had entered into the imagination of no man as a mode of travel, and he who should have spoken of an iron horse rushing on his course, and drawing hundreds of human beings after him at a speed of 30 miles an hour, would have been considered quite as great a believer in the marvelous, as those now are, who have faith in Paine’s light. Even post-coaches were a novelty off of the great thoroughfares, and the public conveyance usual to such small places as Middlebury, was the old long-bodied stage, with its three or four seats behind the driver’s, and stowing away some ten or twelve passengers. Blessings on those old carriages, we say. It is true, their pace rarely got up to five miles an hour, and that at every five miles or so they stopped “to water,” at an expense of some fifteen minutes of time; but what of that? Minutes seem to be more valuable to travelers now, than hours were then. But what mixed feelings did not these produce in our bosom, when seated in the old stage on our route out of town for the holydays, between impatience to arrive at our journey’s end, and the airy fabrics we erected, of what we should do when we reached there. There was the best and kindest of grandmothers as impatiently waiting for the arrival which was to enable her to spoil “the boys” with indulgences, as we were to be spoiled. There was the well-remembered pony, a little less anxious we opine to be dashed around the country, than we were to dash him. Then, there was the mill-dam, where the many-colored sun-fish awaited our hook and worms, and the bathing-place below the dam, where we could venture to try our newly-acquired skill across “the hole” without danger; and the store, where gingerbread and candy, and pipes for soap-suds bubbles were bought, with those “odd quarters” which grandma so freely bestowed. Who can ever forget these early days? And the deeper he sinks into the sere and yellow leaf, the brighter do they rise up. They constitute the small portion of our lives upon which we can look back with perfect complacency; for the light shadows which once partially clouded them have long since faded away and been forgotten, and nought but the memory of the bright joyous sunshine remains.
The old stage which plied between Middlebury and the city of Quakerdelphia, one day landed as a passenger at the former place a young man of some thirty years of age. Whether business or pleasure attracted him thither is of no consequence to this story, although from the character of the man it was more probably the former. At the age of sixteen John Smithson found himself an apprentice in a dry-goods store of Quakerdelphia. He had come thither with a sound constitution, a good, solid English education, such as was then less frequently obtained in country schools than now is; great industry and indomitable perseverance. These last traits had early attracted the attention of his acquaintance, and his success in whatever he should undertake predicted. He soon attracted the attention and confidence of his employers, and the respective grades of apprentice, clerk, and junior partner were attained by him. In the mercantile world he had for some time been noted for his intimate acquaintance with and complete knowledge of business, and for the integrity, straightforwardness and manliness of his character, and no one was surprised when the senior member of the firm retired a year before, that it took the title of Jones, Smithson & Co. John Smithson had achieved mercantile distinction. Wealth had commenced flowing in upon him in a continuous and unbroken stream, and a few years would in all probability see him among the richest merchants of his adopted city. But social distinctions were wanting to him. In his younger days he had been too busy to think of matrimony, or indeed, of female society at all. He was too much engaged in achieving the position he now occupied to care much for aught else, and his intercourse with men had rubbed off the awkward angles of the raw country lad. Still the want of refined female society had necessarily left him without that polish which can be derived from it alone. He occupied then no social position. His home connection was respectable, and his growing wealth would enable him to take a place among the magnates about him; all his future, then, depended on his choice of a wife; for he began about this time to be cognizant of the fact that it was high time for him to marry.
He was fully impressed with this idea when he first met Letty Rawdon, nor did subsequent interviews with her serve to weaken the impression. Indeed, he began to be fully convinced of the necessity of the fact, and after paying some four or five visits to Middlebury, determined to inquire of Letty what was her opinion on the subject. On being interrogated by him, therefore, on this point, she still further strengthened his determination by agreeing fully with him thereon. Here was one point gained. Still another step, however, was to be taken. He again had recourse to his adviser, and she, on being interrogated whether it would be best for her to drop the name of Rawdon and take that of Smithson, determined it also affirmatively, to the entire satisfaction of the querist.
Letty, clear-sighted woman that she was, saw at an early period of her acquaintance the influence she was gradually acquiring over John Smithson. It is true he was not very handsome, but he had a manly, intelligent face and a good figure. If he did not understand all the mazes of a cotillion—waltzing was then unknown here, and the polka would have horrified our reputable predecessors—he had not entirely forgotten all the figures of the country-dance or the reel which he had learned when a boy. He rode well, too, and often accompanied the young lady in her gallops about the country. It is true he was more conversant with the qualities of Yorkshire woolens or India piece-goods, than with most of those lighter accomplishments by which alone many conceited addle-pates think that women are to be caught. But he was by no means uninformed. His reading had not been very extensive, but as far as it went it had been good—history, biography, travels comprised the chief of it—Shakspeare had, however, attracted him to his magic page, and many an idle hour which had been spent by many of his brother clerks in the theatre, the oyster-cellar or the billiard-room, had been passed by him in the manner above described. He was a close observer also of men and things, and Letty soon began to find his society much more to her taste than that of any unmarried man with whom she had ever associated.
She then asked herself the state of her own heart. Ambitious though she was, she was too true and honest a woman to give her hand without her heart; and after a brief, but careful consultation with herself, decided that she could in all honesty take him “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer.” In a worldly point of view it was the chance of a lifetime. The rich and rising merchant of the great city proposing to make her, the daughter of a village tailor, the future partner of his greatness. Letty was not insensible to this—we will not say she was grateful for it; she had too just an appreciation of her own merits to be so; but she was not blind to its advantages in a worldly point of view. Had it occurred some two years sooner, all the aristocracy of Middlebury would have cried out “shame;” but now it was received as a thing of course, and Smithson was warmly congratulated on his admirable taste.
It was decided by Letty, and confirmed by Smithson, that in order to secure high social position, a good start was necessary. There must be no false step, no blunder at the outset. How many apparently promising fortunes has this one false step marred. He accordingly took a good house in the most desirable part of Hazelnut street, the very centre and focus of fashion in Quakerdelphia. To furnish the house was in those days the business of the wife, and Letty determined to disburse the, for his situation, very considerable dower her father could give her, in fitting up her new mansion, leaving it to her future lord and master to furnish the sinews of war for carrying on the ensuing campaigns. Accompanied by her former preceptress, the assistance of whose taste she had evoked, Letty proceeded on her first visit to “the city.” We shall not stop to describe her first sensations on entering so large a place. Reading and descriptions had given her a pretty correct idea of what a city was, and she did not, like another country-girl we have heard of, complain “that she could not see the town for the houses.” Let not this be considered an exaggeration, for the reverse of the case occurred in our own presence a very few years since. We were at a country-house a few miles from the city, when a friend of its owner arrived there, accompanied by one of her children, a lovely little girl of some five years of age. From some cause or other she had never since she could remember been in the country before, and delighted with all she saw—the trees, the green fields, the flowers, she hurried with a smiling face to her mother, exclaiming—“Oh, mamma, is this indeed the real country?”
After a day or so devoted to sight-seeing, the serious business which brought her there was entered upon by Letty. Cabinet-makers were visited, upholsterers consulted, and trades-people of various kinds looked in upon, until finally, like a genuine woman, she stopped buying, simply because her money was all gone. Articles ofvertuwere not so common in those days as now, but yet our friend contrived to mingle a good deal of the ornamental with all of the useful in her purchases, and when, some time after, a carriage whirled to the door of a capacious Hazelnut street mansion, and a lady and gentleman descended therefrom, few ladies of Quakerdelphia entered a more elegant and luxurious home than did Mrs. John Smithson when she passed its portals.
——
Acquaintances Letty had none in the great city. Mrs. Jones, the lady of her husband’s partner, of course called upon her and gave her a party, to which her acquaintance generally were invited. Now, though Mrs. Jones and her friends belonged most strictly to the class called respectable and genteel, yet they were not fashionable. Letty appeared to comprehend this as it were by intuition. Nature had certainly intended her to be somebody—she accordingly took her line of conduct at once, and she determined that though circumstances required that with Mrs. Jones an air of cordiality and sociability must be preserved, yet this was not so necessary with that lady’s friends. Letty never cut any body directly. Her innate sense of propriety and natural good-breeding revolted from a course to which none but people of vulgar minds and shallow parts ever resort. She possessed, however, a tact which enabled her to drop an acquaintance without the slightest seemingness of rudeness or ill-manners. She knew how first to smile most cordially when she met the “droppee,” to wonder—
It was so long since they had met; she supposed, however, it must be her fault, but she had been so busy she had not been able to pay half her visits; to press the hand slightly, and with a smile an angel might almost envy, to say, “Good-bye, I will endeavor soon—”
And then glide gently away before the sentence was filled up. And this was the last of it. On the next meeting a sweet smile, a courteous bow, but no time to speak; and so the season passed; no visit exchanged, each eradicated the other’s name from her “list”—the object was effected not only without offense, but with such ease and grace, that the dropped was afterward heard to say:
“I think Mrs. A. a most lovely woman, and regret I was compelled by circumstances I could not help to stop visiting her, and so she has given me up.” Mrs. C. is not the only deluded mortal in this world.
Mrs. Smithson, we have seen, had determined that Mrs. Jones’s “set” were not to become her “set.” She was willing to bide her time. She was aware that great events are usually the creatures of slow growth. They may at the last grow with rapidity, but the seed which produces them has been for a long time germinating. She believed that a cultivated mind and accomplished person joined to a determined will, can achieve anything it pleases in the social as in other worlds, and she was determined to prove the truth of her convictions in her own case, and so she went on improving her mind, perfecting her accomplishments and biding her time.
Mr. Smithson, like all other reputable gentlemen, had, on becoming a married man, taken a pew in church. It was in a fashionable church, which then meant an Episcopal church, for fashion in those days was pretty much monopolized in Quakerdelphia by Episcopalians and a few degenerate descendants of the co-religionists of Penn, who had departed wofully in dress and manners from the primitive simplicity of “Friends.” Now-a-days things are somewhat altered, as one may perceive at a glance on entering some of the Presbyterian churches in the fashionable part of the city—the display of velvets, brocades and furs, the oceans of feathers and parterres of flowers show that their owners have entered on the race, and that it is almost a dead heat. Nor has the innovation ceased here. The full, rich, deep swell of the organ has been substituted for the bass-viol, and (rise not at the mention of it, shades of Knox and Calvin,) it is rumored that your descendants are about to worship in a Gothic temple, with its windows of stained-glass through which the “dim religious light” is to penetrate, and dim enough it is during our short winter afternoons. Whether the resemblance to the “Mass-houses” which were torn down in the sixteenth century is to be carried out fully in the interior as well as exterior, we have not learned, nor whether it is only to be confined to “sedilia,” “screen,” “south-porch,” “octagonal font at the door,” or whether any or none of these remains of Medievalism are to have a place within. The “Ecclesiologist” no doubt can enlighten our readers, and to that we refer them.
Mr. Smithson, as we said, took a pew in a fashionable church, and in a desirable position. Thither, accompanied by his fashionable-looking wife, who, in her turn, was accompanied by her richly-bound prayer-book, he resorted on Sunday mornings. The attention of the devotees around was at once attracted by her, and stray glances would slip from the leaf of the prayer-book to the “new person” near by. “N’importe,” Letty might say, as did a celebrated English dandy when an hundred opera-glasses were leveled at him, “Let them look and die.” With her attire no fault could be found. The material was of the richest and most costly kind, the colors most harmoniously combined; the fit perfect, showing her willowy and graceful figure to the utmost advantage, and the furs genuine martin.
“Who is she?” was the whispered colloquy, as the parties proceeded down the aisle, with a glance over the shoulder.
“Don’t you know—her name is Smithson. A rich Shamble street merchant. Live in Hazelnut street, in old Corkscrew’s house—said to be splendidly furnished.”
“Yes; but who is she? Where does she come from?”
“Don’t know exactly; but believe from New York, or Baltimore, or Richmond, or somewhere.”
“Very definite—and the last location very likely.”
“But what do you think of her? Very lady-looking—don’t you think so? And how beautifully she dresses. Her muff and tippet are certainly martin—and what a love of a hat. Martine tells me she paid $25 for it.”
Here the ladies having reached the door, the edifying commentary on the sermon just delivered ceased, and the parties separating, pursued their several ways. The first speaker, or querist, was Mrs. Rodgers, one of the most decided leaders of thetonin Quakerdelphia, whose father having retired from trade as a hardware merchant when she was a very little girl, felt her superiority to those of her acquaintances who were still engaged in trade. Her husband was in the same position as herself, and their united fortunes enabled him to provide his friends with the finest clarets, the oldest Madeiras, the fattest venison, and one of the greatest bores at the head of his own table who ever spoiled good wine by prosing over it. His lady gave no balls nor grand routes; she was too exclusive for that; but admittance to her “Evenings” was eagerly sought after by all who aspired to be of theton. The other lady, Mrs. Cackle, a widow, was one of those gossips who are everywhere found. Her pretensions to fashion were only pretensions, and she held her own in the gay world simply by making herself useful as the purveyor of all the fashionable scandal of the day to her fashionable acquaintance. Mrs. Rodgers and others of her set, would have as soon thought of doing without their cards or their carriages as without “Cackle,” as she was familiarly called; and hence she was at home in all the “best houses” of Quakerdelphia.
The pew which the Smithsons occupied, was adjoining that of Mrs. Rodgers. It was the family-pew of a certain Mrs. Edmonson, who, after a long career in the gay world, had recently, alarmed by conscience or gray hairs, abandoned cards for prayer-meetings, and despairing of “grace” under what she was pleased to term “the didactic essays and moral teachings” of Dr. Silky, her pastor, had abandoned them for the preachings of the Rev. Mr. Thunder, a celebrated revivalist. Here a new scene was opened for her. Possibly her jaded feelings may have required some new and varied stimulant. We do not say so positively. We merely repeat what “Cackle” said.
“Poor, dear soul! she was so worn-out with whist and piquett, that any change was for the better.”
Be this as it may, she certainly entered upon her new course of life with much zeal. She faithfully attended not only the three regular Sunday services, but all the occasional week-day lectures and familiar meetings for prayer and religious conversation. These latter were always preceded by tea at the house of some of the sisters of the Rev. Mr. Thunder’s flock. Projects for converting the world were then new, and the recent convert entered upon them with all the zeal which had formerly animated her when arranging the details of a ball or of a party for the theatre. The dwellers in Africa and the isles of the Pacific, occupied much of their attention; but they did not seem to know that within a few squares of where they were engaged alternately in sipping tea or expounding prophecy, dwelt a population, perhaps more degraded and more requiring enlightenment, than those over whose darkness they mourned. The inhabitant of Africa thought nothing of a Saviour of whom he had never heard. The denizen of St. Anne’s street uttered his name only to blaspheme. Which of these, according to the doctrine as laid down by the Apostle to the Gentiles, most required the humanizing influences of the missionary of the cross, we leave to each to determine for himself.
One thing is certain. Had Mrs. Edmonson not been thus called off, Mrs. Smithson could not have obtained the pew which she now occupied. A gradual acquaintance was beginning to spring up between her and Mrs. Rodgers, arising from the principle of contiguity. Commend us to that principle. It has settled the fate of many a son and daughter of Eve. It commenced we know not how. It was probably from some one of those thousand and one little offices which neighborhood induces. A shawl may have become entangled in something requiring the friendly offices of a neighbor to unloose; or the warmth of the weather may have created an uncomfortable feeling, which the opportune loan of a fan may have relieved. How the acquaintanceship in question was first brought about we have forgotten—if we ever knew. It is of no consequence to us. Every one knows the progress of these things. At first it is a distant bow, as much as to say, “I should like to know you, but don’t care to advance.” Then came a casual and passing remark, as they emerged from the pew to the aisle. Then the walk down the aisle, side by side, until reaching the door, when each assumed her husband’s arm, and the respective couples mingled in the crowd; and finally the continued walk together to the parting-place, whence each pursues the path to their own residence. These things have often occurred before; they were enacted by Mesdames Rogers and Smithson then, and will occur again. Their husbands followed slowly in the rear, discussing the state of the weather, the prospects of business, the likelihood of speedy news from Europe, there not having been an arrival for upward of a month, with other topics of a kindred nature. Mrs. Rodgers, a well-educated lady of considerable conversational powers, found the mind of her new acquaintance as agreeable as her person, and before they separated,
“Hoped she might be permitted to improve the acquaintance thus opportunely begun, by calling on Mrs. Smithson.”
Letty graciously gave the required permission, expressing all that courtesy demanded on the occasion, but carefully abstaining from appearing overwhelmed with the compliment, as many a weaker minded and less skillful tactician would have done. She knew that her cue was to meet advances half-way, but not to pass the line one hair’s breadth, if she wished any new acquaintance to be made to feel, than in seeking her, the obligation was mutual.
On the next day but one Mrs. Rodgers was ushered into Letty’s drawing-room. That lady did not detain her long before she made her appearance, but still dallied sufficiently to allow the other to take in at a rapid glance the completeness of her establishment. Her experience, however, was for once at fault, for she determined hastily that the woman who could arrange her rooms with such taste, must have been surrounded by like refinements and elegancies all her life. Her reception of Letty, therefore, when she arrived, was most cordial and impressive. The season was far advanced. Her last “Evening” was on that of the succeeding day, “and it was to secure Mrs. Smithson’s appearance as well as further to cultivate so pleasant an acquaintance thus agreeably begun, that she had called this morning, etc.”
Mrs. Smithson, on her part, would be very happy to make one at this exclusive assemblage, and a very unfashionably long visit for a morning call followed. Mrs. Rodgers was anxious to find out all about Letty, who she was, where she came from, etc.; but was foiled in all her skillful questions, by answers equally skillful. When at length she took her leave, she could not help pondering on this to herself. She admitted her curiosity about it, but wound up by saying to herself, be she who she may, she is certainly a most agreeable personage, and I think I have made a most decided hit in introducing her into our set.
As for Letty, she was all exultation on the departure of her visitor. She saw herself achieving at once the distinctions she panted after. Not only were the doors of the drawing-room of dame Fashion opened to her, but as she passed through them with firm step and head erect amid the ill-concealed envy of the crowd which filled them, she saw the curtains of the boudoir drawn aside at her approach, and she was admitted into the inmost presence-chamber of the goddess. Not so fast, Letty. You certainly have mounted the first rung of the ladder; and my readers and myself know you now too well to fear for a moment that you will go backward; but there is many a step yet to climb before you reach that giddy height on which you aspire to stand.
The next evening soon came, and after almost all the guests had assembled, Mr. and Mrs. Smithson arrived. She was arrayed in a dress of the richest kind, and with her usual faultless taste. Her ornaments were few, but elegant; the best of them being that bright, fresh face and elastic form, which the dissipation of city life had not yet impaired. She had a severe and scathing ordeal to pass. It was felt by several, with the keen intuition which women alone have, that she might prove a formidable rival. Mrs. Rodgers’ reception and treatment of her were most kind. She introduced several most desirable acquaintances to her, and the gentlemen in especial were delighted with her. Letty’s earliest allies, it may be remembered, were of the male sex; but the gallant Colonel Lumley, and that exquisite of exquisites, Mr. Tom Harrowby, were of a different stamp from Phil Dubbs and even Harry Edmonds, though the latter, in after days, achieved renown both at the bar and in the senate-chamber. The evening passed but too delightfully and too rapidly for Letty. She felt that she was at last among kindred minds, and on arriving at home, when she reviewed what had transpired as she was preparing for her night’s repose, she was satisfied that her debut had been eminently successful, and that she had made a decided hit. With visions of much future greatness before her, she fell asleep.