Mrs. Norwood’s old servant inherited the property in Elmsdale, and one of her first duties was to place in Mr. Allston’s hands the cabinet which she said her mistress had requested might be given him after her death. It contained only Mrs. Norwood’s letter and her lover’s reply, together with athird, in an unknown hand, bearing a black seal. This last was datedsome months earlierthan the others, and contained the tidings of Mr. Wallingford’s death. He had fallen a victim to his own misdeeds in Italy, and at the moment when Allston had considered himself the subject of a temptation intended to try his strength, the divorced wife was in reality free from every shadow of a tie.
Why had she not disclosed these tidings to her scrupulous lover? Ask rather why she who had twice suffered from man’s wayward nature, and who had escaped from thevicesof one only to perish by the too rigidvirtuesof another, should place trust in any earthly affection? Sick of life, hopeless of future peace, sinking under a fatal disease, she had taken a lesson from the inferior creation:
“muteThe camel labors with the heaviest load,And the wolf dies in silence.”
“muteThe camel labors with the heaviest load,And the wolf dies in silence.”
“muteThe camel labors with the heaviest load,And the wolf dies in silence.”
“mute
The camel labors with the heaviest load,
And the wolf dies in silence.”
TOUSKY WOUSKY.
———
BY EPES SARGENT.
———
“O, manners! that this age should bring forth such creatures! that nature should be at leisure to make them!”Ben Jonson.
“O, manners! that this age should bring forth such creatures! that nature should be at leisure to make them!”
Ben Jonson.
I became acquainted with Count Tousky Wousky in Paris somewhere in the year 1836. For some reason or other, which I did not at first understand, he devoted himself chiefly to the society of strangers, and, of all strangers, most affected the company of Americans. At that time there were several fair daughters of the Pilgrims in the gay metropolis, a few Knickerbockers, and at least one descendant of the Huguenot race in the person of Miss P . . . . . of Charleston. In this circle Tousky Wousky aspired to figure. He was a tall, handsome fellow, who had seen perhaps eight and twenty summers, with fine long and dark locks, to say nothing of the most unexceptionable whiskers and imperial. He smiled enchantingly, and the glimpses of his ivory-white teeth between their cushions of well-dyed bristles were quite “killing.” Altogether he was a most personable individual—waltzed charmingly—attitudinized beyond any dancer at the opera-house—and, though he said nothing except in a sort of mute challenge to man and woman to “look and admire,” he carried away more captive hearts than any man of his day.
In French society the count was very generally eschewed. Having no apparent means of livelihood, and being well understood to carry as little in his pocket if possible as in his head, the young men about town were somewhat shy of him, and he was considered not much better than a professed gambler. This would of course never have been known, had it not been that his familiarity was such with the few Americans of wealth who visited Paris during the winter of 1836, that he had made fourteen distinct matrimonial proposals. So susceptible was he, that he fell desperately in love with no less than fourteen of the sex in the same season—compassed fourteen courtships by his languishing and silent adoration—was fourteen times on his knees to fourteen fair creatures varying in age from fourteen to forty—fourteen times was referred toMonsieur,mon père, or toMonsieur,mon frère—had his character submitted to fourteen inquisitions, and was fourteen times politely informed that “his addresses must be discontinued.”
I left Paris, and thought nothing more of Count Tousky Wousky till I was walking some months afterward in Broadway. My friend Lieutenant P . . . . of the army, whom Commodore Elliot will probably recollect, if he recollects having been in the Mediterranean, was my guide-book and index on the occasion, for having been absent some years, the faces of my townsmen and townswomen were quite strange to me.
“P . . . .,” said I; “indicate the individual we have just passed. I have seen him a thousand times, but for the life of me I cannot recollect where or when.”
“That!” exclaimed P . . . .; “I should know from your question, that you were just off the salt water. But how very odd! That man is Count Tousky Wousky. How the deuce did it happen that you, who were so long in Paris, did not know Tousky Wousky?”
“Tousky Wousky!” I rejoined. “That’s his name sure enough—but what is Tousky Wousky doing here?”
“That’s neither your business nor mine. He is the handsomest man on thepavé, and has the entire run of the city, from the eight shilling balls at Tammany to the most brilliant routes in Bond street or Waverley Place.”
“Quite a range, P . . . . But does he patronize Tammany?”
“To be sure he does; and why not? It’s all one to him; and he has got the idea that there is good picking in the Bowery. He has heard of butchers’ families, where goodribswere to be had, and is not sure that he might not get pretty well suited at some wealthy tailor’s. In short, he is in search of a rich wife, and he is not over particular who or what she may be as long as she can plank the pewter.”
“That is to say, P . . . ., he is a penniless adventurer, who cannot find a wife in his own country, and proposes to confer the honor on us. Is that the arrangement?”
“You are not far out of the way in your guess.”
“But how is the individual received?”
“O, with open arms, to be sure. He gave out on his passage, that he was coming to this country to marry a fortune; that he should do it in about six months, and return to Paris.”
“How excessively condescending! And what credentials did he bring with him?”
“O, he carries his credentials on his face. The only necessary passports now to society are whiskers—moustache—imperial! They are theopen sesameto the hearts of the ladies.”
“But what says papa?”
“I understand there was a general meeting of all our millionaires, and that they voted him forthwith the freedom of the city, and suggested that he should do the country the honor to marry some one of their daughters.”
“And what said the count?”
“Why, the count said that he would quarter on ’em a while before pitching his tent; that he would dine about with the old prigs, and drink their good wine, and that as soon as he became well assured in regard to the respective fortunes of the young ladies, he would just fling his handkerchief at one of them, and she is expected to drop forthwith into his arms.”
Not long after this conversation, it was my lot to meet Tousky Wousky on several occasions in society. It seemed to be the prevailing belief among those upon whom he condescended to shed the light of his smiles, that he was the sole remaining representative of a noble and ancient family, and that he was visiting the United States solely in pursuit of relaxation from arduous military duties in Algiers. Such was his own story, and such was the story which his defenders believed.
I must plead guilty to never having been able to discover the peculiar charm of the count’s manners and appearance. I had heard much of theair noble, which was said to be his distinguishing trait, but could see nothing but the airpuppyish, if I may so characterize a manner of supreme indifference to the comfort and convenience of those around him. In a ball-room, I have seen him extend himself at full length upon a sofa, after a quadrille, and fan himself with his perfumed handkerchief, while dozens of ladies were near in want of a seat. At other times he would place himself astride of a chair, with his face to the back, and his long legs protruded so as to endanger the necks of those, who might venture to step over them. These little liberties were regarded merely as the elegantabandonof one accustomed to the first society of Europe; and instances were cited of a similar aristocratic disregard of conventional decency among certain English noblemen, who had visited the country.
But what seemed to certify the count’s claims to nobility was the erudition he displayed in all that related to gastronomy. Did you ever notice the air of sagacity with which a chicken sips water, cocking her head after every bill full, and apparently passing judgment upon its quality? Of such an act would Tousky Wousky remind you when he took soup. Occasionally his criticisms would be given with a vivacity andesprit, which would excite general surprise. He could tell at a glance the name of the most recondite Parisianpâté. His decisions in regard toentremets,hors d’œuvres, andvol au ventswere unimpeachable; and he would discourse uponsole en matelotte Normandewith tears in his eyes. There was something earnest and affecting in the count’s manner when he touched upon these topics; whereas when questioned concerning events having relation to his military career, his answers were confused, imperfect and unsatisfactory.
After some months of investigation and hesitation, Tousky Wousky fixed his eyes upon the daughter of a retired tailor of the name of Remnant. Mature deliberation and inquiry convinced him that she was the mosteligibleof the candidates that had yet been presented to his notice. Old Remnant had commenced life as a journeyman—sat cross-legged upon the counter from his fourteenth to his twenty-first year—then opened a sort of slop-shop somewhere in Maiden Lane—married his master’s only daughter—succeeded to his business and wealth—and accumulated a large fortune.
Heaven forbid that I should breathe a flippant word against a vocation, in which I have encountered more than one ornament to humanity—men, in whom the Christian virtues of patience and forbearance were signally developed; of whose capacities for long suffering I could relate the most affecting instances. But I blame Remnant, not for having been a tailor, but for his foolish ambition in after life to sink all memorials of the shop, and launch into fashionable life. We all remember the story of the English member of Parliament, who, on being twitted by some sprig of nobility with having been bred a tailor, retorted, “if the gentleman himself had been so bred he would have been a tailor still.” The reply was as just as it was spirited, and showed a noble pride on the part of the speaker, in comparing his past with his present position. Remnant began by discontinuing his annual tribute to the Tailors’ Charitable Fund. Then he neglected to attend their annual ball at Tammany; and finally hecuthis old associates in trade when he met them in Broadway—visited Europe, returned, built an elegant house—and set up a carriage with a liveried driver and footman. In all these procedures I have reason to believe that he was mainly influenced by his wife, whose fashionablefurorwas inextinguishable.
Through his endorsements for certain “genteel” speculators, Remnant contrived to get introduced with his family into what they believed to be the “fashionable circles.” The daughter, Sophia Ann, was a pretty, good-natured, frank, and unpretending girl, who, having received a fair education, bore her part extremely well in gay life, and betrayed few symptoms of the character of her parentage. Rumor whispered that she entertained a secret penchant for young Allen, a clerk in Flash, Fleetwood & Co.'s, establishment in Broadway. It was noticed that she always made her purchases at that shop, and frequently she remained much longer in conversation than was absolutely necessary for the closing of her bargains. Where was the propriety too of negotiating for a pair of gloves or a skein of silk in so very low and mysterious a tone of voice? It was suspicious, to say the least of it.
The ecstasy of Mrs. Remnant when Tousky Wousky condescended to ask an introduction to herself and daughter was beyond all reasonable bounds; and when, the next morning, he honored them with a call, it was as if she and all her family had received a brevet of nobility.
“Who knows, Sophia Ann,” said she after the count had taken his departure, “who knows but the count has been struck with your appearance, and intends making proposals?”
“And if he does, mamma,” replied Sophy, “you may be very sure he will propose in vain, so far as I am concerned. A vulgar, coarse, ill-mannered fop! Did you notice the crumbs of bread upon his odious moustaches?”
“A very good proof of his gentility, my dear. It shows that he has just breakfasted. I am amazed at your language, Sophia Ann.”
“Indeed I thoroughly detest the fellow. I hope you will not invite him to the house.”
“Indeed and indeed I shall, Miss Pert. I see the drift of your objections. You have taken a fancy to that low-bred fellow, Allen, and would disgrace your family by an unequal match. But let me advise you to beware how you encourage any such presumption. Your father is as determined as I am to cut you off with a shilling should you ever marry without our consent.”
Here Sophia rose, and, with her handkerchief to her eyes, left the room, while Mrs. Remnant sat down and penned a note to Tousky Wousky, asking the honor of his company at dinner the next day.
In less than two weeks after the count’s introduction he proposed for Sophia Ann. The mother was as propitious as could have been desired, and the father, who was swayed in all things by the superior energy of his wife, acquiesced on this occasion. Tousky Wousky supposed that all the essential preliminaries were now settled, and that it only remained to fix a day for the marriage ceremony. He had omitted, however, one little form. He had not yet asked the young lady herself whether she had any objection to becoming his bride. Dire was his dismay when, on popping the question, she rejected him point blank, without hesitation, reservation or equivocation. He twirled his moustaches, and showed his teeth in what was meant for a smile irresistible. Strange to say, Sophia Ann did not rush into his arms. He knelt and rolled up his eyes after the most approved Parisian fashion. The obdurate, intractable girl laughed in his face. He rose and attempted to clasp her waist and kiss her. Sophia upset a heavy piano-stool upon his shins, and, with a face burning with indignant blushes, left the room.
Tousky Wousky was completely nonplussed. The idea of being rejected by a “native,” one, too, who had never visited Paris, had not entered into his calculations. He looked in the glass—surveyed his incomparable whiskers, and glanced at his blameless legs.
“Sacrè!The girl must be crazy!” muttered Tousky Wousky, as he finished his examination of his person.
He laid his case immediately before the parents of the refractory young lady; alluded very pointedly to the numerous countesses and baronesses who were perishing for him in France, Germany, and Italy—swore that he had never known what love was till he had met Sophia Ann—and concluded by avowing the romantic determination to depart instantly for Niagara, jump into a skiff just above the rapids, loosen it from the shore, and, with folded arms, glide down over the cataract into the “peaceful arms of oblivion.”
The parents of Sophia Ann were much shocked at this tragic menace; and the mother declared that the cruel girl should be brought to her senses—it wasn’t probable she would ever have such another chance of becoming a countess—and marry Tousky Wouskyshe should! And off the old lady started to enforce her commands in person. Sophia Ann was not to be found. The fact was, she had just discovered that she was in want of a quantity of muslin, and knowing of no place in the city where she could procure it of a quality more to her satisfaction, she hastened to the store of Flash, Fleetwood & Co., and had a long consultation with the handsome clerk.
“Never mind, Sophy dear,” said Allen, after he had heard the story of her persecutions, “I have a plan for unmasking him. Do not suppose that I have been idle since you told me of your mother’s designs.”
And Sophy tripped home and listened very resignedly to a long lecture from her mother, upon the impropriety of young ladies presuming to decide for themselves upon matrimonial questions.
One of the consequences of Allen’s plan ensued the very day after these events.
Tousky Wousky was parading Broadway in all his magnificence. The African king, whose principal escape from nudity consisted in a gold-edgedchapeau bras, never moved among his fellows with a more complacent feeling of superiority than Tousky Wousky experienced as he strutted across Chambers street toward the Astor House. His forehead was contracted in a superb and scornful frown—his whiskers and moustaches looked black as night—and his half-closed eyes seemed as if they deemed it an act of condescension on their part to open upon the works of the Creator. Tousky Wousky swung his cane, and looked neither to the right nor to the left, except when he bowed to some envied female acquaintance. As for that highly respectable portion of the human race, the males, the count rarely condescended to recognize their existence. He passed them by with supreme indifference. Had he known how many consultations there had been as to the propriety of knocking him down, perhaps he would have amended his conduct in this respect.
On the occasion, at which my narrative had now arrived, the count was interrupted in his promenade by an individual, gaily but not fastidiously dressed, who accosted him in the most familiar manner.
“Well met, Philippe!” cried the stranger, holding out his hand.
“You are mistaken in the person, sir,” said Tousky Wousky, drawing himself up, and attempting to look magnificently dignified.
“None of your nonsense, Philippe,” returned the stranger; “don’t you remember your old fellow-artist, Alphonse? Of course you do. Come—”
“Out of the way, fellow, or I will demolish you with my cane.”
“Be civil, Philippe, and acknowledge me, or I will pull off your whiskers here in Broadway.”
This threat seemed to operate forcibly upon the count, for, extending his hand and striking an attitude, he exclaimed, “Alphonse! why how the devil did you get here?”
“Hush! don’t call me Alphonse. I am Count Deflamzi.”
“The deuce you are! Why, I am a count, too.”
“So I supposed. How do you get on?”
“Brilliantly—and you? When did you arrive?”
“By the last Cunard steamer. Is it possible you haven’t seen me announced in the newspapers?”
“I never read them. I consider newspapers a bore.”
“Ha! I understand. Beau Shatterly thought the same of parish registers—‘a d—d impertinent invention!’ So they are—as thus;Beware of imposition: A scoundrel calling himself Count Tousky Wousky, but whose real name is—”
“Hush! Are you mad?”
“Ah! Philippe! Philippe! The chief cook at Vevay’s always used to say you would come to the gallows—eh?”
As he revived the recollection of this pleasant vaticination, Count Deflamzi poked the end of his cane at one of Tousky Wousky’s ribs, in a manner which partook more of the familiar than the dignified. Poor Tousky Wousky bent his body to escape the blow, while he looked the picture of despair—the more so as at that moment old Remnant’s carriage drew up near the curb-stone, and Sophy’s mother put her head out of the window to speak to her intended son-in-law.
“Good-bye, Alphonse; I will see you again soon,” said Tousky Wousky, endeavoring to shake off his unwelcome friend, and darting towards the carriage.
Deflamzi followed him, and after permitting him to greet Mrs. Remnant, and receive from her some intelligence in regard to Sophia Ann, he pulled Tousky Wousky by the skirt, and said; “My dear fellow, this is really embarrassing. Why don’t you introduce me to the lady?”
“Ahem! Blast the—Oh, yes—certainly—Mrs. Remnant, Count Deflamzi—Count Deflamzi, Mrs. Remnant.”
“Glad to see you, old lady,” said Deflamzi; and then, at a loss for a remark to show his quality, he added—“What a devilish vulgar country this is of yours!”
“An eccentric devil!” whispered Tousky Wousky in Mrs. Remnant’s ear; “who has a plenty of money and thinks he has a right to abuse every thing and every body.”
“I am most happy, count, to make your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Remnant, quite overlooking the puppy’s impertinence in her delight at being seen conversing with a couple of counts in Broadway.
“The pleasure of meeting Mrs. Remnant to-day is as unexpected as it is gratifying,” said Deflamzi. “I had intended asking my old friend Rufsky Fusky here, long since to introduce me, but—”
“Rufsky Fusky!”
“A nick-name, by which he used to call me when we were boys,” said poor Tousky Wousky hastily, and then, in anaside, he muttered to Deflamzi; “Curse you, Alphonse! I wish you would call me by my right name.”
“What is it?”
“Tousky Wousky.”
“Ah, yes! pardon me,” said Deflamzi; and then, turning to the old lady in the coach, he continued; “as I was saying, Madam, I had intended asking my old friend, Whisky Frisky, to introduce me before, but the good fortune of—”
“Whisky Frisky!”
“You see he will have his joke, Madam,” said Tousky Wousky, making a painful effort to smile.
“Ha, yes! A wag, I see. Well, I like pleasantry.”
“What I was about to say,” resumed Deflamzi, “simply was, that the felicitous accident which has made me acquainted with Mrs. Remnant, enables me to extend in person an invitation, which I had intended sending through our excellent friend Rowdy Powdy. Shall I have the honor of seeing you and your charming daughter, with Mr. Remnant of course, at a small dinner party, which I give at the Globe to-morrow to our distinguished friend here, Count Hoaxy Folksy?”
Mrs. Remnant was too much fluttered and flattered by this mark of respect to pay any attention to Deflamzi’s eccentric perversions of his friend’s name. She eagerly accepted the invitation; and Deflamzi took his leave of her and Tousky Wousky, with a significant hint to the latter, that if he did not come too he should be exposed.
“Dinner will be on the table at six.Au revoir!” said Deflamzi, bowing grotesquely, and strutting down Broadway.
“How vastly genteel!” thought Mrs. Remnant.
The next day, at the appointed hour, a select party, consisting of the twocounts, the Remnant family, Mr. Allen, and half a dozen fashionable young men, whom Tousky Wousky remembered to have seen frequently in society, met in one of Blancard’s pleasant parlors. Mrs. Remnant was a little puzzled at encountering Allen; but, remembering that Deflamzi was an “eccentric devil,” she concluded it was all right. The good lady was placed at one end of the table, and Deflamzi took his seat at the other. Tousky Wousky and Sophia Ann sat opposite to each other, near the centre. Soup was handed round in the midst of an animated conversation, in which Deflamzi, however, did not join. His manner toward all but Tousky Wousky seemed singularly constrained and respectful.
As the soup was being passed round, a keen eye might have detected a piece of legerdemain practised by one of the waiters, in serving Tousky Wousky. Instead of giving him the plate, which Deflamzi had filled from the tureen, another was placed before him, which seemed to have been whisked in a mysterious manner from a side-table, unnoticed of course by the unsuspecting count.
The minute Tousky Wousky tasted his soup, he dropped his spoon with a face expressive of the deepest disgust.
“What is the matter, count?” asked Sophia Ann, while a mischievous twinkle was swimming in her dark eyes.
“Is it possible you can relish that soup?” inquired Tousky Wousky, regarding her with amazement as she swallowed spoonful after spoonful.
“It is very good, is it not?” said Sophy, looking the very picture of sweet simplicity.
Tousky Wousky took another spoonful, then suddenly seized a tumbler of iced water to drown the recollection of the nauseous compound. Turning to Deflamzi, he said, “What do you call this—stuff, my dear count?”
“It is Soupà la Juliento be sure, and very good.”
“Soupà la Julien!” exclaimed Tousky Wousky, “I should call it soup à la swill-pail. I never tasted anything half so bad. Here,garçon! take this plate away, and tell the cook I shall have him indicted for an attempt to poison.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
The dinner was a good dinner, and Tousky Wousky was suffered to finish the remainder of it in peace. Just before the dessert was introduced, Count Deflamzi was called out by a servant, and begging to be excused for a few minutes, quitted the apartment. He had not been gone long when the same servant re-entered and informed Tousky Wousky, that the cook, to whom he had sent the message touching the soup, desired to speak with him.
“Show him in! show him in!” exclaimed several voices. “Ten to one, he means to challenge you, Tousky Wousky, for abusing his soup. Ha! ha! ha!”
Tousky Wousky began to look pale, but tried to laugh it off, and said, “Nonsense! I can’t see the fellow now. Tell him to call on me at my hotel.”
“That won’t do. Show him in,garçon, show him in!” cried Tom Cawley, who was Allen’s principal ally in the plot.
Here the cook burst into the room. He had on a white cap and a white apron. A white apron was thrown over his shoulder, and his hands were white with flour.
“Alphonse!” exclaimed Tousky Wousky, starting up with dismay, as he gazed on the once familiar apparition.
“Count Deflamzi!” ejaculated Mrs. Remnant. “This is indeed eccentric.”
“No more Count Deflamzi, madame, than this is Count Tousky, but plain Alphonse Fricandeau, gastronomical artist, or in vulgar language, cook, from Paris.”
“What! isn’t he a count?”
“No, madame; he is a cook!”
“A cook! my salts, Mr. Remnant! Quick, you stupid man!”
“I appeal to the company,” said Tousky Wousky, recovering himself, “Madame, this is a conspiracy. I can produce letters from the first noblemen in London—”
“The company shall soon be satisfied on that point,” said Monsieur Fricandeau. “Eugene, request the attendance of Lord Morvale.”
At the sound of this name, Tousky Wousky sank into his chair quite unmanned. Lord Morvale soon entered, and after bowing to the rest of the company, turned to Tousky Wousky, and said, “At your old tricks, Philippe! Rogue! Have I found you at last?”
“Count Tousky Wousky a rogue! What does it all mean?” asked old Mr. Remnant, who could not well comprehend what was going on.
Lord Morvale turned to the company, and said, “This fellow, ladies and gentlemen, who calls himself Count Tousky Wousky, was for two years chief cook in my establishment, and I will do him the justice to say that his talents in that vocation are truly respectable. But it seems that he had a soul above pans andpâtés, and one day I found that he had broken open my desk, taken from it some money and letters, and decamped. I afterwards met him in Paris, but he was so skilfully disguised that I did not recognize him; and it was not till Monsieur Fricandeau apprised me that Count Tousky Wousky was my old cook in a new character, that I suspected the fact.”
This revelation was listened to without surprise by all except Mr. and Mrs. Remnant. No better proof of its truth was needed than Tousky Wousky’s abject appearance. Tom Cawley took Lord Morvale aside and whispered a few words in his ear, after which his Lordship came forward, and addressed Mr. and Mrs. Remnant as follows; “Any legal process against this fellow would from recent events be calculated to make public certain domestic occurrences in your family, the discussion of which might prove annoying. I will, therefore, consent to refrain from molesting him so you will consent to secure your daughter’s happiness by giving her to the man of her choice, and one who appears to be every way worthy of her preference. I allude to Mr. Allen, and I take this opportunity of inviting myself to his wedding.”
The idea of having a live lord present at the nuptials of her daughter, amply consoled Mrs. Remnant for the loss of Tousky Wousky as a son-in-law. It was not long before her visions were fulfilled. Lord Morvale gave away the bride; and a proud day it was for the race of the Remnants when that memorable event took place.
As for Count Tousky Wousky, I take this opportunity of cautioning the public against him. He is still prowling about the country under assumed names, and intends figuring at our principal watering places before the summer is over. He is quite confident that he will ultimately succeed in picking up a Yankee heiress, and I should not be surprised any day to hear of the fulfilment of his designs. The recent example of Captain S—— has inspired him with new hopes.
It is Tousky Wousky’s intention to visit Portland while the warm weather lasts. To my certain knowledge he carries letters from his near kinsman, General Count Bratish Eliovitch, to my gifted and open-hearted friend, John Neal. Before Mr. Neal lends him his pocket-book and his protection, I beg that he will peruse a letter in regard to the character of the count’s endorser, from our minister at Paris, Mr. Cass, to Mr. Fairfield, Governor of Maine.
FAREWELL TO A FASHIONABLE ACQUAINTANCE.
———
BY S. G. GOODRICH.
———
There is a smile which beams with light,When all around is flush and fair,Yet turns to scorn when Sorrow’s nightWraps its lorn victim in despair.That smile is like the illusive rayThe false, fictitious diamond gives;Reflecting back the beams of day;In borrowed light it only lives.That smile is like the rifled rose,That on a syren’s breast doth shine;Oh! who would weep to part with thoseWhose smiles are such as this of thine!And these are friends who call one “dear,”When Fortune favors all one’s wishes;Yet when the goddess changes—sneer,And pick one’s character to pieces.Poor moths that round the taper wheel—Addled in light—in darkness fled—Too poor to crush—too false to feel—Beneath our scorn—to memory dead!Yet they may teach a lesson stern—In the deep caverns of the mind,To build our castle home, and spurnThe heartless things we leave behind.Unwept the false, unwept the fair—To fashion, folly, falsehood, tied—With truth and love, we now may shareThe bliss that flattery denied.——Lady, farewell! no more we meet,My cream, my strawberries, all are banished;Thy flatteries too are fled, thy sweet,Fond speeches with my ices vanished.——Forgive me if I mourn thee not,For at a price I know thee willing;Such souls as thine, fair dame, are bought,Like cakes and custards, by the shilling.’Tis thus with thee, ’tis thus with all,That throng gay Fashion’s trickish mart;Each has his price, and, great or small,Cash is the measure of the heart.Seest thou yon proud and peerless belle,That saunters through the gay cotillion,With eyes that speak of heaven? Well—She’s just knocked down at half a million.There is the purchaser—a poor,Mean, craven thing—whose merit liesIn this, his father left him storeOf stocks; and he hath bought those eyes!Yon maiden, whirling in the waltz—A salamander that doth liveUnscathed in fire—hath too her faults,But yet her price is—what you’ll give.And this is Fashion’s magic ringSo envied, sought—where yet the heart,Stript of its guises, is a thingThat makes poor, simple Virtue start.So false within, without so fair.’Twas here, sweet dame, that first I met thee,’Tis meet that I should leave thee whereThou art at home—and thus, forget thee!
There is a smile which beams with light,When all around is flush and fair,Yet turns to scorn when Sorrow’s nightWraps its lorn victim in despair.That smile is like the illusive rayThe false, fictitious diamond gives;Reflecting back the beams of day;In borrowed light it only lives.That smile is like the rifled rose,That on a syren’s breast doth shine;Oh! who would weep to part with thoseWhose smiles are such as this of thine!And these are friends who call one “dear,”When Fortune favors all one’s wishes;Yet when the goddess changes—sneer,And pick one’s character to pieces.Poor moths that round the taper wheel—Addled in light—in darkness fled—Too poor to crush—too false to feel—Beneath our scorn—to memory dead!Yet they may teach a lesson stern—In the deep caverns of the mind,To build our castle home, and spurnThe heartless things we leave behind.Unwept the false, unwept the fair—To fashion, folly, falsehood, tied—With truth and love, we now may shareThe bliss that flattery denied.——Lady, farewell! no more we meet,My cream, my strawberries, all are banished;Thy flatteries too are fled, thy sweet,Fond speeches with my ices vanished.——Forgive me if I mourn thee not,For at a price I know thee willing;Such souls as thine, fair dame, are bought,Like cakes and custards, by the shilling.’Tis thus with thee, ’tis thus with all,That throng gay Fashion’s trickish mart;Each has his price, and, great or small,Cash is the measure of the heart.Seest thou yon proud and peerless belle,That saunters through the gay cotillion,With eyes that speak of heaven? Well—She’s just knocked down at half a million.There is the purchaser—a poor,Mean, craven thing—whose merit liesIn this, his father left him storeOf stocks; and he hath bought those eyes!Yon maiden, whirling in the waltz—A salamander that doth liveUnscathed in fire—hath too her faults,But yet her price is—what you’ll give.And this is Fashion’s magic ringSo envied, sought—where yet the heart,Stript of its guises, is a thingThat makes poor, simple Virtue start.So false within, without so fair.’Twas here, sweet dame, that first I met thee,’Tis meet that I should leave thee whereThou art at home—and thus, forget thee!
There is a smile which beams with light,When all around is flush and fair,Yet turns to scorn when Sorrow’s nightWraps its lorn victim in despair.
There is a smile which beams with light,
When all around is flush and fair,
Yet turns to scorn when Sorrow’s night
Wraps its lorn victim in despair.
That smile is like the illusive rayThe false, fictitious diamond gives;Reflecting back the beams of day;In borrowed light it only lives.
That smile is like the illusive ray
The false, fictitious diamond gives;
Reflecting back the beams of day;
In borrowed light it only lives.
That smile is like the rifled rose,That on a syren’s breast doth shine;Oh! who would weep to part with thoseWhose smiles are such as this of thine!
That smile is like the rifled rose,
That on a syren’s breast doth shine;
Oh! who would weep to part with those
Whose smiles are such as this of thine!
And these are friends who call one “dear,”When Fortune favors all one’s wishes;Yet when the goddess changes—sneer,And pick one’s character to pieces.
And these are friends who call one “dear,”
When Fortune favors all one’s wishes;
Yet when the goddess changes—sneer,
And pick one’s character to pieces.
Poor moths that round the taper wheel—Addled in light—in darkness fled—Too poor to crush—too false to feel—Beneath our scorn—to memory dead!
Poor moths that round the taper wheel—
Addled in light—in darkness fled—
Too poor to crush—too false to feel—
Beneath our scorn—to memory dead!
Yet they may teach a lesson stern—In the deep caverns of the mind,To build our castle home, and spurnThe heartless things we leave behind.
Yet they may teach a lesson stern—
In the deep caverns of the mind,
To build our castle home, and spurn
The heartless things we leave behind.
Unwept the false, unwept the fair—To fashion, folly, falsehood, tied—With truth and love, we now may shareThe bliss that flattery denied.
Unwept the false, unwept the fair—
To fashion, folly, falsehood, tied—
With truth and love, we now may share
The bliss that flattery denied.
——
——
Lady, farewell! no more we meet,My cream, my strawberries, all are banished;Thy flatteries too are fled, thy sweet,Fond speeches with my ices vanished.
Lady, farewell! no more we meet,
My cream, my strawberries, all are banished;
Thy flatteries too are fled, thy sweet,
Fond speeches with my ices vanished.
——
——
Forgive me if I mourn thee not,For at a price I know thee willing;Such souls as thine, fair dame, are bought,Like cakes and custards, by the shilling.
Forgive me if I mourn thee not,
For at a price I know thee willing;
Such souls as thine, fair dame, are bought,
Like cakes and custards, by the shilling.
’Tis thus with thee, ’tis thus with all,That throng gay Fashion’s trickish mart;Each has his price, and, great or small,Cash is the measure of the heart.
’Tis thus with thee, ’tis thus with all,
That throng gay Fashion’s trickish mart;
Each has his price, and, great or small,
Cash is the measure of the heart.
Seest thou yon proud and peerless belle,That saunters through the gay cotillion,With eyes that speak of heaven? Well—She’s just knocked down at half a million.
Seest thou yon proud and peerless belle,
That saunters through the gay cotillion,
With eyes that speak of heaven? Well—
She’s just knocked down at half a million.
There is the purchaser—a poor,Mean, craven thing—whose merit liesIn this, his father left him storeOf stocks; and he hath bought those eyes!
There is the purchaser—a poor,
Mean, craven thing—whose merit lies
In this, his father left him store
Of stocks; and he hath bought those eyes!
Yon maiden, whirling in the waltz—A salamander that doth liveUnscathed in fire—hath too her faults,But yet her price is—what you’ll give.
Yon maiden, whirling in the waltz—
A salamander that doth live
Unscathed in fire—hath too her faults,
But yet her price is—what you’ll give.
And this is Fashion’s magic ringSo envied, sought—where yet the heart,Stript of its guises, is a thingThat makes poor, simple Virtue start.
And this is Fashion’s magic ring
So envied, sought—where yet the heart,
Stript of its guises, is a thing
That makes poor, simple Virtue start.
So false within, without so fair.’Twas here, sweet dame, that first I met thee,’Tis meet that I should leave thee whereThou art at home—and thus, forget thee!
So false within, without so fair.
’Twas here, sweet dame, that first I met thee,
’Tis meet that I should leave thee where
Thou art at home—and thus, forget thee!
SONG.
———
BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.
———
When poor in all but troth and love,I clasped thee to this beating heartAnd vowed for wealth and fame to rove,That we might meet no more to part.Years have gone by—long weary years—Of toil to win the comfort now,Of ardent hopes—of sick’ning fears—And Wealth is mine! but where art thou?Fame’s dazzling dream for thy dear sakeRose brighter than before to me;I clung to all I deem’d could makeThis burning heart more worthy thee!Years have gone by—the laurel droopsIn mock’ry o’er my cheerless brow;A conquer’d world before me stoops,And Fame is mine! but where art thou?In life’s first hours, despised and lone,I wander’d through the busy crowd,But now that life’s best hopes are gone,They greet with smiles and murmurs loud.Oh! for thy voice—that happy voice—To breathe its joyous welcome now!Wealth, Fame, and all that should rejoice,To me are vain, for where art thou?
When poor in all but troth and love,I clasped thee to this beating heartAnd vowed for wealth and fame to rove,That we might meet no more to part.Years have gone by—long weary years—Of toil to win the comfort now,Of ardent hopes—of sick’ning fears—And Wealth is mine! but where art thou?Fame’s dazzling dream for thy dear sakeRose brighter than before to me;I clung to all I deem’d could makeThis burning heart more worthy thee!Years have gone by—the laurel droopsIn mock’ry o’er my cheerless brow;A conquer’d world before me stoops,And Fame is mine! but where art thou?In life’s first hours, despised and lone,I wander’d through the busy crowd,But now that life’s best hopes are gone,They greet with smiles and murmurs loud.Oh! for thy voice—that happy voice—To breathe its joyous welcome now!Wealth, Fame, and all that should rejoice,To me are vain, for where art thou?
When poor in all but troth and love,I clasped thee to this beating heartAnd vowed for wealth and fame to rove,That we might meet no more to part.Years have gone by—long weary years—Of toil to win the comfort now,Of ardent hopes—of sick’ning fears—And Wealth is mine! but where art thou?
When poor in all but troth and love,
I clasped thee to this beating heart
And vowed for wealth and fame to rove,
That we might meet no more to part.
Years have gone by—long weary years—
Of toil to win the comfort now,
Of ardent hopes—of sick’ning fears—
And Wealth is mine! but where art thou?
Fame’s dazzling dream for thy dear sakeRose brighter than before to me;I clung to all I deem’d could makeThis burning heart more worthy thee!Years have gone by—the laurel droopsIn mock’ry o’er my cheerless brow;A conquer’d world before me stoops,And Fame is mine! but where art thou?
Fame’s dazzling dream for thy dear sake
Rose brighter than before to me;
I clung to all I deem’d could make
This burning heart more worthy thee!
Years have gone by—the laurel droops
In mock’ry o’er my cheerless brow;
A conquer’d world before me stoops,
And Fame is mine! but where art thou?
In life’s first hours, despised and lone,I wander’d through the busy crowd,But now that life’s best hopes are gone,They greet with smiles and murmurs loud.Oh! for thy voice—that happy voice—To breathe its joyous welcome now!Wealth, Fame, and all that should rejoice,To me are vain, for where art thou?
In life’s first hours, despised and lone,
I wander’d through the busy crowd,
But now that life’s best hopes are gone,
They greet with smiles and murmurs loud.
Oh! for thy voice—that happy voice—
To breathe its joyous welcome now!
Wealth, Fame, and all that should rejoice,
To me are vain, for where art thou?
THE JOHNSONS.
———
BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
———
It was a deceitful thing, but my day of trouble dawned with a promise of uncommon enjoyment. It was our weekly holiday, and I looked from my bed-chamber window—merry as a bird, and peculiarly alive to the beauties of a bright June morning. The sky was warm, blue and cloudless, the flowers full of sweetness and lying with the dew upon them in its utmost abundance. The birds were all brimful of melody and the very gravel walk looked cool and clean with a shower that had swept over it during the night.
The sun was just up and we were ready with our bonnets on—my school-mate and I—for Colonel M. had promised us a ride and his phaeton was at the door.
“Come—come, are you ready,” exclaimed Maria, bounding into my room with her hat on one side—for she had been taking a run after her mamma’s dog, Pink, in the garden, and Pink had led her a race through a raspberry thicket which made a change of slippers necessary, and had displaced her bonnet as I have said.
“Come, Sophy, come, Tom has driven to the door—papa is in the hall and the horses are as restless as two wild eagles—nonsense, don’t take that great red shawl, the morning is beautiful—Come—”
Before Maria finished speaking she had run down stairs, through the hall, and stood on the door step looking back impatiently for myself and her father, who was very tranquilly drawing on his gloves as he chatted to his wife through a door of the parlor where she still lingered by the breakfast table.
There is no enjoyment like riding, whether on horseback or in a carriage, providing your equipage be in good taste, your companions agreeable and the day fine. We were fortunate in all these. There was not a lighter or more beautiful phaeton in New Haven than that of Colonel M., and his horses—you never saw such animals in harness!—their jetty coats, arched necks and gazelle-like eyes were the very perfection of brute beauty. Never were creatures more perfectly trained. The play of their delicate hoofs was like the dancing of a fine girl, and they obeyed the slightest motion of the rein to a marvel.
As to my companions, they were unexceptionable, as the old ladies say; Maria was a lovely creature, not decidedly handsome, but good and delicate, with an eye like a wet violet. Her father was just the kind of man to give consequence to a brace of happy girls in their teens—not young enough to be mistaken for a brother or lover, nor old enough to check our mirth with wise saws and sharp reprimands—he was a careless, good-hearted man, as the world goes, in the prime of his good looks, with his black hair just beginning to be threaded with silver and the calm dignity of a gentleman fitting him like a garment. He always preferred the society of persons younger than himself, and encouraged us in an outbreak of mirth or mischief which made him one of the most pleasant protectors in the world, though, if the truth must be told, a serenade or so by two very interesting students of the Sophomore class, who played the guitar and flute with exceeding sweetness, and who had tortured those instruments a full hour the previous night, while looking unutterable things at our chamber windows, had just given us a first idea that gray hairs might be dispensed with, and the companion of a ride quite as agreeable. Nay, we had that very morning, before Pink deluded Maria into the garden, consulted about the possibility of dislodging the colonel from his seat in the phaeton in favor of the flute amateur, for my friend very thoughtfully observed that she was certain the interesting youth would be delighted to drive us out—ifwecould find the carriage, for, poor fellows, they never had much credit at the livery stables—but Colonel M. had something of Lady Gay Spanker’s disposition, he liked to “keep the ribbons,” and Maria, with all her boldness, had not courage to desire him to resign them to younger hands. I must say that the colonel—though her father—was a noble looking figure in an open carriage. There was not a better dressed man about town—his black coat, of the finest cloth, satin vest and plaited ruffles, were the perfection of good taste, and his driving would have made the aforesaid Lady Gay half crazy with envy; he would have scorned a horse that could not take his ten miles an hour, and without a quickened breath, too. Colonel M. had his imperfections and was a little overbearing and aristocratic in his habits, but he was a kind man and loved his wife, child, and horses—or rather his horses, child and wife, with a degree of affection which overbalanced a thousand such faults; he was proud of his house, of his gardens and hot-houses, but prouder of his stables, and would have been inclined to fox hunting if such a thing had ever been heard of in dear old Connecticut. He was very kind also to a certain wayward, idle, teasing young school girl, who shall be nameless, but who has many a pleasant and grateful memory connected with his residence.
I had forgotten—we were seated and the horses pawing the ground, impatient to be off. Black Tom, who had been patting their necks, withdrew his hold on the bits and away we went. It was like riding in a railroad car, so swiftly the splendid animals cleared the ground, with the sun glistening on their black coats and over the silver studded harness as they dashed onward. It was indeed a glorious morning, and to ride through the streets of New Haven at sunrise is like dashing through the gravel walks of a garden, for there is scarcely a dwelling which is not surrounded by a little wilderness of trees and shrubbery. The breath of a thousand flowering thickets was abroad, the sun lay twinkling amid their foliage, and the dewy grass with the shadows sleeping upon it looked so cool and silent, one longed to take a volume of Wordsworth and dream away the morning there—we dashed forward to the college grounds, by the Tontine and into Elm street, where we drove at a foot pace to enjoy the shade of the tall elms where they interlace, canopying the whole street with the stirring foliage, and weaving a magnificent arch through which the sunshine came flickering with broken and unsteady light. How deliciously cool it was with the dew still bathing the bright leaves and the long branches waving like green banners over us!
The colleges, too, with their extensive common formed a beautiful picture, the noble buildings threw their deep shadows on the grass, while here and there a group of young men—poets and statesmen of the future—were grouped picturesquely beneath the old trees—some chatting and laughing merrily, with neglected books lying at their feet, and others sitting apart poring over some open volume, while the pure breath of morning came and softly turned the leaves for them. As we drove by a party sitting beneath a tree close by the paling, Maria stole her hand round to mine, and with a nod toward the group and a roguish dimple in her cheek, gave me to understand that our serenaders were of the party. They saw us, and instantly there was a sly flourishing of white cambric handkerchiefs and—it was not our fault, we tried to look the other way—a superlative waste of kisses wafted toward us from hands which had discoursed such sweet music beneath our windows the night before. When we looked back on turning the corner—for of course we were anxious that the young gentlemen should not be too demonstrative—they had moved to another side of the tree and stood leaning against it in very graceful attitudes, gazing after our phaeton from the shadows of their Leghorn hats. The hats were lifted, the white cambric began to flutter again—our horses sprang forward, and on we dashed over the Hotchkisstown road. We stopped at that gem of a village, a pretty cluster of houses nestled under the shelving cliffs of East Rock. We clambered up the mountain, searched over its broken and picturesque features, and gazed down on the Arcadian scenery below with a delight which I can never forget; the town lying amid its forest of trees, the glittering Sound, the line of Long Island stretching along the horizon, and the green meadows and pretty village at our feet, lay within our glance, and human eye never dwelt upon a scene more lovely.
It was late in the morning when we drove through the town again—our horses in a foam—our cheeks glowing with exercise and our laps full of wild blossoms.
“Oh, mamma, we have had a delightful drive,” exclaimed Maria, as she sprang upon the door step, scattering a shower of wild lilies over the pavement in her haste to leave the phaeton. “Take care, Sophia, take care, or you will tread on my flowers,” and with this careless speech she ran up the steps happy and cheerful as a summer bird. I was about to follow her when Mrs. M. detained me long enough to say that some persons from S——, the town which contained my own loved home, were waiting for me in the hall.
For the first time in my life I had spent three months from my father’s hearth-stone, and could have welcomed the dog who had once passed the threshold of my home, been patted by my sisters, or who had looked into the face of my mother—as an old friend. Without staying to inquire who my visiters could be, I went eagerly forward, my hand half extended in welcome, and with all the dear feelings of home stirring about my heart. It certainly was a damper—the sight of that lean gossiping little man, our town miller—with the marks of his occupation whitening his hatband, lying in the seams of his coat, and marking the wrinkles in his boots—a personage who had ground some fifty bushels of wheat for my father, during his lifetime, but with whom I had never known the honor of exchanging a dozen consecutive words on that or any other subject. There he sat, very diminutive and exceedingly perpendicular on one of the hall chairs, with his feet drawn under him, and his large bell-crowned hat standing on the carpet by his side. Planted against the wall, and on a direct file with himself, sat his better half, one of the most superlatively silly and talkative patterns of humanity that I have ever been in contact with. In order to be a little genteel—as she called it—Mrs. Johnson had honored the visit with her best gown, a blazing calico with an immense pattern running over it, which, with a Leghorn bonnet lined with pink and trimmed with blue, white silk gloves much too small for her hands, and morocco shoes ready to burst with the wealth of feet they contained, composed thetout ensemble, which few persons could have looked upon once without feeling particularly desirous for a second survey. The appearance of Mr. Johnson and Mrs. Johnson was vulgar enough in all conscience without the aid of their hopeful progeny, in the shape of two little Johnsons, with freckled faces and sun-burnt locks, who sat by the side of their respectable mamma, in jackets of blue cotton, striped trowsers much too short, and with their dear little feet perched on the chair-rounds squeezing their two unfortunate wool hats between their knees and gazing with open mouths through the drawing-room door. It certainly was an exquisite group for the halls of an aristocratic and fastidious man like Colonel M.; I dared not look toward him as he stood giving some directions to Tom, but went forward with an uncomfortable suspicion that the negro was exhibiting rather more of his teeth than was exactly necessary in his master’s presence.
The fear of ridicule was strong in my heart, but other and more powerful feelings were beating there. My visiters were vulgar but honest people, and I could not treat them coldly while the sweet impulses and affectionate associations their coming had given rise to were swarming in my bosom. They might be rude, but had they not lately trod the places of my childhood? Their faces were coarse and inanimate, but they were familiar ones, and as such I welcomed them; for they brought to my heart sweet thoughts of a happy home. I went forward and shook hands with them all, notwithstanding a glimpse I caught of Maria as she paused on the stairs, her roguish eyes absolutely laughing with merriment as she witnessed the scene.
An hour went by, and the Johnsons were still sitting in Colonel M.’s hall. I had gained all the information regarding my friends which they could communicate. It was drawing near the dinner hour, and, in truth, I had become exceedingly anxious for my visiters to depart. But there sat Mrs. Johnson emitting a continued current of very small talk about her currant bushes, her luck in making soap, and the very distressing mortality that had existed among her chickens—she became pathetic on this subject—six of her most promising fledglings had perished under an old cart during a thunder-storm, and as many goslings had been dragged lifeless from her husband’s mill-dam, where they had insisted upon swimming before they were sufficiently fledged. The account was very touching; peculiarly so from a solemn moral which Mrs. J. contrived to deduct from the sad and untimely fate of her poultry—which moral, according to the best of my memory, was, that if the chickens had obeyed their mother and kept under the parent wing, the rain had not killed them, and if the goslings had not put forth their swimming propensities too early, they might, that blessed moment, have been enjoying the coolness of the mill-dam in all the downy majesty of half-grown geese. Mrs. Johnson stopped the hundredth part of a second to take breath and branched off into a dissertation on the evils of disobedience in general, and the forwardness and docility of her two boys in particular. Then, drawing all her interesting topics to a focus, she took boys, geese, chickens, currant bushes, &c., &c., and bore them rapidly onward in the stream of her inveterate loquacity. One might as well have attempted to pour back the waters rushing from her husband’s mill-dam, when the flood-gates were up, as to check the motion of her unmanageable tongue. The clatter of his whole flour establishment must have been a poetical sound compared to the incessant din of meaningless words that rolled from it. Another good hour passed away, and the volubility of that tongue was increasing, while my politeness and patience, it must be owned, were decreasing in an exact ratio.
Maria had dressed for dinner, and I caught a glimpse of her bright face peeping roguishly over the banisters. Mrs. M. came into the hall, looked gravely toward us, and walked into the garden with a step rather more dignified than usual.
“Dear me, is that the lady you are staying with?” said Mrs. Johnson, cutting short the thread of her discourse, “how sorry I am that I didn’t ask her how she did, she must think we country people hav’n’t got no bringing up.”
Without replying to Mrs. Johnson, I seized the opportunity to inquire at what house they stayed, and innocently proposed calling on them after dinner.
“Oh,” said the little man, with a most insinuating smile, “we calculate to put up with you. Didn’t think we were the kind o’ people to slight old friends—ha?”
“With me—old friends!” I was thunderstruck, and replied, I fear with some lack of politeness, that Colonel M. did not keep a hotel.
“Wal, I guess I knowd that afore, but I’d jist as lives pay him my money as any body else.”
This was too much—I cast a furtive look at the banister; Maria’s handkerchief was at her mouth, and her face sparkled all over with suppressed mirth. Before I could answer Mr. Johnson’s proposition, Colonel M. came into the ball, and the modest little gentleman very coolly informed him of the high honor intended his house.
Colonel M. glanced at my burning face—made his most solemnly polite bow, and informed my tormentor that he should entertain any visiter of mine with great pleasure.
I was about to disclaim all Mr. Johnson’s pretensions to hospitality, backed by an acquaintance with myself, when he interrupted me with—
“Wal, that’s jest what I was a saying to my woman here as we came along. Wife, says I, never put up to a tavern when you can go any where else. I’d jest as lives pay my money to a private as to a tavern-keeper; they’re expensive fellers and allers grumble if one brings his own horse provender.”
The colonel stared at him a moment, then coldly saying “he was very welcome,” passed on.
“What a polite gentleman the colonel is!” ejaculated the little miller, rubbing his hands together as if he had been kneading a batch of his own flour, and turning triumphantly to his wife, who looked as pleased as if she had just heard of the resuscitation of her six lamented goslings, chickens inclusive.
“Come now,” she said, jumping up and tying the strings of her bonnet, “let’s go down to the salt water and eat our dinner on the grass. Run up and get your things, Miss Sophy—now come to think on it, I s’pose it wouldn’t be the genteel thing if we didn’t ask the colonel and his wife and that young girl that just come in with you—but the wagon is not large enough to hold us all without husband there can find a board to put along the front for an extra seat.”
I heard a sound of smothered laughter from the stairs, and hastened to relieve Mrs. Johnson from her dilemma, by declining her invitation for myself, while I informed her that Colonel M. expected company, and I was certain could not benefit by her politeness.
“Wal, then,” said Mr. Johnson, setting down his bell-crowned hat—“It don’t make much difference whether we eat our dinner here or on the sea-side. So, if Miss Sophy and the rest on ’em can’t go, s’posing we give it up and go to the museum.”
This plan was less endurable than the other. I knew that company would drop in after dinner, and the very thought of introducing Mr. Johnson and Mrs. Johnson, with both the little Johnsons, to my friends was enough to drive me into the salt water, as they called it, if those interesting persons had given me no other alternative. And then to be dragged to the museum with them! I accepted the sea-side dinner in a fit of desperation, and ran up stairs to get ready, half angry with the droll face which Maria made up for my benefit as I passed her in the upper hall.
I put on a calash, folded a large shawl about me, and, with a parasol in my hand, was descending the stairs when I heard Mr. J. observe to his wife that he had felt pretty sure of managing affairs all the time, and that he was ready to bet any thing Colonel M. wouldn’t charge for what little trouble they should be. Mrs. Johnson pinched his arm unmercifully when I appeared in sight, which gentle admonition broke off his calculation of expenses and sent him in search of his equipage. He returned with a rickety one-horse wagon—a rusty harness, tied by pieces of rope in sundry places, which covered an old chesnut horse, whose organs of starvation were most astonishingly developed over his whole body. Into this crazy vehicle Mr. Johnson handed us, with a ludicrous attempt at gallantry which made the old horse turn his head with a rueful look to see what his master could be about. The wagon contained but one springless seat, and where we should find accommodations for five persons was a subject of mystery to me. I however quietly took my portion of the seat; Mrs. Johnson, whose dimensions required rather more than half, placed herself by my side, her husband grasped the reins and crowded his diminutive proportions between us, while the dear little boys stood up behind and held by the back of our seat. Mr. Johnson gave his reins a jerk and flourished a whip—with a very short and white hickory handle, a long lash, and a thong of twisted leather fastened on for a snapper—with peculiar grace over the drooping head of our steed. The poor animal gathered up his limbs and walked down the street, dragging us after him, with great majesty and decorum. We must have been a magnificent exhibition to the pedestrians as we passed down State street, Mr. Johnson shaking the reins and cheruping the poor horse along—his wife exclaiming at every thing she saw, and those interesting boys standing behind us very upright, with their wool hats set far back on their heads, and they pointing and staring about as only very young gentlemen from the country can stare and point, while I, poor victim, sat crouching behind Mr. J., my calash drawn to its utmost extension over my face, and my parasol directed with a reference to the side-walk rather than to the sun. I was young, sensitive, and perhaps a little too keenly alive to the ridiculous, and if I did not feel exactly like a criminal going to execution, I did feel as if some old lady’s fruit stall had been robbed and I was the suspected person.
When about three miles from town, we left our equipage, whose rattle had given me a headache, and, after walking along the shore awhile, Mrs. J. selected a spot of fresh grass, shaded by a clump of junipers, where she commenced preparations for dinner. First, with the assistance of her two boys, she dragged forth a basket that had been stowed away under the wagon seat—then a table-cloth, white as a snow drift, was spread on the grass—next appeared sundry bottles of cider and currant wine, with cakes of various kinds and dimensions, but mostly spiced with caraway seed. To these were added a cold tongue, a loaf of exquisite bread, a piece of cheese, a cup of butter covered with a cool cabbage leaf, and, last of all, a large chicken-pie, its edge pinched into regular scollops by Mrs. Johnson’s two thumbs, and the centre ornamented by the striking resemblance of a broken leaf, cut by the same ingenious artist in the original paste.
Truly a day is like a human life, seldom all clouds or entire sunshine. The most gloomy is not all darkness, nor the most happy all light. When the remembrance of that sea-side dinner, under the juniper bushes, comes over me, I must acknowledge that my day of tribulation—with all its provoking incidents and petty vexations—had its hour of respite, if not of enjoyment. There we sat upon the grass in a refreshing shade, with nobody to look on as we cut the tender crust of that pie, while the cider and the currant wine sparkled in the two glasses which we circulated very promiscuously from lip to lip, while the cool wind came sweeping over us from the water, and the sunshine, that else had been too powerful, played and glittered every where about. A few yards from our feet the foam-crested waves swept the beach with their dash of perpetual music. The Sound, studded by a hundred snowy sails, lay out-stretched before us. Far on our right spread an extensive plain, with cattle grazing peacefully over it, and here and there a dwelling or a cluster of trees flinging their shadows on the grass. On our left was the town, with its houses rising, like palaces of snow, among the overhanging trees; its taper steeples pencilled in regular lines against the sky, and a picturesque extremity of the Green Mountains looming in the distance.
It cannot be denied that I rather enjoyed that dinner under the juniper bushes, and was not half so much shocked by the jocund conversation and merry laughter of my companions as became the dignity of a young lady whose “Lines to a Rose-bud” had been extensively copied through several remote papers of the Union, and who had been twice serenaded by her own words, set to most excruciating music, but I hope the refined reader will excuse my fault. It happened several years ago, and I am to this day a little inclined to be social with good-natured people, even those who are not particularly literary or intelligent. They do not expect you to talk books because you write them—never torment you with a discussion of “woman’s rights,” equality of the sexes, and like popular absurdities—or force you into a detestation of all books with quotations, which you would rejoice to think were “unwritten music.”
The clocks were striking four when we drove into town again, much as we had left it except the basket of fragments under our seat. When we reached Colonel M’s. door there was a sound of voices in the drawing-room, and I knew that company was there. I entered the hall, and with a palpitating heart persuaded Mrs. Johnson to accompany me to my chamber, leaving her husband to take care of himself, and devoutly hoping that he would find his way into the garden, or stables, or any where except the drawing-room.
I entered my chamber resolved to entertain Mrs. Johnson so pleasantly that she would be content to remain there. I opened the window and pointed out one of the most lovely prospects that eye ever dwelt upon, but she was busy with the pink bows and cotton lace border of her cap, and preferred the reflection of her own stout figure in the looking-glass to any the open sash could afford. When her toilet was finished, I was even preposterous enough to offer a book, but, after satisfying herself that it contained no pictures, she laid it down and walked toward the door. As a last resource, I flung open my wardrobe, as if by accident, and that had its effect; she came back with the avidity of a great child, handled every article, and was very particular to inquire the price of each garment, and the number of yards it contained. How I wished that Queen Elizabeth had but left me heiress to her nine hundred dresses. Had she been so thoughtful, it is highly probable that Mrs. Johnson would have contented herself in my room till morning; but, alas! my wardrobe was only extensive enough to detain her half an hour, and when that failed she grew stubborn and insisted on going down.
I followed Mrs. J. down stairs and into the drawing-room with the resolution of a martyr. She paused at the door, dropped three sublime curtsies, put on one of her superlatively silly smiles, and entered, with a little mincing step and her cap ribands all in a flutter. Had I been called upon to select the five persons whom I should have been most unwilling to meet in my irksome predicament, it would have been the two beautiful girls and three highly bred students of the law-school whom I found in a group near the centre table. Maria was with them, but looking almost ill-tempered with annoyance. When she saw Mrs. Johnson, the crimson that burned on her usually pale cheek spread over her face and neck, while, spite of shame and anger, her mouth dimpled almost to a laugh as that lady performed her curtsies at the door. Maria gave one glance of comic distress at my face, which was burning till it pained me, and another toward the farther extremity of the room. There was Mr. Johnson perched on a music stool, and fingering the keys of a piana, as he called Maria’s superb rose-wood instrument, and the feet of those little Johnsons dangled from two of the chairs near by: there, at my right hand, was Mrs. Johnson, radiant as a sunflower, and disposed to make herself peculiarly fascinating and agreeable to our visiters. She informed the law students that her husband was a great musicianer, that he led the singing in the Methodist meeting-house at home, every other Sunday, when the ministers came to preach, and that her two boys gave strong indications of musical genius which had almost induced Mr. Johnson to patronize their village singing-school. While in the midst of this eloquence, her eye was caught by a rich scarf worn by one of our lady visiters, so changing the subject she began to express her admiration, and, after taking an end of the scarf in her hands and minutely examining the pattern, she inquired the price of its fair owner, and called her husband to say if he could not afford one like it for her.
There was a roguish look in the lady’s eye, but she politely informed Mrs. J. where the scarf was purchased, and, being too well bred to laugh in our faces, the party took their leave. We breathed freely once more; but Maria and I had scarcely exchanged glances of congratulation for their absence, when another party was announced. To be mortified thus a second time was beyond endurance, and while Maria stepped forward to close the folding doors on Mr. Johnson and his musical performance, I turned in very desperation to his better half and proposed to accompany her in a walk about the city. Most earnestly did I entreat her to exchange that fine bonnet and orange-colored silk shawl for a cottage and merino of my own; but no, Mrs. J. clung to her tri-colors tenaciously as a Frenchman, so investing myself in the rejected articles we sallied forth.
As we were turning a corner into Chapel-street, I looked back and lo, the two boys walking behind us, lovingly as the Siamese twins. This reminded Mrs. Johnson that she had promised them some candy, so I was forced into a confectioner’s shop that the young gentlemen might be gratified. The candy was purchased and a pound of raisins called for. While the man was weighing them, she called out,
“Stop a minute, while I see if I’ve got change enough for ’em,” and sitting down on a keg she took out a large green worsted purse with deliberate ostentation, and untied a quantity of silver and copper cents into her lap. Being satisfied with this display of her wealth, she gave the man permission to proceed. I had suffered so much that day that the jeering smile of that candy-man went for nothing.
On leaving the candy shop I allowed my tormentor to choose her own direction, which, as my evil stars would have it, led directly before the Tontine, and there, upon the steps, stood the two young gentlemen who had serenaded Maria and myself only the night before, and whom we had seen that morning on the college grounds. They recognized me and bowed, Mrs. Johnson instantly appropriated the compliment, paused, faced about and returned their salutations with a curtsey for each, while she scolded the boys for not having “manners enough to make their bows when gentlemen noticed them.” The urchins took off their wool hats and did make their bows. My serenaders of the Sophomore class could not withstand this, and though their faces were turned away, I had a delightful consciousness that they were ready to die with suppressed laughter as I urged my companion down the street.
A short distance below the Tontine stands a most splendid mansion, perhaps, at that time, the most costly one in the city. Two of my school mates resided there and I was very anxious to pass without being observed, but just as we came opposite the front windows which opened to the ground, Mrs. Johnson made a dead halt, and pointing to the house, called out, “Come here, boys, and see what a sight o’ windows this ere house has got.”
The little Johnsons had lingered behind, but they ran up and obeyed their mother’s summons, by planting themselves directly before us, and the whole group took another survey of the building. I looked up, the blinds of a chamber were gently parted and I caught a glimpse of two sweet, familiar faces looking down upon our interesting party. “They are staring at us, do walk on!” I whispered in a perfect agony.
Mrs. Johnson paid no attention, she was looking earnestly down the street, I apprehensively followed the direction of her gaze. The two Sophomore students were coming up the opposite side walk laughing immoderately, a piece of ill breeding which they endeavored to check when their eyes met mine, but all in vain. Their eyes laughed in spite of the violence put upon the lips. I could endure it no longer but tore my arm from the tenacious grasp of my tormentor, turned the first corner and hastened home.
When Mrs. Johnson returned she had forgotten my rudeness in her delight at the attentions paid her by the students. “They had talked and laughed together a full half hour,” she said, “and were so perlite.”
“What did you talk about?” I inquired with uncomfortable foreboding.
“Why, I believe it was purty much about you, after all.”
“Me?” said I, faintly.
“Yes, they asked how long we’d been acquainted, so, of course, I told them what old friends we were—kind of relations.”
The last drop was flung in the bowl—and it overflowed—I said I was ill—had a headache—and running to my room, locked myself in.
I never had courage to ask Maria what occurred after my exit. But the next morning I arose very early, threw open the blinds and looked out. The day was breaking, like an angel’s smile, in the east, dividing the gray mist with a line of radiance, and embroidering the horizon with its delicate golden threads. The fresh air came up from an opposite garden rich with fragrance. The flowers bent their wet heads as it came with a gentle breath and charmed the odor from their cups; the grass had not yet flung off its night jewelry, and all around was still and silent as the heart of a wilderness—no, there was one sound not so musical as it might have been, but still the most welcome that ever fell on my ear. It was the rattle of Mr. Johnson’s wagon as it came lumbering up to the front door. And the most gratifying sight of that lovely morning was the old chesnut horse stalking down the street, and dragging behind him Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Johnson, and both the little Johnsons.