MIDNIGHT MASSES. NO. I.

“Is any thing the matter aloft?” demanded the man-of-war’s man.

“Ay, ay; I’ve sprung my topgallant-mast, and think this a good occasion to get another up inits place.”

“Shall I lend you a carpenter or two, Mr. Spike.”

“Thank’ee, sir, thank’ee with all my heart; but we can do without them. It’s an old stick, and it’s high time a better stood where it does. Who knows but I may be chased and feel the want of reliable spars.”

Captain Mull smiled and raised his cap in the way of an adieu, when the conversation ended, the Poughkeepsie sliding off rapidly with a free wind, leaving the Swash nearly stationary. In ten minutes the two vessels were more than a mile apart; in twenty beyond the reach of shot.

Notwithstanding the natural and common-place manner in which this separation took place, there was much distrust on board each vessel, and a good deal of consummate management on the part of Spike. The latter knew that every foot the sloop-of-war went on her course, carried her just so far to leeward, placing his own brig, in-so-much, dead to windward of her. As the Swash’s best point of sailing, relatively considered, was close hauled, this was giving to Spike a great security against any change of purpose on the part of the vessel of war. Although his people were aloft and actually sent down the topgallant-mast, it was only to send it up again, the spar being of admirable toughness, and as sound as the day it was cut.

“I don’t think, Mr. Mulford,” said the captain sarcastically, “that Uncle Sam’s glasses are good enough to tell the difference in wood at two league’s distance, so we’ll trust to the old stick a little longer. Ay, ay, let ’em run off before it, we’ll find another road by which to reach our port.”

“The sloop-of-war is going round the south side of Cuba, Capt. Spike,” answered the mate, “and I have understood you to say that you intended to go by the same passage.”

“A body may change his mind, and no murder. Only consider, Harry, how common it is for folks to change their minds. Ididintend to pass between Cuba and Jamaica, but I intend it no longer. Our run from Montauk has been oncommon short, and I’ve time enough to spare to go to the southward of Jamaica too, if the notion takes me.”

“That would greatly prolong the passage, Capt. Spike—a week at least.”

“What if it does—I’ve a week to spare; we’re nine days afore our time.”

“Our time for what, sir? Is there any particular time set for a vessel’s going into Key West?”

“Don’t be womanish and over cur’ous, Mulford. I sail with sealed orders, and when we get well to windward of Jamaica, ’twill be time enough to open them.”

Spike was as good as his word. As soon as he thought the sloop-of war was far enough to leeward, or when she was hull down, he filled away and made sail on the wind to get nearer to Porto Rico. Long ere it was dark he had lost sight of the sloop-of-war, when he altered his course to south, westerly, which was carrying him in the direction he named, or to windward of Jamaica.

While this artifice was being practiced on board the Molly Swash, the officers of the Poughkeepsie were not quite satisfied with their own mode of proceeding with the brigantine. The more they reasoned on the matter the more unlikely it seemed to them that Spike could be really carrying a cargo of flour from New York to Key West, in the expectation of disposing of it to the United States’ contractors,and the more out of the way did he seem to be in running through the Mona Passage.

“His true course should have been by the Hole in the Wall, and so down along the north side of Cuba, before the wind,” observed the first lieutenant. “I wonder that never struck you, Wallace; you who so little like trouble.”

“Certainly I knew it, but we lazy people like running off before the wind, and I did not know but such were Mr. Spike’s tastes,” answered the “ship’s gentleman.” “In my judgment, the reluctance he showed to letting us have any of his flour, is much the most suspicious circumstance in the whole affair.”

These two speeches were made on the poop, in the presence of the captain, but in a sort of an aside that admitted of some of the wardroom familiarity exhibited. Capt. Mull was not supposed to hear what passed, though hear it he in fact did, as was seen by his own remarks, which immediately succeeded.

“I understood you to say, Mr. Wallace,” observed the captain, a little drily, “that yousawthe flour yourself?”

“I saw the flour-barrels, sir; and as regularly built were they as any barrels that ever were branded. But a flour-barrelmayhave contained something besideflour.”

“Flour usually makes itself visible in the handling; were these barrels quite clean?”

“Far from it, sir. They showed flour on their staves, like any other cargo. After all, the man may have more sense than we give him credit for, and find a high market for his cargo.”

Capt. Mull seemed to muse, which was a hint for his juniors not to continue the conversation, but rather to seem to muse, too. After a short pause, the captain quietly remarked—“Well, gentlemen, he will be coming down after us, I suppose, as soon as he gets his new topgallant-mast on-end, and then we can keep a bright look out for him. We shall cruise off Cape St. Antonio, for a day or two, and no doubt shall get another look at him. I should like to have one baking from his flour.”

But Spike had no intention to give the Poughkeepsie the desired opportunity. As has been stated, he stood off to the southward on a wind, and completely doubled the eastern end of Jamaica, when he put his helm up, and went, with favoring wind and current, toward the northward and westward. The consequence was, that he did not fall in with the Poughkeepsie at all, which vessel was keeping a sharp look out for him in the neighborhood of Cape St. Antonio and the Isle of Pines, at the very moment he was running down the coast of Yucatan. Of all the large maritime countries of the world, Mexico, on the Atlantic, is that which is the most easily blockaded, by a superior naval power. By maintaining a proper force between Key West and the Havanna, and another squadron between Cape St. Antonio and Loggerhead Key, the whole country, the Bay of Honduras excepted, is shut up, as it might be in a band-box. It is true the Gulf would be left open to the Mexicans, were not squadrons kept nearer in; but, as for any thing getting out into the broad Atlantic, it would be next to hopeless. The distance to be watched between the Havanna and Key West is only about sixty miles, while that in the other direction is not much greater.

While the Swash was making the circuit of Jamaica, as described, her captain had little communication with his passengers. The misunderstanding with the relict embarrassed him as much as it embarrassed her; and he was quite willing to let time mitigate her resentment. Rose would be just as much in his power a fortnight hence as she was to-day. This cessation in the captain’s attentions gave the females greater liberty, and they improved it, singularly enough as it seemed to Mulford, by cultivating a strange sort of intimacy with Jack Tier. The very day that succeeded the delicate conversation with Mrs. Budd, to a part of which Jack had been an auditor, the uncouth-looking steward’s assistant was seen in close conference with the pretty Rose; the subject of their conversation being, apparently, of a most engrossing nature. From that hour, Jack got to be not only a confidant, but a favorite, to Mulford’s great surprise. A less inviting subject fortête-à-têteand confidential dialogues, thought the young man, could not well exist; but so it was; woman’s caprices are inexplicable; and not only Rose and her aunt, but even the captious and somewhat distrustful Biddy, manifested on all occasions not only friendship, but kindness and consideration, for Jack.

“You quite put my nose out o’ joint, you Jack Tier, with ’e lady,” grumbled Josh, the stewardde jure, if not nowde facto, of the craft, “and I never see nuttin’ like it! I s’pose you expect ten dollar, at least, from dem passenger, when we gets in. But I’d have you to know, Misser Jack, if you please, dat a steward be a steward, and he don’t like to hab trick played wid him, afore he own face.”

“Poh! poh! Joshua,” answered Jack good naturedly, “don’t distress yourself on a consait. In the first place, you’ve got no nose to be put out of joint; or, if you have really a nose, it has no joint. It’s nat’ral for folks to like their own color, and the ladies prefer me, because I’m white.”

“No so werry white as all dat, nudder,” grumbled Josh. “I see great many whiter dan you. But, if dem lady like you so much as to gib you ten dollar, as I expects, when we gets in, I presumes you’ll hand over half, or six dollar, of dat money to your superior officer, as is law in de case.”

“Do you call six the half of ten, Joshua, my scholar, eh?”

“Well, den, seven, if you like dat better. I wants just half and just half I means to get.”

“And half you shall have, maty. I only wish you would just tell me where we shall be, when we gets in.”

“How I know, white man? Dat belong to skipper, and better ask him. If he don’t gib you lick in de chop, p’rhaps he tell you.”

As Jack Tier had no taste for “licks in the chops,” he did not follow Josh’s advice. But his agreeing to give half of the ten dollars to the steward kept peace in the cabins. He was even so scrupulous of his word, as to hand to Josh a half eagle that very day; money he had received from Rose; saying he would trust to Providence for his own half of the expecteddouceur. This concession placed Jack Tier on high grounds with his “superior officer,” and from that time the former was left to do the whole of the customary service of the ladies’ cabin.

As respects the vessel, nothing worthy of notice occurred until she had passed Loggerhead Key, and was fairly launched in the Gulf of Mexico. Then, indeed, Spike took a step that greatly surprised his mate. The latter was directed to bring all his instruments, charts, &c., and place them in the captain’s state-room, where it was understood they were to remain until the brig got into port. Spike was but an indifferent navigator, while Mulford was one of a higher order than common. So much had the former been accustomed to rely on the latter, indeed, as they approached a strange coast, that he could not possibly have taken any step, that was not positively criminal, which would have given his mate more uneasiness than this.

At first, Mulford naturally enough suspected that Spike intended to push for some Mexican port, by thus blinding his eyes as to the position of the vessel. The direction steered, however, soon relieved the mate from this apprehension. From the eastern extremity of Yucatan, the Mexican coast trends to the westward, and even to the south of west, for a long distance, whereas the course steered by Spike was north, easterly. This was diverging from the enemy’s coast instead of approaching it, and the circumstance greatly relieved the apprehensions of Mulford.

Nor was the sequestration of the mate’s instruments the only suspicious act of Spike. He caused the brig’s paint to be entirely altered, and even went so far toward disguising her, as to make some changes aloft. All this was done as the vessel passed swiftly on her course, and every thing had been effected, apparently to the captain’s satisfaction, when the cry of “land-ho!” was once more heard. The land proved to be a cluster of low, small islands, part coral, part sand, that might have been eight or ten in number, and the largest of which did not possess a surface of more than a very few acres. Many were the merest islets imaginable, and on one of the largest of the cluster rose a tall, gaunt light-house, having the customary dwelling of its keeper at its base. Nothing else was visible; the broad expanse of the blue waters of the Gulf excepted. All the land in sight would not probably have made one field of twenty acres in extent, and that seemed cut off from the rest of the world, by a broad barrier of water. It was a spot of such singular situation and accessories, that Mulford gazed at it with a burning desire to know where he was, as the brig steered through a channel between two of the islets, into a capacious and perfectly safe basin, formed by the group, and dropped her anchor in its centre.

[To be continued.

MIDNIGHT MASSES. NO. I.

Ho, watchman on the housetop!Ho, minister of night!From thine enclouded turretCanst tell us of the light?O! heavy is the darkness⁠—In heaven there is no star;Canst see the wings of morningRise fluttering afar?“I see four winged angelsFar in the Orient;They bear a golden curtainAcross the firmament;A blue and golden curtain,Of richest tapestry;And the world grows bright beneath it⁠—Morn cometh from the sea.”“I see four other angelsRise softly after them;They bear a sable curtain,Enwrought with many a gem;With gems of gold and silver,Of azure and of white;And among them burneth Hesper⁠—Morn cometh and the night.”Ho, poet, from thy tower!How goes the tide of life;The battle is it ended,Has ceased the olden strife?Thick mists are in the valley;They cloud my narrow sight;Canst tell us of the gloaming,The making up of night?The battle rages fiercely,More fiercely it shall rage;The world is clouded darkly,Then comes a darker age;I see four angels rising,A sable shroud they bear;Which rolling gathers darkness⁠—Night cometh from his lair.But I see a knight advancingWith bright mail on his breast;His lance is long and shining,And he bows each sable crest;And in the hands of angelsWhite flags of peace are borne;I see the glad Aurora⁠—Night cometh and the morn.ARTHUR ALLYN.

Ho, watchman on the housetop!Ho, minister of night!From thine enclouded turretCanst tell us of the light?O! heavy is the darkness⁠—In heaven there is no star;Canst see the wings of morningRise fluttering afar?“I see four winged angelsFar in the Orient;They bear a golden curtainAcross the firmament;A blue and golden curtain,Of richest tapestry;And the world grows bright beneath it⁠—Morn cometh from the sea.”“I see four other angelsRise softly after them;They bear a sable curtain,Enwrought with many a gem;With gems of gold and silver,Of azure and of white;And among them burneth Hesper⁠—Morn cometh and the night.”Ho, poet, from thy tower!How goes the tide of life;The battle is it ended,Has ceased the olden strife?Thick mists are in the valley;They cloud my narrow sight;Canst tell us of the gloaming,The making up of night?The battle rages fiercely,More fiercely it shall rage;The world is clouded darkly,Then comes a darker age;I see four angels rising,A sable shroud they bear;Which rolling gathers darkness⁠—Night cometh from his lair.But I see a knight advancingWith bright mail on his breast;His lance is long and shining,And he bows each sable crest;And in the hands of angelsWhite flags of peace are borne;I see the glad Aurora⁠—Night cometh and the morn.ARTHUR ALLYN.

Ho, watchman on the housetop!Ho, minister of night!From thine enclouded turretCanst tell us of the light?O! heavy is the darkness⁠—In heaven there is no star;Canst see the wings of morningRise fluttering afar?

Ho, watchman on the housetop!

Ho, minister of night!

From thine enclouded turret

Canst tell us of the light?

O! heavy is the darkness⁠—

In heaven there is no star;

Canst see the wings of morning

Rise fluttering afar?

“I see four winged angelsFar in the Orient;They bear a golden curtainAcross the firmament;A blue and golden curtain,Of richest tapestry;And the world grows bright beneath it⁠—Morn cometh from the sea.”

“I see four winged angels

Far in the Orient;

They bear a golden curtain

Across the firmament;

A blue and golden curtain,

Of richest tapestry;

And the world grows bright beneath it⁠—

Morn cometh from the sea.”

“I see four other angelsRise softly after them;They bear a sable curtain,Enwrought with many a gem;With gems of gold and silver,Of azure and of white;And among them burneth Hesper⁠—Morn cometh and the night.”

“I see four other angels

Rise softly after them;

They bear a sable curtain,

Enwrought with many a gem;

With gems of gold and silver,

Of azure and of white;

And among them burneth Hesper⁠—

Morn cometh and the night.”

Ho, poet, from thy tower!How goes the tide of life;The battle is it ended,Has ceased the olden strife?Thick mists are in the valley;They cloud my narrow sight;Canst tell us of the gloaming,The making up of night?

Ho, poet, from thy tower!

How goes the tide of life;

The battle is it ended,

Has ceased the olden strife?

Thick mists are in the valley;

They cloud my narrow sight;

Canst tell us of the gloaming,

The making up of night?

The battle rages fiercely,More fiercely it shall rage;The world is clouded darkly,Then comes a darker age;I see four angels rising,A sable shroud they bear;Which rolling gathers darkness⁠—Night cometh from his lair.

The battle rages fiercely,

More fiercely it shall rage;

The world is clouded darkly,

Then comes a darker age;

I see four angels rising,

A sable shroud they bear;

Which rolling gathers darkness⁠—

Night cometh from his lair.

But I see a knight advancingWith bright mail on his breast;His lance is long and shining,And he bows each sable crest;And in the hands of angelsWhite flags of peace are borne;I see the glad Aurora⁠—Night cometh and the morn.ARTHUR ALLYN.

But I see a knight advancingWith bright mail on his breast;His lance is long and shining,And he bows each sable crest;And in the hands of angelsWhite flags of peace are borne;I see the glad Aurora⁠—Night cometh and the morn.ARTHUR ALLYN.

But I see a knight advancing

With bright mail on his breast;

His lance is long and shining,

And he bows each sable crest;

And in the hands of angels

White flags of peace are borne;

I see the glad Aurora⁠—

Night cometh and the morn.

ARTHUR ALLYN.

STARTING WRONG.

———

By F. E. F., AUTHOR OF “A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE,” ETC.

———

“Oh, Lucy, is that you? I was just wishing for you,” exclaimed Emily Sutherland to her sister, Mrs. Coolidge. “We are busy discussing our dresses for the Fancy Ball. What character do you mean to take? Have you decided on your dress?”

“No, I have not, Emily.”

“Well, it’s high time to begin to think about it. Every milliner andmantua-maker in town will be full of work soon. I told Madame Dudevant yesterday she must consider herself engaged to make my dress by the 22d. You had better bespeak her, too, or you will find yourself too late if you put it off.”

“I shall wear something so simple it’s not worth while having it made by her,” replied Mrs. Coolidge. “I shall go as the ‘White Lady,’ or⁠—”

“Not the ‘White Lady;’ for Heaven’s sake,” interrupted Emily, “that’s so hackneyed. Every body who can muster an old book-muslin, and a few yards of tulle, goes as the ‘White Lady.’ ”

“Well, a novice, or a Druid priestess,” continued Mrs. Coolidge.

“That’s just as bad,” pursued her sister impatiently. “No, no, you and Tom must go in character together; you as Titania, and he as Bully Bottom. You are so light, and slight, and fair, you will look Titania very well; and Tom will make a grand Bully—so full of fun and humor. You would contrast beautifully. You must hang upon his arm, and ‘stick musk roses in his sleek smooth head, andpinchhis large, fair ears,’ for it’ll hardly do to ‘kiss’ them, and call him ‘your gentle joy.’ I am sure you could do that to the life.”

Mrs. Coolidge smiled, for the idea caught her fancy; but then she looked graver as she said,

“But those would be expensive dresses, Emily. I merely meant to wear something that would entitle me to an entrance. If the invitations did not say ‘costume de rigueur,’ I should not think of a fancy dress at all.”

“Oh, what nonsense,” said Emily. “The expense is not much; I am sure Tom would not mind it. I’ll speak to him about it,” she continued; for she had been so accustomed to hear her father scold at expense, that she concluded, of course, her sister’s objections must now have reference to her husband, and that consequently if she spoke first to him, she was doing Lucy a great service.

“No, pray don’t put it in his head,” said the young wife eagerly, “for I fear he would be so taken by the idea, he would not stop to count the cost.”

“Well, then,” said Emily, opening her eyes very wide, “why need you?”

“Because, Emily, as we are young people just beginning, I think we ought to⁠—”

“To be patterns,” said Emily. “Well and good, my dear, only don’t begin until after this ball, if you please.”

“I don’t want to set up as a pattern,” said Lucy, “but still I would not wish to do any thing extravagant.”

“There’s no great extravagance in these dresses, I am sure,” replied Emily. “That’s one reason I selected them for you and Tom; and then I thought you would like to go in character together. I really flattered myself I had hit sentiment and economy with one stone beautifully. But you make as long a face about it as if I had proposed King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba to you.”

“What should Titania’s dress be?” inquired Mrs. Coolidge thoughtfully.

“Oh, something very light. Tulle, trimmed with a little silver—nothing is cheaper than that, you know,” answered Emily.

“As it is only for one night,” pursued Lucy, “I would not feel authorized to go to much expense. If it were a dress that could ever be worn again⁠—”

“You never can, or never ought at least, wear any tulle dress over twice; and therefore it does not make much difference about its being made in costume,” said Emily carelessly. “Tom’s dress, you know, is the simplest thing in the world. It’s only a weaver’s apron, &c. The ass’s head he can easily have made; he’ll get it for a trifle at any toy-store, I should think. Ah, there’s Tom,” cried Emily, as she saw her brother-in-law entering the hall. “Here, Mr. Coolidge, come here,” she called. “Come in and persuade this perverse wife of yours into being reasonable. Here I’ve been ransacking my head for suitable characters for her and you for the Fancy Ball; and just as I had hit upon the very thing for both of you, and expecting your joint vote of thanks, and compliments for the brilliancy of my idea, she puts on a grave face, and makes all sorts of objections. Don’t you think she would make a pretty Titania, and you a beautiful, broad-shouldered Bully Bottom? I’ll tell you what, you shall not be lost to the world as Bully; ifshewont be your Titania,Iwill, though I don’t think I will look the character very well, and beside⁠—”

“Why Lucy,” said her husband, “I don’t think you could possibly find any thing prettier; and really, Emily, I will give you my vote of thanks at once for my share of it. Bully always was a favorite of mine. You see I am more grateful than Lucy. However,” continued he, turning to his wife, “If you don’t likeit, ‘I am agreeable,’ as country people say, to any thing you prefer.”

“There’s nothing else that I prefer,” she replied, “only I thought theDame Blanchewould be more economical.”

“I veto theDame Blanche,” cried Emily before Coolidge had time to speak. “It’s just one of those things that are very pretty the first time; but it’s as old and common now as possible. Besides, as you are a bride, Lucy, people will expect something from you; you always have dressed well as Lucy Sutherland⁠—”

“I should be sorry if Lucy Coolidge appeared to less advantage now,” said Coolidge, taking Emily’s hint, and a little piqued by the insinuation. “I think, my dear, that would not be paying me much of a compliment,” he added good-naturedly, for he was the best tempered person in the world. “Come, if you like the dress, make up your mind at once. And, Emily, as you are it seems grand costumer-general on the occasion, perhaps you will be so kind as to lend me your aid afterward. Will you go with me when I look for someartistecapable of executing Bully’s head and ears?”

“With pleasure, as soon as I finish with your lady wife here. Now for Titania, Lucy.”

“I have a white satin dress, Emily, that I think would do for the under petticoat,” said Lucy.

“White satin,” said Emily musingly. “No, that wont do—it should be silk. Besides you’ve worn your satin, and the first thing in these dresses, and indeed in every other, is that they should be fresh and clean.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Coolidge. “I don’t understand much of lady’s dress, but that much I do. Nothing I hate so much as to see a woman in dirty finery; and pure fresh white is the prettiest thing she can wear. If you ladies dressed to please us gentlemen, you would never appear in any thing else. However, I don’t mean to interfere in what you’ll say, Emily, I don’t understand; only, Lucy, whatever you do decide on, let it be fresh and clean.”

“There Lucy, now I have your husband on my side, you have nothing to say,” cried Emily. “And to be fresh and clean, things must be new. You men understand effect,” she continued, turning to her brother-in-law, “though you are not much at details. And now let us be off to Madame Dudevant’s; I want to see some costumes she was to have in this morning—and you can speak to her about your dress at the same time.”

“And you think I must have Madame Dudevant,” said Lucy inquiringly. “She is such an extortionate creature; I could get Henrietta in the house for a couple of days⁠—”

“For pity’s sake don’t think of Henrietta, Lucy,” said Emily; “there’s no use in getting new materials if she is to spoil them. And what signifies a few dollars more or less in the making; for after all it’s the fit and air of a dress that gives it all its effect. Dudevant asks rather more, perhaps, than others—but really she is worth it. She is the only person in town who knows how to do any thing.”

“That’s true,” said Lucy plaintively.

“What makes you sigh so, Lucy,” said her husband smiling, “over Madame Dudevant’s superiority?”

“Oh, that’s just Lucy,” said Emily laughing. “She always was so. She thinks any thing will do for her until it comes to the point, and then nothing but the best satisfies her. With all her scruples, she always ends where I begin. But then she has such a plaintive way of going to work, that she always thinks, and what is worse, you all agree with her, that she is so much more economical than I⁠—”

“Now Emily,” said Lucy expostulatingly, “I am sure I would be glad to go as the ‘White Lady,’ if you and Tom would let me.”

“So you think, my dear—but I know how it would be; you would keep Henrietta for a week in the house botching up a dress, which, of course, would be a fright; and then, just at the last minute, you would come to the conclusion it would never do, and go off in a hurry to Dudevant’s to order something decent—and so, besides your dress, you would have your failure to pay for.”

Coolidge laughed outright at this picture of his wife’s economy, and said,

“Well, Lucy, as we can’t afford double expenses, I think you’ll have to give up what Emily calls your ‘failure.’ ”

“These ‘failures’ are mighty expensive things, let me tell you,” said Emily seriously; “and I’ll just give you this warning, Tom, your wife is very fond of them.”

“Now, Emily, say no more,” said Lucy entreatingly, “and I’ll do any thing you want.”

“Well, the carriage has been waiting this half hour,” said her sister. “Do you come back to dinner,” said she to her brother-in-law, “for I mean to keep Lucy to-day, and then we will settle this evening about Bully’s head and ears, &c.”

So they drove to Madame Dudevant’s. Emily gave a rapid sketch of the character her sister was to take, which the Frenchwoman caught with a tact and quickness that would have been enough to make a slow, sober Englishwoman think she had been a reader of Shakspeare from her youth.

“Ah, I understand—something very light and pretty; two, tree tunics—a light broderie on each.”

“Would not a little silver lace,” said Mrs. Coolidge, looking anxious, “do, madame?”

“Silver lace?” said the Frenchwoman interrogatively. “What you call silver lace, madame? You like tinsel?” with a shrug of such ineffable contempt, that Lucy colored spite of herself.

“A light embroidery would be much handsomer, Lucy,” said Emily. “I don’t like silver lace myself, it has a sort of livery look.”

“Just so,” said the queen of mantua-makers, now directing her remarks to Emily, “what you call vulgar. If madame will have tree tunics with adelicat broderie, de sleeve de same, I have a young woman who work beautiful⁠—”

Lucy looked distressed, and said, “I don’t want to go to much expense, madame.”

“Expense! oh no, madame, it so light it cost noting at all.”

“You had better leave it to madame, Lucy,” said Emily; “I see she understands what you want. She will make it pretty, and not too expensive. Madame,” turning to the Frenchwoman, “Mrs. Coolidge is married, you know,” she added smiling, “and has a husband to consult.”

“Oh,” said the gracefulartistesmiling, “when you husband see you look pretty, he tink noting of the cost.”

“I don’t know that, madame,” said Lucy laughing, unconsciously pleased at the flattery. “But you’ll make it as reasonable as possible.”

“Certain, madame; I make it as cheap as I can afford. You shall like your dress. And you, mademoiselle, will come to-morrow; I have some new costume.”

The Fancy Ball, which had been the talk of the town for a month, went off brilliantly. Emily’s dress was Madame Dudevant’schef d’œuvre, and the delicate Titania looked the creation of a poet. But Tom, as Bully Bottom, was glorious. The young husband and wife were conspicuous amid even that distinguished throng; and Lucy, proud of her husband’s wit, entered with delight into the spirit of the whole; and he, as Madame Dudevant truly prophecied, when “he saw her look so pretty, thought nothing of the cost.”

——

“Tom, dear,” said has wife one morning at breakfast, about the close of the first year of their marriage, “What do you mean to do about this house? I find that the rents on all this row have risen fifty dollars. I suppose our landlord will raise on us.”

“Yes,” replied her husband, knitting his brow with an anxious expression, “he told me so yesterday.”

“The rent is already high enough,” rejoined his wife, “for a house of this size, with none of the new improvements, too. Had we not better give it up?”

Coolidge looked annoyed, and said, “The moving would make up the difference of the rent.”

“Yes, but then we might get a better house for the same money up town; and by taking a lease⁠—”

“You can’t take a house on lease,” answered her husband quickly, “these landlords have one so in their power.”

“But they will lease I know,” pursued Lucy, “for Mrs. Saville told me yesterday that they had taken their house for three years. The one next door is to rent on the same terms, with baths on every story, and some new contrivance by which all the coal is taken up stairs by turning some crank, or something or other,” continued Mrs. Coolidge with all the enthusiasm of a young housekeeper.

“Well, well,” interrupted Tom with some impatience, “we could not take it if the whole work of the house was performed by machinery instead of servants; for, to tell you the truth, Lucy,” he added gravely, “I am behind hand in the rent.”

“Behind hand in the rent!” exclaimed Lucy aghast.

“Yes, but you need not look so horror struck, Lucy, it’s only the last quarter. I should not like to leave, however, without having paid up every thing; so we must stay where we are for this year. Cranstoun is anxious we should, and so don’t trouble me about what is due; and upon the whole it is more convenient to pay fifty dollars more in the course of the year, than to move now.”

Lucy looked very serious, and then said,

“I am perfectly willing to stay here, Tom, but I really think we pay Cranstoun enough now; it’s unconscionable to ask more. Did you tell him about the new houses, and remind him that this has no baths?”

“No, my dear,” replied Tom, “you can’t expostulate with a man you owe. Next year we can do better, but for the present we must put up with it as it is.”

“But to pay fifty dollars,” pursued Lucy, in a dissatisfied tone, for she was thinking of fifty things on which she would prefer laying out fifty dollars.

“I must do the best I can, Lucy,” replied her husband. “And now, I am sorry to say it, Lucy, but we must retrench in something—we don’t make the two ends meet this year.”

“Don’t we?” said Lucy sadly, “that’s very bad.”

“Yes, so it is. But don’t look so doleful about it, Lucy, for Heaven’s sake,” said her husband; “it is not so bad after all—for though we are behind hand, it is not a great deal. We have only to cut off something else next year, and then all will come right again.”

“Well,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully, “where shall we begin. We can’t do very well with a servant less. The cook, of course, we must have. The chambermaid does the washing. The man—we can get a waiter-girl instead of a man, if you are willing.”

Coolidge hesitated, and said,

“That is only exchanging one servant for another; and I hate girl waiters. I never can order a woman; and then I must hire some one to clean my boots—and there’s the putting in coal. The difference of wages soon makes itself up, you see, in these trifles that you want all the time. These sort of economies only make one uncomfortable, and save in the end little or nothing.”

“That’s true,” she replied mournfully.

“We can give up the curtains for the back parlour,” rejoined he.

“But they are ordered,” replied Lucy.

“I know that,” he continued, “but I dare say Lambert would take them off our hands.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Lucy; “but then he will make you pay something if he does. They are cutfor our windows—and you always lose upon any thing they take back after it is cut.”

“I presume so; but that is not much.”

“Yes it is, considerable,” said Lucy, who, woman-like, clung to her curtains. “And it does seem a pity to pay for what one has not; particularly, too, when money is not over plenty.”

“True enough,” said Tom. “Well, we’ll see about it. I’ll see what Lambert says about it. If he is in no hurry to be paid, why, in the course of six months, I can settle it all.”

“Of course,” said Lucy, “he gives six months’ credit—that is what they all do. No one expects to be paid before six months.”

“Oh, if that’s so,” answered Tom, “the thing may as well rest as it is.”

“If that room were not so cold,” pursued Lucy, “I should not care so much about the curtains; but we really suffered for the want of them last winter.”

“At any rate, they are ordered,” said her husband, “and as you think Lambert wont take them off our hands without making me pay something down—so there let it rest. I don’t feel inclined to pay for what we don’t have, which is, as you say, provoking enough. In fact, I find it pretty tough to pay for what we do have, let alone what we don’t.”

In truth, Coolidge found it more convenient to have some hundredscharged, than to pay a bonus down, small though it might be. So Lucy secured her curtains.

“But we must economize in something, you say,” continued Lucy. “I wish I knew where to begin,” she added, anxiously. “I don’t know what we can cut off.”

“We have not many superfluities, certainly,” rejoined her husband. “However, we must retrench as much as we can. I don’t know exactly in what—but as a general thing, Lucy. You must have an eye to saving all you can this winter; and next year I hope it wont be necessary. So good morning, love—it is time I was off.” And Tom took his hat and left his wife, who sat ruminating with a very doleful face, just where he left her, until the cook came for her orders for dinner.

The Coolidges kept a good table, usually—for Tom was fond of bringing in a friend or two occasionally to dinner; but, full of her new economies, Lucy, instead of ordering as usual, asked the cook “if there was not cold lamb enough left of yesterday to make a stew;” and that, with some mashed potatoes, was all she ordered.

“And wont I cook the pheasants that have just come in?” inquired the woman.

“No,” replied Lucy, who felt too poor to eat pheasants, “put them in the larder—it is so cold they will keep.”

“Will I fricassee or roast the chickens?” pursued the cook; “there are two pair in the larder.”

“No, the stew will be enough,” answered Mrs. Coolidge, and the cook left the room with a toss, wondering “what was in the wind now,” quite puzzled by her mistress’ sad manner of ordering dinner, and sudden notion “of having nothing worth the cooking.” “I guess Mr. Coolidge wont like stew,” thought the offendedchef de cuisine, as she set to work chopping meat and vegetables.

She was right this time, at any rate—for Coolidge came home to dinner, bringing a friend with him.

As he took his seat at table, his consternation could not be concealed at the sight of the stew alone.

“Why Lucy, what’s the meaning of this?” said he, looking at his wife. “Did not the man bring home the marketing? I’ll speak to him to-morrow. It’s too bad.”

Lucy colored very much, and said,

“Yes, he came at the usual hour.”

“Well,” he said, looking as if he expected her to say something more.

She colored still more painfully as she said,

“I did not think you would be home to dinner—and⁠—”

“Oh, I understand,” said her husband laughing, though embarrassed, “you did not happen to feel hungry when the cook came for orders, and so thought you did not want any dinner, and that I should stay down town. Well, Hastings,” turning to his friend, “as Mrs. Coolidge wont give us any thing to eat, I’ll see we have something fit to drink. Here Joe,” turning to the man, “take this key and go into the wine cellar, and bring me one of those bottles with a card label—and see that you don’t shake it coming up stairs. There,” he said, “Hastings, try that.”

“It’s exquisite,” returned his friend, “wine for an emperor.”

And so, what with the wine and the stew, Mr. Hastings seemed to make a very good dinner, though Lucy felt as if she would be glad to get under the table, and Tom did not feel much better.

“Now, Lucy, dearest,” said he, as the door closed upon their guest, “what did you mean by ordering such a dinner?”

Tears started in her eyes as she said,

“Oh, Tom, I did not know you meant to bring home any one with you; and as we were talking of economizing this morning, and as there was plenty of cold lamb left of yesterday⁠—”

“I never was so mortified in my life,” rejoined her husband. “There’s no use, Lucy, in going to extremes. We may economize without going to such pitiful lengths as that. However, there’s no use in talking about it now. It’s over, and I gaveHastings wine that more than compensated for your dinner. It was some of my father’s best old Madeira. I’ve only a couple of dozen of it, but I felt I must give the poor devil something to make it up, or he would feel as if I had insulted him in bringing him home to a stew and potatoes! So, Lucy, even on the score of economy, your dinner did not answer its end. There’s no use in saving a pair of chickens, if one must give a bottle of fivedollar wine to make up for their absence. This, I think,” he added laughing, “is what Emily would call one of your ‘economical failures.’ ”

Coolidge was certainly as good-tempered a man as ever lived; but a bad dinner, when one has a friend, will try the best of husbands—and he was vexed, in spite of himself. However, he said no more; and Lucy resolved she never would put him to the test again, in that way at least.

“Feast or famine! hey Lucy?” he said the next day, as he took his place at table. “Roast chickens, stewed chickens, pheasants! Any removes,” he continued, laughing as he looked at his wife.

“I did not mean to have all this cooked to day,” said Lucy, apologizingly, “but a thaw has come on, and cook said the poultry would not keep any longer, as it had already been two days in the larder.”

“Oh, I understand,” replied her husband, “we must eat yesterday’s dinner and today’s too. That’s it, is it? I wish Hastings dined with us to-day instead of yesterday, and then I might have kept my old wine that I grudge him.”

“Ah Tom,” said Lucy beseechingly.

He laughed, and said,

“Why, Lucy, we need not economise in the matter of mirth, need we?”

“Yes, when it is at my expense, Tom,” she replied.

“Then you think me extravagant in that respect,” he said. “Well, no matter, Lucy; if you are a young housekeeper, you are the dearest, sweetest-tempered little wife a man ever had. Only, love, when you order dinner, particularly a stew, just think of Mr. Hastings, will you? Let us economise in any thing but hospitality. There, now, I’ll say no more about it, I promise. Moreover, I wont tell Emily—now am I not good?”

——

“Lucy,” said Emily, “we have taken our season tickets for the Opera near the centre of the house, Nos. 22, 24. Mr. Coolidge had better take yours joining ours, so that if he happens to be engaged, or don’t want to go, or any thing, you can go with us. At any rate, it will be pleasanter to be together.”

“We are not going to take a season ticket,” said Lucy,

“Why not?” inquired Emily. “It’s cheaper, you know, than paying by the single ticket.”

“There’s no cheap way of going to the Opera,” said Coolidge, rather rudely, as Emily thought.

“It costs something, certainly,” she replied. “Every thing does. But I think it’s quite as economical as any other amusement, and much more delightful. It’s a great improvement, too, Lucy, to one’s own music; and with your voice you ought to take every opportunity of hearing good music.”

“Accomplished wives are somewhat expensive articles for a poor man,” said Tom. “A taste for music costs no trifle in these days.”

“Is a taste for yachting cheaper?” said Emily, looking at him as if she thought him a bear.

Tom colored at this, having just joined a yachting club, composed of some of the most expensive young men in town, and looked very angry, but said nothing—what could he?

However, if he was angry, so was Emily—and Lucy looked fairly frightened between the two. She turned the conversation as quickly as she could, and the subject dropped.

He said to her afterward,

“Lucy, if you would like to go the Opera, I’ll take a season ticket for you with your family. When I want to go, I can buy a ticket at the door, as I don’t care about going every night.”

“Oh, no, Tom, I don’t care about going at all; and you know I never wish to go without you.”

He looked very much perplexed and worried.

“I can’t bear to have you give up a pleasure you are so fond of,” he pursued. “And then it seems so selfish. I wish to heavens I had not joined that confounded club. I’ll give it up as soon as the year is out.”

“Oh, I am sure, Tom,” said his sweet wife, “you require relaxation and exercise. I think you’ve been a great deal better this summer in consequence of having joined the club.”

Still he did not seem at ease. In fact, Emily’s fling at his being able to gratify his own tastes while he found fault with Lucy’s, nettled him. And, moreover, he was honest and generous enough to feel its truth. Besides, no man likes the insinuation of selfishness—if there is any truth in the charge, so much the worse. So, though it was inconvenient, Tom made a point of Lucy’s having a season ticket—whether he took some money he had meant to appropriate to house expenses, I don’t know, but I should not be surprised; at any rate they were much behind hand this year.

They had a bill now at the grocer’s—butcher’s ditto—and “paid on account” what they did pay.

Fifty dollars more was added next year to the house-rent—and yet they did not move. Lucy looked embarrassed when she was asked “if they meant to remain,” and “why they did not move up town?” and Tom was almost rude when similar inquiries were made of him. That, indeed, was not the unusual thing now that it had once been. Tom was growing cross. He was harassed and fretted, and often answered hastily where he had no right to do so; particularly to his sweet, pretty little wife, who, to do him justice, he did love with all his heart and soul—but that was no excuse for being cross to her, as he was sometimes, when she handed him a bill.

“Why, Lucy, what is this? Five dollars for ice! I’ve paid that bill before.”

“No, dear, you have not.”

“I gave you the money, I am sure. Do you take receipts? for if you don’t, they always send the bill a second time.” No one but Tom would ever havethought of any body’s sending him a bill asecondtime. If they got paid once, they did very well. “And I can’t afford to be paying bills two or three times over.”

“Indeed, dear, I always take receipts—and this I know has not been paid. It has been sent in two or three times, but it has not been paid, I know. Here’s the baker’s account just sent in,” continued Lucy, who thought while she was in for a disagreeable subject, she might as well go through with it all.

“Twenty dollars for bread!” exclaimed he, eyeing the sum total; “why it must be a mistake.”

“No,” she said, “it is correct.”

“Then, Lucy,” said he, “there must be great waste somewhere; and,” he added angrily, “I can’t afford it. Twenty dollars for bread! It’s enormous.”

“It has been running a good while,” said Lucy, meekly. “See, it begins in June.”

“Well, well, no matter when it begins,” said he, impatiently, “I can’t pay it now, that’s all.”

The door opened just then, and Emily came in. Lucy was always glad to see her, doubly so now, as she interrupted atête-à-têtethat threatened to be unpleasant.

“I have come, Lucy,” she said, “to ask you to go and look at bonnets. The French importations open to-day. Mamma will join us presently.”

“It seems to me,” said Tom, somewhat rudely, “that you women spend all your time running round after finery.”

Emily looked at him for a minute as if she had a great mind to retort, but Lucy quickly interposed with,

“If you want the benefit of my taste to aid you in selecting for yourself, Emily, I am ready to go. I don’t mean to get any thing for myself. I don’t want a hat.”

“You may not mean to get one,” said Emily, “but that you want one is certain. Yours is shabby enough in all conscience.”

“It will do well enough for the present,” said Lucy in a dejected tone.

“You can’t wear a summer bonnet all winter, Lucy; and if you are going to get one at all, you might as well get it now, and have the comfort of it.”

Tom looked cross, however; and though what Emily said was true, Lucy did not feel as if she ought to indulge herself in even getting what she must have whilehe was out of temper. It was wonderful how much richer she felt when he was in a good humor.

Mrs. Sutherland now joined her daughters, and after a little while said,

“Oh, Emily, I have just come from Dudevant’s. The hats don’t open to-day. She was going to send you word. It was a mistake of the printer’s. To-morrow is the day.”

“Then I will call for you to-morrow, Lucy,” said Emily. “And now, as it is late, we may as well go, mamma.”

“How cross Coolidge grows,” said Emily, as they drove off.

“Is any thing the matter, do you think,” inquired Mrs. Sutherland anxiously.

“No,” replied Emily, “nothing that I could see.”

The next morning, as Emily called at an early hour at her sister’s, as by appointment, Coolidge, who had not yet gone out, looked up and said pleasantly,

“Hats the order of the day, hey, Emily?”

And as Lucy rose hastily from the breakfast table and tied on hers, he added,

“That does look shabby enough, Lucy. Do get a white bonnet this time. I do like to see a woman in a white hat.”

“They soil too soon,” replied his wife, “and beside are only fit for full dress.”

“Well,” he replied, “can’t you have another for common wear?”

Tom had got some money, that was clear. The very atmosphere of the house seemed changed since yesterday. The sunshine was to be taken advantage of however, and Lucy went up to him and said something to him in a low voice, to which he answered,

“I can’t this morning. Tell her to send it up.”

Emily had heard this often enough to understand what it meant. The hat was to be charged, that was evident. However, as it was to be bought, that was all she cared about. The rest only concerned Tom and Madame Dudevant.

These fits of liberality and good humor, however, were becoming rare. Coolidge was certainly growing cross. His naturally fine, generous temper was becoming clouded by his embarrassments. When a man is harassed he is apt to forget himself even toward those he loves best. And he did love his little wife dearly, notwithstanding that he frequently spoke almost harshly to her. And this again acted upon her poor thing. She was becoming nervous and timid, and sorry are we to add—fretful.

“Do keep quiet, Harry,” she would say to her eldest child, a fine spirited boy, in the tone of a person who had the toothache, “You are enough to set one distracted with your noise. Now put your blocks away and sit down and read.”

But Harry, being in the midst of a high game of fun with his little sister, did not want to throw down the castle he was building, would say,

“Oh, mamma, pray let me finish. I don’t want to read. I wont do any harm.”

“How troublesome you are, Harry. Do as I bid you. And, Fanny, do you go up into the nursery. You make too much noise here, both of you. Go, nurse wants you up stairs.”

And so the poor children’s pleasures were often cut short, because mamma had a bill preying upon her mind, that made the sound of mirth absolutely painful to her.

And yet Coolidge was doing a good business.His profits were quite equal perhaps to his expenses, if he could only have paid as he went along. But as it was, he was working against tide all the time. He was forever paying back accounts, while the present ones went rolling up, inferior articles at high prices, at a fearful rate.

“Poverty begets poverty, that’s certain. And then it brings such a train of evils—big and little—and the smaller ones are worse to bear than the great. A man who has his pocket always drained of change is not a pleasant companion, at least not to his wife. Let him be ever so affectionate he will be unreasonable.”

“Three shillings! What do you want three shillings for, Lucy?” he would say as impatiently sometimes as if she had asked for a hundred dollars.

“For the girl who has been sewing here to-day, dear.”

“It seems to me that girl is sewing here forever. It’s three shillings here and three shillings there all the time,” he would say pettishly.

“Shall you want me next week, Mrs. Coolidge?” asked the girl, as she was paid.

“No,” she replied in a melancholy tone; “no, I will finish the rest of the work myself.”

Then perhaps feeling good-humored, he would say affectionately,

“Do, Lucy, put that eternal work-basket aside. I hate to see you stitching away so the whole time.”

“I must finish these things for the children,” she replied.

“Oh, it’s no matter for the children. You look fagged to death, dear. Send for that girl. Indeed I’d rather give fifty dollars than see you wear yourself out as you do.”

Now, if Coolidge would only have given the fifty, or twenty, or even ten dollars, instead of talking about it, it would have saved his poor wife many a side-ache, and back-ache, and heart-ache to boot, for she almoststitched her soul out to save five dollars. But there was nothing she would not rather do than ask for money. It was bad enough to be obliged to hand the necessary house-bills. As to her own milliner’s andmantua-maker’s accounts! the mental agony she went through for them would have been almost ludicrous, so disproportioned was the amount of suffering to the amount charged, had it not been so sincere.

“Catch me going to Lucy’s again to spend an evening,” said one of her younger sisters to Emily, now the rich and gay Mrs. Woodberry.

“Why? How was it—what was the matter?” asked Emily.

“I am sure I do not know—nothing that I could see. But you would have supposed there was a corpse in the house, certainly. There was but one light, and that shaded, on the table where Lucy and the children sat—she sewing, they studying. And if the poor little souls spoke loud, or laughed, Lucy hushed them at once, and with such reproachful looks,as if they had done something very naughty, and were shockingly unfeeling. And Mr. Coolidge scarcely raised his eyes from his paper, but to say something cross two or three times during the course of the evening. And poor Lucy sat stitching away, looking the image of grief and despair. If both the children had been up stairs dying of scarlet fever, she could not have looked worse. I asked her what was the matter, and she replied, ‘Nothing.’ But, really, if people look so about ‘nothing,’ they deserve to have ‘something’ to look miserable about.”

“I suppose it was some bill or other—the old story,” replied Mrs. Woodberry. “Lucy is so silly to let Coolidge be so cross about things that are no more her fault than his. If she had only fired up in the beginning, and told him, as I should have done, when he scolded about the butcher and baker, &c., ‘That heate five times as much bread as I did; and as to meat, I did not care if I did not eat a morsel from one week’s end to another,’ and followed it up by ordering no dinner, I think she might have taught him better manners. Men are so detestable,” she continued, with vexation, “one would think it was not enough to be poor, but they must add to the charm by being cross.”

“Then you think poverty a great evil,” said Susan with sorrowful earnestness—for there was a certain young lawyer she thought very captivating.

“An evil—to be sure it is,” replied Mrs. Woodberry, who, being very rich and expensive, thought there was no living without money, and plenty of it, too. “Just look at Lucy—did you ever see such a poor, forlorn, faded, fretful looking thing as she has become. You don’t remember her, Susan, when she married. You would scarcely believe what a sweet, fresh, pretty young creature she was. And now look at her! She looks as if she might have gone in the wash with those poor old faded calicoes of hers, that have been rubbed and pounded till there’s scarce a shade of color in them. And Coolidge, too—what a pleasant, merry, joyous tempered fellow he was. I never shall forget them the first time they appeared in society after their marriage. It was at a Fancy Ball. She went as Titania, he as Bully Bottom. They were the admiration and life of the room. One would not have thought, to have seen them then, how they would look fifteen years later.”

“Well,” said old Mrs. Rutledge, an aunt of the Sutherlands, joining in the conversation for the first time, “there I don’t agree with you, Emily. It was just the beginning that might have foretold the ending.”

“How so?” said both sisters, looking up at once.

“They have lived too fast. Poverty, my dear Susan, is an evil, nay, a curse, or not, just as people choose to make it. Be prudent, live within your means, and small though they may be, there will always be enough for happiness.”

Susan, whose feelings were deeply interested in this question, said,

“But, aunt, do you think it is Lucy’s fault that her husband is cross and poor?”

“Not entirely, my dear. A man should governhimself, and his own destiny. But still, I think a prudent,firmwife, a fine balance-wheel. Lucy did not use her influence rightly. She never seemed to know the power she had in her hands. She rather encouraged her husband’s extravagance; and it has beendebtthat has been the ruin of their happiness. Had they begun differently, it would have ended differently. God only knows, now, poor things, wherethey will wind up.”

The error was, they started wrong.

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