[1]Charleroix, vol. ii. p. 102, 103.
[1]
Charleroix, vol. ii. p. 102, 103.
[2]Charleroix, vol. ii. p. 73.
[2]
Charleroix, vol. ii. p. 73.
A DREAM OF ITALY.
———
BY CHARLES ALLEN.
———
Land of Poets, Italy,As the rivers seek the sea,Floats my dreaming soul to thee;And I stand upon the soil,Where with never ceasing toil,Careless of the midnight oil,Poets say the noblest lays—Artists wrought for Heaven’s praise—Marking time by deeds, not days.And before my dreaming eyes,Temples, palaces arise,Less’ning, fading in the skies,’Till upon their lifted spires,Sit the stars, those spirit fires,List’ning to thy minstrel lyres.Hark! their music sweeps along—Lightly dance the waves of song,Through the air a happy throng;Bearing on each foamy crest,Thoughts that wrap the human breast;Bidding care lie down to rest.List’ning to each beauteous strain,Ah! I am a child again,Full of childish joy and pain;All unwritten is life’s tome,And my spirit seeks its home,More beloved than gilded dome,And around the once loved stream,Revels free in Music’s dream—Yet, alas! this does but seem.Music! ’tis the voice of Love,Sweetly floating from above,Winged like Noah’s gentle dove;Seeking, seeking wearily,O’er life’s deeply flooded sea,To some higher heart, to flee.’Tis thy voice, thy language too,Spoken by the Sainted Few,Who still make thy wonders new.Love, was exiled Dante’s theme;Love, was Buonaroti’s dream—Raphael took its sunny beam;’Twas the pencil with which heWrought for immortality—Sweet Italia, wrought for thee.And the chaste Madonna grew,From that touch so pure and true,Breathing life, and speaking too.These are they who speak for thee,Speak, though toiling silently—Speak in love, fair Italy.Thus in visions of the night,Oft my spirit takes its flight,Soaring to thy land of light;But, alas! the op’ning day,Finds me from thee, far away,And no more thy minstrel lay,Floats in sweetness over me;But the bird sings on the tree,’Neath the casement blithe and free.Yes, ’t has vanished into air,And again comes heavy care—Would, O, would, that I were there;So my spirit whispers me,Longing, mourning but to see,Land of Poets, only thee;For I’m lonely, lonely here,Falls for me no kindly tear—Love itself has pressed the bier;And in bitterness of soul,As the racer to his goal,Or the magnet to its pole,So my spirit turns to thee,Land of sweetest minstrelsy,Land of Poets—Italy.
Land of Poets, Italy,As the rivers seek the sea,Floats my dreaming soul to thee;And I stand upon the soil,Where with never ceasing toil,Careless of the midnight oil,Poets say the noblest lays—Artists wrought for Heaven’s praise—Marking time by deeds, not days.And before my dreaming eyes,Temples, palaces arise,Less’ning, fading in the skies,’Till upon their lifted spires,Sit the stars, those spirit fires,List’ning to thy minstrel lyres.Hark! their music sweeps along—Lightly dance the waves of song,Through the air a happy throng;Bearing on each foamy crest,Thoughts that wrap the human breast;Bidding care lie down to rest.List’ning to each beauteous strain,Ah! I am a child again,Full of childish joy and pain;All unwritten is life’s tome,And my spirit seeks its home,More beloved than gilded dome,And around the once loved stream,Revels free in Music’s dream—Yet, alas! this does but seem.Music! ’tis the voice of Love,Sweetly floating from above,Winged like Noah’s gentle dove;Seeking, seeking wearily,O’er life’s deeply flooded sea,To some higher heart, to flee.’Tis thy voice, thy language too,Spoken by the Sainted Few,Who still make thy wonders new.Love, was exiled Dante’s theme;Love, was Buonaroti’s dream—Raphael took its sunny beam;’Twas the pencil with which heWrought for immortality—Sweet Italia, wrought for thee.And the chaste Madonna grew,From that touch so pure and true,Breathing life, and speaking too.These are they who speak for thee,Speak, though toiling silently—Speak in love, fair Italy.Thus in visions of the night,Oft my spirit takes its flight,Soaring to thy land of light;But, alas! the op’ning day,Finds me from thee, far away,And no more thy minstrel lay,Floats in sweetness over me;But the bird sings on the tree,’Neath the casement blithe and free.Yes, ’t has vanished into air,And again comes heavy care—Would, O, would, that I were there;So my spirit whispers me,Longing, mourning but to see,Land of Poets, only thee;For I’m lonely, lonely here,Falls for me no kindly tear—Love itself has pressed the bier;And in bitterness of soul,As the racer to his goal,Or the magnet to its pole,So my spirit turns to thee,Land of sweetest minstrelsy,Land of Poets—Italy.
Land of Poets, Italy,
As the rivers seek the sea,
Floats my dreaming soul to thee;
And I stand upon the soil,
Where with never ceasing toil,
Careless of the midnight oil,
Poets say the noblest lays—
Artists wrought for Heaven’s praise—
Marking time by deeds, not days.
And before my dreaming eyes,
Temples, palaces arise,
Less’ning, fading in the skies,
’Till upon their lifted spires,
Sit the stars, those spirit fires,
List’ning to thy minstrel lyres.
Hark! their music sweeps along—
Lightly dance the waves of song,
Through the air a happy throng;
Bearing on each foamy crest,
Thoughts that wrap the human breast;
Bidding care lie down to rest.
List’ning to each beauteous strain,
Ah! I am a child again,
Full of childish joy and pain;
All unwritten is life’s tome,
And my spirit seeks its home,
More beloved than gilded dome,
And around the once loved stream,
Revels free in Music’s dream—
Yet, alas! this does but seem.
Music! ’tis the voice of Love,
Sweetly floating from above,
Winged like Noah’s gentle dove;
Seeking, seeking wearily,
O’er life’s deeply flooded sea,
To some higher heart, to flee.
’Tis thy voice, thy language too,
Spoken by the Sainted Few,
Who still make thy wonders new.
Love, was exiled Dante’s theme;
Love, was Buonaroti’s dream—
Raphael took its sunny beam;
’Twas the pencil with which he
Wrought for immortality—
Sweet Italia, wrought for thee.
And the chaste Madonna grew,
From that touch so pure and true,
Breathing life, and speaking too.
These are they who speak for thee,
Speak, though toiling silently—
Speak in love, fair Italy.
Thus in visions of the night,
Oft my spirit takes its flight,
Soaring to thy land of light;
But, alas! the op’ning day,
Finds me from thee, far away,
And no more thy minstrel lay,
Floats in sweetness over me;
But the bird sings on the tree,
’Neath the casement blithe and free.
Yes, ’t has vanished into air,
And again comes heavy care—
Would, O, would, that I were there;
So my spirit whispers me,
Longing, mourning but to see,
Land of Poets, only thee;
For I’m lonely, lonely here,
Falls for me no kindly tear—
Love itself has pressed the bier;
And in bitterness of soul,
As the racer to his goal,
Or the magnet to its pole,
So my spirit turns to thee,
Land of sweetest minstrelsy,
Land of Poets—Italy.
THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.
A NEW CHAPTER OF MRS. ALLANBY’S EXPERIENCE.
———
BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN.
———
“My dear Mary—I know it will be a pleasure to you to become acquainted with my friends who will hand you this—Mrs. Dilberry and her two daughters. They are quite the aristocracy of our town, being very genteel, as you will find, and also independent as to property. They will be entire strangers in your city, and as they have made up their minds to take a trip there, (having the means, they intend to travel a great deal,) it is nothing but proper in me to give them this letter of introduction.”
Such was the exordium of a letter signed “Catherine Conolly,” and dated from “Tarry-town,” which I found on the centre-table one morning, after having been down the street to attend to a little business—giving a small order to a confectioner. The writer was an old school-mate of mine, whom, indeed, I had not seen since our school-days. She was Kitty Colville then—a fair, fat, freckled,squashy-looking girl, who was a sort of common favorite from the good-nature with which she bore being the butt of our tricks, and the scape-goat of our trespasses. She afterward married a young country doctor, and, as I had learned, was settled in some out-of-the-way village of which I had never known the name until I saw it at the head of her letter. I caught myself smiling as I laid down the missive, it was so characteristic of poor Kitty. After telling about her children, four in number, who were called after their grandfathers and grandmothers, John and Jacob, and Ruth and Sophia; and her husband, who had so much practice that he wore out a pair of saddle-bags every two years, she had filled the remainder of her page with apologies for her pen, ink, and bad writing. The neat but constrained chirography, into which she had been drilled at school by a teacher standing over her, had deteriorated into a scrawl, cramped here and straggling there, and the orthography testified that she no longer wrote with a dictionary at her elbow. “To chronicle small-beer,” it was very evident, had long been the extent of her literary efforts.
My heart always warms at the memory of my early days, and of those in any way pleasantly connected with them, and I felt glad to have an opportunity to prove to my old companion that I still remembered her with kindness. I took up the three cards which had been left with the letter. They had all been cut out of Bristol-board, and that not by square and rule. The first was inscribed with ink in a large, round hand, “Mrs. Dilberry, Tarry-town,” with the addition, in pencil, of “W—— Hotel.” The second was got up in similar style, the name being “Miss Esther Ann Dilberry”—both having the down-strokes dotted and scalloped for ornament. The third was still more ambitious—“Miss Jane Louisa Dilberry” being encircled with a painted wreath of roses, torches, doves, and quivers, with other etceteras, the execution of which, on watch papers and other fancy wares, was once indispensable to the perfection of young-lady-craft. They were any thing butcomme-il-faut, but recollecting that my future acquaintances were from a region where cards were by no means a necessary of life, I thought it unfair to make them the basis of any prejudications. To give my correspondent the due of prompt action upon her letter, I set off without delay for the W—— Hotel, though I could not well spare the time for a long walk and a visit, for I had invited a small party to tea, to meet an agreeable Englishman and his accomplished wife, to whom my husband owed the rights of hospitality, and my preparations were yet to be made. The ladies had not returned to the hotel when I reached it, and leaving my card with an invitation to tea penciled upon it, and the hour specified, I hastened home.
The hour for tea had arrived and my company had nearly all assembled, when I heard strange voices on the stairway, and presuming them to be those of the party from the W—— Hotel, I stepped out, to go through the ceremony of introduction with them, before presenting them to the rest of my guests. I was right in my conjecture, though their appearance was such as to take me aback considerably. Mrs. Dilberry was a short, coarse, oily-looking woman, with very light, round eyes, a low, slender nose, almost hidden between a pair of puffy, red cheeks, and a plump mouth, turned down at the corners. Though it was a warm summer evening, she was dressed in a heavy reddish brown silk, with a cape of the same. The remainder of her costume was a fine, though out-of-fashion French-work collar, a cap of coarsely-figured net, trimmed with thick cotton lace, intermixed with a quantity of common, deep-pink artificial flowers, of which the green leaves looked like plain glazed paper, and a very coarse pocket-handkerchief, with which she fanned herself incessantly. Her daughters, whose names she pronounced as Easter Ann and Jane Louyza, were quite as little prepossessing. The elder, who must have been thirty, was tall, spare and sour, with a sallow complexion, and a little turned up nose, quite out of proportion with her long upper lip, and the general dimensions of her face. The other, who looked ten years younger, was a youthful likeness of the mother, short, fat, and florid. From her manner it was apparent that she set up for a beauty. They both had on summer dresses—that of Miss Esther Ann having straight, perpendicular stripes, which made her look still taller, while the dumpiness of the sister seemedto be increased by one of a horizontal or run-round pattern; and they both wore clumsy, high-colored head trimmings, which had been somewhat in vogue the winter of the preceding year.
“Dear me!” exclaimed the old lady, wiping her face with her handkerchief, “I am so flustered and fagged out!”
“We had such a time hunting up a cap for maw,” rejoined Miss Jane Louisa.
“Not that she did not bring plenty along,” corrected Miss Esther Ann, “but we thought that, as it was likely she would go out a great deal, she ought to have one of the newest fashion for evening dress.”
But the tea-trays were going into the drawing-room, and I hurried my trio after them. Whilst I was providing them with seats and introducing them to their neighbors, I heard on different sides of me a strange, burring, ticking sound, for which I could not account, and which, I perceived, attracted the attention of others beside myself. During the course of the evening I discovered its cause. Each of the three had at her side a large gold repeater, which, having all been set by the same time, had simultaneously struck eight.
In a movement to make room for my new arrival, Mr. Aylmere, my husband’s English friend—(Mr. Allanby, by the by, had that morning been called unexpectedly away for several days, and I was doing the honors alone)—had taken possession of a seat next to that of Miss Esther Ann. I had a misgiving as to the impression he was likely to receive, but did not therefore evade the civility of introducing her. A few minutes afterward I caught the thread of a dialogue between them.
“We intend to stay several weeks,” said she, “and we expect to see a great deal of city society. We brought a letter of introduction to Mrs. Allanby from one of her most particular friends, a physician’s lady, and of course she will think it her duty to make her circle acquainted with us. I dare say this party is intended for that.”
“Have you no older acquaintances in the city?” asked Mr. Aylmere.
“None that we shall claim. There are several persons from here that we were introduced to at different times in our own neighborhood, but we always found out afterward that they were not in the first circle, and we would not think it our place to keep up the acquaintance even if we should happen to fall in with them.”
I acknowledge myself afflicted, in some degree, with what is called our “national thin-skinnedness” to the opinion of an intelligent and well-bred foreigner of any of my own countrymen or women; even such of them as I may despise myself; I, therefore, heartily wished my curious and quizzical-looking Englishman in the farthest corner of the room. I had not, however, at the moment, the ingenuity to send him there, and, instead, I made an effort to change the conversation. But my attention was called off directly, and I next heard him say—
“Then in your neighborhood you recognize various grades of society?”
“That we do. Our town has three or four classes. Our own set are very exclusive, having none but lawyers and doctors, and the most genteel of the storekeepers, and we are very particular what strangers we pay attention to. We never call on any, of late, unless we find out that they are number one at home.”
“And I suppose it is somewhat difficult to ascertain that,” rejoined Mr. Aylmere.
“Not at all, sir. We know the names of two or three of the most genteel families in each of the large cities, and if the strangers are city people, some one finds out whether they know any of those. If they don’t, we set them down for nobodies. If they are not from the cities, we find out what they do at home, and if they are professional, or live on their means, we know that they are exclusive; if not we keep clear of them. Tarry-town is considered a very proud place.”
“Has your town a large population to select from?”
“Considerable—eight hundred or so. Though it is not a county-town, we have four lawyers, two of them, however, don’t practice, owning farms around the town; my brother is one of the two others. And we have three physicians, Mrs. Allanby’s friend being the lady of one of them. The botanic doctor we don’t count.”
“Do your rules of admission and rejection apply farther than to native Americans? If a foreigner, like myself for instance, were to go among you, how is it likely he would be received?”
“Of course according to his standing in his own country,” replied Miss Esther Ann, with imperturbable self-importance; “we understand very well how people are divided off in foreign countries, for we read a great deal. There’s my sister, she positively swallows every novel she can lay her hands on, and it is surprising what a knowledge she has of the world and fashionable life. She says she would know a nobleman at a glance by his distingué air, (pronounceda la Anglaise;) maw doesn’t encourage her in it—like most elderly persons, maw has very old-fashioned notions; she tells her it teaches her to look too high.”
“And I am to infer that, according to the code of Tarry-town, you would hesitate to admit foreigners, unless they should be noblemen?” persisted Mr. Aylmere.
“Certainly, or grandees, or gentry, I believe the English call them. We have it on the best authority that no others are noticed in the large cities—that is, by the first people—and what is not good enough for them is not good enough for us. We think ourselves on a par with any city people, and, when we go to a city, nothing ought to satisfy us but the first. Birds of a feather ought always to flock together, in my opinion, and I’m sure, that after taking the lead in Tarry-town, if ever I went to Europe, I should make myself very choice of my associates. Europeans have the same right when they come here. Those that are aristocracy at home have a right to be aristocracy every where else, and no others, and thosethat are not, and push themselves forward, are no better than impostors.”
“Then I am afraid I should stand a chance to betabooedat Tarry-town,” said Mr. Aylmere, “for I am an English merchant.”
During the progress of this conversation, Mrs. Dilberry, with a loud, though wheezing voice, was panting through a long harangue to Mrs. Aylmere, and two other ladies, in whose midst she had anchored herself.
“I expected a great deal of pleasure in shopping when I came to the city,” said she, “but it’s precious little I’m likely to have, for shopping without making bargains is but a dry business. We tried it yesterday and this morning, my daughters and me, and plague a thing could we find that was any thing to signify cheaper than in the stores at Tarry-town. I told the girls that I now believed what the man said in the newspapers, that people in the city all live by cheating one another. One would think that as they live at head-quarters, some of them could now and then pick up things for little or nothing and sell them at half-price, but it seems they are all leagued together to get whatever they can. We went from one end of a street to the other, and every place they had pretty much the same goods, and asked the same prices, unless it was here and there where they put up every thing monstrously high, just to come down little by little on being jewed, and then they never got lower than their next door neighbors. I was talking about it to one of the boarders at the hotel, old Mrs. Scrooge, a very sharp, sensible woman—some of you ladies know her, I dare say. She let me into a secret about shopping, that is well worth knowing. She says it is bad policy for people to go shopping with their best bib and tucker on, for if they look as if they are well off in the world, it’s a sure way to be taken advantage of, and that when she starts off among the stores, she always puts on a calico gown and a black straw bonnet which she keeps for that and for funerals.”
“And does her plan work well?” asked one of the ladies, at length breaking in upon the monologue.
“Just wait, I am coming to it. She says that she had three nieces that came to the city to buy finery. They were very dressy women, and they wished to lay in a good supply. She told them her plan, but they hooted the thoughts of going into the street looking common, so they fixed themselves up, and went in their carriage, having made up their minds not to purchase at once, but to go every where first and get samples. Well, Mrs. Scrooge offered to assist them in gathering samples, but not a foot would she set in their carriage, but puts on her old things, and goes out after them, and sometimes into the very places where they were. When they all got back and compared samples, she showed the others that she could get many of the self-same things six or eight per cent. lower than they could. She says that she has crowed over them ever since. I’m sure I’m much obliged to her for giving me the hint, and I don’t think any one will catch me shopping again with a silk dress on, and a four-dollar collar, and a gold watch at my side. I shall wear my old winter bonnet that I traveled in, and my faded mousseline de laine dress, and then they’ll have to put their goods down to suit my appearance. The girls say if I do I may go alone, for they have no notion to look common, and while they are in the city they mean to put the best foot foremost. Easter Ann says we should always stand upon our dignity—she’s very dignified herself. As to Jane Louyza, she says it looks mean and matter-of-fact to be always counting the cost, and that if I’d let her, she would take every thing without asking the price, particularly when she is waited on by some of the spruce, handsome, fashionable young gentlemen that cut such a dash, showing off the goods to ladies. But they’ll learn better when they get older; indeed, Easter Ann is old enough now—she’s no chicken, though she don’t like me to tell her so, and I shouldn’t wonder if they’d learn to look after the main chance as well as their mother before them. If I hadn’t been uncommon keen in money matters their poor father wouldn’t have died worth his twenty thousand cash, beside farms and stock, leaving them to sit up like ladies, with their hands in their laps.”
Miss Jane Louisa was sitting close by, engaged in what she called a “desperate flirtation” with two astonished-looking young men, the only beaux in the room, whom she seemed determined to monopolize, one of them being my brother-in-law, George Allanby, a youth of eighteen. She discussed love and matrimony with much languishment of manner, and novelty of pronunciation, and criticised her favorite novels after the following fashion:
“Ain’t the ‘Bride of the Brier-field’ beautiful? Don’t tell me you have not read it!—dear me!—I was perfectly on thorns till I got it. Araminta is so sweet, I almost cried my eyes out when she died. Of course you’ve read the ‘Pirate of Point Peepin?’ Oh, how I do hate him! I declare I never see black whiskers on any of the gentlemen in the street that I a’n’t ready to scream, they put me so much in mind of Don Hildebrando.”
Intent upon conquest as she was, the loud accents of her mother sometimes disturbed the tenor of her softer themes, and she showed her apprehension that the old lady’s discourse might not be in unison with the general tone of the company, by occasionally interpolating, “Just listen to maw!—did you ever know any one so old-fashioned;” or, “maw will always talk so, but you city people will get used to her ways after a while;” or, “maw is so independent, she always says whatever comes into her head.”
I thought it time to interpose between the loquacity of Mrs. Dilberry and the politeness of her listeners, and placing myself beside her, I made inquiries in a low voice about our friend in common, Mrs. Conolly. But she was one of those people who are always best satisfied with a numerous auditory; and punching the shoulder of Mrs. Aylmere, while she pushed the knee of another lady, she re-commenced in a still higher key.
“I believe I didn’t tell you ladies how I happened to be in such good company. I brought a letter of introduction to Mrs. Allanby from one of her mostparticular friends, and that makes me feel quite at home with her, and almost as if she was a blood relation. You’ll really have to come to Tarry-town, Mrs. Allanby, to pay a visit to Mrs. Conolly. I’m sure you’ll never repent the expense of the journey, for she is settled very comfortably, and will introduce you to nobody but the very top of the town. Like my young people, she’s mighty particular about her associates. She is changed a good deal though, for looks—more, I dare say, than you have, Mrs. Allanby; but considering the wear and tear of married life, and the way she has to expose herself, for help is scarce in our section; not more so, perhaps, than might be expected, particularly when she is fixed up—which, to be sure, might be oftener, for she began to be careless in her dress almost as soon as she was married, and, though she has four children running about—troublesome, dirty little limbs, I can’t help saying—some of the wedding finery she brought out with her is quite good yet. She is a good deal more freckled, too, than she used to be, but that is no wonder, for I’ve seen her, many a time, out in the broiling sun in the garden cutting lettuce, without any thing on her head—she never was proud—except, indeed, a black bobinet cap; they are very much worn with us, as they save washing and are economical. And she has lost her two front teeth; no, I believe it is a front and an eye-tooth, and that, you know, always makes people look older. Her figure, though, looks genteeler than ever, for she is not so fat. The doctor says she is getting as poor as Job’s turkey. Did you never see the doctor, Mrs. Allanby? he is as thin as a weasel, himself, but a mighty money-making little man. I did a great deal to get him into business, and he now goes along swimmingly. He first bought the house they live in, and last year he put up a new kitchen, and this spring he bought a handsome sofa and marble-topped table for the parlors. I shouldn’t wonder if in a year or two he’d build an office, and have two parlors in his house, with folding-doors between them, as that is getting to be the fashion in Tarry-town. Some of us are pretty stylish.”
My friends, at length, began to withdraw, and I was at last left alone with the Dilberrys. The three repeaters struck eleven, and their mistresses exchanged whispers, and said something about getting back to their hotel.
“You rode, I presume?” said I.
“Not we, indeed,” returned Mrs. Dilberry; “I had enough of your hack-riding this morning. We did not know how to find the way here, so the landlord told us we had better take one of the hacks near the door. Well, we tried it, and, after we got back, though we hadn’t once got out, except to look at some balzarines and lawns at two or three stores, the impudent black fellow had the face to charge us a dollar. This evening we knew that we could find the place well enough, and we started as soon as we saw the gas lighted in some of the shops, for we had to stop by the way to buy me a cap—the girls having got a notion into their heads, I suppose from their novels, that things intended for evening dress ought always to be bought by candle-light. After trouble enough I found a cap—this I have on; and was asked a pretty price, two dollars, only I jewed the woman down to one and three-quarters. When we came to your street we took the omnibus, and were let out down here at the corner. We thought, that as you had invited young ladies, you would of course provide beaux to gallant them home.”
“I can’t say,” observed Miss Esther Ann, waving her neck with much dignity, “that it was exactly treating strangers with politeness, in Miss Duncan and Miss Edwards to walk off with the only two beaux, and leave us without any.”
“The young gentlemen escorted them here,” said I, “and according to custom were privileged to see them home. If I had known however, ladies, that you were unprovided with an escort, I should have requested my brother-in-law to return for you. But I will see what can be done. I have no carriage to offer you, my husband having taken our little turn-out to the country.”
I went out to direct my man-servant to attend them, but was reminded that I had given him permission to go to his family, in which there was sickness, after the refreshments had been served. There was nothing now to be done but to ask my guests to remain over night. I did so, and the invitation was accepted with a hale-fellow-well-met jocularity quite uncalled for.
Dinner, the next day, found me still playing the hostess to my Tarry-town party, whose cool at-homeness seemed ominous of a still more protracted visit. After we had left the table, George Allanby, unsuspicious of my being so occupied, called in. He was saluted with a bantering familiarity by the old lady, and with the most frigid reserve by her daughters. Miss Jane Louisa walked to the front windows, upon which she drummed perseveringly with her fingers, while her sister slowly paced the floor with measured steps, her head elevated, and her nostrils turned up as if they were snuffing the ceiling. Mrs. Dilberry exchanged glances with them, and then addressed herself to my brother-in-law:
“I suppose, Mr. Allanby,” said she, “you are very much taken by surprise to see us still spunging on your sister-in-law, but I must make free to tell you there’s nobody to be blamed for it but yourself. I can’t say I would give you city young men the choice over our country beaux for good manners, for you took yourselves off last night, and left us three ladies in the lurch, without a single soul to see us safe back to our tavern. I told the girls I’d speak my mind about it. I’m one of that kind that make no bones about speaking what they think, and then it’s all over with me.”
I hastened to interpose with an explanation to the disturbed-looking youth, who seemed quite unconscious of the nature of his offence, but the old lady interrupted me by continuing—
“Mrs. Allanby has done her best to make us comfortable, and, indeed, I think myself in such good quarters, that, for my own part, I don’t feel in any hurry to get away, but the girls have been in thedumps ever since. Jane Louyza, as you may see, is on a pretty high horse, and Easter Ann is sky-high, as she always is when she thinks she should stand on her dignity,” and she nodded and winked toward them.
“I exceedingly regret if I have failed in proper politeness,” said George. “I am ready to offer a thousand apologies, or anyamendéyou may suggest.”
“Well, now, that’s getting out of the scrape handsomely, after all,” returned Mrs. Dilberry. “I knew from the way you and Jane Louyza got along last night that you could easily make it up, and would soon be as thick as two pick-pockets. Here, Jane Louyza, Mr. Allanby is ready to shake hands and be friends, and he says he is willing to make any amends you please for being impolite;” and as Miss Jane Louisa approached, simpering and holding out her large, red hand, her mother added: “There, now, you have him in your power. You know you always said you would jump out of your skin to see an opera, and now’s your time. I dare say he would think he was getting off very well to take you there to-night.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” said poor George, coloring and stammering with the embarrassment common to his years, and turning to the daughters, he blundered on—“I shall be happy if Miss Jane Ann—that is, if both the young ladies will honor me with their company.”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” curtseyed the ecstatic Jane Louisa.
“The favor is to us,” rejoined the dignified Esther Ann.
“You are not to trick me that way, you young people,” exclaimed Mrs. Dilberry. “I should like to go to the theatre as well as any of you, and if you a’n’t civil enough to invite me, I’ll go whether or no. Let’s all go, Mrs. Allanby, and have a jolly time of it. You and I can beau each other.”
I excused myself with rather more energy than was necessary.
“Well, I mean to go, anyhow,” resumed the old lady, “though, of course, I’ll pay my own way. It would be imposing upon Mr. Allanby to make him go to the expense of paying for so many of us.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” said George, looking still redder and more frightened, “where shall I call for you?”
There was a pause, but as I had not the grace to break it by answering “here,” Miss Esther Ann had to reply—
“We stop at the W—— Hotel,” and the conscripted squire of dames made a precipitate retreat.
“We’ll have to go back to the hotel, maw, at once,” said Miss Jane Louisa, “for you know ladies must always go to the opera in full-dress. I’ll have to press out my book-muslin dress, and take the wreath off my bonnet to wear on my head, and Easter Ann must fix something to put on.”
“That will be quite unnecessary,” said I, anticipating all sorts of mortifications for my inexperienced brother-in-law, “you may have seats where you will be able to see and hear every thing, without being so conspicuous as to make any material change in your dress necessary. Strangers, who neither know any one nor are known themselves, generally prefer being unobserved, and saving themselves the trouble of much dressing. You will all do very well just as you are.”
“What do you say, girls,” said Mrs. Dilberry; “that might do well enough for you and me, Mrs. Allanby,” giving me a wink, “but I don’t know how these two would like to hide their light under a bushel. Girls like to give the beaux a chance to look at them wherever they can, and I must say it’s natural enough. As to the trouble of dressing, why we’ve got nothing else to do here, and people that have the wherewith may as well put it on their backs.”
The young ladies did not give their sentiments, but exchanged glances and whispered together, and Miss Esther Ann formally proposed going up for their bonnets. Reiterating their hopes of being able to catch an omnibus, to save them the fatigue of a long, warm walk, they took leave, not forgetting to volunteer abundant assurances that they would call every day and make themselves quite at home with me.
As soon as they were gone I wrote a note to George, instilling a little worldly wisdom by means of advising him to go late to the theatre, when the front seats would be filled, and to place his companions where they would attract as little notice as possible.
The next morning whilst I was at breakfast, the young man came in.
“Well, George, how did the opera come off?” asked I.
“You mean the by-play, in which I was concerned,” said he, passing his hand over his face. “Don’t talk to me about chivalry toward all woman-kind again! But I’ll let you have it from the beginning. In the first place, I took your advice, and went to the W—— Hotel rather late. I was shown into what, I presume, was the ladies’ saloon, for there were a couple of dozens of female faces, of all sorts, turned toward me, as if I were something anxiously expected, and very queer when I had come. I understood it all in a minute, though, for right in the middle of the room, parading between two tall glasses, in which they could see themselves back and front, were the Dilberrys, the objects of all the nodding and tittering I had observed before I came in for my share of attention. The old lady espied me first, and puffing out, loud enough to be heard all over the room, ‘here he comes girls—here comes our beau at last,’ she ran forward as if she were going to seize hold of me, the other two following with their arms, grace-like, twined about each other. ‘La, Mr. Allanby, you have served us a pretty trick—keeping us waiting so long!’ exclaimed Miss Esther Ann, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if we were not to get seats at all.’ ‘I’m ready to pout at you, I wanted so to see every body come in,’ said the other. ‘We were almost ready to give you up, and had all these ladies comfortingus,’ said Mrs. Dilberry; ‘here we’ve been, dressed from top to toe, for an hour or more, Jane Louyza walking and standing about, in broad daylight, with her arms and neck bare, for fear we shouldn’t be ready in time, for we thought that as you had made up your mind to lay out your money, you’d like us to get as much for it as possible.’ I escorted them to the carriage, assuring them they would be in time enough.”
“But what about their dress, George?” said I.
“You know I never can make any thing out of describing a lady’s dress. Mrs. Dilberry looked very choked-up, and melting and greasy, and had on that abominable frizzly cap that struck us all so last night; and Miss Esther Ann had on a white frock with old dark kid-gloves, and three brown cockades stuck on top of her head that made her look full six feet high; but Jane Louyza, as they call her, was the beauty! Her dress was one of those stiff, thin ones, that stand out like hogsheads, and are nearly as hard to bend. Such a crushing and pushing as there was to get it into the carriage, and down between the seats! Her neck was—I can’t tell you how bare, and her arms and hands ditto, only that on the latter she had little tight mitts, that looked like the skin tatooed. She had a wreath of artificial blue and purple roses on her head, and a quantity of ribbon flying in tags from each shoulder and from her back and front. But such arms and neck—so red and beefy!”
“And where did you get seats?”
“In one of the side boxes, three benches back—the very place I could have wished—but, as my luck would have it, a lady in the front row took sick, and her party left the theatre with her. Before I could have thought of such a thing, my fair charges pushed forward into the three vacant places, beckoning me to follow, and calling me by name loudly enough to be heard half over the house. Of course it drew all the eyes in the neighborhood upon them, and I observed that the Hallowells, and the Sewards, and the Wilkinses were in the next box; Joe Nicols was with them, and had the impudence to lean over and ask me, ‘Who the mischief have you here, George? country cousins, hey?’—and there they sat chattering and laughing at full voice, evidently greatly flattered by being so much stared at.”
“But of course, you had a respite when the opera commenced?”
“Just wait—as the old lady says. The curtain rose in a few minutes, and then each of them had to turn to me for explanations. ‘Dear me! is that one of your brag singers, the great Mrs. S——!’ said Miss Esther Ann, ‘how affected she is! Did you ever see any body roll her eyes so!’ ‘And what a mouth she has!’ said Jane Louisa, ‘you could almost jump down her throat! I don’t see any sense in such singing—Sarah Tibbets in our choir can go far ahead of that!’ ‘And how scandalous it is for a married woman to be looking up that way in a young man’s face,’ put in the old lady, ‘she surely must be painted up, such a color never was natural, and what loads of extravagant finery! I wonder what all her spangles cost?’
“At length there was a hiss beneath the box, and I directed their attention to it, informing them that it was meant to command silence, it being contrary to custom to talk during the performance. Mrs. Dilberry rolled up her eyes, and put her tongue into her cheek by way of being humorous, Miss Esther Ann screwed her shoulders and answered me huffishly that she supposed they should know how to behave, and Jane Louisa giggled, and kept her handkerchief to her mouth, every few moments looking back at me, as if it were an excellent joke.
“When the first act was over, a gentleman who sat between them and me, and who must have been exceedingly annoyed by their constantly leaning past him, proposed that I should exchange seats with him, which I could not refuse, though it made matters worse for me. ‘Why don’t you admire my bouquet, Mr. Allanby?’ said Jane Louisa, poking in my face a great clumsy bunch of larkspurs, ragged-robins, mallows, and those coarse, yellow lilies that shut up at night, garnished by a foliage of asparagus, ‘I was in despair about a bouquet for my evening-dress, when, luckily, I came across this when we walked through the market-house on our way from your sister’s. I do doat on bouquets.’ ‘Now do stop talking about that borquay,’ interrupted the old lady, ‘after such nonsensical extravagance as throwing away money for it. Why at home we could get a wheelbarrow full of such trash out of any body’s garden for nothing. But it seems to me you city people would be for making money out of the very dirt in the gutters.’ ‘La, maw, they only cost a six-pence, but you are so matter-of-fact, you don’t love flowers; we do, though, don’t we, Mr. Allanby?’ said Miss Jane Louisa.
“‘If you had told Mr. Allanby you wanted a bouquet,’ observed Esther Ann, ‘I dare say he would have brought you one, for we’ve heard that city gentlemen make it a point to give bouquets to ladies they wish to be polite to, and don’t mind how much they have to pay for them.’
“When the curtain rose again, the eye of Jane Louisa was caught by one of the understrappers, a tall fellow with a huge falsemoustache. ‘Who is that splendid looking young man!’ exclaimed she—not one of them having discernment enough to make out a single performer or character from the bill and the play; ‘isn’t he beautiful! I’m quite in love with him, I declare; why don’t they applaud him, Mr. Allanby? he’s so elegant!’ and greatly to my relief, she was so much taken up in looking at her new hero, and in watching for his appearance, that she withdrew her attention from me.
“At length, toward the finale, when S—— excelled himself in one of his master-pieces, two or three bouquets were thrown upon the stage at his feet. ‘What was that for?—why are they throwing their flowers away?’ asked Miss Esther Ann. I explained that it was an expression of admiration. ‘Dear me!’ said Jane Louisa, ‘I’d be very sorry to pay such a compliment to such an ugly fellow—he’s not fit to hold a candle to my favorite.’ The favorite immediately made his appearance in achorus, and took his place not far from the box in which we sat. Just as he opened his capacious mouth, Jane Louisa, with the confidence of a boy throwing stones, pitched her bouquet at him. The great clumsy thing came downflopagainst his face, breaking hismoustachefrom its moorings, and sweeping it to the floor. The galleries clapped, the pit hissed, one or two of the minor actors laughed, and it was some moments before the singing could go on. I felt, as you ladies say, like sinking through the floor; and I believe I did crouch as low as possible among the people around me. How I got back to the hotel with my tormentors I can’t tell, for it appears like a vexatious dream. I remember, however, that, while they were going up the steps, one of them said I should tell you they would call this morning to get you to go the rounds of the dressmakers with them.”
This was a duty for which I had no inclination, and I concluded to dispose of myself by spending the day with a friend, knowing, from the specimens I had had of the familiarity of my new acquaintances, that the mere excuse of “very much engaged,” delivered by a domestic, would be insufficient to protect me from their society. Accordingly I went out as soon as possible after breakfast, and did not return until evening. As I had anticipated, the “country ladies,” as the servants called them, had inquired for me morning and afternoon, and had left a message purporting that they would come again next day.
The following morning I had some business which called me from home several hours. When I returned to dinner, I was surprised to find the entry lumbered full of furniture, evidently from an auction—a dozen of chairs, of the kind “made to sell,” very loose-jointed, and with flabby seats of thin haircloth; a sofa to match; a centre-table, with its top, as large as a mill-wheel, turned up against the wall, and a piano, which must have had some pretensions fifteen or twenty years back, being much ornamented with tarnished brass or gilding, and supporting five or six disabled pedals.
“What is the meaning of this?” I exclaimed, to the servant who let me in; “where did all these articles come from?”
“Didn’t you send them, ma’am?”
“I!—what in the world should I want with such things?”
“So we thought, ma’am; but they came in two furniture carriages, and the man said the lady told him to bring them here—they had our number on a card.”
“It is a stupid mistake—I know nothing about it; and upon my word, they have broken the walls in several places, bringing their lumber in.”
“And that’s not all, ma’am—they threw over the hat-rack, turning up that monstrous table, and knocked out two of the pins, beside breaking the little looking-glass.”
And so they had; but there was nothing else to be done than to wait patiently until the real proprietor appeared.
I had just finished my dinner when I heard a bustle in the hall, and hastened out, presuming that I was to be rid of my unwelcome storage, and desirous to superintend its removal. Who should I find but Mrs. Dilberry and her daughters. Miss Jane Louisa had already the lid of the piano thrown up, while her sister was trying the chairs, and the old lady sitting, or rather bouncing herself up and down on the sofa.
“Oh, Mrs. Allanby, we’ve had the best luck this morning!” they all cried at once; “do tell us what you think of our bargains!”
“Stop, girls, and let me talk;” said Mrs. Dilberry, peremptorily. “Well, to begin at the beginning, Mrs. Allanby, we had laid out to buy two or three pieces of furniture, to set off our parlors—a pyanna, for one—ours, that the girls learnt on, that is Jane Louyza, being rather old-timey—(it was left to me by my Aunt Easter, in her will;) so Mrs. Scrooge, at the tavern—an uncommon sharp, sensible woman—told us we would be fools to pay shop prices for things when we could get them at auction, almost as good, for little or nothing. Well, this morning she hunted up a sale for us, and took us to it, and we’ve had all these things knocked off to us for—now could you guess what, Mrs. Allanby?—upon my word, for what we had made up our minds to pay for a pyanna! and the best of it is, the chairs and sofa are new, spick and span. The auctioneer said that not a soul had ever sat on them before. They didn’t belong to the furniture of the house at all, but to himself, and he had just brought them there to sell, for his own convenience. But the pyanna—just think of it!—I may as well tell you what it cost, Mrs. Allanby, though it would never do to let it be known in Tarry-town;” and she added in a whisper, “only sixty-one dollars!”
“Do try it, Mrs. Allanby,” said Jane Louisa; “some of the strings are broken, to be sure, and the pedals don’t seem to work, but when it is fixed up, it will be delightful.”
I agreed that it must have been a fine affair in its day.
“And the centre-table,” rejoined Esther Ann, “think of such a centre-table selling for fifteen dollars—pure mahogany! when it is varnished, and has a new castor, one being broken, it will be beautiful—or even if it were just rubbed up with oil and turpentine; indeed, for my part, I prefer second-hand furniture to new—it looks more respectable, as if we had it some time. Our old furniture at home I’m very proud of—no one that sees it can call us upstarts.”
“Yes,” added Mrs. Dilberry, “there’s the pyanna, and the book-case, and the pair of card-tables—”
“Don’t say upstarts, sister;” said Jane Louisa, hurrying to drown her mother’s voice; “I’m sure you know it is the fashion to call themparvenues!”
“Upon my word,” resumed the old lady, still see-sawing up and down on the sofa, to enjoy its springs, “it will make talk enough in Tarry-town, when we get home with such lots of stylish things; they’ll call us prouder than ever; but when peoplecan be grand for quarter price, they’d be gumpies to let the chance slip through their fingers.”
Still the point that most concerned me, why they had been deposited in my charge, had not yet been broached, and I ventured to hint at it.
“Sure enough, we forgot to mention it;” said Mrs. Dilberry; “we could not take the things to the hotel, you know, so we told the men they might as well bring them here. I suppose they might be removed into the parlors at once.”
I remarked that my parlors were already as full of furniture as was desirable, and that their best plan would have been to have had them removed—at once to some cabinet-makers shop to be repaired, and boxed for transportation.
“That was what Mrs. Scrooge thought,” returned Mrs. Dilberry, “but we went to two or three shops and found they charged such different prices, that I made up my mind to wait, and go round to a dozen at least, till I could find out where the best bargain was to be made. So you may as well put them among your own things and have the credit of them till I can look about a little.”
I had no resource now but to send the chairs to the third story, the table to the dining-room, and to leave the sofa and piano where they stood. Whilst her possessions were being moved by the servants, Mrs. Dilberry ran about the house giving orders as if quite at home.
“Now I must tell you about our tower among the mantua-makers,” said she, at length settling herself in the drawing-room, and mopping her face with her handkerchief, after her exercise; “but, girls, why don’t you follow my example and take your bonnets off? Don’t wait to be coaxed—Mrs. Allanby don’t expect you to make strangers of yourselves with her; as we’ve come to spend the afternoon, we may as well be comfortable first as last. But where was I about the mantua-makers? Oh, I believe I hadn’t began. Well, a lady at the tavern gave us the names of three of them, written on a card, with directions where they were to be found. So we got into an omnibus, in front of the hotel, and were let out at the corner next to the place that was nearest. We soon found the house—as I’m alive, a large three-story brick, with marble steps, and nothing like a sign about it. But the name was on the door-plate, and we rang the bell. A black boy took us into the parlors, and what should we see but Brussels carpets, and looking-glasses as tall as yours, and spring-seated chairs, and a pyanna, and every thing as fine as you please. ‘Mercy on us, maw,’ says Jane Louyza, ‘there’s nothing looks like a mantua-maker’s here!’ I thought so myself, and told the girls we had better slip out before any body came; but Easter Ann would not hear to it—she said it would look undignified, and, says she, ‘If we are mistaken, maw, let me make the apology.’
“In a few minutes a lady steps in, dressed in a handsome black silk wrapper, with a watch at her side, looking as stiff as a poker. ‘We were told that we would find Mrs. N——, the mantua-maker, here, ma’am,’ says I.
“‘I am Mrs. N——,’ says she, stiffer, if any thing, than before.
“‘We have three dresses to make, ma’am,’ says Easter Ann; ‘perhaps it wouldn’t be convenient for you to undertake them?’
“‘I am always prepared to do any amount of work,’ says she.
“‘What may be your charges, ma’am?’ says I.
“‘That depends upon the material, and the style in which it is to be made,’ says she.
“‘One is a silk, and the other two are balzarines,’ says I.
“‘And we want them made fashionably,’ put in Jane Louyza.
“‘I make every thing fashionably,’ says she, as high as if she was the president’s lady.
“We had our bundles with us, and we opened them, and though our dresses are beautiful, considering how cheap we got them, she looked at them without saying a word, and didn’t even deign to take them in her hands. ‘I want mine made quite plain,’ says I; ‘but my daughters will expect to have theirs flounced off to the top of the mode—mine’s the silk one. But we’ll have to settle first what you’ll take to do the job—it’s a large one, remember, ma’am—three dresses—and it will be nothing but fair that you should make allowance for that.’
“‘I never make abatement,’ says she; ‘my charge is three dollars for a plain silk dress, and four for such as the others, if full trimmed.’
“Eleven dollars for making three dresses—just think of it! the girls looked dumb-foundered, and so was I; but being in the scrape, we had to get out of it the best way we could. ‘Very well, ma’am,’ says I, making up our bundles again, and looking unconcerned, ‘we’ll call again when we get the trimmings.’
“‘As you please,’ says she, more like Queen Victoria than a mantua-maker; and we walked out in double-quick time, my lady never condescending to step to the door. ‘She may call us fools if she ever catches us again,’ says I to the girls.
“Well, we went on to the next. The house looked pretty fine, too, this time; but under the name on the door was another plate with ‘Fashionable Dress-making’ on it, and we thought it didn’t look quite so stuck up. A girl let us in, and we didn’t find the parlors quite so grand, though they were stylish enough, dear knows. This was Mrs. B——’s. She was down stairs herself, waiting for customers, we supposed, which looked as if she was not above her business, and she had a table beside her covered all over with fashion-plates and magazines, like yours, on the centre-table. She was a little, sharp-eyed, fidgetty-looking woman, with a very pointy nose. She sent away a girl she was fixing a sleeve for, and came forward to meet us, and gave us seats, and seemed very sociable.
“‘We have some dresses to be made, ma’am,’ says I; ‘here’s three in our hands, and it’s likely we may have some more if we can make a good bargain about these.’ I thought it best to hold out a large inducement to her.
“‘And I suppose you will want the three without delay?’ said she, talking very glib; ‘dear me, how unfortunate just at this time! I have so much work on hand already. I keep twenty-two hands working night as well as day, and I don’t see how I possibly can get through all that I have taken in. But, really, I should like to oblige you three ladies—I always do all in my power to accommodate strangers—you are from the country, I presume?’
“‘From Tarry-town,’ says Easter Ann.
“‘Ah, indeed! I am very glad to have customers from Tarry-town; I have made dresses to be sent there several times.’ We could not help looking at each other, for we had known every dress in Tarry-town for years, and not one of them had ever touched her hands. ‘I make dresses for ladies in all parts of the country,’ she kept on; ‘my establishment is very popular with strangers, because it is known that I make it a point to accommodate them even at the risk of making sacrifices among my city customers. Of course, you ought to have your dresses in two or three days, and I’ll try what can be done. The silk is for you, ma’am, I perceive,’ and she tore open the bundles; ‘very appropriate, indeed, for an elderly lady, and the balzarines will make up quite dressy for your daughters. Look at the plates, ladies—this will suit you, ma’am, quite plain, but very genteel; the sleeve is particularly proper for a stout lady; and you, ma’am,’ to Easter Ann, ‘would look best in this, with flounces pretty high up, as you are tall and not fleshy. You, miss,’ to Jane Louyza, ‘ought to have front trimming, as you are rather low;’ and she actually slipped a tape measure round my waist. I was on thorns, for she hadn’t given us a word of satisfaction about her prices, and I told her we hadn’t made up our minds yet how we would have them made, ‘and, beside,’ says I, ‘we must first know what they are to cost.’
“‘Certainly, ma’am, that’s all very reasonable,’ says she; ‘and I know you wont find fault with my charges—I can perceive at a glance that you are a lady of property; are you certain that you have enough of the material?—ladies of your size require a very full skirt;’ and before I could have said ‘no,’ she had actually gathered up my silk and clipped a nick in it for a breadth of the skirt.
“‘I don’t think, ma’am, we have time to wait for the dresses to be cut out,’ says I, ‘wehaven’t, neither, got the linings nor the sewing-silk, nor the other trimmings.’
“‘It will take me but a few minutes,’ says she, making another nick in the silk, ‘for I cut by a patent measure; and I always find the trimmings myself—I can then have them to suit me, and, you know, it all amounts to the same thing in the end;’ and she snatched up a piece of Holland from the table, and began measuring off a pair of backs. ‘Stop, if you please, ma’am,’ says I, ‘we’ve made no bargain yet, andit’s nothing but what I have a right to expect, to know what you are to charge me.’
“‘It will be difficult to tell,’ says she, ‘before the dresses are finished—it is not our custom to settle the prices until we have seen how the work is done.’
“‘But, ma’am,’ says I, ‘I insist upon a rough guess.’
“‘Then let me see,’ says she, ‘supposing we say something like five or six dollars each, trimmings included, for the young ladies’ dresses, and four for yours.’
“‘Why, bless my soul!’ says I, ‘I could get cord, and hooks and eyes, and sewing-silk, and linings enough for all three, for a dollar; and as to paying five or six dollars for making a dress, I’ll never do it in the world; it’s outrageous—it’s an imposition,’ and I snatched my silk out of her hands in short order.
“‘It’s too late, now,’ says she, pert enough, ‘to talk about that, as soon as the scissors are put in the work, it is considered as taken in.’
“‘It’s we that are taken in, or we came pretty near it,’ says I; and I bundled the silk under my arm, and the girls took up their balzarines; but such a tongue-lashing as we got, I never heard the like of it in my life before; and you may be sure I didn’t take it all quietly—I’m not very mealy-mouthed; and if it hadn’t been for Easter Ann telling me loud enough for her to hear, ‘Come along, maw, it’s not dignified to be disputing with a mantua-maker,’ she’d likely have got the worst of it.
“The girls were so put out that they didn’t want to try any more; but I’m not one to be brow-beat; I had got my spirit up, and I made them go on to the next. When we came to the house, there stood two splendid carriages, with black fellows about them that had gold bands on their hats, and velvet on their coats, and what not. ‘Don’t let’s go in,’ says Jane Louyza; ‘I dare say the house is full of customers already;’ and just then another coach and pair drives up, and two or three girls, dressed to death, jumps out, and orders their niggers to bring in their parcels—a whole carriage load, pretty near—so, thinks I, there’s not much encouragement for us to go in there, sure enough. We came away, and there hasn’t been a stitch put in our dresses yet.”
I gave my visiters a very early tea, and having no excuse for billeting themselves on me for another night, they made their departure before dark. They did not, however, forget to invite themselves for the following day.
The next morning, greatly to my relief, proved to be very rainy, and feeling secure from the premeditated inroad, I seated myself cosily at my sewing. But, alas! a vehicle stopping at the door drew me to the front windows. I had some expectation of my husband’s return, and instead of his carriage was a hackney-coach, which had already discharged its living cargo, and from which two large hair-trunks were unloading; at the same time the bell-wire cracked to the point of doom, and the Dilberrys rushed in.
“Here we come, bag and baggage, Mrs. Allanby, to make our home with you,” cried the old lady, “we have had a grand blow up at the hotel, and I’m determined, as long as I live, to keep exposing your city landlords for taking advantage of unprotected females.”
“I hope nothing very unpleasant has happened?” said I, my heart sinking at the prospect before me.
“I wonder ifthere hasn’t! What do you think, Mrs. Allanby, of our being charged twelve dollars a piece for sixdays’ board?”
“That, I believe, is the regular charge,” said I.
“Well, they’re not coming their regular charges over me again, I can tell them. Last night we were talking our bargains over in bed, and we made up our minds that as we could get things so low at auction, we might as well keep on till we had furniture enough for the spare bed-room, as well as for the parlors—people in Tarry-town expect something a little extra from us. We calculated how far our money would go, and it struck us that we had never found out what we were living up to at the hotel. So the next morning I told the waiter to bring us our bill, and what should it be but thirty-six dollars—two dollars a piece a day, and no allowance for the four meals we had eaten with you, and the night we had slept here. I sent for the landlord, and spoke my mind about the bill pretty plainly, letting him know that charging us for what we had not got was down-right imposition; and I told him he seemed to suppose we had no friends to see us righted, but that he was mistaken, for we had brought a letter of introduction to Mrs. Allanby, and her husband would soon be at home to speak up for us. He cut me short by telling me that he made no deductions, and that as long as we hadn’t given up our rooms we must expect to pay as their occupants; and he walked off as cool as a cucumber. So I sent out for a hack, knowing you would be glad to have us with you for company, as Mr. Allanby is not at home, particularly as you have house-room plenty, and servants enough to wait on your friends. Six dollars a-day, indeed! why we didn’t cost him one!”
“We are all very small eaters, as you may have observed, Mrs. Allanby,” said Jane Louisa.
“And though they gave us two chambers with a door between them, we all slept in one of them,” rejoined Esther Ann.
The visitation now began to have a serious aspect, but what was to be done? I could not, with truth, make any excuse to get rid of my obtrusive guests, except that of my want of inclination to entertain them, and to hint at that would have required more philosophy than I could command. My only hope now was in the speedy return of Mr. Allanby, on whose resolution or ingenuity I knew I might rely.
This was Saturday, and the weather remaining inclement, I had to endure for the rest of the day, and the whole of the next, the uninterrupted flow of their loquacity, which was a continuous exposition of ignorance, vulgarity, selfishness and meanness. On Monday morning the old lady, after some whispering and winking with her daughters, assailed me with,
“We told you, Mrs. Allanby, what a pucker we were in about getting our dresses made. Before we left the tavern, we went to Mrs. Scrooge’s room—the old lady, you remember, that took us to the auction; and she let us know how we might snap our fingers at the mantua-makers. She said there were women that go out sewing by the day, and that by hiring one of them, and helping along with the easy parts ourselves, we might have our dresses made for little or nothing. At the hotel we couldn’t have done it, for paying board for a seamstress would have been but a poor speculation; but now that we are in a private family visiting, there would be some sense in it. I dare say she could sit in one of our sleeping-rooms, and the little one woman would eat couldn’t be of much consequence to you.”
“I do not know where such a person could be found,” said I.
“Oh, that is all settled already. Mrs. Scrooge is to call for us to go to a second-hand furniture store this morning, and she promised that she would take us to a seamstress that goes out for thirty-one cents a-day.”
Again I succumbed to my inability to say “no.” Mrs. Scrooge did call—a vinegar-faced old lady, with a voice sharp enough to have given one an ear-ache; and I learned that the seamstress was engaged, though she could not come until the latter end of the week. The next day Mrs. Scrooge came again, and my trio departed to a second auction. The result of this expedition was another load of furniture, driven up to the door in the middle of the day. The first article discharged was a sideboard, capacious enough, almost, to serve as a pantry, with broken locks and an impaired foot, which fell off in the difficult descent of the main body from the wagon; then came a dressing-bureau, of scarcely smaller dimensions, with defective knobs and a low, distorted glass; and, lastly, a wash-stand, with a cracked marble slab. Mrs. Dilberry stood on the front steps, superintending their passage into the house, and giving orders at the top of her voice, when I ran out to protest against their being carried up stairs, which she was directing—the broken wall of the entry serving as a warning to me—and to propose their being stored in the wash-house. Whilst I was endeavoring to make myself heard, my husband, with a wondering countenance, presented himself before me. In my joy I dragged him into the first room, and shut the door.
“My dear Mary,” said he, “I was not right certain whether it was proper for me to come into my own house—what is the meaning of this commotion?”
I gave him a hurried narration of my trials, at which he laughed immoderately, as I thought, and at once he opened to me a prospect of relief. “I have made arrangements with one of my friends,” said he, “to send you on an excursion of several weeks among the mountains, to matronize his daughters. The young ladies are now, I suppose, on their way to meet you with carriage and servants, and, as soon as possible, you must be off. I shall lose no time to make the announcement to your visiters. As they have attached themselves to you merely for their own convenience, there will be nothing unfair in getting rid of them for ours.”
In half an hour my guests were on flatteringly familiar terms with Mr. Allanby, to whom theyconfessed that they had dreaded his return, as they were afraid they could not feel so “free and easy” if there was a gentleman in the house. “Now that we have seen you,” observed the old lady, “we would rather have you here than not; you appear to suit us exactly, and we will be all the better off for having some one to beau us about.”
I own I could not myself have had courage to lower them from such a height of contentment, but my husband was less qualmish, and Mrs. Dilberry soon afforded him a desirable opportunity to approach the unexpected topic, by saying, “I suppose if you had known your wife had found such good company to cheer her up, you’d have been in no hurry to come back.”
“At least,” returned Mr. Allanby, “I should not have made a positive promise to send her from home as soon as her trunk could be packed.” He explained the arrangements he had made, and with all proper courtesy regretted that they should be peremptory.
“And what do you say, Mrs. Allanby, to your husband taking so much upon himself without leave or license from you?” asked the old lady, winking at me.
“That I always consider myself in duty bound to fulfill any engagement he may make for me, whether agreeable or not,” replied I, taking courage.
“Indeed!” exclaimed both Mrs. Dilberry and Esther Ann, in a tone of surprise and pique.
“If I did not know how fastidious you ladies are upon such points,” resumed Mr. Allanby, “I should beg you to share my bachelor establishment with me. As it is I must be content to render myself as useful to you as possible. If you commission me, I shall make exertions to find a boarding-house where you can be accommodated as comfortably as with us.”
“You needn’t concern yourself,” said Mrs. Dilberry, tartly; “if I had wanted to go to a boarding-house, I dare say I could have found one where we could have lived a great deal cheaper than at any you would be likely to pitch upon. I got enough of living on expense at the tavern, and I’ve not made up my mind to pay boarding for the little pleasure we’re likely to have. We’ve been to the theatre only once, and never were taken any where else, and there seems to be but precious little pains spent upon having attentions showed us. I’m one of them that always speak their minds; and I must say I can’t see where the politeness is in people, when they have company, running off and leaving them in the lurch, particularly when they haven’t got their dresses made or any thing. I shall be careful who I take a letter of introduction to again.”
The third day after this I was prepared to commence my trip, and my guests having taken passage for their homeward journey, were to leave the house at the same time, it having been decided that their furniture was to be boxed and sent after them. They had comported themselves, in the meantime, as if under a strong sense of injury, Miss Esther Ann being frigid and lofty, her sister sullen, and the old lady snappish and uncivil. The carriage was waiting for my conveyance, when the stage-coach, well-loaded with passengers, drove up to the door for them. I had wished them a safe and pleasant journey, offering them my hand, which they pretended not to observe, and was standing on the door-step to see them off, when Mrs. Dilberry paused, with one foot on the floor of the coach, as my husband was assisting her to climb in, and winking at her daughters, called back to me, “Good by to you, ma’am, and I hope you may have a merrier time of your trip than we have had of ours. I’ll not forget to give your love to the doctor’s wife, and let her know how you honored her letter of introduction.”
A chuckling laugh, which reached me in spite of the grinding of the wheels as they rolled away, was the last I heard of my wind-fall from Tarry-town.