“Mr. Walter:Sir,—Mrs. Hall, ‘Floy,’ informs me that you have engaged her to write exclusively for the Household Messenger, and that you will not consent to her writing for any other publication. Perhaps you are not aware thatIwas the first to introduce ‘Floy’ to the public, and that I have made her reputation what it is. This being the case, you will not think it strange that I feel as if I had some claim on her, so long as I pay her as much as she can get elsewhere. I need not say to you that The Standard is in a very flourishing condition; its circulation having nearly doubled during the past year, and that my resources are such as to enable me to outbid all competitors for ‘Floy’s’ services, if I choose to take such a course; but I trust you will at once perceive that the Standard should be made an exception to your contract, and permit ‘Floy’ still to write for it.“Respectfully yours,F. Lescom.”
“Mr. Walter:
Sir,—Mrs. Hall, ‘Floy,’ informs me that you have engaged her to write exclusively for the Household Messenger, and that you will not consent to her writing for any other publication. Perhaps you are not aware thatIwas the first to introduce ‘Floy’ to the public, and that I have made her reputation what it is. This being the case, you will not think it strange that I feel as if I had some claim on her, so long as I pay her as much as she can get elsewhere. I need not say to you that The Standard is in a very flourishing condition; its circulation having nearly doubled during the past year, and that my resources are such as to enable me to outbid all competitors for ‘Floy’s’ services, if I choose to take such a course; but I trust you will at once perceive that the Standard should be made an exception to your contract, and permit ‘Floy’ still to write for it.
“Respectfully yours,F. Lescom.”
“Well, upon my word,” exclaimed Mr. Walter, when he had finished Mr. Lescom’s letter; “if this is not the coolest piece of egotism and impudence that I ever saw; but it is no use wasting vitality about it. I will just answer the letter, and let things take their course; I havethe weather-gage of him now, and I’ll keep it; he shall have my reply to digest the first thing in the morning; I’ll write to ‘Floy’ first, though.”
On the designated Thursday, Ruth, according to her promise, called at the Standard office; something had occurred to detain Mr. Lescom, so she sat down and opened Mr. Walter’s letter, which lay on the table waiting for her, and read as follows:
“Dear Ruth:“I have just finished reading yours and Lescom’s letters. Yours has touched me deeply. It was just like you, but you know little of the selfishness and humbuggery of some newspaper publishers; you seem really to think that you ought to write for Mr. Lescom, if he so much desires it. This is very good of you, and very amiable, but (forgive my want of gallantry) very foolish. You can now understand, if you did not before, why I desired you to sign the contract by return mail. I was afraid if you went to Mr. Lescom, or Mr. Tibbetts of the Pilgrim,before signing it, that they would impose upon your good womanly heart, and thereby gain an unfair advantage over you. I wished to surprise you into signing the contract, that I might have a fair and righteous advantage over them. And now, ‘Floy,’ please to leave the whole matter to me. I shall not consent to your writing for any paper, unless the proprietors will give you the full value of your articles—whatthey are really worth to them. If things turn out as I confidently expect they will, from your present popularity, you will soon be in a state of comparative independence. On the next page you will find a copy of my answer to Mr. Lescom’s letter. Please keep me informed of the happenings at your end of the route.“Yours most truly,John Walter.”
“Dear Ruth:
“I have just finished reading yours and Lescom’s letters. Yours has touched me deeply. It was just like you, but you know little of the selfishness and humbuggery of some newspaper publishers; you seem really to think that you ought to write for Mr. Lescom, if he so much desires it. This is very good of you, and very amiable, but (forgive my want of gallantry) very foolish. You can now understand, if you did not before, why I desired you to sign the contract by return mail. I was afraid if you went to Mr. Lescom, or Mr. Tibbetts of the Pilgrim,before signing it, that they would impose upon your good womanly heart, and thereby gain an unfair advantage over you. I wished to surprise you into signing the contract, that I might have a fair and righteous advantage over them. And now, ‘Floy,’ please to leave the whole matter to me. I shall not consent to your writing for any paper, unless the proprietors will give you the full value of your articles—whatthey are really worth to them. If things turn out as I confidently expect they will, from your present popularity, you will soon be in a state of comparative independence. On the next page you will find a copy of my answer to Mr. Lescom’s letter. Please keep me informed of the happenings at your end of the route.
“Yours most truly,John Walter.”
Ruth then read Mr. Walter’s letter to Mr. Lescom, as follows:
“F. Lescom, Esq.“Sir,—Your letter in regard to ‘Floy,’&c., is at hand. You say, that perhaps I am not aware thatyouwere the first to introduce ‘Floy’ to the public, and thatyouhave made her reputation. It is fortunate foryouthat she made The Standard the channel of her first communications to the public. I know this very well, but I am not aware, nor do I believe, thatyouhave made her reputation; neither do I think that you believe this yourself. The truth is simply this; ‘Floy’ is a genius; her writings, wherever published, would have attracted attention, and stamped the writer as a person of extraordinary talent; hence her fame and success, the fruits of whichyouhave principally reaped. As to ‘Floy’s’ being under any obligations to you, I repudiate the idea entirely; the ‘obligation’ is all on the otherside.Shehas made ‘The Standard,’ instead of you makingherreputation. Her genius has borne its name to England, Scotland, Ireland,—wherever the English language is spoken,—and raised it from an obscure provincial paper to a widely-known journal. You say that you are wealthy, and can pay as much as anybody for ‘Floy’s’ services; I wonder this has never occurred to you before, especially as she has informed you frequently how necessitous were her circumstances. You also inform me that the circulation of The Standard has nearly doubled the past year. This I can readily believe, since it is something more than a year since ‘Floy’ commenced writing for it. In reply to your declaration, ‘that in case you are driven to compete for ‘Floy’s’ services, you can outbid all competitors,’ I have only to say that my contract with her is for one year; on its expiration, ‘Floy’ will be at liberty to decide for herself; you will then have an opportunity to compete for her pen, and enjoy the privilege of exhibiting your enterprise and liberality.“Your ob’t servant,John Walter.”
“F. Lescom, Esq.
“Sir,—Your letter in regard to ‘Floy,’&c., is at hand. You say, that perhaps I am not aware thatyouwere the first to introduce ‘Floy’ to the public, and thatyouhave made her reputation. It is fortunate foryouthat she made The Standard the channel of her first communications to the public. I know this very well, but I am not aware, nor do I believe, thatyouhave made her reputation; neither do I think that you believe this yourself. The truth is simply this; ‘Floy’ is a genius; her writings, wherever published, would have attracted attention, and stamped the writer as a person of extraordinary talent; hence her fame and success, the fruits of whichyouhave principally reaped. As to ‘Floy’s’ being under any obligations to you, I repudiate the idea entirely; the ‘obligation’ is all on the otherside.Shehas made ‘The Standard,’ instead of you makingherreputation. Her genius has borne its name to England, Scotland, Ireland,—wherever the English language is spoken,—and raised it from an obscure provincial paper to a widely-known journal. You say that you are wealthy, and can pay as much as anybody for ‘Floy’s’ services; I wonder this has never occurred to you before, especially as she has informed you frequently how necessitous were her circumstances. You also inform me that the circulation of The Standard has nearly doubled the past year. This I can readily believe, since it is something more than a year since ‘Floy’ commenced writing for it. In reply to your declaration, ‘that in case you are driven to compete for ‘Floy’s’ services, you can outbid all competitors,’ I have only to say that my contract with her is for one year; on its expiration, ‘Floy’ will be at liberty to decide for herself; you will then have an opportunity to compete for her pen, and enjoy the privilege of exhibiting your enterprise and liberality.
“Your ob’t servant,John Walter.”
Ruth waited some time after reading these letters, for Mr. Lescom to come in; but, finding he was still unexpectedly detained, she took a handful of letters, which the clerk had just received by mail for her, and bent her steps homeward.
Thefirst letter Ruth opened on her return, was a request from a Professor of some College for her autograph for himself and some friends; the second, an offer of marriage from a Southerner, who confessed to one hundred negroes, “but hoped that the strength and ardor of the attachment with which the perusal of her articles had inspired him, would be deemed sufficient atonement for this in her Northern eyes. The frozen North,” he said, “had no claim on such a nature as hers; the sunny South, the land of magnolias and orange blossoms, the land of love,shouldbe her chosen home. Would she not smile on him? She should have a box at the opera, a carriage, and servants in livery, and the whole heart and soul of Victor Le Pont.”
The next was more interesting. It was an offer to “Floy” from a publishing house, to collect her newspaper articles into a volume. They offered to give her somuch on a copy, or $800 for the copyright. An answer was requested immediately. In the same mail came another letter of the same kind from a distant State, also offering to publish a volume of her articles.
“Well, well,” soliloquized Ruth, “business is accumulating. I don’t see but I shall have to make a book in spite of myself; and yet those articles were written under such disadvantages, would it bewisein me to publish so soon? But Katy? and $800 copyright money?” Ruth glanced round her miserable, dark room, and at the little stereotyped bowl of bread and milk that stood waiting on the table for her supper and Nettie’s; $800copyright money! itwasa temptation; but supposing her book should prove a hit? and bring double, treble, fourfold that sum, to go into her publisher’s pockets instead of hers? how provoking! Ruth straightened up, and putting on a very resolute air, said, “No, gentlemen, I willnotsell you my copyright; these autograph letters, and all the other letters of friendship, love, and business, I am constantly receiving from strangers, are so many proofs that I have won the public ear. No, I will not sell my copyright; I will rather deny myself a while longer, and accept the per-centage;” and so she sat down and wrote her publishers; but then caution whispered, what if her book shouldnotsell? “Oh, pshaw,” said Ruth, “itshall!” and she brought her little fist down on the table till the old stone inkstand seemed to rattle out “it shall!”
“Ah, here is another letter, which I have overlooked,” said Ruth.
“To the distinguished and popular writer, ‘Floy’:“Madam,—I trust you will excuse the liberty I take in writing you, when you get through with my letter. I am thus confident of your leniency, because it seems to me that my case is not only a plain, but an interesting one. To come to the point, without any circumlocutory delay, I am a young man with aspirations far above my station in life. This declaration is perfectly true in some senses, but not in every sense. My parents and my ancestors are and were highly respectable people. My name, as you will see when you come to my signature, is Reginald Danby. The Danby family, Madam, was founded by Sir Reginald Danby, who was knighted for certain gallant exploits on the field of Hastings, in the year 1066, by William the Conqueror. Sir Reginald afterward married a Saxon dame, named Edith, the daughter of a powerful land-owner; hence the Danby family. All this is of very little consequence, and I only mention it in a sort of incidental way, to show you that my declaration in regard to the respectability of my family is true, and fortified by unimpeachable historical evidence; and I will here remark, that you will always find any assertion of mine as well sustained, by copious and irrefragable proof.“The respectability of our family being thus settled, I come back to an explanation of what I mean by my ‘having aspirations above my station in life.’ It is this: I am poor. My family, though once wealthy, is now impoverished. The way this state of things came about, was substantially as follows: My grandfather, who was a strong-minded, thrifty gentleman, married into a poetical family. His wife was the most poetical member of said family; much of her poetry is still extant; it never was published, because in those days publishers were not as enterprising as they are now. We value these manuscripts very highly; still I should be willing to send you some of them for perusal, in case you will return them and pay the postage both ways, my limited means not permitting me to share that pleasure with you. As I have intimated, my grandmother reveled in poetry. She doated on Shakspeare, and about three months before my father’s birth, she went to a theatre to witness the performance of ‘The Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ She was enchanted! and, with characteristic decision, resolved to commit the entire play to memory. This resolution she executed with characteristic pertinacity, notwithstanding frequent and annoying interruptions, from various causes entirely beyond her control. She finished committing this immortal poem to memory, the very night my father was born. Time rolled on; my father, as he grew up, exhibited great flightiness of character, andinstability of purpose, the result, undoubtedly, of his mother’s committing ‘The Midsummer Night’s Dream’ to memory under the circumstances which I have detailed. My father, owing to this unfortunate development of character, proved inadequate to the management of his estate, or, indeed, of any business whatever, and hence our present pecuniary embarrassments. Before quitting this painful branch of my subject, it will doubtless gratify you to have me state, that, inasmuch as my father married a woman of phlegmatic temperament, and entirely unpoetical mind, the balance of character has been happily restored to our family, so there is no fear for me. I am thus particular in my statements, because I have a high regard for truth, and for veracity, for accuracy in theminutestthings; a phase of character which may be accounted for from the fact, that I have just gone through a severe and protracted course of mathematics. These preliminaries being thus fairly before you, I now come to the immediate topic of my letter,viz.: I wish to go through College; I have not the means. I wish you to help me. You are probably rich; I hope you are with all my heart. You must be able to command a high salary, and a great deal of influence. I don’t ask you to lend me the money out of hand. What I propose is this: I will furnish you the subject for a splendid and thrilling story, founded on facts in the history of our family; the Danby family. In this book, my grandmother’spoetry would probably read to advantage; if so, it would be a great saving, as her writings are voluminous. Your book would be sure to have a large sale, and the profits would pay my expenses at College, and perhaps leave a large surplus. This surplus should be yours, and I would also agree to pay back the sum used by me from my first earnings after graduation. I have thought over this matter a great deal, and the foregoing strikes me as the only way in which this thing can be done. If you can devise a better plan, I will of course gladly adopt it. I am not at all opinionated, but am always glad to listen to anything reasonable. Please let me hear from you as soon as possible, and believe me truly your friend and admirer,“Reginald Danby.”
“To the distinguished and popular writer, ‘Floy’:
“Madam,—I trust you will excuse the liberty I take in writing you, when you get through with my letter. I am thus confident of your leniency, because it seems to me that my case is not only a plain, but an interesting one. To come to the point, without any circumlocutory delay, I am a young man with aspirations far above my station in life. This declaration is perfectly true in some senses, but not in every sense. My parents and my ancestors are and were highly respectable people. My name, as you will see when you come to my signature, is Reginald Danby. The Danby family, Madam, was founded by Sir Reginald Danby, who was knighted for certain gallant exploits on the field of Hastings, in the year 1066, by William the Conqueror. Sir Reginald afterward married a Saxon dame, named Edith, the daughter of a powerful land-owner; hence the Danby family. All this is of very little consequence, and I only mention it in a sort of incidental way, to show you that my declaration in regard to the respectability of my family is true, and fortified by unimpeachable historical evidence; and I will here remark, that you will always find any assertion of mine as well sustained, by copious and irrefragable proof.
“The respectability of our family being thus settled, I come back to an explanation of what I mean by my ‘having aspirations above my station in life.’ It is this: I am poor. My family, though once wealthy, is now impoverished. The way this state of things came about, was substantially as follows: My grandfather, who was a strong-minded, thrifty gentleman, married into a poetical family. His wife was the most poetical member of said family; much of her poetry is still extant; it never was published, because in those days publishers were not as enterprising as they are now. We value these manuscripts very highly; still I should be willing to send you some of them for perusal, in case you will return them and pay the postage both ways, my limited means not permitting me to share that pleasure with you. As I have intimated, my grandmother reveled in poetry. She doated on Shakspeare, and about three months before my father’s birth, she went to a theatre to witness the performance of ‘The Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ She was enchanted! and, with characteristic decision, resolved to commit the entire play to memory. This resolution she executed with characteristic pertinacity, notwithstanding frequent and annoying interruptions, from various causes entirely beyond her control. She finished committing this immortal poem to memory, the very night my father was born. Time rolled on; my father, as he grew up, exhibited great flightiness of character, andinstability of purpose, the result, undoubtedly, of his mother’s committing ‘The Midsummer Night’s Dream’ to memory under the circumstances which I have detailed. My father, owing to this unfortunate development of character, proved inadequate to the management of his estate, or, indeed, of any business whatever, and hence our present pecuniary embarrassments. Before quitting this painful branch of my subject, it will doubtless gratify you to have me state, that, inasmuch as my father married a woman of phlegmatic temperament, and entirely unpoetical mind, the balance of character has been happily restored to our family, so there is no fear for me. I am thus particular in my statements, because I have a high regard for truth, and for veracity, for accuracy in theminutestthings; a phase of character which may be accounted for from the fact, that I have just gone through a severe and protracted course of mathematics. These preliminaries being thus fairly before you, I now come to the immediate topic of my letter,viz.: I wish to go through College; I have not the means. I wish you to help me. You are probably rich; I hope you are with all my heart. You must be able to command a high salary, and a great deal of influence. I don’t ask you to lend me the money out of hand. What I propose is this: I will furnish you the subject for a splendid and thrilling story, founded on facts in the history of our family; the Danby family. In this book, my grandmother’spoetry would probably read to advantage; if so, it would be a great saving, as her writings are voluminous. Your book would be sure to have a large sale, and the profits would pay my expenses at College, and perhaps leave a large surplus. This surplus should be yours, and I would also agree to pay back the sum used by me from my first earnings after graduation. I have thought over this matter a great deal, and the foregoing strikes me as the only way in which this thing can be done. If you can devise a better plan, I will of course gladly adopt it. I am not at all opinionated, but am always glad to listen to anything reasonable. Please let me hear from you as soon as possible, and believe me truly your friend and admirer,
“Reginald Danby.”
Mr. Tibbetts, the editor of “The Pilgrim,” having returned from the country, Ruth went to the Pilgrim office to get copies of several of her articles, which she had taken no pains to keep, never dreaming of republishing them in book form.
Mr. Tibbetts was sitting at his editorial desk, looking over a pile of manuscript. Ruth made known her errand, and also the fact of her being about to publish her book. He handed her a chair, and drawing another in front of her, said very stiffly, “My partner, Mr. Elder, Mrs. Hall, has astonished me by the information that you have very suddenly decided to withdraw from us, who first patronized you, and to write for the ‘Household Messenger.’”
“Yes,” replied Ruth, “I considered it my duty to avail myself of that increase of salary. My circumstances have been exceedingly straitened. I have two little onesdependent on my exertions, andtheirfuture, as well as my own, to look to. You have often told me that you already paid me all you could afford, so it was useless to ask you for more; beside, the contract I have accepted, obliged me to decline or accept it by return of mail, without communicating its contents.”
“Ah! I see—I see,” said Mr. Tibbetts, growing very red in the face, and pushing back his chair; “it is always the way young writers treat those who have made their reputation.”
“Perhapsyourmaking my reputation, may be a question open to debate,” answered Ruth, stung by his tone; “I feel this morning, however, disinclined to discuss the question; so, if you please, we will waive it. You have always told me that you were constantly beset by the most talented contributors for patronage, so that of course you will not find it difficult to supply my place, when I leave you.”
“But you shallnotleave,” said Mr. Tibbetts, turning very pale about the mouth, and closing his lips firmly.
“Shall not!” repeated Ruth, rising, and standing erect before him. “Shallnot, Mr. Tibbetts? I have yet to learn that I am not free to go, if I choose.”
“Well, you arenot,” said Mr. Tibbetts; “that is a little mistake of yours, as I will soon convince you. Discontinue writing for ‘The Pilgrim,’ and I will immediately get out a cheap edition of your articles, and spoilthe sale of your book;” and he folded his arms, and faced Ruth as if he would say, “Now writhe if you like; I have you.”
Ruth smiled derisively, then answered in a tone so low that it was scarcely audible, “Mr. Tibbetts, you have mistaken your auditor. I am not to be frightened, or threatened, orinsulted,” said she, turning toward the door. “Even had I not myself the spirit to defy you, as I now do, for I will never touch pen to paper again for ‘The Pilgrim,’ you could not accomplish your threat; for think you my publishers will tamely fold their arms, and seetheirrights infringed? No, sir, you have mistaken both them and me;” and Ruth moved toward the door.
“Stay!” exclaimed Mr. Tibbetts, placing his hand on the latch; “when you see a paragraph in print that will sting your proud soul to the quick, know that John Tibbetts has more ways than one of humbling so imperious a dame.”
“That will be hardly consistent,” replied Ruth, in the same calm tone, “with the thousand-and-one commendatory notices of ‘Floy’—the boasts you have made of the almost exclusive right to thevaluable services of so bright a literary star.”
“Of course you will not see such a paragraph inmypaper,” replied Mr. Tibbetts. “I am aware, most logical of women, that I stand committed before the publicthere; but I have many an editorial friend, scattered over thecountry, who would loan metheircolumns for this purpose.”
“As you please,” said Ruth. “It were amanlyact; but your threat does not moveme.”
“I’ll have my revenge!” exclaimed Tibbetts, as the last fold of Ruth’s dress fluttered out the door.
Thoseof my readers who are well acquainted with journalism, know that some of our newspapers, nominally edited by the persons whose names appear as responsible in that capacity,seldom, perhapsnevercontain an article from their pen, the whole paper being “made up” by some obscure individual, with more brains than pennies, whose brilliant paragraphs, metaphysical essays, and racy book reviews, are attributed (and tacitly fathered) by the comfortably-fed gentlemen who keep these, their factotums, in some garret, just one degree above starving point. In the city, where board is expensive, and single gentlemen are “taken in and done for,” under many a sloping attic roof are born thoughts which should win for their originators fame and independence.
Mr. Horace Gates, a gentlemanly, slender, scholar-like-looking person, held this nondescript, and unrecognized relation to the Irving Magazine; the nominal editor,Ruth’s brother Hyacinth, furnishing but one article a week, to deduct from the immense amount of labor necessary to their weekly issue.
“Heigho,” said Mr. Gates, dashing down his pen; “four columns yet to make up; I am getting tired of this drudgery. My friend Seaten told me that he was dining at a restaurant the other day, when my employer, Mr. Hyacinth Ellet, came in, and that a gentleman took occasion to say to Mr. E., how much he admiredhisarticle in the last Irving Magazine, on ‘City Life.’Hisarticle! it took me one of the hottest days this season, in this furnace of a garret, with the beaded drops standing on my suffering forehead, to write that article, which, by the way, has been copied far and wide. His article! and the best of the joke is (Seaten says) the cool way in which Ellet thanked him, and pocketed all the credit of it! But what’s this? here’s a note from the very gentleman himself:
“Mr. Gates:“Sir,—I have noticed that you have several times scissorized from the exchanges, articles over the signature of ‘Floy,’ and inserted them in our paper. It is my wish that all articles bearing that signature should be excluded from our paper, and that no allusion be made to her, in any way or shape, in the columns of the Irving Magazine. As you are in our business confidence, I may say,that the writer is a sister of mine, and that it would annoy and mortify me exceedingly to have the fact known; and it is my express wish that you should not, hereafter, in any way, aid in circulating her articles.“Yours,&c.,Hyacinth Ellet.”
“Mr. Gates:
“Sir,—I have noticed that you have several times scissorized from the exchanges, articles over the signature of ‘Floy,’ and inserted them in our paper. It is my wish that all articles bearing that signature should be excluded from our paper, and that no allusion be made to her, in any way or shape, in the columns of the Irving Magazine. As you are in our business confidence, I may say,that the writer is a sister of mine, and that it would annoy and mortify me exceedingly to have the fact known; and it is my express wish that you should not, hereafter, in any way, aid in circulating her articles.
“Yours,&c.,Hyacinth Ellet.”
“What does that mean?” said Gates; “hissister? why don’t he want her to write? I have cut out every article of hers as fast as they appeared; confounded good they are, too, and I call myself a judge; they are better, at any rate, than half our paper is filled with. This is all very odd—it stimulates my curiosity amazingly—hissister? married or unmarried, maid, wife, or widow? She can’t be poor when he’s so well off; (gave $100 for a vase which struck his fancy yesterday, at Martini’s.) I don’t understand it. ‘Annoy and mortify him exceedingly;’ whatcanhe mean? I must get at the bottom of that; she is becoming very popular, at any rate; her pieces are traveling all over the country—and here is one, to my mind, as good as anythingheever wrote. Ha! ha! perhaps that’s the very idea now—perhaps he wants to be the only genius in the family. Let him! if he can; if she don’t win an enviable name, and in a very short time too, I shall be mistaken. I wish I knew something about her. Hyacinth is a heartless dog—pays me principally in fine speeches; and because I am not in a position just now to speak my mind about it. I supposehe takes me for the pliant tool I appear. By Jupiter! it makes my blood boil; but let me get another and better offer, Mr. Ellet, and see how long I will write articles for you to father, in this confounded hot garret. ‘Hissister!’ I will inquire into that. I’ll bet a box of cigars she writes for daily bread—Heaven help her, if she does, poor thing!—it’s hard enough, as I know, for amanto be jostled and snubbed round in printing-offices. Well, well, it’s no use wondering, I must go to work; what a pile of books here is to be reviewed! wonder who reads all the books? Here is Uncle Sam’s Log House. Mr. Ellet writes me that I must simply announce the book without comment, for fear of offending southern subscribers. The word ‘slave’ I know has been tabooed in our columns this long while, for the same reason. Here are poems by Lina Lintney—weak as diluted water, but the authoress once paid Mr. Ellet a compliment in a newspaper article, and here is her ‘reward of merit,’ (in a memorandum attached to the book, and just sent down by Mr. Ellet;) ‘give this volume a first-rate notice.’ Bah! what’s the use of criticism when a man’s opinion can be bought and sold that way? it is an imposition on the public. There is ‘The Barolds’ too; I am to ‘give that a capital notice,’ because the authoress introduced Mr. Ellet into fashionable society when a young man. The grammar in that book would give Lindley Murray convulsions, and the construction of thesentences drive Blair to a mad-house. Well, a great deal the dear public know what a book is, by the reviews of it in this paper. Heaven forgive me the lies I tell this way on compulsion.
“The humbuggery of this establishment is only equalled by the gullibility of the dear public. Once a month, now, I am ordered to puff every ‘influential paper in the Union,’ to ward off attacks on the Irving Magazine, and the bait takes, too, by Jove. That little ‘Tea-Table Tri-Mountain Mercury,’ has not muttered or peeped about Hyacinth’s ‘toadyism when abroad,’ since Mr. Ellet gave me orders to praise ‘the typographical and literary excellence of that widely-circulated paper.’ Then, there is the editor of ‘The Bugbear,’ a cut-and-thrust-bludgeon-pen-and-ink-desperado, who makes the mincing, aristocratic Hyacinth quake in his patent-leather boots. I have orders to toss him a sugar-plum occasionally, to keep his plebeian mouth shut; something after the French maxim, ‘always to praise a person for what theyare not;’—for instance, ‘our verygentlemanlyneighbor and contemporary, the discriminating and refined editor of The Bugbear, whose very readable and spicy paper,’&c.,&c.Then, there is thereligiouspress. Hyacinth, having rather a damaged reputation, is anxious to enlist them on his side, particularly the editor of ‘The Religious Platform.’ I am to copy at least one of his editorials once a fortnight, or in some way call attention to his paper. Then,if Hyacinth chooses to puff actresses, and call Mme. —— a ‘splendid personation of womanhood,’ and praise her equivocal writings in his paper, which lies on many a family table to be read by innocent young girls, he knows the caustic pen of that religious editor will never be dipped in ink to reprove him. That is the way it is done. Mutual admiration-society—bah! I wishIhad a paper. Wouldn’t I call things by their right names? Would I know any sex in books? Would I praise a book because a woman wrote it? Would I abuse it for the same reason? Would I say, as one of our most able editors said not long since to his reviewer, ‘cut it up root and branch; what right have these women to set themselves up for authors, and reap literary laurels?’ Would I unfairly insert all the adverse notices of a book, and never copy one in its praise? Would I pass over the wholesale swindling of some aristocratic scoundrel, and trumpet in my police report, with heartless comments, the name of some poor, tempted, starving wretch, far less deserving of censure, in God’s eye, than myself? Would I have my tongue or my pen tied in any way by policy, or interest, or clique-ism? No—sir! The world never will see a paper till mine is started. Would I write long descriptions of the wardrobe of foreignprima donnas, who bring their cracked voices, and reputations to our American market, and ‘occupy suites of rooms lined with satin, and damask, and velvet,’ andgoodness knows what, and give their reception-soirees, at which they ‘affably notice’ our toadying first citizens? By Jupiter! whyshouldn’tthey be ‘affable’? Don’t they come over here for our money and patronage? Who cares how many ‘bracelets’ Signora —— had on, or whose ‘arm she leaned gracefully upon,’ or whether her ‘hair was braided or curled’? If, because a lord or a duke once ‘honored her’ by insulting her with infamous proposals, some few brainless Americans choose to deify her as a goddess, in the name of George Washington and common sense, let it not be taken as a national exponent. There are some few Americans left, who prefer ipecac in homœopathic doses.”
“Hark!Nettie. Go to the door, dear,” said Ruth, “some one knocked.”
“It is a strange gentleman, mamma,” whispered Nettie, “and he wants to see you.”
Ruth bowed as the stranger entered. She could not recollect that she had ever seen him before, but he looked very knowing, and, what was very provoking, seemed to enjoy her embarrassment hugely. He regarded Nettie, too, with a very scrutinizing look, and seemed to devour everything with the first glance of his keen, searching eye. He even seemed to listen to the whir—whir—whir of the odd strange lodger in the garret overhead.
“I don’t recollect you,” said Ruth, hesitating, and blushing slightly; “you have the advantage of me, sir?”
“And yet you and I have been writing to each other, for a week or more,” replied the gentleman, with a good-humored smile; “you have even signed a contract, entitling me to your pen-and-ink services.”
“Mr. Walter?” said Ruth, holding out her hand.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Walter, “I had business this way, and I could not come here without finding you out.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Ruth, “I was just wishing that I had some head wiser than mine, to help me decide on a business matter which came up two or three days ago. Somehow I don’t feel the least reluctance to bore you with it, or a doubt that your advice will not be just the thing; but I shall not stop to dissect the philosophy of that feeling, lest in grasping at the shadow, I should lose the substance,” said she, smiling.
While Ruth was talking, Mr. Walter’s keen eye glanced about the room, noting its general comfortless appearance, and the little bowl of bread and milk that stood waiting for their supper. Ruth observed this, and blushed deeply. When she looked again at Mr. Walter, his eyes were glistening with tears.
“Come here, my darling,” said he to Nettie, trying to hide his emotion.
“I don’t know you,” answered Nettie.
“But you will, my dear, because I am your mamma’s friend.”
“Are you Katy’s friend?” asked Nettie.
“Katy?” repeated Mr. Walter.
“Yes, mysisterKaty; she can’t live here, because we don’t have supper enough; pretty soon mamma will earn more supper, won’t you mamma? Shan’t you be gladwhen Katy comes home, and we all have enough to eat?” said the child to Mr. Walter.
Mr. Walter pressed his lips to the child’s forehead with a low “Yes, my darling;” and then placed his watch chain and seals at her disposal, fearing Ruth might be painfully affected by her artless prattle.
Ruth then produced the different publishers’ offers she had received for her book, and handed them to Mr. Walter.
“Well,” said he, with a gratified smile, “I am not at all surprised; but what are you going to reply?”
“Here is my answer,” said Ruth, “i. e.provided your judgment endorses it. I am a novice in such matters, you know, but I cannot help thinking, Mr. Walter, that my book will be a success. You will see that I have acted upon that impression, and refused to sell my copyright.”
“You don’t approve it?” said she, looking a little confused, as Mr. Walter bent his keen eyes on her, without replying.
“But I do though,” said he; “I was only thinking how excellent a substitute strong common-sense may be for experience. Your answer is brief, concise, sagacious, and business-like; I endorse it unhesitatingly. It is just what I should have advised you to write. You are correct in thinking that your book will be popular, and wise in keeping the copyright in your own hands. In how incrediblyshort a time you have gained a literary reputation, Floy.”
“Yes,” answered Ruth, smiling, “it is all like a dream to me;” and then the smile faded away, and she shuddered involuntarily as the recollection of all her struggles and sufferings came vividly up to her remembrance.
Swiftly the hours fled away as Mr. Walter, with a brother’s freedom, questioned Ruth as to her past life and drew from her the details of her eventful history.
“Thank God, the morning dawneth,” said he in a subdued tone, as he pressed Ruth’s hand, and bade her a parting good-night.
Ruth closed the door upon Mr. Walter’s retreating figure, and sat down to peruse the following letters, which had been sent her to Mr. Walter’s care, at the Household Messenger office.
“Mrs. or Miss ‘Floy:’“Permit me to address you on a subject which lies near my heart, which is, in fact, a subject of pecuniary importance to the person now addressing you. My story is to me a painful one; it would doubtless interest you; were it written and published, it would be a thrilling tale.“Some months since I had a lover whom I adored, and who said he adored me. But as Shakspeare has said,‘The course of true love never did run smooth;’ ours soon became an up-hill affair, my lover proved false, ceased his visits, and sat on the other side of the meeting-house. On my writing to him and desiring an explanation, he insultingly replied, that I was not what his fancy had painted me. Was thatmyfault? false, fickle, ungenerous man! But I was not thus to be deceived and shuffled off. No; I employed the best counsel in the State and commenced an action for damages, determined to get some balm for my wounded feelings; but owing to the premature death of my principal witness, I lost the case and the costs were heavy. The excitement and worry of the trial brought on a fever, and I found myself on my recovery, five hundred dollars in debt; I intend to pay every cent of this, but how am I to pay it? My salary for teaching school is small and it will take me many years. I want you, therefore, to assist me by writing out my story and giving me the book. I will furnish all the facts, and the story, written out by your magic pen, would be a certain success. A publisher in this city has agreed to publish it for me if you will write it. I could then triumph over the villain who so basely deceived me.“Please send me an early answer, as the publisher referred to is in a great hurry.“Very respectfully yours,“Sarah Jarmesin.”
“Mrs. or Miss ‘Floy:’
“Permit me to address you on a subject which lies near my heart, which is, in fact, a subject of pecuniary importance to the person now addressing you. My story is to me a painful one; it would doubtless interest you; were it written and published, it would be a thrilling tale.
“Some months since I had a lover whom I adored, and who said he adored me. But as Shakspeare has said,‘The course of true love never did run smooth;’ ours soon became an up-hill affair, my lover proved false, ceased his visits, and sat on the other side of the meeting-house. On my writing to him and desiring an explanation, he insultingly replied, that I was not what his fancy had painted me. Was thatmyfault? false, fickle, ungenerous man! But I was not thus to be deceived and shuffled off. No; I employed the best counsel in the State and commenced an action for damages, determined to get some balm for my wounded feelings; but owing to the premature death of my principal witness, I lost the case and the costs were heavy. The excitement and worry of the trial brought on a fever, and I found myself on my recovery, five hundred dollars in debt; I intend to pay every cent of this, but how am I to pay it? My salary for teaching school is small and it will take me many years. I want you, therefore, to assist me by writing out my story and giving me the book. I will furnish all the facts, and the story, written out by your magic pen, would be a certain success. A publisher in this city has agreed to publish it for me if you will write it. I could then triumph over the villain who so basely deceived me.
“Please send me an early answer, as the publisher referred to is in a great hurry.
“Very respectfully yours,“Sarah Jarmesin.”
“Well,” said Ruth, laughing, “my bump of invention will be entirely useless, if my kind friends keep on furnishing me with subjects at this rate. Here is letter No. 2.”
“Dear ‘Floy’:“My dog Fido is dead. He was a splendid Newfoundland, black and shaggy; father gave $10 for him when he was a pup. We all loved him dearly. He was a prime dog, could swim like a fish. The other morning we found him lying motionless on the door-step. Somebody had poisoned poor Fido. I cried all that day, and didn’t play marbles for a whole week. He is buried in the garden, and I want you to write an epithalamium about him. My brother John, who is looking over my shoulder, is laughing like everything; he says ’t is an epitaph, not an epithalamium that I want, just as ifIdidn’t know what I want? John is just home from college, and thinks he knows everything. It is my dog, and I’ll fix his tombstone just as I like. Fellows in round jackets are not always fools. Send it along quick, please, ‘Floy’; the stone-cutter is at work now. What a funny way they cut marble, don’t they? (with sand and water.) Johnny Weld and I go there every recess, to see how they get on with the tombstone. Don’t stick in any Latin or Greek, now, in your epithalamium. Our John cannot call for a glass of water without lugging in one or the other of them; I’m sick as death of it. Iwonder if I shall be such a fool when I go to college. You ought to be glad you are a woman, and don’t have to go. Don’t forget Fido, now. Remember, he was six years old, black, shaggy, with a white spot on his forehead, and rather a short-ish tail—a prime dog, I tellyou.“Billy Sands.”
“Dear ‘Floy’:
“My dog Fido is dead. He was a splendid Newfoundland, black and shaggy; father gave $10 for him when he was a pup. We all loved him dearly. He was a prime dog, could swim like a fish. The other morning we found him lying motionless on the door-step. Somebody had poisoned poor Fido. I cried all that day, and didn’t play marbles for a whole week. He is buried in the garden, and I want you to write an epithalamium about him. My brother John, who is looking over my shoulder, is laughing like everything; he says ’t is an epitaph, not an epithalamium that I want, just as ifIdidn’t know what I want? John is just home from college, and thinks he knows everything. It is my dog, and I’ll fix his tombstone just as I like. Fellows in round jackets are not always fools. Send it along quick, please, ‘Floy’; the stone-cutter is at work now. What a funny way they cut marble, don’t they? (with sand and water.) Johnny Weld and I go there every recess, to see how they get on with the tombstone. Don’t stick in any Latin or Greek, now, in your epithalamium. Our John cannot call for a glass of water without lugging in one or the other of them; I’m sick as death of it. Iwonder if I shall be such a fool when I go to college. You ought to be glad you are a woman, and don’t have to go. Don’t forget Fido, now. Remember, he was six years old, black, shaggy, with a white spot on his forehead, and rather a short-ish tail—a prime dog, I tellyou.
“Billy Sands.”
“It is a harrowing case, Billy,” said Ruth, “but I shall have to let Fido pass; now for letter No. 3.”
“Dear Madam:“I address a stranger, and yetnota stranger, for I have read your heart in the pages of your books. In these I see sympathy for the poor, the sorrowing, and the dependent; I see a tender love for helpless childhood. Dear ‘Floy,’ I am an orphan, and that most wretched of all beings, a loving, but unloved wife. The hour so dreaded by all maternity draws near to me. It has been revealed to me in dreams that I shall not survive it. ‘Floy,’ will you be a mother to my babe? I cannot tell you why I put this trust in one whom I have only known through her writings, but something assures me it will be safe with you; that you only can fill my place in the little heart that this moment is pulsating beneath my own. Oh, do not refuse me. There are none in the wide world to dispute the claim I would thus transfer to you. Its father—but of him I will not speak; the wine-cup is myrival. Write me speedily. I shall die content if your arms receive my babe.“Yours affectionately,”Mary Andrews.”
“Dear Madam:
“I address a stranger, and yetnota stranger, for I have read your heart in the pages of your books. In these I see sympathy for the poor, the sorrowing, and the dependent; I see a tender love for helpless childhood. Dear ‘Floy,’ I am an orphan, and that most wretched of all beings, a loving, but unloved wife. The hour so dreaded by all maternity draws near to me. It has been revealed to me in dreams that I shall not survive it. ‘Floy,’ will you be a mother to my babe? I cannot tell you why I put this trust in one whom I have only known through her writings, but something assures me it will be safe with you; that you only can fill my place in the little heart that this moment is pulsating beneath my own. Oh, do not refuse me. There are none in the wide world to dispute the claim I would thus transfer to you. Its father—but of him I will not speak; the wine-cup is myrival. Write me speedily. I shall die content if your arms receive my babe.
“Yours affectionately,”Mary Andrews.”
“Poor Mary! that letter must be answered,” said Ruth, with a sigh;—“ah, here is one more letter.”
“Miss, orMrs., orMadam Floy:“I suppose by this time you have become so inflated that the honest truth would be rather unpalatable to you; nevertheless, I am going to send you a few plain words. The rest of the world flatters you—I shall do no such thing. You have written tolerably, all things considered, but you violate all established rules of composition, and are as lawless and erratic as a comet. You may startle and dazzle, but you are fit only to throw people out of their orbits. Now and then, there’s a gleam of something like reason in your writings, but for the most part they are unmitigated trash—false in sentiment—unrhetorical in expression; in short, were you my daughter, which I thank a good Providence you are not, I should box your ears, and keep you on a bread and water diet till you improved. That you can do better, if you will, I am very sure, and that is why I take the pains to find fault, and tell you what none of your fawning friends will.“You are not a genius—no, madam, not by many removes; Shakspeare was a genius—Milton was a genius—theauthor of ‘History of the Dark Ages,’ which has reached its fifteenth edition, was a genius—(you may not know you have now the honor of being addressed by him;) no, madam, you are not a genius, nor have I yet seen a just criticism of your writings; they are all either over-praised, or over-abused; you have a certain sort of talent, and that talent, I grant you, is peculiar; but a genius—no, no, Mrs., or Miss, or Madam Floy—you don’t approach genius, though I am not without a hope that, if you are not spoiled by injudicious, sycophantic admirers, you may yet produce something creditable; although I candidly confess, that it is my opinion, that thefemalemind is incapable of producing anything which may be strictly termedliterature.“Your honest friend,William Stearns.“Prof. of Greek, Hebrew, and Mathematics, in Hopetown College, and author of ‘History of the Dark Ages.’”
“Miss, orMrs., orMadam Floy:
“I suppose by this time you have become so inflated that the honest truth would be rather unpalatable to you; nevertheless, I am going to send you a few plain words. The rest of the world flatters you—I shall do no such thing. You have written tolerably, all things considered, but you violate all established rules of composition, and are as lawless and erratic as a comet. You may startle and dazzle, but you are fit only to throw people out of their orbits. Now and then, there’s a gleam of something like reason in your writings, but for the most part they are unmitigated trash—false in sentiment—unrhetorical in expression; in short, were you my daughter, which I thank a good Providence you are not, I should box your ears, and keep you on a bread and water diet till you improved. That you can do better, if you will, I am very sure, and that is why I take the pains to find fault, and tell you what none of your fawning friends will.
“You are not a genius—no, madam, not by many removes; Shakspeare was a genius—Milton was a genius—theauthor of ‘History of the Dark Ages,’ which has reached its fifteenth edition, was a genius—(you may not know you have now the honor of being addressed by him;) no, madam, you are not a genius, nor have I yet seen a just criticism of your writings; they are all either over-praised, or over-abused; you have a certain sort of talent, and that talent, I grant you, is peculiar; but a genius—no, no, Mrs., or Miss, or Madam Floy—you don’t approach genius, though I am not without a hope that, if you are not spoiled by injudicious, sycophantic admirers, you may yet produce something creditable; although I candidly confess, that it is my opinion, that thefemalemind is incapable of producing anything which may be strictly termedliterature.
“Your honest friend,William Stearns.
“Prof. of Greek, Hebrew, and Mathematics, in Hopetown College, and author of ‘History of the Dark Ages.’”
“Oh vanity! thy name is William Stearns,” said Ruth.
“Haveyou ever submitted your head to a phrenological examination?” asked Mr. Walter, as he made a call on Ruth, the next morning.
“No,” said Ruth; “I believe that much more is to be told by the expression of people’s faces than by the bumps upon their heads.”
“And you a woman of sense!” replied Mr. Walter. “Will you have your head examined to please me? I should like to know what Prof. Finman would say of you, before I leave town.”
“Well—yes—I don’t mind going,” said Ruth, “provided the Professor does not know his subject, and I see that there’s fair play,” said she, laughing; “but I warn you, beforehand, that I have not the slightest faith in the science.”
Ruth tied on her bonnet, and was soon demurely seated in the Professor’s office, with her hair about her shoulders.Mr. Walter sat at a table near, prepared to take notes in short-hand.
“You have an unusually even head, madam,” said the Professor. “Most of the faculties are fully developed. There are not necessarily any extremes in your character, and when you manifest them, they are more the result of circumstances than the natural tendency of the mind. You are of a family where there was more than ordinary unity in the connubial relations; certainly in the marriage, if not in the after-life of your parents.
“Your physiology indicates a predominance of the nervous temperament; this gives unusual activity of mind, and furnishes the capacity for a great amount of enjoyment or suffering. Few enjoy or suffer with such intensity as you do. Your happiness or misery depends very much on surrounding influences and circumstances.
“You have, next, a predominance of the vital temperament, which gives great warmth and ardor to your mind, and enables you to enjoy physical comfort and the luxuries of life in a high degree. Your muscular system is rather defective; there not being enough to furnish real strength and stamina of constitution. Although you may live to be aged, you will not be able to put forth such vigorous efforts as you could do, were the motive or muscular temperament developed in a higher degree. You may think I am mistaken on this point, but I am not. You have an immense power of will, are energetic andforcible in overcoming obstacles, would display more than ordinary fortitude in going through trials and difficulties, and possess a tenacity of purpose and perseverence in action, which enable you to do whatever you are determined upon doing; but these arementalcharacteristics notphysical, and your mind often tires out your body, and leaves you in a state of muscular prostration.
“Your phrenology indicates an unusual degree of respect and regard for whatever you value as superior. You never trifle with superiority. I do not mean conventional superiority or bombastic assumption, but what you really believe to be good and noble. As a child, you were very obedient, unless your sense of justice (which is very strong) was violated. In such a case, it was somewhat difficult for you to yield either ready or implicit obedience. You are religiously disposed. You are also characterized by a strong belief in Divine influences, providences, and special interpositions from on high. You are more than ordinarily spiritual in the tone of your mind. You see, or think you see, the hand of Providence in things as they transpire. You are also very conscientious, and this, combined with your firmness, which is quite strong, and supported by your faith in Providence, gives you a striking degree of what is called moral courage. When you believe you are right, there is no moving you; and your friends probably think that you are sometimes very obstinate; but letthem convince your intellect and satisfy your conscience, and you will be quite tractable, more especially as you are characterized by unusual sympathy and tenderness of feeling. You too easily catch the spirit of others,—of those you love and are interested in, and feel as they feel, and enjoy or suffer as they do. You have very strong hope with reference to immortality and future happiness. When a young girl, you were remarkably abounding in your spiritual anticipations of what you were going to be as a woman.
“You possess an extraordinary degree of perseverance, but have not a marked degree of prompt decision. After you havedecided, you act energetically, and are more sure to finish what you commence, than you are ready to begin a new enterprise. You are decidedly cautious, anxious, mindful of results, and desire to avoid difficulty and danger. You take all necessary care, and provide well for the future. Your cautiousness is, in fact, too active.
“You place a very high value on your character; are particularly sensitive to reproach; cannot tolerate scolding, or being found fault with. You can be quite reserved, dignified, and even haughty. You are usually kind and affable, but are capable of strong feelings of resentment. You make few enemies by your manner of speaking and acting. You are uniform in the manifestation of your affections. You do not form attachmentsreadily, or frequently; on the contrary, you are quite particular in the choice of your friends, and are very devoted to those to whom you become attached. You manifested these same traits when a child, in the selection of playmates.
“Your love is a mental love—a regard for the mind, rather than the person of the individual. You appreciate the masculine mind as such, rather than the physical form. You have a high regard for chivalry, manliness, and intellectuality in man, but you also demand goodness, and religious devotion. It would give you pain to hear a friend speak lightly of what you consider sacred things; and I hardly think you would ever love a man whom youknewto be irreligious. Your maternal feelings are very strong. You are much interested in children. You sympathize with and understand them perfectly. You are, yourself, quite youthful in the tone of your mind; much younger than many not half your age. This, taken in connection with your sympathy with, and appreciation of, the character of children, enables you to entertain them, and win them to your wishes; but, at times, you are too anxious about their welfare. You are strongly attached to place, and are intensely patriotic. You believe in Plymouth Rock and Bunker Hill. You are not content without a home of your own; and yet, in a home of your own, you would not be happy without pleasant surroundings and associations, scenery, andsuch things as would facilitate improvement and enjoyment.
“You are very fond of poetry and beauty, wherever you see it,—of oratory, sculpture, painting, scenery, flowers, and beautiful sentiments. You must have everything nice; you cannot tolerate anything coarse or gross. The world is hardly finished nice enough for you. You are too exacting in this respect. The fact is, you are made of finer clay than most of us. You are particular with reference to your food, and not easily suited. You must have that which is clean and nice, or none. Whatever you do, such as embroidery, drawing, painting, needlework, or any artistic performance, is very nicely done. Your constructiveness is very large. You can plan well; can lay out work for others to advantage; can cut out things, and invent new and tasteful fashions. Your appreciation of colors is very nice; you can arrange and blend them harmoniously, in dress, in decoration of rooms,&c.You could make a slim wardrobe, and a small stock of furniture, go a great way, and get up a better looking parlor with a few hundred dollars, than some could with as many thousands.
“You exhibit a predominance of the reflective intellect over the perceptive, and are characterized for thought, judgment, and the power to comprehend ideas, more than for your knowledge of things, facts, circumstances or conditions of things. You remember and understand whatyou read, better than what you see and hear; still, you are more than ordinarily observant. In passing along the street, you would see much more than people in general, and would be able to describe very accurately the style, execution and quality of whatever you saw. You have a pliable mind. You love acting, and would excel as an actress. You have great powers of sarcasm. You enjoy fun highly, but it must be of the right kind. You will tolerate nothing low. You are precise in the use of language, and are a good verbal critic. You ought to be a good conversationist, and a forcible and spicy writer. In depicting character and describing scenes, you would be apt to display many of the characteristics which Dickens exhibits. Your aptness in setting-forth, your keen sense of the ludicrous, your great powers of amplification, and the intensity of your feelings, would enable you to produce a finely wrought out, and exquisitely colored picture. You have also an active sense of music; are almost passionately fond of that kind which is agreeable to you.
“You have more than ordinary fortitude, but are lacking in the influences of combativeness. Your temper comes to a crisis too soon; you cannot keep angry long enough to scold. You dislike contention. You read the minds of others almost instantaneously; and at once form a favorable or unfavorable impression of a person. You are secretive, and disposed to conceal your feelings; areanxious to avoid unnecessary exposure of your faults, and know how to appear to the best advantage. You have a good faculty of entertaining others, but can be with persons a long time without their becoming acquainted with you.
“You dream things true; truth comes to you in dreams, forewarnings, admonitions,&c.
“You are liable to be a very happy, or very unhappy, woman. The worst feature of your whole character, or tone of mind, arises from the influence of your education. Too much attention was paid to your mind, and not enough to your body. You were brought forward too early, and made a woman of too soon. Ideas too big for you were put into your mind, and it was not occupied enough about the ordinary affairs of life. This renders your mind too morbid and sensitive, and unfits you for encountering the disagreeable phases of life. You can endure disagreeable things with martyr-like firmness, but not with martyr-like resignation. They prey both on your mind and body, and wear heavily upon your spirit. You feel as though some one must go forward and clear the way for you to enjoy yourself; and if by any reverse of fortune, you have ever been thrown on your own resources, and forced to take care of yourself, you had to learn some lessons, which should have been taught you before you were sixteen years old. But in the general tone of your mind, in elevation of thought,feeling, sympathy, sentiment, and religious devotion, you rank far above most of us, above many who are, perhaps, better prepared to discharge the ordinary duties of life. In conclusion, I will remark, that very much might be said with reference to the operations of your mind, for we seldom find the faculties so fully developed, or the powers so versatile as in your case.”
“Well,” said Mr. Walter, with a triumphant air, as they left the Professor’s office, “well, ‘Floy,’ what do you think?”
“I think we have received our $2 worth in flattery,” replied Ruth, laughing.
“There is not a whit of exaggeration in it,” said Mr. Walter. “The Professor has hit you off to the life.”
“Well, I suppose it would be wasting breath to discuss the point with you,” said Ruth, “so I will merely remark that I was highly amused when he said I should make a good actress. I have so often been told that.”
“True; Comedy would be your forte, though. How is it that when looking about for employment, you never contemplated the stage?”
“Well, you know, Mr. Walter, that we May-Flower descendents hold the theatre in abhorrence. For myself, however, I can speak from observation, being determined not to take that doctrine on hearsay; I havewitnessed many theatrical performances, and they only served to confirm my prejudices against the institution. I never should dream of such a means of support. Your Professor made one great mistake; for instance,” said Ruth, “he thinks my physique is feeble. Do you know that I can walk longer and faster than any six women in the United States?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Walter, “I know all about that; I have known you, under a strong impetus, do six days’ work in one, and I have known you after it prostrated with a nervous headache which defied every attempt at mitigation. He is right, Ruth, your mind often tires your body completely out.”
“Another thing, your Professor says I do not like to be found fault with; now this is not quite true. I do not object, for instance, tofaircriticism. I quarrel with no one who denies to my writings literary merit; they have a right to hold such an opinion, a right to express it. But to have one’s book reviewed on hearsay, by persons who never looked between the covers, or to have isolated paragraphs circulated, with words italicized, so that gross constructions might be forced upon the reader, which the author never could dream of; then to have paragraphs taken up in that state, credited to you, and commented upon by horrified moralists,—that is what I call unfair play, Mr. Walter. When my sense of justice is thuswounded, I do feel keenly, and I have sometimes thought if such persons knew the suffering that such thoughtlessness, to baptize it by the most charitable name, may cause a woman, who must either weep in silence over such injustice, or do violence to her womanly nature by a public contention for her rights, such outrages would be much less frequent. It seems to me,” said she earnestly, “were I a man, it would be so sweet to use my powers to defend the defenceless. It would seem to me so impossible to use that power to echo the faintest rumor adverse to a woman, or to keep cowardly silence in the shrugging, sneering, slanderer’s presence, when a bold word of mine for the cause of right, might close his dastard lips.”
“Bravo, Ruth, you speak like an oracle. Your sentiments are excellent, but I hope you are not so unsophisticated as to expect ever to see them put in universal practice. Editors are but men, and in the editorial profession, as in all other professions, may be found very shabby specimens of humanity. A petty, mean-spirited fellow, is seldom improved by being made an editor of; on the contrary, his pettiness, and meanness, are generally intensified. It is a pity that such unscrupulous fellows should be able to bring discredit on so intelligent and honorable a class of the community. However,” said Mr. Walter, “we all are more or less responsible, for if the better class of editors refrained from copying abusive paragraphs, theircirculation would be confined to a kennel class whose opinion is a matter of very little consequence.”
“By the way, Ruth,” said Mr. Walter, after walking on in silence a few rods, “how is it, in these days of female preachers, that you never contemplated the pulpit or lecture-room?”
“As for the lecture-room,” replied Ruth, “I had as great a horror of that, as far as I myself am concerned, as the profession of an actress; but not long since I heard the eloquent Miss Lucy Stone one evening, when it really did appear to me that those Bloomers of hers had a mission! Still, I never could put them on. And as to the pulpit, I have too much reverence for that to think of putting my profane foot in it. It is part of my creed that a congregation can no more repay a conscientious, God-fearing, devoted minister, than—”
“Youcan help ‘expressing yourrealsentiments,’” said Mr. Walter, laughing.
“As you please,” replied Ruth; “but people who live in glass houses should not throw stones. But here we are at home; don’t you hear the ‘whir—whir’?”
Andnow our heroine had become a regular business woman. She did not even hear the whir—whir of the odd lodger in the attic. The little room was littered with newspapers, envelopes, letters opened and unopened, answered and waiting to be answered. One minute she might be seen sitting, pen in hand, trying, with knit brows, to decipher some horrible cabalistic printer’s mark on the margin of her proof; then writing an article for Mr. Walter, then scribbling a business letter to her publishers, stopping occasionally to administer a sedative to Nettie, in the shape of a timely quotation from Mother Goose, or to heal a fracture in a doll’s leg or arm. Now she was washing a little soiled face, or smoothing little rumpled ringlets, replacing a missing shoe-string or pinafore button, then wading through the streets while Boreas contested stoutly for her umbrella, with parcels and letters to the post-office, (for Ruth must be her own servant,) regardless of gutters or thermometers, regardless of jostling or crowding. What cared she for all these, whenKaty would soon be back—poor little patient, suffering Katy? Ruth felt as if wings were growing from her shoulders. She never was weary, or sleepy, or hungry. She had not the slightest idea, till long after, what an incredible amount of labor she accomplished, or how hermother’s heartwas goading her on.
“Pressing business that Mis. Hall must have,” said her landlady, with a sneer, as Ruth stood her dripping umbrella in the kitchen sink. “Pressing business, running round to offices and the like of that, in such a storm as this. You wouldn’t catchmedoing it if I was a widder. I hope I’d have more regard for appearances. I don’t understand all this flying in and out, one minute up in her room, the next in the street, forty times a day, and letters by the wholesale. It will take me to inquire into it. It may be all right, hope it is; but of course I like to know what is going on in my house. This Mis. Hall is so terrible close-mouthed, I don’t like it. I’ve thought a dozen times I’d like to ask her right straight out who and what she is, and done with it; but I have not forgotten that little matter about the pills, and when I see her, there’s something about her, she’s civil enough too, that seems to say, ‘don’t you cross that chalk-mark, Sally Waters.’ I never had lodgers afore like her and that old Bond, up in the garret. They are as much alike as two peas.Shegoes scratch—scratch—scratch;hegoes whir—whir—whir. They haint spoke a word toone another since that child was sick. It’s enough to drive anybody mad, to have such a mystery in the house. I can’t make head nor tail on’t. John, now, he don’t care a rush-light about it; no more he wouldn’t, if the top of the house was to blow off; but there’s nothing plaguesmelike it, and yet I aint a bit curous nuther. Well, neither she nor Bond make me any trouble, there’s that in it; if they did I wouldn’t stand it. And as long as they both pay their bills so reg’lar, I shan’t make a fuss; Ishouldlike to know though what Mis. Hall is about all the time.”
Publication day came at last. There wasthebook. Ruth’s book! Oh, how few of its readers, if it were fortunate enough to find readers, would know how much of her own heart’s history was there laid bare. Yes, there was the book. She could recall the circumstances under which each separate article was written. Little shoeless feet were covered with the proceeds of this; a little medicine, or a warmer shawl was bought with that. This was written, faint and fasting, late into the long night; that composed while walking wearily to or from the offices where she was employed. One was written with little Nettie sleeping in her lap; another still, a mirthful, merry piece, as an escape-valve for a wretched heartache. Each had its own little history. Each would serve, in after-days, fora land-mark to some thorny path of by-gone trouble. Oh, if the sun of prosperity, after all, should gild these rugged paths! Some virtues—many faults—the book had—but God speed it, for little Katy’s sake!
“Let me see, please,” said little Nettie, attracted by the gilt covers, as she reached out her hand for the book.
“Did you make those pretty pictures, mamma?”
“No, my dear—a gentleman, an artist, made those for me—Imake pictures with a-b-c’s.”
“Show me one of your pictures, mamma,” said Nettie.
Ruth took the child upon her lap, and read her the story of Gertrude. Nettie listened with her clear eyes fixed upon her mother’s face.
“Don’t make her die—oh, please don’t make her die, mamma,” exclaimed the sensitive child, laying her little hand over her mother’s mouth.
Ruth smiled, and improvised a favorable termination to her story, more suitable to her tender-hearted audience.
“That is nice,” said Nettie, kissing her mother; “when I get to be a woman shall I write books, mamma?”
“God forbid,” murmured Ruth, kissing the child’s changeful cheek; “God forbid,” murmured she, musingly, as she turned over the leaves of her book; “no happy woman ever writes. From Harry’s grave sprang ‘Floy.’”