Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series two (Auburn & Buffalo: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1854)
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WHAT LOVE WILL ACCOMPLISH.
"This will never do," said little Mrs. Kitty; "how I came to be such a simpleton as to get married before I knew how to keep house, is more and more of an astonisher to me. I can learn, and I will! There's Bridget told me yesterday there was n't time to make a pudding before dinner. I had my private suspicions she was imposing upon me, though I did n't know enough about it to contradict her. The truth is, I'm no more mistress of this house than I am of the Grand Seraglio. Bridget knows it, too; and, there's Harry (how hot it makes my cheeks to think of it!) could n't find an eatable thing on the dinner table yesterday. He loves me too well to say anything, but he had such an ugly frown on his face when he lit his cigar and went off to his office. Oh, I see how it is:
And love is neither bread nor honey,
And so, you understand."
"What on earth sent yo[u] over here in this dismal rain?" said Kitty's neighbor, Mrs. Green. "Just look at your gaiters."
"Oh, never mind gaiters," said Kitty, untying her "rigo-
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lette," and throwing herself on the sofa. "I don't know any more about cooking than a six-weeks' kitten; Bridget walks over my head with the most perfect Irish nonchalance; Harry looks as solemn as an ordained bishop; the days grow short, the bills grow long, and I'm the most miserable little Kitty that ever mewed. Do have pity on me, and initiate me into the mysteries of broiling, baking, and roasting; take me into your kitchen now, and let me go into it while the fit is on me. I feel as if I could roast Chanticleer and all his hen-harem!"
"You don't expect to take your degree in one forenoon?" said Mrs. Green, laughing immoderately.
"Not a bit of it! I intend to come every morning, if the earth don't whirl off its axle. I've locked up my guitar and my French and Italian books, and that irresistible 'Festus,' and nerved myself like a female martyr, to look a gridiron in the face without flinching. Come, put down that embroidery, there's a good Samaritan, and descend with me into the lower regions, before my enthusiasm gets a shower-bath," and she rolled up her sleeves from her round white arms, took off her rings, and tucked her curls behind her ears.
Very patiently did Mrs. Kitty keep her resolution; each day added a little to her store of culinary wisdom. What if she did flavor her first custards with peppermint instead of lemon? What if she did "baste" a turkey with saleratus instead of salt? What if she did season the stuffing with ground cinnamon instead of pepper? Rome was n't built in a day;--cooks can't be manufactured in a minute.
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Kitty's husband had been gone just a month. He was expected home that very day. All the morning the little wife had been getting up a congratulatory dinner, in honor of the occasion. What with sati[s]faction and the kitchen fire, her cheeks glowed like a milkmaid's. How her eyes sparkled, and what a pretty little triumphant toss she gave her head, when that big trunk was dumped down in the entry! It is n't a bad thing, sometimes, to have a secret even from one's own husband.
"On my word, Kitty," said Harry, holding her off at arm's length, "you look most provokingly 'well-to-do' for a widow 'pro tem.' I don't believe you have mourned for me the breath of a sigh. What have you been about? who has been here? and what mine of fun is to be prophesied from the merry twinkle in the corner of your eye? Anybody hid in the closet or cupboard? Have you drawn a prize in the lottery?"
"Not since I married you," said Mrs. Kitty; "and you are quite welcome to that sugar-plum to sweeten your dinner."
"How Bridget has improved," said Harry, as he plied his knife and fork industriously; "I never saw these woodcock outdone, even at our bachelor club-rooms at ---- House. She shall have a present of a pewter cross, as sure as her name is McFlanigan, besides absolution for all the detestable messes she used to concoct with her Catholic finger."
"Let me out! let me out!" said a stifled voice from the closet; "you can't expect a woman to keep a secret forever."
"What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Green?" said Harry, gaily shaking her hand.
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"Why, you see, 'Bridge has improved;' i. e. to say, little Mrs. Kitty there received from my hands yesterday a diploma, certifying her Mistress of Arts, Hearts and Drumsticks, having spent every morning of your absence in perfecting herself as a housekeeper. There now, don't drop on your knees to her till I have gone. I know very well when three is a crowd, or, to speak more fashionably, when I am 'de trop,' and I'm only going to stop long enough to remind you that there are some wives left in the world, and that Kitty is one of 'em."
And now, dear reader, if you doubt whether Mrs. Kitty was rewarded for all her trouble, you'd better take a peep into that parlor, and while you are looking, let me whisper a secret in your ear confidentially. You may be as beautiful as Venus, and as talented as Madame de Stael, but you never'll reign supreme in your liege lord's affections, till you can roast a turkey.
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MRS. GRUMBLE'S SOLILOQUY.
"There's no calculating the difference between men and women boarders. Here's Mr. Jones, been in my house these six months, and no more trouble to me than my gray kitten. If his bed is shook up once a week, and his coats, cravats, love-letters, cigars and patent-leather boots left undisturbed in the middle of the floor, he is as contented as a pedagogue in vacation time.
"Take a woman to board, and (if it is perfectly convenient) she would like drapery instead of drop-curtains; she'd like the windows altered to open at the top, and a wardrobe for her flounced dresses, and a few more nails and another shelf in her closet, and a cricket to put her feet on, and a little rocking-chair, and a big looking-glass, and a pea-green shade for her gas-burner.
"She would like breakfast about ten minutes later than your usual hour; tea ten minutes earlier, and the gong, which shocks her nerves so, altogether dispensed with.
"She can't drink coffee, because it is exhilirating; broma is too insipid, and chocolate too heavy. She don't fancy cocoa. 'English breakfast tea' is the only beverage which agrees with her delicate spinster organization.
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"She can't digest a roast or a fried dish; she might possibly peck at an egg, if it were boiled with one eye on the watch. Pastry she never eats, unless she knows from what dairy the butter came, which enters into its composition. Every article of food prepared with butter, salt, pepper, mustard, vinegar or oil; or bread that is made with yeast, soda, milk or saleratus, she decidedly rejects.
"She is constantly washing out little duds of laces, collars, handkerchiefs, chemisettes and stockings, which she festoons up to the front windows, to dry; giving passers-by the impression that your house is occupied by a blanchesseuse;--then jerks the bell-wire for an hour or more, for relays of hot smoothing irons, to put the finishing stroke to her operations.
"She is often afflicted with interesting little colds and influenzas, requiring the immediate consolation of a dose of hot lemonade or ginger tea; choosing her time for these complaints when the kitchen fire has gone out and the servants are on a furlough. Oh! nobody knows, but those who 've tried, how immensely troublesome women are! I'd rather have a whole regiment of men boarders. All you have to do is, to wind them up in the morning with a powerful cup of coffee, give them carte-blanche to smoke, and a nigh-key, and your work is done."
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HENRY WARD BEECHER.
What a warm Sunday! and what a large church! I wonder if it will be half-filled! Empty pews are a sorry welcome to a pastor. Ah! no fear; here comes the congregation in troops and families; now the capacious galleries are filled; every pew is crowded, and seats are being placed in the aisles.
The preacher rises. What a young "David!" Still, the "stone and sling" will do their execution. How simple, how child-like that prayer; and yet how eloquent, how fervent. How eagerly, as he names the text, the eye of each is riveted upon the preacher, as if to secure his individual portion of the heavenly manna.
Let us look around, upon the audience. Do you see yonder gray-haired business man? Six days in the week, for many years, he has been Mammon's most devoted worshipper. According to time-honored custom, he has slept comfortably in his own pew each Sunday, lulled by the soft voice of the shepherd who "prophesieth smooth things." One pleasant Sabbath, chance, (I would rather say an overruling Providence,) led him here. He settles himself in his accustomed Sunday attitude, but sleep comes not at his bidding. He looks disturbed. The preacher is dwelling upon the permitted but
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fraudulent tricks of business men, and exposing plainly their turpitude in the sight of that God who holds "evenly the scales of justice." As he proceeds, Conscience whispers to this aged listener, "Thou art the man!" He moves uneasily on his seat; an angry flush mounts to his temples: What right has that boy-preacher to question the integrity of men of such unblemished mercantile standing in the community as himself? He is not accustomed to such a spiritual probing knife. His spiritual physician has always "healed the hurt of his people slightly." He don't like such plain talking, and sits the service out only from compulsion. But when he passes the church porch, he does not leave the sermon there, as usual. No. He goes home perplexed and thoughtful. Conscience sides with the preacher; self-interest tries to stifle its voice with the sneering whisper of "priest-craft." Monday comes, and again he plunges into the maelstrom of business, and tries to tell the permitted lie with his usual nonchalance to some ignorant customer, but his tongue falters and performs its duty but awkwardly; a slight blush is perceptible upon his countenance; and the remainder of the week chronicles similar and repeated failures.
Again it is Sunday. He is not a church-member: he can stay at home, therefore, without fear of a canonical committee of Paul Prys to investigate the matter: he can look over his debt and credit list if he likes, without excommunication: he certainly will not put himself again in the way of that plain-spoken, stripling priest. The bell peals out, in musical tones, seemingly this summons: "Come up with us, and we
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will do you good." By an irresistible impulse, he finds himself again a listener. "Not that he believes what that boy says:" Oh no: but, somehow, he likes to listen to him, even though he attack that impregnable pride in which he has wrapped himself up as in a garment.
Now, why is this? Why is this church filled with such wayside listeners?
Why, but that all men--even the most worldly and unscrupulous--pay involuntary homage to earnestness, sincerity, independence and Christian boldness, in the "man of God?"
Why? Because they see that he stands in that sacred desk, not that his lips may be tamed and held in, with a silver bit and silken bridle: not because preaching is his "trade," and his hearers must receive their quid pro quo once a week--no, they all see and feel that his heart is in the work--that he loves it--that he comes to them fresh from his closet, his face shining with the light of "the Mount," as did Moses'.
The preacher is remarkable for fertility of imagination, for rare felicity of expression, for his keen perception of the complicated and mysterious workings of the human heart, and for the uncompromising boldness with which he utters his convictions. His earnestness of manner, vehemence of gesture and rapidity of utterance, are, at times, electrifying; impressing his hearers with the idea that language is too poor and meager a medium for the rushing tide of his thoughts.
Upon the lavish beauty of earth, sea, and sky, he was evidently gazed with the poet's eye of rapture. He walks the green earth in no monk's cowl or cassock. The tiniest blade
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of grass with its "drap o' dew," has thrilled him with strange delight. "God is love," is written for him in brilliant letters, on the arch of the rainbow. Beneath that black coat, his heart leaps like a happy child's to the song of the birds and the tripping of the silver-footed stream, and goes up, in the dim old woods, with the fragrance of their myriad flowers, in grateful incense of praise, to Heaven.
God be thanked, that upon all these rich and rare natural gifts, "Holiness to the Lord" has been written. Would that the number of such gospel soldiers was "legion," and that they might stand in the forefront of the hottest battle, wielding thus skillfully and unflinchingly the "Sword of the Spirit."
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AN OLD MAID'S DECISION.
"I can bear misfortune and poverty, and all the other ills of life, but to be an old maid--to droop and wither, and wilt and die, like a single pink--I can't endure it; and what's more, I won't!"
Now there's an appeal that ought to touch some bachelor's heart. There she is, a poor, lone spinster, in a nicely furnished room--sofa big enough for two; two arm chairs, two bureaus, two looking-glasses--everything hunting in couples except herself! I don't wonder she's frantic! She read in her childhood that "matches were made in Heaven," and although she's well aware there are some Lucifer matches, yet she has never had a chance to try either sort. She has heard that there "never was a soul crated, but its twin was made somewhere," and she's a melancholy proof that 't is a mocking lie. She gets tired sewing--she can't knit forever on that eternal stocking--(besides, that has a fellow to it, and is only an aggravation to her feelings.) She has read till her eyes are half blind,--there's nobody to agree with her if she likes the book, or argue the point with her if she don't. If she goes out to walk, every woman she meets has her husband's arm. To be sure, they are half of them ready to scratch each other's eyes out; but that's a little business matter between themselves. Suppose she feels devo-
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tional, and goes to evening lectures, some ruffianly coward is sure to scare her to death on the way. If she takes a journey, she gets hustled and boxed round among cab-drivers, and porters, and baggage-masters; her bandbox gets knocked in, her trunk gets knocked off, and she's landed at the wrong stopping place. If she wants a load of wood, she has to pay twice as much as a man would, and then she gets cheated by the man that saws and splits it. She has to put her own money into the bank and get it out, hire her own pew, and wait upon herself into it. People tell her "husbands are often great plagues," but she knows there are times when they are indispensable. She is very good looking, black hair and eyes, fine figure, sings and plays beautifully, but she "can't be an old maid, and what's more--SHE WON'T."
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A PUNCH AT "PUNCH."
"What is the height of a
woman's ambition? Diamonds."--
[Punch.
Sagacious Punch! Do you know the reason? It is because the more "diamonds" a woman owns, the more precious she becomes in the eyes of your discriminating sex. What pair of male eyes ever saw a "crow's foot," grey hair, or wrinkle, in company with a genuine diamond? Don't you go down on your marrow-bones, and vow that the owner is a Venus, a Hebe, a Juno, a sylph, a fairy, an angel? Would you stop to look (connubially) at the most bewitching woman on earth, whose only diamonds were "in her eye?" Well, it is no great marvel, Mr. Punch. The race of men is about extinct. Now and then you will meet with a specimen; but I'm sorry to inform you that the most of them are nothing but coat tails, walking behind a moustache, destitute of sufficient energy to earn their own cigars and "Macassar," preferring to dangle at the heels of a diamond wife, and meekly receive their allowance, as her mamma's prudence and her own inclinations may suggest.
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FATHER TAYLOR, THE SAILOR'S PREACHER.
You have never heard Father Taylor, the Boston Seaman's preacher? Well--you should go down to his church some Sunday. It is not at the court-end of the town. The urchins of the neighborhood are guiltless of shoes or bonnets. You will see quite a sprinkling of "Police" at the corners. Green Erin, too, is well represented: with a dash of Africa--checked off with "dough faces."
Let us go into the church: there are no stained-glass windows--no richly draperied pulpit--no luxurious seats to suggest a nap to your sleepy conscience. No odor of patchouli, or nonpareil, or bouquet de violet will be wafted across your patrician nose. Your satin and broadcloth will fail to procure you the highest seat in the synagogue,--they being property reserved for the "old salts."
Here they come! one after another, with horny palms and bronzed faces. It stirs my blood, like the sound of a trumpet, to see them. The seas they have crossed! the surging billows they have breasted! the lonely, dismal, weary nights they have kept watch!--the harpies in port who have assailed
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their generous sympathies! the sullen plash of the sheeted dead, in its vast ocean sepulchre!--what stirring thoughts and emotions to their weather- beaten faces call into play! God bless the sailor!--Here they come; sure of a welcome--conscious that they are no intruders on aristocratic landsmen's soil--sure that each added face will send a thrill of pleasure to the heart of the good old man, who folds them all, as one family, to his patriarchal bosom.
There he is! How reverently he drops on his knee, and utters that silent prayer. Now he is on his feet. With a quick notion he adjusts his spectacles, and says to the tardy tar doubtful of a berth, "Room here, brother!" pointing to a seat in the pulpit. Jack don't know about that! He can climb the rigging when Boreas whistles his fiercest blast; he can swing into the long boat with a stout heart, when creaking timbers are parting beneath him: but to mount the pulpit!--Jack doubts his qualifications, and blushes through his mask of bronze. "Room enough, brother!" again reassures him; and, with a lit[t]le extra fumbling at his tarpaulin, and hitching at his waistband, he is soon as much at home as though he were on his vessel's deck.
The hymn is read with a heart-tone. There is no mistaking either the poet's meaning or the reader's devotion. And now, if you have a "scientific musical ear," (which, thank heaven, I have not,) you may criticise the singing, while I am not ashamed of the tears that steal down my face, as I mark the effect of good Old Hundred (minus trills and flourishes) on Neptune's honest, hearty, whole-souled sons.
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--The text is announced. There follows no arrangement of dickys, or bracelets, or eye-glasses. You forget your ledger and the fashions, the last prima donna, and that your neighbor is not one f the "upper ten," as you fix your eye on that good old man, and are swept away from worldly moorings by the flowing tide of his simple, earnest eloquence. You marvel that these uttered truths of his, never struck your thoughtless mind before. My pen fails to convey to you the play of expression on that earnest face--those emphatic gestures--the starting ear or the thrilling voice;--but they all tell on "Jack."
And now an infant is presented for baptism. The pastor takes it on one arm. O, surely he is himself a father, else it would not be poised so gently. Now he holds it up, that all may view its dimpled beauty, and says: "Is there one here who doubts, should this child die to-day, its right among the blessed?" One murmured, spontaneous No! bursts from Jack['s] lips, as the baptismal drops lave its sinless temples. Lovingly the little lamb is folded, with a kiss and a blessing, to the heart of the earthly shepherd, ere the maternal arms receive it.
Jack looks on and weeps! And how can he help weeping? He was once as pure as that blessed innocent! His mother--the sod now covers her--often invoked heaven's blessing on her son; and well he remembers the touch of her gentle hand and the sound of her loving voice, as she murmured the imploring prayer for him: and how has her sailor boy redeemed his youthful promise? He dashes away his scalding tears, with
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his horny palm; but, please God, that Sabbath--that scene--shall be a talisman upon which memory shall ineffaceably inscribe,
"Go, and sin no more."
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SIGNS OF THE TIMES.
E-q-u-i--equi, d-o-m-e--dome, "Equidome." Betty, hand me my dictionary.
Well, now, who would have believed that I, Fanny Fern, would have tripped over a "stable?" That all comes of being "raised" where people persist in calling things by their right names. I'm very certain that it is useless for me to try to circumnavigate the globe on stilts. There's the "Hippodrome!" I had but just digested that humbug: my tongue kinked all up trying to pronounce it; and then I could n't find out the meaning of it; for Webster did n't inform me that it was a place where vicious horses broke the necks of vicious young girls for the amusement of vicious spectators.
--"Jim Brown!" What a relief. I can understand that. I never saw Jim, but I'm positively certain that he's a mono-syllable on legs--crisp as a cucumber. Ah! here are some more suggestive signs.
"Robert Link--Bird Fancier." I suggest that it be changed to Bob-o'Link; in which opinion I shall probably be backed up by all musical people.
Here we are in Broadway junior, alias the "Bowery." I don't see but the silks, and satins, and dry goods generally, are
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quite equal to those in Broadway; but, of course, Fashion turns her back upon them, for they are only half the price.
What have we here, in this shop window? What are all those silks, and delaines, and calicoes, ticketed up that way for?--"Superbe," "Tasty," "Beautiful," "Desirable," "Cheap for 1s.," "Modest," "Unique," "Genteel," "Grand," "Gay!" It is very evident that Mr. Yardstick takes all women for fools, or else he has had a narrow escape from being one himself.
There's a poor, distracted gentleman in a milliner's shop, trying to select a bonnet for his spouse. What a non compos! See him poise the airy nothings on his great clumsy hands! He is about as good a judge of bonnets as I am of patent ploughs. See him turn, in despairing bewilderment, from blue to pink, from pink to green, from green to crimson, from crimson to yellow. The little witch of a milliner sees his indecision, and resolves to make a coup d'état; so, perching one of the bonnets (blue as her eyes) on her rosy little face, she walks up sufficiently near to give him a magnetic shiver, and holding the strings coquettishly under her pretty little chin, says:
"Now, I'm sure, you can't say that is n't pretty!"
Of course he can't!
So, the bonnet is bought and band-boxed, and Jonathan (who is sold with the bonnet) takes it home to his wife, whose black face looks in it like an overcharged thunder-cloud set in a silver lining.
Saturday evening is a busy time in the Bowery. So many little things wanted at the close of the week. A pair of new shoes for Robert, a tippet for Sally, a pair of gloves for Johnny,
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and a stick of candy to bribe the baby to keep the peace while mamma goes to "meetin" on Sunday. What a heap of people! What a job it must be to take the census in New York. Servant girls and their beaux, country folks and city folks, big boys and little boys, ladies and women, puppies and men! There's a poor laboring man with his market basket on one arm, and his wife on the other. He knows that he can get his Sunday dinner cheaper by purchasing it late on Saturday night, when the butchers are not quite sure that their stock will "keep" till Monday. And then it is quite a treat for his wife, when little Johnny is asleep, to get out to catch a bit of fresh air, and a sight of the pretty things in the shop windows, even if she cannot have them; but the little feminine diplomatist knows that husbands always feel clever of a Saturday night, and that then's the time "just to stop and look" at a new ribbon or collar.
See that party of country folks, going to the "National" to see "Uncle Tom." Those pests, the bouquet sellers, are offering them their stereotyped, cabbage-looking bunches of flowers with,
"Please by one for your lady, sir."
Jonathan don't understand dodging such appeals; beside, he would scorn to begrudge a "quarter" for his lady! So he buys the nuisance, and scraping out his hind foot, presents it, with a bow, to Araminta, who "walks on thrones" the remainder of the evening.
There's a hand organ, and, a poor, tired little girl, sleepily playing the tambourine. All the little ragged urchins in the
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neighborhood are grouped on that door step, listening. The connoisseur might criticise the performance, but no Cathedral Te Deum could be grander to that unsophisticated little audience. There is one little girl, who spite of her rags, is beautiful enough for a seraph. Poor and beautiful! God help her!
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WHOM DOES IT CONCERN?
"Stitch--stitch--stitch! Will this never end?" said a young girl, leaning her head wearily against the casement, and dropping her small hands hopelessly in her lap. "Stitch--stitch--stitch! from dawn till dark, and yet I scarce keep soul and body together;" and she drew her thin shawl more closely over her shivering shoulders.
Her eye fell upon the great house opposite. There was comfort there, and luxury, too; for the rich, satin curtains were looped gracefully away from the large windows; a black servant opens the hall door: see, there are statues and vases and pictures there: now, two young girls trip lightly out upon the pavement, their lustrous silks, and nodding plumes, and jeweled bracelets glistening, and quivering, and sparkling in the bright sunlight. Now poising their silver-netted purses upon their daintily gloved fingers, they leap lightly into the carriage in waiting, and are whirled rapidly away.
That little seamstress is as fair as they: her eyes are as soft and blue; her limbs as lithe and graceful; her rich, brown hair folds as softly away over as fair a brow; her heart leaps, like theirs, to all that is bright and joyous; it craves love and sympathy, and companionship as much, and yet she must stitch
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"Tut, tut, young woman! don't quarrel with your bread and butter!"
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--stitch--stitch--and droop under summer's heat, and shiver under winter's cold, and walk the earth with the skeleton starvation ever at her side, that costly pictures, and velvet carpets, and massive chandeliers, and gay tapestry, and gold and silver vessels may fill the house of her employer--that his flaunting equipage may roll admired along the highway, and India's fairest fabrics deck his purse-proud wife and daughters.
It is a busy scene, the ware-room of Simon Skinflint & Co. Garments of every hue, size and pattern, were there exposed for sale. Piles of coarse clothing lay upon the counter, ready to be given out to the destitute, brow-beaten applicant who would make them for the smallest possible remuneration; piles of garments lay there, which such victims had already toiled into the long night to finish, ticketed to bring enormous profits into the pocket of their employer: groups of dapper clerks stood behind the counter, discussing, in a whisper, the pedestals of the last new danseuse--ogling the half-starved young girls who were crowding in for employment, and raising a blush on the cheek of humble innocence by the coarse joke and free, libidinous gaze; while their master, Mr. Simon Skinflint sat, rosy and rotund, before a bright Lehigh fire, rubbing his fat hands, building imaginary houses, and felicitating himself generally, on his far-reaching financial foresight.
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"If you could but allow me a trifle more for my labor," murmured a low voice at his side; "I have toiled hard all the week, and yet--"
"Young woman," said Mr. Skinflint, pushing his chair several feet back, elevating his spectacles to his forehead, and drawing his satin vest down over his aldermanic proportions--"young woman, do you observe that crowd of persons besieging my door for employment? Perhaps you are not aware that we turn away scores of them every day; perhaps you do n't know that the farmers' daughters, who are at a loss what to do long winter evenings, and want to earn a little dowry, will do our work for less than we pay you? But you feminine operatives do n't seem to have the least idea of trade. Competition is the soul of business, you see," said Mr. Skinflint, rubbing his hands in a congratulatory manner. "Tut--tut--young woman! do n't quarrel with your bread and butter; however, it is a thing that do n't concern me at all; if you won't work, there are plenty who will,"--and Mr. Skinflint drew out his gold repeater, and glanced at the door.
A look of hopeless misery settled over the young girl's face, as she turned slowly away in the direction of home. Home did I say? The word was a bitter mockery to poor Mary. She had a home once, where she and the little birds sang the live-long day: where flowers blossomed, and tall trees waved, and merry voices floated out on the fragrant air, and the golden sun went gorgeously down behind the far-off hills; where a mother's loving breast was her pillow, and a father's good-night blessing wooed her rosy slumbers. I was past
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now. They were all gone--father, mother, brother, sister. Some with the blue sea for a shifting monument; some sleeping dreamlessly in the little church-yard, where her infant footsteps strayed. Rank grass had o'ergrown the cottage gravel walks; weeds choked the flowers which dust-crumbled hands had planted; the brown moss had thatched over the cottage eaves, and still the little birds sang on as blithely as if Mary's household gods had not been shivered.
Poor Mary! The world was dark and weary to her: the very stars, with their serene beauty, seemed to mock her misery. She reached her little room. Its narrow walls seemed to close about her like a tomb. She leaned her head wearily against the little window, and looked again at the great house opposite. How brightly, how cheerfully the lights glanced from the windows! How like fairies glided the young girls over the softly carpeted floors! How swiftly the carriages whirled to the door, with their gay visitors[!] Life was such a rosy dream to them--such a brooding nightmare to her! Despair laid its icy hand on her heart. Must she always drink, unmixed, the cup of sorrow? Must she weep and sigh her youth away, while griping Avarice trampled on her heart-strings? She could not weep--nay, worse--she could not pray. Dark shadows came between her soul and heaven.
The little room is empty now. Mary toils there no longer. You will find her in the great house opposite: her dainty limbs clad in flowing silk; her slender fingers and dimpled arms glit-
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tering with gems: and among all that merry group, Mary's laugh rings out the merriest. Surely--surely, this is better than to toil, weeping, through the long weary days in the little darkened room.
Is it, Mary?
There is a ring at the door of the great house. A woman glides modestly in; by her dress, she is a widow. She has opened a small school in the neighborhood, and in the search for scholars has wandered in here. She looks about her. Her quick, womanly instinct sounds the alarm. She is not among the good and pure of her sex. But she does not scorn them. No; she looks upon their blighted beauty, with a Christ-like pity; she says to herself, haply some word of mine may touch their hearts. So, she says, gently, "Pardon me, ladies, but I had hoped to find scholars here; you will forgive the intrusion, I know; for though you are not mothers, you have all had mothers."
Why is Mary's lip so ashen white? Why does she tremble from head to foot, as if smitten by the hand of God? Why do the hot tears stream through her jeweled fingers? Ah! Mary. That little dark room, with its toil, its gloom, its innocence, were Heaven's own brightness now, to your tortured spirit.
Pitilessly the slant rain rattled against the window panes: awnings creaked and flapped, and the street lamps flickered in
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the strong blast: full-freighted omnibuses rolled over the muddy pavements: stray pedestrians turned up their coat-collars, grasped their umbrellas more tightly, and made for the nearest port. A woman, half- blinded by the long hair which the fury of the wind had driven across her face, drenched to the skin with the pouring rain--shoeless, bonnetless, homeless, leans unsteadily against a lamp-post, and in the maudlin accents of intoxication curses the passers-by. A policeman's strong grasp is laid upon her arm, and she is hurried, struggling, through the dripping streets, and pushed into the nearest "station house." Morning dawns upon the wretched, forsaken outcast. She sees it not. Upon those weary eyes only the resurrection morn shall dawn.
No more shall the stony-hearted shut, in her imploring face, the door of hope; no more shall gilded sin, with Judas smile, say, "Eat, drink, and be merry;" no more shall the professed followers of Him who said, "Neither do I condemn thee," say to the guilt-stricken one, "Stand aside--for I am holier than thou." No, none may tempt, none may scorn, none may taunt her more. A pauper's grave shall hide poor Mary and her shame.
God speed the day when the Juggernaut wheels of Avarice shall no longer roll over woman's dearest hopes; when thousands of doors, now closed, shall be opened for starving Virtue to earn her honest bread; when he who would coin her tears and groans to rear his palaces, shall become a hissing and a by-word, wherever the sacred name of Mother shall be honored.