STO~RIES
YOUNG HOUSEKEEPERS.
BY T. S.' ARTHUR.
PHILADELPHIA:
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1859.




Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1851, by
i- T. S. ARTHUR & CO.
Iin the Clerk's Office of the District Court bf the Eastern District of
Pennsylvania.




PREFACE.
THERE are very few young housekeepers who may
not profit, in a degree, by the experience of those who
have already met some of the trials to which their new
position naturally subjects them. For such, the pictures of domestic life here presented, drawn in the
colours of truth by fancy's pencil, may have more than
a passing interest. While some of them excite a smile,
others will afford subjects for serious thought; and all
may be read, the author thinks, without involving a
waste of time, —an error into which he would be sorry
to lead any one, either young or old.
This makes the sixth volume in our "LIBRARY FOR
THE HOrYSEHOLD."








CONTENTS.
PAGB
WHERE  THE  MONEY  GOES...........................     7
A   BAD  HABIT  CURED............................,.....   27
SPOILING  A  GOOD  DINNER................4...............                           44
OPENING  AN  ACCOUNT..........................................   58
MR. AND MRS. SUNDERLAND'S EXPERIENCES:
AGREEABLE  NEIGHBOURS................................    75
SAVING  AT  THE  SPIGOT.......................   89
MY  WIFE'S  PARTY........................................    97
THE  HOUSE-CLEANING.................................... 107
DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.                                                              118
WHAT  WILL  PEOPLE  SAY?.................................... 137
IT'S  ONLY  A  DOLLAR..........................................  156
HIRING  A  SERVANT............................................  188
1*                                5








STORIES
FOR
YOUNG HOUSEKEEPERS.
WHERE THE MONEY GOES.
THERE was one thing that Mr. Barnaby could not,
as he said, "figure out;" and that was, where all ais
money went to. He was not extravagant; nor could
such a charge be brought against any member of his
family. They did not give parties in winter, nor
go to the Springs nor the sea-shore during the
summer season. They did not keep a carriage, nor
buy fine furniture, nor indulge in costly dressing.
And yet, though Mr. Barnaby's annual receipts were
in the neighbourhood of two thousand dollars a
year, the thirty-first of December usually found him
with an empty purse. This was the more surprising,
as the Malcolms, next door, indulged in many things
which the Barnabys would have considered extravagant; though the Malcolms had an income of only
fifteen hundred dollars per annum. And, what was
7




8          WHERE THE MONEY GOES.
more, Malcolm was putting three hundred dollars in
the Savings bank every year.
"I can't figure it out," said Mr. Barnaby, one
Newyear's eve, as he footed up the cash column of
his annual expenses. " Two thousand and sixty odd
dollars have gone since last December. But where
has it gone? that's the question."
"I'm  sure I haven't spent it," meekly replied
Mrs. Barnaby, who always felt, when any allusion
was made to the amount of money expended, as if
her husband designed to charge her with extravagance.
" I know that, Aggy," said Mr. Barnaby, who
understood, in a moment, how his wife felt.  "I
know that you haven't spent any thing more than
is necessary. But, for all that, the cost of living has
been enormous. We have only two more in family
than Malcolm, whose salary is but fifteen hundred
dollars; and what is altogether unaccountable, while
I haven't ten dollars in my pocket, he has three
hundred dollars of his year's salary snugly deposited
in the Savings bank."'' I can't understand it," sighed Mrs. Barnaby.
"I'm sure we don't indulge in any extravagances.
We haven't bought an article of new furniture
during the year; while the Malcolms have had a
Beautiful sofa, a set of candelabras, a large mahogany
rocking-chair, and a dressing bureau for which they
paid twenty-five dollars."




WHERE THE MONEY GOES.             9
"I don't know bow it is!" said Mr. Barnaby.
(And that isn't all," continued his wife.  " Mrs.
Malcolm has bought her an elegant muff and boa, a
velvet mantilla, and a pin and bracelet worth twentyfive dollars."
" It's unaccountable! We have had none of these
things, and yet our expenses outrun theirs some eight
hundred dollars! It really makes me unhappy. There
is a leak somewhere; but, though I have searched
for it long and anxiously, I cannot find it out."
"Still, we must remember," said Mrs. Barnaby,
" that we have two more in family, and one of them:an extra servant, whose wages and board do not'come to less than a hundred and fifty dollars a year;
and the additional child will swell the sum, put the
expense at the lowest possible point, to two hundred
and twenty-five dollars. Then we pay seventy-five
dollars more rent than the Malcolms. So, you see,
that in these three items, we make up a sum of
three hundred dollars."
"Yes, but that isn't eight hundred."
"No, although it is a very'important sum for
which I have accounted. Half of it I have resolved
to save. Mrs. Malcolm does with two girls, and I
ought to get along with the same number. I'll send
Hannah away next week."
" Indeed, Aggy, you will do no such thing," replied Mr. Barnaby, in a positive voice. "You're
worn down with the toil and care of the children, as




10        WHERE THE MONEY GOES.
it is, and must not think of dispensing with Hannah.
That would be a poor way to save."
" But I don't see why I can't do with less help as
well as other people. There is Mrs. Jones, over the
way, with as many children as I have, and she only
keeps one servant."
"I am sorry for her; that is all I have to say on
the subject. Her husband's income is less than half
what I receive. We can afford three domestics as
well as they can afford one. No, no, Aggy. If we
are to retrench at any point, it must not be in the
one you propose."
" I see no other way of reducing our expenses,"
sighed Mrs. Barnaby.
"Then let them go on as they are going, and we
will be thankful for an income sufficient to meet our
wants."
"But we ought to be saving something. We
ought to be laying up three or four hundred dollars
every year."
"I wish we could do so. However, as we cannot,
there is no use in making ourselves unhappy in consequence. We shall be as well off fifty years hence
as though we laid by a thousand dollars per annum."
Mrs. Barnaby looked serious and unhappy, as she
sat, without replying to her husband's last remark;
while Mr. Barnaby, regretting now that he had introduced the subject, sought to change it for one
that wax more agreeable.  His efforts to do so were




WHERE THE MONEY GOES.            11
not very successful, and the evening of the New.
year was passed in reflections that were far from
being pleasant to either party.
Although neither Mr. nor Mrs. Barnaby were able
to answer the question, "Where does the money go?"
we think the reader will be at no loss to "figure
out" the matter, after we enlighten him a little as
to the mode in which the financial affairs of the
family were conducted.
On the morning that succeeded to the evening on
which we have introduced Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby,
the former, as was his custom, went to market. As
he walked along, he run over in his mind the various
articles he must purchase; and being in something
of an economical mood, he summed up the amount
they would probably cost. When he left the markethouse, he had spent three dollars instead of a dollar
and three quarters, which latter sum had fully
covered, in his previous estimate, all the articles that
were really wanted. How the additional dollar and
a quarter came to be added, was in this wise. A loin
of veal had been determined upon, which was not to
cost over sixty-five cents; but a fine fat pair of
chickens met his eyes, and the cost was only twentytwo cents more than the veal, which was such a trifle
that he decided at once in favour of the chickens.
Having bought the chickens, to add a bundle of
celery and a quart of cranberries was the most natural thing in the world, and these took twenty cents




12         WHERE THE MONEY GOES.
more, to say nothing of the pound of sugar at eight
cents, that would be required to sweeten the cranberries. The man who had the chickens to sell had
also some very nice honey, the sight of which created
in the mind of Mr. Barnaby the desire to have some.
The price was twenty-five cents a pound; though what
of that? Mr. Barnaby had no means of taking it
home, but Mr. Barnaby was a man of expedients. He
never liked to be foiled in any thing, and was, therefore, rarely at a loss for some mode of accomplishing
his ends. Just across from the market-house was the
shop of a tinman; and, as Mr. Barnaby looked up, he
saw the bright tin kettles, of all sizes and shapes,
hanging before his door.
" I have it," said he, speaking aloud his thoughts.
"Such articles are always useful in a family."
So he walked across to the tinman's, and bought
a small kettle, for which he paid thirty-one cents,
and then walked back and had a pound of honey
placed therein, for which he paid twenty-five cents
more. After he had purchased what vegetables he
had designed getting, some dried Lima beans presented themselves, and a quart was taken, as the
price was but fifteen cents. Some cakes and candies
for the children took a shilling more. Thus it was
that three dollars were spent, instead of one dollar
and three quarters, the sum at first decided upon as
sufficient.
When Mr. Barnaby went to market, he put fivo
I ________________                             _______________




WHERE THE MONEY GOES.            13
dollars in his pocket.  On returning home and
counting over his change, he could find but two.
"That can't be," he said to himself, searching
first in one pocket and then in another.  " I haven't
spent three dollars."
But nowhere could he turn up another copper.
" Somebody must have given me wrong change."
This was the most reasonable conclusion to which
he could come, after adding up the cost of the various
articles purchased, and forgetting to include the tin
kettle, the cakes and candies for the children, and
the quart of Lima beans.
" Hadn't you better take your umbrella with you?"
said Mrs. Barnaby to her husband, as the latter
prepared to leave for his place of business.  "It
looks very much like a storm."
Mr. Barnaby opened the door and glanced up at
the sky.
"I don't think it will rain."
" It will be wisest to take your umbrella. If it
don't rain, no harm will be done, and if it should
rain, you will save yourself from being wet."
Mr. Barnaby paused a moment to think, and then
said, as he stepped out, " I'll risk it."
On his way to his office, Mr. Barnaby passed a
window in which were some very handsome bouquets
of artificial flowers made from tissue-paper. He
paused to admire, and then went in to ask the price,
YI.-2




14         WHERE THE MONEY GOES.
Once inside of the store in which the bouquets were
sold, and in the power of a saleswoman who knew
her man the moment he entered, there was no such
thing as retiring without becoming the owner of a
splendid bunch of flowers, at the moderate cost of
fifty cents, which the shop-woman promised to send
home immediately.
"Cheap enough," said Barnaby to himself, as he
left the shop. "How many dollars have I spent in
real flowers that faded, and became worthless in a
day; but these will retain their beauty for years.
Aggy will be delighted with them!"
During the morning, Mr. Barnaby had occasion
to purchase some articles of stationery.  While
waiting to have them made up into a package, after
selecting what he wanted, he commenced looking
over the books that were displayed upon the counter.
" Just the thing for Tom," he said aloud, as he
opened a book containing a number of gayly-painted
pictures. " How much is it?"
"Only thirty-seven and a half cents."
" You may tie it up for me."  And he tossed the
book to the man who stood behind the counter.
Before twelve o'clock, the rain, which Mr. Barnaby's wife had predicted, began to fall. At one,
it was still coming down freely, and at two, Mr.
Barnaby's dinner hour, there was no sign of abatenlent. Mr. Barnaby opened the door of his office
and gazed up at the leaden sky; he then looked




WHERE THE TMONEY GOES.            15
across the street, and saw, hanging before a door.
just the article he wanted-an umbrella.  To get
possession of this article, he must, of course, purchase it. But he had two umbrellas at home now.
" What if I have?" said he to himself, as the
fact was presented to his mind.  " It is here that I
want an umbrella."
Not long was the question of buying another
umbrella debated.  He couldn't lose his dinner,
especially as a fine pair of fat chickens were to be
served; and it was raining too hard to think of
venturing on the journey home without some protection. He might go home in a cab for fifty cents;
but then the half dollar would be gone as certainly
as if it were thrown into the street.  If, on the contrary, he were to buy an umbrella, even though it
cost more, he would be in possession of a useful
article, that would have to be bought, as the natural
result of the wear and tear of those he now had on
hand, before a twelvemonth elapsed.  Moreover, he
reflected, for as large a family as his, three or four
umbrellas were almost indispensable.
Arrived at this conclusion, Mr. Barnaby ran
across the street, and supplied himself with a cheap
cotton umbrella, at an expense of seventy-five cents.
"Where does the money go?" said Mr. Barnaby
that evening, as he searched his pockets, and could    K
find but a solitary sixpence remaining of the cash
he had taken from his secretary in the morning




16        WHERE THE MIONEY GOES.
" I can't understand it.  Certainly I have not spent
five dollars."  Then he took a piece of paper and
his pencil, and tried to "figure it up."  But he did
not get beyond four dollars; and he would almost
have taken his oath that he had not spent a copper
more. As for the deficit, that must have occurred
through his having received wrong change.
Here the reader has a history of one day's spendings; and he will perceive that from two to three
dollars passed from the hands of Mr. Barnaby that
had better haveremained in his possession. A system
like this, pursued every day in the year, would use
up from six hundred to nine hundred dollars, and
there would be little or nothing to show for it in the
end. In the day's expenditure, one dollar had gone,
and Mr. Barnaby's memory was entirely at fault in
regard to the manner of its disappearance. A dollar,
thus wasted each day, would leave, in the annual
expense, three hundred dollars unaccounted for.
But Mr. Barnaby had never looked at the matter in
this light.  He did not reflect, that a cent uselessly
spent every day is equal to three dollars thrown
away in the year.
On the next morning, Mr. Barnaby again went to
market, and, as was usual with him, turned over in
his mind the various articles he must buy, and fixed
upon the sum that would meet all that was really
wanted. But, as on the day before, he exceeded
this amount. The excess was one dollar, and the




WHERE THE MONEY GOES.             17
articles purchased could all have been left in the
market-house, and no member of Mr. Barnaby's
family experienced the smallest deprivation in comfort or health.
"What a beautiful bunch of flowers!" said Mrs.
Barnaby to her husband, for the tenth time, as they
stood together in the parlour after breakfast. " What
a pity it is we haven't a glass vase to cover them!
They would look so sweet "'
"Wouldn't they?" was all the reply Mr. Barnaby
made; but the idea suggested by his wife did not
die with the sound of her voice.  It entered his
mind, and lived there.  In imagination he saw that
bouquet of flowers-tissue-paper though they were
-within a glass vase, their beauty increased twofold.
Mr. Barnaby did not go direct to his office on
leaving home that morning, but walked two or three
squares out of his way, in order to visit a chinastore. Before leaving the store, his purse was lighter
by two dollars, that sum having been expended for
a glass to cover the bouquet of paper flowers bought
for fifty cents.
As  Ir. Barnaby walked along, thinking  how
gratified his wife would be when the vase was
brought home, he passed a pickling and preserving
establishment, and saw in the window jars of fruit
and vegetables of various kinds, preserved in the
condition they were in on being taken from the vine
2% 




1.8       ~WHIIlERE TIIE AIONEY GOES.
or tree.  One of these jars was marked " Tomatoes."
MIr. Barnaby liked tomatoes very much, and had
them on his table from the time they were to be
bought four for a shilling until frost withered the
vines on which they grew. To have a taste of the
delightful vegetable once during the winter could
hardly be called extravagance —?o  thought SIr.
Barnaby-even if it did cost something to procure
the gratification. So in he went, without debating
the matter, and bought a small jar for fifty cents.
While the shopkeeper was selecting his change, he
took up a small bottle containing less than half a
pint, marked "Strawberries."
"Have these the natural flavour?" he inquired.
"0 yes," replied the shopkeeper.  " They have
been hermetically sealed, after exhausting the air,
and are in just the state they were when taken from
the vines. I opened a bottle yesterday, and found
them delicious."'  What is the price of this bottle?"
"Half a dollar."
" How better can I surprise and delight Aggy,"
said Mr. Barnaby to himself, " than by buying her
some of these strawberries?"
That question settled the matter, and Mr. Barnaby's purse was soon lighter by another half dollar.
The tomatoes and strawberries were then ordered to
be sent home, and IMr. Barnaby, feeling very comn
fortable in mind, proceeded to his oflice, and entered




WHERE THE MONEY GOES.            19
upon the business of the day. Between that and
nightfall, he gave a shilling to a beggar, who got
drunk on the money, bought fifty cents worth of
toys for the children, over which they disputed as
soon as they received them, and which were all
broken up and thrown away in less than twenty-four
hours, and ordered home a quarter of a dollar's
worth of buns for tea, and found, on sitting down
to supper, that his wife had baked enough cake to
last the whole family for three or four days.
So passed the second day of the new year; and
when, in the evening, reflection came, and Mr. Barnaby found nearly seven dollars less in his purse
than when he went out in the morning, he was even
more at a loss than on the day before to account for
the deficiency. In attempting to sum up the various
expenditures into which he had been led, he could
not make out over five dollars and a half; and his
mind remained totally in the dark as to the balance.
On the third day-but we will not weary the
reader by minutely detailing the process by which
Mr. Barnaby got rid of his money on the third,
fourth, fifth, and sixth days of the new year. What
we have given will furnish a clew to unravel the
mystery of his heavy expenses, and show, what he
was himself unable to find out, where the money
went. The amount uselessly spent, or that might
have been saved without any abridgment of physical
or mental comfort, during those six days, was just




z0        TWHIIERE THE MONEY GOES.
fifteen dollars! or at the rate of seven hundred and
fifty dollars a year.
The manner of proceeding during this one week
shows exactly how Mr. Barnaby conducted his affairs.
Not a day passed that he did not waste from one to
three dollars in trifles to gratify a bad habit of desiring to have every little thing he saw, instead of
waiting until real wants tugged at his purse-strings.
And it was not much better with Mrs. Barnaby.
She, too, had acquired the same habit, and sixpences
and shillings dropped daily from her fingers, as if
they were of but small account.
Thus it went on, as it had been going for years;
and when the next thirty-first of December arrived,
and Mr. Barnaby examined his expense account, he
found that twenty-two hundred dollars had vanished,
and that scarcely a vestige of any good it had
brought them remained.  There had been no additions, except very unimportant ones, to their furniture; no silver plate nor fine jewelry had been purchased; nor had either Mr. or Mrs. Barnaby indulged
in any extravagance of dress.
"Where does the money go?" asked again Mr.
Barnaby, in a kind of despairing tone.
"I'm  sure I cannot tell," sadly replied his wife.
"It seems impossible that we could have spent so
much.  What is there to show for it?  Nothing!"
"Nothing at all! That makes the great mystery.
Twenty-two: hundred dollars!"
j _________:~~~.~ _I:_ __:__:~T:::I:__ —    _~~7 —--- ~




WHERE THE MONEY GOES.            21
While they yet conversed, their neighbours, the
lMalcolms, dropped in to sit an hour. No very long
time passed before the subject uppermost in the
minds of the Barnabys showed itself.
"How is it," said Mr. Barnaby, "that you are
able to live on so much less in the year than we can,
and yet appear to spend more?"
Mrs. Malcolm smiled, and said that she was not
aware that such was really the case.
" But I know that it is so," returned Mr. Barnaby.
" You do not spend as much as we do by at least
seven or eight hundred dollars."
1"Probably you put our expenses considerably
below what they really are."
"No, I apprehend not.  I suppose it costs you
from twelve to thirteen hundred dollars a year."
" Yes. That is pretty near the mark."
"I shouldn't like to say how much it really does
cost us; but I can assure you it is far beyond that.
As to where the money goes, I am entirely in the
dark. We have nothing to show for it.  I wish
you would impart to us your system of economy,"
said Mr. Barnaby, smiling. "If I could get through
the year for fifteen hundred dollars, I would be
perfectly satisfied."
" I have no particular system," replied Mr. Malcolm, " unless you call taking care of the little leaks
in the cash, a system.  When a boy, I lived with a
shrewd old farmer in the country, who belonged to




22         WHERE THE MONEY GOES.
the' save-your-pennies-and-the-pounds-will-take-careof-themselves' school. One fall, in putting up cider,
he trusted to rather a rickety-looking barrel, which
showed a disposition to leak.'I guess it will do,'
he said, thoughtfully eyeing the barrel after the
cider had been poured into it, and noticing that in
two or three places small streams were oozing forth.'The barrel is a little loose, but it will soon swell.'
And so the barrel was placed in the dark cellar with
two or three others, for the winter's supply. Two
barrels were tapped one after another, and they
yielded back the full amount of liquor that had been
committed to their charge. But on coming to the
third barrel, and taking hold of it to bring it forward
to a better position, it was found to be empty.'Aha 1' said the old farmer,'I see how it is. I
thought that leak was of no consequence, but it has
wasted the whole barrel of cider. There's a lesson
for you, John,' he added, turning to me.'Take
care of the little leaks in your pocket, when you
grow  up and have money to spend, for they are
what run away with most men's property.' I understood him as fully as if he had read me a homily
of an hour long. All useless expenditures I now
call leaks, and stop them up immediately."
"No doubt we spend a great many dollars that might
be saved in the year," said Mr. Barnaby; " but I cannot conceive how all the leaks in our pockets could
let out five or six hundred dollars in twelve months."




WHERE THE MONEY GOES.            23
"It's an easy matter for us to let five or six hundred dollars leak out, and yet scarcely be aware of the
daily waste," replied Mr. Malcolm. "Two dollars
spent every day, that might be saved, gives six
hundred dollars in a year."
"True. But a man could hardly let that much
leak away without observing it."
" It is very possible. Suppose you add on, daily,
to each of your three meals, a shilling or sixpence
more than is necessary; and this may be done so
easily as scarcely to be noticed; how much do you
think it would be in a year?  Why, the important
sum of one hundred and thirty-eight dollars!"
" Is it possible?"  Mr. Barnaby looked surprised.
"Even so. And if twenty-five cents be added to
each meal, a thing easily done, as you very well
know, the yearly aggregate is swelled to two hundred and seventy-six dollars."
"In the matter of desserts alone," said IIrs.
Malcolm, coming in with a remark, " which rather
injures than conduces to health, half a dollar a
day, in a family as large as yours, may easily be
spent."
"Don't you have a dessert after dinner?" inquired
Mrs. Barnaby, in a tone of surprise.
"Not every day," answered Mrs. Malcolm.
"I don't believe Mr. Barnaby would know that
he had dined, if he hadn't a dessert on the table."
"Perhaps not," replied Mr. Barnaby; "for then




24         WHERE THE MONEY GOES.
my first course would digest so easily that it would
be hard to imagine that I had eaten any thing.
The fact is, now that I reflect uport it, these desserts
are to my stomach as the extra pound that broke the
camel's back. I don't believe I would have a dyspeptic symptom, if I did not touch puddings, pies,
sweetmeats, nuts and raisins, blanc-manges, floating
islands, and a hundred and one other things that
my good wife prepares for our gratification, and
which I eat after my appetite has been satiated on
plain and more substantial food."
" Upon my word!" exclaimed Mrs. Barnaby.
"And so, after all, these are the thanks I am to receive for my trouble.  Dear knows! if it was not for
you, I wouldn't worry myself every day about a
dessert for dinner."
"And at a cost of over a hundred dollars a year,"
returned Mr. Ilarnaby, good-humouredly. "I begin
to see a little of the way in which the money
goes?"
"There are so many ways in which we are
obliged to spend money," said Mr. Malcolm, " that
unless we are watchful, a little will leak out at a dozen
points every day, and show, in the end, although we
remain all unconscious of the waste that is going on,
an alarming deficiency. When I first entered upon
life, I saw how this was in my own case. Sixpences,
shillings: and even dollars did not seem of much
importance; though of fives, tens, and twenties, I




WHERE THE MONEY GOES.             25
was very careful.  The consequence was, that the
small change kept constantly running away; and,
in the end, the fives, tens, and twenties had myste.
riously disappeared. I saw that this wouldn't do,
and reformed the system.  I took care of the small
sums, and soon found that I always had large sums
to spend for things actually needful, and had really
more satisfaction in what I obtained with my money
than I had before."
" But it is so hard," said Mrs. Barnaby, " to be
careful of the sixpences, without growing mean and
penurious, and even seeking to save at the expense
of others' just rights."
"Perhaps it is," replied Mrs. Malcolm.  "But
this consequence need not follow. All we have to
do is, to deny ourselves the indulgence of a weak
desire to spend money for little articles that we
could do without and not abridge our comfort in
the least, and we will find enough left in our purses
to remove us from the temptation to be unjust to
others."
"Taking care of the pennies, then, and leaving
the pounds to take care of themselves, is your
system," remarked OMr. Barnaby.
"Yes," answered Mir. Malcolm.  "That is our
system, and we have found it to work very well. We
noqt only enjoy every comfort we could reasonably
desire, but have nearly two thousand dollars in the
Savings bank."
VI. —3




26         WHERE THE MONEY GOES.'And yet your salary is only fifteen hundred
dollars a year."
" That is all."
" While my income is over two thousand, and I
haven't a cent left to bless myself with when the
thirty-first of December arrives. But I see where
the leak is.  I understand, now, clearly, how the
money goes; and, by the help of a good resolution,
I will stop the leak."
I-ow far Mr. Barnaby was successful in stopping
the leak, we do not know. It is hard to reform
confirmed habits of any kind, and we are afraid that
he found the task assumed a hard one. But if he
conquered in the attempt, his reward was ample,
compared to the amount of self-denial required for
the achievement.




A BAD HABIT CURED. 7~ j'], Q
ONE of the virtues peculiar to society in this
country —and, it may be, in other countries, for
aught we know —is a tender regard for the consciences of others. People are disposed to interpret
St. Paul's injunction to the Philippians, " Look not
every man on his own things, but every man, also,
on the things of his neighbour," after the most
literal fashion.  We see this manifested in a great
variety of ways, but in none more prominently than
in the effort to make people pay due regard to the
precept, " Of him that would borrow of thee, turn
not thou away."
Mrs. Armand was the very personification of this
virtue; and she took good care that none in her
neighbourhood suffered condemnation for lack of a
living faith in the precept last quoted, as sundry
careful housewives could testify.
Mr. Armand differed with his wife in some matters, and particularly in regard to the morality of
her borrowing-practices, and often recorded his protest against their continuance; the doing of which
27




28           A BAD HABIT CURED.
satisfied him more and more, each time it was
repeated, that "when a woman will, she will, you
may depend on't." A fair sample of the discussions
held on the subject, may be seen in the following
matrimonial passage of small arms, which occurred
in consequence of the appearance on the table, one
morning, of a strange looking Britannia-ware coffeepot.
"Where did that come from, Sarah?" was the
natural inquiry of Mr. Armand, as his eyes rested
upon this handsome addition to the appendages of
the tea-tray.
"Kitty melted the bottom  off of my coffee-pot
yesterday, the careless thing!" replied Mrs. Armand, "and it is not mended yet; so I borrowed
Mrs. Lovell's for this morning."
"I wouldn't have done that," said the husband.
" Why wouldn't you?" very pertinently inquired
Mrs. Armand.
" Oh! because I wouldn't."
" Give a reason.  Men are always fierce enough
for reasons 1"
"Because I don't think it right to borrow other
people's things, when we can do without them."
We couldn't do without a coffee-pot, could we?"
"Yes; I think so."
i' How, pray?"
"Rather than borrow, I would have made tea for
breakfast, until our coffee-pot was mended."
i' ---— ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_-.:::_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ -----




A BAD HABIT CURED.              29
"A nice grumbling time there would have been,
if I had tried to put you off with a cup of tea!"
"I don't think I am such a grumbler as that,
Sarah. I believe I am as easily satisfied as most
men. I'm sure I would rather drink tea all my life
than take coffee from a borrowed coffee-pot."
"So much for trying to provide for your comfort i"
said Mrs. Armand, in a complaining tone of voice.
"I never wish you to do wrong for the sake oc
securing my comfort," returned her husband.
"Do wrong!  Do you mean to say that it is
wrong to borrow and lend?"
" It is wrong to borrow on every trifling occasion,
for this is to be unjust to others, who are constantly
deprived of the use or possession of such things as
are their own."
"I wouldn't like to live in a world as selfish as
it would be, if made after your model," said Mrs.
Armand.
"No doubt it would be bad enough," replied the
husband; "but I am sure that borrowers would be
scarce."
"But what harm  can my using Mrs. Lovell's
coffee-pot for a single morning do, I would like to
know?"
Mr. Armand answered this interrogatory, not,
however, conclusively enough to satisfy his wife.
Mrs. Lovell's opinion on the subject being much
more to the point, will best enlighten the reader,




ao           A BAD IABIT CURED.
and so we will give that. Mrs. Lovell was preparing
to go down to breakfast, when her cook came to her
chamber-door, and said"Mrs. Armand, ma'am, wants you to lend her
your coffee-pot. She says Kitty melted the bottom
off of hers, and it a'n't mended yet. She just wants
it for this morning."
"' Very well," returned Mrs. Lovell.  The tone in
which this was said did not express much pleasure.
As the girl retired, Mrs. Lovell remarked, in a
grumbling way, to her husband,
" And, no doubt, Kitty'll melt the bottom off of
mine before night."
" You are not going to let her have that handsome
Britannia coffee-pot?" said Mr. Lovell.
"I have no other, and she knows it."
"You might say, that you have only one. She
will think that in use."
" No, she won't;" for she is very well aware of
the fact, that we don't make coffee, unless when we
happen to have company."
" As you had not the resolution to say' no,' you
will have to take your chance."
"And the chances will all be against me.  Of
that I am certain. I never loaned Mrs. Armand any
thing in my life, that it did'nt come home injured
in some way."
"Then your coffee-pot will hardly prove an exception."




A BAD HABIT CURED.               31
"I'm afraid not. Oh, dear! I wish that people
would let their neighbours possess the little they
have, in peace. I've had that set of Britannia.
ware for five years, and there is not a bad scratch
nor bruise upon any piece of it.  If Mrs. Armand
lets the coffee-pot get injured, I shall be too
angry."
"I almost hope she will," said Mr. Lovell.
" Why, Henry?"
" You will then, in all probability, fall back upon
your reserved rights, and throw  Mirs. Armandcl, in
future, upon hers."
" What are our reserved rights?"
"In this case, yours will be to refuse lending
what your neighbours should buy; and hers will be
to buy what she can't conveniently borrow."
"I don't wish to offend her," said MIrs. Lovell,
C"but, if she does let my coffee-pot get injured, I
shall be too much put out."
"In other words, you will say something sharp
about it."
I" Very likely.  I'm apt, you know, to speak out
on the spur of the occasion."
"Then I shall be very well content to see the
spout knocked off, the handle bent, or a bruise as
large as a walnut in the side of your coffee-pot."
"Henry! Why will you say so?"
"Because I happen to feel all I say.  This borrowing nuisance is intolerable, and its suppression




32           A BAD HABIT CURED.
can hardly be obtained at too dear a cost.  How
manv umbrellas has Mrs. Armand lost or ruined for
us in the last two or three years?"
"Don't ask me that question. I've never tried
to keep the'counts."
" Half a dozen, at least."
"You may safely set the number down at that
But, if I could get off with umbrellas, I'd buy a
case, and let her have one a month, and think the
arrangement a bargain. The fact is, I have scarcely
an article of movable household goods, or wearing
apparel, that doesn't show sad evidences of having
been used by some one beside myself. You know
that dear little merino cloak of Charley's, in which
he looked so sweet?'
"Yes.  What of it?"'~Last Sunday, Mrs. Armand had her baby bap.
tized. Of course, she had nothing decent to put on
it, and of course sent for Charley's cloak.  What
could I do?"
"You could have declined letting her have the
cloak."
"Not under the circumstances."
" Hasn't her baby a cloak?"
"Yes; but it's full of grease-spots-not fit to be
seen."
"It's good enough for her baby, if she don't
think proper to provide a better one."
"All very easily said.  But I couldn't refuse the




A BAD HABIT- CURED.             33
cloak, though I let it go with fear and trembling.
Now just look at it!"
Mrs. Lovell opened a drawer, and taking out the
dove-coloured cloak, with its white and blue lining,
slowly opened it.
"Bless me I" exclaimed her husband, as the back
of the collar was displayed, and showed several
square inches of discolouration.  "What in the
world could have done that?"
"'Perspiration from the child's head. Charley
has worn it twenty times, yet not a spot was to be
seen before. But this is not the worst. To keep
the baby from crying in church, a piece of red candy
was pushed into its mouth."
" Goodness!"
" And as the baby was cutting teeth, the result
can hardly be wondered at.  Look!"
Mrs. Lovell held up the front of the cloak. From
the collar to the skirt were lines, broad irregular
patches, and finger-marks, dark, red, and gummy.
"That beats every thing!" exclaimed Mr. Lovell.
" But it isn't all," added his wife," as she turned
the cloak around, and showed a grease-spot, half as
large as her hand, upon the skirt.  "After the child
was brought home, nurse took off the cloak and
threw it upon a table, where one of the children had
just laid a large slice of bread and butter."
"Is that all?" asked Mr. Lovell.
"I haven't looked any further," replied Mrs.




34           A BAD HABIT CURED.
Lovell, tossing the ruined garment from her with
an impatient air.  "But isn't it too much to bear?"
"What did the lady say, when she brought it
home?"
" She sent it in by one of her girls, who said that
there were two or three spots on the cloak, for which
Mrs. Armand was sorry; but she thought I could
easily rub them out."
" Humph!"
" The cloak is totally ruined. I don't know when
I had any thing to vex me so much. And it was
such a beauty!"
" What will you do?"
"Throw it away. I can't let my baby wear a
soiled and greasy cloak.  See "  And Mrs. Lovell
again went to her drawers.  "I've got cashmere for
a new one."
"Well, now, this is too bad!" exclaimed Mr.
Lovell.  "Too bad! If I were you, I'd send her
the cloak, with my compliments, and tell her to
keep it."
" Oh, I don't wish to make her an enemy."
" Better have such persons enemies than friends."
" Perhaps not."' What's the use of your making a new cloak for
Charley? You'll lend it to Mrs. Armand when she
wants to send her baby out, and then"
"Beg your pardon, husband dear! But I will do
no such thing!"




A BAD HABIT CURED.              35
"We'll see."
" And we will see."
Mrs. Lovell spoke pretty resolutely, as if her
mind were, for once in her life, made up not to be
imposed upon.
The breakfast-bell ringing at the moment, MIr.
and Mrs. Lovell dropped the subject for the discussion of one rather more agreeable.
The day passed without the return of the coffeepot, about which Mrs. Lovell could not help feeling
some uneasiness. And she had good reason; for
nothing came home from the hands of the incorrigible borrower that did not show signs of hard
or careless usage.
On the next day, Mrs. Armand called in to pay
her neighbours a visit.
" I have'nt sent home your coffee-pot yet," said
she, during a pause in the conversation that followed
her entrance.  "I told Kitty, yesterday, to take
ours immediately and get it mended; but I found
this morning that she had failed to do so. I never
saw such a careless, forgetful creature, in my life."
"It's no matter," Mrs. Lovell forced herself to
say, at the cost of a departure from the truth.
"Oh, I knew it was no difference, because you
don't make coffee regularly," responded Mrs. Armand; "but, then, I never like to be using other
people's things when I can help it. Besides, our
Kitty is such a careless creature, that every thing




36            A BAD HABIT CURED.
she touches is in danger; and I'm afraid it might
get injured.  I noticed a little dent in the spout this
morning."
"Not a bad one?" said Mrs. Lovell, thrown off
of her guard by this admission. The tone in which
she spoke expressed some anxiety.
"Oh, no, no!" replied Mrs. Armand quickly.
"You would hardly see it unless it were pointed out.
But even for so trifling an injury, I can assure you I
scolded Kitty well. As soon as I go home, I will
start her off with my coffee-pot, if she has not
already taken it to the tinner's."
Days passed, but the coffee-pot still remained in
the possession of MSrs. Armand. In the mean time,
Charley's new cloak of very fine light blue cashmere
was finished, and as Mrs. Lovell was a little proud
of her baby-what mother is not?-the cloak went
out to take an airing, the baby inside of course, every
day for a week afterwards.
One afternoon, some friends came in, and Mrs.
Lovell persuaded them to stay and spend the evening. Shortly after they arrived, a messenger came
from  MIrs. Armand, with a request for the loan
of Charley's cloak, as the mother wanted to send
her baby down to Jones's Hotel, that a friend of
her's, who was passing through the city, might see
him.
Mrs. Lovell said, "Very well," and took fyom a
drawer the dove-coloured merino cloak that hlad




A BAD HABIT CURED.              37
suffered so severely at the christening, and handed
it to the girl who had come from Mrs. Armand.
In a few minutes, the girl returned with the cloak,
and said-"- It isn't the one that Mrs. Armand wants.
She says, please to let her have the blue one. She'll
take good care of it."
Mrs. Lovell took the dove-coloured cloak and returned with it to the drawer slowly, debating in her
mind what she should do. She must either offend MIrs.
Armand, or run the risk of having the new cloak,
which cost ten dollars, besides her labour, spoiled as
the other had been. She did not wish to do the
former; but, how could she submit to the latter?
Just as, in her doubt and hesitation, she laid her
hand upon the new garment, a thought struck her,
and turning to the girl, she said"Tell Mrs. Armand that she can have the light
cloak in welcome; but Charley is going out, and
will wear the blue one."
The girl departed, and Charley got an extra airing that day.  Mrs. Armand was exceedingly indignant, and wondered if Mrs. Lovell supposed she
was going to send her child out in that " soiled and
greasy thing!"
Towards supper-time, Mrs. Lovell's cook asked
her if she wished coffee made.
" Oh, certainly," was replied.
"Mrs. Armand has our coffee-pot."
"I know. You must go in for it."
V1.-4




38           A BAD HABIT CURED.
The cook took off her apron, and ran into Mrs.
Armand's for the coffee-pot. In a few moments she
returned, and said"Mrs. Armand can't let you have it before tomorrow.  Hers is not mended yet,-and Mr. Armand always drinks coffee for supper."
" But go and tell her that I have company, and
cannot do without it," replied Mrs. Lovell, a little
impatiently.
The girl went back.  When she returned, the
coffee-pot was in her possession. As she set it down
before Mrs Lovell, she said" Mrs. Armand didn't seem to like it much."
" Like what much?"
"Your sending again.  She says her husband
never drinks tea, and she don't know how she is
going to make him coffee."
" But that isn't my coffee-pot!"
" Yes, ma'am."
"Oh, no.  Never!"  And Mrs. Lovell took up a
dingy looking affair that her cook had brought in,
and eyed it doubtingly.  She remembered her Bri.
tannia coffee-pot as a beautiful piece of ware, without
a scratch or bruise, and bright as silver. But this
was as dull as pewter: a part of the bottom, an
eighth of an inch wide and three inches long, had
been melted off or turned up; there were several
large dents in it; the mouth of the spout had received a disfiguring bruise, and the little jet knob




A BAD HABIT CURED.              39
on the lid was entirely broken off!  No, no-this
was not her coffee-pot. But cook insisted that it was,
and soon proved her assertion.
This was too much for Mrs. Lovell, and the forbearance of that long-suffering lady yielded under
the too heavy pressure it was called to sustain.
"That my coffee-pot!" she exclaimed, with a
most indignant emphasis, and lifting it from  the
table on which the cook had placed it, she set it
down upon a tea-tray, which contained the other
pieces belonging to her beautiful set of Britannia.
The contrast was lamentable.
"There!" said she, with a glowing cheek, and
voice pitched an octave higher than usual.  " Take
the whole set into Mrs. Armand, with my compliments, and say that I make her a present of it."
The cook didn't need to be told her errand twice.
Before Mrs. Lovell had time for reflection and repentance, she was beyond recall.
The dining-room and kitchen of Mrs. Armand's
house were in the same story, and separated only
by a door. It happened that Mr. Armand was at
home when Mrs. Lovell's cook came in and presented
the breakfast and tea set, with the compliments of
her mistress. The tone in which the message was
given, as it reached his ears, satisfied him that
something was wrong; and he was put beyond all
doubt when he heard his wife say, with unusual excitement in her voice



40            A BAD HABIT CURED.
"Take them back! Take them back!'
But the girl retreated hastily, and left her in full
possession of the tray and its contents.
"What's the matter?" inquired Mr. Armand, as
his wife retreated into the dining-room with flushed
face and a quivering lip.  It was some moments before she could speak, and then she said something
in a confused way about an insult. Not being able
to understand what it all meant, Mr. Armand sought
for information in the kitchen.
"Whose is this?" he said to Kitty, laying his
hand upon the Britannia set.
" Mrs. Lovell's," replied Kitty.
" Why is it here?"
"Mrs. Lovell sent it in as a present to Mrs. Armand."
"Indeed i"  Mr. Armand looked a little closer.
"Is this the coffee-pot we have been using for a
week?"
"Yes, sir."
"Humph!"  Light was breaking into his mind.
"Abusing, I should have said," he added.  " And
because the coffee-pot has been ruined, and the set
broken, Mrs. Lovell makes us a present of what
remains?"
Kitty held down her head in silence.
After examining the coffee-pot, and contrasting
it with other pieces of the set, Mr. Lovell made an
angry exclamation, and retired from  the kitchen.
__________________  ----  --  --   -    ______ -    - __________________




A BAD HABIT CURED.             41
He did not re-enter the dining-room, where he had
left his wife, but took up his hai, and going out of
the front-door, shut it hard after him. In- about
half an hour he returned.
"Where have you been?" his wife ventured te
ask, as he entered the room, where she was sitting
in no very enviable mood.' Trying to repair the wrong you have done."
"How do you mean?" asked Mrs. Armand.
"I've bought a handsome set of Britannia-ware
for Mrs. Lovell," replied the husband, " and sent it
to her, with a note of apology, and a request from
me, as a particular favour, never -to lend you any 
thing again, as you would be sure to injure it."
"Mr. Armand!"
"It's true, every word of it.  I never was so
mortified by any thing in my life.  I don't wonder  
that Mrs. Lovell sent you the beautiful set you had   I
broken.  The fact is, this borrowing system must
come to an end. If you want any thing, buy it;
and if you are not able, do without it."
Poor Mrs. Armand, whose feelings during the
brief absence of her husband were by no means to
be envied, now burst into tears and cried bitterly.
MIr. Armand made no attempt to soothe the distress
of his wife. HIe felt a little angry; and when one
is angry, there is not'much room  left in the mind
for sympathy towards those who have excited the
anger.




42           A BAD HABIT CURED.
After supper, while Mrs.. Airmand sat sewing, her
face under a cloud, and Mr. Armand was endeavouring to get over the unpleasant excitement he had
experienced, by means of a book, some one rang the
bell.  In a little while, lVIr. Lovell was announced.
"What in the world can he want?" said Mrs.
Armand.
"More about the coffee-pot," replied Mr. Armand, as he laid aside his book.
Mrs. Armand made no answer, and her husband
left the room where they were sitting, and entered
the parlour.  Mr. Lovell, who was standing in the
floor, extended his hand, and said with a smile"I'm afraid my wife's hasty conduct —for which
she is extremely sorry-has both hurt and offended
you. And as these are matters which, if left to
themselves, like hidden fire, increase to a flame, I
have thought it best to see you at once, and offer all
necessary apologies on her behalf."
"Not hurt in the least!" replied Mr. Armand
good-humouredly.  " And as for'apologies, Mrs.
Lovell wants no better one than the wreck of her
beautifiul coffee-pot, which I have minutely examined.
I'm glad she sent it back, just as she did; and for
two reasons. It gave me an opportunity to repair
the wrong which had been done, and served as a
lesson to my wife, such as she needed and will not
soon forget. No, no, Mr. Lovell! don't let this.make you feel in the least unpleasant."




A BAD HABIT CURED.             43
"But my wife says she cannot think of keeping
the beautiful tea and coffee set you sent her."
" Tell her that she will have to keep them.  They
are hers in simple justice.  If she sends them here,
they will not be received. So she has no remedy.
We want a set, and will keep yours.  If a disfigured
coffee-pot has to be used, let it be by those who are
guilty of the abuse. And now, 3Mr. Lovell, tell
your good lady from me, that if she lends my wife
any thing more, I will not be responsible; as I
have always disapproved the system, and am now,
more than ever, opposed to it."
This last sentence was spoken playfully.  After
half an hour's good-humoured  conversation, the
gentlemen parted. It was some days before the
ladies met, and then they were a little reserved
towards each other. This reserve never entirely
wore off. But there was no more borrowing from
Mrs. Lovell, nor any one eise; tor MIrs. Armand
was entirely cured of her desire to make others keep
the scriptural injunction, to ~w- i,).J,; Va->,-', 4-de
in the opening of our story.
i~~~~~~~




SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.4'td' COME and dine with me, on Thursday," said my
old friend Clayton.  "I am to have the company
of three or four friends, and wish you to be one of
the number."
I accepted the invitation with pleasure, for I liked
Clayton. We had been acquaintances from  boyhood; and mature years had only tended to strengthen the attachments of youth.  I also liked his
wife. She, too, had been one of my early friends.
Many an agreeable evening had I spent with them
since their marriage; and if the story I am about
to tell does not give them offence, I hope to spend
many more in their pleasant society.  As to the
telling of the story, that is a part of my vocation;
but in matters of this kind, I generally manage to
embellish a little here and there, and to change
names and vary incidents, in such a way, that the
parties who have been made to sit for their pictures
are hardly ever willing to see therein any likeness
of themselves. And this being the case in the
present instance, I hardly think I shall give any




SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.           45
offence; although I am not unwilling that my friend's
wife should at least have a remote idea that she
mfiglht have been the original of my sketch.
Like all women, and men too, Mrs. Clayton had
her faults; and one of these I had frequently had
occasion to notice. The fault was this: a habit of
making the worst, instead of the best, of a thing.
If she took a dress to be made, she always knew it
wouldn't fit.  If she laid out to start on a journey
at a certain time, or to pay a visit, she knew it
would rain.  If one of her children were attacked
with a fever and sore throat-not a very uncommon
thing, by the way-she knew it was scarletina.
One evening, I' went home with her husband, per
invitation, to take tea. Mrs. Clayton expected me,
and I was received with the warm welcome that always greeted my appearance. During a pause in
the conversation that followed, I heard her say to
her husband, in an under tone:
"I've maOdi up some nice cakes for tea, but I'm
almost sure, they won't rise, just because I want them
to."
"Nonsense!" saidhe, half aloud,smiling. "You're
an old croaker!"
" That's too bad!" she replied, speaking aloud;
and then turning towards me-" My husband calls
me a croaker, but it is no such thing.  I am  no
more of a croaker than he is."
"' Oh yes, Kate, you are a notorious croaker.




46         SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.
You always look at the dark instead of the bright
parts in a picture; while I always expect the sunshine; though too often, I must confess, I find the
sky overspread with clouds.  Still, imaginary sunshine is much better than imaginary clouds-don't
you think so?"
I could not but assent to this.
"I am not so sure of that i" replied the wife.
" For my part, I would much rather expect clouds
and get sunshine, than expect sunshine and get
clouds. But I will leave you, gentlemen, to discuss
this matter between yourselves, while I go and see
that our tea is not spoiled."
In about an hour, during which time we had seen
but little of Mrs. Clayton, the tea-bell was rung, and
we retired from the parlour into the dining-room.
We found her awaiting us at the tea-table, looking
the very image of good-humour.
" The cakes are light," I said to n yself, scarcely
able to repress a smile.  I had overheard her remark
that she was almost sure they wouldn't rise goodAfter we were helped round, my friend said, with
a smile" All right, I see, Kate, notwith""Come! not one word, Mr. Clayton," quickly
spoke up his wife, interrupting him.  "It is too
bad!" she added, addressing me, " for my husband
to do so.  I said that I didn't believe the cakes
would rise, and I had good reason for saying so.




SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.            47
But it seems I was mistaken, for which I am very
thankful, and I think he ought to be the same."
"And so I am," returned the husband, laughing.
| The cakes are first-rate.  I wouldn't have had
them heavy and sour for the world."
My friend put a little too much emphasis on the
last part of the sentence, which caused his wife to
ask, rather seriously, " Why not for the world, Mr.
Clayton?"
" It would have grieved you so," he replied, in an
evasive manner, yet meaning just what he said.
C "You think I would have taken it very much to
heart, do you?"
"All ladies take such matters to heart, and I suppose they can't help it.  It is rather a serious affair
to have the cakes sour when a friend is invited to
tea."
I joined in, pretty much in the strain of the last
sentence, in order to make Mrs. Clayton feel less
annoyed than she was evidently disposed to be by
the first part of her husband's remarks; and, as the
latter was as much inclined as myself to restore the
disturbed serenity of his wife's temper, slight as
that disturbance was, he took good care to say nothing
more that was not as soothing as oil.  All now was
as pleasant, during the tea-hour, as a May morning,
with the exception that the lady scolded the servant
for neglecting to place a knife and fork at her plate,
and during the time seemed to me to be in rather an




48         SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.
unamiable mood.  Not that I objected to the set
vant's being scolded for her neglect, for she may
have richly deserved it, and of this my fair friend
was no doubt well convinced. The error consisted
in scolding at the wrong time and place.
But to the dinner.  Ten minutes before three
o'clock, I rang the bell at the house of my friend,
and was shown into the parlour, where I found
Clayton and three guests. I made the fourth and
tne complement.  Three o'clock was the hour for
dinner. Just as the clock was striking that hour,
our fair hostess entered, looking, I thought, a little
flushed and worried. After greeting us with great
cordiality, she sat down beside her husband on the
sofa, saying, as she did so:
"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I'm  afraid you will
have to wait half an hour for your dinner. My
cook has been as cross as she could be all the morning, and the fires as little inclined to burn as she to
be pleasant."
" No matter," said I, smiling.  " We will have
the better appetites.  Give your cook and the fires
their own way, and all will come out right in the
end."
All joined in assuring her that it was the same to
them whether dinner were ready in ten minutes or
an hour; but it did not make her feel in the least
more comfortable, or tend to increase our appetites
for the coming meal.




SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.          49
"I do think," said she, after'. few remarkb, pro
and con, had been made, all referring to the dinner,'that the ordinary servants we get are the most
perverse, self-willed, obstinate creatures in existence!
Just the time when you feel most dependent upon
them, is the time when they will fail you. Our
cook knows her business very well, and I have no
trouble at all with her, except when we have company, and then she acts like the very old Scratch!
I always dread to see"Our hostess checked herself suddenly and looked
a little confused, and our friend Clayton gave two
or three emphatic " alhems!" and struck off at right
angles into a new subject. I believe there was not
one of us who did not understand the whole sentence as well as if it had been finished; nor one of
us who did not more than half regret having accepted the invitation to dine.
Nearly an hour passed, during which time our
friend's wife came in and went out of the parlouT
frequently, the irregular corrugations about her eyebrows growing more and more distinct with the
passage of every ten minutes. At length, but not
until the cheerful expression of Clayton's face had
begun to fade, dinner was announced. We all
ascended, chatting freely, to the dining-room, and
were in, considering what had passed, a marvellous
good humour. Our sharp appetites we considered
a compensation for the delay.
VLe-5




50         SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.
We found Mrs. Clayton awaiting us in the diningroom. Her smile was pleasant and cloud-dispersing,
but it faded away too soon, and left the whole aspect
of her face too much drawn down. There was a
bright glow upon her cheeks-unusually bright, and
in her eyes an intenseness of expression that took
from them their highest charm. I saw that she was
over-excited, worried, and unhappy. Things had
gone wrong with her, and she had not the philosophy to bear her trials with good-humour, nor the
tact to conceal what she felt from the friends whom
she had joined her husband in inviting to partake
the hospitalities of her table.
"At last!" was the greeting she gave us, to which
was replied, in a pleasant tone" Better late than never, you know. We shall
make up for the delay by doing greater justice to
your elegant dinner."
"You'll not find it very elegant, I fear. It's
mniserably cooked 1" she replied, half smiling, half
frowning.
" Let us be the judges, madam," returned the
one who had replied to her first remark.  " I think
we shall render a much better account."' "My wife, you know," Clayton said, glancing first
at the subject of his remark, and smiling a little
sarcastically, " generally looks upon the dark side."
"Yes; I have not forgotten the sour cakes," I
replied, laughing.




SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.           51
But somehow or other, the lady did not appear to
relish the joke very well. She muttered something
in reply that I could not understand, and then com-nmenced doing her part towards helping her guests
to the various dishes that were upon the table. She
had not proceeded far in this before she discovered
that the beef was "burnt to a crisp," the turkey
"raw," the potatoes "sobby," and the gravy as
"black as a coal."
"Never mind, my dear," said her husband, on
her declaring that the beef was burnt to a crisp"It's only on the outside; all is right within.
Here's a slice that would tickle the palate of an
alderman, and there are plenty more here just like
it. The beef will do very well; don't run it down
until we begin, and then speak up for the cook,
which you may do with a clear conscience."
I'm sure the slice you have helped Mr. B. to
is not fit to eat.  Go, John, and take Mr. B.'s plate
up for a better piece."
" Beg pardon, madam," said Mr. B., " I couldn't
ask any thing better. I like beef well-done, and
always prefer an outside piece."
But nothing would do.  Mr. B.'s plate had to go
up and an exchange be made for a more juicy slice
of beef, which, if what Mr. B. said was strictly true,
was not as agreeable to his palate as the other.
" Will you have some of this gravy?" the lady
asked, looking at me.  "It's as black as a coal,"




52         SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.
she added, turning it up from the bottom with a
spoon.
"I'll take some, if you please," I answered,
The gravy certainly was rather darker than 1 was
in the habit of seeing it, but yet about as near the
colour of a coal as the meat was to being burnt
to a crisp. There was nothing unpleasant in its
taste.
"I don't; believe you can eat this turkey, Mr. C.,"
she said a few minutes afterwards, as she was helping the individual she addressed to a piece of turkey
that had been carved at a side-table by the waiter,
and placed before her.  " It's raw!"
" I like even fowls a little rare," replied Mr. C.
"It will just suit me."
" It's well you are all easily suited," returned
Mrs. Clayton.  " I call the whole dinner about the
worst-cooked I have ever seen. I am mortified to
death about it."
We assured her, as soon as we had time to test
the quality of the good things before us, that all
was excellent. And, in saying this, we did not exaggerate in the least. To have a better dinner than
that, I would not give the value of a copper. But
it availed nothing. Because every thing was not
cooked and flavoured just to the point that she approved, it was pronounced unfit to be eaten. Not
content with abusing the fare she had placed before
us, she scolded the waiter for his omissions in setting




SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.          53
the table, a ceremony that both he and the guests
would have most cheerfully dispensed with.
At length we were through with the principal
course, and then came the dessert. By the way,
however, I forgot to mention that, to add zest to our
dinner, Mrs. Clayton refused to be helped to any
thing, and did so in a way that was especially unpleasant. To see her sitting up straight, with her
hands in her lap, and an empty plate before her,
while I was feasting on the many delicacies she had
provided, affected my appetite considerably. But
at length came the dessert.
First some tarts were brought by the waiter and
placed on the table before her. The moment the
eyes of Mrs. Clayton rested on these, her brows contracted sharply, but she said nothing. I saw that
the sides of two or three of them were burnt pretty
black; save that defect, their appearance was tempting enough.
"All burnt up! it is too bad!" I could hear her
say, in an under tone, speaking to herself, while she
was serving themr out on plates, and handing them
to the waiter to be passed around the table.
The flavour of the tarts was very delicious, and
the first few mouthfuls as pleasant to the taste as
any thing of the kind I had ever eaten; but, after
that, I did not enjoy them much, from thinking
about the unhappy temper of our hostess.
Some lemon and cocoa-nut pudding followed.




54         SPOILING A GOOD DINNER,
These were delicacies upon which Mrs. Clayton
prided herself, and when they were set before her,
her face brightened up. So, I am sure, did mine,
for by this time I had begun to feel really unpleasant, and must have shown my feelings in my coun
tenance.  After these puddings had been served
around, Mrs. Clayton asked Mr. B. how he liked
them.
"Delicious!" was the reply.
"I believe I will try a piece myself," said the
lady.
" Do i" said I, speaking up quickly.  "It takes
away half the pleasure of the dinner to see
you eating nothing, after all your trouble in preparing so many delicacies for us."  I felt better at
once.
By this time, Mrs. Clayton had lifted a small piece
of the lemon pudding to her mouth.
" My gracious!" she exclaimed.  "Why, it isn't
fit to eat! it's as sour as vinegar! Isn't it too bad?
Every thing has gone wrong to-day!"
"It is a little tart, Kate," said her husband;
" but I really hadn't noticed it before you spoke.
I hope I may never have a worse one."
" Ditto to that!" said Mr C. C. And " ditto" went
cheerily round the table.
But it did no good. The piece of lemon pudding
was pushed aside.
" Try some of the cocoa-nut pudding; I am sure




SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.           55
that is without a fault!" I said, hoping to restore
some of her suddenly-lost equanimity.
" I suppose that is no better than the rest." she
replied; " it would be strange if it were an exception."
"Only try it I" I urged.  In this I was joined
by others.
Although I perceived no fault whatever in the
pudding, I confess that I saw her make preparations
for trying it with some misgivings. If this should
prove defective, there was little hope of our getting
away from the dinner-table with cheerful spirits.
"It's as dry as a chip!" almost stunned me, even
while these thoughts were passing through my mind,
though spoken in a low querulous tone.
From that moment I gave up; I spoke not another word. The fruits came on, and we ate them
in silence.  Poor Clayton looked miserable; he was
mortified and worried. We were all relieved when
the signal was given for retiring, and gladly escaped
from the presence of our hostess, who had the kindness to say to us, that if we ever dined with her
again, she hoped she would be able to give us something fit to eat.
"'I wouldn't give codfish and potatoes, with a
cheerful countenance presiding over them, for a
hundred such dinners," said B., as we walked away
from  the house of my friend Clayton.  "It was
made up of every delicacy I could desire, but the




5G         SPOILING A GOOD DINNER.
sauce of cheerfulness and good-humour was not there
Bless me! If I had such a wife, I would""What would you do?" said I, laughing, as he
paused to think what he would do.
-"Never invite my friends to dine with me,"
he answered, joining in my laugh.  "But isn't it
too bad?" he continued, speaking less emphatically,
" for a woman of Mrs. Clayton's good sense to spoil
a dinner in the way she did ours to-day?  If any
thing was wrong, why didn't she try to make it up
by bright looks instead of dark ones?"
" It's her weakness and want of thought," I replied.
"Her husband ought to teach her better.  He
ought to snake her think."
"It isn't always so easy a thing to make a woman
do as you please, friend B.," said I.  "And the
hardest thing of all is to make her give up her peculiar humour and habitudes of mind. If she can
be made to see how much she affects the comforts
and happiness of others by their indulgence, she may
do better, as if of her own accord; but she isn't a
person to be driven from her ground by any prompt
and bold assault upon, or ridicule of, her foibles and
weaknesses. And if ever you get a wife, you will
find this out. Mrs. Clayton is a very excellent
woman. All her friends like her. But she has the
fault of making the worst instead of the best of a
thing. This she cannot help. But she can help




bPOILING A GOOD DINNER.           57
annoying others with its untimely and unlady-like
exhibition; and I am very much in hope that her
being led so far astray to-day, will make her as sensible as she ought to be of her defect of character,
and prevent an undue exposure of it on another occasion. At least, my charity goes so far."
The next time I took tea with my friend, the biscuits were a little heavy, but not a word was said.
about it; nor was there a cloud upon Mrs. Clayton's
brow! Whether there had been a curtain-lecture
or not on the subject of the dinner, I had no means
of knowing; nor whether the subject had been alluded to or not between my friend and his wife.
Enough that a change had come over her in this
particular, and a very agreeable one. For this there
was of course, a cause, as there is for all effects.
But satisfied with the effect, we shall not waste time
in speculating upon, or endeavouring to find out the
cause.




OPENING AN ACCOUNT.
TIIE income of Mr. Bradford was not large; and
he found it somewhat difficult, as he often said, to
get along.  The making of "both ends meet" was
not the easiest thing in the world, yet he continued
to accomplish the feat, year after year, by "pinching
and screwing," to use his own language. Mr. Bradford was always looking forward to better times, and
confidently believed that, in at least six or twelve
months, he would find his affairs in a pleasanter condition. Money with him was always "tight" now;
but promised to be easier before long. But this
"before long" seemed in no hurry to come. Though
it had been on the way a long time, it appeared
always to be as far off as ever.
The business of MIr. Bradford was that of a pattern-maker.  With plenty of work, he could earn
quite a handsome sum weekly. Often he made as
much as twenty, and sometimes twenty-five dollars
in that time. And again it happened that he would
go a whole week without earning any thing at all.
These dull weeks were very discouraging times for
58




OPENING AN ACCOUNT.             59
Mr. Bradford, seeing that he had a wife and four
children to provide for.  But taking the good weeks
with the bad ones, the year through, all came out
right in the end, and the pattern-maker managed to
keep out of debt-and this for the reason that he
never bought any thing unless he had the money
to pay for it. As for credit, he had none, or,
at least, he never dreamed of asking for such a
thing.
It happened, one day, that he was in the store of
a dry-goods dealer with his wife, making some small
purchases. Sometimes he dealt at this store, and
sometimes at the one over the way.  Jones, the
keeper of the store in which he now was, knew that
the custom was thus divided, and was turning over
the matter in his mind as to how he should secure
the whole of it to himself, when he heard Mrs. Bradford say to -her husband, as she stood examining
some cloth,
"This is an excellent piece of goods, and very
cheap. Just the thing for the boys; and they both
want new suits."
"I can't spare the money now, Jane," replied
Mr. Bradford.  "You will have to wait a month or
six weeks."
" Oh, very well," acquiesced the wife.  " It will
have to do then."
" That's a first-rate piece of goods," said Jones
the storekeeper, coming forward at this moment.




60          OPENING AN ACCOUNT.
"' I bought it at a bargain. Let me sell you half a
dozen yards."
"Not now," replied Mrs. Bradford.  "In the
course of a month or six weeks we may want to pur.
chase."
" You might just as well take it to-day as to wait
six weeks," said Jones,   even if you were sure of
getting the article then, which you. are not. I sold
ten yards of it this morning, and don't expect to have
any of it left at the end of three days. Mrs. Ellis
was looking at it yesterday, and talked of taking
seven or eight yards of it for her boys."
" You'll have more when this is gone," remarked
AMr. Bradford.
" Not at the price," replied the storekeeper.
"We don't pick up bargains like this every day.
I've sold hundreds of yards of cloth, inferior to this
in qcality, for five dollars, and expect to sell hundreds of yards more at the same price."
"What is the price of this?" asked Mr. Bradford.
"Four dollars."
"It's very cheap," remarked the wife.
"Cheap! It's almost thrown away. The price
does not pay for the manufacture. You'd better let
me cut you off what you want."
"No; not to-day.  Haven't got the money to
spare," said Mr. Bradford.
"That's of no consequence.  I don't want the




OPENING AN ACCOUNT.             61
money now.  I'll charge it, and you can pay the bill
when it is most convenient."
"I don't want that," said the pattern-maker,
taken by surprise at such a proposition.  " In five or
six weeks I will have the money, and then we can
buy."
" But not at the present advantage. How many
yards do you want?"
"Five," replied Mrs. Bradford.
"If you take this now, it will make a difference to
you of just five dollars, and that's a matter of some
consequence, these times."
" Indeed it is," feelingly replied the patternmaker.
"I'll cut it off for you," said Jones, beginning to
throw open the piece of goods.  He read in his customer's face his secret willingness to accept the offer.
" Remember," Mr. Bradford laid his hand on the
storekeeper's arm; " I can't pay for it in less than
six weeks."
" All the same to me, if it's in six months.  I'm
in no hurry for the money.  You're good enough
for it.  Glad to book you  for five times the
amount."
"You're liberal in your credits," remarked the
pattern-maker.                                         I
"Not to every one.  We always know what we
are about."
By this time the five yards of cloth were measured
VI.-6   -




62            OPENING AN ACCOUNT.
off, and the scissors had commenced the work of
separation.
" Isn't there something else you want?" smilingly
inquired the storekeeper.  " Trimmings, of course."
" Yes, I must have trimmings," replied Mrs.
Bradford.
These were furnished.
"Here is some of the cheapest domestic muslin
that has been in market for a year," said Jones, at
this point, throwing the article mentioned upon the
counter.  "You'd better take a piece.  Always useful in a family. Just look at that goods, madam."
Mrs. Bradford examined it.
" What do you think of that?" said Jones, slapping his hand down upon the piece of muslin, with
an air of self-satisfaction.  "It's a beautiful piece
of goods.  And I can sell it for eleven cents and a
half."
"That is cheap! I paid twelve and a half for
some not near so good."
"I don't doubt it.  They sell an article not a
hundred miles from here for twelve and e half, not
so good as this. I don't know how people have the
conscience to ask such prices.  I can sell this for
eleven and a half, and make a good profit. Shall I
send you home a piece?"
"We need a piece of muslin very much," said
Mrs. Bradford, turning  to her husband.   "You
want new shirts, and so do the boys."
_ —-~_2L T~iU. 575~5-_2.L'~:2;:i 2.:_..;;2:';;:;;;;.:;;;21;;:;_,'Z:..2..~._..~_'':: i;'27:.;7.-:U~f:;~ii;2Y




OPENING AN ACCOUNT.             63
Mr. Bradford did not reply, for he was not al.
together satisfied about the new system of dealing.
Ile was an honest man, and understood that the bills
would have to be paid.
"'I guess we've trespassed far enough on the
kindness of Mr. Jones," said he.
"Feel no hesitation on that score," smilingly
answered Mr. Jones.  "Buy whatever you want.
The higher the bill, the better it will please me."
" Six weeks will not be long in coming."
" I don't want the money in six weeks. If it will
suit you as well, I'd as lief have six-month's settlements as any other. I'll open an account with you,
and you can get whatever you want in your family
without the trouble of hunting up the money just at
the time.  The bills can be settled in January and
July. A good many of my customers deal in this
way, and I like it best. If you feel inclined to go
upon the list, I shall be satisfied. With some people,
the year's income is not evenly distributed, and, as
in your case now, the money is a little too late for
the season."
"Just so," replied IMr. Bradford, who was really
pleased with the storekeeper's offer, as it promised
to make things more easy with him than they had
been heretofore.
So it was arranged that an account should be
opened; and that settlements once in six months
should be made.  Thus the cunning storekeeper




64           OPENING AN ACCOUNT.
gained two points: he secured the whole custom of
the Bradfords, and, by the new system, induced
them to buy at least a third more than they would
have done if obliged to pay down the cash for
every thing.
When Mr. and Mrs. Bradford left Jones's store,
the bill against them was fifty dollars. As no cash
was to be paid, wants and not means had governed
their purchases.
" Jones is a very pleasant, accommodating man,"
remarked Mrs. Bradford, as she stepped from the
store with her husband.
"He is, certainly," was replied.  "I hope this
new arrangement will make things easier.  As he
very justly said, the year's income is so unevenly
distributed. The money hardly ever comes in just
at the right time. There are four months yet to
January, and it will be easy enough to pay this bill
by that time."
Under this notion, the pattern-maker felt very
comfortable, and returned to his shop with lighter
feelings than he had known for some time. His wife
soon began to appreciate more fully than at first the
convenience of the new system. She no longer had
to ask her husband for money when any little matter
in the dry goods line was wanted, nor to bear the
heretofore oft-recurring disappointment on learning
that there was no money in the purse not otherwise
needed.  It was so easy to step over to the store of
----------                                r~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.




OPENING AN ACCOUNT.              65
the smiling, polite Mr. Jones, and say, " Cut me off
this," and "Cut me off that."
From  that time the wardrobe of the Bradfords
was less scantily furnished than heretofore.  Real
wants, and often imaginary ones, were supplied so
easily, that it was a pleasure to buy, instead of a pain,
as it had too often been, in consequence of the almost
empty purse-for a state of collapse was the usual
condition of that important article.
During the four months that intervened, from the
time the credit account was opened, until the first
of the ensuing January, Mr. Bradford was easier
than usual in money matters, though he did not lay
by any thing.  After the first of December passed,
he began to feel uneasy about the bill that would be
rendered.
"How much do you think it will be?" he inquired of his wife.
"Not a great deal," she replied.  "We haven't
bought much since the first purchases that were
made.  It won't be  over sixty dollars, at the
extent."
The pattern-maker sighed.  Sixty dollars; that
was a large sum; and he hadn't five dollars towards
it yet.
"Will it be so much?" he asked, in a voice that
was by no means cheerful.' "It may not be quite that, but it won't fall very
far short."
6*
________                                                   -




OPENING AN ACCOUNT.
"Then I must put by at least twelve dollars a
week from now until New-year's day. But I'm
afraid it can't be done. Every thing is as dull as it
can be just now: I didn't get in but seven dollars all
last week."
Mrs. Bradford had nothing encouraging to suggest. She could only answer her husband with a
sigh.
The weeks passed rapidly away. Christmas came,
but it was not the cheerful merry time with the
Bradfords it had usually been, for not over twenty
dollars were yet laid up for the January bill of the
polite and accommodating Mr. Jones. The fine fat
turkey that came brown and smoking upon the
table, neither looked so inviting to Mr. Bradford, nor
tasted as delicious as the turkey that was served one
year before; nor had the mince-pies that choice
flavour for which the mince-pies of Mrs. Bradford
were so distinguished.  The thought of Mr. Jones's
bill destroyed for the pattern-maker the sweetness
of every thing.  Nor were the children as happy;
for their Christmas presents were few and of trifling
value, compared with what they had been in former
times.  Ah! how sadly does debt interfere with
domestic comfort!
During the week that followed, Mr. Bradford was
able to add five dollars to the twenty already saved.
But he took little comfort in thinking of that
sum.  Was not the storekeeper's bill sixty?  How




OPENING AN ACCOUNT.             67
was he to meet the demand soon to come against
him?
At last, New-year's Day arrived.  In going to
his shop, the pattern-maker had to pass the store of
Mr. Jones.  He did not even glance in, but he felt
as certain that the storekeeper was observing him,
and thinking about his large bill, as if he had seen
him and looked through a window in his breast.
At dinner-time, when Mr. Bradford came home,
he was struck with the sober face of his wife the
moment he entered.  His first thought, in explanation, was the bill; and he was not wrong in his
conclusion.  The bill had come in: Mr. Jones
always sent round his bills punctually on the first
of July and January.
" IIas Mr. Jones sent in his bill yet?" he inquired.
"'Yes," was replied, in a faint voice; and the
eyes of Mrs. Bradford fell to the floor as she spoke.
"How much is it?"  The pattern-maker tried to
speak steadily while asking this question; but he
did not succeed.
There was a pause.  It seemed as if the wife
could not bring herself to answer. At length, she
murmured"A hundred and forty dollars; but there must
be some mistake."
"A  hundred and forty dollars!  Impossible!"
The countenance of 3Mr. Bradford fell instantly, and




68           OPENING AN ACCOUNT.
assumed a look of astonishment and distress.  I-e
was appalled.
" There is surely some mistake," said Mrs. Brad.
ford.  " He has charged somebody else's goods to
our account. We don't owe him half that sum."
"Where is-the bill?"
Mrs. Bradford drew the paper from  her pocket
and handed it to her husband, who hurriedly unfolded it, and glanced at the footing-up.  It was too
true-one hundred and forty dollars was the amount.
As soon as the first agitation of the poor man's mind
had subsided, he said to his wife"If you think there is any thing wrong in this
bill, we will examine it, item by item."
"I know it is wrong!" confidently replied the
wife.  " We never had any thing like that amount
of goods."
" Five yards of cloth, at four dollars a yard —
twenty dollars.  Is that right?" said Mr. Bradford,
beginning to read from the bill.
Yes, that is right, of course."'One piece of muslin, four dollars and sixty
cents."                                               1
"Four dollars and sixty cents!  It never came
to that much."  Objected to by Mrs. Bradford.
" Let me see. Forty yards, at eleven and a half.
Yes, that is right."
"I didn't think it came to so much.  The las+
piece we had only cost three dollars and a half."'




OPENING AN ACCOUNT.             69
"It was a smaller piece, I suppose."
"Yes, it was; I remember now," said the wife.
Item after item was read off. To almost every
one there was some demurrer; but, finally, all but
six were fully admitted, and about these Mrs. Bradford would not be positive; still, she could not
bring them to mind. However, as this aggregate
was only four dollars, they did not materially alter
the face of the bill.
Alas for the poor pattern-maker! No appetite
for his dinner remained.  He sat down in his usual
place at the table-it would have been a weakness,
producing shame, to have remained away —and took
food upon his plate. But he could not eat. It was
the same with his unhappy wife. While he was
oppressed by a sense of inability to meet the heavy
obligation, she was wretched under the consciousness that she was mostly to blame for its existence.
When Mr. Bradford returned to the shop, he
went two blocks out of his way to avoid passing the
store of Jones, the dry-goods dealer. He did not
work any during the afternoon; for to apply himself to his usual occupation was, for the time, out of
the question. There was but one idea in his mind,
and that-the enormous bill of MIr. Jones.  How
was it to be settled?  He could devise no means.
At one time, in the desperation of his feelings, he
determined to sell his tools, and thus cancel the
obligation. But a little reflection showed him the




70          OPENING AN ACCOUNT.
folly of this. Evening found him in no way relieved
of the burden under which he was suffering. What
was he to do? How was the bill to be paid? These
were questions to which had come no satisfactory
answers. Half the night he lay awake, pondering
over the matter. On the next day, in going to his
shop, Mr. Bradford again avoided passing the store
of Mr. Jones.  How could he meet him?
At dinner-time, the first question asked by Bradford was, if the storekeeper had sent about the bill?
" No," faintly replied his wife; to which a deep
sigh was the only response.
On the third day, Mr. Bradford's mind, though
still greatly distressed, began to rally. He was not
a man to walk round an obligation, if a path that
way could be found. It was this very honesty of
character that made his pain so acute. It was time
to see Mr. Jones, and come to some understanding
with him. But what should he say to him? What
could he say to him? His money was what the
storekeeper wanted; yet to pay the bill was impossible. He had, now, just thirty dollars. This he
was ready to pay over; but jhow little would that
satisfy Mr. Jones?   Moreover, the pattern-maker
was proud and sensitive, if he was poor; and the
idea of going to the storekeeper, and admitting that
he had run up a large bill with him at the same time
that he had not the ability to settle it, made him
faint at heart.  At last, however, he saw only one




OPENING AN ACCOUNT.             71
right way to act, and that was, to go to Mr. Jones
and confess the truth.
The storekeeper was younger than Mr. Bradford,
by at least fifteen years; and this disparity of age,
with some other circumstances, had heretofore given
the pattern-maker a certain feeling of superiority
when in his company.  But this feeling had all departed, and he approached him as one approaches
another who has power over him.
It cost Mr. Bradford, it may well be imagined,
a hard struggle to enter the store of his creditor.
When Mr. Jones smiled blandly and reached out his
hand, he could not return the smile or the warm
pressure.
I-I —Mr. Jones,' he stammered, "I received
y-your bill."
" We always send in our bills on the first of the
year," replied Mr. Jones, his smile partly fading
away, for he understood perfectly the meaning of his
customer's manner.
" Yes, so I am aware; but I find your bill much
beyond what I anticipated," said Mr. Bradford, who
was regaining his steadiness of tone.
"I believe it is all right."  This was said with
some gravity of manner.
"Oh, yes," was quickly responded.  "I don't
question its correctness at all.  I only alluded to
the amount; sixty dollars was at the outside of my
anticipations."




7 2          OPENING AN ACCOUNT.
" Bills amount up, Mr. Bradford."
"So I perceive; and it's a lesson I shall not
soon forget.  It is the first account I ever let run
up at a store, and it's the last one.  Heretofore
my money measured my wants, and hereafter I
mean to let the same rule govern in all my purchases."
"As you like about that," said the storekeeper,
who did not particularly fancy the tone in which this
was spoken.
This restored to the mind of Bradford its sense
of humiliation. He felt that he was the weaker
and the humblec&Lparty in the transaction, and must
assume the air of one who sued for favour.
" I am not a man with a large income, Mr. Jones,"
said he, speaking in a subdued voice,' and to me a
bill of a hundred and forty dollars is no light matter. I never had such a bill against me before, and
I never mean to have one like it against me again.
Nothing could have been farther from my imagination than that it was accumulating at such a rate.
But what is now to be considered, is the settlement.
That, let me frankly tell you, cannot be done at
once; I have been able to save but thirty dollars
towards it. If you will take that on account, I will
pay it, and agree to give you ten dollars a month
until the balance is paid off."
Mr. Jones was silent for some time after this proposition was made; he did not like it at all.  His




OPENING AN ACCOUNT.              73
bill was due, and he wanted the money. Mr. Brad.
ford he had considered a first-rate customer, and in
looking over his accounts, had set him down as one
who would cash up at a moment's warning.  But
he understood the position of his debtor, now that
an explanation had been made, perfectly, and knew
that, let him do as he would, the money would not
come a day sooner; and he was also aware that it
was in his power to lose or retain his customer, according as he treated him  in the present difficulty.
So, overcoming his feelings of disappointment as
rapidly as possible) and endeavouring to hide what
was not suppressed, in an assumed tone of voice, he
at length replied"I'm  sorry, of course, Mr. Bradford, not to get
the money at this time; but, as you haven't got it
to pay, I can't expect to receive it, and there's no
use in crying over what can't be helped. I'll take
the thirty dollars you have with you-it will be so
much in hand-and the other you can pay as soon
as convenient."
"'ll agree to pay you ten dollars on the first of
every month, punctually," said Bradford, with a
long-drawn respiration. Hie felt a sense of relief,
yet the pressure of shame was still heavy.
"Very well; that will do."
Jones tried to affect an indifference that he did
not feel.  ie was laying out a line for the future
custom of the pattern-maker, at the same time that
I. _7 




74           OPENING AN ACCOUNT.
he was drawing on the old debt as hard as he thought
prudent.
Bradford paid over the thirty dollars, and got a
receipt.
" When you want any thing more in my line, you
won't forget me, of course," said the storekeeper.
"No, certainly not," answered Bradford.  " I
shall feel under obligation to spend my money with
you; but we shall not spend much until this bill is
settled."
" Don't let that trouble you; it will be all wiped
out in a few months."
"I hope so," replied Mr. Bradford, as he left the
store. A sense of relief followed this arrangement;
a difficulty had been met and overcome; a mortifying ordeal had been passed, but a sting remained
behind.
Slowly the months passed away, and regularly the
ten-dollar instalments were made. But the patternmaker never met the storekeeper without feeling
humbled, while a portion of the debt stood against
him; and even after the obligation was entirely cancelled, a sense of humiliation remained. While the
debt was unpaid, Bradford required his family to
make all their purchases at the store of Jones; but,
since the bill has been settled, not a dollar of the
pattern-maker's money has entered the till of the
latter.  The credit system did not turn out a matter
of much gain or pleasure to either party.




MiA. AND) MRS. SUNDERLAND'S
EXPERIENCES.
AGREEABLE NEIGHBOURS.
"t You don't know what a beautiful new parlourcarpet the Henleys have just bought," said Mrs.
Sunderland to me, as I came in to dinner; " and it
was only a dollar and a quarter a yard. It's worth
almost as much again as ours was when new, and
we paid a dollar thirty-seven and a half."
"Carpets are cheaper now than they were when
we bought," I returned, a little coldly.
"True. That was a long time ago. I have just
been looking at ours. They are really very much
defaced. Don'tyou think we can afford to buy new
ones?  I feel quite ashamed of them; they are so
worn and faded."
" You did not think so indifferently of them until
you saw Mrs. Henley's new one.'
"Oh, yes, I did. But, I thought, may-be you;z.




76        SUNDERLANDS'  EXPERIENCES.
might think we couldn't afford others, and so I
didn't say any thing about it. But now that the
ienleys, who are really no better off than we are,
have put down a beautiful new carpet on their parlour, I feel as if we ought to do the samn    Ours
look awfully shabby."
"To carpet our parlours will cost at least fifty
dollars, Jane."
"Oh, no, it won't, nothing like it."
"It is easy to make the calculation. Figures
never lie.  It will take twenty yards for each
parlour."
"Not more than eighteen," replied my wife.
"It takes five breadths, and each room is four
yards long."
As I said this, I took a rule from my pocket, and,
in a few moments, proved the assertion I had made
as to the length of the room.
"Four fives make twenty," said I, as I arose from
my bent position, " and twice twenty make forty.
Forty yards of carpeting, at a dollar and a quarter a
yard, will cost just fifty dollars."
" A'n't you mistaken?" returned my wife, who is.not overly smart at figures.  "Forty yards, at a dollar a yard, is only forty dollars.  The forty quarters
won't make ten, certainly."
" Divide four into forty, and you have ten. Or,
multiply ten by four, and you have forty. Forty
yards of carpeting at a quarter of a dollar a yard




AGREEABLE NEIGHBOURS.             77
will, therefore, make ten dollars; and ten dollars
added to forty dollars will make just fifty."
" True enough! But I wouldn't have thought it.
[Fifty dollars is a good big sum; but then, you
know, we don't want parlour-earpets every year. It
is six or seven years since these were bought.  We
shall have to get new ones very soon at any rate,
and we might as well buy them now as at any other
time; and better too, for I don't believe they will
be as cheap in six months from this."
My wife was fairly set out for new parlour-carpets,
and meant to carry her point. This I understood
very well, and not caring to fight a battle in which
the odds were all against me, abandoned the contest,
and gave her fifty dollars to buy the carpets, inwardly
anathematizing Mrs. Henley, and wishing her a thousand miles away.
I had a very comfortable income of a thousand
dollars a year, out of which I laid it down as a rule
that I ought to save at least two hundred dollars.
This I had been able to do for a couple of years,
until, unfortunately, the Henleys moved next door,
and my wife made the'acquaintance of the very
agreeable Mrs. Henley, whose husband received a
salary of twelve hundred dollars per annum, all
of which was regularly spent by the year's end. I
had nearly four hundred dollars snugly laid away in
the Savings bank when the Henleys became our
neighbours.  The amount had already dwindled
7'




78        SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
away until only two hundred remained, when the
parlour-carpets were to be replaced by new ones.
These new neighbours and acquaintances were very
agreeable people, certainly.  I liked Henley very
well, and my wife was perfectly fascinated with 3Mrs.
Henley, who was a woman of some taste, but had rather
extravagant notions for one in her circumstances.
Our style of living had been plain from the beginning, and with this style we were both very well
satisfied. At the time of our marriage I had about
a thousand dollars laid by, and this sum we expended in furniture, keeping in view comfort and convenience rather than show. For two or three years,
we found it necessary to expend all that could be
saved out of my salary, which, during that time, was
only eight hundred dollars, in completing the comforts of our little household. After that, my salary
was increased, and I was able to save something.
With the pleasant prospect, if health continued, of
being able to save enough to purchase, in time, a
comfortable dwelling, I was going on in a very selfsatisfied state of mind, when the Henleys moved
next door.  Three weeks were allowed to go by, and
then my wife suggested that it was no more than
right for her to call upon our new neighbours, who
were, she had ascertained, very respectable people.
I had no objections to offer; and, therefore, made
none; and she, accordingly, one day made the pro.
posed complimentary visit.




AGREEABLE NEIGIIBOURS.            79
"1 called to see Mrs. Henley this morning," she
said to me when I came home to dinner.
" Well-how did you like her?" I returned) half
indifferently.
" Very much, indeed," replied my wife, expressing
herself warmly.  " She is one of the most agreeable
women I ever met-a perfect lady in her manners.
She says that I am the first one who has yet called
upon her.- She appeared pleased; and said that she
should puti me down at once in the number of her
friends. They have every thing very nice about them.
Mahogany chairs in the parlour, which is one long
room, and a beautiful marble-top centre-table. On
the mantle they have a vase of flowers in the centre,
and candelabras at each end."
As my wife said this, she glanced toward the
mantels in our plainly-furnished parlours. On one
of them was a pair of cut-glass lamps, and on the
other nothing.
" I really think, Mr. Sunderland, we might afford
a pair of candelabras," she digressed to say. "They
furnish a room so well, and only cost twelve or fifteen
dollars."
I said nothing in reply; but thought our glass
lamps looked very well, and that, for the mere appearance of the thing, twelve or fifteen dollars was
too much for persons in our circumstances to spend
for candelabras.
For some time my wife continued to run on about




80        SUNDERLANDS EXPERIENCES.
her agreeable neighbour.  She had noticed every
thing in the parlour arrangement of her house, and
the minutest particular of her dress, all of which she
described.
Two days only elapsed before M-rs. Henley returned the call, and asked my wife if she wouldn't
go shopping with her on the next day.  This she
promised to do, and as she had several articles to
purchase herself, asked me for ten dollars with which
to buy them.
"I declare i" said she to me, when I met her at
dinner-time, after the shopping expedition with Mrs.
Henley, "I've been out the whole morning and
spent all my money, without buying an article I intended to get. I was going to buy you half a dozen
pocket-handkerchiefs, a piece of muslin to make up,
and some canton-flannel for you, not one of which
articles have I got."
" What have you bought?" I asked.
"I will show you," she replied, and brought out
a bundle from one of her drawers.  As she unrolled
it, she said-" We met with some of the cheapest
collars I ever saw in my life. Real French lace,
and only two dollars a piece.  There, just look at
that!"
And my wife displayed before my eyes a worked
collar that was no doubt all she alleged in regard to
it, but as I was no judge, I could not be qualified to
the fact.




AGREEABLE NEIGHBOURS.            81' Isn't it sweet?" she said.
Of course I could do no less than assent.
"And it was only two dollars and a half. Mrs.
Henley bought one without a word, and I couldn't
resist the temptation to do the same. I hadn't a
single handsome collar to my name, and felt really
ashamed when I went out with Mrs. Henley, who
had on one that didn't cost less than five dollars, and
mine was a mean, common-looking thing, that I had
before we were married."
I hadn't a word to say.
" Wasn't I right to get it, Mr. Sunderland?" my
wife asked, looking me intently in the face.
" Certainly, my dear. You needed a fine collar.
and you did right to buy one."
" Now look at this."
A rich, showy dress-pattern met my eyes.
" Isn't that lovely?" said my wife.
" It is," I returned.
"Now, how much do you think it was a yard?"
" Indeed I don't know." 
" Only forty cents," said my wife with an air of
triumph.  " Last season, nothing like it could be
had for less than fifty cents. Mrs. Henley said she
had not seen any thing so cheap or handsome this
season, and she has been about a good deal. She
took a pattern at once, and as I am in want of a
good dress, I did the same. It will make up beau,
tifully. Don't you think so?"




SUND)ERLANDS' EXTEIRIENCES.
" Yes, I think it will."  What else could I say?
)My wife needed a dress, and this she considered
both pretty and cheap.  If it pleased her, I was
satisfied.
Half a dozen little matters, of which I did not
clearly understand the use, completed the list of purchases-things my wife would not have dreamed of
wanting had she not been out shopping with her
agreeable neighbour. On the next day I furnished
ten dollars more to get the muslin, canton-flannel
and pocket-handkerchiefs, which my wife said must
be had immediately. As she had been so kind as
to go shopping with Mrs. Henley, that lady very
kindly consented to go out with my wife.  The
piece of muslin was bought, but the handkerchiefs
and canton-flannel were omitted.  The ladies saw a
couple of silk bonnets, the price of which was only
six dollars each, which so struck their fancies that
they forthwith concluded to buy them.
" It is just the thing!" said my wife to me, drawing the really handsome and becoming bonnet upon
her head, and looking twenty per cent. younger and
prettier.  "Now don't you think so?"
"1I do indeed," I could not help saying, and with
a warmth of manner that greatly pleased my good
wife.
"I should have had to get a winter bonnet in a
few weeks, and pay at least six dollars for one
neither so good nor handsome as this. They were
i- -1~____ _.:~~~______~__ _. _____-~           -. -~9  ~ —



AGREEABLE NEIGHIBOURS.            83
selling off, and I could not let the opportunity for
securing a bargain like this pass."
I had nothing to advance by way of objection.
Ten dollars more were supplied for shopping purposes, and the canton-flannel and pocket-handkerchiefs secured this time.
Thus began my wife's acquaintance with her
agreeable neighbour, Mrs. Henley. From that period
money went more rapidly. It cost, for shopping
purposes alone, just double what it had done before.
MIy wife's appearance and that of our two little ones
was very much improved, and this was agreeable
enough, but I could not help feeling that it was all
costing too much. I found that, instead of having
fifty dollars at the end of the quarter, to lay up, I
hadn't a dollar. All was not spent in shopping, of
course; but what was true in the clothing department was true in every other department also.
Before the Henleys had been our neighbours
three months, the glass lamps had disappeared from
the mantle of our front-parlour, and a set of candelabras were to be seen in their place.
Mr. Henley, upon whom my wife insisted I should
call, I found an intelligent, agreeable man, and frequently spent a pleasant evening with him.  As for
the ladies, they were soon as thick as pickpockets,
and saw each other every day.  From the first week
of their acquaintance, the ideas of my wife began
gradually to enlarge, and her taste to become refined.




84        SUNDERLAIDS' EXPERIENCES.
The thought of economy gradually faded from hei
mind.  MIrs. Henley became her model, and Mrs.
Henley's ideas of things her ideas. She used, every
fall, to put up a few jars of preserves-and these
were generally confined to peaches and plums, the
cost of which did not exceed five dollars. But this,
the first season of her acquaintance with Mrs. Henley, she was visited with a regular preserving mania.
Quinces, peaches, pears, plums, pine-apples, watermelon-rinds, and the dear knows what all! were
boiled down in the best double-refined loaf-sugar,
and sealed up in glass jars, the number of which I
will not pretend to give.  Brandied peaches, too, had
to be put up in the best white brandy, for which I
paid somewhere between three and four dollars a
gallon. Altogether, I am sure the brandy, fruit,
sugar, and jars did not cost a fraction less than thirty
dollars. I said so to my wife, but she scouted the
idea as preposterous.
And so the thing went on for more than a year,
before the new carpets were bought, my deposits in
the Savings bank steadily decreasing, until I had
not over two hundred dollars left. I really began
to feel serious, and to wish that Mrs. Henley had
been married to the man in the moon.
The new carpets looked very fine. I had to acknowledge that. But the chairs and the card-table
appeared rather ashamed of themselves in such
genteel company.




AGREEABLE NEIGHBOURS.             85
"Mrs. Henley says our chairs will never do."
I had been looking for this.  "Confound Mrs.
Henley!"
Don't suppose, reader, that I uttered this aloud. 1
was not quite so rude. I only thought it.
"We were looking at some excellent mahogany
chairs, when we were in Walnut street this morning,
at four dollars a piece.  That would only be fortyeight dollars a dozen, and we paid twenty-five for
these cane-seats. It's a pity we hadn't bought mahogany chairs when we were about it.  But these will
do very well for the chamber."
When Mrs. Sunderland gets a thing into her head,
there is no getting it out. After she had said this,
I saw the new chairs already in our parlours. This
was in imagination; but the real vision came soon.
A draft upon my deposits in the Savings bank for
fifty dollars, furnished my wife with the means of
gratifying her desire to have a set of cushioned
chairs. Mrs. Henley pronounced them beautiful, but
suggested that there was still something wanting to
complete the effect.  There must either be a sofatable, or a centre-table with a marble top.
"' Mrs. Henley is very kind in her suggestions,"
I could not help saying, a little sarcastically. My
wife did not like this at all, and met it with a warm
defence of her agreeable neighbour. I was silenced.
No more was said about a centre or sofa-table for a
week or two. Then my wife, with the aid of her
VI. —8




86        SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
friend, discovered the very thing that was wanted,
in a handsome sofa-table, with a black Italian marble slab, the price of which, exceedingly moderate,
was only twenty-two dollars. As there was a pair
of them, and the Henleys bought one, although they
had a handsome centre-table already, I couldn't
object very strongly, and I did not.
Carpets, chairs and sofa-table were costly articles,
and their purchase made quite a distinct impression
upon the little fund I had saved. -But, besides these
marked impressions, there was a gradual wasting
away of my cherished deposit. 3Mrs. Henley was a
woman who always wanted something, and never
was satisfied unless she were spending money. In
the course of a year and a half, she had so filled my
wife with her spirit, that our current expenses, instead of coming within eight hundred dollars, exceeded a thousand per annum, and my four hundred
dollars were all drawn out of the Savings bank. I
had cause to feel sober.
"This will never do," I would say to my wife.
"We are living beyond our income."
"I am sure I try to be -economical," she would
answer. "I don't see how I could spend less. We
live no better than other persons in our circumstances
live. I am sure Mrs. Henley spends two dollars on
herself where I spend one."
"We used to get along very comfortably on eight
hundred dollars a year. But we have not only spent
-  _       -,,,............




AGREEABLE NEIGHBOURS.           87
a thousand dollars a year for the last two years, but
have drawn every thing out of the Savings bank we
had laid up."
"Yes, dear, but look how much furniture we
have bought.  These carpets, those chairs and
tables, and that elegant rocking-chair; besides the
dressing-bureau, wash-stand, and mahogany bedstead."
"True. But are we any happier than we were?"
I replied. "' To speak for myself, I can say that I
am not."
"We shall not have them to buy again. They
will last us our lifetime," suggested my wife, by
way of consolation.
"Yes, but my dear, we are living at an expense
of at least eleven hundred dollars, and my salary,
you are aware, is but a thousand."
My wife looked very serious.
"I don't know what we shall do," said she, in a
desponding tone.
" If you don't, I must find out," was my mental
reply.
When I left home, I took the way direct to the
store of my landlord.
"Mr. L," said I, " have you another house
a mile or two away from the one I now occupy?"
"Vacant, you mean?"
" Of course."' Yes. I received the key this morning of a very




88        SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
excellent house up in Spring Garden District. But
the rent is two hundred and fifty."
" Fifty dollars more than I now pay. No matter.
That will do. Now, Mr. L-, I want you to write
me a formal notification to leave your house within
three days."
"Why so? That is a strange proceeding."
I gave him a history of the effect produced upon
my finances by our very agreeable neighbours, and
declared that if he did not do as I wished, I would
be ruined.
My landlord laughed at me, but promised to do as
I desired.  You may judge of my wife's surprise
when a peremptory notice to quit was received.
" He can't get you out until the end of the quarter," suggested Mr. Henley.
"I wouldn't go for him 1" said Mrs. Henley, with
strongly marked emphasis.
But I affected to be greatly indignant at the landlord's note, and said I wouldn't live in his house
another week if he gave it to me rent free for a year.
On the next day I took my wife out to see the new
house in Spring Garden. She strongly objected to
going so far away.
" So far away from where?" I asked.
This she was not able to answer very satisfactorily.
When, however, she saw the house, and found it to
be so much larger, handsomer, and more convenient
than the one we had left, she waived all objections,




SAVING AT TTlE SPIGOT.           89
and we were snngly settled in it before a week had
elapsed.  The only thing that my wife regretted in
the change, was the loss of her agreeable neighbour,
Mrs. Henley.  I need not express my feelings on
that subject.
Soon we had matters and things going on in the
old way, and I am now laying up from one to two
hundred dollars a year, and shall continue to do so
I hope, unless the Henleys take a fancy to move into
our neighbourhood, which heaven forbid!
So much for our very agreeable neighbours. They
were pleasant people certainly, but their acquaintance
cost too much.
SAVING AT THE SPIGOT.
SINCE our removal into Spring Garden, Mrs.
Sunderland's old and very agreeable neighbour, Mrs.
Henley, has only paid her one or two formal visits.
Withdrawn from her sphere and influence, the mania
for spending money which raged for a couple of years
has subsided, and my wife sees her error quite as
clearly as I do, and laments it even more bitterly.
She is exceedingly anxious to save at every point, in
order to make up what has been lost, and in attempting to do so has, in several instances, demonstrated with great clearness the folly of the man
8*




90        SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCE.
who was charged with saving at the spigot while
lie was letting out at the bunghole.
We have usually employed one domestic to cook
and do general housework, and hired a washerwoman
and ironer every week. Our washings are pretty
large-at least so my wife says, and she ought to
know.  After we moved into Spring Garden, my
wife concluded to dispense with the ironer, and this
saved sixty-two and a half cents a week.  Of course
she had to take her place; so our one servant had just
about as much to do as she could get through with.
I expressed my objection to this, but my wife
said that she would rather do it.
" But you are not strong, Anna," I urged, " and
will find standing all day at the ironing-table much
too fatiguing."
"I suppose I will bee a little tired, but that is no
matter.  Getting tired won't hurt me."
"Over fatigue might, though," I returned.
"I will guard against that," she made answer.
"Still, Anna, I would rather piay the woman.
You have enough to do in the family."
" A half dollar and eleven pence is a good deal to
pay out every week, besides giving a woman a day's
boarding, and might just as well be saved as not.
So, Harry, you needn't say a word about it.  I've
made my mind up to do a share of the ironing, and
you know very well, by this time, that if I will, I
will, you may depend on't."




SATING AT THE SPIGOT.            91
" And if you won't, you won't, so there's an end
on't," I returned, good-humouredly.  " Well, I suppose for me to object is useless; but I doubt if ycu
save any thing in the long run."
"Very well, doubt away, but I know, that if I
save sixty or seventy cents a week, I will save thirty
or thirty-five dollars a year. If I am not very smart
at figures, I can at least calculate that."
Of course my wife had her way, and the very
next week undertook to do half the ironing.  When
she got up on Tuesday morning, the ironing day, I
saw by the expression of her face that she was not
well.
"Does your head ache?" I asked.
" Yes, a little."
" More than a little, I apprehend, Anna. You
do not look at all well. Of course you will not attempt ironing to-day."
"Certainly I will," she replied.
"You are very wrong, Anna.  You might make
yourself sick," I urged.
"c Oh, no. I shall feel better after a while. I
told Hannah last week that I shouldn't want her
any more.  So I must do it, sick or well."
It was in July, and the day had opened breezeless and sultry. Even while sitting quite still at
my desk, the perspiration was starting from every
pore. About eleven o'clock, however, there was a
change. The air began to move gently from the




92        SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCE.
east, and by twelve was blowing freshly.  The
thermometer had already fallen several degrees.
The change was delightful. New life seemed to
rush through every vein.
At two o'clock, I went home to dinner. By this
time, the difference in the temperature since morning was at least twenty degrees. The sky was obscured by clouds, and the wind that was blowing
steadily from the north-east, penetrated my thin
summer-clothing, and actually produced a sensation
of chilliness.
On arriving at home, I found my wife with flushed
cheeks and a look of extreme fatigue, standing at the
ironing-table, which was placed across the kitchendoor, into which the cool wind was passing, and of
course, striking full against her. She was dressed
in a thin, loose wrapper, and her neck and a part of
her bosom exposed to the cool air.
" Anna, you are very imprudent to stand in that
draft, overheated as you are," I said, the moment I
saw her.
" The air is delightful," she merely returned.
" But you will take cold," I urged.
"No danger.  I'm not afraid."
"It might be the death of you. Not afraid to
stand, in the overheated state in which you are, in
a chilly east wind?"
"There —there, Harry?" my wife said a little
impatiently. "Don't come here to worry me now!Ii




SAVING AT THE SPIGOT.            93
I'm so tired, that if it wasn't for this cool, bracing
air, I could'nt stand."
" Are you almost done?" I asked.
" Yes, very nearly. It took that Hannah about
all day to do what I have done this morning. I
can iron two pieces to her one. I wouldn't have
her again in the house."
I couldn't help thinking of the story I had heard
about two labouring-men, one an old hand at the
business, and the, other green.  They were set to
work at some kind of excavation, and the new hand
threw two shovelfuls of earth to the old one's one;
but in the long run, the old hand, who worked up
to his strength, but without exhausting it, did twice
the labour of the other. My inference, which proved
to be correct, was, that Hannah did a fair and reasonable day's work, while my wife, working on the
high-pressure principle, did a great deal too muchdouble what she could have done working day after day.
" A'n't you going to eat any thing?" I asked, at
dinner-time, finding my wife declined being helped
to any dish on the table.
" I don't feel the slightest appetite," she returned.
"Try a piece of this lamb," I urged.  "It is
very nice."
But she shook her head, saying, "I couldn't
swallow a morsel of it."
Of course I did not eat with much appetite. In
fact, I hardly tasted the food I put into my mouth.
K   ________                    __        _    _____




94        SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCE.
"It's the last time she does the ironing," I said
to myself, as I walked slowly back to the office
where I was engaged in writing.  "I call this poor
economy.  Ten chances to one if she don't make
herself sick; and there won't be much saving in
that."
As evening approached, and my thoughts began
to turn toward home, I felt uneasy. I expected to
find my wife suffering from entire physical prostration. My fears were not idle. The reality, indeed,
was worse than my fears. She was in bed, and
suffering from a severe pain in her side, that was so
much increased by breathing that she could hardly
help crying out at every inspiration. Coughing or
pressure caused intolerable pain.
Once before, my wife had been attacked with
pleurisy, and I knew too well the alarming symptoms.  In her overheated state, the cold air had
caused a sudden check of perspiration, and inflammation of the pleura was the consequence.
I started immediately for our family physician,
and was fortunate enough to find him  in.  He accompanied me home. On arriving, we found that
all the smyptoms had become much worse since I
left. My poor wife screamed with nearly every
breath.
Bleeding was instantly resorted to, which gave
temporary relief.  But, before ten o'clock, the pain
returned with great violence. I again went for the




SAVING AT THE SPIGOT.             95
doctor, who repeated the bleeding, and then ordered
leeches, fifty of which were applied.  But the pain
only abated in a partial degree. All night she suffered most cruelly, and was so bad in the morning
that I had to go for the doctor again soon after daylight.
More blood was then taken by the lancet, and
fifty more leeches applied to the chest before relief
was obtained. Then I had the satisfaction to see
her sink away into sleep, the first time she had
closed her eyes since the attack.
She slept for a couple of hours, and then awoke
with a return of the pain in her side, to allay which
leeching was again resorted to.
For five days this bleeding and leeching was kept
up, before the inflammation was sufficiently subdued
to allow of revulsive treatment.  Three large blisters were applied to her chest and arms.
It need hardly be said, that with such a disease
and such treatment, my wife was reduced so low
that a nurse had to be obtained for her.  She was
weak as an infant; for, added to the pain and the
severe mode of attacking the disease resorted to by
the physician, she took but little nourishment for
many days. Nearly three weeks elapsed, from the
time shewas taken before she was well enough to
come down-stairs and take her usual place at the
head of the table, and then she had so little strength
ieft that she could not do the most simple needle
I-...... —-                           — 1~~~~~~~~~~~~___ 




96        SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCE.
work. Months elapsed before her health was fairly
restored-I will not say "fairly restored," either,
for she has never been as she was.
And now let me calculate the amount of saving
made by my wife in dispensing with a woman once
a week to help do the ironing. The saving was exactly sixty-two and a half cents to a fraction. That
was the creditor side of the account.  The debtor
side outbalanced it seriously, as far as the account
was entered up, which never could be accurately
done.  Indeed no attempt to strike a clear balance
was ever made.
The first and most imposing item was the doctor's
bill, which was exactly twenty dollars.  Then, five
dollars were paid for leeching, and nine dollars to a
nurse for three weeks' service.  Here was thirtyfour dollars of unmistakeable expense. Beyond this
was the loss of nearly two months' time by my wife,
to make up for which a seamstress had to be employed for several weeks at half a, dollar a day.
Instead of being able to get along with one domestic
and a washerwoman and ironer, two girls have had
to be hired ever since.  Taken all in all, it may be
fairly concluded that for sixty-two and a half cents
>>hat my wife saved at the spigot on the occasion
referred to, she let seventy or eighty dollars escape
from the bunghole.
As in duty bound, I made the circumstance the
occasion of sundry appropriate hints. My wife saw




MY WIFE'S PARTY.              97
her error plainly enough, and acknowledged it with
expressions of regret for her folly; but many weeks
did not elapse after she considered herself well
enough to go about the house, before she suggested
that one domestic would be enough in the family.
But I vetoed the proposed reduction of help in such
a determined manner, that I carried my point.  Still
the propensity to save a present half-dollar at the
risk of losing ten, is so strong, that if I did not
constantly interfere, and almost command things to
be done or left undone, we would suffer almost as
much from my good wife's efforts to save as we did
from her mania to spend, as related under the head
of " Agreeable Neighbours."
MY WIFE'S PARTY.
A BETTER woman than Mrs. Sunderland does not
exist anywhere, though I, her husband, do say it
myself.  I consider her one of the "salt of the
earth," and I think I ought to know. Still Mrs.
Sunderland has her weaknesses, and one of these is
a disposition to think well of everybody. On this
head, I believe, no one can accuse me of weakness.
I am not aware that, as a general thing, I think any
better of people than I ought to think.  No-I am
not blind to anybody's faults, though I can see and
I.-9




SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
appreciate excellences as well as any one.  But to
my story.
After we had risen a little in the world, and could
afford not only to live in our own house, but to enjoy our share of the elegances and luxuries of this
life, we found ourselves surrounded by a good many
who, before, were not over-liberal in their attentions.
M rs. Sunderland believed their friendship sincere;
but I reserved to myself the right to doubt the
genuineness of some of the professions that were
made.  I didn't like the "CMy dear Mirs. Sunderland!" nor the particular solicitude expressed by
not a few in every thing that concerned my wife's
welfare; and when she talked about Mrs. Jones
being such a kind, good soul, and Miss Peters being
so disinterested in every thing, I shrugged my shoulders, and reserved the privilege of a doubt in regard
to all being gold that glittered.
Not having been raised in fashionable life, we
had no taste for display, and, although we had our
share of company, whether we cared about it or not,
we had never ventured so far to sea as to give a
party, although we had accepted several invitations
to assemblages of this kind. But some of Mrs. Sunderland's good friends and acquaintances insisted
upon it, last winter, that she must give an entertainment, and they used such cogent arguments that
she, good soul! was won over. I remained for a long
time incorrigible; but, as nothing could put it out
--- ------- --— ~-  -- J —




MY WIFE'S PARTY.               99
of Mrs. Sunderland's head that it was due to her
position and relations to give a party, I, with much
reluctance, withdrew my opposition, and forthwith
the note of preparation was sounded.
"Who shall we invite?" was the first question.
Our circle of acquaintance had considerably increased within two or three years, and when we went
over the list, it was found to be rather large.
"You will have to cut down considerably," said I.
"To do so without giving offence will be difficult," replied my wife.
" Better cut all off, then," was on my tongue, but
I repressed the words, feeling that it would be unkind to throw cold water upon the affair at this stage
of its progress.
"You havn't got Fanny and Ellen on your list,"
I remarked, after a good number of erasures had
been made.  They were two of my nieces; good
girls, but poor. Both were dressmaker's apprentices.
They were learning a trade in order to relieve their
father, an industrious, but not very thrifty man,
from the burden of their support. I liked them
very much for their good sense, agreeable manners,
and strong affection for their parents.' Shall we invite them?" inquired my wife.
" Certainly!" I replied.  "Why not?"
" Will they be able to make a good appearance?
You know that a number of fashionable people wi.;.1
be here."




100       SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
"If you doubt it, we will send them each a handsome dress-pattern with the invitation."
"Perhaps we had better do so," was Mrs. Sunderland's approving remark, and the thing was done
as I had suggested.
The pruning down of the invitation-list was no
easy matter, and it was not without many fears of
giving offence that my wife at last fixed upon the
precise number of persons who were to honour us
with their company.
The exact character of the entertainment was next
to be considered, and an estimate of cost made.
Several ladies, au fait in such matters, were consulted; and their opinions compared, digested, and
adopted or rejected as they agreed with, or differed
from, what we thought right.
"It will cost at least a hundred dollars," said
Mrs. Sunderland, after we had come to some understanding as to what we would have.  The sum
seemed large in her mind.
"If we get off with two hundred, we may be
thankful," I replied.
"Oh, no. It can't go above a hundred dollars."
"We shall see."
" If I thought it would cost so much, I would" —
"There is no retreat now, Mrs. Sunderland. We
have taken the step initiative, and have nothing to
d.1o Lut go through with the matter as best we can.




MY WIFE'S PARTY.             101
My word for it, we shall not be very eager to give
another party."
This threw a damper upon my wife's feelings that
I was sorry to perceive, for now that the party must
be given, I wanted to see it done in as good a spirit
as possible.  From that time, therefore, I was careful not to say any thing likely to awaken a doubt as
to the satisfactory result of the coming entertainment.
The evening came in due time, and we had all
things ready.  I must own that I felt a little excited, for the giving of a fashionable party was
something new in the history of my life, and I did
not feel altogether at home in the matter. Unaccustomed to the entertainment of company, especially
where ceremony and the observance of a certain
etiquette were involved, I was conscious of an awkward feeling, and would have given double the cost
of the party for the privilege of an escape from the
trials and mortifications it promised to involve.
In order to give additional beauty and attractiveness to our parlours, we had purchased sundry articles of ornamental furniture, which cost over a
hundred dollars, and which were of no manner. of
use but to look at.
It was so late before the elite of our company began to arrive, that we were in some doubt whether
they were going to come at all. But, towards nine
o'2lock, they came along, and by ten we were in the
9*




102      SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
full tide of successful experiment. My nieces, Fanny
and Ellen, were among the first to appear, and they
looked pretty and interesting.
As soon as the first embarrassment consequent
on the appearance of the extra-fashionables had worn
off, and I felt at home once more in my own house,
I began to look around me with an observant eye.
About the first thing that attracted my attention
was the sober aspect of a certain lady, whose husband, by a few fortunate adventures, had acquired
some money, and lifted her into "good society," as
it is called.  She was talking to another lady, and
I saw that their eyes were directed towards my
nieces, of whom I felt a little proud; they looked
and behaved so well.
" What's all this about?" said I to myself, and
I kept my eyes upon the ladies as intently as they
did upon Ellen and Fanny. Presently I saw one of
them toss her head with an air of dignified contempt,
and, rising up, make her way across the room to
where her husband stood. She spoke to him in
evident excitement, and directed his attention to my
nieces. The sight of them did not seem to produce
any unpleasant effect upon him, for he merely
shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and answered in a
few words that I could see were indifferent.  But
his wife was in earnest, and, placing her arm within
his, drew him away toward the door. He remonstrated, but she was not in a humour to listen to




MY WIFE'S PARTY.             103
any thing, and, with surprise, I saw them retire from
the parlours.  My first impression was to follow
them, but the truth flashing across my mind, I felt
indignant at such conduct, and resolved to let them
do as they pleased.  In a little while, the offended
lady, bonneted, cloaked, and boaed, came sweeping
past the parlour-doors, with her husband in her
train, attracting the attention of a third part of the
company.- A moment after, and she had passed into
the street.
" Who is that? What's the matter?" went whispering about the rooms.
" It is Mrs. L."
"Mrs. L! Is she sick?"
"Why has she gone?"
But no one seemed at first to know. Soon, however, the lady to whom she had communicated the
fact that we had insulted our company by inviting
f' mantua-maker girls," whispered to another the
secret, and away it went buzzing through the rooms,
finding its way as well to the ears of Fanny and
Ellen as to those of the rest of the company. About
one-half of the ladies present did not exactly seem
to know whether they ought to follow the example
of Mrs. L- or not; and there was a portentous
moment, when almost the waving of a finger would
have caused our party to break up in disorder.
The moment my nieces understood the feeling
that had prompted the lady to withdraw indignantly,




1 04     SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
they arose, and were retiring from the room, when I
intercepted and detained them with as little ceremony
as possible. They begged hard to be permitted to
retire, but I said no! for my blood was " up," as
the saying is.
" Ellen and Fanny are worth as many Mrs.
L --'s," said I to myself,  as you can find from
here to Jericho."
The disaffected ones noticed, I suppose, my decision in the matter, and thought it prudent not to
break with Mr. and Mrs. Sunderland, who could
afford to be independent.  Money is a great thing!
Humph; there was a time in our history —but, no
matter. We are people of character and standing
now.
We had rather a dull time after the withdrawal
of Mrs. L. For a little while the spirits of the
company rallied, under the effects of wine and a good
supper, but they soon flagged again, and a sober cast
of thought settled upon almost every countenance.
MIy poor wife found it impossible to retain a cheerful
exterior; and my nieces looked as if almost any
other place in the world would have been a paradise
in comparison.
At least an hour earlier than we had anticipated,
our rooms were deserted, and we left alone with our
thoughts, which, upon the whole, were not very
agreeable.  Mrs. Sunderland, the moment the last
guest retired, went back into the brilliantly-lighted




MY WIFE S PARTY.             10o
parlours, and, sitting down upon a sofa, burst into
tears. She had promised herself much pleasure,
but, alas! how bitterly had she been disappointed!
I was excited and indignant enough to say almost
any thing, and a dozen times, as I paced the rooms
backward and forward, did I check myself when
about uttering words that would only have made
poor Mrs. Sunderland feel ten times worse than she
did.
"The next time we give a party""We won't!" said I, taking the words out of
my wife's mouth.  She was recovering from her
state of mortification, and beginning to feel indignant.
" You'vp said it exactly," responded Mrs. Sunderland.  "I call thislbhrowing away a couple of hundred dollars in. a very bad cause."
" So it strikes me.  When fifty or sixty people
eat an elegant supper, and drink costly wine at my
expense again, they. will behave themselves better
than some of our high-bred ladies did to-night. As
for Mrs. L:, Fanny and Ellen are worth a hundred of her. It's my opinion that if she knew every
thing she would curtail her dignity a little. If I'm
not very much mistaken, her husband will go to the
wall before a twelvemonth passes."
On the next day we settled all accounts with confectioner, wine-merchant, china-dealers, and waiters.
The bills were over a hundred and fifty dollars, ex



1]06     SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
2lusive of a hundred dollars paid, as before intimated;
for parlour-ornaments to grace the occasion.
" So much paid for worldly wisdom," said I,
after all was over.  "I don't think we need to give
another party."
Mrs. Sunderland sighed and shook her head.
Poor soul! her kind and generous nature was hurt.
She had looked upon a new phase of character, and
the discovery had wounded her deeply.
A few months after this unfortunate party, from
which so little pleasure and so much pain had
sprung, I said to my wife, on coming home one day:
" It's as I expected. Pride must have a fall."
" Why do you say that? What has happened?"
inquired Mrs. Sunderland.
" L    has failed, as I predicted, and his lady
wife, who turned up her aristocratic nose at our
excellent nieces, is likely to see the day when she
will stand far below them in society."
I spoke in an exulting voice. But my wife instantly reproved my levity.  She cherished no ani.
mosities, and had long since forgiven the offence.
So much for MY WIFE'S PARTY.




THE HOUSE-CLEANING.
TALK of a washing-day! What is that to a whole
week of washing-days? No, even this gives no true
idea of that worst of domestic afflictions a poor man
can suffer-house-cleaning. The washing is confined to the kitchen or wash-house, and the effect
visible in the dining-room is in cold or badly-cooked
meals; with a few other matters not necessary to
mention here. But in the house-cleaning-oh, dear!
Like the dove from the ark, a man finds no place
where he can rest the sole of his foot. Twice a year,
regularly, have I to pass through this trying ordeal,
willy-nilly, as it is said, in some strange language.
To rebel is useless.  To grumble of no avail.  Up
come the carpets, topsyturvy goes the furniture, and
swash! goes the water from garret to cellar. I don't
know how other men act on these occasions, but I
find discretion the better part of valour, and submission the wisest expedient.
Usually it happens that my good wife works
herself half to death-loses the even balance of her
mind-and, in consequence, makes herself and al.
around her unhappy. To indulge in an unamiable
temper is by no means a common thing for Mrs.
Sunderland, and this makes its occurrence on these
occasions so much the harder to bear.  Our last
house-cleaning took place in the fall. I have been
107




108       SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
going to write a faithful history of what was said,
done, and suffered on the occasion ever since, and
now put my design into execution, even at the risk
of having my head combed with a three-legged stool
by my excellent wife, who, when she sees this in
print, will be taken, in nautical phrase, all aback.
But, when a history of our own shortcomings, mishaps, mistakes and misadventures will do others
good, I am for giving the history and pocketing the
odium, if there be such a thing as odium attached to
revelations of human weakness and error.
"We must clean house this week," said my good
wife, one morning as we sat at the breakfast-table"every thing is in a dreadful condition.  I can't
look at nor touch any thing without feeling my flesh
creep."
I turned my eyes, involuntarily, around the room.
I was not, before, aware of the filthy state in which
we were living.  But not having so good " an eye
for dirt" as Mrs. Sunderland, I was not able, even
after having my attention called to the fact, to see
" the dreadful condition" of things.  I said nothing,
however, for I never like to interfere in my wife's
department. I assume it as a fact that she knows
her own business better than I do.
Our domestic establishment consisted at this time
of a cook, chambermaid and waiter.  This was an
ample force, my wife considered, for all purposes of
house-cleaning, and had so announced to the in



THE HOUSE-CLEANING.           109
dividuals concerned some days before she mentioned
the matter incidentally to me.  We had experience,
in common with others, on our troubles with servants, but were now excellently well off in this
respect.  Things had gone on for months with
scarcely a jar.  This was a pleasant feature in
affairs, and one upon which we often congratulated
ourselves.
When I came home at dinner-time, on the day
the anticipated house-cleaning had been mentioned
to me, I found my wife with a long face.
"Are you not well?" I asked.
"I'm  well enough," Mrs. Sunderland answered,
"but I'm out of all patience with Ann and Hannah."
"What is the matter with them?" I asked, in
surprise.
"They are both going at the end of this week."
"Indeed! How comes that?  I thought they
were very well satisfied."
"So they were, all along, until the time for housecleaning approached. It is too bad!"
"That's it-is it?"
"Yes. Anu I feel out of all patience about it. It
shows such a want of principle."
"Is John going too?" I asked.
"Dear knows! I expect so. He's been as sulky
as he could be all the morning-in fact, ever since
I told him that he must begin taking up the carpets
to-morrow and shake them."
VI. —10




110       SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
" Do you think Ann and Hannah will really go?"
I asked.
"Of course they will. I have received formal
notice to supply their places by the end of this week,
which I must do, somehow or other."
The next day was Thursday, and, notwithstanding
both cook and chambermaid had given notice that
they were going on Saturday, my wife had the whole
house knocked into pi, as the printers say, determined
to get all she could out of them.
When I made my appearance at dinner-time, I
found all in precious confusion, and my wife heated
and worried excessively. Nothing was going on
right.  She had undertaken to get the dinner, in
order that Ann and Hannah might proceed uninterruptediy in the work of house-cleaning; but as Ann
and IIannah had given notice to quit in order to
escape this very house-cleaning, they were in no
humour to put things ahead. In consequence, they
had "poked about and done nothing," to use Mrs.
Sunderland's own language; at which she was no
little incensed.
When evening came, I found things worse. MIy
wife had set her whole force to work upon our chamber, early in the day, in order to have it finished as
quickly as possible, that it might be in a sleeping
condition by night-dry and well aired.  But, instead of this, Ann and Hannah had " dilly-dallied"
the whole day over cleaning the paint, and now the




THE HOUSE-CLEANING.           111
floor was not even washed up. Mly pcor wife was
in a sad way about it; and I am sure that I felt
uncomfortable enough. Afraid to sleep in a damp
chamber, we put two sofas together in the parlour,
and passed the night there.
The morning rose cloudily enough. I understood
matters clearly. If Mrs. Sunderland had hired a
couple of women for two or three days to do the
cleaning, and got a man to shake the carpets, nothing
would have been heard about the sulkiness of John
or the notice to quit of cook and chambermaid.
Putting upon them the task of house-cleaning was
considered an imposition, and they were not disposed
to stand it.
"I shall not be home to dinner to-day," I said,
as I rose from the breakfast-table.  " As you are
all in so much confusion, and you have to do the
cooking, I prefer getting something to eat down
town."'
" Very well," said Mrs. Sunderland —" so much
the better."
I left the house a few minutes afterwards, glad to
get away. Every thing was confusion, and every
face under a cloud.
" How are you getting along?" I asked, on coming
home at night.
"IIunmph! Not getting along at all!" replied
Mrs. Sunderland, in a fretful tone.  " In two days,
the girls might have thoroughly cleaned the house




112      SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
from top to bottom, and what do you think they
have done? Nothing at all!"
" Nothing at all! They must have done something."
" Well, next to nothing, then.  They haven't
finished the front and back chambers. And what is
worse, Ann has gone away sick, and Hannah is in
bed with a real or pretended sick-headache."
" Oh, dear!" I ejaculated, involuntarily.
"Now a'n't things in a pretty way?"
"I think they are," I replied, and then asked,
" what are you going to do?"
"I have sent John for old Jane, who helped us
-nlean house last spring. But, as likely as not, she's
at work somewhere."
Such was in fact the case, for John came in a
moment after with that consoling report.' Go and see Nancy, then," my wife said, sharply,
to John, as if he were to blame for Jane's being at
work.
John turned away slowly and went on his errand,
evidently in not the most amiable mood in the world.
It was'soon ascertained that Nancy couldn't come.
{' mThy can't she come?" inquired my wife.
"She say's she's doing some sewing for herself,
and can't go out this week," replied John.
"Go and tell her that she must come. That
my house is upside down, and both the girls are
sick."




THE HOUSE-CLEANING.           113
But Nancy was in no mood to comply.  John
brought back another negative.
" Go and say to her, John, that I will not take no
for an answer: that she must come. I will give her
a dollar a day."
This liberal offer of a dollar a day was effective.
Nancy came and went to work on the next morning
Of course, Ann did not come back; and as it was Hannah's last day, she felt privileged to have more headache than was consistent with cleaning paint or scrubbing floors. The work went on, therefore, very slowly.
Saturday night found us without cook or chambermaid, and with only two rooms in order in the whole
house, viz. one chamber on the second story. By
great persuasion, Nancy was induced to stay during
Sunday and cook for us.
An advertisement in the newspaper on Monday
morning, brought us a couple of raw Irish girls, who
were taken as better than nobody at all. With these
new recruits, Mrs. Sunderland set about getting
"things to right." Nancy plodded on, so well
pleased with her wages, that she continued to get
the work of one day lengthened out into two, and
so managed to get a week's job.
For the whole of another precious week we were
in confusion.
" How do your new girls get along?" I asked of my
wife, upon whose face I had not seen a smile for ten
days.
10*




114      SUNDERLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
"Don't name them, Mr. Sunderland!  They'ro
not worth the powder it would take to shoot them.
Lazy, ignorant, dirty, good-for-nothing creatures. I
wouldn't give them house-room."
" I'm sorry to learn that. What will you do?"
I said.
" Dear knows! I was so well suited in Ann and
Hannah, and, to think that they should have served
me so! I wouldn't have believed it of them. But
they are all as destitute of feeling and principle as
they can be. And John continues as sulky as a
bear. He pretended to shake the carpets, but you
might get a wheelbarrow-load of dirt out of them.
I told him  so, and the impudent fellow replied
that he didn't know any thing about shaking
carpets; and that it wasn't the waiter's place, any
how."
" He did?"
" Yes, he did. I was on the eve of ordering him
to leave the house."
"' I'll save you that trouble," I said, a little
warmly.
" Don't say any thing to him, if you please, Mr.
Sunderland," returned my wife.  "There couldn't
be a better man about the house than he is, for all
ordinary purposes. If we should lose him, we shall
never get another half so good. I wish I'd hired a
man to shake the carpets at once; they would have
been much better done, and I should have had John's




THE HOUSE-CLEANING.            115
cheerful assistance about the house, which would
have been a great deal."
That evening I overheard, accidentally, a conversation between John and the new girls, which threw
some light upon the whole matter.
"John," said one of them, "what made Mrs.
Sunderland's cook and chambermaid go aff and lave
her right in the middle of house-clainin'?"
" Because Mrs. Sunderland, instead of hiring a
woman, as every lady does, tried to put it all off
upon them."
"Indade! and was that it?"
" Yes, it was. They never thought of leaving
until they found they were to be imposed upon;
and, to save fifty cents or a dollar, she made me
shake the carpets. I never did such a thing in my
life before. I think I managed to leave about as
much dirt in as I shook out.  But I'll leave the
house before I do it again."
" So would I, John. It was a downright mane
imposition, so it was, Set a waiter'to shaking carpets!"
"I don't think much has been saved," remarked
the waiter, " for Nancy has had a dollar a day ever
since she has been here."
" Indade!"
" Yes; and besides that, Mrs. Sunderland has had
to work like a dog herself.  All this might have
been saved, if she had hired a couple of women at




] 1,6     SUNDEiRLANDS' EXPERIENCES.
sixty-two and a half cents a day for two or three
days, and paid for having the carpets shaken; that's
the way other people do.  The house would have
been set to rights in three or four days, and every
thing going on like clockwork."
I heard no more.  I wanted to hear no more; it
was all as clear as day to me.  When I related to
Mrs. Sunderland what John had said, she was, at
first, quite indignant.  But the reasonableness of
the thing soon became so apparent that she could
not but acknowledge that she had acted very un-wisely.
" This is another specimen of your saving at the
spigot," I said, playfully.
"There, Mr. Sunderland i not a word more, if
you please, of that," she returned, her cheek more
flushed than usual.  "It is my duty, as your wife,
to dispense with prudence in your household;  and
if, in seeking to do so, I have run a little into extremes, I think it ill becomes you to ridicule or censure me.  ]Dear knows! I have not sought my own
ease or comfort in the matter."
" My dear, good wife," I quickly said, in a
soothing voice, " I have neither meant to ridicule
nor censure you; nothing was farther from  my
thoughts."
" You shall certainly have no cause to complain
of me on this score again," she said, still a little
warnmly.  " When next we clean house, I will take
I 




THE HOUSE-CLEANING.            117
care that it shall be done by extra help altogether."
" Do so by all means, Mrs. Sunderland.  Let
there be, if possible, two paint-cleaners and scrubbers in every room, that the work may all be done
in a day instead of a week. Take my word for it,
the cost will be less; or, if double, I will cheerfully
pay it for the sake of seeing' order from chaos rise'
more. quickly than is wont under the ordinary system of doing things."
My wife did not just like this speech, I could see,
but she bit her lips and kept silent.
In a week we were without a cook again; and
months passed before we Were in any thing like
domestic comfort. At last my wife was fortunate
enough to get Ann and Hannah back again, and
then the old pleasant order of things was restored.
I rather think that we shall have a different state
of things at next house-cleaning time. I certainly
hope so.




DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.
V I DID you notice that beautiful sofa which Mr,
lamilton has bought?" said Mrs. Foster to her
husband, as they gained the street on leaving the
house of a friend.
"Yes, I noticed that they had a sofa."
" It was a beauty. Oh, I wish I had one, Henry!
Our parlours look so naked with nothing in them
hardly, but a dozen common chairs."
"lI am sure, Hannah, they are neatly carpeted,
and have a pair of good tables and a looking-glass."
" But that's no kind of furniture. Everybody
has a sofa now, and I'm sure we might."
But I am not able to buy a sofa, Hannah."
"I am sure you earn as much as Mr. Hamilton
does, and our family is no larger."
" I don't know how it is, then," Mr. Foster replied, thoughtfully. " We cannot afford to live in
the same style that Mr. Hamilton does."
" Oh, you only think so. Certainly there can be
no good reason why we may not. Nearly all of our
acquaintances have handsomer things about them
118




DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.          119
than we have, and I am sure that we ought to do
as other people do who are no better off."
"I don't know about that, Hannah. I should
not like to do altogether as some' other people' do,
of whom I could tell."
" Yes, but this is another matter."
"Well, perhaps it is.  But, really, I don't think
we can afford to buy a sofa."
"Oh, yes, we can. You earn twelve dollars a
week, and I am sure that is good wages.  We can
live on eight dollars easily, and with the other four
we might buy a great many nice things for our parlour during the course of the year."
" But don't you think it would be much better
for us, Hannah, if we can really save four dollars
a week, to put into the Savings bank, instead of
spending it for what we don't want?"
" Oh, but we can put money into the Savings
bank after we get a sofa.  Four dollars a week
comes to over two hundred dollars a year; but a
beautiful sofa will not cost over forty or fifty dollars.
Mrs. Hamilton says that they paid forty-five dollars
for theirs, and that the cabinet-maker does not want
his money for six months. We could get one like
it, and save more than enough to pay for it long
before the six months are out."
" Still, Hannah, we haven't saved half that sum
in the past six months, or, indeed, in the whole time
that has elapsed since our marriage."




120        DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.
"C No, but we can do it easily enough if we try;
eight dollars a week is plenty for us to live on. I
will be as saving as I can in every thing. The
children will want but very few clothes for some
time to come, and you have several pairs of old pantaloons and one or two old coats that I can cut up
and make for them when those they have are worn
out."
"Who made Mr. Hamilton's sofa?" Mr. Foster
asked, evidently moved by his wife's arguments.
"Mr. Bruce, around in Thompson street; and
Mrs. Hamilton says that he had another just like
hers."
"H ow much did you say?"
"Forty-five dollars."
"Forty-five dollars," (musingly.) " Eleven fours
make forty-four. If we could save four dollars a
week for a little over eleven weeks, we could pay
for it."'" Yes, indeed! and we can easily save that much,"
Mrs. Foster said, in a very lively tone.
"You think so."
" I know so."
A sigh followed this positive assertion of his wife,
for Mr. Foster felt by no means so certain. But
as his better half seemed confident, his own mind
gradually became assured, and finally it was agreed
that he should go the next day and buy a sofa on a
credit of six months, if that time could be obtained




DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.           121
on the purchase. In due time the sofa was obtained,
for Mr. Foster was known to the cabinet-maker as
an honest and industrious mechanic.
" Oh, is it not beautiful?" Mrs. Foster exclaimed,
as the highly-polished piece of furniture was brought
in, and placed in a small parlour.
" It is certainly a comfortable affair," the husband
said, seating himself, and rising and falling with
the spring of the seat.
For some time, Mrs. Foster enjoyed her new sofa,
with a feeling of lively pleasure. About four weeks
after, she called in again with her husband to spend
an evening with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton.
"How neat and even elegant they have every
thing?" said Mrs. Foster, as she proceeded homeward, after their visit had been completed.
"Yes, they certainly have every thing around
them very comfortable."
" And Mr. Hamilton earns no more than you do."
" No."
" How  beautiful their set of cane-seat chairs
looked! And how much more beautiful they are
than common wooden ones like ours."
" And yet, Hannah, the latter are just as comfortable."
"Oh, no, indeed!  Why, how you talk! There
is no chair so pleasant as the cane-seat chair."
"'But they cost a good deal."
"Only twenty-five dollars a dozen.  And you
VI.-11~ ~~~~~~~,,.,,_.,- _;,.,;...,.,._.....~.~,..II~.I



i22         DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.
know we can save that much in about six or seven
weeks."
" So then you are bent on having a set of these
chairs?"
"Oh, no-not bent on it. But then I think we
ought to have a set.  Other people can have them,
who are no better off; and I don't see any reason
why we can't do as other people do."
"I don't myself see exactly how we are going to
do as other people in the matter of buying a set of
cane-seat chairs. One thing is certain, we have not
yet saved a cent towards paying for our new sofa,
and it is four weeks since it was sent home."
" Oh, but, Henry, you know that we have had to
pay George's quarter-bill in that time, which was
four dollars. And then we have bought a barrel of
flour."
"; Very true. But will there not be, every week
or two, something or other to take one, or two or
three, or even five dollars more than what is required
for all current expenses?"
"Oh, no.  Why should there be?  Eight dollars
a week will meet every thing."
"I could hope so, Hannah."
"I know so, Henry. Other people can get along
on this sum, and I am sure that we can."
The husband did not feel so confident; still, he
allowed his better judgment to come under her influence, and his true perceptions as to the conse



DOING AS OTHEP PEOPLE.            123
quences were obscured. On entering their own neat
and comfortable home, for Mrs. Foster was quite a
tidy housewife, they seated themselves upon the
sofa, now the pet article in their house.
" How mean those chairs do look!" Mrs. Foster
said, with a toss of the head and slight curl of the
lip.
"They don't look so handsome, certainly, as Mr.
Hamilton's; but, then, they are very good chairs of
their kind."
"Of their kind!  Oh, yes, of their kind; but
they are not the kind that other people have."
" Yes, but who wants to live as some people live?
Some have no parlour at all; not a spare-room, nor
a spare-bed in the house."
" But that wouldn't suit me at all.  I like to live
as other people in similar circumstances live; as,
for instance, the Hamiltons, who are  not a bit
better off than we are."
"I am sure, Hannah, that it puzzles me to tell
how they live in the style that they do, on twelve
dollars a week."
"It's plain enough, I think; they save three or
four dollars out of their ordinary expenses, and
spend that in getting comfortable things around
them."
" Then, if they save money, certainly we should."
"Of course, and we can save just as they can.
You will get a set of cane-seat chairs, won't you?"




124        DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.
"We cannot buy them now, for I have not a
single dollar ahead."
" That needn't matter, you know, for you can
buy just as many as you want on credit. You know
half a dozen chair-makers who would be glad to sell
them to you on credit."
"Don't you think it would be better for us to
wait until we have saved enough to buy them with?
Then there would be no danger of our not being able
to pay for them."
"Oh, but we can pay for them easily enough."
"Well, if you think so," the husband said, yielding his better convictions to the persuasions of his
wife.
On the next day, Mrs. Foster, by permission of
her husband, went to a chair-maker with whom he
was acquainted, and bought a dozen cane-seat chairs,
which were to be paid for in six months. The bill
amounted to twenty-four dollars. It was with no
ordinary degree of pride and pleasure that she surveyed her new chairs after they had been sent home;
but all at once she perceived that her parlour-carpet,
which was of cotton, had become much faded, and
really disgraced her new sofa and chairs.
"A'n't they beautiful!" she remarked to her husband when he came home in the evening from the
shop.
a They are certainly very beautiful chairs, Hannah."




DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.          125
" But,"- hesitating.
" But what, Hannah?"
" But, indeed, this carpet really looks too bad."
"How looks bad, Hannah?"
"It is all worn and faded, and is nothing but a
common piece of cotton carpeting at best."
"It cost me sixty cents a yard though, Hannah."
" But that is no price to pay for a good carpet.
Mrs. Hamilton gave a dollar and a quarter; and I
am sure that we can afford to have as good things
as she can. You earn as much."
" If I do, somehow or other it does not seem to
go as far," the husband replied, in a half-desponding tone.
"There is no reason why it should not. And
then, not only Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, but half a
dozen others that I know of, who have elegant
ingrain carpets, sofas, and cane-seat chairs, and I
don't know what all, have no larger income than we
have."
"I am sure I don't know how they manage-I
can't get any ahead. It takes all that I can earn to
buy something to eat and wear, and have enough
left to pay the house-rent."
"Why,I am sure, Henry, we can live on eight
dollars a week, and you can earn twelve."
"I am afraid not."
"Oh, yes, we can. I'll guaranty that our expenses shall not exceed eight dollars."
L            -




126        DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.
" They have exceeded it, you know."
" That was only because we did not economize
properly. Anid the last four weeks, you know, we
have had some extra expenses that do not occur
more than once in three months."
Thus Mrs. Foster urged, and her husband soon
yielded.  The desire to do as other people did-to
have things about her as other people had them,
was too strong to be resisted, and obscured all ideas
of prudence.  Thirty yards of ingrain carpeting
were bought on trust, at one dollar and twenty-five
cents per yard, amounting to thirty-seven and a half
dollars.
For the first time in his life, Mr. Foster found
himself burdened with debt-a debt of m.ore than
one hundred dollars. This was a sum of no mean
importance for a man of family, the extent of whose
earnings was but twelve dollars a week, and especially for one who had a nervous shrinking from the
thought of being in debt.
Various efforts were now made to reduce their
weekly expenses down to the minimum standard of
eight dollars.  Sometimes it would seem to fall below that, but again it would swell beyond it in spite
of every effort. At the expiration of the fourth
month from the time the sofa was bought, they had
managed, by the closest economy, to lay up twenty
dollars. About this time, on returning from a visit
to a friendl, Mrs. FPoster, who was too fond of con



DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.          127
Irasting her own condition with that of other people,
said-" I am really almost ashamed to go out, sometimes, Henry. I've never had a silk dress since
we were married; but other women can have them.
MIrs. Jones, who called to-night where we were
visiting, had a beautiful black silk, and so had Mrs.
MIaxwell, and their husbands are only mechanics,
and earn no more than you do.  Mrs. Hamilton has
two silk dresses, a light one and a dark one, and has
besides a beautiful Cashmere shawl and lace collars,
and I don't know what all; and I haven't got any
thing. I think you might get me one silk dress in
your life."
" But how in the world am I to get it for you,
Hannah, without the money?"
"We've got twenty dollars laid up, you know."
"Yes, I know; but I need not tell you that it is
to go towards paying for the sofa, and the money
will be due in two months."
" In two months! Oh, we can easily save enough
in that time to pay for the sofa. Four dollars a
week will be thirty-two dollars. I only want twelve
for the dress, and that will leave eight out of the
twenty we have now, and eight added to thirty-two
will make forty. If you pay him forty, punctually,
you needn't fear but that he will wait willingly
enough for the other five a week or two."
"But we haven't saved four dollars a week,
Hannah."




128        DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.
" Yes, but we can do it, and nmust do it."
"' Can't you wait a little while longer, Hannah?
You have done without a silk dress for a good many
years, and surely you might get along still, until
our things are all paid for."
But Mrs. Foster could not listen to the voice of
reason. Other people had silk dresses, and she felt
a mean," as she expressed it, whenever she went out
anywhere. Twelve dollars were therefore expended
for a black silk dress, and two more to get it made.
This reduced the reserved fund of twenty dollars
down to six dollars.
Week after week now passed rapidly, and in spite
of every effort to save money, the wages of Mr.
Foster melted away like snow in the warm sunlight.
Finally, the time came when the sofa must be paid
for, and there were only thirty dollars made up.
But ten of this sum had to go for a month's rent,
which fell due at the same time. Twenty, then,
were all that Mr. Foster could raise, and the price
of the sofa was forty-five dollars.
"Really, Hannah, I don't know what I shall do
about this! I cannot bear the thought of not paying
M[r. Bruce for his sofa on the day that the money
falls due."
" But I wouldn't trouble myself about it, Henry.
If you can't, you can't; and Mr. Bruce will have to
do as other people do."
" How is that?"




DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.         129
" Wait for his money until you can give it to him
He'll no doubt be glad to get twenty down and
trust you for the balance."
" He has trusted already six months, and now
his money is due according to contract."
" Well, it's no use to trouble yourself about it,
Pay him twenty dollars and give him the four dollars
a week that we save. That will soon pay him off."
"But we don't save four dollars a week."
"Yes, but we can, though, and we must."
" I am not so sure, Hannah."
" But I am. Other people, who get no more than
we do, can live comfortably and buy a great many
nice things; and there is no reason why we may not
do the same."
This was a silencing argument. Still it was to
Henry Foster a profound mystery how Mr. Hamilton
and others could make an appearance so far beyond
his own, and yet receive -no higher wages. With a
keen sensation of shame and reluctance, he proceeded
to the shop of Mr. Bruce, on the day the money for
the sofa was due, and thus accosted the cabinet
maker:
" I regret exceedingly, Mr. Bruce, that I cannot
pay you all the money that is due for the sofa that
I bought from you six months ago. I have only
twenty dollars now, but you shall have the rest in a
few weeks."
"I regret it also, Mr. Foster," the cabinet-maker




130        DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.
replied, " for I have a note to pay to-morrow, and
calculated on you as certainly as if I had the money
in my own hands. But, we must only do the best
we can. You will give me your note at thirty days
for the balance, upon which I have no doubt that I
can raise the money."
This was so reasonable a proposition, that Mr.
Foster could not object to it, and accordingly gave
his note for twenty;five dollars at the time proposed.
This arrangement brought a temporary relief of
mind. Four weeks, however, soon rolled round, and
notwithstanding the proposed economy, ten dollars
only had been saved, and that sum would be due for
rent in a few days. The landlord was punctual, and
Foster had not the heart to tell him that he must
wait. Three days afterwards the note fell due, and
there was not a dollar to meet it. The amount was
only twenty-five dollars, but that was an important
sum when demanded and the debtor not able to
produce it. With the bank notice in his hand, Mr.
Foster was driven at last to call upon the cabinetmaker.
" I am sorry, Mr. Bruce," said he, "but really, I
cannot pay this note to-day."
Mr. Bruce smiled and replied"I have no control over it, Mr. Foster; I passed
it away to Mr. Strong, the broker."
" Do you think he will give me a little more time
on it?" asked the debtor.




DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.         131
"I am sure I do not know, Mr. Foster.  Perhaps
he will. You had better go and see him, any
how."
Acting upon his advice, Henry Foster went,
though with great reluctance, to the office of Mr.
Strong.
C You have a small note of mine," said he, in a
hesitating tone.
"Well?" was the quick and somewhat harsh interrogatory.
" I am not able to pay it to-day, sir."
"Then why did you give it? No man ought to
give his note without a certainty of paying it when
it falls due."
" I thought I would be able, and intended paying
it, but I have been disappointed."
"Well. What do you want?"
"I want you to let me have a little more
time."
"How much?"
"A month."
"If you will pay me three dollars, I will extend
the time one month."
" Oh yes, I will do that!" said Foster, instantly,
relieved by the idea of getting a whole month's respite on twenty-five dollars, for the small sum of
three dollars.
" I will come in and arrange it in the course of
an hour," said he, and then returned to his shop and




132        DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.
obtained an advance on that week's wages of the
amount needed. This was paid to the broker and
the note renewed.
But trouble was only beginning. Twenty-four
dollars, for the cane-seat chairs, became due in three
days after, and the chair-maker's bill came in
promptly.
"I cannot really pay this for a week or two," said
Foster.
"I want money very badly, and the time upon
which you bought them is up," was the reply.
" I know it is. And I regret very much that I
cannot pay you, but so it is."
A pause ensued, in which the chair-maker had
hard thoughts about Mr. Foster, and Mr. Foster had
mortifying thoughts in relation to himself.
" Well, what is to be done?" at length asked the
chair-maker, in a tone that touched acutely the
feelings of Mr. Foster.
" Really I do not know. I hope that I shall be
able to give it to you soon."
"How soon?  Name a time."
"That is hard to do."   And Foster looked
thoughtful and troubled.
"Can you pay me in a month?"
"I will try."
"Will you give me your note at thirty days?"
" Certainly."
And the note was given   A temporary relief of




DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.          133
mind followed this arrangement,-soon, however, to
be succeeded by gloom and despondency.
As was to have been expected, both of the notes
fell due at a time when there was no money to pay
them. Here, then, was more trouble. It so happened that the last note, like the first, had been sold
to Mir. Strong, the broker. The second due-day or
the note given for the balance of the sofa came
round first. After a good deal of apparent reluctance, the broker agreed to renew for thirty days
longer, for four dollars, which sum was paid. On
the second note, he seemed less willing to give an
extension; but finally agreed to do so for four dollars more. To pay these two sums, and the rent
which had again fallen due, Foster had to take the
small amount that he had been'able to save, and
also get an advance of a week's wages.
Little real pleasure did he derive from his sofa,
chairs, and carpet. A few months before, all had
been contentment. He then owed nothing, and had
no real want unsupplied. Now he knew not a
moment's true enjoyment. The most he could possibly save out of his wages were two dollars a week;
and at the rate he was now paying interest on his
two notes, even if he should be permitted to renew
them, all of that amount would be regularly consumed. The prospect was gloomy; more especially,
as the carpet was soon to be paid for.
About two weeks before the time when the nexT
VI.-12




134        DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.
ordeal had to be passed through, Foster came home
from his work one evening with a sadder face than
usual.
"What do you think, Hannah?" said he.  " All
of poor Hamilton's things have been taken and sold
for debt."
" Oh 1" ejaculated Mrs. Foster, her face growing
pale with instinctive fear.
" It is too true, Hannah.  I am told that he is
behindhand three or four hundred dollars."
" It isn't possible!"
"I have always wondered how he and several
others whom we know, could afford to live as they
did, and their wages no more than mine. In his
case, at least, I now understand it perfectly.  He
has lived beyond his means."
Mrs. Foster was silent-for she felt that, through
her persuasion, her husband had been induced to
imitate their example and go beyond his means.
For some time past, she had ceased to take the delight in her new furniture that she at first experienced. The consciousness of being in debt, and in
debt with little hope of paying, preyed upon her
huvsband's mind, and his uncomfortable state was
very naturally superinduced upon her.  More than
once had she regretted the influence exercised by
her in reference to the sofa, chairs, etc., but it was
too late for regrets to be of any avail.
Tirne passed on, and brought the whole amount




DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.           135
due by Foster within the compass of three days.
That amount was nearly one hundred dollars. Ile
felt that it was utterly impossible to pay it, and
even if he were to get the debt regularly renewed,
the enormous interest charged by the broker would
more than equal the principal within a year.
The trial at last came upon him. The rent fell
due first. He had just ten dollars, and that was
paid. Next came the note of twenty-five dollars.
After some debate in his mind, he determined not
to call upon the broker, but to let the note be protested. -That consequence of course resulted. He
was served with a protest-and three days after,
with another. Then came the bill for carpets, and
as it became known that he had suffered two notes
to be protested, the demand was urgent.
The broker, however,- generally did his business
in a summary manner. Warrants were issued against
Foster, which had to be answered.
"W\That shall I do now?" he asked himself.
"Give security?  No-that will never do. What
have other people to do with my debts? I will not
ask any one to go my security. I will stand or fall
alone."
"Hannah, I have been warranted to-day for that
sofa, and them chairs," said he.
"Warranted, Henry?" ejaculated Mrs. Foster,
turning pale.
" Yes, I have been warranted! and he clenched




136        DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.
ais teeth hard together, for it was a severe trial to
his natural feelings.
Mrs. Foster gave way to tears and self-reproaches,
"It is all my fault. But what shall we do,
Henry?"
" We must do as other people do," replied Henry.
"And how is that?"
"Sell off our things and pay our debts!  You
were anxious to do as other people, and this is what
other people do, who, like us, have been so foolish
as to live beyond their means."
Mrs. Foster did not reply, but she felt keenly the
rebuke. In the course of the next week, under an
execution which followed a confession of the judgment rendered against him, Henry Foster's sofa,
chairs, and carpets, with his pair of tables and looking-glasses, were sold at public auction. Happily
for him, they brought just enough -to pay off the
claims against him, and make him a free man once
more.
The old carpets were put down, and the old chairs
replaced; but the tables and looking-glasses were
gone.  Still, Mrs. Foster's heart was lighter than it
had been for some time.
"I am tired of doing as other people do," said
she, with a subdued, half-sad smile, to her husband,
when quiet was again restored.
" And to am I, Hannah, heartily tired.  Getting
fine furniture on trust, like other people, may be




DOING AS OTHER PEOPLE.          137
pleasant enough-but having it sold for debt, likce
other people, is not so pleasant a part of the affair."
"Not quite," was Mrs. Foster's simple response.
]From that time she has been a wiser woman.
t0! WILL PEOPLE SAY?
CHAPTER I.
"BUT what will people say?" Mrs. Ashton asked,
looking into her husband's face with a concerned
expression.
"I don't know that we ought to think about what
others may say," replied Mr. Ashton, thoughtfully.
"Why, how you talk, husband! I am sure it is
of the first importance to avoid singularity!"
"So you always say, and yet I never can see the
force of your position. People will talk about each
other; and -even make censorious and disparaging
remarks of those who are most perfect."
"I am not so sure of that, husband. I never hear
others remarked upon, that they do not deserve all
that is said of them."
"So you think, Sarah. But they would have
quite a different idea of themselves."




1.38-      WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?
"They would, like hundreds of others, over-estimate themselves, that is all."
" True, Sarah.  And those who talk about us
might say the same thing, if we found fault with
what we considered the false position in which they
placed us."
"I should like to know who says any harm of
us," Mrs. Ashton quickly remarked, with indignant
surprise.
" Some of your best and dearest friends," her
husband replied, quietly.
" Who?"
"Oh, as to that, I am as wise as you."
" Then why do you speak as you do?"
" Because I am not disposed to think we are an
exception to the general rule.  When I hear every
one else remarked upon, I can hardly suppose we
are going to escape."
"But it is the follies and foibles of others that are
remarked upon."
" Of course. And our follies and foibles are
thrown in with the rest."
"How you do talk! But, seriously, you are not
going to leave this beautiful house, for a mean, little
two-story affair?"
"I should think it would be the most prudent
thing we could do to get a smaller house. My business is falling off, and I shall have as much as.
can do to make both ends meet this year."




WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?           139
"But you can easily make up the next season.
Besides, if we should come down in our style of
living, people would say that you were going behindhand, and had been forced to adopt a system of
retrenchment."
"Well, suppose they did!  Wvhat harm  would
that do?"
"Do! Why, harm enough! Besides subjecting
your family to unpleasant remarks and slightA, you
would lose your business standing, and without a fair
credit, a merchant, you know, has up-hill work."
"Your last remark is far the most sensible one
you have made, Sarah, and has in it much weight.
I see its force plainly, and am resolved to keep a
good face upon things for a while longer."
"I knew you would come into my way of thinking," said Mrs. Ashton, smiling triumphantly.
CHAPTER II.
"MR. PUNCTUAL says be kind enough to send
him a check for that," remarked a lad, as he came
up to the desk where Mr. Ashton sat musing, presenting, at the same time, a bill for a quarter's rent
of his dwelling, amounting to two hundred and fifty
dollars.
"'Tell Mr. Punctual that I am a little short today, but will send him the check to-morrow."




140        WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?
"t Yes, sir," replied the lad, and withdrew.
Mr. Ashton then resumed his employment of ascertaining how near his resources for the day would
come to meeting the several notes and balances of
borrowed money that were due.
1" Five thousand dollars to pay," said he to himself, musingly, " and but five hundred in bank."
" Mr. Elder says, please send him the three hun.
dred dollars you borrowed of him last week,"' said a
porter from a large house up town, who had entered
the counting-room unperceived.
Mr. Ashton started, as if a blow had suddenly
been struck upon the desk by his side. But he
recovered himself in a moment, and said with a
smile,' Very well, tell Mr. Elder that he shall have it
by twelve."
The porter withdrew, and the merchant resumed
his calculations.
"I am hard up at almost every place where I am
in the habit of borrowing," said he.  "Let me see.
I wonder if I can't venture on old Humphreys for
five hundred dollars. Yes, I will try him. I know
he-has it, and he won't refuse me. Well, that sum,
with five hundred dollars in bank, make a thousand.
Now, who shall I try next?  There is Martin & Co.,
Jones & Milford, Todd & Kimber, and MIallonee.  I
must raise the balance among them somehow."
This matter settled, Mr. Ashton started out on his




WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?            141
money-hunting expedition.  His first effort was with
old Humphreys, as he called him.
" Well, Mr. Ashton, how are you this morning?"
said that individual, with a pleased smile, as the
other entered his counting-room. Humphreys was
a merchant of the old school. Into the dashing
"go-ahead" schemes of the times, he never entered.
He had gotten rich in the old, cautious, straightforward way; and, in still pursuing his long adopted business policy, was adding dollar to dollar,
slowly and surely., "A  pleasant day, this, Mr. Humphreys," said
_shton, in an assumed, lively, unconcerned tone.
"Pleasant indeed, Mr. Ashton!  Is there any
4ews stirring?"
"Nothing strange, I believe.  How is business?"
"Oh, about as usual with me.  How is it with'ou?"
" Rather dull.  Money comes in slow these times.
And, by the way, have you five hundred or a thousand dollars that you can spare for a few days?"
" I have a good deal more than that, Mr. Ashton,
for which I have no present use. But whether I can
loan it to you is another question."
Humphreys was a plain-spoken, or rather an eccentric man, as it was called, and Ashton knew this.
He was not, therefore, at all surprised at the plain
straight-forwardness of the answer.
"Yes, that is the question, Mr. Humphreys.  I




142       WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?
man short to-day, and you would be doing me a favour
by making up the amount. I can easily hand it
back in a day or two."
" You own a carriage and a span of horses, do
you not?" inquired old Humphreys.
" Yes," the merchant replied, a little annoyed at
the question.
"How much did they cost you?"
"I paid a thousand for the carriage, and eight
hundred for the horses."
1" And you live in one of Millington's beautiful
houses, at a thousand dollars a year, I believe?"
" Yes."
" Mr. Ashton; I don't want to offend you. But
I must speak plain. A man who keeps a carriage
and horses worth eighteen hundred dollars, and pays
a thousand a year for rent, never ought to borrow
money to pay his notes. If your ready money is
short, go home and sell your carriage and horses,
and supply the deficiency. And if that won't do,
move into a house at three hundred dollars rent, and
save seven hundred.  That is sensible advice, and
if you take it, it will do you more good than if I were
to lend you five thousand dollars. I am a plainspoken old man, Mr. Ashton, and you must not
be offended."
If not seriously offended, certainly the moneyhunter was pained and confused. He did not linger'to reply, but, bowing low, hastily withdrew.




WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?           143
"They're hard run when they come to me, ha!
ha!" said the old fellow, laughing to himself, as
Ashton withdrew.  "They may ruin each other if
they choose, but old Humphreys stands or falls by
himself."
Mr. Ashton returned to the counting-room, and
took a brief pause to recover his spirits and self-possession.  He then sallied out again.  But by this
time it was eleven o'clock, and at twelve he had
promised to return Mr. Elder three hundred
dollars.
" Any thing over to-day, Martin?" said he, in a
lively tone, as he entered the store of Martin & Co.
"Well, I don't know, Ashton. Perhaps we can
spare a little. Step back a moment, and I will
see."
Mr. Ashton's heart felt lighter. After looking
over his bank account, Mr. Martin said" I'm really very sorry, Ashton, but we have only
about fifty dollars in bank. I thought we had more.
But here are four hundred in uncurrent funds, averaging about two per cent. discount.  You can have
that sum for a couple of weeks. Perhaps you can
turn it to advantage."
" That is pretty tough, but, if you can't do any
better for me, I suppose I must try it."
The four hundred dollars were counted out to him,
and he passed his check for the amount, dated two
weeks ahead.




.44        WHIIAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?
"Plenty of money to-day, Milford?" asked Mr.
Ashton, entering the counting-room of Jones &
Milford.
" Plenty as blackberries in December," was the
reply.
"I want five or six hundred to-day. Can't you
squeeze me out a part of it?"
"Not a dollar.  We are, ourselves, short."
"Then I need not tarry here long," our borrower
said, and hurried away.
" Ashton is confoundedly hard run, I'm thinking,"
remarked Milford to his partner.
"a Yes. And I'm not at all sure that he is going
to stand it long. The fact is, he is not a prudent
business-man, and, besides that, makes almost too
great a dash.  Isn't that his carriage passing?"
"Yes.  And Mrs. Ashton is in it, dressed like a
queen, while her husband is running about hunting
up money to pay his notes."
"Poor man  His weak desire for an establishment and vain show will, I fear, ruin him at last."
In the mean time, the subject of these remarks
had turned towards his own counting-room. Arrived
there, he drew a check for three hundred dollars,
ante-dated one day, and then proceeded with it to
the store of Mr. Elder, who had sent for his account
of borrowed money.
"Here's a check dated to-morrow," said he.
"Y ou can deposit it to-day."




WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?           145
"Very well," replied Mr. Elder, "that will
answer."
"I'm  glad of it, for I am short to-day.  Good
morning." And Ashton hurried away to try some
more of his business friends. By one o'clock, he
had raised three thousand dollars. But half of it
was in uncurrent funds. During the process, he
had met with more than one rebuff, that touched him
to the quick.
" And now what is to be done?" he asked himself despondingly. For about the space of five minutes he sat musing in silence. At length he got up
slowly and deliberately, and went to his desk. From
this he took a large pocket-book, and selected business notes, having over four months to run, and less
than six, to the amount, of two thousand five hundred dollars. With these he again sallied out, and
soon found himself at the premises of an individual
known as a shaver.
"I want some money to-day, Keener?" he said
abruptly, as he entered. "There is the collateral,"
throwing down a package of notes of hand.  " And
let me have it quickly, for I have some borrowed
money, besides notes, to pay, and must not keep my
friends waiting."
"How much do you want?" inquired the broker.
slowly and carefully going over the notes, and examining the endorsements.
"' Two thousand dollars."
vI.-13




146       WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?
" For how long?"
"Thirty days."
"I hardly think I can spare it.  And, anyhow,
this security is not all of it first-rate."
"You know that it is perfectly good, Keener;
and you know that you can get the money if you
haven't it by you. I am hard run to-day, and must
have the amount named."
"You are hard run, then?" the broker remarked,
looking Ashton keenly in the face.
" Yes, I am, Keener. You have stood by me in
several tight places, and you must not forsake me
now."
"Well, I don't know," resumed the broker, in a
deliberate tone.  "I can't say that I am satisfied
with some of these notes."
" They are all as good as the bank, Keener."
"If not better than most of the banks, I wouldn't
give much for them."
" But I know them to be perfectly good. However, if you can't accommodate me, say so, and let
me be moving."
"Well, let me see. You want it very much?"
"Indeed I do."
"To accommodate you, then, I will let you have
the two thousand dollars for sixty."
"That is three per cent. a month!"
"I know it is. But consider that I am risking a
good deal. The security is not all strong."




WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?           147
"It is perfectly good, Keener."
" I can't do better for you, Ashton.  And I don't
care about the operation, anyhow?"
"Hand it over then," said the merchant.  The
intimation ingeniously thrown in by the broker, that
he was indifferent about the matter, decided him to
accept the offer without further parley.
All the preliminaries settled, Mr. Ashton pocketed
his two thousand dollars, less sixty, and went back
to his counting-room. He then assorted his uncurrent fiunds, amounting to about fifteen hundred
dollars, on which he had to pay a discount of forty
dollars, making his loss, on that day, in discounts,
one hundred dollars. His borrowed money returned,
and his notes lifted, the merchant turned homeward,
as his dinner-hour had arrived.
CHAPTER III.
" THE fact is, Sarah, we must sell our carriage,
and try to curtail a little," said Mr. Ashton, after
dinner.
" Sell our carriage? Impossible!"
" We could get along once very well without a
carriage, and I think we must do so again."
" But what will people say to see us coming
down? If we had never owned a carriage, I would
not advise you to get one, seeing business is so dull,




148        WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?
as you say; but it will never do to give it up now.
People would say that we were going to the wall,
and there would be enough to try and push us
there, if that were once said. Oh, no, don't think
of it!"
Silenced, but not convinced that it was right to
continue his present style of living, Mr. Ashton returned to his store, and sat conning over plans and
projects for raising money on the next day, when
the entrance of some one disturbed his train of
thought.
c, Good-day, Mr. Ashton," said the individual,
who proved to be his landlord.
"Good-day! how do you do, Mr. Punctual?"
replied the merchant, with a feeling of uneasiness.
"You have put my bill off again," said that
personage, coming abruptly to the point, " and now
I have come for it myself. I like promptness in
dealing, and am never satisfied with any thing else.
When you have lived in my house for three months,
my part of the contract is fulfilled; then I look for
you to fulfil yours. Do you understand?"
" Perfectly," said Mr. Ashton, turning to his desk,
and filling up a check for two hundred and fifty
dollars. It is true that he had no money in bank,
but then the check could not be presented until the
next day, and that would give him a little time.
The landlord received the check in silence, and,
bowing low, departed.




WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?           153
took up the last note I had out in the world.  No
man can now say that.I owe him a dollar."
"You feel very comfortable then, of course," his
wife replied, smilingly.
"I do feel very comfortable; much more than I
did when I sported an elegant carriage, and lived in
a style of splendour beyond my ability to support."
" People can't say that we make too great a show
to be honest," Mrs. Ashton remarked, good-humouredly.
"That they cannot; and, if they did, it would
make but little difference, for there would be no
truth in the allegation. It is the truth that people
say about us, that is of most importance."
"So I felt when you explained to me your real
condition, and I saw, too plainly, that there was
room for the remark made."
"I certainly was in a bad way, then.  Every day
I had to rack my brains for the means of lifting my
notes and paying my borrowed money; and when
night came, I was sick and dispirited, and unfit to
enjoy an hour's pleasant social intercourse. If I
dreamed, it was of money, and notes, and ruin.
Fifty times it has occurred that there has been but
twenty minutes, or ten dollars, between me and
bankruptcy; and yet I was doing a very fair business. The fortunate sale which I made of the carriage gave me fifteen hundred dollars in cash, which
helped me a good deal; it was so much money that




1 54       WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?
{did not have to be returned.  In a short time, we got
into this little snug affair of a house, at one-fourth
tne rent we had been paying, and I found quarterbills of sixty-two and a half dollars much more easily
paid than those of two hundred and fifty dollars;
and, besides this, our family expenses have been,
quarterly, five hundred dollars less."
"Impossible, Mr. Ashton!"
"It is a fact, for I have kept, regularly, an account
in my business, of all moneys paid out for other than
business purposes. Our carriage-driver was a tax
of three hundred dollars a year.  Feed for two and
sometimes three horses, extra servant-hire about a
large house, and extra waste for extra servants, and
the thousand expenses which such an establishment
involves, swell up into no unimportant sum."
"And all this was not so much for the comfort
it gave as to provide for the question - -What
will people say?" remarked Mrs. Ashton, smiling.
"How vain and foolish I was!" she added, more
gravely.
"All these things," resumed Mr. Ashton, "made
a heavy aggregate.  Over three thousand dollars, in
the-last year, saved from expenses, and obtained in
the sale of horses and carriage, helped my business
wonderfully.  And besides that, when I had once
commenced, from a full conviction of its necessity,
a system of reform and economy, I carried it out in
my store.  I was more prudent and cautious in




WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?           155
buying and selling, reduced my business more to a
system, and made my calculations to rely less upon
borrowing and more upon business returns. Gradually, I succeeded in reducing all my transactions
to a safe and legitimate line, and now I feel the
happy result of good resolutions, followed by a rigid
determination to carry them out. People may talk
as much as they please now; I know that no one
can say I owe him a dollar."
"And you are so much happier than you were,
dear husband! and I am so much happier.  To do
right and then rest satisfied, I feel is much better
than to be anxious that others may admire or speak
well of us.  A single year's experience has taught
me a great deal."
"We are both gainers, then," Mr. Ashton replied;
"that is, we are better and wiser. May we never
forget the lesson we have learned, that the true,uirces of happiness lie within ourselves."




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.,
"IT'S only a dollar," said Mr. Jones, drawing the
coin from his pocket, and throwing it upon the
counter before which he was standing.
"And cheap enough at that," remarked the
florist, sliding the dollar into his drawer. "It's one
of the finest roses we have."
"It certainly is very beautiful," said Mr. Jones,
as he lifted the flower and departed.
" Oh, what a beautiful rose!" exclaimed Mrs.
Jones, as her husband came in.' Where did you
get it!"
"I bought it from,"  was the reply.
"For how much?"
"Only a dollar."
"That was cheap."
"Yes, indeed. Cheap enough."
The rose, after receiving its meed of admiration,
was placed among a collection of choice plants, and
then, tea being announced, the young couple, for they
had only been married about six months, sat down
to partake of their quiet evening repast.
156




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.           157
Mr. Jones was clerk in a banking institution in
the city of ~, with a comfortable salary of twelve
hundred dollars a year. He possessed the confidence
of the officers of the bank as well as of the board of
directors, and was generally esteemed by all who
knew him. But he had a too common defect of
character-his desires were not only in advance of
his income, but he too frequently thought of little
beyond their gratification. True, these desires were
not of a kind usually denominated extravagant.
He did not think of buying a carriage, nor even a
fast-trotting horse, nor of filling his house with
costly and elegant furniture.  Such acts of imprudence were too palpably wrong to tempt him to their
indulgence. His restless desires were like the " continual dropping" which wears away even the hardest
substances.  Small in their single demands, but important in the aggregate of their effects. The same
disposition was manifested by his wife.  Thus there
was no check to the evil.
While they sat at the tea-table, on the evening
just alluded to, Mrs. Jones said"How  I should like to go to the concert tonight!"
"Would you, Julia?"
" Indeed I would. I am so fond of music."
" So am I. But can we afford to go?"
" Oh, yes," said Mrs. Jones.  "The tickets are
only a dollar apiece!"
VI.-14




158          IT S ONLY A DOLLAR.
"True.  And it would be strange if we could not
afford a couple of dollars now and then! Well,
suppose you get ready as soon as tea is over, and
we will go."
" I shall be so delighted!" the young wife remarked, as she took the arm of her husband, on
leaving their neat and comfortable dwelling, to proceed to the concert room.
And she was delighted, for there was a rare combination of musical talent, and she had a taste that
could appreciate the excellences of the different
performers.
On the next morning, as they sat at breakfast,
Mr. Jones said"And so you were very much pleased last night,
Julia?"
" Pleased is too tame a word, Henry.  I was delighted! It was a rich performance throughout."
"So was I.  A cheap gratification at two dollars."
"Don't speak of the money, Henry.  Money
should not be thought of in connection with it.
What are twoipaltry dollars, in comparison with such
a feast of the soul?  Can the most exquisite tones
of music be estimated by the dollar's worth?
No-no."' I must confess that I feel as you do, Julia," the
husband replied; and then each sat silent for a few
moments, busy with newly arising thoughts.




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.            159' I saw a pair of most beautiful vases in -.'s
window, yesterday, as I was passing his store," said
Mrs. Jones, looking into her husband's face.  " Oh,
they were really exquisite!"
"Did you ask the price?"'No.  But I wish, as you pass this morning, that
you would step in and see what they will cost. I
should like to have them very much."
" Certainly, and if the price is not too high, I
will purchase them for you."
"Oh, I should be so delighted to have them!"
Mr. Jones, on his way to the banking-house,
stepped into the china-store to look at the vases.
He knew them by a description which his wife had
given him. They were gilt and painted china, and
were really beautiful, as she had said.
" What do you ask for these vases?"'he inquired,
after looking at them for a few moments.
"Only five dollars," was the reply.
"Five dollars-five dollars.  That is not dear."
"Dear? no indeed! It is scarcely half what they
are really worth."
"But I hardly think that I can afford to give so
much for a pair of vases that are of no real use,"
said Mr. Jones, musingly.
"'The price is only five dollars, 3Mr. Jones,
which  is not going  to  make  or break  any
man."'
"No, that is very true.  It's only five dollars




160          IV'" ONLY A DOLLAR.
Well, you might as well send them home, for my
wife has set her heart on them."
And so saying, Mr. Jones took out his pocketbook, and selected a five-dollar bill, which was paid
over for the vases.
" Iow kind you are," said his wife, as he came
in to dinner, "to buy me those beautiful vases!
How rich, and, at the same time, how neat they
are!"
" They are indeed beautiful.  When I saw them,
I could not resist the temptation."
" mThat did they cost?"
"Only five dollars."
"That was cheap."
"Cheap enough.  They could not have been
bought a year ago for less than ten dollars."
"I have been making some purchases, also," Mrs.
Jones remarked, after they had admired the vases
for a few minutes.
"Ah, indeed! Well —what have you bought?"
"Some woman's finery of course. I have been
out shopping, and could not resist the temptation to
buy several articles that I did not expect to purchase. See here."
And Mrs. Jones referred to a small pile of drygoods that was lying on one of the pier-tables.
"Is not that a beautiful piece of linen cambric?
I did not just want it now, but it was a remnant,
and the storekeeper asked only a dollar for it.  I




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.           16 
shall want it.  And then see this elegant little
handkerchief. A'n't it a beauty? It was only a
dollar."
"It is certainly very pretty."
"And I have bought you, besides," continued the
happy wife, "three of the finest bandannas I have
ever seen. A'n't they lovely?" displaying her
purchases.
"They are, indeed, Julia.  Though I am  not
exactly in want of them, for I have about a dozen
or so now."
" Yes, but you will want them."
"So I will."
"And then they were so cheap.  Only a dollar
and a quarter apiece. Why, I paid for those last
ones of yours, a dollar and a half, and they were
not near so good."
Several other articles were displayed; this costing
only half a dollar, that only a dollar, and the other
only two dollars-amounting in all to ten or twelve
dollars. And yet there was not one of them that
was really needed. But then they cost but little,
and were cheap at the prices paid.
" Oh, Harry-! That is kind of you," said Mrs.
Jones, on the evening of the next day, as her husband presented her with an elegant gold-mounted
card-case.  "I just wanted one like this. It is
handsomer a great deal than Mrs. Perry's, and she
thought her's a beauty."
14*




162          IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.
"You think it very pretty, do you?"
" Oh, yes.  How kind you are, to think of me so
often. How much did you pay for it?"
" Only five dollars."
"That was cheap.  Mrs. Perry's cost, she told
me, seven, and I would much rather have mine."
"Yes, I think it cheap enough."
"There is another thing that I want, dear, and I
wish you would get it for me."
" WThat is that, Julia?"
" A gold pencil-case.  Will you buy me one?"
" Certainly."
Five dollars were spent on the next day for a
gold pencil-case.  But it was only five dollars, and
not of much consideration.
" I saw one of the most beautiful japonicas today, that I ever laid my eyes on," said Mrs. Jones,
on the same evening, after her husband had come
home.
" Ah, where did you see it?"
"In the florist's window, in  -   street."
" Did you ask the price?"
" No.  But I wish you would go to-morrow, and
if the price is not too extravagant, buy it for me."
" Certainly. We shall soon have a rare collection."
" That we will. And I am so fond of flowers 1"
On the next day, Mr. Jones called to see about
the japonica.
II~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ —---




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.           163
"What is the price?" he asked.
" Three dc!lars."
"Isn't that high?"
" Oh, no. They bring four and five sometimes.
Indeed, I ought to have four for this one."
Mr. Jones paused for a moment or two, and then
said mentally,
"It's beautiful; and it's only three dollars-that
can't break me."
You may send it home, Mr. -," speaking
aloud.
"Very well, Mr. Jones; it shall be sent home
immediately."
The three dollars were paid, and Mr. Jones proceeded to the bank.
The aggregate of their expenditures for articles
not really needed, on that and the four preceding
days, was thirty-six dollars! Is it any wonder, then,
that under such a system, they found themselves, at
the end of the first year of their marriage, over
three hundred dollars in debt?  The only wonder is that they were not still further involved.
And they would have been, had not Mr. Jones possessed about twc hundred dollars above what was
necessary to furnish their house, when they were
married.
" Really," said Mr. Jones, when he became fully
convinced of the fact that he owed the sum above
indicated, " I cannot understand this."




164          IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.
"There must be some mistake, certainly," his
wife replied.
" So it would seem. But I cannot discover where
it lies. Our income is twelve hundred dollars a
year, and I had two hundred dollars over, when we
were married. ~ Surely, we cannot have spent seventeen hundred dollars in twelve months."
" Impossible!" responded Mrs. Jones.
"'It does seem impossible, Julia. But where is
it gone?-for it has certainly gone somewhere."
"I am sure I cannot tell. We have not lived
extravagantly, that is certain. Our rent is only
two hundred dollars. We keep but one servant. It
is all a mystery to me."
"And one just as profound to me," replied Mr.
Jones.
"Is there no way by which we can reduce our
expenses?" Ir. Jones remarked, after a silence of
some minutes, which was to both a troubled silence.
"If there is, I for one, wish to adopt it; for, of
all things, I have a horror of being in debt."
" Really, Julia, I don't see where this reduction
is going to take place.  We pay less for our house
than is paid by two clerks in bank, that I know,
who get but one thousand dollars a year.  We keep
but one servant, and they keep two, and each has,
besides, three children to provide for, and we have
cone."
In vain did Mr. and Mrs. Jones search for the




IT'.S ONLY A DOLLAR.          165
cause of this strange condition of things. But an
event occurred that relieved their minds from the
trouble that disturbed them.  One of the tellers
died, and Mr. Jones was advanced to his place, and
his salary increased to fifteen hundred dollars.
"I have good news to tell you, Julia," said he,
with a brighter c. untenance than he had worn for
several weeks.
"Indeed! What is it?"
" I have been promoted to the place held by Mr.
Spencer."
" Oh, I am glad of that! And your salary""Is fifteen hundred dollars."
"How providential this increase is!" said the
wife. "I have been so troubled about being in
debt, but now we will soon find all straight again."
" Yes. All will be well now."
But not having discovered the true cause of embarrassment, which remained still operative, the
effect followed as a matter of course.
On the evening of the day after, while walking
out with his wife, Mr. Jones stepped into a jeweller's
shop, actuated by no other motive than an idle
curiosity to look over the elegant and tasteful articles
there displayed.
"Ah, Mr. Jones! how do you do?  Good evening,
Mrs. Jones!  Pleasant evening, ma'am! Really,
Mr. Jones, I must congratulate you! I see that you
have been appointed to fill Mr. Spencer's place."




166          IT's ONLY A DOLLAR.
Thus ran on the jeweller, thinking meantime of
his goods, and wondering if he should make a sale
to the new bank-teller.
"You have some fine goods here, Mr. Darling."
And Mr. Jones took a survey of the cases and
shelves, all arrayed in jewels, plate, and articles of
rich and costly workmanship.
"Yes, we have some very beautiful goods."
"Have you any of the new style of cameos?"
Mrs. Jones asked.
" Oh, yes, ma'am.  We received some to-day that
really surpass any thing I have before seen."
And as Mr. Darling said this, he took from his
case, one after the other, some dozen cameos of the
latest styles and laid them before the delighted eyes
of Mrs. Jones.
"They are very beautiful indeed! What is the
price of this one?"
"Ten dollars, ma'am."
"I really should like to have one," said Mrs.
Jones.
" Well, suppose you suit yourself," was the prompt
reply of the husband.
1"The price is only ten dollars," remarked the
jeweller, in a tone half expressing contempt at the
idea of so small a sum.
" Select one, Julia, if you can please yourself."
Mrs. Jones did not require a second invitation.
The breastpin was chosen, and ten. dollars trans.




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.          167
ferred from the pocket-book of her husband to the
drawer of Mr. Darling.
"Don't you want something in this line?" the
jeweller now said-presenting a very pretty ladies'
watch.
"Isn't that a dear little w&tch!" ejaculated Mrs.
Jones, her eyes sparkling with delight, as she took
the article named in her hand, and examined it
carefully. " I must really have one, Henry, as soon
as you can afford it."
"Oh, he can afford it well enough," replied Mr.
Darling, with a winning smile.
" I am not so certain," the husband said musingly.
"How much do you ask for it?"
"Only a hundred dollars."
"I cannot spare a hundred dollars now."
"Oh, never mind that. If you want the watch,
I shall not ask for the money for the next five or six
months."
" Then you must buy it for me, Henry."
"Well, if I must, I suppose I must."
"Of course you will want a handsome gold chain
and swivel," the jeweller now said.
" Why, yes. I suppose I ought to have a chain;"
was the reply of Mrs. Jones, taking in her hand a
gold chain which Mr. Darling had already produced
"This is very fine," she remarked, on examining it
" Yes, it is an elegant piece of chain."
"How much will one cost?"




168          IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.
"Only forty dollars.  I can add thati to the bill.
The money is of no consequence to me now."
Of course the gold chain accompanied the watch.
Before the young couple left the store of Mr. Dar
ling, their bill was over two hundred dollars. A
pair of fruit-baskets, with several other articles, were
added to their purchases, and then they returned
home, quite delighted with themselves and all the
world.
On the next day, three bills were presented to Mr
Jones, amounting, in all, to two hundred dollars, and
the payment asked as an especial favour.
1" You shall have the amount of your bill in three
or four days," was the reply of Jones to each, without there being in his mind any distinct idea as to
the manner in which payment was to'be made,
Three or four days rolled round very quickly, and
the creditors came with the usual promptness of such
individuals, and again asked for their money. The
amounts were promptly paid. Having now charge
of the money-drawer, it was the easiest thing in the
world —so it occurred to him, after considering the
difficulty in which he was placed —to use two hundred dollars, and put in its place a ticket with the
words, ".Due cash, $200," to be withdrawn and the
money replaced when his quarter's salary should fall
due. This operation once begun, it came very
natural to continue it, to meet other demands for
money.




IT'S ONLY A DOLLARU           169
The periodical time for counting the cash by the
proper officers came on the very day that Jones's
quarter's salary fell due. He owed the drawer three
hundred and seventy-three dollars; or, within two
dollars of the amount due him  for the previous
quarter. The ticket was taken from the drawer and
the money restored. All came out right when the
cash was counted, and then another quarter was
commenced.  But sundry unnecessary purchases, on
the " It's only a dollar" principle, made during the
previous three months, added to the ordinary household expenses, had caused a number of little bills
to accumulate, to pay which a resort was again made
to the money-drawer. Another three months rolled
quickly around, and the cash was again to be
counted.  On referring  to his memorandum  of
money used, he found that it bore this disturbing
evidence-"Due cash, $500."  There would be a
deficiency of more than one hundred dollars, after
the amount of his salary had been replaced in the
drawer-and should this appear, on counting the
cash, the consequence would be the inevitable loss
of his situation; besides, the disgrace that would
attach to his character.
Henry Jones slept but little during the night previous to the day on which the cash was to be
counted. He was in a dangerous position, and he
felt- it most sensibly.  There was but one way to
save himself that he could think of, and that was to
VI.-15




170         IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.
borrow  one hundred and twenty-five dollars, with
which to make the cash balance, and return it again
after the counting process should have been gone
through.  But he felt a great reluctance to ask any
one to loan him money. He was not in business,
and received a salary all-sufficient to siupport his
family. There was, therefore, no good reason why
he should want to borrow  money, and he felt
that for him to ask the favour would be a ground
of suspicion against him  that all was not fair.
Still, no other plan suggested itself, except one immediately dismissed from his mind-which was to
pledge his wife's gold watch and his own for a few
days. Julia knew nothing of his difficulty, and he
shrank from the thought of making her acquainted
with it.
On the next morning, after breakfast, Jones called
upon a friend in business, and said"Martin, I want a hundred and twenty-five dollars until to-morrow.  I have a bill to pay, and my
quarter's salary is not due until then-and the
person to whom I owe has a note to pay and wants
the money badly. Can you do me the favour I
iieed?";" Certainly-certainly," responded Mr. Martin,
turning to his desk and filling up a check for the
desired amount.
Jones felt as if a mountain had been removed
from his shoulder, as he left his friend's store with




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.           171
the check in his hand.  The falsehood he had uttered so deliberately did not cost him  a thought.
The regular periodical business of counting the cash
took place, and all was found to be right.
On the next day, a small slip of paper was laid
in his drawer, bearing the memorandum-" Due cash,
$500."  With this sum, he paid his jeweller's bill,
which had accumulated during the six months to
the round sum of three hundred dollars.  One hundred and twenty-five were paid to Mr. Martin, which
left him  but seventy-five dollars out of the five
hundred.  This was, of course, soon  frittered
away.
" You look a little pale, MIr. Jones," said a horsedealer to him one day, about a month after this
second ordeal.  "I am afraid you confine yourself
too much."
"Perhaps I do."
" You should take a good deal of exercise, Mr.
Jones."'
"I know that.  And I do walk for an hour every
morning."
"That is no kind of exercise! You ought to
F    ride on horseback, nMr. Jones.  There is nothing
F    like it for you men who are so closely confined in
banks and stores."
"' I have no doubt but that I should feel greatly
the benefit of riding for an hour or two each day."
"That you would, Mr. Jones! It would make




172          IT's  ONLY A DOLLAR.
you feel like a new man; and would certainly add
ten years to your life."
( I believe I must try it, at least," said Mr. Jones,
musingly.  "I feel that I need healthful exercise
in the open air very much."
" I have a very spirited animal, that I think
would just suit you," remarked the horse-dealer.
" Suppose you come round in the morning and give
him a trial. I am sure you will be delighted with
him."
"Perhaps I will," said Mr. Jones.
In the morning, before breakfast, sure enough,
he was at the stables of the horse-dealer, and was
soon mounted upon a really noble animal. He was
so delighted with his ride, and so pleased with the
horse, that a desire to possess him at once sprang
up in his mind.
" What do you ask for this horse?" he inquired,
on dismounting at the stables.
"Only a hundred and fifty dollars."
" He is certainly worth that sum."
"That he is.  Why it's almost giving  him
away."
" If I felt able, I should really be tempted to buy
him."
"Able! I know fifty men, who, if they were as
able as you, would each own his horse before night.
There is Gardr.r, whose salary is only one thousand
dollars a year. He keeps a horse, and a beautiful




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.           173
creature it is, too. Don't talk about being able,
IMr. Jones! And then just think what a benefit it
would be to your health."
The tempter prevailed, and the weak young man
resorted to the bank funds again. His memorandum
was changed from " five hundred dollars due cash"
— to six hundred and fifty dollars.
"I have bought me a horse, Julia," said he, after
he had completed the purchase.
"Have you?  Well, do you know what must
come next?"
C" No."
" I can tell you then."
"Speak out."
"You will have to buy me a horse, too. I have
no idea of your riding out alone every morning, and,
perhaps, every evening."
"I am sure I should like your company very
much, Julia. I didn't know that you were fond of
riding."
"But I am-passionately fond of it."
Seventy-five dollars were paid for a horse for Mrs.
Jones. And now, every morning, and almost every
evening, this thoughtless and imprudent couple might
be seen dashing out into the country on their own
horses.
But time passed steadily onward, and soon brought
around the next examination-day. As it drew near,
Mr. Jones began to feel a nervous dread of its ap15*




174          IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.
proach, for the ticket in the drawer bore the ominous
words-" Due drawer, $1000."
It now became necessary to enter upon some regular system of borrowing, and to have it so arranged
as to prevent the possibility of a failure.
" Will you have two hundred dollars to spare day
after to-morrow?" he asked of his friend Martin.
"Yes, and double the amount, if you want it."
" Thank you; but I don't care about more than
two hundred; and you can have it again in a day
or two."
Two other friends were called upon, in like manner, and from each a like amount was promised, all
of which he received in due time and placed among
the funds of the bank, to make his account good.
But it is needless to trace the course of Henry
Jones step by step.  For full five years he continued
this system, unsuspected by any one. At the end
of this time, the memorandum, which, to prevent
accident, was carried in his pocket-book, read thus:
" Due cash, $5650."  And yet, during all this time,
the cash of the institution was regularly counted
every three months; and on each occasion the deficiency was borrowed from at least twenty different
persons, not one of whom harboured the least suspicion of the affable and seemingly light-hearted
teller.
But Henry Jones was far from being happy; he
felt that the sword hung over his head, suspended




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.            175
by a single hair, and liable to fall by the agitation
of a breath. Yet, so strange was the infatuation
into which he had suffered himself to fall, that, instead of endeavouring to come back and live below
his income, he was increasing his expenses every
year.  From the " It's only a dollar" principle of
action, both he and his wife, now the mother of two
sweet babes, had risen into the "It's only a hundred dollars" principle, and were speeding onward
to their ruin with daily-increasing velocity. But
nothing of the true condition of affairs did Mrs.
Jones know. She vainly imagined that fifteen hundred dollars a year were sufficient to supply all the
extravagances, for persons of their station in life,
into which they entered so thoughtlessly. Among
other acts of folly, they had given up the neat and
comfortable dwelling at two hundred dollars a year,
and now occupied an elegant house at five hundred
dollars, attached to which was a small hot-house
filled with a most choice collection of plants, many
of which were rare and costly exotics.  They alsc
had a carriage of their own, and a boy, of course, to
attend to the horses.
But with all these appendages of happiness, as
was before said, Mr. Jones was far from being happy.
How could he be?  He was in the charmed circle
of the serpent's eye, and possessed no internal power
of breaking the spell and rushing away from the
threatened danger; but st.ill, over all the anxiety




17h          IT' S ONLY A DOLLAR.
and fear within, he drew a veil, and assumed, as far
as possible, both at home and abroad, an exterior
of apparent cheerfulness.
About this time began the commercial embarrass
ments that were prolonged for so many years.
Money became scarcer and -scarcer, and it was with
the utmost difficulty that Mr. Jones could obtain the
required sum, even for a single day, to make good
his account.
"I must have four hundred dollars to-morrow,"
said he, on one of th&ee periodical occasions, stepping into the store of a friend.
"Most gladly would I accommodate you, Mr.
Jones, but to-morrow I have two thousand dollars
to pay, and I have not yet received the first dollar.
How I am to get through, Heaven only knows."
There was that in the earnest, even anxious tone
of the merchant, that left no room for MIr. Jones to
urge his suit. He turned away from the store with
a feeling of faintness.
"How much can you spare me to-morrow?" he
asked of another business-man, who had always,
heretofore, accommodated him  with the utmost
cheerfulness.
" Not one dollar, Jones, and I am sorry for it.  I
am in the tightest place that I have known for the
last ten years.  I have heavy payments to make
to-morrow, and no resources."
"I am really sorry for it," Mr. Jones replied;




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.          177
and in spite of his effort to seem in some degree unconcerned about not receiving the money for which
he had asked, the merchant could not help perceiving that his countenance fell and assumed a very
troubled aspect.
" So am I; but I must meet the difficulty like a
man, and do my best to overcome it."
"Can you let me have a few hundred dollars tomorrow?" Mr. Jones next asked of a friend who
-had never hesitated to loan him any sum that he
wanted.
"Indeed, Mr. Jones, I cannot. These are dread
ful hard times. And I am sure that I cannot tell
how I shall get through to-morrow. But, in a few
days, you can have as much as you want."
Thus, wherever the teller went, he found the
same complaint of scarcity and want of money.
Not over one thousand dollars were tendered him,
and that sum would be of no use, for it would require nearly six thousand to make good his account.
"What must I do?" was a question more easily
asked than answered. And it was asked over and
over again, with a vain looking for some glimmering
of light in the distance. But all was darkness and
uncertainty, with a distinct knowledge that destruction lurked in his path.
The morrow at length came, after a night such
as no honest, or even dishonest man, could wish to
pass-a night of wakefulness and fearful forebodings




178         IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.
Sweetly by his side slept his unconscious wife, and
his still happier and innocent children. How his
heart ached for them as he thought of the disgrace
that would attach to his name, if a discovery of his
error were made; of the change in all of his external circumstances that must be the inevitable
consequence.
The hour for opening the bank at length came;
and Mr. Jones was at his post, with the same cheerful air and kind manner that had gained for him
the respect and regard of both the officers and customers of the institution. And yet, with all this
assumed exterior, there was a terrible feeling within,
for there had occurred to his mind no device by
which he could put off the evil day. Once the
thought occurred to him to state openly and fully
his case to the committee of examination, before the
process of counting the cash should be entered upon.
But this was instantly rejected, with the mental
ejaculation" It cannot-it must not be known!"
All through the day, while his hands were busy
in receiving and paying out money, his mind was
intent on devising some plan of relief from the
dreadful dilemma into which he had fallen.  Once
a gleam of hope shot suddenly across his mind, but
it quickly faded away, and left the darkness still
more gloomy and intense.  Like the darkness of
Egypt —iv could be felt. That hope came thus.  A




ITSs ONLY A DOLLAR.            179
check for six thousand dollars was presented, and
he paid out, in mistake, six hundred.  The lad who
offered the check, rolled up the money without
counting it, and glided quickly from the bank.  As
the teller was dropping the check into one of the
compartments of his money-drawer, his eye detected
the error. His recollection of paying but six hundred dollars was clear and distinct.
" Now I am safe!" was the sudden inward exclamation, while a thrill of joy ran through every
nerve and fibre of his body.
"'That would be wilful and premeditated dishonesty," a voice seemed to whisper in his ear.
" But I can make it good hereafter, in a way that
need involve no disclosure.  And the firm is rich
and will not be put to inconvenience in consequence."
"Don't do it," urged the opposing, and better
spirit within him.
" But I shall be ruined if I do not."
" And ruined tenfold if you do," was the internal
earnest objection.
" What shall I do!" the poor man uttered almost
audibly. And then started, lest his words had passed
to the ear of some one standing by.
" Act honestly as far as you can, and await the
result of your culpable folly," said the inward
whisper.
"You Rave made a mistake, sir," said the print




I80          IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.
-ipal of the firm whose check of six thousand dollars had been paid with six hundred, coming up to
the counter, while the struggle in the young man's
mind was undecided.  That was the trying moment,
and the decision had to be made instantly.  The
struggle was, as it had of necessity to be, brief.
"I discovered the mistake, sir, as soon as your
lad left," the teller replied with a smile, as he
counted out the balance of the check.
"I am greatly obliged to you, sir," said the merchant, as he received the money.  "Some tellers
correct no mistakes."
"Right is right," responded Mr. Jones mechanically, while his own voice sounded to his ear hollow
and despairing.
The merchant bowed and left the counter, and
hope, that had glimmered for a moment with a lurid
light, faded away into darkness.
Steadily the hours rolled away, and at last the
clock struck three, and the doors of the bank were
closed. The committee were already in waiting to
make their periodical examination. All that remained was for Mr. Jones to enter up his checks and
notes, strike his balance, and present his account.
As he proceeded to do this, he seemed to be reeling
about instead of standing still, and had it not been
for the mechanical habit that he had acquired, it
would have been impossible for him to have proceeded with any degree of correctness.




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.           181
He had not proceeded far in the labour before
Iis eye rested upon the six thousand dollar check.
"This might have saved me," he murmured,
pausing in his work.
"And it shall save me!" he added with inward
vehemence.  "It shall save me!"
His balance was at length struck, and the periodical counting took place. All appeared right, and
the committee separated.
" Mr. Jones," said the cashier to the teller, after
the president and the two directors, who had formed,
with the cashier, the committee, had withdrawn.
" There seems to be a little error here," laying his
hand upon the entries of the day.
The heart of Mr. Jones gave a strong bound, and
then its motion sank into low and tremulous pulsations, while his face grew instantly pale.
"Where, sir?" he asked, in a low tone, scarcely
above a whisper.
" Here," said the cashier, laying his finger first
upon the charge of a check for $6000-and then
upon a similar charge, in another part of the day's
operations-" Melwyn's check appears to be charged
twice, for I only observed, in running my eye over
the checks, but one drawn by them." And the
cashier looked Jones steadily in the face. The eyes
of the latter fell under the searching expression;
and as they did so, his face grew deadly pale, for
he felt conscious that his defalcation would now
VL.16




182           IT' S ONLY A DOLLAR.
come to light.  A brief pause followed, when the
cashier said, in a tone that had something of kindness in it"Come into my rooxo, in a few minutes, Mr.
Jones," and then, himself retired to the place he
had indicated.
Thither he was soon followed by the teller.
Sit down, Mr. Jones," the cashier said.
And the teller sat down.  But the very chair in
which he seated himself seemed as if on fire.
"I am afraid, Mir. Jones, that all is not right,"
the cashier began, ~ and I am exceedingly pained to
find myself obliged to express such a thought."
There was something of kindness and concern in
the tones of the cashier's voice, and as the heart
of the latter melted down, a gleam of hope seemed
to glance before him.
All is not right, sir!" he said, with one appealing glance, and covering his face with his hands,
gave way to tears.
To this succeeded a full confession, by the teller,
of his difficulties, and the nature and extent of his
defalcation.
But how is it possible; Mr. Jones, that you could
become so embarrassed?" the cashier asked.
" I can hardly answer that question to myself,"
the teller replied —" I have not gambled, nor bought
lottery tickets.  All has gone in the maintenance
of my family."
-~~~~~~~~~~ —~ -----— ~ —--— ~ —




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.            183
" Then you must have lived very extravagantly,
Mlr. Jones; for, with a larger family than yours, my
expenses are not over eighteen hundred dollars a
year."
"I believe I have, sir-and there, no doubt, is
the secret of my embarrassment. I never intended
to wrong the bank.  But I was thoughtless and extravagant.  But, do not expose me! I was not
dishonest in my intentions-and will not abuse your
confidence, if you will again favour me with it."
" But how can I help exposing you, Mr. Jones.
Are you not a defaulter to the amount of six thousand dollars?"
"True, sir!  But I will repay that, gradually.
I will live on half of my salary, until the other
half makes good the loss.  Oh, sir! think of my
wife and children, and spare us the disgrace and
ruin!" And the teller clasped his hands, and
looked up, imploringly, into the cashier's face.
The latter was moved. But his position involved
duties that could not be sacrificed to feelings.
" How can I depend upon you, MIr. Jones?" said
he, after a long silence.  "Once you have deceived
me-how can I trust you again?  What security
have I that you will not again be led astray?"
"Oh, sir, the reflections of this dreadful hour
will be your security —this dreadful hour, in which
I stand trembling on the brink of infamy and utter
ruin!"




184          IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.
" Go home, Mr. Jones," said the cashier, after a
silence of full five minutes, in which he strove in
vain to decide his course of action. "Go home,
and give me time to think. By to-morrow morning
I will decide what it is right for me to do."
" Oh, sir, do not keep me so long in suspense!
It will kiiL me."
"I cannot decide before," the cashier said gravely.  "And now, go home, sir, and be prepared for
the worst, for I cannot tell what will be the result
of my deliberations."
We will not attempt to portray the feelings of
Mr. Jones during the dreadful night that followednor those of his wife, to whom he told all as soon
as he returned home.
On the next morning he went early to the bank,
in a state of intense anxiety. The cashier met him
as soon as he entered, and then the two retired to
the cashier's private room. Poor Jones felt like a
criminal on his way to the gallows, with one faint
hope in his mind of a reprieve-a hope more truly
painful than the certainty that there was no escape.
~ Sit down, Mr. Jones," said the cashier, solemnly, and Mr. Jones sat down.
A silence of many moments ensued.  The cashier's brow was clouded, and it was evident that he
was undetermined how to act. His duty as a public
officer prompted one course, and humanity another,
At last he said, in an earnest voice



IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.            185
" Mr. Jones! —can I, dare I trust you?"
"Oh, sir, do not hesitate! This hour of intense,
almost hopeless agony, is the guarantee for my future faithfulness. Trust me, sir, and I will be true
to your confidence."
" But how will you make good the deficiency in
your account?"
" It will require time, sir; but I believe I can do
it. My true deficiency is $5,650. There was due
yesterday, and yet undrawn, a quarter's salary. I
have a carriage and a pair of horses, which will
bring not less than seven hundred dollars-they
cost a thousand. My wife's jewellery, and my own,
including watches and gold chains, we estimated
last night at not less than six hundred dollars.
We have been thoughtlessly extravagant in these
matters. How we ever accumulated so much really
worthless stuff, I can hardly tell. But we were always buying something. And then our plants and
flowers would certainly bring a hundred dollars.
There are among them many that are very rare and
beautiful.  Besides these things, we have a great
deal of costly furniture, and ornaments, which we.
will let go. In all, I feel sanguine that I can reduce the debt I owe the bank to three thousand
dollars. I have told my wife all about my present
dreadful condition, and she says-'Let all go.'
She is willing to come down to the poorest condition,
so that I may not be exposed and ruined. Six hun.
16*




186          IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.
dred dollars a year, she is confident, will be enough
for us, and she proposes that we move into the
suburbs of the city, where rent will be low, and the
change in our appearance not be so much noticed.
In four years, at the longest, I will be able to make
all straight again."
For more than a minute, the cashier mused in
silence-then extending his hand, he said —
" Mr. Jones, I will trust you."
The teller burst into tears and sank upon a chair.
" What a gulf of ruin I have escaped!" he said,
at length rising, and again grasping the cashier's
hand.
It was on a calm summer evening, about four
years after, that Mr. and Mrs. Jones sat near a window of their neat little dwelling, far in the suburbs
of the large city of which they were residents.
Every thing around them was neatj plain, and comfortable.
" This day I am a free man 1" M3r. Jones said,
after a brief pause in their conversation.  " I drew.my quarter's salary this morning, and after paying
off the balance of my debt to the bank, have just
one hundred dollars left.  How narrow an escape I
have made! It makes me tremble whenever I
think of it."
"Oh Henry,"-and his wife leaned upon his arm
and looked him  tenderly in the face, while the
______~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~7r




IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR.           187
moisture dimmed her eyes-" how glad am  I to
see this hour! —this hour, that I have scarcely dared
hope for.  We have had a hard lesson to learn, but
I feel that it has been a salutary one. We shall
agin be happy."'"Yes, far happier than, with our former views
and feelings, we could even have been under circumstances the most prosperous. I could not have
believed, once, in the possibility of our being contented with every thing around us so plain as we
now have it. But I find that it is not so much the
external circumstances that make happiness, as the
internal condition of the mind. If we look out of
ourselves for happiness, as sad experience has proved,
we meet only disappointment, and are in danger of
becoming in circumstances that may sadden every
moment of our after lives. Let us, then, never
forget the past four years. They are full of lessons
of wisdom."
Nor were those troubled years ever forgotten.
Their lessons of prudence and economy-their
thought-exciting incidents-their seasons of sad reflection, made an impression that never wore off.
Mr. Jones occupied a high position of trust in the
community, and none suspect that once his feet wellnigh slipped, while he tottered on the brink of ruin
and infamy.




HIRING A SERVANT.' WTELL, I'll just give up at once; so there, now!
It's no use to tiy any longer!" said Mrs. Parry,
passionately, as she came into the parlour, where her
husband sat reading, and threw herself upon the
sofa.
"Why, what is the matter now, Cara?" inquired
Mr. Parry in a quiet tone, for he had seen like states
of excitement so often that they had ceased to disturb
him.
"The matter?  Why, a good deal!  Sally is
going away day after to-morrow, and I shall be left
without a cook again.  And what shall I do then?
Can you tell me that?"
"Hire another," was the unmoved reply of Mr.
Parry.'Yes, it's easy enough to say'hire another,' but
saying and doing are two things. I never expect to
get another as good as Sally, and she has been
troublesome enough, dear knows!"
Mr. Parry laid aside his newspaper, folded his
hands together, and assuming a resigned attitude,
188




HIRING A SERVANT.            189
looked his wife in the face, with an air of composure
that annoyed her exceedingly.
"You seem always to think this trouble about
servants a very little matter," said she, somewhat
pettishly; "' I only wish you had the trial of it for
awhile i"
"I have no desire, I can assure you, Cara," he
replied, in a soothing voice.  "I never envied you,
or any other woman, the pleasures appertaining to
household duties. But you must allow me to think,that much of the difficulty and annoyance which is
too frequently experienced, might be avoided."
"No doubt you think so. All men do. I verily
believe there never was a man yet who possessed true
sympathy for the peculiar trials incident to housekeeping."
"Come, come, Cara! that is a sweeping declaration," Mr. Parry replied, smiling. " I, for one, think
that I feel for you in all your various and conflicting
duties; and, were it in my power, would lighten every
one of them. But, as I cannot do this, I cannot of
course think that, in entering into them, you do
right to allow them to make you unhappy."
" It is easy enough to talk, Mr. Parry; but how
do you think that I or any other woman can look
on unmoved and see every thing in disorder? If
dinner is late, or badly cooked, you are very sure to
speak about it; and how do you think I can feel
easy when I see that, through the inattention of the




190          HIRING A SERVANT.
servant, such a thing is going to happen, or feel at
all pleasant after it has happened?"
This was carrying the truth right home; and Mr.
Parry remembered, all at once, that at sundry times
he had grumbled because dinner was not on the
table promptly; and, on various occasions, because
the meat was overdone or underdone, or the vegetables cold or badly cooked. He therefore sat very
still, and did not reply. Mrs. Parry perceived the
impression she had made, and continued:"Or, how do you think that I can feel otherwise
than I do in prospect of just such things again, and
a dozen others more annoying still? I've had trouble
enough with Sally, to get her to understand how
things ought to be done, and it disheartens me outright now that she is determined -to go away. I don't
care so much about myself, but I know how these
household irregularities annoy you, and that you
blame me for them, even though you don't say any
thing."
Mr. Parry was silenced for the time.  He saw
that he was thrown completely "in the wrong," and
that it would be useless to attempt then to argue
himself out of his unenviable position.  His wife,
thus victorious, had the uninterrupted privilege, for
that day, at least, of being just as unhappy as she
wished, in prospect of Sally's departure and the
annoyances. that were to follow this event.
During that day and the next, a gloom pervaded




HIRING A SERVANT.             191
the household of Mrs. Parry. Sally felt more than
ever anxious to be away. Once or twice the idea
of remaining passed through her mind; but a sight
of Mrs. Parry's overcast countenance instantly dis.
pelled it.
On the morning of the day on which Sally was to
leave, an Irish girl, who had learned, through the
chambermaid, that the cook was going away, applied
for the situation.
" Are you a good cook?" inquired Mrs. Parry.
"Oh, yes, ma'am; I can cook any thing."
" Where did you live last?"
"I am living in a tavern, ma'am."
"Why do you wish to leave there?"
"I don't like the place.  You are so much
exposed in a tavern."
"What is your name?"
" Margaret."
"Well, Margaret, you can come on trial to-morrow morning. Sally is going to stay to-night."
And so Margaret went away, promising to come
back in the morning. At dinner-time, Mrs. Parry
seemed a little more cheerful.
" I've engaged a cook," she said, after the meal
was nearly over.
" Have you, indeed! Well, I'm glad of that, Cara.
You see you've had all your trouble for nothing."
"I'm not sure of that," she replied.  "It's one
thing to hire a cook, and another thing to be pleased




192          HIRING A SERVANT.
with her. She's an Irish girl, and you know that
they are never very tidy about their work."
"But they are, usually, willing and teachable.
Are they not?"
" Some of them are. But, then, who wants the
trouble of teaching every new servant her duty?
It's enough to pay them their wages."
"Still, in thus teaching them, we are doing good.
And we should always be willing to take upon ourselves a little trouble, if, in doing so, we can benefit
another."
" That would be too generous! I might, on your
principle, be willing to do nothing else but teach
ignorant servants their duty, and thus fit them to
make other houses pleasant, instead of my own. For,
it generally happens, when you have made one of
them worth having, she knows some one with whom
she would rather live than with you. There was
Nancy, that didn't know how to wash a dish or
cook a potato when I took her. She lived with us
a year, until she could turn her hand to every thing,
and then went to Mrs. Clayton's, where she has been
for six years. Mrs. Clayton told me, day before
yesterday, that she was the best woman she had ever
had in the house, and that she would not part with
her upon any consideration. And here is Sally,
with whom I have had my own time. She's getting
to be good for something, and now she's contented
here no longer."




HIRING A SERVANT.              193
"That does seem a little hard, Cara. But, then~
don't you feel a gratification in reflecting that,
through your means, Mrs. Clayton has obtained a
servant who fills her place so well as to give satisfaction to the family?"
"I can't say that I do," Mrs. Parry replied in a
half positive, half hesitating tone.
i" Then, if you do not," her husband said, seriously,
"it is time that you began, at least, to make the
effort to feel thus.  The reason that we are so often
made unhappy by the actions of those around us, is,
because we regard our own good and our own comfort of primary importance. Any thing that disturbs
these, disturbs us. But, if we desired to impart
benefits as well as to receive them, we should come,
as a necessary consequence, into a state of mind
that could not be easily agitated.  We would see, in
the wrong actions and in the short-comings of others,
that which affected them injuriously, as well as ourselves, and in trying to modify or correct them, we
would have a reference to their good as well as to our
own."
"That may all be true enough; but I am sure
that I could never act from such disinterested mcotives. It is not in me."
" It is not in any one, naturally, to act thus, Cara
But that is no reason why good principles may not
be formed in us. You can at least see, I suppose,
that, if all acted thus with reference to the good )f
VI.-17




194           HIRING A SERVANT.
others, every thing in society would move on nmuch
more pleasantly than it does."
"Oh, yes, of course.  But if only a few, why,
they might work their lives through for the good of
others, and be no better off by it."
" A selfish idea, I see, is uppermost in your mind,
Cara," her husband said kindly, and with an encouraging smile, for it was not often that he could get
her to consent to talk rationally on such subjects.
"The few who thus acted would not have in their
minds the idea of a reward. The delight which
naturally springs up in the mind from the performance of good actions to others, would be to them
a much higher gratification than any thing that
could be given to them as an external reward for
what they had done.  Let me see if I cannot make
this plain to your mind. Suppose Mrs. Clayton had
so thoroughly educated an ignorant servant as to
make her fully acquainted with all the household
duties that might be required of her; and that, after
she was thus fitted for the performance of these
duties, this servant left her, and finally came into
your family. Do you not think that Mrs. Clayton
might feel delight in the thought, that through her
efforts to instruct that servant, she had acquired the
ability of obtaining a comfortable home at any time,
and you had the pleasure of having one in your family
who lightened you of many a care, and caused your
household arrangements to move on harmoniously?"




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.
1 WAS visiting a lady, not long since, for whom I
have a particular regard.  She is intelligent, vivacious, and exhibits none Of those little faults that
spring from  inordinate  self-love, and which are
always so destructive of pleasant social intercourse.
But she has two marked defects of character-want
of order and firmness.  These were seen particularly
in the habits of her children.  She has two little
girls and a boy, children of fine dispositions, and
who have a full share of their mother's spirits. As
their government was not orderly, there was nothing
orderly about them; and as my friend was not firm
and consistent in her management, they were by no
means obedient.
I was sitting in the parlour with Mrs. Carver,
(that is my friend's name,) on the occasion referred
to, when Johnny, a bright little fellow, who had
seen some four or five summers, came rushing in
quite rudely, and crying at the top of his voice,
" Mother! mother! I want some of the peaches
I saw Jane put in the closet just now.'
67




68         OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.
"Why, Johnny! Is that the way for you to
come into the parlour when I have company?" said
Mrs. Carver, in a rebuking tone, while the colour
rose to her face. " I am ashamed of you. Go and
speak to Mrs. Elmwood."
But Johnny thrust both thumbs into his mouth,
cast his eyes to the floor, and leaned back heavily
against his mother.
"Come, sir!  Go and speak to the lady, this
minute. I won't have such silly actions in any little
boy of mine.  There, now!  Go at once and speak
to Mrs. Elmwood."
The mother pushed the child towards me as she
said this, while he held heavily back. I reached out
my hand and took his, drawing him, as I did so,
towards me, and saying in an encouraging voice,
" Oh, yes; Johnny will come and speak to me,
and kiss me, too."
I attempted to kiss him as I said this, but the
urchin shrank back, and drew his head down upon
his breast in such a way that I could not succeed in
accomplishing my design.' "I declare i" exclaimed Mrs. Carver, in an impatient half-mortified voice, "if ever I-saw such a
set of children as mine are! They have no more
breeding than if they were so many heathens. I try
to teach them manners, but it's of no use."
Then speaking to the little boy, she added —
"Go out of the parlour this minute, you unman




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.            69
nerly creature, you, and don't show your face here
again this afternoon!"
Johnny went slowly towards the door, where he
stopped, and leaning against it, with one finger in
his mouth, and his head still crouched upon his
breast, rolled his eyes upwards in order to see across
the roomn, and said, sulkily"I want some of them peaches."
"Well, you can't have any, for being such an unmannerly boy. Peaches are for well-behaved, good
children."
Johnny lingered a few minutes, swinging himself
around one side of the door-frame, and then disappeared.
"The fact is, my children mortify me to death,
sometimes. I can't beat good manners into them,"
remarked Mrs. Carver.  "I see children who can
behave like little men and women; but it isn't the
case with mine. And I don't think it's my fault,
either. I try my best to teach them to be pecite
and act as they ought to do.  But it's no use.  It
seems in them to be rude and uncouth.  I wash the
pig, but it is a pig still. Oh, dear! I get discouraged
sometimes."
You, Johnny!  Bring back them  peaches!"
was heard cried, at this moment, from the diningroom, by a domestic, simultaneously with which came
the rapid pattering of Johnny's feet, as he descended
the stairs, laughing loudly and triumphantly, while,




70         OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.' Didn't I get them?  Ha! ha!  Didn't I get
them? ha ha!" echoed through the house.
" Now isn't,it too much!" ejaculated my friend.
" That Johnny is the most persevering little rebel I
ever saw. Nothing will prevent him from accomplishing his end. If he is of the same disposition
when he gets to be a man, he'll get along in the
the world, and no mistake."
" Didn't you tell him that he couldn't have any
peaches?" I made free to ask, for my friend was
some twenty years my junior, and permitted me to
speak quite plainly to her.
"No, I don't think I did."
"Oh, yes, you said that he could not have any for
being so unmannerly."
"So I did. Well, never mind.  He's got them
now, and I don't wish to set the house in a roar,
which will be the case if I were to take them from
him."
" But think, my dear NMrs. Carver," said I, 1" of
the effect upon him of this act of disobedience."
"I hardly know which wlould be worse; spoiling
his temper, or permitting him to be disobedient
sometimes. If I were to take the peaches from him
now, he wouldn't get done crying for these three
hours.  The fact is, I don't believe in being
too strict with children, and seeing every little
thing they do. I am satisfied that it has a bad,
effect."




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.           71
"We should always see direct acts of disobedience,
and never pass them over."'" If I were to do that, I would be constantly punishing my children. They never mind, unless forced
to do so."
Just then, Johnny came to the parlour-door,
with a peach in his hand, and exclaimed, in an exulting voice,
"Aha! I would have them! Aha!"
" You-!" and the mother started forward with
a threatening look. Johnny scampered off, laughing
as loud as ihe could.
"The saucy dog!" said Mrs. Carver, smiling.
l How can I punish him? He is such an impudent
rogue."
I did not like to say much to her, as I was a visitor. But I could not smile in return. To see such
bad treatment of a child made me feel serious.
Johnny was a fine boy; bright, playful, and generous; but his mother's want of order and consistent
firmness were ruining him.
My friend talked much of her children, and I
endeavoured to throw in occasionally a word of good
advice, but it didn't do much good.  The error in
the mode of governing her children was radical.
She had not laid down certain primary principles as
true, and certainly to be carried out. Impulse ruled
her more than reason. There were times when she
did see in clear light a better course than the one




72         OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.
she was pursuing; and then she would act upon
truer principles.  But these were evanescent states.
They quickly passed away and gave place to old
habits.
Towards evening her husband came in.  He is an
excellent man, but deeply immersed in business.
The cares of his household he gives up entirely to
his wife.  He has no time to attend to the children,
and does not attempt to govern them at all. How far
I think him  in error here, I need not say.  He is
accountable for his wife's- bad management, almost
as much as if it were his own. I do not see how
any father can think more of his business than of
his children, and be blameless; or how any father
can, with a clear conscience, leave the sole care of
rightly training up his little ones to a wife who is
not qualified to give their young minds that bent
which will fix them in true and orderly habits.
Mr. Carver came in towards evening, and, until
tea was announced, I passed the time with him in
very pleasant conversation.  He found leisure to
read a good deal, even of the lighter works of the
day; but had not time rightly to direct the habits
of his children.
When the tea-bell rang, there was the sound of
scampering feet from three different parts of the
house, and loud cries of delight from as many children. When we entered the tea-room, Johnny and
his two sisters were already seated at the table, and




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.            73
one of the girls had a piece of bread on her plate,
and was helping herself to butter.'Jane!" exclaimed Mrs. Carver, in a reproving
tone.
Jane finished helping herself to the butter, and
then sat back in her chair, without showing any
consciousness of having acted wrong.
"Give me some cake," cried Johnny, reaching his
hand over the table, as we all sat down.
Mrs. Carver gave him a piece of cake, and then
commenced pouring out the tea.
"I want my tea before Jane," said the spoiled
urchin, in a loud voice.  "Sha'n't I have mine first?"
" Oh, yes.  Any thing, if you will only be quiet,"
returned the mother.
This I thought a fair beginning, and composed
myself to look on and observe, expecting, certainly, that I should have a rare specimen of table
etiquette among children.  And I was not disappointed.
" Then give me some of that preserved ginger,"
responded Johnny.
" Come, sir, be quiet!" said the father, but he did
not seem to be much in earnest. At least, the child
did not regard his words as of any consequence. He
certainly did not obey them.
"I want some ginger."' Do, father, give that child some of the ginger,
if it's only for peace' sake."
VIII.-7




74         OBEDIENCE TN OHILDREN.
The ginger was accordingly supplied.
"There, now, you didn't give me my tea first,"
cried Johnny, as his mother handed me a cup of tea;' and you said you would."
"Johnny! If you don't take care, I will send
you from the table," replied Mrs. Carver.  "Now,
don't let me hear another word from your head."
While his mother was saying this, Johnny was
rising upon his feet, and, with his hands upon the
table, leaning over, and about to reach for something
that had attracted his eyes.
" Sit down, sir!" The mother spoke with some
decision, but more impatience.
Johnny slowly sank back in his chair, whimpering,
"' You said you'd give me my tea first, and you
didn't."
"Do, Jane," remarked Mr. Carver, "give the
child his tea, or we shall have no peace with him."
"Poor fellow! he's sleepy and fretful.  The days
are too long for him to keep up without a nap," said
the mother apologetically, as she poured out a cup
of milk and water, which was!served to Johnny
next.
"c You didn't give it to me first," was the child's
response to this accommodating act, drawing himself back, and pouting out his lips.
"Well, never mind, Johnny. I forgot. Drink
it, that's a good child, and then this lady will tell




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.          75
her little boy what a fine fellow you are.  You are
a man.  Sit up, now, like a man."
But Johnny kept his pouting look and position.
Mrs. Carver proceeded to wait upon the rest of the
table.
"You didn't put any sugar in my tea," said
Helen, the oldest, about seven years old, in a fretful
tone.  "You never make my tea sweet enough."
"Helen!" and her mother looked reprovingly at
her.
You don't never do it, mother," continued the
child.
Mrs. Carver added another lump of sugar to
Helen's cup.
"Give me another lump," cried little Jane.
It was tossed into her cup of tea.
"There, now!  I didn't want it in my tea."
This was said with a snarling look and tone.
" Where did you want it, pray?"
"Why, I wanted it in my hand."
"Here, take this, then."  A lump of sugar was
given to Jane.
"I want a lump of sugar to eat, too," now cried
out Helen. "Give me one, mother."
The request was granted. By this time, Johnny
had began to recover a little from his sulky humour.
He bent forward to the table, and, after putting his
spoon in his tea, and before tasting it, cried out,
"You haven't sweetened my tea."




7g6        OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.
"Yes) I did, Johnny. I put a large lump into it."
No, you didn't."  He began to cry.
"I tell you I did, Johnny. Taste it."
" No, you didn't."
W"Well, there! Take that."  Another piece of
sugar was thrown across the table.  "I hope you
will be quiet now."
But that was a vain expectation. Johnny put
the lump of sugar into his cup, and then, in a crying
voice, said,
"C You gave Helen and Jane a lump of sugar to
eat."
" Dear bless the children! They really seem bewitched," exclaimed Mr. Carver, in despair. " Here's
a piece for you to eat, also. Now, don't let me hear
another word out of your head."
In the hope of settling the impatient, exacting,
fretful child for the rest of the meal, the father
helped hirm to every thing upon the table that he said
he wanted, filling his plate with double the quantity
that it was possible for him to eat.  This was no
sooner done, and the child forced to be satisfied, than
Helen broke forth, with"I wish, mother you would make Jane push her
chair away from mine. She always crowds right up
against me at the table.'"
" Jane, do push your chair farther off from Helen's.
There is room enough." Mrs. Carver spoke fretfully.
"There, will that do!" said Jane, angrily, draw



OBEDIENCE IN CHILDRIEN.            7 
ing her chair far away from that upon which Helenu
was seated, and getting on to the very corner of the
table.
Then came importunities from the two little girls
for various things. They would eat neither bread,
biscuit, nor rusk, but must be helped first to the
richest cake, and also to the sweetmeats. In this
they were indulged, evidently for peace' sake. In
about five minutes, tolerable quiet was gained, but
not sufficient for pleasant conversation. There were
constant interruptions and annoyances, especially
from Johnny, who was in a most captious humour.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Carver were worried and mortified
by the conduct of their children.
" If you speak again, Helen, I will send you from
the table!" the mother at length said, in a calm,
determined voice.
In less than a minute, Helen's voice drowned every
other one at the table.
" Helen!" said Mrs. Carver, looking steadily into
the child's face, " do you remember what I said
just now?"
Thus actually calling the attention of Helen to
the fact that she was about breaking her word.
Helen was silent again; but only long enough for
her mother to half finish a remark she had commenced making to me.
"Will you be silent, as I tell you?" stormed the
mother.
7*._______,________         ____  ___________   ___________




78         OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.
There was a calm; soon, however, interrupted by
a loud bawl from Johnny.
"What is the matter with you?" asked Mrs.
Carver.
"Jane went and took a piece of my cake," cried
the child, with open mouth, stuffed so full that the
crumbs dropped out into his plate.
"Jane, give him back his cake."
" I didn't take it, mother."
~"Yes, you did take it," cried Johnny, louder
than before.
"I only took a teenty tawnty little piece."
" Why did you touch it at all?  Go away from
the table."
Jane hesitated.
"Do you  hear?   Go down  stairs, this moment!"
Jane descended from her chair slowly, began to
cry, and left the room bawling at the top of her
voice. In a little while, her cry ceased, and in two
minutes from the time she left, she was back again,
uninvited, and in her place at the table.  The only
notice of this act of disobedience was"Don't let me see you touch any thing in
Johnny's plate again!  You know that he won't
bear it."
Thus the meal progressed, and finally came
to a conclusion.  To me it was a most unpleasant scene.  I think I never saw children act so




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.          79
rudely in my life, or appear less under parental
control.
I returned to the parlour with M'r. Carver, after
tea was over, leaving the mother to contend with the
children until she could induce them to go away
from the table. Although they had been eating
steadily on from the time the tea-bell rang, they
seemed, when we had concluded our meal, as little
disposed as ever to quit.
"I'm afraid my wife hasn't the best government
in the world," remarked the husband to me, as we
reached the parlour.  " I am sure, children might be
taught to behave more orderly. I tell her so, sometimes; but she says, very justly, perhaps, that if I
had the care of them, I would not find the task so
easy a one as I imagined."
I did not like to speak in very broad terms of disapprobation of a young wife to her. husband, and so
I only replied in some generalities respecting the
management of children.  From  this the subject
took a turn into a more pleasant theme, which continued for about ten minutes.  Then we were forced
to pause from hearing a storm among the children
overhead. All three were crying as loud as they
could scream, and MIrs. Carver was scolding at the
top of her voice. As a finale to the whole, H-elen,
Jane, and Johnny were severely spanked all round
and sent to bed. This produced the desired effect —
it put a quietus on them for that day.




80         OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.
" TWell, I declare!" exclaimed 3Mrs. Carver, entering the parlour with a glowing face a few minutes
afterwards, " if I don't have a time of it! Every
night I have to go over just this scene. The children get tired out, and fretful, and then nothing can
please them.  I try my best to have patience, but
they worry me out. They distress me to death with
their contentions.  There seems not to exist a particle of love between them. Each looks upon the
other as a rival. It may be all my fault, but certainly I don't see it, if it is.  I think of them all the
time, and do my best to make them happy."
"Perhaps you do not prescribe just laws, and
compel an implicit obedience to them?" I ventured
to suggest.'1 I hardly think it right to govern children by
fixed laws.  There should be exercised towards them
great forbearance, and they should often be excused
for faults," was my friend's reply.
" As to laws," I returned, "they should be few
and plain, and founded upon right principles. To
these, absolute obedience should be exacted."
"Name a law such as you approve," said ~Mrs.
Carver.
This was putting me in rather a delicate position.
But my young friends knew me well, and I could
make free with them. So I replied,
"'The first and most important law should be
this: —prompt and unmurmuring obedience to every




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.            81
parental command.  WVhen the father or mother
gives a direction, the child should be required unhesitatingly to obey it.  On no account should he
be permitted to think that there is the least possibility of disobedience without punishment."
"I hardly think there is such a law in operation
here," remarked Mr. Carver, smiling, and looking at
his wife.
"No, that there certainly is not.  And I should
like very much to see the one who could carry it
out. I must confess that it is not in my power.
Were I to punish for every act of disobedience, I
should be at it every hour in the day."
"Perhaps," I suggested, " after a few  times,
they would think obedience far preferable to punishment."
"I don't know, but I doubt it.  They couldn't
live, if they hadn't a little of their own way. And,
at any rate, I do not think it the best treatment
towards children to cow them right down. I have
seen such, in my time.  Little, dejected-looking,
spiritless creatures, afraid to speak above their
breath."
"'The happiest family I ever saw was the most
orderly," I replied.  " A child no more thought of
disobeying a direction of the father or mother, than
of jumping from a window."
1" No doubt the parents were very happy in having
a quiet house. [But what of the children?"




82 9OBEDIENCE IN CHIILDEEN.' They were cheerful, and full of life.  Not one
of themn showed fear or unpleasant restraint while
with their parents; but only respect and affection."
" They must have been of a very different breed
from mine; that's all I have to say," returned lMrs,
Carver.  "I'11 defy any one to mould my children
into such a shape.  It can't be done."
I smiled incredulously, and then asked"IHave you ever thought of the use of obedience?"
" Oh, certainly. It makes a very comfortable
time for the mother, and everybody else about the
house."
" No, but the use to the child himself?'" I said.
"The use to the child?  Why, no, I can't say
that I have."
"That is the most important question, depend
upon it, Mrs. Carver."' Suppose you give us your views upon the subject," said the husband.
" With pleasure," I returned, " although my own
ideas have not been as well digested as I could wish.
For what purpose are children born into the world?"
" To grow up into men and women, and be happy,
if they can," replied Mrs. Carver.
"Think again.  Cannot you imagine some higher
znd?" I said.
"To go to heaven, and live there for ever," was
added.




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.            83
C'That is coming nearer to the point, my dear
friend," was my answer; "much nearer.  Earth is
designed to be a seminary of heaven. Every child
is born with the capacity of becoming an angel. As
parents, our duty is to do all in our power to further
this great design; to develop this latent capacity.
The state here is merely a preparatory one.  That
which begins at the time we leave our earthly existence is our true state, which will endure for ever.
This premised, I will endeavour to show you the
great use there is in exacting from  children strict
obedience.  You can see that men and women
ought to be obedient to the laws of their country?'
" Oh, yes, certainly."
"Think, now, what will be the best possible
course for you to pursue, in order to so impress your
children's minds with the duty of obedience to the
law, that obedience will become, as it were, natural
to them, when they arrive at a rational age?"
Both father and mother became thoughtful at this
question. The remark of the father showed that
light was breaking into his mind.
"If children," said he, "do not obey their parents, I fear that there will be very little hope of
their obeying the law."
" It requires no very abstract thought to deter
mine that," I answered.  "Depend upon it, that a
willingness to obey the laws of one's country is a
fruit springing from  seed scattered by a tenderer




OBEDIENCE IN CIILI-DRENT.
plant —obedience to parents.  This plant takes root,
grows, produces seed, and then dies.  Its seed falls
into the ground, becomes vitalized, springs forth,
and yields a hardier plant when rman beeomes a
rational, intelligent, and responsible being,  But a
still higher use is typified in this.  There is to coime
another maturity, another withering of vegetation,
another casting of seed, in the man that lives to
right purpose."
I paused.  My young friends were listening intently.
r' Go on," said the husband.
"rAs I have remarked," I continuedl, Cthe child 
is born with the capacity of becoming an angel in
heaven.'But he cannot become an angel, u-inle-1s
after reaching  manhood, lihe lives in obedience to
divine laws.  It is not obedience to parents that
takes to heaven.  This is a compulsory state —a state
of non-fireedom.  Nor is it obedience to civil la, 
which takes the place of parental obedience, that
saves the soul, for this all can do, the wicked and
the good; but it is obedience to a divine spiritual
law, that elevates man into heaven.  As obedience
to parents gives birth to obedience to civil lawv  so
does obedience to civil law, from  a right ground,
give birth to spiritual obedience-obedience to truth
for the truth's sake, which. elevates man into real
intelligence and wisdom, which constitute an angel;
for an angel is only such because he is spiritual in
i i  _ _ _




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.               85
lntellitgence and wisdom  from  the Lord.  You can
see, now, the use of making children obedient; for
obedience to parents forms a vessel in the mindl, intc
which can flow obedience to civil law; and this, in
turn, forms a vessel into which can flow obedience
to the Lord.  Andcl, moreover, the respect, deference,
and subordination in which a child is towards his
father will be, mainly, the measure of his respect,
deference, and subordination to the Lord.  To the
child, while he remains such, his father is the superior
being up to whom  he looks, and whose dictate he
feels bound to obey.  When he becomes a man,
there is none above him  but God.  MIen are his
equals.  No one has a right to require his service
but God alone.  Think, then, how important is the
parental relation, and what vital consequences depend upon it!"
MIy words, or rather the reflections they awakened,
threw a deep shade over the spirits of my friends.
T'hey both sat with their eyes upon the floor for some
time, in silence.  At length, with a sigh, Mr. Carver
remarked,
I am seriously afraid that we are not forming
in the mindcls of our children, vessels for the reception of obedience either to civil or spiritual law."
If Mrs. Elmwood's doctrine be true, I aml  sure
we are not," was his wife's reply.  "r As to obedience,
there is nothing of it about our children.  I never
saw any so perverse in this thing as they are.  If
YIII.-3S




86         OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.
they were engaged in the most interesting play, and
I were to tell them to go on with it, I am sure they
would stop. I have only to give a command, to
inspire them with a spirit of disobedience."
"The picture is too true," the husband said,
gloomily.
"C You may depend upon it," I ventured to say,
plainly, " that it is your own fault. If you had,
from the first, required obedience, it would be remembered now, without a murmur.  I never saw
the child that I could not make regard my commands, if he knew I had the authority to require
obedience.  When a child once learns to regard all
your words as spoken in earnest, he submits without
a murmur."
"I amnt sure I speak in earnest," said Mrs. Carver.
"What I mean by' in earnest,' is with the fixed
resolution to be obeyed. A mere.tone of voice is
nothing. It is the way in which a child understands
what you say.'If you do that, I will skin you
alive,' T heard a mother say to her child. She spoke
earnestly enough.  But the child didn't believe her,
as was evidenced from the fact that he was engaged
in doing the very thing she had forbidden him to do,
not five minutes afterwards. If she had merely said
to him —' You must not do that, my son,' and he
had known from previous experience that he could
not disobey without certain punishment, it would
have been enough."




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.          87
"But my mind revolts at punishment.  There
seems to me to be something brutal in beating children all the while."
1" So there is, Mrs. Carver," I returned.  " I am
no more an advocate for beating children than you
are. There are many ways to punish a child besides
the rod. A child may be undressed and put to bed
in a room by himself hours before night; or be kept
from the table with the family; or punished by
various privations of desired things."
"You saw how outrageously my children acted
at the table to-night. How would you go about
preventing a repetition of similar conduct?'
"By being rigidly obeyed in every just command."
"But that is too vague," returned Mrs. Carver.
"Be more specific."
"I will try.  Take that restless little Johnny of
yours to begin with. To-morrow morning, I would
be sure to have all three of the children with me in
my chamber, or in the nursery, when the breakfastbell rang. Then I would make them all three walk
out to the breakfast-room, quietly:-you can easily
do this, by taking Johnny's hand yourself, and
causing Helen and Jane to walk behind you. Seat
all the children yourself, with a grave face, and in
a formal manner, and then take your own place.
Your error is in permitting them to rush to the
table before you get there. This little movement of




88         OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.
yours will have its effect upon them, and cause them
to look at you with a slight degree of expectation or
wonder. No doubt, by the time you have commenced putting sugar and cream in the cups, Johnny
will be calling out for something, and perhaps the
other children also. But keep cool.  Suffer nothing
like impatience to arise. Think only of the good
of your child, and how you shall best promote it.
Ask, calmly, his father to help him to what he wants.
This will be done. You hand him his cup of milk
and water. It does not suit him, perhaps. He
wants more sugar. You tell him that you have
given him enough.  Then he begins to cry. Ring
the bell, and when a domestic appears, say,'Johnny,
you must stop crying, and drink your tea, or you will
be taken from the table.' Of course, he will not stop
crying.  Then be sure to have him taken away, no
matter how loudly he screams; and do not, by any
means, let him appear at the table during the meal.
The effect of this upon the other children will be
good. You will have little trouble with them at that
Duneal. At dinner-time, come with a fixed resolution
tc act with Johnny in a precisely similar manner.
See that all again come quietly and in an orderly
manner to the table. Perhaps the little fellow will
try the matter over again.  If he does, as you value
his welfare, send him away; and continue doing it
until he gives up. After that, your task will be
comparatively an easy one, if you will let him sea




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.           89
and feel, that you mean always just what you say,
Persevere with him, and with all the rest, and you
will have as orderly and obedient children as are to
be found anywhere.  You have good elements to
work with."
"I see the truth of what you say, and feel its
force," MIrs. Carver returned.
"Then there is but one course before you, and
that is to do your duty. You cannot shrink from
that without jeopardizing your own soul, and the
souls of your children. Let the ground for the implantation of good seed in after-life be formed in
parental obedience.  Make your children know that
your word is law. Lay your positive commands
upon them as little as possible, but when you do so,
be obeyed at all risks."
This and much more I said to my friend and her
husband, especially urging him to give more thought
and attention to the moral well-being of his children.
When I went away, I was satisfied that my words had
made a good impression.
A few weeks afterwards, I spent another afternoon
and evening with my young friends.  My surprise
and pleasure were great at noticing a most remarkable change, for so short -a time, in the children.
Especially was this apparent at the tea-table. Johnny
was a little restless, and seemed, as I thought, disposed to take some advantage of my presence. But
his mother's eye frequently rested upon his with a
ji  __~_~_.~.__._..   _._8_




90         OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.
steady, meaning look, and caused him to keep qulet.
Towards the conclusion of the meal, he committed
some impropriety, not necessary to mention-but of
a kind that should always cause a child to be sent
away. The bell was promptly rung, and the domestic
who answered it directed to take Johnny away and
put him to bed.  " And now remember, Johnny, if
you scream while Ellen is putting you to bed, you will
not be allowed to sit at the table with us to-morrow
morning," said Mrs. Carver, firmly.
Johnny was taken from the -table sobbing, but he
did not scream aloud.  His mother looked after him
earnestly. It was a hard trial for her, I could see.
" You are getting along bravely," said I, in an
under tone of encouragement.
" Much better than I expected. But it is a very
hard trial."
Nothing more was said on the subject during the
time that we remained at the table.  Helen and
Jane had shown a little disposition to be unruly, but
the prompt visitation made on their brother's fault
completely settled them.
After tea, Mrs. Carver gave me a history of her
efforts to bring about a state of order and obedience.
I found that the trial had been a severe one indeed.
But, from a clear sense of duty, she had persevered,
and her efforts had been crowned with far more
success tian she could have dreamed of.
"Are your children less happy than before?"




OBEDIENCE IN CHILDREN.            91
I asked.  "Has a closer discipline broken down
their spirits?"
"Oh! no; not by any means.  They are far
happier than before. They do not quarrel as much
as they did, and are not half so fretful."
"The result of order and judicious restraint,"
said I,
"No doubt of it.  I could not have believed that a
little firmness and decision on my part would have
produced so great a change as has taken plac*  It
strikes me with wonder. Not for the world would
I relinquish strict discipline. It is indeed to my
whole family a blessing."
I have frequently since visited my friends, socially
and familiarly.  She has not relaxed discipline.
Her children are growing up polite, orderly, and
obedient.  The mother looks more cheerful, and the
father takes a lively interest in his children.




THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.
" You won't forget your mother, William?" Mrs.
Enfield said, pushing aside the clustering locks from
the fair brow of her boy, and imprinting thereon a
fervent kiss.
"Forget you, dear mother! Oh, no! I cannot
forget my kind, good mother. How could I ever
cease to remember her and love her?"
" And yet, William," the mother added, with
something sad in her tone, " it is no strange thing
for a son, as he goes out into the world, and mingles in its excitements, to esteem lightly the deep
affection and unchanging interest of a mother's heart.
You are but twelve now, and you leave us to-morrow
for college, never again, perhaps, to make one of
the home-circle. New scenes, new companions, new
pleasures will be yours; and, unless you guard your
heart, your mother's image may grow dim therein.
Then guard that heart, my boy, for your mother's
sake."
Tears were in Mrs. Enfield's eyes, and her son
wondered that she should feel thus and talk thus.
He loved her tenderly, and could not imagine why
_____~~~~~~~~~~~~~_~ ~~ ~~~~__~ 




THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.          93
a question of that love's continuance could stir in
the heart of his mother.
" I can never forget you, mother, I can never
cease to love you 1" he replied, with tenderness and
fervour.  "I will write to you often, and think of
you always. If others, as they grow up, forget their
home, it cannot be so with me. How could I ever
cease to love you, as I now do?"
"I will trust you, William. My heart tells me
that I may trust you I" Mrs. Enfield said, in a
changed tone, and again impressed her lips upon the
high, white forehead of her boy.
On the next day, William Enfield left his home
and'his mother, and entered one of the collegiate
institutes of the country, more than two hundred
miles away from his homestead. A new world was,
indeed, opened to him, but its wonders dimmed not
by contrast the home affection.  Almost every week
he wrote to his father, or his mother, and his letters
were full of earnest and true love of the dear friends
from whom he had been separated. But he dreamed
not of the deep and intense fervour of that affection
which burned for him in the heart of his mother
with an inextinguishable flame. Day and night she
thought of him, and morning and evening prayed
that no ill might harm her boy. The world she
knew was full of evil, and the snare of the fowler
laid in many places to catch the young and unwary.
That evil thoughts and evil affections should e-ver




94         THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.
rule her now innocent boy, were ideas that made her
heart ache. Yet she could not conceal from herself
the danger that must lurk in his path and hover
over him continually.
"I often wish we had kept William at home,"
she said one day to her husband, a man of a strong
and decided cast of mind.  "We have many good
schools in the city, and some of high standing.  I
cannot but think that it would have been much
better to have paid as much regard to the keeping
of his moral life unspotted, as to the providing for
the high degree of mental attainments that we desired for our boy. If his affections are not wisely
guided, they will mar and pervert all his intellectual
attainments."
"Do not fear for him," the father replied.' I have
observed his character closely, and am well convinced that it is the right course to throw him young
upon the world, that he may feel its unkindness, its
selfishness, its heartlessness, and learn to contend
with them early. I fear less their effects upon him
than the enervating influence of home to one of his
gentle and affectionate nature.  He is to be a man,
and must be prepared to meet the world as a man,
and take a man's place in it."
"You know much better than I do, no doubt,"
Mrs. Enfield replied, meekly; "still I cannot but
have these thoughts and feelings."
"They are the weaknesses of a mother's heart;




THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.            95
the over-fond yearnings of an intense affection;
and they are natural. Still, they must suffer violence."
"With all my anxiety for William, I must confess that one selfish feeling predominates over all
the rest," Mrs. Enfield said, after a pause.
" And what is that?" asked the father.
" The anxious fear lest he should cease to love me
with the tenderness that I know he now bears
towards me."
" Do not give way to such thoughts. They are
but active principles of tinhappiness in your mind,"
Mr. Enfield said.  "William  were unworthy the
name he bears, and unworthy the love of so devoted
a mother, did he ever love you less than he loves
you now. But this cannot be. Do not, then, give
way to such vain thoughts and feelings. It is injustice to him, and injustice to yourself."
At the end of the first collegiate term, WilliaIm
came home, to spend three weeks with his parents
and his dear little sister Florence, just completing
her seventh year. He had improved much even in
that short space of time. He was more manly and selfpossessed; and there was about him something of the
dignity of independent thought.  The father saw all
this with a pride that he could not conceal; the mother
looked deeper, and scanned, with the penetrating
insight of affection; the change that had passed upon
his moral nature. That there was a change, the;




96         THE PRODIGAL S RETURN.
modulation of the first uttered word told her as
plainly as if she had marked his every action for
days; but its exact nature she could not tell.  He
did not seem to love her less; nay, she felt sure
that his love was altogether unchanged.
The brief period of vacation quickly passed, and
William again left his home, and with far less of
reluctance than he had at first experienced. He had
begun to entertain an affection for the new condition
of life into which he had been thrown, and, as this
aiffection increased, the excellence and attractiveness
of home faded from his mind. During the next
term, his letters, from having been weekly, fell off
in frequency, and he deemed once a month often
enough to write.
Mrs. Enfield noted this change with an instinctive
fear.  It indicated to her that home affections were
being superseded by others, which might be good or
evil.
Again William came back to spend a few weeks.
He was now thirteen, and a fine, intelligent boy,
improved in every way. Even the mother forgot
her fears in her pride, as she pressed him to her heart.
And thus time wore on. Every six months, William came home and spent a few weeks with his
parents, but never long enough for the mother to
become familiar with and apprehend fully the
changes which time and the democracy of a college
life had wrought in her child. Mr. Enfield was




THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN,            97
satisfied with the rapid advancement which had been
made in the various branches of education by Wtilliam, and looked forward with an emotion of pride
to the time when the name of his son should be distin guished and honoured in the world. He thought
not of looking deeper, and, indeed, in the brief
periods allowed for intercourse during the few weeks
of vacation, there was too much pleasure in meeting
to leave room for serious scrutiny into the principles
of action which were, as a matter of course, beginning to be developed in the mind of William.
Painful, indeed, were then the surprise and mortification which he experienced, when it came upon
him, with the startling suddenness of a clap of thunder
from a serene sky, that his boy had been expelled
the institution, where he had been for six years, instead of bearing off, is he had proudly. hoped, its
highest honours.
A brief glance at William  Enfield's college-life
will explain the painful fact just alluded to. After
the third year of his attendance at the literary institution where he was pursuing his studies, a fondness for social intercourse led him to become one of
a club of young men whose love of fun and frolic
was the annoyance of the whole faculty, as well as
of the quiet inhabitants of the village in which the
institution was located.  He did not join them, at
first, in any of their unlawful acts, but contented
himself with making one of their number when these
VIII.-9




098        TiTHE PRODIGAL S RETURN.
wild doings were the subjects of exulting discussion.
Still, he sympathized with the reckless spirit of those
in whose society he took pleasure, and hesitated to
partake in their sports, as they called them, only
because he feared the consequences.  Thus, he consented to wrong.  And let every reader lay this
truth up in his heart, that, whenever he takes pleasure in seeing another do what is evil, it is a proof
that he would himself do the same evil, if it came
in his way, and there were no external restraints to
prevent him.  To delight in witnessing others comimit wrong actions is an evidence that we would ourselves commit similar wrongs, were we not afraid
of the loss of reputation, or something else that we
ralue.
It was not many months, however, before William
Enfield could not only join his companions in their
wild sports, but enjoy them with as keen a relish as
any.  These consisted in annoying the other students
in various ways; such as locking their room-doors
and hiding the keys; or locking them in their rooms,
so that they could not get out when the breakfast or
Rllpper-bell rang; destroying their books; disturbing
their sleep; and a thousand other unkind acts, which
no really noble-minded boy or young man will engage
in, for they are acts committed at the expense of the
comfort and happiness of others. Then they made
it a standing rule of their club to let no professor in
the institution, no matter how just and amiable his




THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.            99
character might be, pass unmolested for a longer
period than one month at a time; nor was any single
law established by the faculty to remain unbroken
for a longer period.  Every week, too, the rules of
the club said, some quiet inhabitant of the village
must be disturbed.  Sometimes a board would be
placed over the top of a chimney, and the inmates
of the house almost suffocated'before the cause of
the sudden smoking could be discovered. Bells were
rung; signs taken down and changed; families
roused in the middle of the night by hurried messages from pretended sick relations, or by fearful
cries in the street. The ingenuity of some twenty
young men, whose talents for this kind of work increased by exercise, was constantly on the alert for
new sources of annoyance to the other students, the
faculty, or the villagers.  And so secretly were all
these things conducted, that the effort to discover
the perpetrators was in vain.
In meeting frequently to plot mischief, these young
rebels-were often at a loss for amusements, and, to
make the time pass pleasantly, as they alleged, cards
were usually introduced, and among other acquired
evil habits, was added, finally, that of gamblingfor the simple playing of cards for amusement was
by far too spiritless an occupation for such wild
young fellows. A stake had to be introduced; and
the loser or winner, it was established, must yield,
and take, or there would be no fun at all in the




100        THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.
game.  Of a keen and ready intellect, William Enfield soon became the leader of the club; for those
of a less active mind naturally fell into a position of
subordination. The love of power and influence
added their incitements to the mind of the foolish
young man, thus early ambitious of evil instead of
good, and he was fast acquiring a position that was
dangerous to any who might occupy it.
So great at last became the annoyance of this
"Dare-Devil Club," as it was called, that a considerable reward was offered by the faculty for the
detection and conviction of any one of the members
in unlawful acts. The penalty was to be immediate
expulsion from the institution.  This being the case,
another step was taken in evil, and that was, to swear
each member, by a profane use of that holy book,
the word of God, to the profoundest secrecy.  And
now, the rules of the club were so changed as to extend the regular periods of annoyance, and thus
make the dang6r of detection less, for not one of
them had any wish to be expelled.  Gambling, in
consequence, became a more frequent resort.  In
this, William Enfield grew more and more expert
every day, and as he indulged in the delight of
winning the money of his fellow-students, the generous impulses of his nature became more and more
deadened, until he could take the last dollar from a
poor young man who had weakly and wickedly
risked the hard-earned pittance of a kind father



TIHE PR3DDIMGAL'  RETURN.        101
sent to meet his expenses —and not feel one throb
-of human ssympathy.
Thus, from small beginnings result important
aggregates of evil.  The first departure from  the
strict law of rectitude, though small, and, to the
youth, seeming but an innocent departure, was like the
first shooting up from the earth of a noxious weed,
that looked as fair as the healthful plants springing
around it. But, as in the one case, so in the other,
a beginning had been made, and towards that beginning, as to a centre, tended, by a law of nature,
the principles that were to nourish and invigorate.
A germ of good is met by the affinities which like
principles of good have for each other; and a germ
of evil is met by the affinities of evil principles.
Thus, both tend onward towards maturity- by an immutable law.  How great, then, the danger of giving
life to the smallest thought of evil by bringing it
down into action!
Let those who are just entering upon life, and are
yet innocent, keep this thought ever before them.
Let them beware of the first deviation. It never
occurs without the quick perception of wrong, which
is the best safeguard that youth can have, becoming
less tender and acute.  But to proceed.
William Enfield had attained the age of nearly
eighteen years, and had, during that time, far surpassed any student in the institution.  1He spent at
home the last vacation preceding his final removal




102        THE PRODIGAL'S RETUJRN.
from college, preparatory to entering upon some business or profession; and left with his mother's
blessing upon him. His sister Florence, now grown
up to a tall girl of thirteen, received her brother's
parting kiss with the fond hope that soon he would
return to be near her always. She dreamed not,
that beneath the calm brow and polished exterior of
her brother, were hid evil passions that were soon
to work anguish of mind and sad estrangement.
3Mrs. Enfield's perceptions were all too sensitive not
to discover that there was something about her son,
manly, handsome, and generous as he seemed, that
was not right.  She was troubled, she knew not why;
and often chid herself for entertaining vain fears.
But no reasonings could quiet her vague and uncertain forebodings.
When William  returned to college, he entered,
from a brief interregnum, with a keener zest into his
former reckless companionship.
"Old P," he said, one evening, to the members of the club, alluding to the president of the
institution, " has had a long respite.  We must stir
up his blood a little."
" We have exhausted every good trick," remarked
one of the club.  "Cannot you, Enfield, devise
something notable, that shall make a nine-days'
wonder to the whole college?"
" Yes, Enfield must do it."  " le is the chap for
it," went round the circle. And then a formal vote




THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.          103
was taken that he should plan some scheme, transcending all that had yet been done, for its keen
annoyance of the head of the Faculty.
"If I must, I must," he said.  "My time is
nearly up, and I ought to do something to make the'Dare-Devil Club' venerate the name of their
president."
On the next evening the club were assembled, but
in a diferent room, for it was a law of their organization never to meet in the same room more than once a
month. Enfield was busy in the preparation of some
strange mixture, and all the rest were looking on
with eager interest.
"What is it?" asked one.
"You shall soon see," William replied.  "The
old lady, Madame President, you know, is nervous,
as they say. A little shock sometimes does wonders
in these affections."
" Well?" inquired half a dozen of his companions,
as Enfield paused.
"Wait a while, and you shall see."
And then all was curious interest in the preparations making by Enfield forthe evening's frolic. He
had procured a large celery-glass, upon the top of
which he was arranging a small cup holding about a
gill. so that by drawing upon a small cord it could be
made to turn over and empty whatever it might contain into the large bell-shaped vessel below. This
all ready, he fastened the apparatus to the end of a




104        TIlE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.
_ong pole, and then poured a quantity of the oil of
turpentine into the celery-glass.
"All ready now," he said, rising, " forward,
march, for the president's quarters.
It was past eleven o'clock, and the night was exceedingly dark, when the party sallied forth, observing, as they went, a profound silence.  The windows of the chamber in which -the president of the
institution slept were about fifteen feet from the
ground, and fronted the broad college-lawn. Under
these the party soon halted, when Enfield, with three
or four to assist him, retired behind an angle of the
building with a dark lantern, and proceeded to finish
the arrangements.
"But what are you going to do?" asked one of
the few who now attended him.
" You shall soon see," Enfield said, drawing a vial
from his pocket.  " This is nitric acid, of the highest
power," he continued, as he proceeded to fill the
small cup suspended on a pivot over the glass containing the oil of turpentine.
At once the truth flashed upon the minds of -his
companions, whose knowledge of chemistry made
them familiar with the effect produced when these
two substances are brought into contact with each
other.
"II wouldn't do that," said a young man in a deEided tone, straightening himself up, and looking
Enfield steadily in the face.




TIHE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.          105' YWThy wouldn't you?" asked the latter.
" Because Mrs. P     is in ill health, and in an
exceedingly nervous condition.  It might cost her
her life."
" Nonsense!" exclaimed one or two; " she would
be a hard subject to kill."
" But," remonstrated the first speaker, " it would
be cruel to frighten any one in such a way. A strong
man would be exceedingly alarmed, much more a
weak woman, in ill health, with her whole nervous
system out of order.  Indeed, indeed, I would not
do it."
"Dick Miller has grown wonderfully tenderhearted all at once," said one. sneeringly.
"I have a mother in ill health," he replied, in a
tone of feeling.  "I could not bear that any one
should treat her with so much cruelty."
There was a brief pause after this remark, during
which William Enfield thought of his own mother.
Her image came up before him with a thrilling distinctness, as he had last seen her, drooping with infirmity, and starting at any sudden noise or unusual
occurrence; and for a moment he wavered.
"We'll send Dick Miller home to his mamma,"
broke in one with a sneering laugh, and instantly
the image of Enfield's mother faded from his mind,..nd he said, in a clear determined tone-' All ready now."
There was no further remonstrance or opposition




106        THE PRODIGAL7S RETURN.
-and the party was soon under the window close t6
which slept the president and his invalid wife.  The
vessels containing the oil of turpentine and nitrie
acid were then elevated on the pole, and brought on
a plane with the window; the pole on such an angle
that the holder of it was at some distance from under
the apparatus.  When all was ready, Enfield carefully drew the cord, and the contents of the vessel
containing the acid were poured upon the oil of
turpentine.   Instantly ensued a slight explosion,
and then the whole place was lit.up with a strong
glare, while brilliant sparks with light explosions
were eimitted in all directions from the substances so
suddenly ignited by coming in contact. A wild prolonged scream from within answered this mad exploit, and then the vessels were dashed to the ground
and each of the party retired, precipitately and in
silence, to his own room.
All that night, and for most of the ensuing day,
the wife of President P. lay in nervous spasms,
from which she finally recovered, with her system
more shattered than ever.  The whole institution
was in a state of feverish excitement; and there was
a united and determined effort to discover the
actors in this daring and cruel outrage. And they
were discovered; Enfield, among the rest, identified
as the leader and publicly expelled the institution.
And now came the moment of reflection. William
knew that his father would suffer a mortification of




THE PRODTGAL' S RETURN.        107
the profoundest kind at this result, and he knew also
that he was stern and unrelenting to a fault. Instinctively he took the direction of home, in company with a young man from the South, who was
leaving the institution under the same disgrace.
"Are you going home?" asked his friend and
companion in evil deeds thus early entered into.
"I am afraid to go home, Tomkins; my father
will never forgive me, and I cannot bear the distress
of my too kind and good mother."
"Then what do you think of doing?"
"I do not know,' was answered in a desponding
tone.
" Come with me."
"Where are you going?"
"To seek my fortune.  Like you, I cannot think
of goinghome."
" How!"
"I can play a pretty good game, and so can you.
There is enough to do in this line in the South and
Southwest."
Thus sang the tempter. William was not altogether
depraved, and, for a brief season, the struggle in his
mind was powerful. But he had already consented
to gamble at college, and it was more from the idea
of becoming a professed gambler, that he shrank
than from any instinctive virtuous horror of the vice
He consented-wrote a brief but farewell letter ta
his father and mother and sisters, begging their for



108        THE PRODIGAL'S RLTURN.
giveness, but alleging that, since he had so disgraced
himself and them, he would never see their faces
again.
We will not attempt to picture the thrilling
anguish that fell upon the heart of the mother as
this letter followed the official announcement of the
expulsion of her son, for such unfeeling and cruel
conduct, from one of the oldest literary institutions
in the country.  We must draw a veil over it.
We cannot, in the limits to which we must confine
this sketch, trace step by step the downward career
of William  Enfield.  tIIor a space of nearly five
years, he continued a course of vicious conduct, and
became known in the Southern country as a most
heartless and abandoned gambler.  So callous had
he grown in regard to the feelings of his friends at
hone, that towards the close of that period, ho
frequently wrote to his father for money; thus
keeping afresh and smarting, wounds that would not
heal. No notice, however, was taken by the father;
but the mother's heart was not steeled towards the
son of her love.  Secretly she would answer these
letters, and enclose money; conjuring him, by all the
love he bore her, to come home, and be to them all
that he once had been.  These were sometimes like
arrows to his soul, but they wrought no change.
At the end of about five years after his expulsion
from college, with shattered health, and a growing
disgust for his profession, he went over to the island




THE PRODIGAL' S RETURN.        109
of Cuba, and there entered a corps of engineers.
Fortunately, he was here thrown into contact with,
men of virtue and principle.  Gradually his health
became renovated, and, what was much better, the
moral tone of his mind began to strengthen with
something of that energy which is derived from good
resolutions. Every day he began to think more and
more of his mother. The good lessons which she
had taught him in childhood would frequently come
up before his mind, suddenly, and with a vividness
that would startle and pain him by their contrast
with the evil of his life.
One night, he was awakened by a dream, the effect
of which could not be shaken off. He thought that
he was at home; and that it seemed as though he
had never been exiled from that home by evil actions.
He sat by the side of his mother, as he had sat in
former years, and listened to her voice with the
same pleasure that he had listened to it in former
times. But suddenly her face grew very pale, and
she leaned back, faintly, in her chair.  "She is
dead!" exclaimed his father, bursting into the room,
" and you are her murderer i" Instantly the'idea
of his dream changed, and he saw himself the prodigal of virtue; the blight upon the heart of her
who had borne him, and nourished him, and loved
him with a yearning tenderness that was unutterable.
The shock awoke him.  Sleep sealed not again his
eyelids during the remaining dark watches of that
VIII.-10




11.0       THE PRODIGAL S RETURN.
night.  All the next day he was thoughtful and
serious, and, on the morning of the next, took passage
in a ship bound for the United States.
It was about six weeks from the day when William
Enfield left the island of Cuba, that Mr. and Mrs.
Enfield, and Florence, now a beautiful young woman,
were seated in their parlour.  Mr. Enfield was reading, while the mother, now a drooping invalid,
unable to sit up but a few hours at a time, sat in
her easy-chair, her mind all absorbed in thoughts
about her still dear though absent and wandering child.
Every day she thought of him; nay, every hour; but
now her mind was all absorbed in pondering upon his
wayward life, and the mirror of her imagination pictured, with a distinctness that veiled every other
object, the image of her child.
Suddenly the door was thrown open, and a young
man of fine appearance, though with a sad, pale face,
entered.  The mother started, the father rose to his
feet hastily, and Florence stood still, where she had
been arranging some flowers, and looked with a
strange wonder upon the sudden apparition.
"Mother! father! Behold your son! Can you,
will you forgive me?"  And he fell upon one knee,
and covered his face with his hands, still at a distance
from them.
Mr. Enfield drew himself up sternly, and turned
partly away; but the poor mother, unable to rise,
stretched out her hands, and murmured



THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.           111
William!-William!-oh, my boy! my boy!"
while tears gushed from her eyes, and streamed upon
the floor.
For a few moments, the young man remained thus,
no one speaking, no one offering to touch his hand
or raise him. He heard, indeed, the low, and to
him sweet, forgiving murmurs of his mother's voice.
But all else was to him still and stern.
"Dear father!" whispered Florence, coming to
Mr. Enfield's side, and clasping his arm, " see! he
is weeping. Tears come not from an unrepentant
heart. Oh, father, forgive him!"
Slowly Mr. Enfield turned towards the young man
still kneeling.  One look sufficed to melt down his
feelings.  He saw the position; the tears falling like
rain through his fingers; remembered his penitent
words, and then nature gave way. ~ With an impulse
that he could not restrain, he sprang towards him,
and lifting him up, embraced him, while his own
tears mingled with those of his penitent son.
Who can tell the delight of that mother's heart,
when she again entwined her arms around her boy,
and did so with an assurance, which was as strong
as a voice from heaven to her spirit, that her son
was truly the returning prodigal!
And William Enfield did not again destroy by
wrong doings the new hope thus suddenly kindled
in the hearts of his parents and sister.  From  that
hour he was all they could desire.




THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.
IT is but rarely that fathers are entirely satisfied
with the men chosen by their daughters for hus.
bands; and the father who has but one daughter, is,
in most cases, fated to peculiar trials in this particular.  The suitor for her hand must have more
than human perfection, if he pleases in every thing.
Mr. Freeland had three sons, and an only daughter. Effie was, of course, tenderly beloved by her
father; the more so, as she was his youngest child,
and had grown up a most lovely young womanlovely in mind as well as person.
That Effie would, sooner or later, have a lover;
and that this lover would be more to her than even
her father,  Mr. Freeland knew very well, or ought
to have known.  But, when such a thought intruded
itself upon his mind, he thrust it aside with jealous
displeasure.  Still, for all this, young men could not
help being attracted by the charming girl, nor help
showing that they were so attracted.  But of all
the candidates for her favour, none pleased the
fancy of Mr. Freelandl, when thought of as the future
112




THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.           113
husband of Effie —and such a thought would now
and then arise.
One day, while Mr. Freeland was alone in his
office, a young attorney, named Elliot, who had a few
weeks before, been admitted to the bar, called in to
see him. This young man was boyish in his appearance, considering his age, and had never attracted
much notice from Mr. Freeland, although he had
often seen him in the office of a counsellor with
whom he had frequent business intercourse.
"Well, Edward," said Mr. Freeland, indifferently,
and without rising, as the young man came in.
Elliot looked slightly embarrassed, and his voice
was not marked by its usual steadiness, as he said,
" I would like to speak a word with you, Mr. Freeland."
"Very well, take a chair-what can I do for
you?"
The young man sat down, still exhibiting a want
of self-possession, and some time elapsed before he
spoke. Then he said, as with a sudden and forced
effort, " Mr. Freeland, I am, and have been for some
time, sincerely attached to your daughter, and I now
ask for the privilege of addressing her."
Had a bombshell exploded in the room, or his
house tumbled down over his head, the father of
Effie could not have been more astounded than by
this declaration.
"I wish to act honourably and above-board."
1:



114         THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Elliot was going on to remark, when 3Ir. Freeland,
whose face instantly reddened, arose from his chair,
and pointing to the door, said, in an angry and insulting tone, " Please to walk out of my house."
The young man did not pause for a second invitation of the kind.  He possessed a nice sense of
honour and had a proud spirit.  The first brought
him thus formally, to ask of the father the privilege
of addressing his daughter, ere he had signified to
her the sentiment that was in his heart; and the
second caused him  to shrink away from  the toucI
of rudeness and insult. Young as he was, and even
boyish in his appearance, there was a stratum of pure
gold in his character, and his mind was one gifted
with more than ordinary native ability.  He felt
that the germs of power were in him, and that sooner
or later he would play his part on the world's arena.
But Mr. Freeland saw only his unimposing exterior,
and permitted a feeling of contempt to find a place
in his mind.  The presumption of asking for the
hand of his daughter outraged him beyond all forbearance, and led him, as has been seen, to treat the
young suitor with most unjustifiable rudeness, not
to call it even by a harsher name.
Edward retreated with his mind in a perfect whirl,
and left the father of Effie little less disturbed in
feeling.  Hiding himself in his office, he there tried
to compose himself for reflection.  Pride, anger, and
even a feeling of revenge, were all aroused in his mind,




THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.             115
and for a season he moved about his little room in a
high state of excitement.  He sat down and penned a
note to Mr. Freeland, in which he reproved him for his
conduct in terms that, while they were perfectly just,
made him still more angry with the young presumptuous.
It so happened, that by some accident, this note
dropped from the pocket of Mr. Freeland, and came
into the hands of Effie, thus letting her into a secret
of which she was before ignorant; for though Elliot
loved, her, he had not yet whispered the story in her
ears. The letter was intelligible to her mind. It
told of his affection and rude repulse.
The next time the young couple met in company,
Elliot made it a point to avoid Effie as much as possible.  But every time his eyes turned to where she
was, he found her looking at him, and with an expression of tender interest on her face, that his heart
did not fail to interpret aright.  He correctly inferred that she had by some means learned the application he had made, and that she was by no means
indifferent to the sentiment he had avowed on the
occasion.
Elliot was far from being so unworthy the hand.
of Effie, as Mr. Freeland, deciding without reflection,
had supposed.  He had judged him from mere ap.
pearances, and condemned him  without knowing
what was in him.
Perceiving, after one or two meetings with Effie,




116          THE HAPPY NEW  YEAR.
like the one just referred to, that so far from Leing
indifferent to him, he occupied really the first place
in her feelings, and adjudging her father as entitled,
by his ungentlemanly conduct, to no further consideration or respect, Elliot yielded to the genuineness of the sentiment felt for the charming girl, and
drew to her side whenever an opportunity offered,
regardless whether Mr. Freeland happened to be
present or not.  The displeasure of Effie's father was
great when he saw this, and he immediately sought,
by disparaging remarks, to create in the mind of
his daughter a prejudice against the presumptuous
suitor.  Effie heard him in silence, but with a manner that told him  too plainly that his words made
no impression.  Then, unable to act calmly in the
matter, he passionately forbade her, on pain of his
strong displeasure, having any intercourse with the
young man whatever.
This was folly, and 3Mr. Freeland ought to have
known it.  Such conduct only adds fuel to a flame
like that enkindled in the young girl's bosom.  A
week did not elapse before the lovers were thrown
into each other's society, and met as before.  The
father was present —maddened by such an entire
disregard of his feelings and wishes, he took another
step, marked by still greater folly than any he had
yet taken in regard to the matter.  IIHe called at
Elliot's office, on the next day, and threatened to
-:owhide him in the street if he even knew him  to




THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.             117
speak to his daughter. To this the young man
replied, by ordering him peremptorily to leave his
office, and in doing so, exhibited a fiery determination that, to some extent, changed the estimate
which Mr. Freeland entertained of his character. A
personal collision would, most likely, have taken
place, had not an individual entered the office at the
moment, when Mr. Freeland prudently retired.
On that very evening, young Elliot met Effie at a
party, where her father and mother were present,
and danced with her.  Yet, for all this, Mr. Freeland did not attempt the personal violence he had
threatened. It was well he did not, for the hightempered, resolute young man, had armed himself,
and, in the blindness of his anger, might have used
his deadly weapon.
Thus, under most unhappy auspices, began the
intimacy of Elliot and his future bride.  Both were
worthy of each other, and the former was in every
way worthy to assume toward Mr. Freeland that relation he had sought to form in the most open and
honourable manner.  But a foregone conclusion in
regard to the young man's character, which had its
basis in a mere prejudice, closed the mind of Mr.
Freeland to any thing like a calm investigation of
his merits, and the indignant manner with which
Elliot flung back the insult he had offered him the
moment there was an opportunity of doing so, fixed
his dislike of him into angry resentment.




118         THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Meantime, disregarding all opposition, the young
couple met whenever opportunity offered. The very
fact of opposition led the way to an early declaration
of his sentiments on the part of Elliot, which were
unhesitatingly responded to by Effie.  A  regular
correspondence then commenced, and frequent meetings at the house of a mutual friend ensued. This
went on for about a year; at the close of which
period, Elliot removed to the city of New York,
there to take part in the business of a well-established
attorney, whose large practice required him to call
in aid. He had met Elliot frequently, and seeing
the ability that he possessed, made him highly advantageous offers, which were immediately accepted.
About six months after his removal, Mr. Freeland
received from him the following note:SIR,-My marriage with your daughter will take
place on the 20th proximo.  It will rest with you
to say. whether the ceremony shall be performed at
your house or not.    Respectfully,
EDWARD ELLIOT.
Although fully aware that such an event would
take place sooner or later, Mr. Freeland was almost
maddened at what seemed the cool defiance of this
note. Taking it in his hand, he went to his daughter, and assuming that it was sent as a gross insult,
made to her a most passionate appeal on the strength
of this assumption.  But Effie was immovable




THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.              119
Could it be otherwise?  She saw all that was excellent in her betrothed, and knew that in deference
to her wishes and feelings, he had sent the letter to
her father.
Opposition being hopeless, Mr. Freeland, for thu
sake of appearances, yielded to the wishes of every
member of his family, all of whom saw with a clearer
vision than he did, and consented that the marriage
of his daughter should take place at home.  Tearfully did Effie urge both her lover and father to become reconciled to each other, before the nuptial
rites were solemnized.  But neither was in a state
to make overtures. Elliot felt that he had been
grossly insulted without cause, and Mr. Freeland was
not going to make any concessions to a " presumptuous, beardless boy." And so the rite was said,
and the daughter passed away from the home of her
father, whom she loved fondly, without his blessing
on her married life.
Neither the husband nor the father of Effie, was
disposed to yield a position when once taken, and
this made their estrangement entire. They did not
speak, nor look at each other on the occasion of the
wedding; and when Elliot, on the eve of his return
to New York, received from the arms of her father
his weeping bride, he did so with an averted face.
Five years passed, and yet there was no reconciliation. In that time, in conjunction with his
partner, Elliot had conducted three or four suits of




120         THE I-IAPPY NEW YEAR.
great importance in the New York courts, to a successful issue, and in doing so, had attracted attention
as a young lawyer of singular ability and great promise in his profession.  He had proved, in every
way, that Mr. Freeland had misjudged him, and in
throwing him off with contempt, had committed one
of the most serious errors of his life.  A few tilnes
Effie had visited her father, for whom she had a
most tender affection, but she loved her husband
deeply and devotedly, and she knew how worthy he
was of such love; and she could not feel like going
often where his presence would be unwelcome.
But for this sad estrangement, Effie would have
been one of the happiest of women. That, however,
marred every pleasure, and threw across the sunshine of her life a perpetual shadow.  Often she
urged her husband to such a reconciliation; but on
that subject, he always heard her with evidences of
impatience, and she at length ceased to refer to it at
all.
Ever since their children were old enough to enter
into and enjoy a scene of social festivity, Mr. and
Irs. Freeland had given them a little entertainment
on New Year's night. As they grew older, this
entertainment took a higher character, and after the
marriage of Effie's brothers, they constituted a sort
of family reunion.  Since Eflie passed from  under
the paternal roof as the wife of Elliot, her place had
been vacant at the annual reassembling.  But,




THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.             1]21
though absent, she was with the loved ones of her
old home in spirit.  Why he had always found Efiie
in tears on New Year's night, her husband could not
tell. He did not know of these dear reunions, hallowed by the earliest and tenderest associations. The
first time this occurred, they had a few friends to
tea; missing Effie from the parlour longer than
seemed proper under the circumstances, her husband
sought her in her chamber, where he found her lying
upon the bed weeping. Failing in the effort to rally
her spirits, he was at length compelled to ask their
company to excuse her for the evening, as she had
become suddenly indisposed. On the next New
Year's day, Effie's thoughts were again turned towards
home. With a strong effort she kept up her spirits
through the day, and received the complimentary
calls of the season; but when evening came, she was
unable longer to control her feelings, and again hid
herself in her chamber to think of home and weep.
It was the same on the third year, and also on the
fourth.  Her husband thought it very strange;
though he inquired earnestly for the cause, Effie concealed it in her own bosom.
As New Year's day once more approached, Elliot
thought he saw the spirit of his wife again begin to
droop.
" What can it mean?" said he to himself, thought
fully.  While yet musing on the subject, accident
threw in his way an open letter directed to Effie.
VIII.-11




122         THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.
and seeing that it was from her mother, he felt constrained to read it.  It was as follows:" MY DEAR EFFIE:-In two weeks, New Year's
night will be here again.  We meet, as of old, but
not with our old feelings.  To me, these reunions
have become inexpressibly sad-yet, for the sake of
those who gather about us, then I put on a cheerful
face. But I think only of you, my dear, dear absent
one!  And it is so with your father.  After all have
gone, we sit together and weep in silence. And
must this be so again? Effie, my child! It seems
as if I could not bear it. I am growing older, and
my heart gets softer as the years press me down.
And it is so with your father. I often hear him
breathing your name in sleep.  He was wrong
towards Edward, and he knows it. But he is a proud
man.  I have heard him  say that Edward was an
ornament to his profession.  Oh! if Edward would
only yield a little'  He should reflect that, for an
only daughter, a father might well feel a jealous
pride; and that, if it led him into error, it is not a
sin past forgiveness. I am sure, if Edward would
only make the first advance step, all would be reconciled. Ah, me! that so much unhappiness should
spring from the error of a moment. We are not
happy, and you cannot be.  I have urged your father
to write to Edward.  He says nothing in reply.  I
sometimes nope he will do so.  But, I know his
spirit, and I fear he will break rather than bend.




THE IHAPPY NW  YEAR.              123
Oh! if we could only have you with us on the coming
New Year's night, how happy we should be.  Your
dear little Flora, you say, grows sweeter every day.
Oh, how we do want to see her! When I read to your
father what you said of her in your last letter, he
burst into tears and left the room.  If Edward
will not accompany you, will you not come yourself, with dear, sweet Flora, and make us happy for
once?"
The reading of this letter touched  Mr. Elliot
deeply, and turned his thoughts into a new ehannel.
He now understood, fully, the reason why his young
wife had been so much dispirited on every New
Year's night since their marriage.  A few days after
reading the letter, he said to her" Effie, I have business in Philadelphia next week.
How would you like to go on there with me, and
spend a few days?"
" I should like it very much, Edward," said Effie,
her face instantly brightening.
" Would you take Flora along?"
C"Yes.  Mother has not seen her since she was
six months old."
"Very well.  We will go on next Thursday
morning.  Friday is New Year's day, and you will
thus escape the annoyance of receiving calls."
The sober face that Effie had worn for- several
days, was changed to one of brightness.   Still,
there yet remained a pressure upon her heart.  She
I. _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ __ _ - _ __   _ _ _ __ _ _   -  _ _ _ _   _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _




124         THE ITAPPY NEW YEAR.
would see her flther and mother, and others whom
she tenderly loved, but she could not join in the
annual family reunion, beeause, in doing so, she
would have to be separated from her husband; and
to that she would not consent.  It was on her lips
a dozen times, to urge Edward, once more, to seek
to heal the breach that existed; but, ever as she
came to the point, her heart failed her.  Many times
she thought that she would place her mother's letter
in his hands; but a doubt of the result would cause
her to hesitate.
At last, the Thursday of her departure came, and
they started for Philadelphia, taking with them little
Flora, who had nearly entered her fifth year. Effie
had written to her mother that she was coming, and
had given the letter to her husband to mail.  From
some cause, however, he had neglected doing so, or
else the letter had miscarried, for, on the evening of
the day on which their daughter left New York, JIr.
and Mirs. Freeland sat alone, talking of her, the
mother wondering why Effie had not written.
"I amn almost sorry," remarked,Mrs. Freeland,
"that we set out to have the children at home tomorrow night, as usual.  These used to be the happiest seasons; but they are so to me no longer.  I
lose more than half the joy experienced in seeing
those who are present, for thinking of the one who
is absent."
A deep sigh was the only answer made by Mr.




THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.             125
Freeland.  He felt that he had been most to blame
for the misery they had all endured for years.  He
had, in a moment of angry false judgment, flung from
him, with biting insult, the lover of his child, and
that lover, proud as himself, had indignantly resented
the outrage, and up to this day there had been no
reconciliation.
He sighed, and remained silent.  It was hard, he
thought, if he was to be punished through life with
unforgiveness.  And he thought, too, that if he
would only make a single advance towards Edclard,
all might be at once and for ever reconciled. Yet
he was not fully prepared for that.  Edward had
repelled insult with insult; and since that time had
maintained a cold and repulsive exterior; and he did
not see how, at his age, he could stoop to one so young.
Another deep sigh struggled up from his bosom,
as his mind came to this old view of the case.
Just then, some one was admitted by the servant,
and the sound of feet was heard in the hall.  A
moment more, and Effie entered, leading a beautiful
little girl by the hand.  Close behind her was Elliot,
looking as calm, kind, and self-possessed, as if no
angry feelings had ever found a place in his bosom.
lie could not have come at a more auspicious moment.
"Edward!" exclaimed old Mr. Freeland, rising
quickly, and passing his daughter, that he might.
first offer the hand of reconciliation to her husband
1l*




1.26        THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.
" Edward! Edward!"   His voice trembled" Let us forget the unhappy past."
The young man grasped the extended hand.' It is forgotten," said he.' I wronged you, Edward."
" Have we not agreed to forget the past?" interrupted the young man, smiling.
At that moment, Effie threw herself, weeping
tears of joy, upon the bosom of her father, murniuring"Oh! I am so happy!"
Little Flora was in the arms of her grandmother,
and wondering what all this sudden excitement
could mean, and why a lady she did not remember
to have seen before, should hug her so wildly to her
bosom, and half smother her with kisses.
The day that followed was, indeed, a happy New
Year to all; and the reunion that then took place
was the most joyful they had ever known.
So ended the strife of passion-the angry estrangement of years; the feeling, but little less than
hatred, which had kept asunder those who possessed
all the qualities requisite to a lasting friendship. A
tornado destroys in a minute what it may take years
to restore; and so it is with the tempest of passion.
Let us be careful how we misjudge; and far more
careful how we suffer that misjudgment to influence
our actions




ORIGIN AND DESTINY.
AMONG those who aspired to the hand of Laura
Woodville, was a young man named Percival, whose
father, a poor day-labourer, had, by self-denial
through many years, succeeded in giving him an
education beyond what was usually acquired at that
time by those in the lower walks of life.  When
sixteen years of age, an attorney of some eminence,
who perceived in the lad more than ordinary ability,
took him into his office, and raised him to the profession of law. At the time of which we write, Percival, who was twenty-five years old, had already
obtained some reputation at the bar, having conducted, to a successful issue, several very important
cases.
Mr. Woodville, to the hand of whose daughter, as
has just been said, Percival aspired, was A merchant
in rather reduced circumstances; but connected with
certain old families more distingiished for aristocratic
pride than virtues. This connection was the more
valued in consequence of the loss of wealth through.27




128           ORIGIN AND DESTINY.
disasters in trade and the inability to keep up those
external appearances which dazzle the multitude and
extort a homage that is grateful to weak minds.
Laura, a beautiful and highly accomplished girl,
was a favourite in all circles, and there were many
among the wealthy and fashionable who, for her personal attractions alone, were ready to approach and
offer the homage of a sincere affection.  Among
these was a young man named Allison, whose family
had, in the eyes of Mr. Woodville, every thing to
render a marriage connection desirable.  But Laura
never encouraged his advances in the least; for she
felt for him a strong internal repulsion.  He was
wealthy, accomplished, attractive in person, and connected, both on his father's and mother's side, with
some of the oldest, and, so called, "best families"
in the State. These, however, were not, in her eyes,
attractions sufficiently strong to induce her'to overlook qualities of the heart. Already, in her contact
with the world, had she been made to feel its hollowness and its selfish cruelty.  For something more
than mere fashionable blandishments had her heart
begun to yearn.  She felt that a true and virtuous
friend was a treasure beyond all price.
While this state of mind was in progress, Laura
met Henry Percival.  A mutual regard was soon
developed, which increased until it became a deep
and sincere affection. In the mean time, Allison,
confident from his position, became bolder in his ad



ORIGIN AND DESTINY.            129
vances, and, as a preliminary step, gave Mr. Woodville an intimation of his views. The old merchant
heard him gladly, and yielded a full consent to the
prosecution of his suit. But perceiving what was
in the mind of the young man, Laura shrank from
him, and met all his advances with a chilling reserve
that was not for an instant to be misunderstood. In
the mean time, Percival daily gained favour in her
eyes, and was at length emboldened to declare what
was in his heart.  With ill-concealed pleasure,
Laura referred the young man to her father. As
to the issue of the reference, she had well-grounded
fears.
The day that followed this declaration was one
of anxious suspense to Laura. She was alone, late
in the afternoon, when her father came into the room
where she was sitting. She saw instantly what was
in his mind; there was a cloud on his face, and she
knew that he had repulsed her lover.
" Laura," said he, gravely, as he sat down by her
side, "I was exceedingly surprised and pained today, to receive from a young upstart attorney, of
whose family no one has ever heard, an offer for
your hand, made, as was affirmed, with your cbnsent. Surely this affirmation was not true?"
A deep crimson flushed the face of Laura, her
eyes fell to the floor, and she exhibited signs of
strong agitation.
"You may notbe aware," continued ]Mr. Woodville,




130          ORIGIN AND DESTINY.
"that TMr. Allison has also been to me with a similar
application."
"M Mr. Allison!"  The eyes of Laura were raised
quickly from the floor, and her manner exhibited
the repugnance she felt.  "I can never look upon
BIr. Allison as more than a friend," said she, calmly.
"Laura!  Has it indeed come to this?" said Ir.
Woodville, really disturbed.  "Will you disgrace
yourself and family by a union with a vulgar upstart from the lower ranks, when an alliance so distinguished as this one is offered? Who is Percival?
Where is he from?  What is his origin?"
"I regard rather his destiny than his origin,"
replied the daughter; "for that concerns me far
more nearly than the other.  I shall have to tread
the way my husband goes, not the way he has come.
The past is past.  In the future lies my happiness
or misery."
"Are you beside yourself?" exclaimed the father,
losing his self-command before the rational calmness
of his child.
C No, father," replied Laura; " not beside myself.
In the principles that govern 3Mr. Allison, I have no
confidence; and it is a man's principles that determine the path he is to tread in life.  On the other
hand, I have the fullest confidence in those of Mir.
Percival, and know where they will lead him.
This is a matter in which I cannot look back
to see from  whence the person has come; every




ORIGIN AND DESTINY.            131
thing depends on a knowledge, as to where he is
going."
" Do you know," said Mr. Woodville, not giving
the words of his child the smallest consideration,
"that the father of this fellow, Percival, was a daylabourer in one of old Mr. Allison's manufacturing
establishments? A mere day-labourer!"
"I have heard as much.  Was he not an honest
and honourable man?"
"Madness, girl!" ejaculated Mr. Woodville, at
this question, still further losing his self-control.
" Do you think that I am going to see my child, who
has the blood of the P's, and R —'s, and
W's in her veins, mingle it with the vile blood
of a common labourer? You have been much in
error if, for a moment, you have indulged the idle
dream. I positively forbid all intercourse with this
Percival.  Do not disobey me, or the consequences
to yourself will be of the saddest kind."
As her father ceased speaking, Laura arose, weeping, and left the room.
A deep calm succeeded to this sudden storm that
had fallen from a summer sky. But it was a calm
indicative of a heavier and more devastating storm.
Laura communicated to Percival the fact of her
painful interview with her father, and at the same
time gave him to understand that no change in his
views was to be expected, and that to seek to effect
a change would only be to place himself in the way




132          ORIGIN AND DESTINY.
of repulse and insult.  Both of these the young man
had already received.
A few months later, and, fully avowing her purpose, Laura left the house of her parents and became
the Life of Percival. A step like this is never
taken without suffering. Sometimes it is wisely,
but oftener unwisely taken; but never without pain.
In this case, the pain on both sides was severe. Mr.
Woodville loved his daughter tenderly, and she felt
for her father a more than common attachment. But
he was a proud and selfish man.  The marriage of
Laura not only disappointed and mortified him, but
made him angry beyond all reason and self-control.
In the bitterness of his feelings, he vowed never to
look upon nor forgive her.  It was all in vain, therefore, that his daughter sought a reconciliation; she
met only a stern repulse.
Years went by, and it remained the same. Many
times during that long period did Laura approach
her old home; but only to be repulsed. At last,
she was startled and afflicted by the sad news of her
mother's death.  In the sudden anguish of her feelings, she hurried to her father's house. As &he
stood with others who had gathered around, gazing
upon the lifeless form of her dead parent, she became
aware that the living one had entered the room, and,
to all appearance, unconscious of her presence, was
standing by her side.  A tremor went through her
frame.  She felt faint and ready to drop to the floor.




ORIGIN AND DESTINY.           133
In this season of deep affliction, might he not forgive
the past? Hope sprung up within her. In the
presence of the dead he could not throw her off.
She laid her hand gently on his. He turned. Her
tearful eyes were lifted in his face. A moment of
thrilling suspense!  Pride and anger conquered
again. Without a sign of recognition, he turned away
and left the chamber of death.
Bracing herself up with an intense struggle, Laura
pressed her lips to the cold brow of her mother, and
then silently retired.
During the time that intervened from his marriage up to this period, Mr. Percival had been gradually rising in the confidence, respect, and esteem
of the community, and was acquiring wealth through
means of a large practice at the bar.  As a husband,
he had proved most kind and affectionate. As a
man, he was the very soul of honour., All who knew
him held him in the highest regard.  After the death
of his wife, Mr. Woodville fell into a gloomy state
of mind. His business, which had been declining
for years, was becoming less and less profitable; and
to increase his trouble, he found himself progressing
toward embarrassment, if not bankruptcy. The man
whom of all others he had wished to see the husband of his daughter, married a beautiful heiress.
and was living in a style of great elegance.  He met
the brilliant bride occasionally, and always with an
unpleasant feeling. One day, while walking withL
1III.-12




134          ORIGIN AND DESTINY.
a gentleman, they passed Allison, when his companion said"If that man doesn't break his wife's heart within
five years, I shall think she has few of woman's best
and holiest feelings."
"Why do you say that?" asked Mr. Woodville,
evincing much surprise.
"In the first place," replied the friend, " a man
with bad principles is not the one to make a rightminded woman happy. And, in the second place,
a man who regards neither virtue nor decency in his
conduct is the one to make her life wretched."
"But is Allison!such a man?"
"He is, to my certain knowledge.  I knew him
when a boy.  We were schoolmates.  He then gave
me evidence of more than ordinary natural depravity;
and from the training he has received, that depravity
has been encouraged to grow. Since he became a
man, I have had many opportunities of observing
him closely, and I speak deliberately when I say
that I hold him in exceedingly low estimation.  I
am personally cognisant of acts that stamp him as
possessing neither honour nor, as I said before,
decency; and a very long time will not, probably, elapse, before he will betray all this to the
world.  Men like him indulge in evil passions and
selfish desires, until they lose even common prudence.''kYou astonish me," said Mr. Woodville.'"I




ORIGIN AND DESTINY.            135
cannot credit your words. He belongs to one of our
best families."
" So called. But, judged by a true standard, I
should say one of our worst families."
1 "Why do you say that?" asked 3Ir. Woodville,
evincing still more surprise.
" The virtues of an individual," replied the gentlensn, "make his stanidard of worth.  The same
is true of families.  Decayed wood, covered with
shining gold, is not so valuable as sound and polished oak. Nor is a family, raised by wealth or any
external gilding into a high social position, if not
possessed of virtue, half so worthy of confidence and
esteem as one of less pretension but endowed with
honourable principles.  The father of MIr. Allison,
it is well known, was a gentleman only in a Chesterfieldian sense. A more hollow-hearted man never
existed.  And the son is like the father; only more
depraved."
Mr. Woodville was profoundly astonished.  All
this he might have known from personal observation,
had not his eyes been so dazzled with the external
brilliancy of the persons condemned, as to disqualify
them for looking deeper, and perceiving the real
character of what was beneath the brilliant gilding.
He was astonished, though not entirely convinced.
It did not seem possible that any one in the elevated
position of IMr. Allison could be so base as was
affirmed.




136          ORIGIN AND DESTINY.
A few months later, and Mr. Woodville was surprised at the announcement that the wife of Allison
had separated herself from him, and returned to her
father's house. Various causes were assigned for
this act, the most prominent of which was infidelity.
Soon after, an application for a divorce was laid before
the legislature, with such proofs of ill-treatment and
shocking depravity of conduct, as procured an instant
release from the marriage-contract.
By this time the proud, angry father was begining to see that he had, probably, committed an error.
An emotion of thankfulness that his child was not
the wife of Allison arose spontaneously in his breast;
but he did not permit it to come into his deliberate
thoughts, nor take the form of an uttered sentiment.
Steadily the change in his outward circumstances
progressed. He was growing old, and losing the
ability to do business on an equality with the younger
and more eager merchants around him, who were
gradually drawing off his oldest and best customers.
Disappointed, lonely, anxious, and depressed in
spirits, the conviction that he had committed a great
mistake was daily forcing itself more and more upon
the mind of Mr. Woodville.  When evening came,
and he returned to his silent, almost deserted dwelling, his loneliness would deepen into sadness; and
then, like an unbidden but not entirely unwelcome
guest, the image of Laura would come before his
imagination, and her low and tender voice would




ORIGIN AND DESTINY.             137
sound in his ears.  But pride and resentment were
still in his heart, and after gazing on the pensive,
loving face of his child for a time, he would seek to
expel the-vision.  She had degraded herself in marriage.  Who or what was her husband?  A low,
vulgar fellow, raised a little above the common herd!
Such, and only such, did he esteem him; and,
whenever he thought of him, his resentment toward
Laura came back in full force.
Thus it went on, until twelve years from the time
of Laura's marriage had passed away; and in that
long period the father had seen her face but once,
and then it was in the presence of the dead.  Frequently, in the first years of that time, had she sought
a reconciliation; but, repulsed on each occasion, she
had ceased to make approaches. As to her husband,
so entirely did Mr. Woodville reject him, that he
cast out of his mind his very likeness, and, not
meeting him, ceased actually to remember his features, so that, if he had encountered him in the street,
he would not have known him.  He could, and had
said, therefore, when asked about Percival, that he
" didn't know him."  Of his rising reputation and
social standing he knew but little; for his very name
being an offence, he rejected it on the first utterance,
and pushed aside rather than looked at any information regarding him.
At last, the external affairs of Mr. Woodville became desperate.  His business actually died out), so
12*
- _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _   r n~~~~~~~~~~ L l i   _ _~~~




138          ORIGIN AND DESTINY.
that the expense of conducting it being more than
the proceeds, he closed up his mercantile history,
and retired on a meagre property, scarcely sufficient
to meet his wants. But scarcely had this change
taken place, when a claim on the only piece of real
estate which he held was made, on the allegation of
a defective title.  On consulting a lawyer, he was
alarmed to find that the claim had a plausible basis,
and that the chances were against him.  When the
case was brought up, Mr. Woodville appeared in
court, and with trembling anxiety watched the progress of the trial.  The claim was apparently a fair
one, and yet not really just.  On the side of the
prosecution was a subtle, ingenious, and eloquent
lawyer, in whose hands his own counsel was little
more than a child, and he saw with despair that all
the chances were against him. The loss of this
remnant of property would leave him utterly destitute. After a vigorous argument on the one side,
and a feeble rejoinder on the other, the case was
about being submitted, when a new advocate appeared on the side of the defence.  He was unknown
to Mr. Woodville.  On rising in court, there was a
profound silence.  He began by observing that he
had something to say in the case ere it closed, and
as he had studied it carefully and weighed with due
deliberation all tne evidence which had appeared, he
was satisfied he could show cause why the prosecution should not obtain a favourable decision.




ORIGIN AND DESTINY.            139
In surprise, Mr. Woodville bent forward to listen,
The lawyer was tall in person, dignified in manner,
and spoke with a peculiar musical intonation and
eloquent flow of language, that marked him  as possessing both talents and education of a high order.
In a few minutes he was perfectly absorbed in his
argument. It was clear and strong in every part,
and tore into very tatters the subtle chain of reasoning presented by the opposing counsel.  For an hour
he occupied the attention of the court.  On closing
his speech, he immediately retired. The decision
was in Mr. Woodville's favour.
"Who is that?" he asked, turning to a gentleman
who sat beside him, as the strange advocate left the floor.
The man looked at him in surprise.
"Not know him?" said he.
Mr. Woodville shook his head.
" His name is Percival."
Mr. Woodville turned his face partly away to conceal the sudden flush that went over it.  After the
decision in his favour had been given, and he had
returned home, wondering at what had just occurred,
he sat musing alone, when there came a light tapping,
as from the hand of a child, at his door. Opening
it, he found a boy there, not over five or six years
of age, with golden hair falling over his shoulders,
and bright blue eyes raised to his own.
" Grandpa!" said the child, looking earnestly into
his face.




140          ORIGIN AND DESTINY.
For a moment the old man stood and trembled.
Then stooping down, he took the child in his arms,
and hugged him with a sudden emotion to his heart,
while the long sealed fountain of his feelings gushed
forth again, and tears came forth from beneath the
lids that were tightly shut to repress them.' Father!'  The eyes were quickly unclosed.
There was now another present.
" My child!" came trembling from his lips, and
Laura flung herself upon his bosom.
How changed to the eyes of Mr. Woodville was
all, after this.  When he met Mr. Percival, he was
even more surprised than in the court-room at his
manly dignity of character, his refinement and
enlarged intelligence. And when he went abroad,
and perceived, what he had never before allowed
himself to see, the high estimation in which he was
held by all in the community, he was still further
affected with wonder.
In less than a year after this reconciliation, Mr.
Percival was chosen to a high office in the State;
and within that time, Mr. Allison was detected in a
criminal conspiracy to defraud, and left the coinmonwealth to escape punishment.
So much for origin and destiny.  Laura was right;
it concerns a maiden far more to know whither her
lover is going than whence he came; for she has
to journey with him in the former, and not the latter
way......'........ [   -




WHAT'S IN A NAME?
A MOST important event had occurred in the
family of Mr. Pillsbury; an event long looked for
with strange and doubtful feelings. Mr. Pillsbury,
in his station, hardly knew what to do with himself;
and Ml{rs. Pillsbury was so happy that she did
nothing but smile all the time. She would have
laughed outright at least a dozen times an hour, so
exceedingly joyful did she feel, had it not been for
a certain grave-faced, matronly personage, whose
business it was to see that she did not get overexcited about any thing, and thus endanger her
health. But we are getting no nearer to what we
are trying to say, than when we began. So we
shall have to come bolt out with the truth, in plain,
understandable English, and tell the reader that
Mrs. Pillsbury had a baby. Being the first baby
that had appeared in the family, of course it was
the dearest little darling that ever blessed a mother's
delighted eyes.
WVhat a sensation did the little stranger's advent
create!  What new  hopes and  feelings were
awakened! How the ni inds of the parents enlarged
141




142          WHAT'S IN A NAME?
with higher views of their responsibility in lifes
They had never been so happy; had never regarded
each other with so tender a love as now pervaded
their bosoms. An hour, and, sometimes, two hours
earlier than usual, would the father return from his
store in the evening, and for no other reason than
to gratify the desire he felt to see the baby.  iHe
was far more punctual at dinner-time than he had
been, and rarely ever went out at night. Before the
baby came, Mr. Pillsbury had acquired rather a bad
habit of spending his evenings away from home.
The first few weeks that succeeded to the baby's
appearance were paradisaical in their peace and joy;
and there is no telling how long this delightful state
would have remained, had not the question been
daily asked, by new and old visitors" What's its name?"  " Haven't you named the
baby yet?"  "How do you call the little dear?"
And so on, in a hundred varied ways.
"Name it William," said one.  "Call it Edward,"
suggested another.   "Oh! Ferdinand is such a
beauty of a name:  call him  Ferdinand," urged
another. And so it went on, until almost eveiy
christian and unchristian name in the whole catalogue had been brought forward.
But, of all the names that had been offered or
suggested to her own mind, only one was considered
by the mother a-s worthy of her baby. As for your
common, unmeaning Johns and Henrys and Peters,




WHAT'S IN A NAME?             143
she could not tolerate them.  Mr. Pillsbury had
different views.
"Give the child a good plain name.  One that
he will never be ashamed of as a boy or man. Wil.
liam is an excellent name; so is Henry; so is
Edward; and so is Alfred. In fact, there are dozens
of names, any one of which will sound as musical
as a flute in a week's time."
But Mrs. Pillsbury shook her head in a most positive way at all these suggestions. No vulgar I)icks,
Toms, Bills, or Neds for her.  On this subject she
was, I am sorry to admit, positively rude, at times,
to her husband. If she didn't say outright, she
thought-" I reckon it's myn baby; and I'll have
some say in naming it."  The "some" proved in
the end, to be all the " say."
There was one name, it has been admitted, worthy,
in the mind of Mrs. Pillsbury, to distinguish her
baby from - all other babies. Mrs. Pillsbury was a
pious woman, and every Sabbath, when she could
get to church, she sat under the teachings of the excellent and beloved parson, King Crabtree. In her
eyes, earth had never seen such a man as the good
IMr. Crabtree; and, as name is significant of quality,
Crabtree always fell upon her ears with a peculiar
music, and brought to her mind images of things
good and beautiful. To every suggestion of a name,
by her husband, of course Mrs. Pillsbury shook her
head.




144          WHAT'S IN A NAME?
"W(That then, will you have him called?" at last
asked Mr. Pillsbury, in despair.' King Crabtree," replied the young mother
firmly.
" Oh, dear!"  There was pain in the expression of
MIr. Pillsbury's voice.  " Why, Emeline! Are you
really beside yourself?"
"Not by any means," said the lady, drawing her
lips firmly together.  "I speak the words of truth
and soberness. I wish him named King Crabtree,
after our dear, good pastor."
" Horrible! horrible! Crab-tree-King! Why
not call him Catamount, or Snapping-turtle, at once,
and be done with it?  Oh, no, no, no! I'll never
give in to that-never!"
3Mrs. Pillsbury had but one answer to make to
this-but one weapon with which to fight her battle.
A plentiful shower of tears came gushing over her
cheeks, and turning her face from her husband, she
commenced grieving and sobbing most piteously.
Poor Mr. Pillsbury felt that the odds were against
him. He already saw his beautiful boy with the
millstone, King Crabtree, hung about his neck, and
his heart sank within him. As for the parson, he
had never been one of Mr. Pillsbury's favourites.
In fact, he had little faith in him. But, in the eyes
of Mrs. Pillsbury, and the major part of the ladies
of his congregation, he was little less than a saint.
Already some half a dozen young urchins had been




WHAT'S IN A NAME?            145
christened King Crabtree, and there was a fair
prospect of a dozen more being blessed with the
same beautiful name.
Well, the father stood out as long as a mortal
could well endure the various influences brought to
bear upon him. At last he withdrew his positive
refusal to have the baby named after the good parson-he never would give his consent-and the
christening took place.
It was a long time before Mr. Pillsbury could say
C Grabtree," although he heard the word sounded in
his ears as often as fifty times a day. The best he
could do was to "King" the little fellow, and that
went terribly against the grain. But the child grew
hourly more beautiful and interesting to the father,
and by the time he was three years old, he almost
forgot the unmusical name he bore, and could say
"t Crabtree" with the rest, and feel no unpleasant
jarring of his nerves.
As for young King Crabtree, he had no fault to
find with any one on the subject of his name during
the years of babyhood, nor for a certain period of
time after the days of jacket-and-trousers came.  To
him, Crabtree was as good as any other name, and
a little better, for it meant himself, and he entertained for himself, quite naturally, we must admit,
a particularly good opinion.  But, as his mind
opened and he began to understand the meaning of
words, and, moreover, began to come in contact with
VTIII.-13




1.46         WHAT S IN A NAME?
boys at school, he was made sensible that there was
something wrong. One sharp-witted lad called him,
in a deriding way, "Crab,"-another dignified him
with the title of "I'arson Crabtree," and a third
cried after him, as he passed homeward from school,
a' Hallo there, Mr. Landcrab!"  Grieved are we to
record the fact, but it must be told-young King
Crabtree Pillsbury had not fully attained the age
of seven mature years, when he scandalized the
name of the good parson after whoml he had been
called, by using the carnal weapons of fists and feet
in kicking and cuffing a young chap a year older
than himself, for calling him " Crab-apple."
" Oh, Crabtree! Crabtree!" exclaimed the grieved
mother, when she learned the fact, " what will our
good parson say, when he hears this of you? You,
who bear his name i Oh! it is dreadful 1"
" Served the young rascal right!" murmured Mr.
Pillsbury, aside.  "Glad he's got some spirit in
him. Hope the parson will hear it."
As for Crabtree himself, the reproof of his mother
did not make a very deep impression, as was plain
from the fact that, while she talked, he kept jerking
his head over his left shoulder in a threatening way,
and saying-" He called me' Crab-apple,' so he did!
and I won't stand it! The boys are always calling
me names, so they are."
"'What do they call you?" asked the mother.




WIIAT'S IN A NAME?           147
"Why they call me'lobster,' and'crab,' and
C Parson Crabtree,' and every thing."
"Just as I expected.  Confound the name!"
grumbled Mr. Pillsbury, in a low voice: not so low
but that his words reached the ears of his wife, who
cast upon him an offended look. As soon as they
were alone, she tried to read him a little lecture,
but he broke the ceremony short off by declaring that
Crabtree was an awful name, and would curse their
child through life.
"Beelzebub is nothing to it," he added by way
of making his denunciation emphatic.
There was no way to meet this but by the old
dernier method of tears.  As soon as Mr. Pillsbury
saw the approach of these, he made a hasty retreat.
Long before Crabtree attained his twelfth year,
he was known as the most fiery young belligerent in
the town. It took a boy who could bear to stand a
good blow, or one far over the size of this pugnacious lad, to venture upon the experiment of saying
" crab," "lobster," or " parson," within reach of his
ears.
"( I'm sorry to hear bad accounts of you, my lad,"
said Parson Crabtree to the boy, in the presence of
his mother.
Crabtree hung his head and bit his finger-nails.
" I'm told that you have a fight with some of the
boys at school almost every day.  This is very
wicked   How comes it?"




148          TWHAT'S IN A NAME?
" The boys won't let me alone," replied Crabtree,
looking up.
"Won't let you alone?"
" No, sir."
"What do they do to you?"
" They call me Parson Crabtree."
" Call yoau Parson Crabtree!" exclaimed the minister, a little taken by surprise.
"Yes, sir."
" Well, they call me that, too; but I don't see
any cause to fight about it," said the parson, recovering himself.
"But I'm not a parson! And then they call me
king-crab,' and'land-crab,' and'lobster,''crabapple,' and every thing. If they'd let me alone, I'd
let them alone; but they won't."
The parson said no more on the subject.  Something struck his mind at the moment, and he addressed himself to Crabtree's mother, on a matter
touching the welfare of the church.
For the first time, a dim impression that an error
had been committed stole into the mind of 3Mrs.
Pillsbury. She saw that the name of her boy was,
to some extent, at the bottom of his quarrelsome
temper. " Quarrelsome" was the word that she, as
well as others, applied to the boy's disposition to
resent the many insults and indignities he almost
daily suffered. Lads not half so amiable by nature,
nor with half the good qualities he possessed, who




WHAT S IN A NAME?            149
were so fortunate as to be the only Charleses, or Henrys, or Williams, got on well enough.  No one
charged them with being quarrelsome. The fact
was, they had little or no provocation.  With half
as much to provoke them as Crabtree suffered, they
would have doubled their fists with the most hearty
good-will.
Yes, the error was dimly seen. But, by the time
King Crabtree reached his fifteenth year, it was seen
far more clearly. For some time previously, a few
" enemies" of Parson Crabtree, as they were called,
had hinted at certain scandalous things, most disgraceful to the minister and the church.  Once the
parson had boldly demanded of his congregation that
said allegations should be investigated; but his
friends in the church said, that no one who knew
him asked for such a thing; and, moreover, they
prudently enough concluded, that the least said
about a charge like the one preferred against the
parson, the better. And so all remained quiet for a
time.
But, the " enemies" of the parson continued to
grow bolder, and to gain daily in numbers. Things
of a scandalous and wicked nature were boldly alleged
to have been done by the clerical gentleman; and
hints of an intention to cite him before the civil
courts were at length thrown out. The good people
of his congregation could no longer shut their ears
to what was passing. Common decency required
1.3*




150          WHAT'S IN A NAME?
them to sift the matter to the bottom; and so the
leading and official men were called, the parson cited
to appear, and witnesses, said to know of his delinquencies, called in and examined.  Some pretty hard
stories were told by some of the latter; but, as they
were generally based upon what IMr. or Mrs. Such-andsuch-a-one said, the eloquent parson, by virtue of
his peculiar oral abilities, backed by tears at pleasure,
succeeded in making it believed that he was a basely
persecuted and deeply injured man.  He was fully
acquitted of the evils laid to his charge.
This was a great triumph to the parson's friends.
Still, the tongue of scandal was not hushed. Fretted
at this, threats of prosecution for defamation of character were thrown out; but these did not produce
the silence expected.  Two or three members of the
congregation, who took the matter most seriously to
heart, were actually about instituting proceedings
against one of the busiest of their minister's defamers,
when the whole town was electrified by the news
that Parson Crabtree had been cited to appear before
one of the civil courts, to answer for crimes of a
most heinous character.  What these crimes were,
or at least a part of them, delicacy forbids us to state.
But they were minutely detailed in evidence before
the court, and spread, in newspaper reports, all over
the country. The position of Parson Crabtree, not
only.as a preacher of the gospel, but as the author
of one or two religious books, made him a conspicu



WHAT'S IN A NAME?              15
ous object to all.  There was not a newspaper-read..
ing man, woman, or child, in the whole country, who
did not become familiar with his name and the
offences charged against him. The trial lasted for
weeks, during which time the public mind, every
where, continued to be greatly excited.  At last, the
court summed up the evidence, and the case was left
with a jury of twelve men, four of whom were members of the parson's own congregation.  In ten
minutes, a unanimous verdict of " guilty" on all the
charges was found; though the wretched criminal.
under the influence of a false humanity, was recommended to the mercy of the court. Upon this recommendation, however, the court did not see that
it was right to act. The position, standing, and influence of the culprit, rather increased than lessened
the guilt of his offences.  He was, therefore, sentenced to pay a certain amount of damages, and to
be imprisoned at hard labour for the term of three
years.
At the age of sixteen, the son of Mr. Pillsbury
was sent to college. He entered as K. C. Pillsbury.
WCThat do these initials represent?" asked the
president, on receiving the lad, and making a minute
of his name. There was a slight hesitation, and then
the boy replied" King Crabtree."
" Indeed!  Ah?  I'm sorry you haven't a bet-ter
name.  I suppose you were called after that ras



152          WHIAT S IN A NAME?
cally parson who flourished in your town so many
years?"
King said yes, though he was sorry for it.
" Of course, it's no fault of yours, my lad," returned the president, encouragingly. " And as long
as you have to carry the name about you, let it be
your business to redeem it from disgrace."
This was a much harder task than the president
supposed, at the moment he made the suggestion.
A name once disgraced, and in a public and scandalous manner, cannot be redeemed in a single generation; often not in ages. It was soon known among
the students that the new-comer's name was King
Crabtree. Some said he was the parson's nephew;
and others declared that he was actually the parson's
son. Certain little persecutions followed, that fretted
the boy's temper, and made him so unhappy that in
six months he went home, and stubbornly refused to
return to college.  His parents, who intended him
for one of the learned professions, were greatly
troubled at the perverseness of their son's temper.
But neither threats, remonstrances, nor persuasions
were of any avail. He remained firm to his declaration.  Daily he was becoming more and more
morbidly sensitive to the disgrace attached to his
name; and rather than bear for a month longer
what he had suffered at college, he would go before
the mast as a common sailor.  This state of his
feelings he was bold to declare. It made not the




WHAT S IN A NAME?             153
slightest impression on him for his mother or father
to say"' Don't be so weak and foolish, King,"-even they
had dropped the Crabtree;-" be more manly."
But young Crabtree knew where the shoe pinched;
and felt the slightest pressure thereon as painful.
About this time, a good opening occurred in a
shipping-house, in the town.  A clerk had been sent
out as a supercargo, thus leaving a vacancy in the
establishment, which the partners were desirous of
filling with a smart, intelligent lad.  The situation
was a most desirable one, and some friends of Mr.
Pillsbury suggested to him that it was just the place
for his boy, and said they would speak to Mr. Green,
the principal member of the house, if he desired it.
The father was much pleased at this prospect, and so
was his son, when he heard of the place.  Mr. Green
was accordingly spoken to on the subject, and said
that he would like to see the lad. So, King was sent
to the store.
" You're the son of Mr. Pillsbury?" said the merchant, when the lad introduced himself.
"Yes, sir," was modestly replied.
"You're a fine-looking lad.  And so you would
like to be a merchant?"
" Yes, sir."
" Well-let me see-what is your name?"
The colour mounted to the boy's face, as he half
stam mered out



154l 5it    ZWHAT'S IN A NAME?
" King Crabtree Pillsbury."
"King Crabtree.  Hum.m —m.  Rather an
unfortunate name!"
The bov remained silent.  Mr. Green sat and
thought for some moments. Then he said"Very well, my lad. I will think about you.
There are half-a-dozen applicants for the place, and
we will not decide about it for a week to come."
The boy departed with a weight upon his feelings.  He was satisfied that he would not get the
place.
"I've  seen Mr. Pillsbury's son,"  said  Mr.
Green, on meeting, shortly afterward, one of the
individuals who had interested himself in the boy's
favour.
" Have you?"
" Yes.'"
" How do you like him?"
" Fine, smart-looking boy; but he has a dreadful
bad name."
" Bad name! I never heard of it. Who says so?"
"Himself. Do you want a worse name than King
Crabtree?"
"Oh!"
" It may be prejudice; and, probably is; but I
couldn't have any one about me with that name.
Besides, I understand the boy's mother is distantly
related to the old rascally parson after whom she
called her child."




WHAT'S IN A NAME?             155
" I never heard that."
" I reckon it will be found true.  Be this, however, as it may, I can't take the lad. I never could
like him or trust him with that name, and it's no
use to try the experiment.  His parents had better
have drowned him at the christening."
Mr. Pillsbury never guessed the reason why Mr.
Green did not take his son; but King Crabtree understood it fully. For a year the unhappy boy
loitered away his time, and then, almost in despair,
accepted a place as mail-packer, in a printing-office;
at a dollar a week. But he did not stay long in this
situation. Some light remark about his name caused
him to assault a small lad in the office, and this
caused his dismission. Disgusted and disheartened
with every thing, the poor lad next set his heart
upon going to sea. This was opposed until opposition wore itself out. Then he was permitted to go
on board a vessel trading to South America. On
the first voyage he behaved himself so well, that the
captain took him for his clerk, in which capacity he
sailed three times to Rio and back. During the last
voyage home, one of the men took occasion, several
times, to be rude to Crabtree.  Repeating this rudeness in a more aggravated form than usual, one day,
the young man caught up a handspike, and, in the
heat of the moment, knocked the sailor down. The
blow was heavier than Crabtree intended to give, and
the result more disastrous than he expected. One




i56          WHAT'S IN A NAME?
of the sailor's arms was broken, and he was severely
bruised by his fall over a piece of wood that lay on
the deck.
As soon as the vessel arrived in port, the sailor
made complaint against Crabtree, who was arrested
and placed on trial. The prosecutor made out a very
clear case, and the young man was found guilty of
the assault charged. The court ordered him to pay
five hundred dollars damages, and to suffer an imprisonment of sixty days.
"Were this your first offence, King Crabtree
Pillsbury," said the judge, in passing sentence,
" your age, and the provocation alleged to have been
received, would have inclined the court to visit your
conduct with a lighter penalty. But though young
in years, you come before this court as an old offender.
In the hope that you may be led to change your
evil courses, I give you sixty days imprisonment as
a time for sober reflection."
Utterly confounded by such a declaration on the
part of the judge, the unhappy young man was taken
from the court-room and conveyed to prison. The
captain with whom he had sailed, and who was
much attached to him, was present during the trial,
and at its conclusion. He was no less confounded
than Pillsbury, at the strange assumption of the
judge.  As soon as the court adjourned, he called
upon the judge, and said to him"You appear to be labouring under some error




WHAT'S IN A NAME?           157
in regard to the young man you committed to
prison?"
" What young man?" inquired the judge. " The
one arraigned on the charge of beating a sailor?"
~" Yes."
" In what respect?"
"You spoke of him as an old offender."
"And so he is. Already he has been before this
court twice, for outrages on the rights of others."' King Crabtree Pillsbury!"
" Yes."
"Depend upon it, you are in error, Judge."
"Oh, no! Do you think I could ever forget that
name, rendered infamous by a certain parson who is
still, I trust, in the penitentiary?"
" Are you certain that the offender of whom you
speak was named Pillsbury?"
The judge thought a few moments.
"Not absolutely certain," he replied.  " But
surely there cannot be found another man on the
face of the earth with such a Christian name?"
"It is barely possible, Judge. Of one thing I am
very sure, my clerk has not been before this court,
nor any other in the United States, within the time
you mention."
"You are positive of that?"
"Positive."
"The docket of cases tried will show," said the
judge.
Y1I1.-14




158          WHAT'S IN A NAME?
Accordingly there was an examination made, when
it turned out that the previous culprit was named
King Crabtree Parker.  He was from the same town
with Pillsbury, and had been named in compliment
to the good Parson Crabtree.  His name had doubtless proved his ruin.
This discovery altered the case entirely. The
unhappy young man was brought before the court,
and the sentence commuted to a fine of one hundred
dollars.
"And now, young man," said the judge, in dismissing him, " take my advice and petition the legislature to change your name; for, depend upon it,
while you bear the one you now have, no good fortune can ever find you in this world.  It is as bad
as the mark upon the forehead of Cain."
This piece of advice was acted upon by Pillsbury
immediately. The legislature being in session, he
sent up a petition, and in less than four weeks he
was plain John Pillsbury.  ~From that time he felt
like a new man, and when he wrote his name, he did
so without the sense of disgrace that had for years
haunted him like a blasting spectre. He became
more cheerful, and companionable, and more confident as he looked into the future. In a year or
two, he became mate of the vessel, and, in a few
years afterwards, on the captain's retiring, was elevated to his place. About this time he married. On
the birth of his first child, its young mother had a




WHAT'S IN A NAME?            159
fancy to name the boy after an uncle for whom she
had a warm affection, and proposed to call him Lloyd
Erskine.
"No, no," said the father most positively, " let
it be Tom, Dick, or Harry, just as you please. Any
plain, common name is good enough, and will carry
him safely through life. But I wouldn't call a child
of mine after the angel Gabriel."
"Why not?" innocently inquired the wife.
" Simply because, if the angel Gabriel were to fall
and disgrace his name, my boy would have to bear
a part of the stigma. No-no. Never name a child
after anybody; for all are human,'and therefore
liable to fall into evil. Arnold was once thought
to be an honourable man; and, during this period
of his life, some relative or fiiend may have called
a child after him. If,o, how deeply disgraced must
that second-hand bearer of the name, Benedict Arnold, have felt through his whole life.  No-no.
Let it be plain John, William, or Edward, as you
fancy; but nothing more."
And so the child was called John Pillsbury. We
will simply remark, in conclusion, that, unlike his
father, he was never ashamed of his name.




SEEING ABOUT IT.
I ONCE spent a few days in the family of a much
esteemed friend, who had an interesting boy, between
seven and eight years of age. One morning as the
father was about leaving for his store, little Edgar
came running'after him, crying" Father! father! won't you buy me some paints
and a paint-brush?"
"I'll see about it," the father quietly replied.
" Oh! father is going to buy me a box of paints,"
exclaimed Edgar, dancing back into the house, almost
as happy, in anticipation, as if the box were actually
in his hands.
" TWhat are you going to do with your paints?" I
asked of the little fellow, drawing him to my side.
" I'm going to paint all the pictures in my Parley's Every Day Book, and make them look so
beautiful!" said he-" I wish it wasn't so long until
dinner-time. But I'll wait."
" Yes, you must wait patiently.  We cannot
always have what we want in a moment."
" Father could send them home by John; I wish
160




SEEING ABOUT IT.             161
I had asked him to do so. But I'll wait."  And
the little boy strove to be as patient as possible.
As often as every half-hour, at least, during the
morning, Edgar came to me to talk about the box
of paints his father was going to bring home.
"I wish it was dinner-time," he would sometimes
say, or-" Isn't dinner-time a long while coming?"
All Edgar's usual modes of passing the hours
happily, were neglected.  He could think of nothing
but his paint-box.
"It's one o'clock!" he cried, bursting into my
room, where I sat reading, as the clock struck the
hour he had named.  " Father comes home at two.
A'n't you glad I'm going to get my paint-box
soon?"
"Yes, very glad, Edgar."
"So am I.  I wonder how large a box he will
buy?  Henry Thomas has one so big, (measuring
nearly twelve inches in length with his hands,) and
ever-so-many brushes.  He can paint elegantly.
You ought to see the bunch of flowers he painted;
they looked just like real ones."
"Can you paint a flower yet?"
"Oh, no. I haven't learned.  But I am going
to learn.  I mean to ask father to send me to a
drawing-school."
Four or five times during the next hour, Edgar
came into my room to talk about his box of paints.
For more than a quarter of an hour before the usual
-14.




162           SEEING ABOUT IT.
time for his father to return, he was at the window,
and there remained, patiently, on the look-out for
him.  At length I heard him crying out-"'Father
is coming! father is coming!"-and running wildly
down-stairs.
The little fellow had talked to me so much about
his paint-box, that I felt almost as much interest as
he did, and could not help leaving my room and
going down to see and enjoy his pleasure, on receiving it.
"Where is my paint-box?  Give me my paintbox, father!" cried Edgar, eagerly seizing hold of
my friend, as he came up the steps.
" What box, child?" returned the father, coldly.
"I don't know any thing about your paint-box."
"' The paint-box you promised me you would buy.
Where is it, father? In your pocket?"
"I didn't promise to buy you a paint-box."
"Oh, yes, you did, father!"' The tears were
springing to the child's eyes.  "Don't you know I
asked you this morning to get me one?"
" I believe you did, Edgar; but did I say I would
buy it for you?"
"You said you would see about it, father."'" That is one thing, and promising to buy the box
-another. I haven't had time to see about it, Edgar."
This was said with an air of indifference that to
me was inconceivable.  The disappointed child
shrank away, and. went quietly up-stairs to his




SEEING ABOUT IT.             163
mother, into whose lap he laid his face, sobbing most
bitterly.
"What is the matter, my dear?" asked his
mother.
The child made no answer.
"Edgar, what ails you, my son?"
But the boy's heart was too full. He could not
speak.
" Why don't you say what is the matter?"
The mother's voice had changed from its first expression of tenderness.  Still there was no answer.
"Don't come crying to me, unless you can tell
what ails you."  And Edgar was pushed away.
The child felt that injustice had been done to
him, and the repulse of his mother made him angry.
His low, distressed cry changed to one of passion.
"Edgar, what are you crying about?  I never
saw such a boy! You are always crying about
something!"
This had no favourable effect.  The tones in which
it was spoken were fretful, and these excited rather
than soothed the child. He went away from his
mother's side, and leaned against the wall, still continuing to cry, but with more bitterness.
" Edgar, stop crying!"
The mother spoke with authority, and stamped
her foot, to give emphasis to what she said. But
her words had no effect
" Look here, Edgar! If you don't stop, instantly,




164           SEEING ABOUT IT.
you shall be shut up in the closet, and kept there
until after dinner."
The poor child's disappointment had been so
great, that he felt indifferent about every thing. If
his mother had expressed sympathy and spoken
kindly, it would have soothed and comforted him.
But her words, and the tones in which they were
uttered, aroused angry feelings, that made him stubborn. The threat of punishment had no effect; he
still cried on.
"A'n't you going to stop?"  This was the last
angry appeal; and it might as well not have been
made. It had no effect whatever.
Being now out of all patience, Edgar's mother
seized him by the arm, and, thrusting him into a dark
closet, shut the door. His crying instantly ceased.
His anger was changed into grief. He had beenwronged, and he felt it keenly. Laying his little
head upon a pillow that was on the floor of the closet,
he sobbed himself to sleep, and was found there
when the door was opened about an hour afterwards.
"Where is Edgar?" asked my friend, looking
towards his vacant chair at the dinner-table, after
we were all seated.
" He has been a naughty boy, and cannot come
to the table to-day," replied the mother, smiling, as
she glanced towards me.
"What has he been doing?" asked my friend.




SEEING ABOUT IT.            1 65
"He came up to me, crying, a little while ago,
and would neither tell me what ailed him, nor stop
his noise.  I persuaded and threatened, but all to
no purpose; and had, at last, to shut him up in the
closet. He is a very self-willed boy. When he
once gets set out, there is no doing any thing with
him."
My friend said nothing. What he thought, I do
not know: but I have very good reasons for believing that he did not for a moment imagine that
he, and he alone, was to blame in the matter. When
he told Edgar, in reply to his request for a box of
paints, that he would see about it, he did so by way
of getting off from the child's importunity.  From
that moment he thought no more about it. Not so
with the child. He fully believed that his father had
promised to buy himn what he so much desired, and,
confiding in this promise, he expected to get the box
of paints upon his return home, at dinner-time. But
he was sadly disappointed, and was too young to
bear the disappointment.
So little had Edgar's father thought of what his
child asked of him, and so little notice did he take
of the effect produced by his failure to get the paints,
that it did not occur to him that Edgar had been
crying from the disappointment. The mother was,
of course, entirely ignorant of the cause of her son's
unhappiness. It is true, he had talked to ner about
the paint-box he was to get when his father came




166            SEEING ABOUT IT
home to dinner: but she had so many matters of
interest to which her daily attention-was called, that
she never thought about any of them longer than ten
minutes at a time. The child's crying she attributed to some trifling crossing of his temper, and she
did not feel at all disposed to humour him.
I saw all this, and it grieved me deeply.  But my
position was such that I could say nothing.  About
two hours after I had left the dinner-table, as I was
about going out for a walk, I found Edgar sitting on
the front door-steps.  He was alone, and was looking at some children playing in the street. He did
not show any disposition to join them. As I passed
him, he looked up at me with a sober face. I did
not speak to him, for I did not know what to say.
Once or twice, I turned back to look at him-his
eyes were following me.
" Shall I buy him a box of paints?" I asked myself.  " Will it be right?"
For some time, I argued these questions, and
finally determined that I would risk gratifying the
child. His father, I felt quite sure, had given the
matter so little thought, and was so entirely ignorant of the effect produced by his failure to buy the
paint-box, that he would not look upon my act as an
officious one, meant to rebuke him.
I came back sooner than I had intended, with the
paint-box in my possession. Edgar still sat where
I had left him.  His mother came to the door just




SEEING ABOUT IT.             167
as I placed my foot upon the step to enter.  She
greeted me pleasantly, and then said"Edgar, why don't you go out and play with the
children?  There's William Ellis, and Mary Miller,
and Thomas Gray, who all love to have you play
with them.  Go, my son."
" I don't want to play," replied Edgar, looking up
into his mother's face.  " I would rather sit here."
" Sit there, then. You are a strange child, sometimes."
There was petulance rather than tenderness in the
mother's voice.  The boy sighed, and remained
sitting where he was.
" It's a very hard matter to get along with children," remarked my friend's wife. "You never know
how to take them.  One moment they are on the
mountain top, and the next in the valley.  Yesterday, it was next to impossible for me to keep Edgar
away from those children, and now he cares nothing
about them. It seems as if all their moods and
tempers were ever in direct opposition to your wishes
or feelings. Yesterday, I did not want him to go
into the street, and then nothing else would suit
him. To-day, I would rather he would amuse himself with the children; but he chooses to sit moping
at the door. It requires a great deal of patience
to get along with children; much more than I
possess."
I did not assent to the last part of the sentence




168            SEEING ABOUT IT.
uttered, although, from all I had seen, I was very
well satisfied of its truth.
" I have no doubt," I made answer, " that it is
one of the most difficult things in the world to understand the dispositions and feelings of children, and
so to act as not to do violence to what is good in
them..  Their varied moods and tempers are not
always mere impulses; they depend upon what we
would consider, if we knew all, adequate causes.
Subjected, as they are, entirely to others-possessing no abstract freedom of their own-they must be
constantly meeting with checks and disappointments.
WVe know how little able we are to encounter such
things without disturbance, although our reason is
matured, and we can understand causes, and although
much experience in life has tended to sober our
feelings and give us some support in a rational philosophy. Reflecting thus, we ought not to be surprised at any thing we see in children; but should
rather seek to understand the reason why they are
at any time disturbed."
"But suppose, as was the case with me to-day,
you are not able to draw from the child what it is
that disturbs him, —how are you. to act?"
"I am not able to answer that question," I replied,
smiling.  "' Circumstances always alter cases."
" It is very easy to theorize-one of the easiest
things in the world. But it is quite another thing
to practise."




SEEING ABOUT IT.            169
To this remark, I had nothing to say   I tacitly
admitted its truth.  At the same time I could not
help feeling that the practice of some people might
be better than it was, by a great deal.
" Come up-stairs and see me, Edgar," said I to the
boy, after I had changed the subject of conversation
with his mother, and chatted with her a little while
longer.
The child arose quickly, and walked by my side
up-stairs and into the chamber I occupied. Although
I did not mean that it should be so, yet I saw, from
Edgar's manner, that my voice had betrayed the
secret that I had something for him. I had no opportunity, therefore, for surprising him
"I have got a little present for you, Edgar," said
I, drawing forth a small package enclosed in paper.
"What is it? a paint-box?" eagerly asked the
little fellow, his face brightening.
" Yes, a paint-box.  How do you like it?"
I had by this time taken off the envelope and displayed the box. I really thought the sight of it
would set the child wild with delight.  He seized
it in his hands and fairly hugged it. Then, drawing off the lid, he counted over each paint, and
handled and tried the brushes.
"Let me go and show it to mother," said he, and
away he ran, crying to his mother that I had given
him a box of paints.
" Artless, innocent childhood!" I could not
VIII. —15




170            SEEING ABOUT IT.
help saying-" how brief is thy remembrance of
wrong!"
His mother had punished him because he had
cried from the severity of his disappointment in not
getting his expected box of paints; but this was all
forgotten now.
After the box was shown to his mother, Edgar
went into the dining-room to paint, and we saw and
heard no more of him  until tea-time.  When his
father came home, Edgar was as eager to show his
prize to him as he had been to his mother.
The incidents of the day made me thoughtful. I
had always entertained for my friend a very high
opinion; and had especially esteemed him for his
goodness of heart and benevolence. But the circumstance I have just related caused doubting questions to arise.  Was it possibTe for a man of true
-benevolence to act towards his confiding child with
such culpable indifference? I could not reconcile
my previous opinion with the fact that had just
transpired. They were at variance with each other.
The more I thought about the matter, the more I
felt disturbed.
" Can it be possible?" I at length asked myself,
"that my friend is naturally a selfish, bad-hearted
man, who takes upon himself, in common society,
semblances of virtue?"
"No-no-this cannot be," was my mental answer.  " His worst fault must be thoughtlessness."




SEEING ABOUT IT.              171
On the next day, I happened in at my friend's
storfe.  Whilst I sat reading a newspaper, and he
was busy at his desk, a little girl, rather poorly clad,
came in, and said something to him in a low, earnesth
tone. MIy friend hesitated, and the child spoke
more earnestly.  He then asked two or three questions, to which he received answers.
" Very well, I will see about it," he said with a
smile.
The little girl seemed satisfied, and went away.
"Your little visitor was quite importunate," I
remarked.
" Yes," he replied.  "Her father used to work
for me. He is an honest, industrious man, but has
been sick for some time.  He is getting better, however, and now wants me to speak to one of my
neighbours about a situation in his store. I told her
that if her father would send her, it would do just
as well. But she said he wished me to go particularly, for he knew, if I spoke for it, I could get it."
" And so you promised to see about it?" said I,
letting my voice rest, with some emphasis, upon the
last words of the sentence.
"Yes-I could do no less," he replied, not observing that I had used his own words.
I felt strongly inclined to call my friend's attention to the fact of his having spoke in the same way
to Edgar, but could not see my way exactly clear to
do so, just then.




172           SEEING ABOUT IT.
Two days afterwards, while I was again sitting in
my friend's store, the same little girl came in. Before she had time to speak, my friend said"I declare! I have entirely forgotten you! But
wait a minute, and I will go and see about it at
once."
The child looked disappointed, but sat down
quietly. My friend put on his hat and went out.
In a little while he came in, and said to her"Tell your father that Mr. P    says that he
would have given him the situation with pleasure,
if he had applied earlier, but that it was now filled."
The little girl looked into my friend's face for
some time, with what seemed to me a sad expression,
and then went slowly away.
1" Really, I must blame myself for not having gone
at once to see about the situation for this poor man.
If I had gone yesterday, I might have secured it for
him."
" It's a pity, certainly," I ventured to remark.
"'It is, indeed. JI really feel bad about it. But,
the fact is, he ought to have sent direct to MIr.
P  -, and not to have asked me to speak to him."
"No doubt, he believed you would have more
influence, and thus make his application more
certain."
"Yes. But the result has shown differently."
"It would not have shown differently if you had
seen Mr. P.. immediately."




SEEING ABOUT- IT.            173
"No. Bult I didn't; and there I was to blame.
It can't be helped now, however. I am sorry, and
that is as much as I can say."
We talked some time on the subject, I improving
an opportunity that offered to call his attention to
the sad disappointment his thoughtless promise to
see about a box of paints for Edgar had occasioned
the little boy. He was surprised and astonished at
what I said; and seemed deeply grieved at the pain
his child had suffered and the wrong that had been
done to him. So little had he thought about what
he had said to Edgar in reply to his request, that it
had by this time retired so far from his memory that
it was recalled with considerable difficulty.
We were yet conversing, when a man entered the
store, and came slowly back to the little room in
which we were sitting. He walked with a feeble,
tottering step.
"Why, John, is this you? I am glad to see you
out.  How are you getting?" said my friend, the
colour rising to his face as he spoke.
The man did not smile in return, but knit his
brow, compressed his lips, and looked up sternly.'" I am really sorry, John," said my friend, speaking with much apparent confusion, " that I couldn't
get that place for you.  Mr. P-        said that he
would have taken you with pleasure, if the application had not come too late."
An expression of impatience, mingled with some15*




174           SEEING ABOUT IT.
thing like contempt, flitted over the man's pale face.
He was" evidently struggling hard with himself to
keep from speaking out too plainly what was in his
mind. At length he said, in a subdued but earnest
tone" Mr., it may be only right for me to let you
know, that, in neglecting to see about the situation
for me, as you promised you would do, you have put
it out of my power to get bread for my family.
They have only had potatoes to eat for many days.
No one can earn any thing but myself, and I have
been sick for some weeks and unable to work. If
you had told my little girl that you could not apply
to Mr. P     for me, I would have hobbled out
myself. But you promised to see about it, and I
rested satisfied that it would be done. Perhaps I was
wrong in presuming to trouble you; but I always
considered you a kind-hearted man, and believed it
would give you pleasure to do me a good turn."
The brows of my friend'contracted in anger.
Although the man's manner was not insolent, yet
the fact of his calling to take him to task, chafed his
feelings. He was about making some harsh reply,
when the man, feeling, perhaps, that he had, in the
excitement produced by the intelligence brought
back by his little girl, been led to act improperly,
end yet, feeling unwilling to apologize for what
had already transpired, turned away, and walked from
the store as fast as his feeble steps would carry him.




SEEING ABOUT IT.            175
My friend looked at me, and I looked at him. It
was some time before any thing was said.
"I shall have to correct this fault of mine," he
at length remarked, with a long inspiration after
uttering the sentence.  "I am too much in the
habit of saying I will see about a thing, without
really thinking that the'words amount to a promise.
John's manner has irritated me; but I suppose I
must make every allowance for one in his circumstances. He must have a situation. I will get him
one somewhere, immediately, if I have to furnish
the wages and let his labour go for nothing. But
he must not know that I have any thing to do in it."
Before two hours had passed, a storekeeper in the
neighbourhood'sent for John, and engaged him as a
porter. He inquired very kindly of him as to how
long he had been sick, and what were his circumrn
stances, and then offered him a month's wages in
advance. The agency of my friend in this, John
more than suspected, for he came before night and
apologized for what he had said in the morning.
Spite of all my reasoning on the subject, I could
not think so highly of my friend as I did before I
had the privilege of spending a short time in his
family and observing him in his every-day relations.
The amiability of temper and urbanity of manner
which he always displayed whenever I saw him,
made me consider him one of the best of men I had
ever met. But now he stood on the common plane,




176           SEEING ABOUT IT.
with faults such as were possessed by common men
I hold up his peculiar failing as a mirror into which
others who are like him may look, and see something of their own character, by reflection.
THE IRON WILL.
" FANNY, I've but one word more to say on the
subject. If you marry that fellow, I'll have nothing
to do with you. I've said it; and you may be assured that I'll adhere to my determination."
Thus spoke, with a frowning brow and a stern
voice, the father of Fanny Crawford, while the
maiden sat with eyes bent upon the floor.
"He's a worthless, good-for-nothing fellow," resumed the father; " and if you marry him, you wed
a life of misery. Don't come back to me-for I will
disown you the day you take his name. I've said
it, and my decision is unalterable."
Still Fanny made no answer, but sat like a statue.
" Lay to heart what I have said, and make your
election, girl." And with these words, Mr. Crawford retired from the presence of his daughter.
On that evening, Fanny Crawford left her father's




THE IRON WILL.             177
house, and was secretly married to a young man
named Logan, whom, spite of all his faults, she tenderly loved.
When this fact became known to Mr. Crawford,
he angrily repeated his threat of utterly disowning
his child; and he meant what he said-for he was
a man of stern purpose and unbending will. When,
trusting to the love she believed him to bear for her,
Fanny ventured home, she was rudely repulsed, and
told that she no longer had a father. These cruel
worts fell upon her heart, and ever after rested there,
an oppressive weight.
Logan was a young mechanic, with a good trade
and the ability to earn a comfortable living. But
Mr. Crawford's objection to him was well-founded,
and it would have been much better for Fanny if
she had permitted it to influence her; for the young
man was idle in his habits, and Mr. Crawford too
clearly saw that idleness would lead to dissipation.
The father had hoped that his threat to disown his
child would have deterred her from taking the step
he so strongly disapproved. He had, in fact, made
this threat as a last effort to save her from a union
that would, inevitably, lead to unhappiness; but
having made it, his stubborn and offended pride
caused him to adhere with stern inflexibility to his
word.
When Fanny went from under her father's roof,
the old man was left alone; the mother of his only




i78             TIE IRON WILL.
child had been many years dead.  For her father's
sake, as well as for her own, did Fanny wish to
return.  She loved her parent with a most earnest
affection, and thought of him as sitting gloomy and
companionless in that home so long made light and
cheerful by lher voice and smile. Hours and hours
would she lie awake at night, thinking of her father,
and weeping for the estrangement of his heart from
her.  Still there was in her bosom  an everliving
hope that he would relent; and to this she clung,
though he passed her in the street without looking
at her, and steadily denied her admission, when, in
the hope of some change in hisstern purpose, she
would go to his house and seek to gain an entrance.
As the father had predicted, Logan added, in the
course of a year or two, dissipation to idle habits,
and neglect of his wife to both.  They had gone to
housekeeping in a small way, when first married,
and had lived comfortably enough for some time;
but Logan did not like work, and made every excuse
he could find to take a holiday or be absent from
the shop.  The effect of this was an insufficient income.  Debt came, with its mortifying and harassing accompaniments, and furniture had to be sold
to pay those who were not disposed to wait.  With
two little children, Fanny was removed by her husband into a cheap boarding-house, after their things
were taken and sold. The company into which she
was here throwh was far from being agreeable  but
L 




THE IRON WILL.             179
this would have been no source of unhappiness in
itself. Cheerfully would she have breathed the
uncongenial atmosphere, if there had been nothing
in the conduct of her husband to awaken feelings
of anxiety. But, alas! there was much to create
unhappiness here; idle days were more frequent,
and the consequences of idle days more and more
serious. From his work, he would come home sober
and cheerful; but after spending a day in idle company, or in the woods gunning, a sport of which he
was fond, he would meet his wife with a sullen,
dissatisfied aspect, and, too often, in a state little
above intoxication.
"I'm afraid thy son-in-law is not doing very well,
friend Crawford," said a plain-spoken Quaker to the
father of Mrs. Logan, after the young man's habits
began to show themselves too plainly in his appearance.
Mr. Crawford knit his brows, and drew his lips
closely together.;" Has thee seen young Logan lately?"
"I don't know the young man," replied Mr.
Crawford, with an impatient motion of his head.
"Don't know thy own son-in-law-the husband
of thy daughter?"'" I have no son-in-law-no daughter!" said Crawford, with stern emphasis.
" Frances was the daughter of thv wedded wife,
friend Crawford."




180             THE IRON WILL.
"But I have disowned her.  I forewarned her
of the consequences if she married that young man.
I told her that I would cast her off for ever, and I
have done it."
"But, friend Crawford, thee has done wrong."
"I've said it, and I'll stick to it."
"But thee has done wrong, friend Crawford,"
repeated the Quaker.
" Right or wrong, it is done, and I will not recall
the act.  I gave her fair warning; but she took her
own course, and now she must abide the consequences. When I say a thing, I mean it. I never
eat my words."
"Friend Crawford," said the Quaker, in a steady
voice, and with his calm eyes fixed upon the face
of the man he addressed, " thee was wrong to say
what. thee did; thee had no right to cast off thy
child.  I saw her to-day, passing slowly along the
street; her dress was thin and faded, but not so
thin and faded as her pale young face. Ah! if thee
could have seen the sadness of that countenance.
Friend Crawford, she is thy child still; thee cannot
disown her."
"I never change," replied the resolute father.
" She is the child of thy beloved wife, now in
heaven, friend Crawford."
" Good-morning!" And Crawford turned and
walked away.
" Rash words are bad enough," said the Quaker




THE IRON WILL.             181
to himself; "but how much worse is it to abide by
rash words after there has been time for reflection
and repentance."
Crawford was troubled by what the Quaker said,
but more troubled by what he saw a few minutes
afterwards, as he walked along the street, in the
person of his daughter's husband.  He met the
young man, supported by two others, so much
intoxicated that he could not stand alone. And
in this state he was going home to his wife-to
Fanny.
The father clenched his hands, set his teeth firmly
together, muttered an imprecation upon the head
of Logan, and quickened his pace homeward. Try
as he would, he could not- shut out from his mind
the pale, faded countenance of his child, as described
by the Quaker, nor help feeling an inward shudder
at the thought of what she must suffer on meeting
her husband in such a state.
" She has only herself to blame," he said, as he
struggled with his feelings.  " I forewarned her; I
gave her to understand clearly what she had to expect; my word is passed. I have said it, and that
ends the matter; I am no childish trifler. What I
say, I mean."'
Logan had been from home all day, and, what
was worse, had not been, as his wife was well aware,
at the shop for a week. The woman with whom
they were boarding came into her room during the
III.-16




182             THE IRON WiLL.
afternoon, and, after some hesitation and embarrass.
ment, said" I am sorry to tell you, Mrs. Logan, that I shall
want you to give up your room after this week.
You know I have had no money from you for nearly
a month, and, from the way your husband goes on,
I see little prospect of being paid any thing more.
If I was able, for your sake, I would not say a word;
but I am not, Mrs. Logan, and therefore must, in
justice to myself and family, require you to get
another boarding-house."
Mrs. Logan answered only with tears.  The
woman tried to soften what she had said, and then
went away.
Not long after this, Logan came stumbling up the
stairs, and, opening the door of his room, staggered
in and threw himself heavily upon the bed. Fanny
looked at him a few moments, and then crouching
down, and, covering her face with her hands, wept
long and bitterly. She felt crushed and powerless.
Cast off by her father, wronged by her husband,
destitute and about to be thrust from the poor home
into which she had shrunk, faint and weary, it seemed
as if:-hope were gone for ever. While she suffered
thus, Logan lay in a drunken sleep. Arousing herself at last, she removed his boots and coat, drew a
pillow under his head, and threw a coverlet over
him. She then sat down and wept again. The teabell rang, but she did not go to the table. Half an,_^ —'-` —~-'~  I-~  ~~~- _ —-- ---- _.._......... —.-   -. —. —-  ^...,, —




THE IRON WILL.             183
hour afterwards, the landlady came to the door and
kindly inquired if she would not have some food
sent up to her room.
"Only a little bread and milk for Henry," was
replied.
"Let me send you a cup of tea," urged the woman.
"No, thank you. I don't wish any thing tonight."
The woman went away, feeling troubled.  From
her heart she pitied the suffering young creature,
and it had cost her a painful struggle to do what she
had done; but the pressing nature of her own circumstances required her to be rigidly just. Notwithstanding Mrs. Logan had declined having any
thing, she sent her a cup of tea and something to
eat; but they remained untasted.
On the next morning, Logan was sober, and his
wife informed him of the notice which their landlady had given. He was angry, and used harsh
language towards the woman. Fanny defended her,
and had the harsh language transferred to her own
head.
The young man appeared as usual at the break.
fast table, but Fanny had no appetite fOr food, and
did not go down. After breakfast, Logan went to
the shop, intending to go to work, but found his
place supplied by another journeyman, and himself
thrown out of employment, with but a single dollar




184            TEE IRON WILL.
in his pocket, a month's boarding due, and his
family in need of almost every comfort. From the
shop he went to a tavern, took a glass of liquor, and
sat down to look over the newspapers and think
what he should do. There he met an idle journeyman, who, like himself, had lost his situation. A
fellow feeling made them communicative and confidential.
"If I was only a single man," said Logan, " I
wouldn't care. I could easily shift for myself."
" Wife and children! Yes, there's the rub," returned the companion. "A journeyman mechanic
is a fool to get married."
"Then you and I are both fools," said Logan.
" No doubt of it.  I came to that conclusion, in
regard to myself, long and long ago. Sick wife,
hungry children, and four or five backs to cover;
no wonder a poor man's nose is ever on the grindstone. For my part, I am sick of it. When I'was
a single man, I could go where I pleased, and do
what I pleased; and I always had money in my
pocket.  Now I am tied down to one place, and
grumbled at eternally; and if you were to shake
me from here to the Navy Yard, you wouldn't
get a sixpence out of me. The fact is, I'm sick
of it."
"So am I; but what is to be done?  1 don't
believe I can get work in town.?'
" I know you can't; but there is plenty of work




THE IRON WILL.              185
and goodr wages to be had in Charleston or New
Orleans."
Logan did not reply, but looked intently into his
companion's face.
"I'm sure my wife would be a great deal better
off if I were to clear out and leave her.  She has
plenty of friends, and they'll not see her want."
Logan still looked at his fellow journeyman.
"And your wife would be taken back under her
father's roof, where there is enough and to spare.
Of course she would be happier than she is now."
"No doubt of that.  The old rascal has treated
her shabbily enough. But, I am well satisfied that,
if I were out of the way he would gladly receive her
back again."
"Of this there can be no question.  So, it is
clear that, with our insufficient incomes, our presence is a curse rather than a blessing to our
families."
Logan really admitted this to be true.  His companion then drew a newspaper towards him, and
after running his eyes over it for a few moments,
read:
" This day, at twelve o'clock, the copper-fastened
brig Emily, for Charleston.  For freight or passage,
apply on board."
" There's a chance for us," he said, as he finished
reading the advertisement.  "Suppose we go down
and see if they won't let us work our passage out."
16*




186            THE IRON  rILL.
Logan sat thoughtful a moment, and then said,
as he arose to his feet" Agreed.  It'll be the best thing.for us, as well
as for our families."
When the Emily sailed, at twelve o'clock, the
two men were on board.
Days came and passed, until the heart of Mrs.
Logan grew sick with anxiety, fear, and suspense.
No word was received from her absent husband. She
went to his old employer, and learned that he had
been discharged; but she could find no one who
had heard of him since that time. Left thus alone,
with two little children, and no apparent means of
support, Mrs. Logan, when she became at length
clearly satisfied that he for whom she had given up
every thing had heartlessly abandoned her, felt as if
there was no hope for her in the world.
" Go to your father, by all means," urged the
woman with whom she was still boarding.  "Now
that your husband has gone, he will receive you."
"I cannot," was Fanny's reply.
"But what will you do?" asked the woman.
"Work for my children," she replied, arousing
herself, and speaking with some resolution. " I have
hands to work, and I am willing to work."
" Much better go home to your father," said the
woman.
" That is impossible.  He has disowned me-has
ceased to love me or care for me. I cannot go to him




THE IRON WILL.              187
again; for I could not bear, as I am now, another harsh
repulse.  No-no-I will work with my own hands.
God will help me to provide for ray children."
In this spirit, the almost heart-broken young
woman, for whom the boarding-house keeper felt
more than a common interest-an interest that would
not let her thrust her out from the only place she
could call her home-sought for work, and was fortunate enough to obtain sewing from two or three
families, and was thus enabled to pay a light board
for herself and children. But incessant toil with
her needle, continued late at night and resumed
early in the morning, gradually undermined her
health, which had become delicate, and weariness
and pain were the constant companions of her labour.
Sometimes, in carrying her work home, the forsaken wife would have to pass the old home of her
girlhood, and twice she saw her father at the window. But, either she was so changed that he did
not know his child, or he would not bend from his
stern resolution to disown her.  On these two
occasions she was unable, on returning, to resume
her work. Her fingers could not hold nor guide the
needle; nor could she, from the blinding tears that
filled her eyes, have seen to sew, even if her hands
had lost the tremour that ran through every nerve
of her body.
A year had rolled wearily by since Logan went
off, and still no word had come from the absent hus



188             IlTE IRON WILt.
band.   Labour beyond her bodily strength, and
trouble and grief that were too severe for her spirit
to bear, had done sad work upon the forsaken wife
and disowned child. She was but a shadow of her
former self.
Mr. Crawford had been very shy of the old Quaker
who had spoken so plainly to him; but his words
made some impression, though no one would have
supposed so, as there was no change in his conduct
towards his daughter. He had forewarned her of
the consequences if she acted in opposition to his
wishes. He had told her that he would disown her
for ever. She had taken her own way, and painful
as it was to him, he had to keep his word-his word
that had ever been inviolate. He might forgive her;
he might pity her; but she must remain a stranger.
Such a direct and flagrant act of disobedience to his
wishes was not to be forgotten nor forgiven. Thus,
in stubborn pride, did his hard heart confirm itself
in its cold and cruel estrangement. Was he happy?
No! Did he forget his child?  No.  He thought
of her and dreamed of her, day after day, and night
after night.  But-he had said it, and he would
stick to it! His pride was unbending as iron.
Of the fact that the husband of Fanny had gone
off and left her with two children to provide for with
the labour of her hands, he had been made fully
aware, but it did not bend him  from  his stern
purpose.




THE IRON WILL.            189
" She is nothing to me," was his impatient reply
to the one who informed him of the fact.  This was
all that could be seen. But his heart trembled at
the intelligence.  Nevertheless, he stood coldly
aloof, month after month, and even repulsed, angrily,
the kind landlady with whom Fanny boarded, who
had attempted, all unknown to the daughter, to
awaken sympathy for her in her father's heart.
One day, the old Friend, whose plain words had
not pleased Mr. Crawford, met that gentleman near
his own door. The Quaker was leading a little boy
by the hand. Mr. Crawford bowed, and evidently
wished to pass on; but the Quaker paused, and
said"I should like to have a few words with thee,
friend Crawford."
"Well, say on."
"Thee is known as a benevolent man, friend
Crawford. Thee never refuses, it is said, to do a
deed of charity."
"I always give something when I am sure the
object is deserving."
" So I am aware. Do you see this little boy?"
Mr. Crawford glanced down at the child the
Quaker held by the hand. As he did so, the child
lifted to him a gentle face, with mild, earnest, loving
eyes.
" It is a sweet little fellow," said Mr. Crawford,
reaching his hand to the child. He spoke with




1901            THE IRON WILL.
some feeling, for there was a look about the boy that
went to his heart.
"' He is, indeed, a sweet child-and the image of
his poor, sick, almost heart-broken mother, for whom
I am trying to awaken an interest.  She has two
children, and this one is the oldest.  Her husband
is dead, or what may be as bad, perhaps worse, as
far as she is concerned, dead to her; and she does
not seem to have a relative in the world; at least,
none who thinks about or cares for her. In trying
to provide for her children, she has overtasked her
delicate fiame, and made herself sick.  Unless something is done for her, a worse thing must follow.
She must go to the almshouse, and be separated from
her children. Look into the sweet, innocent face of
this dear child, and let your heart say whether he ought
to be taken from his mother. If she have a woman's
feelings, must she not love this child tenderly; and
can any one supply to him his mother's place?"
"I will do something for her, certainly," said
Mr. Crawford.
"I wish thee would go with me to see her."
"There is no use in that. My seeing her can do
no good. Get all you can for her, and then come
to me.  I will help in the good work cheerfully,"
replied Mr. Crawford.
"That is thy dwelling, I believe," said the Quaker,
lcoking round at a house adjoining the one before
which they stood.




THE IRON WILL.              191
" Yes, that is my house," returned Mr. Crawford.
"Will thee take this little boy in with thee and
keep him for a few minutes, while I go to see a
friend some squares off?"
"Oh, certainly.  Come with me, dear?"  And
3Mr. Crawford held out his hand to the child, who
took it without hesitation.
"I will see thee in a little while," said the Quaker,
as he turned away.
The boy, who was plainly, but very neatly dressed,
was about four years old. He had a more than
usually attractive face; and an earnest look out of
his mild eyes, that made every one who saw him his
friend.
"What is your name, my dear?" asked Mr. Crawford, as he sat down in his parlour, and took the
little fellow upon his knee.
" Henry," replied the child.  He spoke with distinctness; and, as he spoke, there was a sweet expression of the lips and eyes, that was particularly
winning.
"It is Henry, is it?"
"Yes, sir."
" WThat else besides Henry Y"
The boy did not reply, for he had fixed his eyes
upon a picture that hung over the mantle, and was
looking at it intently.  The eyes of Mr. Crawford
followed those of the child, that rested, he found, on
the portrait of his daughter.




192            THE IRON WILL.
"What else, besides Henry?" he repeated.
"Henry Logan," replied the child, looking for a
moment into the face of Mr. Crawford, and then
turning to gaze at the picture on the wall. Every
nerve quivered in the frame of that man of iron will.
The falling of a bolt from a sunny sky could not
have startled and surprised him more. He saw in
the face of the child, the moment he looked at him,
something strangely familiar and attractive. What
it was, he did not, until this instant, comprehend.
But it was no longer a mystery.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked, in a subdued voice, after he had recovered, to some extent,
his feelings.
The child looked again into his face, but longer
and more earnestly. Then, without answering, he
turned and looked at the portrait on the wall.
" Do you know who I am, dear?" repeated Mr.
Crawford.
"No, sir," replied the child; and then again
turned to gaze upon the picture.
" Who is that?" and Mr. Crawford pointed to the
object that so fixed the little boy's attention.
"My mother."  And as he said these words, he
laid his head down upon the bosom of his unknown
relative, and shrank close to him, as if half afraid
because of the mystery that, in his infantile mind,
hung around the picture on the wall.
Moved by an impulse that he could not restrain,




THE IRON WILL.              193
Mr. Crawford drew his arms around the child and
hugged him  to his bosom. Pride gave way; the
iron will was bent; the sternly uttered vow was forgotten. There is power for good in the presence of
a little child. Its sphere of innocence subdues and
renders impotent the evil spirits that rule in the
hearts of selfish men.  It was so in this case.  Mr.
Crawford might have withstood the moving appeal
of even his daughter's presence, changed by grief,
labour, and suffering as she was. But his anger,
upon which he had suffered the sun to go down, fled
before her artless, confiding, innocent child.  He
thought not of Fanny as the wilful woman, acting
from the dictate of her own passions or feelings;
but as a little child, lying upon his bosom-as a
little child, singing and dancing around him-as a
little child, with, to him, the face of a cherub, and
the sainted mother of that innocent one by her side.
When the Friend came for the little boy, Mr.
Crawford said to him, in a low voice-made low to
hide his emotion" I will keep the child."
" From it's mother?"
"No. Bring the mother, and the other child. I
have room for them all."
A sunny smile passed over the benevolent countenance of the Friend, as he hastily left the room.
Mrs. Logan, worn down by exhausting labour, had
at last been forced to give up. When she did give
VIII. —17




194            THE IRON WILL.
up, every long-strained nerve of mind and body instantly relaxed; and she became almost as weak and
helpless as an infant.  While in this state, she was
accidentally discovered by the kind-hearted old
Friend, who, without her being aware of what he
was going to do, made his successful attack upon her
father's feelings. He trusted to nature and a good
cause, and did not trust in vain.
" Come, Mrs. Logan," said the kind woman, with
whom Fanny was still boarding, an hour or so after
little Harry had been dressed up to take a walkwhere, the mother did not know or think-" -the
good Friend who was here this morning, says you
must ride out. He has brought a carriage for you.
It will do you good, I know. He is very kind.
Come, get yourself ready."
Mrs. Logan was lying upon her bed.
" I do not feel able to get up," she replied.  " I
do not wish to ride out."
"Oh, yes, you must go.  The pure, fresh air
and the change will do you more good than medicine. Come, Mrs. Logan. I will dress little Julia
for you. She needs the change as much you do."
" Where is Henry?" asked the mother.
"He has not returned yet. But come! The
carriage is waiting at the door."
" Won't you go with me?"
" I would with pleasure-but I cannot leave home
I have so much to do."




THE IRON WILL.              195
After a good deal of persuasion, Fanny at length
made the effort to get herself ready to go out.  She
was so weak, that she tottered about the floor like
one intoxicated. But the woman with whom she
lived, assisted and encouraged her, until she was at
length ready to go. Then the Quaker came up to
her room, and, with the tenderness and care of a
father, supported her down stairs, and when she had
taken her place in the vehicle, entered with her
youngest child in his arms, and sat by her side,
speaking to her, as he did so, kind and encouraging
words.
The carriage was driven slowly, for a few squares,
and then stopped.  Scarcely had the motion ceased,
when the door was suddenly opened, and Mr. Crawford stood before his daughter.
"My poor child!" he said, in a tender, broken
voice, as Fanny, overcome by his unexpected appearance, sank forward into his arms.
When the suffering young creature opened her
eyes again, she was upon her own bed, in her own
room, in her old home. Her father sat by her side,
and held one of her hands tightly. There were tears in
his eyes, and he tried to speak; but, though his lips
moved, there came from them no articulate-sound.
" Do you forgive me, father? Do you love me,
father?" said Fanny, in a tremulous whisper, half
rising from her pillow, and looking eagerly, almost
agonizingly, into her father's face.




196            THE IRON WILL.
" I have nothing to forgive," murmured the father,
as he drew his daughter towards him, so that her
head could lie against his bosom.
"But do you love me, father? Do you love me
as of old?" said the daughter.
He bent down and kissed her; and now the tears
fell from his eyes and lay warm and glistening upon
her face.
"As of old," he murmured, laying his cheek down
upon that of his child, and clasping her more tightly
in his arms. The long pent-up waters of affection
were rushing over his soul and obliterating the
marks of pride, anger, and the iron will that sustained them in their cruel dominion.  He was no
longer a strong man, stern and rigid in his purpose;
but a child, with a loving and tender heart.
There was light again in his dwelling; not the
bright light of other times; for now the rays were
mellowed. But it was light. And there was music
again; not so joyful; but it was music, and its spell
over his heart was deeper, and its influence more
elevating.
The man with the iron will and stern purpose was
subdued, and the power that subdued him was the
presence of a little child.




HAVEN'T TIME.' THAT boy needs more attention," said Mr
Green, referring to his oldest son, a lad whose way.
ward temper and proclivity to vice demanded a
steady, consistent, wise, and ever-present exercise
of parental watchfulness and authority.
" You may well say that," returned the mother
of the boy; for to her the remark had been made.
"He is getting entirely beyond me."
"If I only had the time to look after him!" Mr.
Green sighed as he uttered these words.
" I think you ought to take more time for a purpose like this," said Mrs. Green.
"More time!"  Mr. Green spoke with marked
impatience.  " What time have I to attend to him,
Margaret? Am I not entirely absorbed in business?
Even now I should be at the store, and am only kept
away by your late breakfast."
Just then the breakfast bell rang, and Mr. and
MIrs. Green, accompanied by tLeir children, repaired
to the dining-room. John, the boy about whom the
parents had been talking, was among the number
17*             197




198             HAVEN'T TIME.
As they took their places at the table, he exhibited
certain disorderly movements, and a disposition to
annoy his younger brothers and sisters. But these
were checked, instantly, by his father, of whom John
stood in some fear.
Before the children were more than half done, Mr.
Green laid his knife and fork side by side on his
plate, pushed his chair back, and was in the act of
rising, when his wife said" Don't go yet. Just wait until John is through
with his breakfast: He acts dreadfully the moment
your back is turned."
Mr. Green turned a quick, lowering glance upon
the boy, (whose eyes shrank beneath his angry gaze,)
saying, as he did so"I haven't time to stay a moment longer.  I
ought to have been at my business an hour ago.
But see here, my lad,"-addressing himself to John
-" there has been enough of this work. Not a day
passes that I am not worried with complaints about
you. Now, mark me! I shall inquire, particularly,
as to your conduct when I come home at dinnertime: and, if you have given your mother any
trouble, or acted in any way improperly, will take
you severely to account. It's outrageous that the
whole family should be kept in constant trouble by
you, Now; be on your guard!"
A moment or two, Mr. Green stood frowning upon
the boy, and then retired.




HAVEN'T TIME.              199
Scarcely had the sound of the closing street-door,
which marked the fact of Mr. Green's departure,
ceased to echo through the house, ere John began to
act as was his custom when his father was out of
the way. His mother's remonstrances were of no
avail; and, when she finally compelled him to leave
the table, he obeyed with a most provoking and insolent manner.
All this would have been prevented, if Mr. Green
had taken from business just ten minutes, and
Conscientiously devoted that time to the government
of his wayward boy and the protection of the family
from his annoyances.
On arriving at his store, Mr. Green found two or
three customers therein, and but a single clerk in
attendance.  He had felt some doubts as to the correctness of his conduct in leaving home so abruptly,
under the circumstances; but the presence of these
customers satisfied him that he had done right.
Business, in his mind, was paramount to every thing
else; and his highest duty to his family he felt to
be discharged, when he was devoting himself most
assiduously to the work of procuring for them the
means of external comfort, ease, and luxury. Worldly
well-doing was a cardinal virtue in his eyes.
Mr. Green was the gainer, perhaps, of half a
dollar, in the way of profit on sales, by being at his
store ten minutes earlier than would have been the
case had he remained with his family until the com



200              HAVEN'T TIME.
pletion of their morning meal. What was lost to his
boy by the opportunity thus afforded for an indul'
gence in a perverse and disobedient temper, it is hard
to say.  Something was, undoubtedly, lost-something, the valuation of which, in dollars and cents,
it would be difficult to make.
Mrs. Green did not complain of John's conduct,
to his father, at dinner-time.  She was so often
forced to complain, that she avoided the task whenever she felt justified in doing so; and that was, perhaps, far too often. Mr. Green asked no questions;
for he knew, by experience, to what results such
questions would lead-and he was in no mood for
unpleasant intelligence. So John escaped, as he had
escaped hundreds of times before, and felt encouraged to indulge his bad propensities at will, to his
own injury and the annoyance of all around him.
If Mr. Green had no time in the morning or
through the day to attend to his children, the evening,
one might think, would afford opportunity for conference with them, a supervision of their studies, and
an earnest inquiry into their conduct and moral and
intellectual progress.  But such was not the case,
Mr. Green was too much wearied with the occupation of the day to bear the annoyance of the children;
or, his tnoughts were too busy with business matters, or schemes of profit, to attend to the thousandand-one questions they were ready to pour in upon
himn from all sides; or, he had a political club to
___   __  ____.  ____ _1  _..__......       _.__.__ _ _. _~_..




HAVEN'T TIME.              201
attend, an engagement with some merchant for the
discussion of a matter connected with trade, or felt
obliged to be present at the meeting of some society
of which he was a member.  So, he either left home
immediately after tea, or the children were sent to
bed in order that he might have a quiet evening for
rest, business reflection, or the enjoyment of a new
book.
Mr. Green had so much to do and so much to
think about, that he had no time to attend to his
children; and this neglect was daily leaving upon
them ineffaceable impressions, that would, inevitably,
mar the beauty of their after-lives.  Particularly
was this the case with John. Better off in the world
was Mr. Green becoming every day-better off as it
regarded money; but, poorer in another sense;
poorer in respect to home affections and home treasures. His children were not growing up to love
him intensely, to confide in him implicitly, and to
respect him as their father and friend. He had no
time to attend to them, and rather pushed them from
than drew them towards him, with the strong chords
of affection. To his wife he left their government;
and she was not equal to the task.
"I don't believe," said Mrs. Green, one day,
"d that John is learning much at the school where ho
goes. I think you ought to see after him a little.
He never studies a lesson at home."
"Mr. Elden has the reputation of being one of




202             HAVEN'T TIME.
our best teachers. His school stands high," replied
MIr. Green.
" That may all be," said Mrs. Green.  " Still, I
really think you ought to know, for yourself, how
John is getting along. Of one thing I am certain,
he does not improve in good manners nor good temper, in the least. And he is never in the house
between school-hours, except to get his meals. I
wish you would require him to be at the store during
the afternoons.  School is dismissed at three o'clock,
and he ranges the streets with other boys, and goes
where he pleases from that time until night.".
" That's very bad," —Mr. Green spoke in a concerned voice, — "very bad. And it must be broken
up. But, as to having him at the store, that is out
of the question.  He would be into every thing, and
keep me in hot water all the while. He'd like to
come well enough, I do not doubt; but I can't
have him there."
" Couldn't you set him to doing something?"
" I might. But I haven't time to attend to him,
Margaret. Business is business, and cannot be interrupted."
Mrs. Green sighed, and then remarked" I wish you would call on Mr. Elden, and have
a talk with him about John."
" I will, if you think it best."
4" Do so, by all means. And besides, I would give
more time to John in the evenings. If, for instance,




HAVEN'T TIME.             203
you devoted an evening to him once a week, it would
enable you to understand how he is progressing,
and give you a control over him not now possessed."
"' You are right-in this, no doubt, MIargaret."
But reform went not beyond this acknowledgment. Mr. Green could never find time to see John's
teacher, nor feel himself sufficiently at leisure, or in
the right mood of mind, to devote to the boy even a
single evening.
And thus it went on from day to day, from month
to month, and from year to year, until, finally, John
was sent home from school by Mr. Elden with a note
to his father, in which idleness, disorderly conduct,
and vicious habits were charged upon him in the
broadest terms.
The unhappy Mr. Green called immediately upon
the teacher, who gave him a more particular account
of his son's bad conduct, and concluded by saying
that he was unwilling to receive him back into his
classes.
Strange as it may seem, it was four months before
Mr. Green " found time" to see about another school,
and to get John entered therein; during which long
period, the boy had full liberty to go pretty much
where he pleased, and to associate with whom he
pleased. It is hardly to be supposed that he grew
any better for this license.
By the time John was seventeen years of age,
Mr. Green's business had become greatly enlarged




204             HAVEN'T TIME.
and his mind was still more absorbed therein. With
him, gain was the primary thing; and, as a conse.
quence, his family held a secondary place in his
thoughts. If money were needed, he was ever ready
to supply the demand; that done, he felt that his
duty to them was, mainly, discharged. To the mother of his children, he left the work of their wise
direction in the paths of life, their government and
education-but she was inadequate to the task imposed.
From the second school at which John was entered, he was dismissed within three months, for bad
conduct. He was then sent to school in a distant
city, where, removed from all parental restraint and
admonition, he made viler associates than any he
had hitherto known, and took, thus, a lower step
in vice. He was just seventeen, when a letter from
the principal of this school conveyed to Mr. Green
such unhappy intelligence of his son, that he immediately resolved, as a last resort, to send him to
sea, before the mast-and this was done, spite of all
the mother's tearful remonstrances, and the boy's
threats that he would escape from the vessel on the
very first opportunity.
And yet, for all this sad result of parental neglect,
Mr. Green devoted no more time nor care to his
children. Business absorbed the whole man. He
was a merchant, body and soul. His responsibilities
were not felt as extending beyond his store and his




HAVEN'T TIME.               205
counting-room, further than  to  provide for the
worldly well-being of his family. Is it any cause
of wonder that, with his views and practice, it should
not turn out well with his children; or, at least,
with some of them?
At the end of a syear, John came home from sea,
a rough, tobacco-chewing, cigar-smoking, dramdrinking, overgrown boy of eighteen, with all his
sensual desires and animal passions more active than
when he went away, while his intellectual faculties
and moral feelings were in a worse condition than at
his separation from home. Grief at the change oppressed the hearts of his parents; but their grief was
unavailing. Various efforts were made to get him
into some business, but he remained only a short
time in any of the places where his father had him
introduced. Finally, he was sent to sea again. But
he never returned to his friends.  In a drunken
street-brawl, that occurred while he was on shore at
Valparaiso, he was stabbed by a Spaniard, and died
shortly afterwards.
On the very day this tragic event took place, Mr.
Green was rejoicing over a successful speculation
from which he had come out the gainer by five
thousand dollars. In the pleasure this circumstance
occasioned, all thoughts of the absent one, ruined
by his neglect, were swallowed up.
Several months elapsed.  Mr. Green had returned
home, well satisfied with his day's business. In his
VYIII.18




206 0,HAVEN'T  TInME.
pocket was the afternoon paper, which, after the
younger children were in bed, and the older ones
out of his way, he sat down to read.  To the telegraphic column his eyes turned.  There had been
an arrival in Boston from the Pacific, and almost the
first sentence he read was the intelligence of his
son's death. The paper dropped from his hands,
while he uttered an expression of surprise and grief
that caused the cheeks of his wife, who was in the
roomi, to turn deadly pale.  She had not power to
ask the cause of her husband's sudden exclamation:
but her heart, that ever yearned towards her absent
boy, instinctively divined the truth.
" John is dead," said Mr. Green, at length speak
ing in a tremulous voice.
There was, from the another, no wild burst of anm
guish.  The boy had been dying, to her, daily, fog
years; and she had suffered, for him, worse than
the pangs of death.  Burying her face in her hands,
she wept silently, yet hopelessly.
"If we were only blameless of the poor child's
death," said Mars. Green, lifting her tearful eyes,
after the lapse of nearly ten minutes, and speaking
in a sad, self-rebuking tone of voice.
When those with whom we are in close relationship die, how quickly is that page in memory's book
turned on which lies the record of unkindness or
neglect I Already had this page been turned for 5Mr.
Green, and conscience was sweeping therefrom the




IIAVEN'T TIME.             207
dut, that wellnigh obscured the handwriting.  He
trembled, inwardly, as he read the condemning sentences that charged him with the guilt of his own
son's ruin.
"If we were only blameless of the poor child's
death!"
How these words of the grieving mother smote
upon his heart! He did not respond to them. How
could he do so at that moment?
" Where is Edward?" he inquired, at length.
"I don't know," sobbed the mother.  " He is out
somewhere almost every evening. Oh! I wish you
would look to him a little more closely.  He is past
my control."
"I must do so," returned Mr. Green, speaking
from a strong conviction of the necessity of doing as
his wife suggested,-" If I only had a little more
time" -
He checked himself.  It was the old excuse-the
rock upon which all his best hopes for his first-born
had been fearfully wrecked.  His lips closed, his
head was bowed, and, in the bitterness of unavailing sorrow, he mused on the past, while every moment the conviction of wrong towards his child, now
-irreparable, grew stronger and stronger.
After that, Mr. Green made an effort to exercise
more control over his children; but he had left the
reins loose so long, that his tighter grasp produced
restiveness and rebellion.  He persevered, however,




208            HAVEN' T TIME.
and, though Edward followed too closely the footsteps of John, yet the younger children were brought
under salutary restraints. The old excuse —want
of time-was frequently used by Mr. Green, to justify neglect of parental duties; but a recurrence of
his thoughts to the sad ruin of his oldest boy had,
in most cases, the right effect-and, in the end, he
ceased to give utterance to the words-" I haven't
time." However, frequently he fell into neglect
from believing that business demanded his undivided
attention.
POWER OF KINDNESS.
" TOM! here!" said a father to his boy, speaking
in tones of authority.
The lad was at play. He looked towards his
father, but did not leave his companions.
" Do you hear me, sir?" spoke the father, more
sternly than at first.
With an unhappy face and reluctant step, the
boy left his play and approached his parent.
"Why do you creep along at a snail's pace?",
said the father, angrily. "' Come quickly, I want
you; when I speak, I like to be obeyed instantly.




POWER OF KINDNESS.            209
Here, take this note to Mr. Smith, and see that you
don't go to sleep by the way. Now run as fast as
you can go."
The boy took the note; there was a cloud upon
his brow. He moved onward, but at a slow pace.
"You, Tom! is that doing as I ordered?  Is
that going quickly?" called the father, when he saw
the boy creeping away.  " If you are not back in
half an hour, I will punish you."
But the words had little effect. The boy's feelings were hurt by the unkindness of the parent;
he experienced a sense of injustice, a consciousness
that wrong had been done him. By nature, he was
like his father, proud and stubborn; and these qualities'of his mind were aroused, and he indulged in
them, fearless of consequences.
"I never saw such a boy," said the father, speaking to a friend who had observed the occurrence.
" My words scarcely made an impression on him."
" Kind words often prove most powerful," said
the friend. The father looked surprised.
"Kind words," continued the friend, "are like
the gentle rain and the refreshing dews; but harsh
words bend and break like the angry tempest. The
first develop and strengthen good affections, while
the others sweep over the heart in devastation, and
mar and deform all they touch. Try him with kind
words; they will prove a hundred-fold more powei.
ful."
18*




210          POWER OF KINDNESS.
The latter seemed hurt by the reproof, but it left
him thoughtful. An hour passed away ere his boy
returned. At times, during his absence, he was
angry at the delay; but the words of remonstrance
were in his ears, and he resolved to obey them.
At last, the lad came slowly in with a cloudy
countenance, and reported the result of his errand.
Having stayed far beyond his time, he looked fot
punishment, and was prepared to receive it with an
angry defiance.
To his surprise, after delivering the message he
had brought, his father, instead of angry reproof
and punishment, said kindly-" Very well, my son,
you can go out to play again."
The boy went out, but was not happy. He had
disobeyed and disobliged his father, and the thought
of this troubled him. Harsh words had not clouded
his mind, nor aroused a spirit of reckless anger.
Instead of joining his companions, he went and sat
down by himself, grieving over his act of disobedience. While he thus sat, he heard his name called.
" Thomas, my son," said his father, kindly.
The boy sprang to his feet, and was soon beside
his parent.
" Did you call, father?"
" I did, my son. Will you take this package to
IMr. Long for me?"
There was no hesitation in the boy's manner; he
looked pleased at the thought of doing his father a




POWER OF KINDNESS.            211
service, and reached out his hand for the package.
On receiving it, he bounded away with a light step.
"There is power in kindness," said the father, as
he sat musing, after the lad's departure. And even
while he sat musing over the incident, the boy came
back with a cheerful, happy face, and said-" Can
I do any thing else for you, father?"
Yes, there is the power of kindness.  The tempest of passion can only subdue, constrain, and
break; but in love and gentleness,there is the
power of the summer rain, the dew, and the sunshine




PLAYING MOTHER.
aIT'S just as you raise them," said Mr.Warner,
in his dogmatic way.'" I don't believe in a boy's
taking to a hammer and a girl to a doll from an instinct of nature. Girls are different, because they
are educated differently; there is no other law in
the matter."
"My experience," said a lady, who made one of
a little company numbering about half a dozen, and
she spoke in a quiet way, " leads me to a different
conclusion. Each sex has a use in society peculiarly its own; and from the earliest childhood, impulses pointing thitherward may be seen. Gentle,
tender, and loving are the uses of woman, and for
these she is fitted by nature.  Hardier, rougher,
bolder is man, because he is designed for a different
sphere of life. The boy takes the hammer, the
whip, or any other plaything that is noisy, or calls
for the exercise of strength and acte"; while the
girl as naturally busies herself with her doll, or her
cups and saucers."
"Simply," replied Mr. Warner, "because you
212




PLAYING MOTHER.             213
provide a hammer and whip for the one, and a doll
for the other."
" No," returned the lady, "the cause lies deeper
than this. It is radical. How is it with your own
little Anna? She is here to-day."
"She never had a doll in her life; I will not
permit such a thing to come into my house.  I
wish to develop the strength, not the weakness of
her character."  And, as Mr. Warner spoke, he
threw a glance upon his wife, which said, plainly
enough-" This wouldn't be so, if you had your
way."
" Oh i" remarked the lady, " then you are trying
to warp her character to suit your own theory. You
are not willing to let it develop naturally, and, as
I would say, healthfully."
" I wish to give it a strong and healthy development."
" Then it must grow from inward elements. If
you warp it, as you are certainly doing, you will
weaken and deform, instead of producing beauty,
health, and strength."
" So you think," said Mr.Warner, a little rudely.
Opinionated men are very often rude to ladies.
" Yes, I think so," replied the lady, not seeming
to notice the,tleman's manner.
"Where is your dear little girl?" asked one of
the company, a little while after, addressing Mrs
Warner.




214            PLAYING MOTHER.
" She's playing about the garden.  I saw her
from the window a few minutes ago."
"It would be a pleasant experiment," said the
lady with whom the child's father had held the controversy, ("just to take a look after Anna, and see
what she is doing.  I'll warrant that the girl's instincts are predominant in her acts.  You'll not find
her dragging up the flowers, nor throwing stones at
the birds, nor even digging in the dirt."' You'll probably find her racing about with the
boys," said the father.
" We'll see; come!" and the lady started for the
door. The company followed her out. Anna was
not in the garden among the flowers, nor romping
with the boys.
"Anna " called the mother.  They listened, and
her sweet, young voice was heard faintly answering.
Guided by the sound, she was soon discovered by
those in search of her.
"'What is she doing?" asked 3 r. WVarner, whc
did not at first see her distinctly.
" Playing mother," replied the lady with whom
he had held the controversy; and she spoke in a
tone of triumph.
"Nonsense," said Mr. Warner.
*   See for yourself."
"' The little witch!" exclaimed the father, affected
with pleasure, in spite of himself, by what he saw.
Anna had found a cap belonging to the lady at




PLAYING MOTHER.             215
whose house they were visiting, and, with this drawn
upon her head, was nursing a rabbit with the earnest
fondness of a mother.
The ladies caught the happy child in their arms,
and almost devoured her with kisses, while Mr.
Warner escaped back into the house to re-arrange
his forces for a new battle on his favourite hobby.
THE END.