\N
COURTING AT FIFTEEN.




MARRIED AT SEVENTEEN.








OF
NEW                  Y 0 RK.
nritten anr |lltstratel
BY
MARIE LOUISE HANKINS,
Editress of the Pictorial "FAMILY NEWSPAPER," and Authoress of
"Human Life;" " The Old Woman's Revenge;" "Bigamy;"
"The Bankrupt's Wife " "Too Late;"
The Needle Womon;"
&c., &c., &c.
NEW-YORK:
MARIE LOUISE HANKINS & CO.
PUBLISHED AT TIIE
Office of Marie Louise Hankins' Pictorial " FAMILY NEWSPAPER."
1861.




THE AUTHORESS
OF
l1)is       b)olume
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATES
IT To ALL
INDUSTRIOUS AND WORTHY FEMALES,
Who have SPIRIT and PRIDE enough to honestly EARN THEIR
OWN LIVING, instead of idly subsisting upon the
CHARITY    AND BOUNTY
OF
RELATIVES AND FRIENDS
WHO ARE SOMETIMES
SCARCELY ABLE TO MAINTAIN THEMSELVES.
Entered,,according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by
MARIE LOUISE IIANKINS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
J. J. REED, PRINTER & STEREOTYPER,
43 & 45 Centre Street.




LA   FARGE    HOUSE, Broadway,
NEW YORK, Dec., 1860. 
DEAR PUBLICArGAIN I bow to you as the Authoress
of a Book, and beg a few moments of
your time by way of introduction. I do
not ask an introduction for myself. I am
well known to you already.     It is my
/ -'~    Book I wish to speak of. As Editress of!-!, the " Family Newspaper," and Contributor to other Periodicals, I salute you
~>~- \ almost every day in the year, but I can
afford to write a " full grown" Book only
now and then. I'll be as brief as possible. I do not ask you to read a' PREFACE"-not I; for I well know that you have been pestered
with such bores until you no longer have any patience with
them. And I do not blame you, for my Editorial experience has given me a deep prejudice in that way. Instead of
writing an odious " Preface," and expecting you to read it,
I have thrown aside my pen, and put on my newest dress,
from Lord and Taylor's, just finished in the latest style, by
Madame Brackney, and otherwise arranged my toilet, so as
to be " unexceptionably presentable," to even the most fastidious connoiseurs of taste and fashion. I do not fancy
myself irresistible, but I have been at least an hour and a
half in my dressing-room, before the mirror, with the assistance of Jenette, my waiting-maid, and as that is a third
longer time than it generally requires to " get up" a fashion



iv                 Introduction.
able lady for an evening party or a ball, I think no one will
accuse me of not endeavoring to make myself look interesting. Jenette says, " Moi, M'lle Louise, how veeri sharming
you do luke!" But then flattery is the finishing art of all
French waiting-maids, and Jenette has learned it to perfection.
Well, thus attired in my best, and fully conscious of the
insignificance of my humble self, I now stand before you, dear,
kind, indulgent and amiable Public, and meekly bow- my
head for you to pass sentence. In my sanctum, quiet and
alone, with only pen, ink and paper and my own thoughts
to dwell upon, I was courageous and confident of success;
but now my heart trembles; for beneath the gaze of so
many thousand eyes, who could help feeling doubtful and
timid?  And there are those merciless Critics-" professional" in their way-who look at me sharply and scathingly, as though they would stare me through. At least one
of them I know, and, yet, why should I fear him? Ie's
nothing but a half-starved-well, no matter what he is, I'll
just say that for reasons neither manly, right nor just, he
"Applauds to-day what yesterday he curst,
Lampoons the wisest, and extols the worst;
While, hard to tell, so coarse a daub he lays,
Which sullies most, his slander or his praise."
No: I'll not care a fig for him, nor any of his school. I
write for the people. It is you, dear Public, I wish to
please. So, let demon Critics avaunt! It requires a great
deal of skill to please everybody, and it can hardly be expected that a Woman really possesses a sufficient quantum.
However, I am well aware that modern readers, as a mass,
prefer the newest and the most original, and I have therefore studied to make my book either remarkable or odd in
every feature. Its name is certainly queer, and the sketches




Introduction.                    v
are all peculiar. It is " Original, Curious and Truthful,"
and may be read by the old and the young of both sex with
profit and with pleasure. It is reasonable to expect that
such a book will entertain more young folks than old; but
if it is pleasant for many in the " sear and yellow leaf"'To turn again their earlier volumes o'er,
And love them then because they've loved before;
And wily bless the waning hour that brings
A will to lean once more on single things,"
those in the wane of life who are tired of the bustling
noise of the world, will also find by perusing these pages
that
"'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at such a world: to see the stir
Of this great Babel; and notfeel the crowd;
Nor hear the roaring din.through all its streets,
At a snug distance, where the far off sound
Falls without a murmur on th' uninjur'd ear."
I have endeavored to make an interesting " book of the
world," which shall abound with good and wholesome
Common Sense Morality; and as there is a " home sermon"
in almost every page, parents should first read it themselves
and then place it in ther daughter's hands.
But, dear Public. be kind enough to overlook the many
blunders and imperfections you see; for an original.book of
this size, was never written and produced under similar circumstances and facilities, in so short a time. Will you believe it, when I tell you, that in six weeks from the day I
began to write it, an edition of Ten Thousand copies were
printed and bound complete? During that short time I had
many, many other things to attend to, and the dear knows
how much other writing to do, and these Sketches were prepared "piece meal," in the moments I could spare. I had




vi                  Introduction.
no time to revise and improve the MSS., and with so much
haste, the result cannot be as perfect as it should have been
Yet, dear Public, if you will buy and read, and then merely
say, "'Twill do," I shall be contented.
"But be not long, for in the tedious minutes,
Exquisite interval, I'm on the rack."
And all this for a little FAME. I'll confess the truth.  If
it were not for Profit and Fame, one or the other, or both together, very few writers would toil as they do. Everybody
knows the end of"' Profit"-for'tis their bread and butter.
But in the words of the poet,
"What is the end of' Fame'?'Tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper;
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor.
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call' the midnight taper.'"
I am, dear Public, your most obedient servant,
MARIE LOUISE IHANKINS,
Editress of the " FAMILY NEWSPAPER."'NOTICE TO APPROVING READERS.
For the gratification of those who are pleased with the following
SKETCHES, we will state that a CONTINUATION thereof will be
published in Marie Louise Hankins' PICTORIAL "FAMILY
NEWSPAPER," the largest and best Periodical in the world: sent
by mail, to advance paying subscribers, for only 7 5 Cts. a Year.
In 1860, it had over 300,000 Readers, and since then, its circulation has been daily increasing, everywhere-$-  See PROSPECTUS on pages 350 and 351, in this book.
I'




\!U! //    7
P R   L    U E.
TO WOMAN ON EARTH.
EARTH! Thou would'st be a blank, a dreary waste,
A mighty desert without aught to cheer,
If lovely Woman were not ever near,
To bless Man's home with comfort and with taste.
*    *    *    *   *    *




viii                 Prologue.
I saw her in her gladsome ch7idhood,
When her smiles to all were dear,
And her laughter through the wild wood
Rang like bird-notes light and clear,
As she with her baby brother
Gambol'd through the summer day;
While the eyes of a fond mother
Watched them in their merry play.
Then I whispered gently, "Lovebird,
Tell me-dost thou wish to die'?"
And she, like a startled dove, heard
The dread words with frighted eye.
" Die?" she said; "the word's so dreary!
Leave my brother-friends-my flowers'
Name it not! I am not weary-'Tis so fair, this world of ours!"
Years pass'd on-a beauteous maiden's
Form eclipsed the child's of yore;
Now her words with sweeter cadence
Trembled, and her deep eyes wore
A lovelier light: a glorious being,
In his manhood's richest prime,
Wandered by her side, naught seeing
Save one face: sweet summer time!
Then again the words I breathed,"Canst thou now the world deny?
Are the flowers of earth still wreathed
Round about thee?-canst thou die''
How her heart, that heart that won him,
Trembled:-to be calm she stroveTurned her tearful eyes upon him,
Murmuring, "Not yet! I love!".gain years passed-all former gladness
With them from her heart had fled;




Prologue.                   ix
Clad in mourning robes of sadness,
Sat she grieving for the dead.
One sweet babe her arms enfolded,
In a mother's own embrace,
And the vision fair seemed moulded
From her long-lost childhood's face.
Eyes with love and sorrow beaming,
As once more I asked, " Couldst die?"
Then with eager answer gleaming" Oh, might I by his side now lie!
Earthly joys are false and hollow;'Tis not much the world can give:
He has gone-I fain would followNay! still for my child I'll live!"
Once again I saw her-sorrow
Long had dimmed her eye so brightWaiting, watching for the morrowAuburn tresses streaked with white.
Then I saw her softly stealing,
In the twilight's dusky shade,
To the churchyard; saw her kneeling
Where her darling child was laid.
Autumn winds were sadly sighing,
Seeming for some boon to crave;
Autumn leaves were drooping, dying,
Fading on that tiny grave.
Once again the words were spoken" Is it now the time to die!"
" It is-I go, in accents broken,
"I join my loved ones in the sky!"
*      *      *     *      *
Ah, WOMAN! what were life without thy love 1
Thou, whom our Maker formed so fair,
One would believe-thy beauty is so raro —
Thee an angel sent hither from above.




x                    Prologue.
Should a man be with sorrow opprest,
Thou, woman, his care will beguile;
By his sick-bed thou'lt watch without rest
His labors will cheer with a smile
And should poverty, nay, even shame,
Reach him who has once gained thy heart,
Thou'lt continue to love on the same,
Though all else unkindly depart.
For, the love that true woman bestows,
Though lowly her lot may be cast,
Entwined with her life as it grows,
Is constant, and ever will last.
Then to man, 0, woman, be very dear!
Be cherish'd with honor and love;
For, though man may to man be sincere,
Thou, always, his best friend will prove.
Thy holy mission is man's path to cheer,
To comfort him whene'er in care and strife,
And ever while he lives to make his life,
His home, to him a thousand-fold more dear;
May'st thou thy mission well fulfill, and he
Never neglect that which is due to THEE!




SYNOPSIS
OF
PORTA ITS      AMNB     A H RICTERS.
Page.
PECULIARITIES TO BEGIN WITH,..   13
1. RUTH MARTIN: The Spiritual Medium,... 23
2. MAGGIE BREWER: The Milliner's Girl,..  33
3. ANGELINA PLUMP: The Lap-Dog's Mother,.  43
4. MRS. BIFFLES: The Philanthropist,..  51
5. LIZZIE BLAIR: The Little Hunchback,.. 61
6. OLIVE ROLAND: The Dashing Widow,.   69
7. LAURA ELMER: The Sorrowing Mother,.  77
8. SIGNORINA ADELINA: The Opera Singer,.  87
9. MRS. BIDDY McKAY: The Female Vagrant,..95
10. RHODA ALWYN: The Perjured Bride,.. 103
11. PRISCILLA WlGGINS: The Man-Hater,...113
12. CYNTHIA DOLL: The Fascinating Lady,.  125
13. AUNTY GREEN: The Old Pedler Woman,...133
14. MARY BROWN: The Mechanic's Wife,..  * 143




12        Women of New York.
15. HELEN BRAY * The Ballet Girl,... 153
16. MARTHA BENTON: The True Woman,.. 161
17. LILLIE BELL: The Female Writer,....  171
18. KATE RAYMOND: The Outcast Wife,....177
19. MRS. GRAMPUS: The Boarding-house Keeper,..  195
20. SALLIE MUNN: The Widow's Daughter,.. 203
21. NANCY SCROGGS: The Lager Bier Woman,..211
22. SUSAN BRADLEY: The Clergyman's Wife,.. 219
23. STELLA RISDON: The Old Man's Darling,..227
24. CLARA COLLIER: The Disowned Daughter,.. 235
25 MARY GILBERT: The Lady of Fortune,... 243
26. MADAME DE WALL: The Woman in Black,.  255
27. MRS. JEWETT: The Broken Hearted,. 265
28. MADAME RAND: The Fortune Teller,... 277
29. SOPHIA RENVILLE: The Perfect Lady,..  285
30. MEDORA JACOBS: The Confidence Woman,.. 299
31. MISS JOHANNAS: The Bogus Lady,.. 313
32. JWLIA MORRIS: The Adventuress,....323
A " CONFIDENTIAL SERMON,"..       337








MANY YFARS AGO.




II ln
IN  THE YEAR 1860.








WOMEN OF NEW YORK
PISCUIe ARITIES TO BEGIiN WITH.
OH, woman! subtle, lovely, faithless sex!
Born to enchant, thou studiest to perplex.-PAINE
Oh! frail inconstancy of mortal state!
One hour dejected and the next elate!-PATTISON.
Vain human kind! fantastic race
Thy various follies who can trace?-SWIFT.'Tis pity tho', in this sublime world, that
Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.-BYRoN.
B Y      " Women of New.  York," we mean females in general who in^-,^     habit the metropolis. If
the men of New York are
o'PfWy', peculiar, the women are
"j'^ 2 K;    i / Kmore so. It is said that,>^^^     r^ ~ i women are all alike the
a,  - world over, but the New''^     York female is a most
wonderful study for moral philosophers and
readers of human nature.




14       Women of New      York.
The strong throbbing of the city's busy heart,
like the beating of that within every human
breast, influences the most remote and insignificant members. As the cessation of that
constant beating which counts each second of
our brief existence, would cause our senses to
fail us and our hands to drop forever motionless, so the pausing of New York's commercial
bosom, (were such a thing possible,) would involve in ruin the humble mechanic and the
petty dealer in rags and bones, as well as the
merchant whose interest is vested in a hundred
ships. The activity, the prosperity, the restless struggle for wealth and precedence, which
has been going on for years within the great
metropolis, seems to have created a type of
mortals fitted to breathe its atmosphere, and endure its bustle. They are well worth a few
glances of attention and a few words of praise
and censure.
Thus, readers, for your benefit, we raise the
curtain upon the busy scene, unroof the palace
of the millionaire and the hovel of the poorthus mount to the dismantled attic, and then
peep behind the curtains of the luxurious boudoir, revealing what we can of the life and
habits of the weaker sex, in various ranks and
stations, without one word which will shock the
ears of the most fastidious, or one picture




Peculiarities to Begin With.   15
which a judicious parent need fear to place
before the eyes of her innocent daughter.
The scenes and events in these pages have
been " drawn from real life," and perhaps some
acute masculine, who imagines that one woman
he chances to know, is a type of all her sex,
may here learn the fallacy of his opinions and
receive the idea that women can be spoken
of collectively in a respectful manner.
A woman may be either a blessed comforter,
a sympathizing friend, a silly doll, a selfish
leech, or an edged tool, to the man with whom
she is related by the ties of daughter, wife or
sister. And New York women go to the extreme of good or bad in whichever position
they may stand. Find a more perfect specimen
of her sex than a virtuous New York lady, descended perhaps, from the old Knickerbocker
stock, handsome, graceful, accomplished, and
well read, fitted by habits and associations for
companionship with the greatest upon earth,
and in every domestic relation, a pattern to
the present and to future generations. Look,
then, upon the other side. Can there be a
more intensely vulgar, ignorant, prejudiced,
wicked and remorseless creature, than a " low"
New York female? Is there more superlative
vulgarity of speech, dress and manners, to be
found any where in the world? Her mate can



16        Women of New York.
not be found. And so in the middle classes.
The mechanic's wife is more emphatically a
mechanic's wife. You can almost tell the doctor's spouse, or the minister's help-mate, without an introduction. Economical people are
doubly economical, extravagant people triply
extravagant, good people excessively good, and
bad people outrageously wicked, while selfish
people, (oh what shoals there are of these upon
life's waters,) are grasping and forgetful of all
interests save their own.
Now let us see whither we are about to go,
and upon what we are' to gaze during the
course of.our journey. In old times, when
Pearl street was " up town," and people moved
to localities now devoted to wholesale purposes, for "fresh air for the children," we
would have had a smaller field to traverse, and
quite different things to relate. With the
growth of Gotham the vices and the business
of its inhabitants have increased ten fold.
Behold the women of whom we are about to
write! The humblest among them has at least
an aspiration to greater magnificence of toilette, than would have contented the wealthiest
of our great grand mothers. Where will you
now find the well preserved "best dress,"the silk worn Sabbath after Sabbath for ten or
twenty years.-the shawl which is a family




Peculiarities to Begin With.   17
heir-loom, or the old velvet mantle, which
for generations have made a show? Where is
the servant girl who wears a costume adapted
to her duties and position in life, or who would
mark herself as a menial by the assumption of
the style enforced eighty years ago upon every
domestic? A skirt and jacket," sheperdess,"
the last was called, which differed in make and
material diametrically from the "robe," or
"gown," worn by the lady mistress. On the
contrary, the washerwoman's Sunday attire is
now as nearly like that of the merchant's wife
as it can be, and the bootblack's daughter
wears a bonnet made like that of the Empress
of the French. All women's backs are alike,
to those who are not posted in the prices and
qualities of dry goods. There is now very
little difference in comparison with the varied
incomes of the women who promenade our
streets.
A New York woman will seldom own that
she is poor or unfashionable, until she absolutely suffers destitution. But the destitute
are many. It is frightful to think how numerous they are. Our asylums and our public institutions, are filled to overflowing. Yet, alas I
the damp hovel, the tottering tenement house,
even the corners of empty cellars, the niches
of new buildings, and piles of boards or bar



18        Women of New York..x,  x.- \.. —,/- x.-.,., -x. x /., x
rels, shelter myriads of starving, shivering,
hopeless mortals, every night.
Among the women who thus suffer for their
own or others thriftlessness or crime, none can
be found who began life as they will end it.
In the homes of wealth, there are very few
who were born to the enjoyment of luxury.
The wheel of fortune turns no where so
swiftly as in the great metropolis. New Yorkers must go up or down, must sink or swim.
They make fortunes in a year, or lose them in
a day. A friendly push sends some to the top
of the see-saw, an unlucky jounce precipitates
others head long to the bottom. You cannot
crawl up two feet and back one, in Gotham's
slippery road. It is either the top or the bottom, towards which we are always progressing.
All the better for the lucky ones, and all the
worse for those who fall. It is impossible to
tell the future life of the child, by the circumstances in which fate appears to have placed
it. Make the attempt, and you will soon see
your mistake.
Perhaps the principal cause of the rapid approach of want and misery to women reared
in ease and plenty, and then thrown upon their
own resources, is the idleness in which they
are almost universally educated. A fashionable lady is Ps helpless with her hands, as a




Peculiarities to Begin With.    19
Chinese woman is with her feet. Her delicate
fingers are shapely and white it is true, but
they are not capable of providing the common
necessaries of life, for even one human being.
To sew, to make bread, to sweep or wash,
would be to degrade herself. To learn a trade
or profession, with which, if necessary, she
might support existence, would be a drudgery
she could not contemplate for a moment. Then
her education is superficial, and her accomplishments, even should she be talented, are
merely dabbled in, not learned. She can sing,
play, paint flowers, and perhaps write poetry
-but only "a little."  She is seldom mistress
of any one art, sufficiently to enable her to
adopt it as a profession. Her beauty alone,
has been well nourished and cared for; and
from girlhood, her constant object has been
marriage. Once the wife of an eligible suitor,
she expects to be supported in a sumptuous
style, until her dying day. Should death deprive her of her protector, leaving her unexpectedly penniless, she has no power to struggle with her destiny, but sinks inertly, unless
some kind friend or relation proffers his charity.
The unfledged bird, the babe of a brief week's
existence, is as strong a thing as many a
fill grown fashionable lady, left to her own
resources.




20        Women of New York.
Now and then, sensible people among the
wealthy classes give their daughters the power
to be independent, by encouraging their talent,
or instructing them in some art, by which they
might, if necessiated, gain a livelihood. But
such common sense is rare. And thus it is
that we continually see the poor mount, and
the rich fall.
The servant has the use of her fingers, and
never need to starve. The milliner, ready to
seize at bargains, and turn a penny by some
change in the prevailing mode, can make a
fortune. The shop keeper's wife is his best
aid behind the counter, and by slow degrees
each attains a position above that in which
she began life. Starting in a shanty, may
end in a palace. Yet having once attained an
eminence, these very people deny their children the advantages which made them what
they are. Believing idleness a mark of superiority, they educate their offspring to an inaction, which degrades both mind and body,
renders the girls mere walking fashion plates,
and causes the boys to become the dissipated
idlers, who will inevitably run through any
fortune, and bring themselves and their sisters
to beggary.
Women, think of this I Read the various experiences herein presented, and profit therefrom.








RUTH MARlTIN




RUTH MARTIN:
TH   E SPIRITUIL MEIIIU M
" I can call up spirits from the vasty deep!"
"Why so can I, or so can any man!"
"But will they come, when you do call for them " —SHAKS.
-   HE picture of poor Ruth is a verita\   ble portrait, and the type of a class
who have sprung up, mushroom-like,
in our midst.
There are charlatans among the professors
of spiritualism, who for the sake of gain play
upon the credulity of those visiting them.
Men and women who disguise the basest intentions beneath the cloak of superstition, and
poor dupes, who are either the tools of those
about them, or the victims of their own morbid
imagination and warped intellect. To this
last order belongs Ruth Martin, a woman who
was but a few years ago lovely, loved, and loving. This prevailing madness has torn health
and happiness forever from her. Many a husband will sigh as he reads this; many a father




24        Women of New York.
and brother, aye! many a son and daughter will
sadly think of some'dear one, either already
sunk, or fast sinking into the mire of spiritual
mania. For, alas, how many wives, sisters,
daughters and mothers, have been degraded
by its blackness.
Ruth Martin, at sixteen, was as pretty and
sweet a girl as could be found among the first
circles of our society. No pains had been
spared upon her education, and in the solid
branches, as well as every lady-like accomplishment, she was well versed and brilliant.
The only noticable fault in her personal appearance, was the want of color; and the only
point which marred her character, was a disposition to melancholy. Small, plump, and fair
as an infant, this personal defect was rarely
commented upon; and as for the mental peculiarity, a life of uninterrupted ease was not
calculated for its development. Her melancholy found its outlet in sentimental songs,
and touching incidents in plays and novels,
and seldom, or never, intruded itself upon the
daily recurrences of her existence.
At eighteen, Ruth formed an attachment for
a young and handsome ma:,, who had long loved
her fondly, and she was betrothed to him with
the full consent of her parents. The wedding
day was fixed, the wedding garments fash



The Spiritual Medium.       25
ioned, and even the ring lay waiting to encircle her finger, when death, as though envious
of so much happiness, raised its scythe and
cut down the young lover in the very summer
of his life. On the morning of the day which
should have witnessed their nuptials, he died
in Ruth's arms, and with him perished all the
hope and youth of the young girl's existence.
From the long illness which followed this
dreadful shock, she arose the faded wreck of
her former self in mind and person. Just at
this time, the spiritual fever was beginning to
spread. There were "manifestations" here,
and "mediums" there. You read, in each
morning's paper, of children, scarcely old
enough to speak, who had communication with
the invisible world; of ignorant men who, in
"the trance state," penned erudite essays on
scientific subjects; and of tables and chairs,
becoming capable of volition, on the application of the tips of certain gifted fingers.
Ruth heard these rumors, and was fascinated
by them. The beautiful idea, that we are
watched over by guardian angels, lingers in
every pure Christian heart; and Ruth treasured
this hope as a miser does his gold. To hear
from her dead lover; to know that in the
world beyond Death's mystic river, he waited
for her coming; to be assured that, in that




26        Women of New York.
higher sphere, we love and are beloved, as
upon earth, was her constant prayer by night
and day, and the charlatans, who live upon the
folly of the credulous, found her an easy prey.
At first the delusion was at times apparent
even to Ruth's warped mind. She felt that
the " manifestations" were vague and pointless,
and that jugglery might be the cause of the
effects she witnessed; but, after a little while,
the clouds gathered more closely about her,
and all she saw seemed of divine origin. Bye
and bye she began to believe herself endowed
with the power of communicating with beings
of another world.  She saw visions-heard
heavy blows upon the wall-felt her hand
seized in the cold clasp of unseen fingers, and
in fact, was subject to all those terrible and
unaccountable delusions which take possession
of the votaries of spiritualism. Hitherto, she
had been as docile and obedient to her parents
as a child; but now, their tears and remonstrances aroused her anger.  She regarded
them as obstacles between herself and some
great good, and gradually weaned herself fr6m
their care and protection, and sought companions who encouraged or participated in her
delusion.  The last years of her old father's
life were spent in vain endeavors to guard his
daughter from the evil effects of her insanity'




The Spiritual Medium.        27
and her weary mother died of a broken heart,
soon after following her husband to the grave.
They left property behind them, and this became poor Ruth's. Now, indeed, was the unhappy woman in peril. Her new made friends
gathered more closely around her; the dear
old home, which had sheltered her innocent
childhood, became the scene of midnight orgies.
What otherwise would still have been revolting in the extreme, became tolerable when she
believed it;'done under the direction of the
spirits;" and, at length, her fair fame was
tarnished by the conduct and character of those
with whom she had become identified. At
last, she herself-she, who had once been so
pure and spotless, faltered, and fell. Among
her associates, there was one who hid the heart
and propensities of a tiger beneath a sanctimonious exterior. His face was expressionless; but you could read in his cold, glittering,
grey eye, a subtle cunning and determination
which would enable him to accomplish any
purpose, and overcome any obstacle. Above
all he had that peculiar mesmeric power, which
is sometimes found in men of strong and active
minds, and which can compel those of weak
bodies and vascilating dispositions to almost involuntary obedience. Ruth was rich. Money
was the engine which this man most lacked




28        Women of New York.
and needed. Her delusion favored him in his
schemes, and, like a bird of prey, he hovered
above his victim, gradually diminishing the
circles of his flight, and drawing near her by
imperceptible degrees.  He spoke first of
affinity. He bewildered her by doctrines specious as they were vile, and, finally, brought
advice, which suited his purpose, from the lips
of other mediums in whom poor Ruth placed
implicit reliance. In addition to all this, he
was very kind, and so few were sincerely kind
to the lonely woman.  Sometimes too, when
they were alone, he whispered words of love
and flattery, sweet always to any woman's ear,
and they fell very soothingly upon Ruth's
weary heart.  At first she only listened to
them: bye and bye she began to crave them,
and in a little while she was his, to be played
with for a brief space, then tortured, robbed,
and deserted. When he had obtained all that
his credulous victim possessed, he left her,
almost penniless, to support existence as best
she might. She never heard of him again. The
designing comrades, who surrounded her in her
days of plenty, left her in her poverty: and in
this last misery, the mania which first misled
her, now grew even more powerful. She saw
departed ones standing beside her-heard mysterious warnings in the air-foretold the future,




The Spiritual Medium.       29
and spoke in unknown tongues. A circle of
believers gathered about her, listening with
awe to her incoherent rhapsodies, and believing her inspired when her warped mind caused
her to assume the mien and language of a prophetess. For a while Spiritualists spoke of
her as " the best living Medium," and the uninitiated laughed or marvelled according to
their gifts of mirth, or credulity. But the end
was coming.
One cold winter evening, when happy families gathered about their blazing hearths, and
there was mirth and joy and music in many a
home where Ruth had once beef a loved and
welcome guest, the poor creature, now banished from virtues's dwelling places, was the center of a circle, composed of believers and strangers, whom curiosity had attracted to the spot.
The demon was at work within her, and all the
mystic manifestations were at their height.
Those who had seen Ruth frequently, were now
astonished by the brightness of her wild sunken
eyes, and they noticed that a spot of vivid crimson burned upon her cheeks, which were usually
colorless as those of a corpse. All was quiet.
The believers were eagerly awaiting the next
manifestation from their prophetess, who sat
with her head bowed upon her bosom, and the
sceptics were growing sleepy or impatient.
_...      




30        Women of New York.
Suddenly, without a sign of warning, Ruth
arose, and seizing a burning lamp, she threw it
with an unearthly scream in the midst of the
affrighted congregation. In an instant, the
room was cleared.  The horrified spectators
rushed wildly down the creaking stairs and into
the open air, and after them, with blood-shot
eyes, disordered hair, and frantic jestures, darted a maniac, foaming at the mouth, and uttering shrieks which made the blood of strong
men curdle in their veins. The last spark of
reason had fled from poor Ruth's disordered
mind, never to be rekindled more.
In an asylum, where other poor insane creatures are cared for, or neglected, at the public
expense, you may now see poor Ruth's hollow
cheeks and vacant eyes, and, in her more quiet
moments, may hear her speak of spirits who are
beckoning to her from beyond the grated windows. And spirits are calling her. In a little
while the disfigured clay will be laid beneath
the earth, and the soul, restored and purified,
will return again to Him who gave it.








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niLGGTI ttET~li]Et.




MAGGIE BREWER:
THE    MILL      NER'S     GII L.
But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch-so full of mirth,
The overflowing of an innocent heart.-RoGERs..AGGIE Brewer is all day alternating between the shop and the
room back of it, selling bonnets,
= flowers and feathers in the one, and
stitching "for dear life," in the other. Never,
on any account, looking dull or stupid, or forgetting the fact that she is an exceedingly
pretty girl.
Old Mrs. Stitchem, the proprietess of the establishment, declares that Maggie is worth fifty
other shop girls, and Miss Betsy, the forewoman,
had rather have her services than those of any
of her assistants. As for the ladies who patronize Mrs. Stitchem, they are equally well
pleased, for Maggie is never weary of looking
for "just this shade of blue," or "just that
width of ribbon," and will disembowel fifty
I




34        Women of New York.
boxes for the benefit of their curiosity, without
a single murmur. Many and many a young man,
allured within the glass doors, by the pretty face
behind the counter, and, intending to spend
nothing, has found his pockets lighter by several dollars, and his hands full of gauzy nothings,
of which he could make no possible use-for
Maggie is a thorough little tradeswoman, and
uses her smiles and beauty as well as she does
her nimble fingers. She can flirt in the most
approved manner, and is as wicked a coquette
as can be found upon this mundane sphere; but,
as far as real virtue is concerned, she is incorruptible, and would guard her honor with her
very life.
Maggie'is quick of speech, and can express
herself fluently, but her grammar is somewhat
deficient, and she is fond of a superfluity of
negatives. Any thing she disapproves of, is
stigmatised as "real mean."  Over-work is
"real mean," bad needles are "real mean," and
scolding is "real mean." -A rainy day, or too
fastidious customers-a rent in her best dress,
or a bad dinner, all are " real mean." There is
no stronger term in her vocabulary. Maggie's
dress, on holidays, is as scrupulously arranged
as that of any Fifth Avenue belle. Her bonnet, with its gay flowers, shades the glossiest of
ringlets, and her long skirts sweep the sideI




The Milliner's Shop Girl.    35
walk with as great a disregard of economy as
though she was worth a million. A shabby
garment is the only thing which will give Maggie a fit of the blues, and a badly fitting basque
is the object of her supreme and unlimited disgust.
Maggie's home is situated on the' East side"
of New York, beyond the Bowery, in one of the
streets running down towards the river, and
there she dwells, in company with her widowed
mother and several sisters, who are either dressmakers or tailoresses. The young men of the
neighborhood cast glances of admiration on
Maggie, as she goes toward the shop in the
early morning; and the butcher around the
corner is driven to distraction's verge by the
prejudice which old Mrs. Brewer entertains
against him.
One of Maggie's sisters is engaged to a prosperous journeyman tailor, and the others have
each " their young man," who is supposed to be
paying " particular attention," by all the watchful observers. But, in general, she passes to
and fro without disturbance, thinking of all
those objects of interest which the humblest
life affords, or calculating (if it be Saturday
night) how far the little sum in her portemonaie can be made to go; and on the whole if
perhaps as happy as many a richer maiden,!____________




36        Women of New York.
who rolls past her among the cushioned seats of
their father's carriages. During her shopping
excursions, Maggie patronizes the Bowery.
There the colors are brighter, the patterns
larger, and the clerks more loqucious. There
are bargains to be met with. Damaged lace at
less than cost, veils from auction, at half price,
pink lilies and blue roses, to be purchased for
a mere song, and embroidered cotton handkerchiefs, which the shopmen declare can never be
told from linen, for a shilling a piece.
It is Maggie's delight to visit these stores by
gaslight, in company with several young women
of her acquaintance, and then and there expend all her superfluous cash in the purchase
of various articles of adornment, and go home
chatting about that "real pretty clerk who
measured the ribbon," or that " real mean man
who would not throw off sixpence on the muslin."  Another great enjoyment is to be
escorted in the evening, by some spruce young
beau, to an ice cream saloon, and there to be
refreshed with various delicacies, and overwhelmed with attentions.  Other girls are
there to observe and admire, and other beaus
to grow jealous. There is always such a pretty
fountain in the centre, with a white statue
throwing water over its head, and such a nice
display of artificial flowers, and the waiters, in




The Milliner's Shop Girl.     37
their white aprons, are as polite as though
they were serving a princess. Indeed, Maggie quite imagines herself a great lady, and
draws off her kid gloves with an air. Going
home, they always walk slowly, and are disposed to talk sentimentally. The young man
says, he " would have like to have stayed in
that there place for a considerable time." And
the young lady inquires "Why?" And her
escort answers, "'Cause he had such good company."  This brings a brighter red to her
cheek, and she turns away from him. Then,
somehow, Maggie finds herself looking out of
her little attic window, long after she ought to
be asleep, wondering " whether he really meant
anything by it," and imagining the feelings of
a bride, in white attire and orange flowers.
Some of these bright evenings there will be
more smiles and blushes, and a strong palpitation of a certain good, honest heart; and after
that, Maggie will " keep regular company," and
will have lovers' quarrels, and make them up
again; and, finally, she will get married, and
settle down as wife and mother, in some compact little second or third floor. Such a time
as they will have at the wedding defies description. All the relatives and friends will
be invited. Sarah's young man, and Lizzie's
young man, will come, of course; and there




38        Women of New York.
will be a plentiful feast prepared for their
entertainment. The rich old aunt, from Peekskill, will bring a present of teaspoons, and will
make Maggie blush by whispering to her, that
"in a year she will also give her a cradle."
The bridesmaid will have to endure sundry
jokes, about bridesmaids being always destined
for brides, in the shortest space of time. And
the sisters will be informed, by all the old
ladies, that their turn is coming next. All the
gentlemen will salute the bride, and try to kiss
the bridesmaids; and there will be much
screaming, and running into corners, and the
ugliest damsel will be far the easiest to capture.
And after supper, there will be a good deal.of
singing, and a number of tunes upon the somewhat cracked piano-forte, and as much dancing
as can be managed in the limited space between the table and the fireplace; and a little
after midnight, the guests will take their departure, and Maggie Brewer will bid them
adieu as " Mrs. Smith."
If Maggie's husband is prosperous, she may
some day move from the second floor to a
brown stone mansion, and, perhaps, eventually
keep her carriage, and a dozen servants.
Should you meet her after she gets up in the
world, you will recognize her by some lapses
in grammar, and a habit of wearing very gay




The Milliner's Shop Girl.    39
flowers in her bonnet. But, although neither
refined nor educated, she will still have the same
light spirit, gay heart, and nimble fingers, as
when she measured ribbon. for Mrs. Stitchem;
and although she may be sneered at " for having risen from nothing," and looked upon with
ridicule by some of her more well born neighbors; she will be very happy, and make a
loving wife, and good mother.
But Maggie Brewer is better off than the
great multitude of shop girls in New York.
Maggie has a home where she can live with a
good, kind mother, and in the companionship
of her sisters and little brother. She receives
nine dollars a week for her services in the shop
of Mrs. Stitchem, while her co-laborers get only
three or four.
There is a mischievous spirit governing the
will and actions of all working females. They
seem to cherish the idea, that being women,
they should live without labor. From infancy
up, they are continually counting upon assistance and support from relations or friends, or
looking forward to the time when they shall
have a husband to provide for their wants.
It is frequently said, that in New York,
there is nothing for working females to do; or
that the compensation they receive is not adequate to their wants. How could it be other



40        Women of New York.
wise, when there is such a total lack of care or
concern, on the part of the operative females,
towards the interest of their employers. They
work only for their wages, and anxiously
watch the clock for the hour to quit. They
submit to it spitefully, and only for the time
being, expecting, of course, to drop it to-morrow or next week, and fly into some harbor of
rest,-some haven of repose, where their wants
must be provided for, and where luxuries shall
be showered about them. And such is the
feeling of shop girls generally. No wonder
then, that their employers can not pay them
more. It would be unreasonable to reward
their assistants for inattention and neglect.
Maggie Brewer is an exception to the masses,
and consequently she receives a fair compensation. Some get even higher wages, but they
are still more competent and useful, and increase the profit of their employers, where
others would carelessly let in waste and destruction. If shop girls acted upon the same
principle that men are obliged to, they would
be worth far more to their employers, and feel
a thousand times happier themselves.








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ANCELINA PLTTMP.




ANGELINA PLUMP:
THE    LIP    DOG]   S  R1OTIIHE
Leave her to heaven,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her!
1R. Plump keeps his carriage, and
Mrs. Plump rides in it. Mr. Plump
owns a magnificent dwelling, and
Mrs. Plump resides therein. Mr.
Plump has purchased chairs, tables, sofas, beds,
and carpets, of the most splendid kind and quality, and Mrs. Plump sits upon, eats bff of, lolls
over, sleeps in, and walks over said articles. It
is a man's duty to provide such luxuries for his
wife, and it is the province of a woman to enjoy them. Mrs. Plump cannot imagine that
she has another earthly obligation. At the
altar she promised to love, honor, and obey
Mr. Plump, with the idea that the vow signified only her willingness to dwell in his mansion,
eat off his china and silver, and allow him to
pay her milliner's bills. And in her daily con



44        Women of New York.
versation, she alludes to herself, not as the
wife of Mr. Plump, or the parent of their only
child, but she styles herself "Fido's Ma."
Fido is a little dog, white, curly, red-eyed, and
spiteful. He is washed every day, combed
and curled as regularly as a dandy's moustache,
and embellished with a blue ribbon and gold
buckle in summer, and by a little crimson
blanket in winter. Mrs. Plump always takes
Fido out with her when she drives down
Broadway to Lord & Taylor's, and her maid
goes along to carry the sweet animal behind
his mistress when she alights. Mirs. Plump
often electrifies the pedestrians by screaming
in sentimental tones, whenever her favorite
whines aloud"Bless its little heart,-did Fido want to
come to his ma?"
Meanwhile, the lady's own child is leaning
from the nursery window, or pleads in vain
with the lazy nurse, for a walk in the gardeni,
or to the square. Poor child! "Fido's Ma"
would not be seen with an infant on her knee
for Queen Victoria's crown and scepter; and
she sometimes passes whole days without even
visiting her little son in the nursery.
"Jones!" Mrs. Plump will remark to nurse;
"Jones, is your young master dressed in his
claret colored velvet?"




The Lap Dog's Mother.         45
"Yes, ma'am," replies the girl, whose christian name is Ann, but who is always spoken
to as'Jones,' because great people in England sometimes address their servants in this
wise, and Mrs. Plump apes the manners of the
foreign nobility, "Yes, ma'am, and his little
gold armlets."
"Well, and you'r sure his hair looks nicely,
Jones!" continues her mistress.
"Yes, ma'am. I fixed it with my own two
hands I"
"Then, Jones, if Miss Wilcox calls, let him
come into the parlor for five minutes; but
otherwise don't allow him to disturb me, for
my nerves won't stand his noise, and poor, dear
Fido is not well to-day."
Nurse courtesies and retires, and little Charley
is " not allowed to disturb his mamma" that day
nor the next, while Mr. Plump, immersed in
speculation, seldom remembers that he has a
son, and the servants, as selfish as their superiors, are always too busy or too cross, to humor
the child's innocent wishes.
Mrs. Plump calls, and shops, and receives
visits, and attends parties and balls, and goes
to the opera. Her spouse spends his mornings
among the speculators of Wall-street, and finishes his day anywhere rather than at home, for
his wife is only "Fido's ma," and neither wishes




46        Women of New York.
for nor misses his society. Now and then they
give a grand party, and the lady and gentleman
are both present. The tables are spread with
costly delicacies, and the rooms are full of rich
and fashionable people. Music and ill-natured
remarks, dancing and scandal, cards and envy,
pass away the night, and the guests compliment
the host and hostess, and go away to whisper
-that " this can't last long, and that there will
be a failure one of these days." And these
gatherings are the sum total of the domestic
comfort or hospitality with which this fashionable mansion is acquainted. There seems to
be no link between the hearts of its selfish occupants. The husband'fills his establishment
with costly furniture, and clothes his wife in
velvet and diamonds, as though he were paying a debt of long standing, incurred for something he had never valued. The wife enjoys
her luxuries, because they were her object in
marrying. The child is dressed to match the
other appointments of the household, and fed,
because it is fashionable to feed one's children.
He was christened more to exhibit his costly
embroidered robe than for any higher purpose,
and will in a few years be sent to boardingschool to get him out of the way. How the boy
will grow up, or what kind of a man he will become, it is impossible to imagine. Certainly




The Lap Dog's Mother.        47
he will never feel the holy restraint of a happy
home and loving parents, when he is tempted to
wickedness or folly. He can never remember
a father's counsel, nor a mother's kisses. He
was cared for by servants in his infancy; and
in his manhood, will scarcely turn to seek those
who were almost strangers to him when a child.
In all probability he will be wild and heartless,
and will anticipate, with unnatural joy, the hour
which shall make him sole possessor of his father's wealth, while for his mother he will entertain neither reverence nor love. How could
he love his mother, when throughout his boyhood he cannot remember her as his friend and
counselor, nor as the one who smiled upon his
worthy acts, and wept when he did wrong, nor
as the tender guardian in whom most boys find
their safeguard from temptation, but only as a
heartless, brainless doll, a piece of rouged and.
ringletted affectation, calling itself with a simper-" Fido's ma." How could he love such a
mother?
If the census taker had been permitted to
return us the names of all the Mrs. Plumps who
live in the city, no doubt we should have raised
our hands in wonder to know how manyfashionable mothers, prefer petting lap dogs, to bestowing natural love and duty upon their own offspring. We feel safe in saying that there are




48        Women of New York.
at this moment thousands of innocent little
Harries, Johnies, and Charlies, and Jennies,
Carries and Lizzies, between the ages of three
months and ten years, and of rich parents,
weeping and crying under the cold, hired attention of nurses who come to New York from
Great Britain, on purpose to take care of children; and we can conclude with equal certainty
that the parents of these hapless children are
absent somewhere in gay pursuit of their personal pleasure, and would not pause to answer
the imploring cry of " pa," or "ma."  One
would infer that it must be unnatural for a
mother to love her child, when she hides it
away and employs a stranger to perform her
duty for her, while she adopts a sickly, soreeyed poodle, to nurse and carry about, instead.
We have frequently sighed in compassion, for
the ragged children of destitution and want as
they pass us shivering, in the thoroughfares,
and have sometimes felt more than half like
crying to think what will become of them; but
upon sober reflection we feel more doubtful
concerning the destiny of the child of the rich
lady who glories in calling herself a lap dog's
mother.
_








41'
ul "~
MR. IFLS




MRS. BIFFLES.
THE    PHILANTHROPIST.
And Justice while she winks at crimes
Stumbles on innocence sometimes.-BUTLER.
XQ'    1RS. Biffles is a good old lady, who
_i? }'" -was born somewhere in the State of
X  Massachusetts. Her father was a
-Baptist minister, and her mother
a lady of the practical school, who did not believe in laughter, music, children's pastime, nor
other frivolous methods of wasting hours which
might be devoted to paring apples or studying
the catechism.
Little Sarah was early taught to sit up straight,
knit stockings, and go to church three times
every Sunday. She never skipped the rope,
nor rolled the hoop, nor played at battledoor
and shuttlecock, nor "ring around a rosy." In
her blue checked apron and brown merino
dress, she was a little old woman, demure and
solemn.
As she grew older, her mind was developed
by the perusal of the biographies of departed




52        Women of New York.
children, who were all perfection during their
life time, and this course of study was now and
then relieved by the lives and wanderings of
missionaries, who had narrowly escaped being
devoured by cannibals, or being thrown as sacrifices to some Hindoo idol, who was supposed
to be greatly aggrieved by their unwelcome
presence. Once the poor child sat down under
the shadow of the old grape-vine to dream over
Scott's Ivanhoe, an old copy of which she had
found hidden upon an upper shelf of a cupboard in the attic, but in the midst of her enjoyment the volume was whisked away by the
hands of her watchful mother, and she was led
forthwith to her father's study, to be accused
of the flagrant crime of " reading novels."
Thus prevented from indulging her tastes in
literature, poor Sarah conceived an aversion for
books, and turned her attention to human nature, determining to become a philanthropist,
and like Don Quixote, redress the grievances
of the world. She began with the poor of her
own neighborhood, and endeavored persistently
to make them all go to church. But after a
drunken cobbler had chased her down the road,
with a hot poker in his hand, for meddling in
his domestic affairs, and she had caught the
scarlet fever, by visiting a family where the
children were just suffering from an attack of.L




The Philanthropist.        53
that dire disease, she refrained from this attempt, and turned her thoughts towards the
culprits in prison. They, poor fellows, could
not resent any interference, and under the impression that she was a second Mrs. Fry, the
good Sarah visited the Frogtown jail three
times every week, bearing in her reticule a
large supply of tracts and moral essays. She
had a promising set of pupils. There was
Dick Dangle, the drunken vagrant, who had led
a life of sottish dissipation for over sixty years,
and who always put an abrupt end to the
young lady's harangue by remarking" Yes, yes-that's very true, and you have a
deal of learning, but I'm not young enough to
begin them things, and if yer would only give
me a sixpence to buy a drop of whisky to keep
the cold out of my stomach, you'd be doing me
a great kindness."
A'young thief, who made faces behind her
back, a woman who had robbed a dwellingLouse, and who always made a point of going
to sleep the moment Miss Sarah entered, and
from ten to fifteen minor offenders, who had
committed assault and battery, or stolen apples
or turkeys-all confined on charges of vagrancy, completed the list. How long the young
woman would have continued her efforts it is
impossible to say, for at the age of eighteen,




54        Women of New York.
she married a small man by the name of Biffles,
and removed with him to New York. For a
few years l!er philanthropic efforts were at rest.
Mrs. Biffles filled her thoughts and occupied
her hands, but as they grew older, all the fervor
of her disposition broke out in a fresh direction,
and she became the "friend of the oppressed
slave." She prayed for him, wept for him, and
lectured about him. She was for freeing the
whole mass of southern negroes in one day, and
allowing them to run pell-mell over the United
States, to earn their own subsistence by whitewashing, or starve to death, just as it might
happen, so long as they enjoyed a "glorious
freedom," which only one- out of twenty could
possibly appreciate. She attended abolition
meetings, made speeches, called the southerners hard names, screamed for aid for " the crushed and oppressed mulatto," and advised freemen "to arm in aid of their enslaved brethren."
Meanwhile her own dwelling was neglected.
Her children grew up like weeds, and Mr. Biffles seldom had buttons on his linen. Many
and many a night did that much injured man
wait with an umbrella in the lobby of some
lecture-room, while the tones of his wife's loud
voice were still ringing upon the air, and the
neglected children played mischievous pranks




The Philanthropist.        55
in their uncomfortable home. Poor man! like
Mr. Jelleby, he prayed that none of his daughters might ever have a mission.
Go to Mrs. Biffles in your own character, as
an honest white man or woman, and you will
receive no favors at her hands. You must "take
care of yourself." She will tell you " that is
what every one should do in this world, and she
has no time to pause in your behalf." No matter what your woes may be, you can draw no
tears from Mrs. Biffles' eyes. But send her a
negro, or represent yourself to have escaped
from jail, and her arms and purse are at once
opened. An escaped slave may firmly anticipate board, lodging, and the use of everything
in her dwelling; the sympathizing tears of the
fair lady, and a nice little sum of money to as.
sist him in his travels, while the convict would
be hidden in the cellar and sent upon his way
rejoicing, with plenty of good advice, and a
copy of Watts' Hymns in his pocket. In fact,
to sum up all in a few words, Mrs. Biffles is like
many other people. Public miseries and wrongs
excite their deepest sympathy, while private
sorrows are unheeded. The sufferings of those
around them awaken no interest in their bosoms. Nay, they will even abuse their own
servants, neglect those who have claims upon
their kindness, and wound the feelings of others




56        Women of New York.
with whom they are associated, while they bemoan the woes of some oppressed race, sect or
boAy, and even worship its unworthy members
to an abject and servile degree.
As Mrs. Biffles pretends to be such a devout
philanthropist, people very often send white
objects of charity to her dwelling, and we could




The Philanthropist.         57
relate numerous instances of the way she receives them.
One day, a half starved, and ragged white
boy, called at the door of Mrs. Biffles' dwelling,
and asked for work. He had been sent there
by some one. On the step, he was met by
Mrs. Biffles' adopted favorite little African, and
the following dialogue ensued:STARVING WHITE BOY-Does your master
want a boy to work?
LITTLE AFRICAN-I ain't got no master, he's
no'count. I libs wid missus, and she doesn't
hab white pussons'bout.
STARVING WHITE BoY-But tell her I am
very tired and hungry, and if she will give me
a bit of bread, I'll be so thankful for it. Tell
her I have no home.
LITTLE AFRICAN-NO use to tell her dat.
She wouldn't do nuffin for you,'case you are
not colored enough. Missus say she's not going
to help vagabonds. White people can help
demnselves, missus says. Yes, missus says de
Lord lubs his dark skinned children de best.
So you'd better go away, white boy, for missus
has got a berry cross bull dog in de yard.
That she feels for the negro, there is no
doubt; but instead of being actuated by the
impulses of a good heart, she is only lost in a
monomaniacal zeal, which seems to effect many




58        Women of New York.
weak minded women, in whose families insanity has long been hereditary. Hundreds
of destitute white widows have gone to Mrs.
Biffles, with the most conclusive proofs of their
honesty, and with deplorable evidences of their
want, but she always sends them away with a
religious tract, or the memoir of an escaped
slave, or the confessions and reformation of a
pardoned convict. She offers them neither
food nor money. Mrs. Biffles' husband is
wealthy, and she gives largely in aid of " colored emancipation," but has never contributed
a penny to help her own race and sex, who
are toiling and suffering in this great city.
There is another class of female philanthropists, who manage to get a living by sponging
around among friends and acquaintances; and
who are always disturbing the happiness of
every body they meet, with the most violent
declarations of what they could do, if they only
had a chance. They never work, but are forever talking about the inadequacy of the compensation for female labor. They are great
nuisances wherever you find them.








LIZZIE BLAIR.




LIZZIE BLAIR:
THE LITTLE HU1NCBACK.
Thou art not beautiful-yet thy young face
Makes up in sweetness what thee lacks in grace;
Thou art not beautiful-yet thy blue eyes
Steal o'er the soul like sunshine o'er the skies:And heaven, that gives to thee each mental grace,
Has stamp'd the angel on thy sweet young face.-MRS. WELBY.. IZZIE Blair is a vest-maker,-a poor,
Hi      forlorn little creature. Every Satur-'~3j day evening she is seen hurrying
"- A    down from the upper part of the city,
bearing beneath her arm the bundle of work
over which she has toiled during the past
week. She is so bent and crooked, that it
pains one's heart to look at her; but should
you chance to speak to her, or even to look
steadfastly into her pale face, her large mild
eyes, and gentle smile, will make you murmur
to yourself" Oh, how beautiful she might have been,
but for that deformity!"




62        Women of New York.
The little crossing sweeper looks hopefully
into that pleasant countenance, as he holds out
his chilly fingers; and the blind beggar at the
corner, knows the halting step, for it has paused
beside him many a. time, when there was one
extra penny in the little old purse which might
be given. Poverty has taught the little hunchback how the poor suffer, and her life-long misfortune has made her compassionate to others.
When her work is paid for, and more taken for
the ensuing week, she goes home quite happy
that she has given satisfaction, and that to-morrow is a day of rest. She can then think and
pray, for it is the Sabbath. She may then go to
church, and take a quiet walk or read a favorite
book, without neglecting the daily work, by
which she earns her bread. The churth pew
opener does not pay much attention to the little hunchback. He puts her in a pew far from
the pulpit, and destitute of cushions; but she
does not care far that, she can join in the
prayer, and listen to the singing, and her soul's
best feelings can float on the grand music of
the old organ, far, far above this selfish world.
Her mind can there dwell for awhile amidst the
angels, forgetful of the misshapen body in
which it makes its earthly habitation. Sometimes the sight of the people coming out of
church, makes her sorrowful, for she sees so




The Little Hunchback.       63
many of them have friends and relatives beside them. One lady hangs on her husband's
arm, another has her daughter by the hand,
and a brother and a sister, or a father and daughter, walk together so happily. T'he poor little cripple has no one to love her, and she wraps
her shawl about her with a heavy sigh. No husband's arm will ever circle her, no babe will be
enfolded to her bosom, and yet what a heart she
has, and how devotedly she could have loved I
Listen. If you will never mention it aloud,
we will tell you the secret of the poor little
soul,-a secret she hides from all but her God,
yet which has moistened her pillow with many
a bitter tear.
The hunchback is in love. Every drop of
her heart's blood, every impulse of her soul, is
given to one man, whom she believes to be the
perfection of human excellence and virtue,
while he cares nothing for the little creature,
to whom his smile or kindly glance is worth a
kingdom.
Years ago, when the poor girl had a father's
home to dwell in, this man strove to win her
love, for the mere pleasure of the triumph,
knowing all the while that he was doing wrong,
and bringing sorrow to an innocent heart.
Nozw her love is his, but time has taught her
the folly of worldly dreams. And yet, despite




64        Women of New York.
his indifference, she would work her fingers to
the bone to do him a service. She would lay
down her life at any moment, to save him from
harm. Sometimes they meet. Once in a long
while she shakes hands with him, and goes
home to ponder over the rare happiness, and
console herself with the thought that they may
meet in heaven, where her ugly form shall no
longer hide her loving heart from him, and that
he will there learn her silent truth and constancy.
Few guess the story of the hunchback's
heart, but all who know her, feel sincere compassion. The old woman with whom she
boards, has a kindly word of comfort and a
smile for her now and then, and the children of
the house flock around her for a kiss or a fairy
tale. Her employers pay her wages with a
friendly air, and even the people of the little
shops, at which she spends her slender earnings, greet her with pleasant glances. All this
is a balm to her soul, for which she thanks
God each night before sleeping, and which
lightens her daily toil.
When the stars shine down upon the world
at night, they see no purer heart than hers.
The morning sun never calls a laboring mortal
to more patient industry. Days glide on, and
bear the little cripple down the stream of




FThe Little Hunchback.        65
time, to the sad music of her hidden love dream,
while the neglectful throng, turning to gaze
upon fair faces and graceful forms, forget or
do not perceive the inner life which makes
the hunchback beautiful in the sight of angels.
The sorrows of the poor little hunchback,
are hardly any less than those of many of her
sisters of the needle, who flock to the city and
lodge in boarding house attics, and sew and
sew by day and night, for barely enough to
satisfy the demands of their landlady, who
gives them a room six by ten, without lights
or fire, and with scarcely a decent bed or chair,
for three to four dollars a week. Oh, if women
who live by the needle would only shun the
city, and seek homes in the country, and in
villages and towns where there is less competition and more hospitality, their destinies
might be far happier. Think not that sorrow
is only confined to cripples. Many and many
a young girl with a comely form and a pretty
face, is now sitting at work in her garret, and
with a sad and heavy heart broods over unrequited love, and sighs for sympathy. Many
a poor girl with homely features and shabby
clothes, weeps herself to sleep at night, because the world slights her and people do not
treat her kindly. Often and often a lonely
woman feels her heart chooking her, as she




66        Women of New York.
hears the joyous laughter of those who have
kind friends in plenty, and who are by fortune
exempt from toil.
There is in every breast, a secret mystery,
which the world may never know; and in the
breast of a lonely, toiling woman, that secret
often corrodes and wastes her life away. It is
sorrowful to contemplate the silent, untold
workings of wretched, pent up hearts, which
throb and beat with dull hope, until they
wither beneath the weight of despair. New
York is full of aching hearts, and we presume
that the hearts of needle-women in particular,
must go on aching until their throes of anguish terminate in death. But the time is
fast approaching when the needle will be laid
aside, and women who have been depending
upon their hands, will turn to occupations which
yield a better remuneration, and with which
there are more encouraging associations.
I








OLIVE POLAND,




MRS. OLIVE ROLAND.
THE    BASHIN     WImDOW.
Coquet and coy at once her air,
Both studied, though both seem neglected:
Careless she is with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.-Congreve.
I: RS. Roland is a young and very
^,l6)l    handsome widow, who lives, Heaven
c/kJ  knows how, in the greatest luxury,
"-F "' and moves in the first society. She
is highly accomplished, and is an adept in all
those little arts of fascination which can only
be acquired by long and continued practice,
and which often transform plain women into
belles and beauties. Mrs. R. is tall, and moves
with the majesty of an empress. Her hair is
bewitching, and her long eye lashes sweep her
cheeks when she looks downward; you would
think her cold and stately at first sight, but
when she chooses, she can be gentle and confiding as a dove. She has a bewildering way




70        Women of New York.
of smiling up into the eyes of her adorers,
which quite defies description. She still wears
her sable " weeds," and probably will do so until
she espouses another husband, for she knows
the effect of such a toilet upon her fair complexion, and on no account would she relinquish
the advantage. Besides, it is a delicate way of
announcing that she is in the matrimonial market. Young girls are very indignant when
they see these charms working upon those
who should be their admirers. They pronounce
her forward, and say she is fond of flirting.
To Tompkins, she whispers that she only endures the attentions of Brown, (poor fellow,)
out of pity. To Brown, she confides the fact
that she cannot endure Tompkins, but that her
foolish, good-natured little heart, will not allow
her to hurt his feelings by avoiding him. To
Wilson she murmurs, "Oh, I do so love to
waltz with you, you keep such time." And in half
an hour, she promises Brown her hand for the
next dance, with the remark-" Certainly, if
only to avoid standing up again with that awkward fellow, Wilson."
No one has ever breathed a word against
Mrs. Roland's character. There are no whispers afloat which tell of awakened suspicion,
and yet, she is living sumptuously without any
apparent means, and, stranger still, no duns




The Dashing Widow.          71
assail her door, and no unpaid tradesmen speak
complainingly of their little bills. Did Mr.
Roland leave money behind him? No one ever
heard of it, if he did.
Last summer Mrs. Roland was at Newport,
at Saratoga, and at Lake George.  She had
troops of friends and admirers. Indeed she is
never without an attendant cavalier, and some
obsequious swain is always ready to obey her
every wish. Though, it is singular that nobody
knows anything of the lady's past life. Ask
them who she is, and they will reply, " Oh! a
handsome young widow, from New York; we
were introduced to her by the Browns." The
Browns in their turn, know nothing of the lady's
birth-place or family, or the standing or profession of her deceased spouse. Enquire their
opinion on any of these matters and they
will answer: " Oh, why, she is rich, and no one
would like to appear suspicious enough to ask
her. Every one must see that she is charming
and aristocratic, and everybody knows her 1"
This is true enough. Mrs. Roland never lets
an eligible acquaintance slip. No person who
is worth knowing escapes her, and, best of all,
they make the first apparent advances, and she
is sought instead of seeking. None ever say
that " Mrs. Roland called on me," it is always
"I called on Mrs. Roland." The secret springs




72       Women of New York.
of her manoeuvers are unseen by the very parties who are the most interested.
To her dear friends, Mrs. Roland is in the
habit of relating her experiences.  She has
been in England, France and Italy, dined with
German Barons, and vowed eternal friendship
to many a Spanish Donna. She has waltzed
with an Earl, received a proposition of marriage from a Count, and refused five Lords in
one season at London. She also danced with the
Prince of Wales at the ball given in his honor
in New York. Her dashing friend, Captain
Baltic, was killed in the Crimea, and sent his
love to her with his last breath, and she witnessed half the Mexican war with her own
eyes, and was the first to grasp the hand of
brave old Taylor, after his victory at Monterey.
She deeply sympathised with poor, brave,
handsome, Santa Anna. How one young woman, not yet eight and twenty, could have
passed through such scenes, and traversed so
many lands, is a perfect mystery. But Mrs.
Roland always manages to tell these anecdotes
without mentioning the circumstances under
which she encountered them, or the names or
relations of her traveling companions; she gives
only a general idea of sumptuousness and universal homage, which makes you almost afraid
to ask another question lest you should discover




The Dashing Widow.         73
that you are addressing a princess in disguise.
To a lady, Mrs. Roland is just as fascinating as
she is to a gentleman. She will run to meet you,
seize you by both hands, and imprint a kiss
upon your cheek, ejaculating, " Oh, I'm so delighted that you have come," and insist upon
your having "just a little lunch." Then she
will take you up into her boudoir, produce her
perfumes to refresh you after your walk, admire
your new bonnet, and lay it aside with the
words, "But then, everything you wear is so
charming; you have such exquisite taste and
know just what becomes you." She will delicately tease you about the very suitor you like
most to be teased about, and then sigh and say,
"Ah! how miserable one feels to be alone and
unprotected." This will naturally lead you to
speak on the subject of her admirers, and she
will confess that one has proposed and been
refused, and that another has threatened to kill
himself. She tells all in such a modest way, not
in the boasting style a girl always adopts, but as
if she did not mean to divulge a word, until you
drew it out of her.
Be you man or woman, you will inevitably
be fascinated by Mrs. Roland, and when you
hear of her espousal to some rich husband, you
will say, " he is a lucky man, and has secured a
treasure." But under no circumstances will you.J




74        Women of New     York.
ever know more of her real history than you do
now, for the dashing widow is, and always will
be, a charming but impenetrable mystery.
It should be borne in mind though, that dash.
ing young widows have a cruel and malicious
habit of casting reflections upon all pretty women who endeavor to maintain themselves by
bodily or mental exertion at some honest occupation.
Young Dobbs says that Miss Harriet the
music teacher, is such an interesting girl, and
really, very pretty.
" Oh, dear, but she is horribly low," snears
the dashing widow. " Why, she has worn the
same dress every day for three months."
"Well, she is only a poor girl," responds
Dobbs, who by the way, is half human, and not
afraid to show it. " She has a mother and two
little nieces to support."
" Pshaw, that's the old story. I never yet
knew one of those creatures who hadn't some
such an excuse. Why, you don't suppose that
she supports all that family with what she gets
for music lessons, do you?"
"I certainly do," ejaculates Dobbs, opening
his eyes, "How else could she?"
The dashing widow executes one of her bewitching postures and laughs merrily. Then
she archly says: "Why, Mr. Dobbs, how very
innocent you are!"








LAURA ELMER.




LAURA EL3IER:
TEE SORROWB1IN              MOTHER.
Alone she sate-alone!-that worn-out word,
So idly spoken and so coldly heard;
Yet all that poets sing, and grief hath known,
Of hope laid waste, knells in that word-alone! —NEw TIMoN.
HERE are spots in the great city, al^-O- ways teeming with misery and degradation, where, on every side, the
heart is sickened by the sight of
faces with deeply graven wrinkles, that show
vice and intemperance;-spots where children
who, in happy homes, might be types of purity
and beauty, are loathsome, scowling objects,
already old in crime, and where women lost to
modesty, and neglectful of person and attire,
seem even more degraded than the beastly
men around them. Among these creatures
the eye may sometimes fall upon a face which
seems more marked by sorrow than by crime,
which, pinched and wan, and sallow, excites




78        Women of New York.
pity rather than repugnance, and makes the
beholder wonder what series of misfortunes
placed it among such scenes. Sometimes the
face is a man's, oftener it is a woman's. Such
a countenance is that of Laura Elmer. Her
portrait is before you.
There she sits. The great tears are pouring
down her cheeks, and falling upon the crumpled
edges of the old hood, thrown carelessly over
her tangled hair. Her past is full of woe, her
present of remorse, and grim starvation
crouches in the shadows of the hopeless future.
A bitter lot is hers; and strange and terrible
the thought, that the sorrows of all her useless
life were poured upon her head by the handof an indulgent mother, and a kind though
foolish father.
Years and years ago, a young couple married, and emigrated from the eastern states to
a wild and newly settled region of the west.
They strove diligently, and in the course of
years grew prosperous and respected. The
log cabin was exchanged for a frame house,
that in turn gave place to a stone mansion,
and, but for one circumstance, they would have
been happy. This bitter drop in their cup of
life, was the early death of their children.
One after one their babes were laid in the
grave, and they looked forward sorrowfully to




The Sorrowing Mother.        79
an old age unblest by the filial affection of son
or daughter. At last another babe was sent
to them. It was a little girl, beautiful as a
rosebud, and with every promise of health in
her dimpled cheeks, and rounded limbs. They
named her Laura, and she grew in strength
and beauty.
Like too many American women, the loving
mother fancied idleness to be essential to delicacy,-that a lady should not labor. And when
in her own homespun way, she declared that
" her Laura should never bring the water to
wash her own hands," she believed that she
was doing the best she could for her child, in
thus dooming her to a life of helplessness and
inaction.
Spoiled and petted, Laura grew into girlhood, utterly ignorant of every domestic duty.
The mother still churned, and baked, and
ironed; but she excluded her daughter from
participation in any thing which might soil her
fingers. The snowy home-bleached linen was
still made into garments, under the roof of the
old homestead, but Laura never drew a needle
through seam or gather. Those womanly arts
which make home attractive and comfortable,
were too coarse and commonplace for her attention. She could thrum a few airs on the
guitar, do a little in bead work, and embroider




80        Women of New York.
green parots and red shepherds in Berlin wool,
and that was all. Her days were spent lolling
in the parlor and perusing trashy yellow covered literature, and her cheeks were constantly
bedewed by imbecile tears, shed for the fictitious woes of some imaginary hero or maiden.
The extent of her exertions was the attiring of
her own person for a visit to exhibit a new
bonnet, or a weak interchange of small talk with
some confidential friend. Her deluded parents
witnessed this waste of life and intellect, with
the utmost satisfaction. Their efforts and selfdenial were crowned with success. They
believed that Laura had grown to be " a perfect lady."
Pretty, and the heiress of all her father's
possessions, Laura had many suitors. One of
them was a young man from the city. On him
she bestowed her hand. She thought she also
gave him her heart. Loving her fondly, the
young husband was blind to all her faults. He
considered her a model of perfection. In compliance with her wishes, he removed at once
to the city, where her character began to shine
forth in its true colors. The smouldering evil
imbibed by novel reading, now burst into flame.
She became reckless and wild. At last the
frightened husband ventured to remonstrate,
but he was met with a flood of tears, and fits of
L~         ~




The Sorrowing Mother.        81
hysterics, such as only women of Laura's rearing can perform so well. Again, and again,
the scene was enacted, and soon quarrels were
of every day occurrence. The house, always
upside down, was the picture of discomfort.
The servants, who knew that the mistress was
a perfect nonentity, wasted their time, and
plundered the pantry to their heart's content.
Scores of" cousins" were entertained by Biddy
and Maggie, while their master's meat and
puddings were either done to a crisp, or put
upon the table raw. The plates, knives, and
forks, were specimens of what neglect could
do to steel and china. Met only by disorder
and ill temper at home, her husband soon
sought happiness elsewhere. There were
other houses, other places to dine, and other
and pleasanter women. The neglect which
she had brought upon herself, was soon a frightful source of complaint, and the pair seemed to
vie with each other in extravagance and dissipation. At last there came a crash  Ruin
stared them in the face, and the poor old
parents sold out their farm and homestead, and
came at once to the succor of their idolized
child. Vain efforts! The path was too far
trodden. A little while longer, and then the
mask fell forever.
Ruined, broken-hearted, and  dishonored,




82        Women of New York.
Laura's husband sought release in death. One
morning the servants found their wretched
master lying upon the floor a corpse 
About this time, Laura's good old parents
also -died, and she was left alone with three
children, as useless and worthless as herself.
Creditors seized what she had, and compelled
by the prospect of starvation, she endeavored
to earn her daily bread. But all that she could
do was coarse sewing. Receiving this "slop
work," and placing out her sons as errand
boys in stores, she thus eked out a miserable existence of destitution. Even now industry and
effort might have done something. Had the
poor home been tidy, the scanty food properly
prepared for them, the boys would have sought
it as an ark of refuge, and at their own fireside
they might have grown to be the props of her
old age, and become virtuous and respected
men. But the thought of such attention to
her home never entered Laura's mind. Her
leisure moments were spent in bewailing her
lost luxury, and in solacing her woe with the
contents of a little black bottle, which replaced the champagne and catawba to which
she had been accustomed. Dirt and squalor
were on every hand. The boys were left to
themselves, and rated for ingratitude with
maudlin tears, and they went rapidly into dis



The Sorrowing Mother.        83
sipation. Step by step they sunk, until a
loathsome tenement house was the only shelter
for the head once pillowed upon down, and
guarded by wealth from the very winds of
heaven.
This woe-begone, wrinkled woman, and her
children-where are they? The eldest son is
a drunkard, the youngest is a convicted felon,
and the daughter is an outcast, leading an infamous life.
Dependent upon the fitful generosity of her
sottish son and outcast daughter, or upon the
charity of strangers, the wretched Laura treads
the road which leads toward the hospital or
almshouse, a living warning to all who encourage their daughters in idleness and educate them to believe that a woman's brains and
hands were made for nothing.
On a pleasant afternoon, Laura may be seen
sitting on the steps of the tenement house
where she lives; and when the black bottle
has done its work, she will loudly bewail the
ingratitude of her children to a mother who
has done so much for them, ending always
with the boast"I never brought the water to wash my
own hands, when I was young. I was brought
up a lady!"
Ah, there are many sorrowing mothers,




84        Women of New York.
weeping over children whom they have petted,
spoiledi, and ruined. It is a too common notion that sols and daughters should be reared
in idleness, if they expect to be any body" in
the world.'Tis a pity, though, that such folly
prevails among those whose limited means are
insufficient for perpetual extravagance. If the
rich were the only people who raise their children thus, it would not be so bad; but when
almost every poor mother we see, is straining
her utmost, and depriving herself of nearly all
the comforts of life, for the sake of educating
her daughters in tastes and feelings away beyond their actual position, we deem it our duty,
as a woman, and authoress, to point out the evil.
If mothers would reflect-if they could but behold the thousands of dissipated and vicebranded females now writhing in the mental and
bodily tortures of a criminal existence, and
trace back their histories to the cradle, they
would shudder to learn the cause of their going down to shame. All women are but creatures of circumstances, and easily made miserable or happy by teachings in childhood. Mothers who love their children, should study the
subject, and not let their false pride deter them
from performing their duty.








SIGNORINA ADELINA.




SIGNORENA ADELINA.
THE OPBERA SINN.ERS
Why did she love him? Cuious fool be still,Is human love the growth of hnman will? —BYRon.
USH! Do you hear that thrilling:(o-)_7 voice? What a beautiful creature!
Dark lustrous eyes, such as Italian
--    -- alone can boast of. A pure skin,
with a glow like that of the sunset upon her
cheeks, and lips which seemed to challenge
soft caresses. No wonder the applause shakes
the theatre to its centre. Bravo! little beauty,
we could listen forever.
There she stands bending her graceful head
in smiling thanks. The footlights fall upon her
robe of snowy satin, and make the jewels upon
her bosom gleam and glitter. By her beauty
she might be a queen, but she is only the child
of humble Italian parents, just a little higher
born than the Lazzaroni.




88        Women of New York.
An American musician went to Italy, hoping
amid soft airs to win the hue of health back to
his pale cheek, and to drive away the incipient
symptoms of consumption, which, his physician
told him, threatened ere long to waste away
his life, and tear him from the enjoyment of his
well earned fame, and the love of friends who
had gathered around him. He daily spent
many hours among some grey old ruins, which
teemed with wild legends and poetical associations. There was a fountain there in the
ruins, and hither a beautiful child came at noon
to fill her earthen pitcher, and lave her dainty
hands and feet. Her garb was coarse, and betokened mean origin. But once, as she lingered
in the shadow of the crumbling walls, she sung
a song, so sweetly and with such expression,
that the invalid was charmed and astonished.
Speaking to the child, he praised her voice, and
asked her to sing again. Often, after that, she
came to the grey ruins, and always at the stranger's bidding, went through her little stock of
ballads. His praises pleased her, and she felt,
rather than knew, that she was appreciated as
well as admired.
At last, when returning health permitted the
musician to seek his native clime, he went to
the child's parents and said to them"Your daughter has a magnificent voice.




The Opera Singer.          89
With proper education she will make a Prima
Donna. May I take her with me?"
The mother and father were needy and avaricious, and they grasped the gold he offered
them.' Yes, Signor," they answered," and may God
bless you."
Years were spent in hard study and practice,
and with music, the fair girl acquired also the
mien of a refined lady. The little foreign accent still audible in her speech, was only an
additional charm, and a great success was prophecied for her debut.
The night came. Arrayed in her white
robes, with a glittering jewel upon her raven
tresses, Adelina stepped forth upon the stage,
and even before her voice had charmed them,
every eye beamed her a welcome. When the
performances closed, the applause was so heartfelt and universal, that she sobbed for very
joy.
Following her triumph, came many others.
Her beauty proved as attractive as her voice.
Billetdoux, anonymous presents, love verses
on scented paper, and magnificent boquets of
hot-house flowers, were showered upon her, and
some bolder than the rest, had already uttered
their praises in her presence. Among them
was a young man named Edward Blair, and who




90        Women of New York.
seemed, to poor Adelina's eyes, all that is admirable in man. He told her that she was
beautiful, and she blushed with pleasure. He
whispered that life passed in her society would
be a Heaven upon earth1 and she longed to tell
him, that she lived only-when he was near her.
By and bye, she sung only to him. When the
house was full, and all eyes were riveted on the
young singer's face, she looked for him amidst
the crowd, and finding him, cared only for his
applause and his bright smile of approbation.
Dreams of quiet home life hovered around
her pillow, and she thought sweetly of being
his wife, and sharing the joys and sorrows of
his existence, and this might some day come to
pass, she hoped, for she knew well that he loved
her. But does the spider love the fly he seeks
to entrap within its net? Does the worm that
eats the sweetness from the white rose's heart,
love the rich flower it ruins? Alas! it is natural for woman to believe and man to deceive.
One sweet warm day in June, when the soft
air was full of fragrant odors, and the sky was
blue-and cloudless, Edward Blair asked Adelina
to ride with him. They went away from the
noise of the city, and sought a broad smooth
road which winds out into the country.' The
beautiful singer was very happy, and her escort
seemed that day in more than usual spirits.




The Opera Singer.          91
The light wheeled vehicle bore them along,
until turning down a green and shady lane,
they looked upon the silvery Hudson. Here
they paused, and Edward Blair's arm twined
about Adelina's slender waist. He breathed
hot passionate love words in her ear, and sought
with pleading glances for a sweet return. For
a moment she basked in the bright dream of
happiness, for an instant she lay folded to his
bosom; but suddenly she started from him, with
aversion. She saw through the words he uttered, and then knew that he wooed her not for
his wife. For the first time, she was conscious
of the dangerous position in which her public
life inevitably placed her, and the bitterest
thought of all was that insult should come from
one in whose manly honor she had so trustfully confided. In her agony she prayed to
die.' Drive me home," she said, when she could
master her voice, "Drive me home. We must
never meet again."
And they never have met again. Edward
Blair has long repented of the insult he ptoffered her, and with increased esteem he has
conceived a stronger love. He would woo her
honorably, now, he would beg her pardon upon
his bended knees, but never while she lives,
will poor Adelina touch, even with the hem of




92        Women of New York.
her flowing robe, the man who broke her girlhood's dream of innocence and love.
Her voice is still as charming and her face
as beautiful as ever, but her heart within is
cold as marble. She will never marry. Love's
taper burns only once within a woman's breast,
and her's has been extinguished by the rushing
torrent of man's selfish passion.
There are numerous Edward Blairs who
amuse themselves with frequenting the opera,
not so much to enjoy the music as to admire and
become acquinted with the young women whose
pretty faces and voluptuous forms secure them
places on the stage. Yet it is not always that
these connoiseurs of female beauty meet with an
Adelina. Like women in private life, Opera
Singers, whether Prima Donnas or of the Corps
de Ballet, they require clothing, fire, food and
shelter, and have also a thousand other wants
and necessities peculiar to their associations
and profession, which slender salaries cannot
provide for. They look for all advancement to
come through the same channel-the publicthe'people-and hence they risk more and venture farther out into the perils of the world,
than wives and daughters whose positions do
not call them beyond domestic seclusion.








BIDDY McKAY.




MRS. BIDDY MCKAY:
THE     VAIRANT.
Ah, whisky, whisky! bane of life,
Spring of tumult, source of stria;
Could we but half thy curses tell,
The wise would wish thee safe in hell
IDDY McKay began life in the city
of New York, under the name of
O'Rooney, which was written on a
placard pinned to her dingy garments, on the morning when she was found in
a basket suspended from the knob of a door.
She was conveyed at once to the poor house,
and brought up on the frugal diet allowed at
such establishments, until she reached the age
of thirteen, when she was " bound out" to a
judicious matron, who thought such a proceeding the cheapest way of obtaining "help."
Biddy came out of the establishment, with a
very shortly cropped head of coarse black hair,
and a long tow apron which covered her froio




96        Women of New York.
the shoulders to her ankles, and was immediately set to cleaning knives, scouring pans,
scrubbing, washing and ironing. On Monday
she had her ears boxed for the purpose of
making her " smart" during the week, and on
Saturday they were boxed again to make her
still smarter. She had even less than the
poor house allowance for supper, and was expected to put up with the eternal abuse of her
employer's children, who called her names,
pinched her black and blue, and threw chewed
bread and butter in her face, without the least
compunction, and by sheer hunger, was driven
into her first dishonesty. She took to purloining cakes from a cupboard, in which dainties,
such as she was never allowed to taste, were
kept by her mistress. For this act, poor Biddy
received a severe whipping, but the stolen
food was very tempting, and she repeated the
offence without discovery. Coming of age
emancipated Biddy from the thraldom of her
first mistress, and she departed quite an adept
in deceit and treachery.
The next three years of Biddy's life were
passed in changing from one " place" to another,
and experience with many mistresses caused her
to become still more subtle and treacherous
every day of her existence. Her's was the
boldest face presented at the intelligence office,
J




The Vagrant.            97
and none of her compeers were more dexterous
at petty larceny in every kitchen. She stuffed
sheets into the rag-bag, poured pounds of butter into the " soap fat," and entertained her
admirers on the choicest tit-bits from the
family table, laid all the miraculous disappearances of cold mutton and turkey's legs to " the
cat," wore her mistresses bonnets and shawls
on state occasions, and listened at key holes
for the family secrets, which she circulated
throughout the neighborhood. At last she
wound up her single life, by bestowing her hand
upon Dennis McKay, who kept a small but
thriving corner grocery.
She and Dennis began life in Hibernian
style, by " treating" all their friends and companions to whisky.  Their merry making
lasted several months, and Biddy grew very
fond of the stimulants. Waiting behind the
bar, as she often did, gave her an opportunity
to indulge as frequently as she felt inclined,
and by the time the first young McKay was
ushered into the world, both father and mother
were in the habit of getting drunk as often as
they felt like it. Quarrels had become fre-.
quent, and bottles flew about the dwelling,
smashing windows and knocking heads, and
frequently rendering the doctor's attendance
necessary. During the presidential election,




98        Women of New York.
Dennis got into a row, put out several eyes,
smashed half a dozen heads, and broke two or
three noses, and was finally carried home upon\
a shutter by his comrades, with several fractured bones and no discernible features to his
countenance. Dennis soon after died, and
Biddy, who had done nothing but quarrel with
him for many years, now cried. Her shrieks
were heard all over the neighborhood, while
the friends made preparations for an " illigant
wake," and have a night of it. There was an
immense funeral, and poor Dennis was buried.
Three months afterward, Biddy married the
shop man, a youth of two and twenty, and took
him as a partner in the store. The shop man
had a brother, a stout, red haired individual,
fond of smoking short black pipes, and always
redolent of onions. This relative became an
inmate of the family, and stood in high favor
with Biddy, a fact which gave his brother unlimited dissatisfaction, until one morning they
eloped with each other, taking with them all
the cash. The husband could have borne the
loss of his blooming wife, but the cash was too
much to part with quietly, and the treacherous brother was pursued and arrested for
the robbery. The property was found upon
his person, and he was sent into captivity for
six years. The faithless spouse, meanwhile,




The Vagrant.            99
falling into an argument with another interesting specimen of the fair sex, lost command
of her temper, and bit, scratched, and otherwise maltreated her opponent in such a manner that she was also consigned to durance
vile.
Emerging from her retirement, at the termination of her sentence, Biddy commenced a
regular persecution of her husband, contriving
by abuse or wheedling, to obtain a sufficient
supply of money to enable her to live without
labor and sink into dissipation.
Wherever the worst and most degraded
drunkards are gathered together, you may find
Biddy's bruised face and long figure  She has
been arrested more than once for theft, and
often gets to fighting in the streets. She
staggers about, with her black bottle peeping
from beneath her tattered shawl, and makes
decency shudder at the thought that such a
creature bears the name of woman. Vice
seems born in many breasts, and it may be
that Biddy would have been the same, even
with the best education. Yet, we almost believe that the hard, unkindly treatment of the
bound girl, may have influenced the woman's
life.
Dear reader, did you ever think what it is to
be an orphan, with the alms house for your




100       Women of New York.
home, until you are' bound out" to a mistress
whose soul and purse prefers " taken girls" to
full grown women, who eat hearty, and expect
their wages at the end of the month? You
never thought of it I Well, if you would think
it over, seriously, perhaps you might see a
very gloomy picture of what some desolate
hearts endure. We believe that many a bad
woman was made so by the treatment she received at the hands of her mistress when a
child. It is during our childhood that we imbibe the spirit of good or evil, which is ever
after uppermost in our dispositions, to be developed ccording to the circumstances controlling our destinies. Much has been written
to prove the innate depravity of this or that particular person, no matter how piously reared
and instructed; but, as a generaj rule, if two
children, exactly similar in every peculiarity
of mind and body, were separated at birth,
and placed in directly opposite situations, and
under opposite treatment, we may depend
upon their maturing to a striking dissimilarity.
One will be good, the other will be bad. We
admit that after events must have considerable influence, but if their characters arefully
tested, there can be only one result.








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RHODA ALWYN.
THE    PEBJURED        BRIBE.
Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind,
More than quick words, do move a woman's mind.
SHAKSPEARE.
Get place and wealth if posssible, with grace,
If not, by any means get wealth and place.-POPE.
HODA Alwyn is young, beautiful,
tsl^&   and accomplished, and moves in the'   best society. Her mother, a handsome widow, and a belle and beauty,
has spared no pains on her education, but has
finished her daughter, after the most improved
pattern, at Madame B's. seminary. Rhoda can
dance, sing and play, and is able to sustain a
brilliant flirtation throughout a whole season,
or to glide through the mazes of the dance
from midnight until morning, without the least
fatigue, and above all is acknowledged to be the
best dressed young lady found anywhere. Mrs.
Alwyn has cultivated her charms and accom



104       Women of New York.
plishments as she would have improved any
other valuable piece of property. The more
perfect Rhoda's beauty, the greater her matrimonial market value, and for this auction she
has been reared and educated. When Turkish
parents sell their children, we roll up our eyes
in horror, and groan over their depravity, but
we look smilingly on and fold our hands approvingly, while Mrs. B. consigns her young daughter to the highest purchaser, and gives an old
libertine a husband's right over a pure and innocent maiden. We, who are Christians, and
kneel in our cushioned pews three times every
Sunday-we do this. Rhoda has a heart-a soft,
warm heart it would have been, we think, with
proper care and nursing, but society and
mamma do not approve of hearts, and there is
nothing so foolish as natural tender feelings.
" A well educated girl," says Mrs. Alwyn, "as
she fans herself upon the sofa," always thinks
first of a settlement. Love in a cottage is a
low absurdity. In high society, respect is all
that is requisite to feel towards a husband.
Look at the French; they are models, I'm sure;
and they always marry judiciously, at least
among the upper classes.   So, Rhoda, for
mercy's sake, don't let your affections become
entangled with anything below twenty thousand a year."




The Perjured Bride.        105
And the young girl, acquiescing in the wisdom
of her mother's opinion, wonders that she is not
quite happy, and thinks sometimes of what
she might have been had somebody been as rich
as he was handsome. Rhoda has been' out"
four seasons, and is now twenty years old.
Mamma has told her that she must make her
choice this year, if possible; for a marriageable
daughter is a great drain upon any income, and
American beauty soon fades when it is out of
its teens. The girl knows that she must give
up her freedom in a very little while. She will
have her carriage, fine establishment and diamonds. Hundreds, fair and young as she, will
envy her. But that old man, how can she ever
call him husband? and the wicked thought
steals through her heart that he is very old,
and that if he should die leaving her a wealthy'
widow, it would be no harm then to let Charles
Graham woo and win her. In the darkness of
her chamber, at the dead hour of midnight, her
cheek grows crimson as she looks upon her
guilty heart. Does her mamma know this?
Does she ever falter or repent, fearing lest that
fiery furnace, over which the young soul is
hanging, should destroy its purity? Does she
ever remember,6as she draws back her rustling
robes, lest they should brush against some
poor lost creature, who passes her upon the




106       Women of New York.
crowded pave, that a woman who marries for
money is no better than one of those. Alas!
no. The glitter of diamonds has blinded and the
chink of gold deafened her. That old man is a
sinner, but he is an excellent match. He has
vices, but then he has money also, and bless
you, that is everything. And mamma fans herself and speaks to other mammas of " Rhoda's
excellent prospects." Then the old ladies play a
little game to blind each other and themselves,
and speak of " good settled principles," and
"old men's darlings," and the " inconsistency of
wild boys," and mention the price of their
daughter's hands and hearts in delicate terms,
such as, " Ah, well! Flora has eighty thousand
settled on herself," and " Kate's dear good old
husband is worth half a million."
Yes, Rhoda will probably be married this
year; Grace Church will witness her nuptials,
and the Fifth Avenue will smile upon them,
and even while she bends her graceful head,
and vows to love, honor and obey, her heart
will be far, far away in another, happier scene,
and the face of Charles Graham will rise before
her, with the look upon it which he wore when
last they met. It was not wise of Mrs. Alwyn
to let her daughter spend those bright months
unchaparoned at B, for it was there she met
that face of which she thinks so often, and




The Perjured Bride.        107
heard that voice whose echo will haunt her
soul forever.  They were together on the
beach, on the breezy hill side,and in the pleasant farm-house parlor. They read each other's
hearts and they might have loved purely, had she
been a poor country girl. When they parted, it
was wifh the hope of.meeting soon again, and
of some day being even yet dearer and nearer
to each other.  Charles treasured Rhoda's
image, and was happier than tongue can tell.
But she was in the vortex of fashion, amid the
whirl of city life. Then the warning voice of
mamma and the cold snear of society! Could
she marry a poor man? Could she live in a cottage, and do without rich garments and servants? Her heart failed her; she was a belle,
a beauty and a stylish woman, and not fitted for
a plain man's wife. Mamma first scolded and
then commanded. She inquired of Rhoda how
she would like to feed the pigs, and have rag
carpet on her parlor, and wondered what people would say when they heard of it. And when
she had brought her daughter to a proper mood,
dictated a cold, contemptuous refusal, and placing
pen and paper before her, bade her write. The
note was sent, but with it went unseen, a hasty
scrawl, penned by a trembling hand, in which
Rhoda bade a last farewell to her lover, and
prayed that he might be happy and forget her.




108       Women of New York.
That night, as Charles Graham walked to and
fro, with burning cheek and dilating eye, twisting the little billet ruthlessly between his fingers, she who had written the words which
pained him so, glided gaily through the dance,
while those who gazed upon her noticed how
pale and yet how beautiful she was. She thought
they had parted forever then, and mamma fanned herself constantly and commended her own
prudence. But as the weeks glided by, Rhoda
hid little billets in her bosom, and, at last, even
met her discarded lover clandestinely, although
both were aware that'an insurmountable barrier
would soon arise between them. No one knew
of these meetings, save a French waiting-maid,
and there was no harm, only a little folly in
them. No harm? But the black browed French
woman winks and shrugs her shoulders and
thinks how firmly she can establish herself in
a situation when she holds the key of her mistress's secrets, as well as those of her wardrobe
and bureau, and how when the nuptials are
once over, their meetings might cause a separation and great scandal, were they discovered;
and how Madame will not dare offend the maid
who could bring her to such disgrace. And so
Rhoda walks, tottering on the margin of a fearful gulf, led on by the beckoning fingers of love
and ambition. She will not sacrifice all that




The Perjured Bride.         109
splendor and share poverty with Charles Graham, and yet she cannot forbear the pleasure
of seeing him, and hearing his love. She could
not so far fly away from her mother's yoke,
as to refuse the old man chosen for her, but she
can disobey her at heart and run the risk of a
discovery. The wedding morning is near at
hand, the robe is fashioned, the white veil lies
ready for the bride, and there is no warning in
the air and no omen in the sky. No voice says
to the old man, pause and consider! No angel
bids the mother arise and save her daughter.
Only conscience flushes Rhoda Alwyn's cheek,
and causes her to tremble when the French
maid's black eyes meet her own, and all is going
on quietly and smoothly toward the end.
When the wedding is over and the stately
mansion receives its guests, Charles Graham
can visit its mistress when he chooses. The
French woman will recognise him, and will shrug
her shoulders many times, but the old bridegroom never saw them and can never guess of
those fond kisses and loving words which she
remembers.   Like the calm before a storm,
peace will dwell in their abode, even while the
clouds of shame.are creeping darkly around
the sky.  But when the tempest bursts, its
shock will be all the more fearful. Beware, old
man! Beware, manoeuvring woman! Beware I




110      Women of New York.
frail girl, tempted on every side, lest in that
storm all hope on earth or in heaven be swept
away forever.
Marrying for money is fatshionable in New
York, and perhaps two-thirds of the young
women in the upper circles, are sold by their
parents to the highest bidders. But a young
girl with bright eyes and a gushing heart cannot mate with a dry old man. She may give
him a husband's rights, but her love she can not
barter in the same way. Love will seek out
sympathy, and how many good, honest and pure
hearts are at this moment being tempted to
accept a rich husband and retain an idolized
lover. Oh! parents, it is a crime to thus traffic
in your children's flesh and teach them the
road to perdition.








PRISCILLA WIGGINS.




PRISCILLA WIGGINS:
Oh! I am sick of this dark world,
My heart, my best affections blighted,
My sails of joy for ever furl'd,
My dawning hopes so soon benighted.-McILvANE.
XA^I ISS Priscilla Wiggins is a " strong
iS'j: minded" woman. She is sharp: featured, high  shouldered, gaunt
-   and graceless. Her age can only
be guessed at, for every secret on that subject
has been carefully obliterated from the family
Bible, and.she is, at present, the head of a
flourishing boarding school for young ladies,
where morals are inculcated with the grammar,
and where no male visitors are allowed to intrude. Her Circulars set forth these facts:" The instructress is herself a devotee of science,
who will endeavor to bend the minds of her
young friends in the same direction; and that
every young lady is expected to bring a knife




114       Women of New     York.
and fork, a napkin ring, and a copy of Watts'
Hymns; and furthermore, that no young gentlemen, even though they be brothers or cousins, can..be permitted to call upon the pupils,
as the strictest propriety and decorum will be
observed throughout the establishment."
Every morning, after prayers, the young
ladies of Miss Wiggins' establishment are assembled to hear the i Guide to Young Ladies,"
read aloud, and to study a chapter of the " Code
of Etiquette," and, once a week, they are permitted to walk two by two, at the genteel
snail's pace adopted by such institutions, when
out for an airing. All the scholars are very
pale and thin, and have little or no appetites.
They would not laugh or run for all the world,
and consider merriment the height of vulgarity.
Many of them wear blue glasses, and the taste
of the school leans decidedly towards corkscrew ringlets. As for Miss Wiggins, no
"ology" escapes her, and the moment an " ism"
emerges upon the field, she is quickly after it.
She is very talkative, and if once allowed to
secure your attention, she will keep you
listening for hours, overwhelming you with
arguments and stating " her views," in a manner which would astonish Lucy Stone. Miss
Wiggins' pet theme, is the depravity of man,
and his assumption of superiority over woman.




The Man Hater.           115
"Men are all alike," she observes. " Tyrants,
every one of them. Thank fortune I I never
allowed myself to be taken in the nets they
spread. I never married; no indeed! I enjoyed my freedom too well. And I only wish
all young women would be induced to follow
my example; but, dear me, not one out of fifty,
has resolution enough to keep her freedom."
When Miss Wiggins says this, she shakes her
corkscrew curls, and sighs aloud.
Whether Miss Wiggins is really a pattern for
her sex, as she asserts, or whether the grapes
are only sour, cab best be judged by a short
review of her past life and experience.
Priscilla Wiggins was born in Slab-town,
in the winter of a long departed year. Her
mother was a long, hard-featured country
woman, and her father, a genuine Quaker,
taught the youth of Slab-town their a b c's,
and made them mind their p's and q's. The
girl inherited no beauty from her parents, and
possessed no charms peculiar to herself. Nevertheless, a greater stock of vanity never filled
a feminine brain. As she grew up, her days
were spent in the manufacture of new finery,
the nights in dreams of conquests; and every
masculine eye which rested upon her features,
she supposed to be fascinated by her beauty.
At seventeen she made her first decided effort
L. 




116       Women of New York.
at securing a captive. Jonathan Briggs was
the largest, stupidest, and richest boy in her
father's school. The other farmer's sons came
only in the winter to pursue their education,
but Jonathan, being exceedingly dull, was
sent the whole year round, and sat among the
girls and small children, stammering through
his pages of reading lessons, and toiling over his
multiplication " sums,' when he was fast verging upon nineteen summers. Around this
youth the fair Priscilla threw her most potent
spells. She "told him his lesson," did his
sums for him, gave notice of her father's approach during the performance of sundry prohibited pranks,. and smiled upon him sweetly
in school and out of school. In payment for
these favors, she demanded Jonathan's undivided attention and homage, at all hours, and
upon every occasion. At church, there was
Priscilla waiting to be seen home by Jonathan.
At singing school, there she was fastened upon
his arm; and at any social gathering, Priscilla
Wiggins and Jonathan Briggs were paired
off as a matter of course. Bye and bye the
boy began to tire of this state of things.
Though a lout, he Was fond of pretty faces,
and Priscilla's was anything but bewitching,
yet there it was at his elbow on every occasion. Jonathan, like many other donkies, be



The Man Hater.          117
gan to be restive. First of all, he tried to
treat Priscilla coldly, but the fair damsel never
noticed the change in his demeanor. Then he
huffed her, but she clung to him all the closer.
Next, poor Jonathan endeavored to avoid
her, but she was not to be avoided, and finally
the persecuted youth fairly ran away. It was
at an " apple paring." All the peels were off,
all the supper was eaten, and all the guests
were departing, and Jonathan stood at the
door, eyeing the pretty Betsey Bouncer, with
a hopeful look, when Priscilla, in her usual
way, approached and took his arm. Flesh and
blood could not stand it.' Jonathan turned
around and said" I think you'd orter be'shamed of yourself,
I do I"
"Why, what's the matter, Johnny?" inquired
Priscilla.
"I say you'd orter be'shamed of yourself,
a ketchin hold of me before I ask you!" said
the youth. "You'r always a doing of it, you
are. It's all very well to wait on you horme
once in a while, but I ain't'goin to do it every
single night. I ain't a courtin of you, and
don't mean to neither. If your father is a
teacher, why don't he teach you how to behave? I can't go any where without you go,
and I can't come any where wittout you come,




118       Women of New York.
and I don't mean to stand it no longer. I'm'goin to see hum who I like after this, and you
needn't try to hinder me.-There now!" So
saying, the exasperated Jonathan wrenched
himself from Priscilla's grasp, and emancipated
himself forever.
Priscilla was mortified, but not discouraged.
There were other rich men's sons worth catching, and she persevered by laying her nets in
the boldest and most decisive style, and without the least concealment of purpose. In ten
years, there was not a single man in Slab-town
in whose arms she had not fainted, or whose
hand she had not lightly squeezed, and yet, at
the mature age of twenty-seven, Miss Wiggins
still retained her maiden name. By and by
a handsome bachelor of fifty was called to the
vacant pulpit of the Slab-town meeting house.
He was peculiarly dignified and serious, and
was understood to have remained unmarried,
on account of the frivolity and light mindedness
of women kind. He had remarked, at a tea
party given in his honor, that he grieved to
find so few of the sex who devoted themselves
to the higher branches of literature and science,
and immediately a great change began to be
observable in Miss Priscilla. First she began
to comb the hair off her forehead, and then
she adopted glasses. Next she began to write




The Man Hater.           119
poetry for the village paper, and finally she
occupied the front seat in the middle isle of
the meeting-house three times every Sabbath,
rain or shine. In a short time, some intricate
doctrinal point weighed so heavily upon her
mind, that she was obliged to call upon her
pastor, in order to satisfy herself of the truth
of her misgivings, and having once received
instructions, she went again and again to drink
at the fountain of knowledge. The minister
was pleased and flattered by this deference to
his opinions. He loaned the anxious lady works
on theology, the interesting passages marked
with lead pencil. Slab-town wondered with
all its might. Could it be that Miss Wiggins
had really made a conquest? She herself was
certain of it, and only waited for his proposition. One Thursday evening, Miss Wiggins
and the minister were alone in the parlor of
her father's mansion, and after a few moments
of silence, the reverend gentleman spoke as
follows:"Miss Priscilla! I have had something on
my mind for a long time, I wish to communicate. I-ahem!-I believe I will say it now."
"Thank goodness! he is coming to the
point at last," thought she. But her eyes
were cast down, and her cheeks were ornamented with an orange colored blush,.j




120       Women of New York.
"Miss Wiggins! Ahem! Miss Wiggins "
he began again, but there he paused, leaving
her in a state of suspense, better imagined
than described, for the space of five whole
minutes, after which time he blew his nose
and proceeded once more.
"In my calling, Miss Wiggins, I have become acquainted with many ladies, married
and single, to whom I humbly trust I have
been useful, in giving instruction on important subjects, but never before, I must say it,
even though it seems like flattery, never before have I met with one who seemed so anxious to acquire knowledge, or whose zeal was
so unremitting as yours appears to be, my
dear Miss Priscilla."
Miss Wiggins raised her eyes, and looked
unutterable things at her pastor.
" Consequently, having your good at heart,"
he continued, "I find myself, perhaps unwarrantably, settling a future for you. I picture
you moving in the sphere for which you are
the best fitted, and glory in the thought that I
have led you to the path. My dear friend,
will you listen to me and think seriously of
my proposition?"
" Do proceed, sir," sighed Priscilla, covering
her face with her kerchief to conceal the triumph in her eyes, " oh, do proceed, sir I"




The Man Hater.          121
"Among worldly people," continued the minister, "the pious mind allows itself to rest.
My dear Miss Wiggins, unite your destiny
with those who will appreciate you, and become"-a violent fit of coughing interrupted
him-" become-ahem I""Why don't he say'my wife' and done with
it?" thought Priscilla.
"Become," continued the reverend gentleman, " that which you are fitted for by every
attribute of mind and heart. It is my nightly
prayer, and I beg of you to consent to embark
in the great cause, and go out to Hindostan as
a missionary in the vessel which sails next
week for that distant land. As a general
thing, the female constitution can resist the
climate for two years or more, and think of
the good which you could accomplish in that
length of time  Dear, dear Miss Wiggins!
promise me that you will embrace the glorious
opportunity I"
He paused, and for the first time in her
life, Priscilla had really fainted.
Some weeks elapsed, and Miss Wiggins departed from Slab-town, and took up her residence in New York, where she opened a seminary, and became a professed man hater. According to her theory, there is neither faith nor
gratitude in the whole sex, and the woman
l                                               l




1.22      Women of New York.
who trusts her heart to even the best man living, must be irretrievably ruined. At times,
she attends Women's Rights Conventions, and
has been known to give utterance to her sentiments from the rostrum; and now and then
she inflicts her presence upon the family of
her younger brother, where her visits are
dreaded as a pestilence. Men laugh at her,
married ladies avoid her, and young girls abhor her. No where is she welcome save
among a clique of strong-minded spinsters,
who, like herself, amuse themselves, by saying
ugly things about men.
There are a great many " man-haters" in New
York, but they are not all as ill-featured as Miss
Wiggins, for some are young and beautiful.
Yet, when we hear a woman, old or young, denouncing the opposite sex, we at once conclude that there has been some little disappointment in their " cap setting" calculation.
It is very foolish for women to talk bitterly
about all men, because one has fallen short of
their wishes or affections. It will do for such
as Priscilla Wiggins, but those who have youth,
and any claim to beauty, had much better
laugh and be happy, than to hide away and
get old and sour.









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CYNTE-IIh DOT1;.




CYNTHIA DOLL.
TIE    FASCIINTIN         LABY.
She was fair-and my passion begun,
She smiled-and I could not but love;
She is faithless-and I am undone.-SHAKSPEARE.
B ^ — ISS Doll belongs to a tolerably good
0li';: family, and is at least rich enough to
afford becoming garments, and all
-    ":- those little nameless additions to
the toilette, which go so far to " make up " a
good appearance. Her hair is always dressed
in the latest style, and her hands are soft and
white and skillfully displayed. Of course she can
sing and dance and " play " the piano, and she
understands the true use of a fan, in each and
all its coquettish evolutions. No gentleman is
safe in her society. If he has a heart, she discovers its vulnerable point, almost before the
introduction is over. To a musical gentleman,
she professes herself a worshiper of music, to
an artist, a devotee of art. In the presence of




126       Women of New York.
a clergyman, there is nothing so interesting as
the heathen, and with Young America, she will
discuss "fast horses, and dashing turn-outs,"
with the greatest gusto. Her chief aim is a
rich husband, but meanwhile every masculine
comes in for a share of her attention, and he
who has most pocket money, and can offer the
most invitations to the opera, is decidedly the
favorite. Miss Doll cultivates the acquaintance
of other young ladies who have handsome and
gallant brothers, or cousins, or even fathers
who being widowers are still polite to pretty
faces.  Of all things, she loves a tete-a-tete,
and when alone with any one who is worth the
while, can look unutterable feelings whereby she
impresses her companion with the belief that
he is all the world to her. Her favorite songs
are those which are the particularly sentimental, such as "Ever of Thee," "One kind kiss
before we part." And the young gentleman
who turns her music, is always certain that she
is singing for him especially, while every other
moustache in the room, is of the same decided
opinion. Miss Doll knows by experience, that
the first means of gaining the adoration of the
sterner sex, is to privately feign unbounded
admiration for each particular specimen, and to
distribute universal smiles in public. Young
ladies who are betrothed, and young wives who




The Fascinating Lady.       127
are blessed with susceptible husbands, are
rather shy of encouraging visits from the fascinating young lady, for they know that man
is a frail vessel, and that she is sure to make
a dead set at anything in masculine habiliments,
which comes within her orbit, from the boy in
round-about, to the white headed old grandfather. Many and many a happy married life
has been first broken in upon by a visit from
Miss Doll, who will sing little bits from Norma
while "wife " nurses the baby, and many a
lover's quarrel has originated in a short visit on
the part of the betrothed gentleman, to which
he has been led on, by the smiles and coquetry
of our charming heroine.
Miss Doll's drawers are filled with presents
from her admirers-with fans, rings, breast pins,
chains and opera glasses, books, boquet holders
and perfumery, bracelets and card cases. All
is fish which comes to her net, and she has a
trophy of each and every conquest.
She is an adept in securing invitations, and
always hints in the strongest manner, that she
would " dearly love to hear" this Prima Donna,
or that great actor. But the crowning glory
of her life is the jealousy of other less attractive females. She loves to see them struggling
to keep back the frown or to brush away the
tear. She delights to see their admiration, and




128       Women of New York.
their unconsciously reproachful glances. She
enjoys her triumph without the least shadow
of remorse, no matter how deep the grief which
it occasions. Miss Doll will not marry very
early, nor will she remain an old maid. Her
choice, unless she delays too long and is obliged
to take the crooked stick at last, is one who




The Fascinating Lady.       129
has plenty of money at his command, and is of
an easy and amiable disposition. After her
marriage she will continue to fascinate until
grey hairs and wrinkles destroy her power, and
then she'll dye the first, paint out the last,
wear false teeth and plenty of padding. Then
they will say she must have been exceedingly
fascinating when she was younger.
*    *     *    *    *     *-   *
"Fascinating Ladies" are very numerous in
New York. The most of them are only spoiled
daughters of moderately circumstanced parents
who expected them to marry fortunes. Their
education is generally the same smattering of
useless affectations and nonsensical ideas. They
seldom marry to good advantage after all. In
truth, such women are totally unfit to assume
the position of an exemplary wife, and it generally happens that they are either divorced a
few years after marriage, or sink into a state of
apathy which soon drives their husbands elsewhere for congenial society.  Occasionally, a
Fascinating Lady catches a rich spoony whom
she can manage and control. In that case, she
continues to have all her whims fully gratified
until Mr. Spoony's fortune is exhausted, and the
creditors carry off the carriage and the nice
furniture. Then Spoony is very much in the
way.   He is entirely unnecessary now, and




130      Women of New York.
stands between her and better fortune. Yet
Spoony is not so terribly formidable, and if her
beauty still blooms, she may keep her head up
awhile longer, with the kind assistance of a few
particular friends. But Spoony is no longer in
the horizon. He was never accustomed to
employment or business, so he can now amuse
himself at the lounges of the city, while she
rides out with her particular friends, or goes
with them to the opera or attends balls. " Fascinating Ladies " never have children, and that
is truly kind in them, for the offspring of such
mothers would have to abide with cross nurses
and grow up in dismal boarding-schools, or run
to destruction without maternal regard or
control.
New York is the paradise of Fascinating
Ladies.








"ell
AUNTY GREEN.




AUNTY GREEN:
THE OILB       PEBBLER-WOMAN.
Ah me! what is there in earth's various range,
Which time and absence may not sadly change?-SANDS.
OLD~ LD Aunty Green calls at the base(ji(Jl ment doors, in the upper part of the
city, almost every day, carrying her
basket of tapes, candies, and brass
thimbles in one hand, and leaning upon a cane
for support with the other. She has a good,
honest old face, crossed by many wrinkles, and
shaded by the broad border of a thick muslin
cap, beneath her little black bonnet, and her
shoulders are wrapped in a queer plaid shawl,
pinned over her bosom and knotted behind.
Whoever speaks to her must purchase something from her slender stock, for she will tell
such doleful stories, and importune so pitifully,
that it is beyond human power to resist her
pleadings. Out of that little basket, she says,




134        Women of New York.
must come food, fire, and clothing, for herself
and her husband, and he, poor man, is old and
sick, and blind, and can do nothing but sit at
home.
" You are a good soul," she will say to you,
"buy something from a poor old creature, who
has been on her feet all day."
Perhaps, (if you are in a good humor) you
not only buy some of those doubtful needles,
and a skein or so of that frail thread, but you
also ask her in to rest herself by the kitchen
fire. Perhaps, you will tell Biddy to give her
a cup of tea, and a slice of that pudding that
was left from dinner. Then, when her heart
is warmed by your kindness, she will become
very talkative while she sips the fragrant tea,
telling you of her own life, of her past joys and
present sorrows.
"Ah! I've seen better days, ma'am," she will
begin, "I never thought to come to peddling
for a living. We were quite rich when we
were hearty and young."
"Indeed I" you say, sympathizingly. "It
must be hard for you to feel want now in your
old age."
" Ah, indeed it is," she answers, " very hard.
But we dread going to the poor house, and we
can't bear to beg. What else could I do but
peddle?"




The Old Peddler-Woman.       135
You do not know what to say, so you shake
your head and keep silent.
"It all came of our poor boy going a little
wild," she continues. " He was a good boy, but
you know that boys will be boys, and he was
like the rest. Ah, it's very hard to raise boys.
Have you any yourself, ma'am?"
If you are a mother, you will say yes, between a smile and a tear, as you think of your
little innocent one in the cradle, and the two
elder ones away at school.
"Ah, well, well!" the old lady answers,
" God prosper you with them, for He only can
say what their lives will be. And I feel He
had a right to do what he chose with mine, for
He gave him to me. But ah, it was a sore
trouble to me, at that time."
You ask what she alludes to, and she pushes
back her spectacles, and wipes her eyes with
her blue checked apron.
"We named him John, after his grandfather,
poor old man, and he grew up just as good and
handsome as a boy could grow. He had pretty
blue eyes, and flaxen hair, and as long as he
went to school he was quick at his learning.
He read like a school master, and his writing
was just as black and sloping as it could be.
Ah, I was proud of him. But then, it's natural to
be proud of your own children, ain't it ma'am?"...~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~ _




136       Women of New York.
Again you think of your own rosy cheeked
little ones, and murmur, "Indeed it is-a
mother can not help loving her own children."
"Ah, I couldn't," says the old woman, " nor
his father, neither. Well, when he was quite
grown up, we put him to learn a trade. The
carpenter's trade, ma'am, with a very good
master. He came to see us regular every Sunday, and made us very happy for a long time.
But one day he came in looking so dull and
moody that I scarcely knew him; and when I
said to him,'What's the matter, John? has
the boss been hard to please or angry?' he
turned to me, and said he,-' Mother, I wish to
heaven I'd never gone away from home. I
wish I was a little boy again, as good and innocent as I used to be I' and he laid his head
in my lap and cried like a baby. After that,
ma'am, I knew something dreadfil had happened; and when his master came to tell us
that he had robbed him, I was not so astonished as his father, though it was a dreadful
thing to hear."
" And what led him to the act?" you ask.
It was all owing to his making bad acquaintances," she answers, " and to the influence of a
designing, wicked woman. That's what it was
that ruined my poor boy. Well, ma'am, his
father sold all our property to pay for what




The Old Peddler-Woman.       137
he'd taken, rather than have him punished, and
he went away to sea; and the last words I
heard him say, were-' Mother, if ever I come
back again, I'll work for you in your old age,
and be an honest man from this time forth!'
Ah, poor fellow, he never came back I"
" Was he lost?" you inquire.
"Yes, ma'am," sobs the. poor old woman,
"the ship was wrecked, and he was drowned;
and the last words he said were these:-' Tell
mother my thoughts shall be of her until
I die.'"
You feel very kindly to the old peddler as
she rises to go. She slips the pudding into
her basket by stealth, that she may take it
home to her old husband.
"May God bless you, ma'am, and may you
never want a good home 1" she says as she
turns away.
You will watch her, as she carries her little
basket down the street, and wonder why fortune's favors are so unfairly divided, and why
so many bad people are rich, and so many good
ones poor.
But all peddlers are not good and honest, like
old Aunty Green. Where there is one to be
trusted, there are a dozen who will cheat you,
and perhaps steal when you turn your back.
There is one particular class of peddlers which
L,.,




138       Women of New York.
none feel any sympathy for. We allude to an
unprincipled fraternity of Jewesses, who carry
large baskets of fanciful gilt china vases, and
little cups and saucers, and cologne bottles,
which they desire to " trade" for old clothes.
They are so very impudent, that hardly any
hostility, short of akick or a push, will drive
them away. Whoever trades with one of these
Jewesses must get cheated, and it is advisable
to keep them out of the house.
Some years ago, there was a little old woman,
shriveled to a mere skeleton, and almost bent
double, who nearly every day sat on a stone
step in Chatham street, with a very little basket of peanuts by her side. She trembled and
waddled so in all her limbs, that she could
scarcely touch or hold any thing in her hands.
Her countenance was the most aged one we
had ever seen, and in curiosity and pity we
inquired her history.
"Go along, young woman!" replied a squeeking voice, hardly above a whisper, " don't be
making fun of me. You'll be old yourself some
day, if you live as long as I have. Go away,
and the sun will shine on me, for I'm very
cold."
We had some difficulty to convince her that
we did not wish to ridicule her, but that kind
feelings prompted our inquiries. After quite




The Old Peddler-Woman.       139
a pause, during which she gazed in our face as
steadfast and as straight as her trembling neck
would permit her, she deigned to speak.
" Ugh! well, then may be you ain't like the
rest of them. Ah, you have blue eyes. I
used to have blue eyes, too, but alack, they
are red eyes now." She tried to smile as she
said this, but the deep wrinkles would not relax, and her countenance remained rigid.
" When I was young, I thought blue eyes were
truthful, but, oh dear, I've seen enough since
then to make me believe there is not much in
the color of eyes, any how. Yet, I like you all
the better for having blue eyes. You want to
know how old I am? Oh. I'm considerably
past a hundred."
" Were you always poor?" we inquired.
"No. I have lived in grand style during
three periods of my life. I had four husbands
before I was thirty. The first deserted me,
the second disappeared suddenly, and was
afterwards found drowned, the third was
thrown from a horse and killed, and the last
fell dead in the street from  apoplexy. I
never had any children, and have no relations
in this city. I live in a garret, in Mott street.
People drop pennies and silver into my lap
and into my basket as they pass, and in that




140       Women of New York.
way I get plenty to pay my rent, and buy my
bread and tea, and snuff."
At this juncture she produced a leather bag
of snuff, and offered us a " pinch," but we declined. She then rubbed a handful into her
nose, and was silent. Not having time to remain longer, we left, intending to talk with
her again some other day; but we never saw
her there after that.
One cold morning in the winter of fifty-six
and fifty-seven, a tremulous female voice, at
the door of our sanctum, meekly begged us to
buy "just a little bit of the nicest soap in the
world, at only sixpence a cake." The soap
was wretched stuff, and we declined with a
sharp negative. " Oh, do, madame," urged the
voice in choking accents, "do buy one piece.
I am very poor, and my three little children
haven't tasted a bit of bread these two days."
We looked up into the woman's face. Tears
were in her swollen red eyes, and we felt sure
that she told the truth. Giving her a piece of
silver, we inquired where she lived, intending
to send her relief. She withdrew, and we were
happy in the thought that we had done a good
act. But, later in the day, we discovered that
she had stolen from us an embroidered handkerchief, a fine black veil, a scarf, and a pair
of gold cuff pins.








MARY BROWN.




MARY BROWN,
TIlS      ECHINIC'S         WIFE.
Don't seareh for " an angel"' a minute;
For granting you win in the sequel,
The deuce, after all, would be in it,
With a union so very "unequal."-SAxE.
RS. BROWN'S father was a melir'M   chanic. She has alwavs lived in
New York, and would not volunta-....~ rily take up her residence elsewhere. In her opinion, Gotham is the greatest
city on the face of the globe. She declares
there is no street in the world like Broadway,
no markets like Washington market, no church
like Grace church, and no dry goods store
like Lord & Taylor's. She turns up her nose
at London, sneers at Philadelphia, scorns Boston, and fairly laughs at Washington.  Mrs.
Brown often regrets that she married a mechanic.  She feels a desire to live in more




144       Women of New York.
fashionable style. As it is, she saves in the
bread and butter, economizes the soup, does
entirely without puddings, and makes pancakes
without eggs, in order to keep up appearances.
Her " Caroline Matilda" and her " Mary Emma," must both wear garments of the same cut
and material as those adopted by millionaires'
daughters. Yet, at the same time, Mrs. Brown
is perfectly willing to stow herself and family
into the least possible portion of a dwelling
shared by several other families, and will subject herself to the inconvenience and injury
of dark, unventilated bedrooms, and an underground dining-room, merely to save so much a
year for finery in dress.
Living in part of a house has made Mrs.
Brown cunning in the hiding away of surplus
furniture and garments, and in the arrangement of concealed sleeping places. The shining
bureau in the dining-room is really a bedstead,
turned up by day and spread out by night.
The moreen covered lounge, divested of its
tassels and cushion, accommodates little Kitty,
when that interesting infant seeks repose. The
large haircloth armchair has a depository beneath the cushion, in which frying-pans, gridirons and saucepans are secreted. The " best
tea set" is kept in a trunk under a bed, and
an imposing ottoman, covered with crimson, is




The Mechanic's Wife.       145
nothing more than a receptacle for the soiled
linen of the family. Wonders can be done
with the stove. The top may be removed, a
graceful urn detached, and fixtures and conveniences revealed for the purpose of preparing the dinner.  Behind the door of her
bedroom, you will find a hoop skirt, hanging
on a gimlet; outside of the window, on the
roof of the back porch, are two tubs, a pail,
and a bag of clothes-pins; and in the room
where " the girl " sleeps, you nay find coal and
kindling-wood, blacking brushes and brooms,
barrels and boxes, all mixed up in the most marvellous manner, and the girl's wearing apparel
scattered about among them. Speaking of
" the girl," she is inevitably Irish, and addicted
to the wearing of plaid shawls and pink aprons.
In addition to her daily routine of washing,
ironing and scrubbing, she is expected to bring
the news of the neighborhood to her mistress.
It is " the girl" who discovers that Miss Smith
is to be married, or that the grocer's wife is
" too intimate " with her next door neighbor;
that the Simpkinses have not paid the butcher,
and that the dressmaker has sent her little bill
to the Haddock's five times, without the least
success. Over the ironing table, Mrs. Brown
and " the girl" discuss these important topics,
and hatch new scandal to be disseminated to




146       Women of New York.
the great discomfiture of some unhappy and
often innocent neighbor. Now and then-say
three times a year-the servant is dismissed.
Sometimes she has "sassed" her mistress, —
sometimes she has been found with her fingers
in the jar of preserves, and occasionally she is
suspected of appropriating other people's property. There is quite a commotion at her departure, and much slamming of doors. Mrs.
Brown remarks aloud that she " never found
any good in the Irish, and never expects to,"
and "the girl" flings back a hint to the effect
that " she could tell things, if she would, and
that she has seen enough in that house."'hen
Mrs. Brown flies at her with a broom, or the
poker, and drives her ignominiously down
stairs, and out of the front door, and falls into
hysterics on one of the hall chairs, and is surrounded by all the other inmates of the house,
who administer sympathy and cold water in
equal quantities, and remark to each other that
" girls are such a trial, and that, for their parts,
if they were only strong, they wouldn't keep
one." Finally, Mrs. Brown, somewhat composed, retires to her own apartments, administers correction to her small family, and a
slapping to Billy, who took to pounding on a
tin kettle in the height of the rumpus. She
next dresses herself in her black silk, and lock



The Mechanic's Wife.       147
ing the children up in the back room, with
strict injunctions not to meddle with the fire
nor fall out of the window, she goes away to
spend the afternoon in calling upon some dear
friends, and relating the terrible adventure she
had that morning with " the girl." Of course,
Mrs. Brown's spouse is a mechanic. He rises
at five in the morning, and retires at nine in the
evening,-comes home to dinner at twelve,
and takes tea at seven. His only earthly happiness consists in working for enough to feed
himself, Mrs. Brown and the children. The
only recreation he gets is on Sunday, which he
spends in taking short naps, or sitting on the
doorstep in his best coat, and occasionally
quarreling with his neighbors. He reads the
political articles in the daily papers, and
makes a point of drinking too much, and
voting at every election for some one of
whom he knows nothing.
Mrs. Brown does not spend her Sundays in
napping. Early on the morning of that day
she is dressed'in her best, and proceeds, rain
or shine, to public worship, as often as is practicable. The minister is her special object of
adoration. Together with the other lady members of his flock, she makes a pet of him. She
sends him currant jelly for his sore throit, and
hems cravats and'kerchiefs for him,-invites




148       Women of New     York.
him to tea, and wishes that poor dear Brown
would sit under him and be edified. Sometimes, at church, she offers up a prayer for the
unconverted Brown, and feeling sure that she
has done her duty, she satisfies herself that
Mrs. Smith's bonnet is only turned and made
over-as is plain to be seen in a bright light.
At charitable collections, Mrs. Brown is foremost in everything but giving money. She
delights to play colporteur whenever she has
an opportunity, as it affords her such an excellent chance to pry into people's dwellings and
investigate the private life of strangers. In
company with some other zealous lady, Mrs.
Brown will sally out, armed with fifty copies
of "Bob, the Cabin Boy," and penetrating into
tenant houses, she will inquire of their occupants whether they ever go to church, and
how long they have been married; whether
they ever think of their souls, and how much
they earn a week; whether they will come
and hear Mr. Jobkins next Sabbath, and
whether they paid the rent where they lived
last.
Next to tract distributing, Mrs. Brown most
enjoys having company to tea.   Over the
cakes and preserves, characters are torn to tatters. Stories which have grown, like snowballs in the course of rolling, from one social
_____________,________________-I




The Mechanic's Wife.       149
gathering to another, are augmented by being
handed around the circle, and before the pleasant meeting breaks up, you cannot hear of one
virtuous and respectable woman or man within
twenty miles.
Such are some of the peculiarities of Mrs.
Brown. But there are other mechanics' wives
who do not see so happy a time. Some mechanics earn poor wages, and are themselves
poor, not only in purse, but in skill and habits
of industry. The wives of such must necessarily live in miserable garrets, and sometimes
want comforts beyond their reach. The higher
class of mechanics receive from ten to twenty
dollars per week, and if their wives are prudent and economical, they may get along quite
snugly.  Though it often happens that mechanics' wives are ignorant slatterns, who were
raised in workshops or in idle poverty, and
then, no matter how much wages the husbands
may earn, their abodes show only squalid discomfort. Thus it is that so many mechanics
spend their evenings and their earnings in
lager beer saloons, and play dominoes and
cards and chess and billiards, until they become inebriated, and lose their work, and go
down to vagrancy and to crime. On the other
hand, a worthy and industrious wife can re



1.50      Women of New York.
claim a drunken husband, and encourage him
to struggle through labor and to toil with ambition until he gains wealth and position.
Many instances are known of mechanics acquiring fame and fortune with energy and resolution inspired and sustained by good and
exemplary wives. Though in New York, we
believe that there are more instances of wives
ruining their husbands, than of helping them
up to any honorable distinction. Next to ignorance, we may mention laziness as a sad bane
among artizan's wives. Then when vanity steps
in to abide with a lazy woman, she is no helpmate for a laboring man; and if she has a very
pretty face, he may return from his daily labor
to find himself a widower, with two or three
small children to nurse and put to bed, while
their mother tries her fortune in another position of life, where there is a better prospect
of luxury and show. It has been estimated by
a wise head, that in New York, at least one
mechanic's wife in every ten who have pretty
faces, voluntarily divorces herself for fine
clothes and dissipation. It is said that the
wives of men in humble circumstances are
most noted for their virtue; but laziness, vanity, novel-reading and a pretty face, are doubtful safeguards for purity in any sphere of life.








. IV
I EE  n~




HELEN BRAY:
THE BALLET iH RL.
Think not, because the eye is bright,
And smiles are laughing there,
The heart that beats within is light,
And free from pain and care.
Appearances may deceive thee-understand,
A pure white dress may hide a guilty heart.
Where mincing dancers sport tight pantalets,
And turn fops' heads while turning pirouetts.
B N airy vision seems to rise before,;,0  your eyes, and you see a beautiful
A     N~ vcreature all grace and brightness,
floating in the radiance of the golden
gas light to the sound of joyous music. She is
rosy cheeked with happiness, and radiant with
smiles, and you cannot divest yourself of the
idea that she dances because she loves to.
Even when you know that she does it to earn
her bread and butter, you still fancy that she
must feel light hearted and happy. The




154       Women of New York.
painted scene, through which she glides, looks
like a garden of living flowers; but, alas! her
smiles and the blossoms are not real. They
live but for the eye of the spectator. Behind
the scenes, they turn to rouged cheeks and
tinseled canvass.
The ballet girl at home, is a very different
being from the fairy queen, who flourishes her
gilded scepter upon the stage.
When you see at ballet girl executing her
capricious phantasies with so much ease, call
to mind what it has cost her to arrive at so
much perfection-a cost not only of labor, but
of real suffering.
At six, she is placed under the care of some
good dancing master, who never pauses before
the means of achieving an effectual result.
Every morning when the class is opened, the
poor child's feet are placed, the heels together,
and the toes pointing outwards in a straight
line, in slits, in the floor, made expressly for
the purpose. She cries at first, her face is
distorted by misery, but it is in vain, she
must submit.
After a month's training, she can turn her
feet without the machine of torture. Then
begins the posturing exercise, which consists
of efforts, seemingly impossible at first, to bend
the loins across a bar, and then, unaided, re



The Ballet Girl.        155
gain an upright position. Fresh cries, tears,
and sufferings. Pshaw  it is nothing to the
initiated. She is solaced by the assurance that
all the world will drag her in a triumphal
car some day.
At last, the loins have become supple; she
can spring, pirouette, or bound twenty times
a minute, without being out of breath, or run
on her toes, or do a dozen equally wonderful
things, and smile all the while.
Ten years she has spent at this violent teaching, and now at sixteen, she enters a corps de
ballet, as one of the minor members. She walks
behind the others, on the third row, receiving
$3 a week, and finds most of her own costumes.
Her mother, (they all have mothers,) is ever
beside her, watching and hoping. One day,
the third best danseuse is ill: the unknown
girl is called upon to fill her place for the
night. She fulfills her task to the satisfaction
of the director; she has been noticed. Another
time the second danseuse is absent; she replaces her with complete success; and, as a
crowning triumph, a something or other calls
upon her one night to take the first part in the
ballet, and audaciously and admirably she does
it. Her mother takes three pinches of snuff
extra, (all the mothers of ballet girls take snuff,)
in proof that her dreams are realized.




156       Women of New York.
She thereupon quits her garret where she
and her daughter had existed, and takes an
apartment on the second floor. As her child
rises in the world, she descends the stairs.
Nevertheless, the ex-figurant, who has become a celebrity of the first-class, continues
her practicings, as before, at home, to preserve
her suppleness and activity; she worked to
obtain them; she must now work not to lose
them. Every gesture is studied before a glass.
She bends backwards, bounds, stoops, springs
upwards, and flits like a bird from branch to
branch, and when she requires a little repose
from  her labors, amuses herself by twisting
round a triangle I
She flies from one city to another; and if
she succeeds, as only one in a thousand do, she
will realize a fortune either by her profession
or by catching a very rich, and of course. very
silly husband.
There are two sorts of talents in a danseuse
-to be a good pantomimist and one whoso
dancing alone possesses merit. When a girl
unites the two, it is ensuring success doubly.
This is Madame Rosati's secret, in which none
surpass her.
Ballet dancing often saves a bad opera. We
have heard of an instance in which a manager
was in great distress because his opera did
not draw.




The Ballet Girl.         157
"Oh," said a wise friend, " You must shorten
the Ballet girl's petticoats I"
The manager did so, and the opera was
saved. In Paris, at the time of the Restoration, a nobleman, whose business it was to
regulate all matters appertaining to the Fine
Arts, restored the ballerines' petticoats to their
former length, and the public deserted the
place, which, to revenge themselves, they nicknamed " The Moral Academy of Music." More
recently, in Naples, the ballet dancers were
forced to dance in any ordinary dress. Of
course the receipts at the theatre diminished
amazingly, and the director is using all his interest to obtain permission to curtail the offending dresses which now sweep his boards.
*    *     *    *    *     *    *
Hush! It is midnight, and the theatres are
closed. Look yonder, and see that female form
hurrying along the street. She is shabbily attired, and carries a large bundle. Look at her
again, for you saw her only an hour ago, in
very different guise. She is one of the ballet
girls, who filled the stage of the theatre in the
fairy pantomime. She danced well, and was
so very bewitching in her character of a romping school girl. But, ahi her real life is a
weary one. When "made up" on the stage,
with aid of ribbons, gause, false curls, a gay




158        Women of N\ew York
costume, and pearl powder and vinegar rouge,
she will appear to be not more than sixteen,
and as beautiful as an angel; but she is past
twenty-five, and by day light, in her plain
clothes, she might be taken for thirty-fiveperhaps forty 1 You would not recognize her
in the street, after seeing her on the stage, as
she looks for all the world like a grandmother,
instead of the beautiful Helen Bray.
~^    She was born far away
from   this busy, crowded
city, amidst green fields,
and boundless forest trees,
Her early home, (oh, how
f<  \ ~well she remembers it,) was
f ull of pleasant sights, and'  0j,  I\  happy sounds; and the faces
J  about her were as pure as the
blue violets which Spring's
first smile scattered in the
-_ \  _-_   nooks where she loved best
to tarry. Better for her if
she had died in childhood, when her heart
was full of joy, before she knew even the dread
name of sin. Helen's father was a poor man,
but an unexpected legacy from an old relative,
turned his steps towards the city. Despite
the earnest pleadings of his wife, he resolved
to forsake the ploughshare, and invest his little




The Ballet Girl.        159
fortune in some business in the metropolis.
But when honest simplicity is matched against
craft and cunning, the former invariably becomes the dupe of the latter, and so Helen's
father soon found himself penniless in the
midst of strangers. In despair, he took to
drink, and sank lower and lower, until he became entirely debased and brutal. Poor Helen
was the eldest daughter, and she sought in
vain for employment, which might save them
from starvation. She was naturally apt in
dancing and very pretty, and at last, following the suggestions of an actor, succeeded in
obtaining a situation as supernumerary at the
Old Bowery Theatre. The salary which she
receives, is barely enough to keep the family
alive. She endures huffs and scoldings innumerable from the manager, and is looked upon
with disdain by those who have attained a
higher position. Her nights are passed upon
the stage, her days in attending rehersals, and
manufacturing the gaudy dresses in which she
makes her appearance; and even the repose
she gets, is broken by the curses of her degraded father, and the wailing of the unhappy
children, upon whom his angry blows have
fallen. From scenes of misery and suffering,
with an aching heart, and a brain too often
burning with the insults which she has received




160*      Women of New York.
from those who take advantage of her exposed
and unprotected situation, poor Helen Bray,
like many of her sisters, comes upon the stage
to dance and smile. and entertain the public
world.
Is it any wonder that Helen Bray should
listen to the tempter, who comes with bright
yellow gold? Her mother died long ago, and
her father is now utterly depraved. Poor
Helen I She might have been a good woman,
honest and pure, if her father had not brought
her to this great Sodom, and forced her into
the slough of perdition.








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IMARTHA BENTON:
THE TRUE WOMAN.
I am not old-tho' Time has set
His signet on my brow,
And some faint furrows there have met,
Which care may deepen now;
For in my heart a fountain flows,
And round it pleasant thoughts repose,
And sympathies and feelings high,
Spring like stars on even sky.
SRS. Benton's parents were among'     -'?~   the early pioneers of Michigan.
The family consisted of the father,
ma —iF    mother, five sons, Martha, and a
babe, just beginning to crawl. They, with
a hired man, were the only human beings upon
the little clearing, and for miles upon either
side no feet, save those of the red man,
ever awakened the silence. Martha, as the
largest girl, had her hands full; it was her
task to make the butter and mind the baby,




162      Women of New York.
mend the stockings, milk the cows, feed the
chickens, and teach her young brothers and
sisters their letters. Her hands spun the yarn,
picked the geese, washed all the chubby faces,
and cut all the tremendous slices of bread and
butter which were consumed between meals
by the hearty urchins. She it was to whom
Tom came when he cut his finger, and to whom
Dick brought his dilapidated waistcoat for repairs; and her hands were always busy, and
ever ready for additional tasks.
By good farming, and the sale of skins and
furs, the father had laid by a clever number
of hard silver dollars, which he kept piled upon
the narrow shelf of a tall cupboard, at one side
of the chimney; and as food cost nothing but
labor, and as finery was never even thought
of, these piles of dollars were increasing with
each succeeding year. There were no thieves
in those regions, and the closet had not even a
lock upon the door, precious as were its contents. As for the main entrance, there was a
bar to that, but it was rather to keep out the
old cow, who had a habit of lifting the latch
and walking in unexpectedly, than for any purpose of safety; for the little family, in their
loneliness, were strangers to fear and apprehension.
One day in autumn, the old man and his sons




The True Woman.          163
set off for a day's hunting, and the mother
went to the nearest village to do a little trading,
and visit some old and long neglected friends.
Martha was left alone with the little ones.
She put the house to rights, combed all the
children's round, white heads, and sat down
with her knitting upon the rude porch, just as
the noonday sun glittered upon the water of
the pretty lake in front of the door, where the
white geese were sporting and splashing. The
children, who had already eaten their dinner,
were at a wild game of romps in the kitchen,
and Martha, growing lonesome, was just wishing for some companion, when she descried a
dark figure crossing the opposite field and approaching the house.  "Who can it be?"
thought Martha, dropping her knitting. "It
does not look like any one we know."
He was a large man, attired in rough garments, and with a sun-burnt face, which told
of much exposure to wind and weather, and
she noticed that he eyed the house curiously
as he approached. He stopped beside the
porch, when he had reached it, and requested
rest and entertainment, in the rough language
of a woodsman. Such an application was never refused in those days and in that region,
and Martha requested the stranger to walk in.
She soon spread the board with a cold meal,




164       Women of New York.
substantial as it was plentiful. The man seated
himself, and plied his knife and fork vigorously. His appetite satisfied, and having swallowed a pitcher of buttermilk, he backed his
chair against the wall and addressed himself to
Martha.
"How's the old man, and the rest of'em?"
"They're very well," replied Martha. "Father and Tom and Dick have gone a hunting,
and Mother and Dave have driven to Dexter to
do some trading. I didn't think you knew
them."
" Oh, yes, I've seen the old man and the
boys very often," replied the stranger. " So
you're all alone, axe you? Don't you feel skittish?'
"Not a bit of it," replied Martha.'" What
should I feel skittish about?"
" Stragglers or Injuns, I reckon,", replied the
man.
"None of'em ever come to these parts."
said Martha.
"But jist supposin', for the fun of it, that
one of them fellers was to come, and ask you
to fork over the old man's dollars, what would
you allow to do then, gal?"
"I'd allow to shoot him through the head, if
he didn't go faster than he came," said Martha.
"You would I" ejaculated the stranger. "But




The True Woman.          165
I reckon two could play at that game, if he had
a couple of these here about him." As he spoke
he drew two pistols from his belt. "What
would you do when they was pointed towards
you, hay?'
" I'd-I hardly know-but I'm sure I'd do
something," said Martha, half amused and half
frightened.
"Try to think, gal, for between you and I
and the post, I'd like you to hand over them
dollars the old man has stowed somewhere
about the house. You're all alone, remember,
so the better you mind the better you'll find
yourself when we are done."
Martha sprang towards the spot where an
old rifle hung, but the stranger was too quick
for her, and stood laughing before it.
"Jest look for them there dollars, my dear,
will you?"
" I don't know where they are," answered
Martha.
" Yes, you do. Come, I'm not to be trifled
with. Speak out, or I'll send a bullet through
that obstinate head of yours."
Martha's blood ran cold; but she was resolved
to protect her father's property if she had
strength or ingenuity to do so, and she rapidly
glanced over the room, to see what means of
resistance lay within her reach. Her eyes




166       Women of New     York.
lighted on a trap-door, which was the only
entrance to a small cellar beneath the house.
Once there, and the door shut upon him, she
believed that she could prevent his egress until
her father's return. The children had wandered down near the brook, and Martha
glanced towards them. Perhaps it was her
last look, she thought; and then, turning to
the man beside her, she said,
" Well, as you say, I'm alone, and I reckon
you are the strongest. The money is in a
stone jar, in the cellar, but if Dad ever finds
out I told you, it will be the worse for me. If
you want it, you'll have to go down and get it
yourself."
"Aye I I'll go down fast enough," said the
ruffian. "But you must go with me, my gal.
You can't come any of your tricks over me.
I keep my eyes open, I do.  Come along."
And as he spoke, he set one foot on the upper
step of the trap-way.
Martha's heart beat furiously. Only a few
moments remained for action. She applied her
apron to her eyes and feigned to weep.
" Wait until I light a candle, the cellar is
awful dark," she sobbed, and turning towards
a shelf as she spoke, she took down a heavy
iron candlestick, in which an end still remained.
Lighting it, she advanced towards the ruffian.
L                                                _




The True Woman.           167
Her hand trembled so that the light flared and
flickered, and the melted grease dropped down
upon her little fingers. The robber noticed
this, and taking it for terror, descended another
step, and looked down into the cellar, with a
brutal grin upon his features. As he did so,
Martha hurled the iron candlestick straight at
his head. There was a crash and groan, and
the heavy form slipped from its narrow foothold, and fell, like a lump of lead, upon the
ground beneath. In an instant the trap-door
was closed, and Martha jumped on top of it.
She wiped the cold dew from her forehead,
and listened with. fear for any sound which
should tell of the robber returning to consciousness.
It was well the blow had been so heavy,
and the fall so great. It was well, indeed, for
Martha, that he lay stunned and bleeding, unable to rise or speak, for her little weight could
never have held the door down against him.
When she could recover her breath, she called
her little brothers to help her keep the trapdoor down, fearing that the prisoner might
force it up. One of the little fellows, of his
own accord, ran and got the hammer and some
nails, and she soon fastened the entrance securely enough. Then, for the first time, she
gave way to a flood of girlish tears.




1.68      Women of New York.
The weary afternoon was slow in passing,
but twilight brought the farmer and his sons
back to their lonely dwelling. Great was their
astonishment to discover what had transpired
during their absence, and great the old farmer's gratitude to his daughter for her courage
and presence of mind which had saved his
hard-earned dollars.  In a little while the
prisoner was brought forth, and bound, and
when the wagon brought Martha's mother
back from the village, it was once more put in
requisition to convey him to the nearest jail.
So courageous a girl, naturally made a brave,
good woman.
Martha was married early, and came with
her husband to the city of New York, where
they continued to live many years, prosperous
and respected, establishing their sons in various professions, and seeing their daughters
well and happily settled in life.
Her husband died long ago, leaving her still
in good health.
In the old dwelling, where they lived together for so many years, she continues to reside, loved and honored by a score and a half
of grandchildren.  She is not particularly
fashionable or stylish, but her dwelling is
large and grand, and we wish there were more
women like her.
-i








11A
JALLIE BELL.




LILLIE BELL:
THE FEIALE WRITER.
Some wpite, confined by physic; some, by debt;
Some for'tis Sunday; some, because'tis wet;
Another writes because his father writ,
And proves himself a bastard by his wit.-YOUNG.
ILLIE Bell's real name is plain Ruth
)&1B   Flatfoot. She resides in the city of
New York, and inflicts her presence
-I  upon the family of her married sister.
She is an old maid, whose human kindness
seems to have turned to gall. She hates every
one who is happy or good looking, and especially pretty girls, because their beauty attracts the attention of those masculine eyes,
which she has so long and so vainly endeavored to draw upon her own charms. She hates
young mothers, because they are married, and
she has never been. She hates old ladies, because they seem to rejoice in the affection of
their sons and daughters. She hates little




172       Women of New York.
girls, because they may eventually grow up to
be pleasing women. She hates men, because
they disregard her merits. Ruth is seldom
seen at home without a pen between her
fingers, and various ink stains upon the bony
knuckles of her right hand. She writes articles for the papers, and is very bitter on the
faults of poor human nature. Sometimes, in
her more tender moods, she attempts sentimental poetry, and introduces love and a tombstone. Her heroes are in perpetual despair,
and her heroines all die. Her chamber would
strike terror to the heart of any good housekeeper. Old ink bottles cover the tables,
quires of scribbled foolscap lay upon the carpet, and magazines and pamphlets without
number, are tumbling out of place, and sticking between the hinges of half shut closet
doors. Her wardrobe appears to have been
tossed into the drawers of her beureau with
a pitch fork, and every article of her attire is
stained with ink. Her cloak, hanging on a peg
behind the door, still bears the label which the
shop man placed upon it to attract attention.
The label reads thus:-" Very fashionableonly five dollars!"
It is her chief boast that people are afraid of
her. She glories in making sharp speeches,
and hitting people in the tenderest points;
L ___,....




The Female Writer.         173
and after inflicting a mental stab, always closes
her thin lips, with an air which plainly says,
"See what it is to be a smart woman I"
When any lady is spoken of in her presence
as being pretty, she assumes a scornful glance,
and remarks, "Pretty enough, but, dear me,
not at all intellectual;" or, " She may have fine
eyes, but, then her mind-good gracious!give me a woman with a mind." As for the
gentlemen, she has a list of dreadful anecdotes
to relate about them.
Mr. Sykes drinks too much. Mr. Bingham
flirts with young ladies. Mr. Trotters neglects
his wife for a designing widow, and Mr. Harrowbones has cheated all his creditors. In
short, her heart is as ill favored as her face,
and her actions invariably correspond. No
one will ever love her, or feel friendship for
her, and she cares for no creature save herself.
While living she will never be esteemed, and
she will not be regretted when she dies.
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *
Our business necessarily brings us into
contact with many female writers who figure
in the periodicals, and we must say, that with
half a dozen exceptions, Ruth Flatfoot, alias
" Lillie Bell," is a very fair type of the most
of them.
Some are ridiculous in manners, dress, and




174       Women of New York.
speech. A few are down-right repulsive.
There is one in particular, whose complexion
is suggeS;ive of buttermilk and sour curds.
She does all kinds of "pieces," for any body
who will pay her for them, and undertake the
trouble and labor of preparing them for type.
Her literary forte seems to be in the use and
arrangement of dyspeptic adjectives, and asthmatical adverbs. Her principal characters are
school girls, old women, and cats. She claims
to have studied grammar at the seminary, but
being now a widow, its use is totally unnecessary. She is addicted to cold cream externally,
and hates soap and water. We always feel
qualmish when she approaches. She is forever
boring you to read her stories, and asks you what
you think they are worth. If you reject them,
or allude to any of their countless defects, she
flounts out, and goes away to hate you forever.
I,~~~f~~~$








-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~rIRATE JNYA10N'7
KCATij" RAYMOND.




KATE RAYMOND;
THE OUTCAST                  WIIE.
Once I was pure as the snow, but I fell!
Fell, like a snow-flake, from heaven to hell!
Fell, to be trampled as filth in the street,
Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat;
Pleading, cursing, dreading to die;
Selling my soul to whoever would buy;
Dealing in shame for a home and for bread,
I hate the living, and fly from the dead.
Merciful God! have I fallen so low I
I, who was once as pure as the snow'
Once I was loved for my innocent grace,
Admired and sought for my charming face;
But love, respect, friends, husband-all,
God and myself, I have lost by my fall!
ATE RAYMOND was nursed amid'~   g r2 green fields, and her playthings were
acorns and butter-cups.    The south:  - wind sang her cradle-song, and the
warbling of birds was the first sound that
greeted her awakening ear. Amid these scenes




178      Women of New York.
of rural life, she grew up as innocent and beautiful as a wild rose.
Kate, fortunately, had a good old grandmother, who, to use her own expression, believed in brintging children up, and not letting
them run wild, like weeds; and, accordingly,
she was drilled in domestic duties from early
infancy. She was taught to be tidy before she
could speak, and even in the cradle would stop
crying at the word of command. Yet a merrier, happier child, never chased the butterflies, for judicious discipline is not cruelty, and
good children, like good grown people, are
always the happiest. Of course Kate went to
school, and there learned to read, write, and
cipher,-to work a sampler, and perform wonders in overhanding, stitching, and hemming.
She learned to dance, and went to singing-school
once in a week, and sang in the choir of the
village church beside, for the practice of music.
Kate's grandmother took charge of her home
education, and the result was greatly to the
old lady's credit.
As Kate grew older and taller, the young
men of the place began to discover her perfections, and being sensible young farmers, preferred her homely accomplishments to an
indifferent performance upon a cracked piano,
or the embroidering of deformed dogs and




The Outcast Wife.        179
pink faced shepherdesses upon perforated cardboard.  Consequently, Kate found herself a
rural belle at the dawning of her sixteenth
year. All the other girls envied her, but they
could not harm her. The richest young farmer
in the place worshiped her, the young doctor
who owned real estate in New York was at her
feet, the lawyer's son would have died for her,
and as for the minister, who was a widower,
she might have married him at any moment,not to mention a dozen others, well to do and
handsome, among whom Kate might have taken
her choice. Why, from them all, she should
have selected young Richard Bruce, who was
not only poor, but, being an orphan, had no
expectations, and was certainly far from being
an Apollo in form or person, was best known
to herself.
Kate and Richard were betrothed, and when
the fact became manifest, by those numberless
little signs and tokens with which all my fair
readers are perfectly au fait, there was quite
a commotion. The young men were indignant,
and the girls delighted, while old farmers and
their wives shook their heads, and said what
a foolish match it was, and how much better
she might have laarried. Kate herself seemed
very happy, and the cooking and sewing went
on more briskly than before, for she should be




180       Women of New York.
a wife sometime, and these were the first duties
of a poor man's help-mate, as grandma had
often told her. When the evening set in, and
Richard Bruce sat beside her upon the porch,
or they walked together, arm in arm, through
the clover, she thought how she would lighten
every care of his existence, instead of looking
forward (as many a betrothed girl does) to the
time when he should toil to supply her with
luxuries, while she folded her hands in idleness.
But suddenly her quiet happiness was broken
in upon. Richard was going to sea, an old relative, a sea captain, had offered him unusual
advantages in a position on board his vessel,
and with his future union with Kate in mind,
he could not but accept the offer.
The ship was ready, the crew and cargo on
board, and Kate and her old grandmother went
down with Richard to see him off. There was
a last, lingering kiss, a painful smothering of
sighs, the waving of a snowy'kerchief, and he
was gone. In a little while, only a distant
speck upon the water remained in sight, and
at last even that had vanished. Slowly Kate
went home to the old farm-house, desolated to
her eyes now that he would no longer cross its
threshold.
One change often seems to bring others in
its train. A quiet life once broken, will break




The Outcast Wife.        181
and break again, until the links which were so
dear are swept away forever. Thus it was
with Kate. Even while her first grief was
fresh upon her, more bitter sorrows came to
claim her tears, and teach her what a weary
world this is. In three months from Richard's
departure a fever swept the place, and left
Kate an orphan. Her father was called away
too suddenly to make arrangements which were
needful, and one of those villains who are always prowling about the world upon Satan's
errands, took advantage of his death to rob the
orphan of her heritage. Raymond farm became the home of strangers, and Kate and her
old grandmother were sent forth into the world
to earn their bread. In all that bitter time
which followed, there was but one ray of comfort, and that was the thought of Richard.
His letters, precious as so many jewels to
those stricken hearts, came at regular intervals, and brought hope and consolation with
them. Best of all, he would return soon, and
then he and Kate would never-never part
again.
Death I Oh, that was a fearful word I and one
dark, stormy night, when the wind rattled
Kate's little window, and howled and moaned
through the branches of the great oak tree
which shadowed their humble dwelling, she




182        Women of New York.
prayed, tearfully, for that gallant ship, out
upon the foaming billows.
A storm at sea I Dear reader, perhaps you
saw an account of it in the papers, and spoke
to your companions of the dismantled wreck,
swept by the cruel tempest of all its crew,
save one dead man, whose fingers were frozen
fast to the rigging; and you may have remarked that the ship was supposed, by those
who saw her, to be the " Jenny Lind." But
there was no word in the papers of the young
sailor, Richard Brace, who must have perished
with the doomed vessel on that fatal night;
yet Kate read his name, in letters of blood,
all over the paper which brought the news,
and she sank to the floor, screaming, "He is
dead! " Her voice did not seem to be her own,
it was so wild and hollow.
Great grief seldom kills, it only scars and
sears the future life, and, in a little while, Kate
was well again, and working with her needle
at her daily task. People said Richard was
dead, and strove to comfort and console the
sorrowing girl; but they whispered among
themselves, "She is so young that her grief
will be over in a little while, and some of these
days she will make a better match."
In her day dreams, poor Kate saw that ship,
tossed by the tempest and drifting before the




The Outcast Wife.        183
wind, with that dead man frozen fast to the
shattered rigging; and in the night she would
awaken, with a cry of horror, as Richard's
face, white and rigid, with water dripping from
his heavy ebon hair, rose above the water to
torture her.
It was midwinter, and both food and fuel
were very dear, and Kate's little hands must
earn all they needed. The poor girl's life was
one of unremitting toil, but she scarcely thought
of that, her bitter sorrow lay so heavy at her
heart. When presents came to the cottage,
from some unknown friend, she scarcely glanced
at them, and only remembered them with a
shudder, for her woman's instinct pointed out
the donor. Will, Mourdant, a very rich young
man, loved Kate.  He had suffered deeply
when she refused his proffered hand, and it
made him sorrowful at heart to hear that she
loved Richard Brace instead of him. But now
that poor Richard was dead, Will's hopes were
once more awakened, and he resolved to make
Kate his wife. It was not long before he
began to visit the cottage, and escort Kate to
church. He renewed his sighs of love, and all
in such a quiet way that there was no avoiding
him. Then neighbors began to whisper among
themselves, and to give Kate what they considered good advice. Even her old grandmother
said, softly



184       Women of New York.
"Will Mourdant is a fine young man, and
grieving for poor Dick will never bring him
back to life again."
Will, confident of his success, came oftener
and was still more devoted. One night Kate
bent over her work, stitching and thinking,
thinking and stitching, oh, how wearily I when
her old grandmother said,
"Kate, you had better marry Will Mourdant. He wants you, and poor Dick is dead."
She had never spoken so plainly before, and
Kate dropped her work and looked up a moment in silence, and then, burying her face in
her hands, she burst into a flood of bitter tears.
" Oh, dear I Granny," she sobbed, " they all
say that to me. Don't you be as cruel as the
rest are-pray do not."
"I am not cruel, but kind. You are killing
yourself by this hard work, any one can see
that. I am very old, and when I am dead there
will be no one on earth to care for you."
"Then I shall soon die," too, sobbed Kate,
and come to meet you in heaven."
There were no selfish thoughts in her grandmother's bosom, but she knew it was the only
way to gain Kate over to what she believed
to be the best.
" For my part, I expect to die in the Poorhouse, or starve," she continued.




The Outcast Wife.        185
"Oh i Grandmother! " cried Kate.
" Yes. If you fall sick, or are out of work,
that is what I may expect. If you marry Will,
I may yet end my days in comfort. But it is
better as it is, if you would be unhappy with
him."
Starvation! the poorhouse! for her dear old
grandmother I Kate could not bear the thought.
That night, after her old grandmother had
gone to bed, Kate sat up weeping over the
fading embers of the fire. Bye and bye she
took the candle, and stood before the mirror.
She saw her thin features, and the hectic flush
in her cheeks, and felt a quick flutter of her
heart.
"They are right," she sighed, " I cannot live
long, and I should leave poor Granny to starve.
If my little span of life will buy comfort for
her, it shall be given. Yes, Will Mourdant,
for her sake you shall have my hand, even
though I cannot give you my broken heart."
As she spoke, the old clock on the mantel
struck the hour of midnight, in slow, solemn
strokes, as though it rang the knell of youth
and love.
Before winter, Kate Raymond became the
wife of Will. Mourdant, and oh, how she regreted the act! Every day her regrets increased, until she began to loathe the very




186       Women of New York.
sight of her husband, and would shudder and
shrink from his touch.
One night she was alr alone. Her grandmother had gone to visit some friends, and her
husband was absent in the city. She sat thinking that eternal thought of him now lost to
her forever, when there came a sudden rap at
the door. A strange voice said" Be not afraid, I am your friend!"
She opened the door and peered out. A tall
man, wrapped in a cloak, with a slouch hat
concealing his features, stood in the snow.
"I bring you a message," he continued, as
he entered the house.
Kate mechanically offered him a chair, but
could not speak.
"I am a sailor," began the stranger without
removing his hat. "I left this place two years
ago, in the ship Jenny Lind. There was'a
friend of yours on board. He was a friend of
mine, also. His name was Richard Brace."
Kate could not speak, she only bowed her
head and listened.
"We had a prosperous voyage," continued
the stranger in the same husky voice, "and
were homeward bound. But one morning the
sun was hidden from us by black threatening
clouds, and the dark horizon and white foaming waves, warned us of a storm. Soon our




The Outcast Wife.        187
vessel was driven before the wind, a helpless
wreck. Life was periled by remaining upon
her longer, and the boats were soon filled by
the crew and passengers. Some, God help
them! were left behind. There was no room
for them in the boats. In our boat were the
captain and his wife, four sailors; Richard
Brace and myself. I shall never forget the
lady's despairing white face. Her great dark
eyes were fastened on her husband, and she
never turned them to any other object, not
even on the babe at her breast. The child
went first. We had drifted on three days, and
our provisions were all gone, when it grew
cold within its mother's arms; and she would
not unclasp them from its little form, but held
it until by and by she quietly drooped upon
her husband's breast, raised her lips to his,
and breathed her last without a struggle. The
captain loved her dearly. Two years of wedded
life had made him only the fonder of his treasure. I think his heart was broken and his
brain turned, for after sitting an hour with
the corpse of his wife and of his child folded to
him, he calmly dropped them over the side of
the boat, saying, " Good bye I" He then, before we could guess his intentions, sprang into
the sea after them, and in a moment the waves
covered him from our sight. One by one,
} *B   ______._________    ~  _ -  * _ _



188       Women of New York.
our four companions died at the oars. We
had no hope of succor, but waited every moment for the ending of our misery. I- stood
up in the boat, to take my last view of the
ocean, now calm and beautiful as though the
storm had never been. 1 was too weak to use
the oars, and the sky and sea swam before my
eyes. "It is death," I said. "In an hour all
will be over." But, as I spoke, I saw the
white sails and dark hull of a vessel, far in the
distance. I had given up all hope, but now I
prayed aloud. I struggled with death, and
fought against oblivion, and help came at last.
We were soon on board a Spanish vessel, and
rough hands nursed us kindly back to health."
" Richard I tell me of Richard I" cried Kate,
seizing the stranger's arm. "Oh, why is he
not here? Do tell why I"
The broad hat was thrown off, and the voice
changed to its own clear tones, and Richard
Brace himself, looked down into her face with
his honest tear-filled eyes, and clasped her to
his heart.
Oh I how joyful Kate was then. But when
she grew calm, she remembered that terrible
truth.
"My husband I" she gasped in frenzy. " He
-he will return, perhaps to-night 1" -Consciousness forsook her, and she sank to the floor.




The Outcast Wife.        189
"Fly with me!" said Richard, pressing her
warmly to him. "I know all-all-everything.
Fly with me on the instant 1 Pause to arrange
nothing  The next express train passes in
half an hour, and we can reach the city tonight I Quick!-your-bonnet and shawl I"
Delirious with  excitement,-from joy at
Richard's return to life, and fear that her husband would come,-Kate did not pause to
think; and when Will Mourdant did return
next day, he found his wife had flown. Full
of rage, he started off in pursuit; and after
hunting nearly a whole week, the fugitives
were found at a city hotel, with their names
registered as Mr. and Mrs.. A ludicrous
scene ensued. There was a crash of furniture,
harsh words and blows, but Richard Brace came
off the victor. Then there was a warrant, and
a hearing before a police justice, but Will
Mourdant lost his wife.
Six months afterwards, Richard Brace was
tired of Kate. Accepting an appointment of
captain, and without saying even a cold fare
well, he sailed on a voyage to the Pacific.
Kate wept. She was frantic, and would have
followed, but the wide, deep sea lay between
them, and she could not even upbraid him for
his cruelty. She could only weep.
Poor Kate! She had no friend left to con



190       Women of New York.
sole her. She was now really alone. Her
grandmother lay in the grave, and her deserted
husband cared never to see her again. In her
despair, she swallowed poison; but the dose
was too large, and only made her sick, and all
the more miserable. A month was quite sufficient to expend all her money, and then the
hotel keeper notified her that he wished to
have his rooms. Kate's trunks were piled up
in the office hall, and she sat weeping in the
public parlor. A stranger saw her distress,
and begged to know what he could do to assist
her. And now, for the first time in her life,
she answered with a deliberate and wicked lie:
"I've been robbed. My portemonniae, with
all my money, was cut from my pocket, and I
have no friends in the city." She looked the
picture of despair, and the stranger being rich,
and fond of adventure, he was ready enough
to console with a pretty woman. He inquired
her history, and she deceived with false stories.
Yet she only did what he was striving to do.
Both wished to deceive. Business called him
out, and he placed a hundred dollar bank bill
in her hand, saying that he would soon return.
The moment he was gone, she crushed the bill
up tightly in her grasp, and rang the bell for
a carriage. She walked up and down the par.
lor, and then in the hall, until the carriage
I




The Outcast Wife.         191
should come. As she walked, her tears dried
up, and she murmured to herself, " I will-I
will-it is now my only chance I" The carriage
was announced, and she took her leave.
Only five years have elapsed since Kate
Raymond left that hotel, with the hundred dollar bill given her by that stranger. Only five
years have come and gone since then. But
where is she now? Echo answers, "She is
there /l Kate Raymond's innocence and beauty
have gone forever. Look at her portrait, and
see how haggard and wan it is l A wretched
outcast wife 1
Oh, heavenly Father, in thy mercy, look
down upon her with pity.
Will not the heart of many a wife beat
quickly, as she reads the brief narrative here
given of poor Kate Raymond? Oh, indeed it
will for in this vain world of strife for position, or perhaps for the plainest necessaries of
existence, it often happens that love has been
thrown aside for prospect of gain; and then
when the fatal decision is made, the heart leadens and settles sadly down to wither and die,
or recklessly bursts the bonds of matrimony,
to riot in shame, and perish in sorrow. Beware, young woman, how you crush down the




192       Women of New York.
love that is now pleading in your heart, and
choose gold instead thereof, for the chances
are much against your happiness in the doubtful, and always uncertain future. Not even
the holy bonds of wedlock can gladden a dejected heart, made lonely and desolate for the
want of that love, which could have sustained
it through weal or woe. Ah, and shudder at
the possibility of forgetting the compact of
society and law, after the first mistake is made,
for then the voyage of life would be on a
treacherous sea of painful calms and tempests
of peril, with only the fragments of a wreck to
float upon, and, perchance, with the certainty
of eventual destruction on the rocks of despair.
The histories of other wives might be written
to show the fate of the fallen, though it seldom
happens that a trusting heart is so bitterly deceived by circumstances, or so cruelly forsaken
by the object of its love and the being for
whom-good name and all has been bartered in
haste. Yet, poor Kate's misfortune is another
instance to prove the inconstancy of man towards a woman who sacrifices her self-respect.
Indeed, respect is the pith of faithful love.
Love will always bow to respect, and abides in
only doubtful trust when respect has gone.








MRS. GRA MPIS.




MRS. GRAMPUS:
TEE   BOARDING-IiOt    SE KEPER.
Offend her, and she knows not to forgive!
Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live.-PoPB.
O [A        jRS. Grampus hates the world, but
)   loves money, and derives a large
C^^_  f profit from the income of an extensive boarding-house. Every now
and then, a little bit of paper is pasted outside
of her door, to notify passers by, that she can
accommodate two single gentlemen, or a gentleman and wife, with a furnished back or front
room, on the third or fourth floor. Sometimes
she answers advertisements in the daily papers.
No matter if she does not have the accommodations advertisers state they want, she can
easily answer them, and they may come and
see. Hundreds of people have been provoked
in this way, by Mrs. Grampus. She has no
fixed price for board or for rooms, preferring




196        Women of New York.
to deal separately with each customer, and get
the most she can. Her house includes three
large old-fashioned dwellings, in the lower part
of the city, on a street west of Broadway, and
she generally has about fifty boarders lodging
therein, from the parlor floor up to the attic,
who pay variously,-some as high as ten dollars, and others as low as two. Among them,
are many down town clerks, and a number of
journeymen. The "two dollar" boarders are
poor girls, who work in the shops and factories,
and who lodge three or four, and even five
together, in the smallest, and most uncomfortable dormitories. They must have a home
somewhere, and as they are mostly without relations and friends in the city, they see a very
wretched life of it. With wages seldom more
than three and half or four dollars, they have
but little to spare, after paying out the two
dollars for board; and that board is always required in advance by Mrs. Grampus. We will
relate an instance of her shrewdness, as it occurred a few years ago:A modest and delicate young woman, who
gave her name as Lizzie, applied for a single
room, and Mrs, Grampus hired her one of the
back attics. She declined telling her history,
and worked very hard day and night with her
needle; but at length her health gave out, and




The Boarding-House Keeper.     197
she fell sick. She had no friends, her money
was all gone, and she sank rapidly. She had
revealed only her first name, and stated that
she came from the country, thinking she could
find remunerative employment in the city.
There might have been a sad mystery in her
poor lonely heart, but that was sacred. She
sat in her little chamber, and tears coursed
down her pale cheeks. One evening the door
opened and Mrs. Grampus entered. There
was a heartless smile on her countenance. She
looked Lizzie almost through, and then opened
her mouth roughly.
Mrs. GRAMPUS-Young woman, this is the
third time I have told you to pay what you
owe me, or to leave my house.
LIZZIE-Oh, madam, I will pay you as soon I
get well again. Indeed, I will pay you all.
MRS. GRAMPUS —That won't satisfy me. I've
waited long enough. If you don't pay me this
very night, I'll tumble you into the street.
LIZZIE-Oh, do not turn me into the street,
madam, I shall die there without shelter. I
have no friends-no one to aid me. I have
been sick so long-have given you dollar after
dollar, from week to week, until all is gone.
Oh, do let me remain a little longer. I shall
soon be able to work again, and I will then toil
without ceasing, until I have paid you every




198       Women of New York.
cent. Oh, madam, I am sick, I am very sick.
Pity me, madam, I implore you!
MRS. GRAMPUS —Pit I Don't talk to ime
about pity Why should I pity you, eh, while
you got a diamond ring on your finger-a real
diamond? Pity, indeed I Give me that ring
if you would have me let you remain: give
that to me, and I'll convert it into money. A
diamond ring, indeed, on your finger. Come,
take it off.
LIZZIE-Surely you would not take that. It
was the gift of my dear mother. It was given
to her by my father in their early wedded days,
and they are both dead now. Oh, I cannot
part with that; ask for any thing else,-take
all I have, even the clothes from my back, but
not that ring I
MRS. GRAMPUS-Your mother! What care I
who gave it to you? You owe me for board,
and I will sell that to get my money.
Tears, entreaties, and prayers were of no
avail. The ring was sold.
A few more weeks elapsed, and another
corpse was carried to the grave. The history
of poor Lizzie remained unknown, aud she was
soon forgotten.
We will relate one other instance of Mrs.
Grampus' kindness, and then leave her to go
on working out her destiny.




The Boarding-House Keeper.    199
There was a time when Mrs. Grampus had
only the cheap garments on her back and the
slender contents of a small trunk, which she
could call her own, and she then had two little
children. Her husband died early, and left
her nothing but incumbrances and poverty.
Like many other women on the verge of despair, she took to sewing, and tried to live in
that way. It was hard struggling, but her
children both died of a fever, and she was sadder and freer. By the assistance of one Mr.
Jones, a good, kind man, who loaned her money,
she was enabled to take a house and keep boarders. She had good luck, and did very well.
In a few years, she took a larger house, and
bought all the furniture for cash. Mrs. Grampus began to feel rich. But Mr. Jones was a
boarder at her house until one slippery day in
winter, he fell while crossing the track of the
railroad in West Broadway, and before he
could regain his feet, a car wheel passed over
his limbs, nearly killing him on the spot. Two
policemen took him home in a carriage. They
rang the bell, and stood ready to enter with
their bleeding burden. The door was opened,
and the shrill voice of Mrs. Grampus cried
out"T'ake him to the hospital,-he can't come
in here with that nasty blood, to spoil my carpets!"




200       Women of New York.
The policemen remonstrated, and the poor
man groaned with agony, but she slammed the
door in their faces, and they conveyed him to
the hospital; but before they could arrive
there, Mr. Jones was dead!
*    *     *    *    *     *    *
Not long ago, a reputed widow, who " keeps
boarders" in Bank street, actually refused to
permit one of her servants to summon a physician for a lady boarder, who was dying in her
house. She entertained a spite towards the
lady because, on a previous occasion, she had
complained of the sour bread and bad butter.
In her malice, she now forbade her servants
stirring a single step after a physician. The
lady was in great suffering; and fearful of instant death, she begged and implored, and
freely offered money; but the heartless woman
obstinately refused.
"Let her get a doctor herself. if she wants
one. I'll not assist her."
" But she will die," interposed the chambermaid, who had seen the lady's distress.
" Well, that's no business of mine," retorted
the fiend.
Fortunately, a friend called just in time to
save the lady's life; and as soon as her health
permitted, she vacated her rooms.








SAILLIE MUNN.




SALLIE MUNN:
THE    WIIOW'S       BAUlS   HTIER
But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
And tempts by making rich, not making poor.-POPE.
I/ RS. Munn was a happy wife. She
i^i'' / loved her husband, and was almost
dC5'^    idolized by him in return. Sallie
" —^ —    was their only child. Mr. Munn
was not rich, but by industry and good habits, he managed to live well, until a sudden
attack of disease took away his life. Then
Mrs. Munn was left alone, in grief and sorrow,
to struggle through her troubles and trials as
best she might. The little left by her husband
soon disappeared, and then her hands must
earn money to provide for her wants and
the wants of her child.  She had married
against the will of her relatives, and now they
refused to aid her. But she was proud, and
kept aloof from them, and tried to make the
best of her lot.




204       Women of New York.
A few years quickly past away, and almost
before she could realize the fact, her daughter
was sixteen. It was now time that she should
do something to help her mother in providing
for their living. She read the " Wants " in the
daily papers, and bye and bye she found a
situation in a Broadway refreshment saloon.
There, she was an object of particular interest
to the gentlemen, who frequently patronized
the place on purpose to exchange a few words
with her. Many were the allurements that
came in still whispers to her youthful ear, but
thanks to the good principles taught and
strengthened by the example and precepts of
her dear mother, she schooled herself to hear,
and to only laugh or smile replies, and not to
harbor, for an instant, any thought of doing
wrong. When she sometimes caught herself
pondering over the dazzling pictures drawn
by her tempters, she would blush, and banish
them from her mind.
One evening, a lady and gentleman entered
the saloon for refreshments, and it happened
that Sallie waited on them. As she did so, she
was annoyed by the steady gaze of the gentleman. She tried to avoid it, but could not.
Even the lady accompanying the gentleman
observed him, and remarked, in an undertone,
"You seem particularly struck."




The Widow's Daughter.       205
"So I am. You know I am a great admirer
of pretty women," smiled the gentleman.
The lady returned his smile, and jestingly
said" What would your wife say, if she were
here to witness your admiration? You know
she is inclined to jealousy."
With a cold curl of his lip, he leaned over
towards her, and asked" What would you say if she were here?"
A crimson flush was the only response she
made. No other words passed between them
before they finished their wine and left. As
they withdrew, the gentleman slipped a card
into Sallie's hand, on which was hastily written
with a pencil, unseen by the lady"Unexpectedly, in me you will find a valuable
friend. We shall meet again."
Sallie read the card, and then tore it into
pieces with contempt, mentally ejaculating"What presumption he has, to be sure 
These men seem to think that I am here for
no other purpose but to fall in love with them.
Fools!"
But Sallie could not help thinking about the
gentleman, and repeating over to herself the
words written on the card. She went to bed
that night with a sadness quite unusual for
her to feel, and her first thought in the morning was of that gentleman and his card.




20b       Women of New York.
"Pshaw!" she reasoned to herself, "it is absurd and ridiculous. How dare he take such a
liberty I I'll not think of him any more-not I!"
Oh I woman's heart is a riddle. The very
thing she resolves not to think of, is sure to be
uppermost in her mind. She declares that she
will not, and is all the while acting contrary to
her declarations.
The gentleman entered the saloon the next
evening, and her heart fluttered and her cheeks
were like fire. He passed her with a respectful bow and a pleasant smile. She did not offer to wait on him, and he beckoned her to him.
"I'll not come," she muttered. " No, indeed!
There are enough besides me to wait on him.
I'll not come!" And yet, even as she was thus
muttering, she went to him, and received his
order. She dared not raise her eyes, for she
felt his gaze upon her.
He did not remain long, and said nothing
to her except what pertained to the refreshment he required. When he was gone, she
saw a diminutive box lying on the table, but
she would not touch it.
" It may lie there, for all I care," she thought.
"If he can't take care of his things. he deserves to lose them."
She walked off, and even her woman's curiosity did not compel her to examine what it




The Widow's Daughter.       207
might be. Presently, one of the other attendant's saw the box, and took it up.
" But that down f" cried Sallie, rushing up to
the table, "I'll take care of it for him. You
needn't trouble yourself, Miss P  "
How quickly changed   A moment before
she refused to touch it, and now she would
have taken it by force.
" Oh, I see I" said Miss P —, laughing and
attracting the attention of the other girls.
" He is a rich lover of yours-eh? There it is;
take it. Your name is written on the cover."
Sallie seized the tiny thing, and read on the
outside-" Presented to Miss Sallie Munn." She
trembled, and put it it her bosom. Her comrades all laughed and giggled, and looked
askance, and winked, and made impertinent
signs.
As soon as she. had left the saloon to go home,
Sallie tore open the box, and it contained a
magnificent cluster of diamonds, set in a ring.
To it was fastened a little slip of paper with
these words upon it-" Keep this, and I will add
to it a thousand times its value.'
*      *&*    *     *      *
We cannot relate all that followed. Our
pages are limited, and we must make Sallie's
story a short one.
The gentleman continued his visits, and added present to present, until Sallie had actu_




208       Women of New York.
ally learned to love him. We say love-but
perhaps it was infatuation. At least, it was a
fatal spell that had cast itself about her heart.
Marriage was not his purpose, though it was
hers. tie was carrying out a deep-laid plan
for her ruin; but on the day and almost the
very hour which would have completed her
ruin, he was taken charge of by the criminal
law. Next day, the arrest of a noted forger,
and many startling disclosures connected with
his crimes, were published in all the newspapers. That forger was Sallie's rich lover. A
few months afterwards, he went to State Prison,
where he still remains, serving out a sentence
of ten years.
And yet, Sallie will not listen to his guilt.
She says he is innocent, and mourns the
very event which saved her in the moment of
her greatest peril. Her mother often remonstrates with her, but she persists in clinging
to the hope of meeting him again when his
captivity expires.
" You know he has a wife and several children, who were left destitute by his incarceration in prison," says her mother, sharply.
" But she is not his lawful wife," replies Sallie. " He told me he was not married, and I
believe him."
Ah! Sallie will think differently when she
is ten years older.








"IN
7~~i
WANY S  oGS*




NANCY SCROGGS:
THE      AInERB BEER             O1UA&N.
To what gulfs
A single deviation from the track of human duties leads.
-BYRON.
OHN Scroggs, an honest farmer in the
(  eastern part of Connecticut, at the age
twenty-four, married a widow of a gay
turn and rather unsteady disposition.
Scroggs never thought of inquiring into her
history until he had made her his lawful wife.
Better for him if he had inquired, but, good
soul, he was then too much infatuated with her
charms to give himself the least uneasiness
about her worth and merits as a wife. She
did not voluntarily let him into any of her secrets, and the marriage was duly consummated.
Unfortunate Scroggs I The honeymoon was
soon over. One day, a strange man, with a
green patch over his eye, inquired the way to
Scroggs' farm. The man asked to see Mr.




212        Women of New York.
Scroggs's wife, and, as a natural consequence,
there was no little concern on Scroggs' mind
as to what he wanted. A few minutes sufficed
to elucidate the matter. The stranger entered
the house, and clutching Mrs. Scroggs by the
arm, he spoke in this wise:So, so I I've found you, at last I When I go
off to Pike's Peak to dig gold and make a fortune for you, this is the way you do-eh? A
good wife, you are I"
Mrs. Scroggs screamed, and farmer Scroggs
stood by, aghast. What could he say or do?
He was completely dumbfounded -until Mrs.
Scroggs' tongue began to move"I'm no wife of your'n, and I want you to
take your hands off my arm. I'm the lawful
wife of Mr. John Scroggs, and shall not allow
you or any other feller to insult me I"
At this, Scroggs roused himself, and doubling
his right fist, he threatened'to strike the
stranger in the face. He seemed to aim exactly at the eye covered with the green patch.
" I say! look a-here, mister! Gol darn if I ken
stand it any longer I" he exclaimed in fury.
He caught the stranger's coat collar in his left
hand, so as to have a better chance to hit the
covered eye, and went on-" That woman's
mine; I married her before Squire Engles,
and, by thunder I ain't a-going to have her




The Lager Beer Woman        213
mauled round by you, or any other blasted
straggler! You won't let go, won't you?
Then, take that! and THAT!I"
John Scroggs weighed just two hundred and
and forty pounds, and had muscle that might
have terrified a prize-fighter, and his fist was
doubly as large and thrice as hard as the fists
of ordinary men.  The stranger tumbled to
the floor, and the blood ran from his bruised
features.  The battle was fought and won.
John Scroggs felt, for all the world, like a hero.
Before the sun set that evening, the stranger
had departed from the Scroggs' mansion. But
alas, for Scroggs  His peace had been invaded, and now he grew distrustful, and began
to imagine all sorts of things against his wife.
From suspicions, he took to abusive language,
and soon he and his wife were quarrelling,
morning, noon, and night. Scroggs became
very unhappy, and spent much of his time at
the village tavern, only half a mile off. Matters grew worse every day. Words were not
harsh enough, and then he introduced blows
to keep the excitement up.
Blows from a man like John Scrogo s would
soon annihilate a giant; and being unable to
defend herself, Mrs. Scroggs concluded to
gather up what valuables she could carry, and
fly to the city.




214       Women of New York.
It was a cold December day, and the snow
and rain made it very disagreeable out, for
even the most rugged traveler, yet Mrs.
Scroggs walked all the way to New Haven, in
time for the night boat. Next morning she
reached the city.
Poor Scroggs! Excessive drinking, an;
trouble of mind, made short work of his life.
In less than three months after his wife left
him, he died in a drunken fit.
There was a lawsuit between Mr. Scroggs'
two brothers and Mrs. Scroggs, as to who
should have the property. The case was
about to be decided very much in favor of the
brothers, when Mrs. Scroggs produced an heir.
She came into court with an infant, and conclusively proved that John Scroggs deceased,
was its father.
Mrs. Scroggs obtained possession of John
Scroggs' estate. She was now quite rich. A
lawyer helped her to sell the farm, and whatever else she was allowed.
With twelve thousand dollars in money, and
a rather pretty face for one of her class, she
was not long in finding an opening in the way
of business. A travelingo showman proposed
to establish a lree Concert Saloon, in the city,
He advertised for a female partner, with some
little capital. Among the answers he received,
I here was one which read thus:




The Lager Beer Woman.        215
I have abundant means for embarking in the enteyprise alluded to by the advertiser, and would
like an interview. I may be seen at the Smithsovian Hotel, any hour in the forenoon, to-morrow
or next day.             NANCY SCROGGS.
The interview took place, and Nancy Scroggs
became the monied partner in a new saloon,
devoted to free concerts and lager beer. There
was no lack of custom, but in some way unknown to Nancy, the expenses of the concern
always came out more than the receipts at the
bar. More money was wanted every now and
then; and to top all, there was an execution
issued against the place, to satisfy a large judgment obtained against her without her knowledge, by one Johnson, Jones, or Brown. The
lease, good will, and fixtures, were sold; and
to make up the whole amount, her bank account was also seriously disturbed. She raved
and vowed revenge, but she had fallen into the
hands of sharpers, and there was no hope for
her. But the partnership was dissolved.
In exactly one year after the death of John
Scroggs, his widow Nancy parted with the last
dollar of his estate. And will the reader believe it, she then proposed to return and live
with her first husband: that man who was so
roughly used by John Scroggs, when he visited
the farm house out in Connecticut. That indi



216        Women of New York.
vidual declined any renewal of past associations, and she finally turned herself to account,
by entering into the service of a Dutchman in
the lager bier business; sometimes acting as
waiteress, and at others, as partner in a quiet
game of cards with verdant young men from
the West or the South.
The gentleman who gave us her portrait,
and furnished these facts of her history, as.
sures us that the likeness is remarkably correct, he having drawn it as she sat at the cardtable with a country friend of his, to whom he
was showing the " ins and outs" of the city.
We need not'say anything about the destiny
of Nancy Scroggs, as her course is along the
old track, trodden by so many who are vile.
The hospital or the prison, will end her earthly
career, and then her remains must be cast into
potter's field.








17       - 
SUSAN BRADLEY.




SUSAN BRADLEY:
THE     CLERB    YIAN'S      WIYE.
Heaven but tries our virtue by afflictionAs oft the cloud that wraps the present hour
Serves but to lighten all our future days,-BYRON.
/,    T the age of sixteen, Susan Bradley's
mother went blind, and she began
a, the serious task of earning a living
by school-teaching.   It was somewhat difficult to get an appointment; but
through the aid of a retired butcher, who was
a director, she obtained a place in one of the
public schools. For his services, the director
fancied that she ought to, ever after, look upon
him as her patron benefactor. He further de
sired that she should fall in love with him, and
adore him  as her idol.  But Susan's taste
soared a little higher. She said to herself"He's all very well to have for a friend.




220        Women of New York.
He's rich, and has influence; but, dear me I 
cannot think of him in any other relation."
One evening, she received a note from the
director. It had evidently been written with
much care, though so shockingly done that she
could scarcely decypher it, at all. After poring
over it perhaps half an hour, she translated its
scrawls into these words:
Mi deer Susan.  You kno how long i been liking
you and i kant be put oph any longer i neednt tell
you as how that i ken make you as rich as i pleese,
or i ken have you turned out of the schule in disgrace say the word and i will make one of my
tennants muve out of the yallar kottage in arlinyton Row and set you up in there in grand stile-i
have wated long anuff and now insist on your answer wether i am to be your devoted lovver or your
ded ennemy. Jake who brings this, will wate fur
your finel desisun.  yourn as ever  P-.
Susan Bradley was not to be frightened, nor
was she to be bought, in that way.
" Ugh!" she sneered. " Such a letter from a
school director I So, he's waited long enough,
has he? and must have my final answer-eh?
I'll let him see what I am made of I Oh! I
could scratch his eyes out-that I could I"
Then she tore off the fly-leaf of the director's
letter, and wrote, in a large, bold hand, thus:
Sir: —You here have my final answer. For
the hundredth and the last time, I repeat, No I




The Clergyman's Wife.      221
She did not even sign her name, but sealed
it and gave it to the messenger.
The next day, Susan Bradley had a notice
from the principal of the school, that her presence would be required no longer. She was
expelled, and at the bottom of the note, there
was a short postscript, which said:" It pains me to learn such evil reports. I
had the greatest confidence in your moral
worth, and I am extremely sorry that the evidences are so conclusively against your character."
Susan had a blind mother to maintain, and it
was a great misfortune to be thus thrown out
of a situation, in the dead of winter. Yet the
cruelest part of her misery, was the insinuations written by the principal. She went to
him and demanded an explanation, and, with
tears, implored him to give her a chance for
defence; but he was in the pay of his master,
the director, and she found no mercy in him.
With a heavy heart, she sought employment
elsewhere. In the other schools, they were
already full, and there seemed to be no hope
for her.  She tried a long time to get anything to do, that might support herself and her
mother; but whenever she was just on the
point of getting a situation, a cold, distrustful
look, would accompany a blunt refusal. The
emissaries of the revengeful director, dogged




222       Women of New York.
her steps every day, and whispered falsehoods
against her, into the ears of all who were inclined to employ her.
*      *     *      *       *
Susan Bradley and her mother were reduced
to the verge of starvation; and when the cold
snow blew in through the broken windowpane, and the last ember of fire died out in the
old stove, there was a deep sigh to disturb the
stillness of the room.
" Oh, mother 1 what shall we do?" sobbed Susan, burying her face in her mother's lap.
" We have no more coal, and not a morsel of
bread. Shall we perish here, in this dismal
place? You cannot see, but it is growing dark,
and the night will be very long."
"It is, indeed hard," replied her mother, in
a tremulous tone, but we must put our trust in
God. He only can help us now I"
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bradley," said a
man's voice, "I have come to help you!"
Susan and her mother started in surprise,
not dreaming that any one was near.
" You here I" exclaimed Susan, springing to
her feet, as her eyes rested upon the form and
face of her enemy, the director, who had entered by stealth. " You come to help us-you?"
" Even so," smiled the director, offering his
hand. " I heard that you were i.n trouble, and
throwing aside my bitter feelings of the past,




The Clergyman's Wife       223
I now come to offer you whatever assistance I
can give."
Susan shrank from his proffered band, and
she and her mother both bade him depart.
"We will sooner starve!" said the mother.
Aye," coincided Susan, putting her arm
around her parent's neck, " we will perish here
with hunger and cold, rather than accept any
bounty from you."
"How?" exclaimed the director, knitting his
brows in anger. " Do you treat my offer with a
refusal?. You have already felt my wrathbe careful how you enrage me again. I have
come now with a peace offering. Refuse it,
and I'll haunt you into the grave 1"
"We do refuse    Your persecutions have
brought us to our present condition; but you
can harm us no more." Susan spoke fearlessly.
"We can but starve; and therefore we defy you!"
"Miss Bradley," said the director, "you
have sealed your fate." He approached the door,
and, as there was no key, he slipped the bolt.
"What are you doing, sir?" cried Susan, in
alarm.
"You shall see I" was the director's answer,
as he drew the window-blind. " You shall see I"
A loud scream from Susan echoed out in the
hall, and, almost in the same instant, there were
quick knocks against the door. Susan gave
another scream, crying "Help!-who's there?'




224       Women of New York.
"A friend," was the answer from without.
Susan sprang up to remove the bolt. The
director endeavored to restrain her, but she
eluded his grasp, and, in a twinkle, the door
was wide open.
"How is this?" exclaimed the new comer,
looking at the director, in surprise.
Susan ventured to say-" That man is a monster I Pray, shield us from him."
" He a monster!" ejaculated the new comer,
" why, I know him well. He is a member of
my church, and a wealthy man!"
*-     *      E     **     *
Susan Bradley's life was brighter and brighter from that hour. The new comer was the
charitable clergyman of a neighboring church.
By chance, he had heard of the destitution of
Mrs. Bradley and Susan, and had sought out
their abode to render them aid. He arrived
just in time.
Being a widower, the clergyman conceived a
love for Susan, and it was not long before he
made her his wife. She is now the happy
mother of two girls and a boy. Her blind
mother still lives, and although she cannot see
the faces of her grandchildren, she loves them
dearly, and often sits rocking them all in her
lap together, by the hour.
The school director is not a member of the
clergyman's church, now. IIe is dead.








STELLA 1RISDON.




STELLA PISDON:
TIHS OLD MAN S BA RLINI.
"If she will, she will —you may depend on't,
And if she won't, she won't-so there's an end on't."
AYVD Risdon began life a poor boy.':iO- Hard work and many long years of: steady perseverance, made him a fortune. From poverty, he ascended
to great wealth. He married early, but his
wife died in child-birth, and left him a motherless babe. tle was a very avaricious manl, and
the world said he had no heart or feeling for
any thing but himself and money. Yet the
worll does not always know every thing, for
David Risdon loved his child as tenderly as a
father could love. Tie never married again.
His affections, that were not buried with his
dead wife, were centered in his living daughter,
who matured into a beautiful woman. She
was sought after by many men who stood
_  --                    _________I




228       Women of New York.
ready to become her husband, and she soon
made a choice.
Like her mother, she died in child-birth too.
They put her away in her grave, and her babe
began existence just as she had before it, in
the dawn of her own life. David Risdon nearly
lost his reason, the blow was so hard for him to
bear; but as he had done twenty years ago,
he tried to do now. He grieved for the mother,
and strove to cherish the offspring. A granddaughter occupied the place in his heart, where
daughter and wife had been nestled, each in
turn, long before. A few years changed the
babe into a romping girl, with long curls and
ribbons. The old man almost forgot his wife
and his daughter, because his young darling,
now dancing about his arm chair, was to him a
living embodiment of them all. Her features
were exactly her mother's and grandmother's,
so were her voice, her gait, and her manner;
and her very laughter, which rang so loudly
through the halls of his mansion, was the clear
silvery music, he had heard twenty and forty
years ago. He would often put his withered
arms round her slender waist, and draw her to
him, as he sat in his easy chair, and she would
kiss his wrinkled cheeks, and pale, blue-veined
brow, with her red warm lips; her flaxen curls
would mingle with his snowy locks, and he
would doatingly murmur



The Old Man's Darling.      229
"Does Stilla love her old grandpa?"
And then she. with arch coquetry, would
answer"Does grandpa love his Stella?"
Sometimes she would sit on a stool near him,
while he told her about her grandmother and
her mother, how they had each died, how exactly alike they were, and how he. had loved
them, and how only she now remained.
And who knows but what I too shall die in
the same way?" said Stella one time, when the
old man was telling her the oft told story.
She looked up into his face seriously, and two
large tears rolled down his cheeks. His heart
was very full just then, and she wiped the ugly
tears away, and kissed the spots she wiped
them from.
At length, Stella did become a wife; and to
please the old man, her husband consented
that they should remain and live in the mansion. Old age had left little but gray hairs
and dry bones, and ere long the debt of nature
must be paid.
Stella loved her husband, but she had been
spoiled by the extreme indulgence of her
grandpa, and it was only a few monthls before
she quarreled with him, and they then pouted
for a whole week. A reconciliation smoothed
matters over for a little while, but soon the




230       Women of New York.
estrangement was greater than ever. Stella
would fly to the arms of grandpa, and pour out
all her grievances, and he took her part, and
said harsh things to her husband. Bad became worse, until upon one particular occasion,
her conduct was so very provoking, that her
husband could not keep down his temper, and
Stella only exasperated him all the more by
tantalizing words. He forget himself, and
sprang towards her to commit violence. She
flew to the arms of her grandpa, and a blow
intended for her, leveled the old man to the
floor. Terrified and ashamed of what he had
done, the husband raised him up, and by expressions of regret, begged for pardon. It was
a frail old bark, and its last voyage nearly run.
That blow was death!
Old David Risdon lived only a week longer.
He died, and was buried in Greenwood, beside
the graves of his wife and daughter.
A will made Stella sole heir to her grandpa's
wealth. She and her husband did not exchange a word even at the funeral, and when
the sad rites were over, they separated forever. Stella was rich, and plunged wildly into
dissipation. The gentle girl and young wife,
was transformed into quite another being.
Three years after her dissipation began, she
scarcely had a home.




The Old Man's Darling.      231
Not long ago, the report of a pistol alarmed
the inmates of a boarding house, in the upper
part of the city. They rushed to the apartment the sound came from, and there on the
floor lay Stella Risdon. A pistol was near her,
and the blood flowed thick and fast from a
wound in her left temple.
The newspapers contained a long paragraph,
on the "Attempted suicide of a fast youngwoman."
Stella Risdon recovered, and is living we
know not where nor how. But she denies attempting to destroy her life, and says that the
pistol was in the hands of a would-be assassin.
She does not say who it was, but some have
strongly hinted that it might have been her
deserted husband. By looking at her picture,
the reader will perceive how she conceals the
disfiguring scar left from the wound in her
temple. She dresses her hair, so that a few
truant tresses seem carelessly to fall over the
spot. She is still young and pretty, and may
live many years. But her future must be precarious indeed. If she has any remnants of a
heart left,,it may yet ache and torture her
badly enough before she dies.
When we reflect how erroneous the great
majority of daughters, and grand-daughters




232       Women of New York.
are now educated, it does not seem strange
that there should be quarrels and troubles between them and their husbands in future life.
While girls are reared with the sole object of
catching rich men, and securing "excellent
matches," we can not wonder if they are totally
unfitted to become wives. They may not be
petted and spoiled like Stella Risdon, but their
notion of matrimonial existence is often confined to getting husbands, without having
learned the first art of keeping them. Men
who are attracted by pretty faces, or by any
charm, whether of body or mind, naturally expect the attraction to continue after the ceremony is performed. Girls who know how to
catch, should also know the art of keeping.
Herein lies one of the greatest secrets of unhappiness in married life. Lovers who are all
sweetness and consideration before marriage,
in sine cases out of ten, drop " such little nonsense," as they then call it, after going through
a very brief honey-moon, and of course begin
to feel dissatisfied with each other. If marriage was only for a day, a week, or a month,
or we will say even a year, then it rmight do to
study the witchery of attraction, without the
magic art of keeping. But, dear girls, marriage is for life. Look, then, to that life, before
the opportunity is lost forever.








1IT'HI'"rIrIToD V'V'TID
Jsz j   -/f OrT
~.,! ~




CLARA COLLIER:
THlE BISOWNE.
"The greatest attribute of heaven is mercy,
And'tis the crown of justice, and the glory,
Where it may kill with right, to save with pity.'
HEN Madame Collier sent her
— \u  )i;% daughter Clara to the High Hill'\f"iy f   Seminary, she thought she was
Ad":~   taking a very sensible and prudent step towards perfecting her education and
preserving her morals pure.   Madame had
never bOn to a seminary herself, as a pupil,
though she knew many ladies who had been
taught in them, and two or three proprietors.
Clara was fourteen, and began to fancy that
she was quite a lady. Her mother, fully as
sensible as the average of city mothers, foresaw that unless she sent her away from home,
and put her under the most rigid restraint,
there would soon be an end of her studies.




236       Women of New York.
"And, bless you," said Madame to her husband, " it's just the place for girls."
"It may be," replied her husband, with an
incredulous shrug of his shoulders, " but I have
no time to ascertain. Business demands my
attention down town. You may do as you
please."
" Certainly, I shall do as I please I" said
Madame, when her husband was out of hearing.
Clara cried, and made frantic objections to
going to High Hill, but Madame was resolute.
It required only a month or so to banish the
gloom from Clara's mind. Her home was soon
completely forgotten.  The daily routine of
school, and the little excitements of the pupils,
kept her from the' least approach to melancholy.
Clara's conduct is excellent,' wrote the lady
principal, home to her mother. " We look zupon
her as the example of her class."
Meanwhile, Madame Collier and her husband
gave themselves no uneasiness about'their
daughter, and went on in their fashionable way.
Bye and bye, the principal wrote again:-'; It is my painful duty to inform you that your
daughter, Clara, has disappeared from Highz H;1,
and is nowhere to befound. See has eloped with
a married man!'
There was a great excitement in the house




The Disowned.           237
of Collier when that letter came. Madame flew
about like one possessed, and her husband
swore at seminaries in general.
"Here we are, disgraced forever, by that
good for nothing jade!" raved Madame.
"And that's what comes of sending her to
High Hill I" growled Collier. "And now, the
next thing is to find her, and bring her home."
" What!" cried Madame, " bring her back,
and be sneered at by the whole city, every time
she goes into sight?  No! Mr. Collier. Clara
shall never enter my house again.  She has
forfeited all claims to my love or affection, and
I disown her-Mr. Collier, I disown her!"
"Ugh I you disown her, do you?" responded
Collier.
"I do-she shall never enter my house again."
"She shall never enter your house? Pray,
where is your house, madame?"
"Where? why, here-here, sir l" Madame
emphasized her words strongly.
"And you refuse to let her return here to
your house?"
" Mr. Collier, you have my decision." Madame swept out of the room, and left her husband standing by the window, biting his lip in
the depths of thought. Presently, he strode
out of the room himself; and hastily left the
house.




238       Women of New York.
That day and the next, were spent by Collier
in writing letters and sending messengers in
all directions, in search of his runaway daughter. A week elapsed, and a letter came. Collier knew the handwriting, and trembled as he
broke the seal:DEAR PA:-If 1 come home, will you forgive
me?                            CLARA.
He glanced at the post-mark, and was off in
the first conveyance to Boston, where he found
Clara, in great distress, and looking very haggard and sick from crying and mental suffering.
He asked her but few questions. She related
how she had been deceived by a married man,
a music teacher at the seminary,'and found
out the deception only when the man's wife
traced them up, and confronted him in her
presence, and abused her in a violent manner.
She was now sorry enough for what she had
done, and wanted to go home. Collier reasoned within himself that, under the circumstances, it avould be better to let the man go
unpunished, than to give the matter publicity.
He thought it would be much better to keep the
matter profoundly a secret, if he possibly could.
"There is yet some hope," he said to himself; and, taking Clara in his arms, he kissed
her. " Poor child I" he mourned aloud, " you
shall go home, and we will forget it all."




The Disowned.           239
Collier entered his own house, with his own
daughter, and said to his wife, the mother of
that daughter" Here is Clara. Pray, forgive her, as I have
done."
Clara stood ready- to fly into her mother's
arms. Her eyes were full of tears, and her
heart beat quickly.
"Dear mother l" she cried, and started
towards her.
" Don't come near me 1" exclaimed Madame,
with a harsh, cold sneer. " Go to the arms of
your married lover-you can't remain here I"
There was a painful scene in the house of
Collier that night, and the next day Clara was
removed by her father to lodgings elsewhere.
Had he persisted in keeping her in his house,
against the opposition of her mother, he feared
the whole affair would be made public before
the quarrel was ended; so he decided to take a
quiet course, until the mother might listen to
reason and human feeling. But her heart was
devoted to the opinion of the world, and no
influence could change her resolution.
c      *     *      *-     *
Clara Collier's father died, and she had no
protector. Some malicious tongue whispered
it about how she had been deluded at High
Hill,,and then a hundred bitter remarks were




240        Women of New York.
uttered by her acquaintances.  And then,
everybody saw into the strangeness of her
having lived apart from her mother.
Clara was not poor, but had the wealth left
by her father been a thousand times greater,
it could not have shielded her from this blast
of slander. She was engaged to a wealthy
gentleman, and would have become an honorable wife, but the poison of scandal reached
the ear of her intended, and he left her.
*,*                  -.
Fifteen years have passed, and Clara Collier has long been known to all the fast men
of the city. Her house is said to be a palace
of art and luxury. Her mother is dead, but
she has numerous relatives living, and when
her name is spoken in the hearing of any of
them, they are offended, and look very solemn.








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C-*-CMRS -TLBERT.




MARY GILBERT:
THE    LAIY     OF FORT. NE
"Fate is above us all;
We struggle, but what matters our endeavor?
Our doom is gone beyond our own recall!
May we deny or mitigate it? NEVER!"
( _N looking at the portrait of Mary Gil-'Ji:i bert, none would ever dream that she
/   was once a ragged and bare-footed child
- -of poverty. There is nothing in her
face to lead even the cleverest ph~ysiognomist
to draw such a conclusion; yet, thirty years
ago, those very features were often dirt-stained
and moist with tears, forced by hunger and
cold.
About the year 1831, a European lady came
to New York, and remained here only a few
months, during which time she gave birth to a
female child. As soon as she was able, she
prepared to recross the ocean for her home.
She did not take her babe with her. She. 




244       Women of New York.
placed it in the care of a poor widow woman,
then living in the eastern part of the city.
Leaving a good supply of money with the
widow, to reward her for the best care of the
child, its mother departed, with promises to
send more money every six months. It was
also arranged that the widow should correspond with the lady as often as practicable, with
full tidings of the child.
But, alas 1 for the uncertainty of all earthly
things. The ship in which the lady sailed, was
wrecked off the coast of Ireland, in a terrible
storm, and it was said that all on board were
drowned.
Six roonths went by, and no remittance came
to the widow, as it was promised. She did not
know of the loss of the ship, and said to herself"' The mother has forsaken her child, and left
it a burden on me. I am poor, and must have
bread."
So she took the child out in her arms, and
sat down on a stoop in a street where wealthy
people lived. She held out her hand, and, of
those who passed to and fro, a few dropped
either pennies or silver. Meeting with success, she continued doing the same thing every
day, and, in a little while, she had plenty of
money.




The Lady of Fortune.      245
When the child was about five years old, a
shrewd junk-shop dealer offered to buy her of
the widow. This man made considerable money,
by receiving and selling anything and everything that small children could pick up and
steal. His offer was too tempting for the widow, and she gave the child over to him. The
junk-shop keeper's wife then named her Mary.
She was quick and bright, and soon learned
to be very expert in the execution of little
thefts. But, fortunately for her, the junk-shop
keeper was suspected by the police, and finding
that he would soon be arrested, he fled from
the city, leaving his wife, and several vagabond
children, to be taken charge of by the authorities, who sent them all to the House of Correction, where Mary remained, until one day a
lady and gentleman, who were visiting the institution, took a liking to her face, and asked
permission to remove her to their dwelling.
They were wealthy people, and had no difficulty in getting possession of her. They put her
to school, and, in the course of time, she became a very pretty and highly accomplished
lady. Her benefactors had no children of their
own, and they made much of her. The world,
generally, thought that she was their own
daughter.
At length, her adopted mother died, and,




246       Women of New York.
after a proper interim of mourning, she was
surprised to hear her adopted father ask her
to become his second wife.
" You are only jesting," said Mary, who had
been so long accustomed to call him father, and
to look upon him with a reverence and respect,
quite different from what she imagined she
should feel for a husband.
"Far from a jest, I assure you," he replied.
"There is no other being on earth for whom I
have any love, while, to you, all the best sympathies of my heart are inclined. From the
hour I first saw you, a poor child of sorrow, in
the house of correction, my affection for you
has been gradually increasing."
" Mary's eyes filled with tears when he spoke
of what and where she was when he found her,
and he kissed her, saying-" I did not wish to
make you sad. I alluded to the past only to
show how long you have been twining yourself
around my heart."
" But what will be said of you, for marrying
your adopted daughter?" asked Mary. " Will
not the tongues of mischief begin to talk and
tattle?"
"Let them talk. Their tattling cannot harm
us."
There was a grand wedding at the house of




The Lady of Fortune.       247
Simeon Gilbert, the rich stock jobber, and Mary, his adopted child, became his wife. There
was a great talk about it, and many remarks
and surmises were uttered.
"It is scarcely credible!" sneered a lady,
who had intended to become Mr. Gilbert's
second wife herself, if it could be brought
about. "They always called her their daughter. Why! Mrs. Gilbert said, in my hearing,
more than once, that Mary was their only child,
and I'm sure that she would never have made
so much of her if she had been merely adopted!"
" Yes, but the worst of all is her origin," interposed one Mrs. Fling. " Nobody ever knew
iteuntil she told it herself, and only the other
day, to Mrs. Sneak, who seems to have taken
an unaccountable interest in her since the wedding.  Why, she told her, that before she
was put in the House of Correction, she and
half a dozen other little ragamuffins, earned their
living by stealing for a junk-shop keeper!"
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Fling, suddenly roused from reading a morning paper, by
hearing his wife mention certain words. " Who
are you talking about, Mrs. Fling?"
Mrs. Fling explained, and Mr. Fling was
thrown into a deep study. Presently a carriage drew up before the door.
1___________   _ _  ___________




248       Women of New     York.
"Madame Gilbert," announced the servant,
throwing open the drawing-room doors.
" Oh I I'm so delighted I And how charming
you are looking to-day I" smiled Mrs. Fling.
There was much kissing, and fussing, and
many false declarations.
"You are not acquainted with my husband,
I believe," said Mrs. Fling.  Allow me to present him."
Mr. Fling seemed embarrassed, but tried to
show no signs of discomfiture. He was just in
the act of executing one of his best postures
of salutation, when Mrs. Gilbert turned pale,
and gave a terrible scream. Mrs. Fling did
not understand it, and was much dismayed.
But Mr. Fling gave an imploring glance to
Mrs. Gilbert, when she had recovered enough
to raise her eyes, and that glance saved Mr.
Fling from premature disgrace.
When Mrs. Gilbert sat alone with Mr. Gilbert the following evening, she asked him if
he knew the husband of Mrs. Fling. Her name
had been on their list of visitors some time,
but his had not.
" I do not," he replied. " Why do you ask?"
"I'll tell you directly.  How long has he
lived in New York?"
"But a few years, I am told. They came




The Lady of Fortune.       249
from Canada. Mr. Fling made a fortune in
Montreal. He goes out very little, but his wife
is present at all the fashionable gatherings."
"Well, Mr. Fling is the junk-shop keeper
to whom I was indebted for my exploits in
street vagrancy, and by which I got into the
institution where you found me."
"Good heavens I" ejaculated Mr. Gilbert,
" what strange things do happen I"
*      *     *      *       *
In a few days, Mr. Gilbert had learned a
gread deal more about the Flings, and brought
the news to Mary.
"I've made inquiries of every body who
know any thing about them. Of Mr. Fling I
can ascertain only what I told you the other
evening, but I discovered that his wife was the
daughter of an English gentleman of fortune.
In consequence of the irregularities of her
early life, she incurred the eternal.displeasure
of her father, who sent her off to Canada on an
annuity. She there fell in with Mr. Fling and
became his wife."
While Mr. Gilbert was talking, a servant
brought him a letter. He read it aloud:DEAR SIR,-Since you excited my curiosity
about the pedigree of the'Flings, I have learned
that before Mrs. Fling was finally banished by her
father, she had been sent to this city, towhide the




250       Women of New York.
evidences of her improper conduct with a wild
young nobleman. She left the child here, in care
of one 3irs. Done, and returned in a ship which
was wrecked on the voyage. All on board perished, with the exception of three. She was one of
the saved. But from some interception, she was
unable to keep up a correspondence with widow
Done, and in time she almost forgot she had ever
been a mother."
" My mother!" exclaimed Mary, snatching
the letter from Mr. Gilbert's hands, before he
had finished. "My mother! The mystery of
my life is now explained. Mr. Fling can assist me in making the charge complete. I will
go this instant and see him."
"A visitor is below," said the servant, presenting a card. "He desires to see Mrs. Gilbert only."
Mr. Fling's name was on the card, and Mr.
Gilbert said, " Show him up."
Mr. Fling entered, and said something about
not expecting to find Mr. Gilbert, but Mrs.
Gilbert remarked that her husband knew all.
"And have you then exposed me?" asked
Mr. Fling.
" Another visitor!" whispered the servant,
bringing a second card. "She want's to see
you only."
"Show  her up," commanded Mr. Gilbert,
and in a moment, Mrs. Fling came sweeping
into the room.




The Lady of Fortune.       251
There was a great deal of embarrassment,
and it required some minutes to bring their
minds down to any degree of composure.
Mary broke the ice by asking a question:" Mr. Fling, could you assist us in tracing
out the parentage of a certain little vagrant,
who assisted you in the junk line, some fifteen
years ago?"
Mr. Fling changed color, and Mrs. Fling's
chin fell an inch.
The conversation soon became general, and
before Mr. and Mrs. Fling took their leave,
two remarkable facts were made known, in
each of their minds. First: that Mrs. Fling
was the wife of the fugitive junk-shop keeper,
who employed Mary to steal when she was a
vagrant child. Second: that the wife of the
fugitive junk-shop keeper was Mary's mother,
and consequently, mother-in-law to her husband, Simeon Gilbert, the rich stock jobber.
"And you are really my mother!" exclaimed
Mary, giving Mrs. Fling a dutiful embrace.
Mr. and Mrs. Fling have both gone to their
last account. The money panic, a few years
ago, overturned Simeon Gilbert's mind, and he
is now in the State Asylum. By the recent
death of Mary's grandfather, an English nobleman, she has come into possession of a vast




252        Women of New York.
fortune of her own. She is now, perhaps, the
wealthiest lady in New York. But, alas! she
is far-very far, from being happy.
*      -*     -  *      *   *
Mrs. Gilbert is not the only woman now living in New York whose life shows such a remarkable extreme. Though, it generally happens that their transit is down instead of up.
Wrong education and fast living, have a tendency to dissipate health and fortune. Indeed,
there is no place in the world so likely as a
great city, to prove the grave of a woman's
ambition. Where one ascends, ten go down;
where one poor woman lives to enjoy a happy
future in affluence, a dozen idly reared girls
drag out a wretched existence of blighted expectations. Last summer, an old woman who
sells nuts and apples outside of the City Hall
Park, was pointed out to us by a gentleman,
who remarked, "She rode in her carriage
twenty years ago. I have danced with her
myself, at a party in the house of a fashionable
friend. She was then wealthy."
"And how is it that she has come to this?"
we asked in wonder.
"She was fond of gin, for one thing," replied the gentleman. "And they said she lost
a great deal at the gaming table. She was fond
of cards, and always played for money, until a
sharper fleeced her."








N~~~                  i
3IADA3IE Dl~g WALL.
P~~~~~~~~~,,f//,/7//y//  I K
MADAME DE WALL.




MADAME DE WALL:
THE       WOMAN     IN   BL    CK.
My passions are all living serpents, and
Twin'd, like the gorgons, round me.-BYRON.
- ILKE Collins has immortalized
the "woman in white," but
the woman in black is a character of far more importance
in matters that pertain to the well-being of
society. There are numerous classes of women
in black, but Madame De Wall is not one of
the ordinary kind. In the outset, we will ease
the reader's mind by stating that Madame is
now a wicked. woman. When she was quite
young, she naturally fell in love; but, unfortunately for her future good, she did it very
unwisely. Instead of being less hasty, and
becoming the wife of a worthy man, she thought
a little romance would be delightful. In her




256       Women of New York.
daily walk to and from school, she passed the
window of a picture gallery, where it was her
custom to stop and view the pictures therein.
Her pretty face attracted the attention of an
artist, who contrived to have her sit for a portrait, and it was not long before she and the
artist became the best of friends. Hoping to
feather his nest by marrying a rich man's
daughter, he secretly made her his wife. Had
her father known the fact, it is probable that
the artist would have lost his life. One year
passed, and so did two. The marriage was
still kept a secret, but, like thousands of girls
have done before, and will ever continue to do,
she forgot to destroy one of her clandestine
letters, and left it lying in her chamber. A
servant carried it to her father, who forthwith
inflicted a caning upon the head and back of
the artist, for his presuming to write to his
daughter. Not dreaming that they were really
married, the father set spies to watch the artist
and his daughter both, and, in consequence
thereof, their intercourse and correspondence
were completely cut off. A long interval ensued, during which nothing passed between
them, and the artist turned his thoughts upon
another pretty face, saying to himself" I'll find a mistress elsewhere, and wait for
the old man to die. Then I'll take my wife,




The Woman in Black.        257
and some of his brick houses and bright dollars
with her."
Two years after that, the father did die. Indeed, we might here remark, and very apropos,
that fathers are dying every day, in New York.
In a population of one million, there are thousands of fathers, and many of them have daughters, who will soon be left in full possession of
the wealth which they have toiled forty or fifty
years in accumulating. Daughters of rich old
fathers are not long in finding husbands, and
in numerous instances, their husbands distinguish themselves by squandering all they can
lay their hands on, and then leaving the daughters to murder out the balance of their existence in genteel boarding-houses, or in some
other dilemma, the Lord only knows where or
how.
Five hundred deaths occur in New York,
every week in the year. This is at the rate of
seventy a day-or one about every twenty
minutes. Every twenty minutes, some wretched mortal is drawing its last breath. Even
while we are writing about Madame De Wall,
at least one soul has just fled from its tenement of ckly in this great city, and gone before the throne of the Eternal, to be adjudged
according to the deeds of the body here below. Oh, what misery there is enlured at this




258       Women of New York.
moment by the inhabitants of this city! How
many suffering mortals are now writhing with
pains of body and tortures of mind I To pause
and reflect-upon this terrible truth, would sadden the gayest heart that ever beat! Behold!
seventy odd funerals every day 1 and all here,
within a circuit of a few miles. Three new
coffins are wanted every hour. As we write,
hundreds of men are sawing, planing, pounding and polishing boards of rosewood, mahogany, walnut, cherry or pine, and making them
into coffins. Day and night the saw and hammer are continually heard in the workshops of
the "undertakers."  Strong men work and
sweat, and wear themselves out and grow old
and die, at their eternal task of making coffins
for the dead. Aye, and many a coffin-maker,
who has toiled at the trade fifty years, is carried
to his grave in a plain box, of simple, unvarnished pine.
Hark! We hear the solemn tones of the great
bell in the spire of St. Paul's; and there goes
a grand cortege, following the corpse of some
rich mortal to its last home in Greenwood.
Then, see that long box, fastened with
a rope to the bottom of a dray. The driver
looks back at the load with a sort of shrink.
He knows what the box contains. Ask him,
and he will say, "a dead body!" It is the




The Woman in Black.        259
corpse of a poor man or woman, whose life departed amid poverty. There are no mourners,
and it is deposited in the dismal sepulchre appropriated for the bones of the friendless and
the poor.
Thousands have died in New York since the
corpse of Madame De Wall's father was laid in
that beautiful gothic tomb, situated at the south
end of Greenwood Cemetery. With his death,
came the artist, to claim wife and fortune.
But time works wondrous changes.
" No!" said the daughter. " You have acted
basely by me. I know of your doings, and
will not now be your wife. You have another
to love, and I will not abide with you."
" But the law will allow me the right I demand," said the artist. Admitting that love
has died out between us forever, we can, at
least, appear to be man and wife in the eyes of
the world. You are rich-I am poor. You
loved me when we stood up before the clergyman; you then vowed to be an obedient and
loving wife, until death should separate us.
There is now no obstacle to keep us apart."
"All your reasoning will have no avail. I
will not be your wife. The clergyman who
married us no longer lives, and the proof of a
marriage does not exist."
"Yes, but there was a certificate, bearing the




260       Women of New York.
clergyman's signature, and that is a document
legal enough to settle the question before a
court."
"That certificate you gave to me, and I have
reduced it to ashes."
"Not so. I gave you only a copy of the
original." The artist took a soiled paper from
his wallet, and holding it so that she could read,
he continued-" There it is; and you will also
perceive the signature of a witness. That
witness will testify for me."
Forced into it, she yielded with a spirit of
hate, which grew more bitter every day. The
artist was soon a miserable sot; for, with all
the money he could spend, his career was
downward rapidly enough. His life was soon
finished.
When the artist died, his widow was accused
of taking his life, and her accuser was the
woman who shared his joy and sorrow while
he was waiting for his father-in-law's demise.
The woman hated the wife, and it is probable
that she really believed the artist had been
fatally dealt with. The corpse was disinterred,
and the doctors reported, "arsenic, in considerable quantities."  The widow had a prospect of serious trouble. The grand jury indicted her, and heavy bonds barely saved her




The Woman in Black.        261
from prison. When the case came on, there
were no witnesses against her, and nothing further could be done. Her accuser was " found
drowneoi"
The notoriety of her recent trouble induced
her to travel. During her absence, she assumed
the name of Madame De Wall, and came back
with an ill frown upon her features.
Rumor has had much to do with the name
of Madame De Wall. All kinds of stories have
been told and related to her discredit, and more
than one husband, and perhaps a score of
fathers, will look daggers when they see her
carriage pass. Her fortune is said to have disappeared soon after her husband; but she has
always managed to live, and is never without
plenty of money. They say she is ready for
anything that will pay, and honesty is not a
matter to be considered in her undertakings.
In a city like New York, where so much wickedness is constantly carried on, the Woman in
Black is looked upon, by free thinkers, as a
necessary evil. At all events, the city would
not be what it is without them.
*    *    %*  *    X    *    X    *
No sensible reader will imagine, from the
revelations in this sketch, that all women in
black are wicked. We should be sorry to
think that, for there are thousands of good,




262       Women of New York.
honest souls, eternally clothed in sable attire,
who have grief at their hearts, and whose
memories are in the deepest mourning. We
have profound respect for the black robe, and
the long, ebon veil, no matter where we see
it, or by whom it is worn. On an old lady,
it is always becoming, and significant of the
future. But young ladies who prance and
giggle, should not put it on, save in actual
mourning. Yet, as the white neckcloth of a
clergyman has aided many a fraudulent knave
to carry out his wicked schemes, under the
guise of sanctity, so does the garb of black help
a treacherous woman in the accomplishment of
her cruel designs. We say cruel, for the reason that we know she is more heartless than a
man. Do not start, gentle reader, when we
make the declaration that woman, when depraved and lost in crime, has a heart of threefold harder stone than the veriest demon who
ever wore the beard of a man. One really
wicked woman will sow the seeds of greater
crimes than three men can ever do.








A~    3
I-        77?
/1~~~~~~~~~~~~~\
\\\\ ~ ~ j;\ 
MTI$~.JEWT




MRS. JEWETT:
THE BROKEN HEARTElD.
"That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect;
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair:
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater.",;EN always laugh at the idea of a
~'I   "broken heart," and we believe
that very few women place much
-    faith in possibilities of this kind.
And yet, it is said a thousand times a day, in
speaking of some wretched one, " She's heartbroken I" The expression is common, but
seems only to imply that such a one is overwhelmed with trouble, or full of grief. But,
dear reader, there are broken hearts in this
great city.
*      *      *      *       **
Some years ago, we visited the police court
one morning with a friend, to see a woman who




266       Women of New York.
was to have a hearing upon a charge of poisoning her own child. A notice in the papers,
called our attention to the arrest of the woman,
and as the circumstances were so remarkable,
we desired to look at a mother who could be
such a monster, if such a one there really was.
Our friend was a lawyer, and enjoyed privileges, whereby he secured a comfortable seat
for us, away from the crowd, and while concealed from the eyes of others, we could plainly
see all that was going on. After two or three
trivial cases were disposed of, the clerk called
the name of "Mrs. Jewett." But no answer
came.
"Officer, where is your prisoner?" demanded
the magistrate, looking over his spectacles to
the far corner of the room.
"Please, your honor, she'll be back directly,"
cringed an Irishman, approaching the bar.
" She was fainten like, and Mahoney and McDuell jest took her back to the matron of the
prison. They'll be in with her presently,
your honor."
" We can not wait I" growled the magistrate.
He twisted in his seat a moment, and then
turning to his especial officer, he said:" Newmans, go and bring her in. The court
is in a hurry. I have business of importance
on hand this afternoon, and shall adjourn at




The Broken Hearted.         267
eleven o'clock. Cases not disposed of by that
time, must lie over until Monday."
The officer bowed low and hurried out. In
a moment he returned with Mahoney and McDuell, partly carrying and dragging a woman
between them.
" Stand up here!" said the clerk.
The magistrate adjusted his spectacles at
the right focus, and  prepared to take a
thorough scrutiny of the prisoner. She was
standing, or rather leaning against the railing,
but a veil covered her face, and besides, she
held her head down, so that it was impossible
to catch the least glimpse of her features.
There was a deep silence in the room.
"Madame," said the magistrate, "you will
uncover your face,-the court does not wish to
deal with one whose features are invisible."
The prisoner sobbed aloud. The crowd held
their breath, and gazed sadly on the scene.
The prisoner's garments were elegant and
costly, and showed that her circumstances
were above the general masses.
" Madame," repeated the magistrate, in a
harsher tone, "the court wishes you to uncover your face. The court must be obeyed."
Sobs louder than before, followed the magistrate's second order, and he impatiently said
to his special officer:



268       Women of New     York.
"Newmans, take that veil offfor her I Come,
we have no time to trifle!"
The magistrate was in a hurry, for he had
set his mind upon witnessing the races to come
off that afternoon, out on Long Island. He
kept fast horses himself, and enjoyed such
things very much. The hour he fixed for adjournment was nearly up, and every moment's
delay made him uneasy.
The officer touched the prisoner's veil to
push it aside, but she clutched it tightly, and
it could not be moved without tearing. He
hesitated, and glanced towards the magistrate
to know what he should do.
" Off with it, Newmans!" roared the magistrate in anger. "No matter, let it tear, if it
will!"
The officer bowed, and then his strong grasp
quickly made shreds of the veil. Yet, her face
was not visible, for the loose drapery of her
mantle now served her as an effectual mask.
"Take her away!" stormed the magistrate,
rising from his seat. " Lock her up until next
Monday, and she'll be more accommodating by
that time, I guess. Away with her   The
court is adjourned. Newmans, leave her to
Mahoney and McDuell, they can manage her:
I want you with me."
The prisoner gave a hysterical scream, as




The Broken-Hearted.       269
the men took hold of her to drag her back to
prison, and we felt very much like scratching
the magistrate's face. He put on his hat, and
left.
" It's all over for to-day," said our companion.
If you still wish to see her, you'll have to come
again on Monday."
Reader, come with us into a millinery store
in Broadway. Do you see that pale-faced lady,
behind the counter, yonder? Poor creature 
her history is a sorrowful one. You think she
has seen much sickness, but, alas! her sunken
cheeks and hollow eyes were not made so by
disease. Her sufferings have been more of the
mind than of the body. We can assure you
that her lot has been a bitter one. Until she
married Mr. Jewett, her life was one continued
summer; but, on the very day of her marriage,
trouble began to assail her. The ceremony
was hardly performed, when a wicked letter
reached her husband, impeaching her character, and laying the foundation of future misery.
She knew nothing of the letter, but her husband's manner made her very unhappy. In a
week's time, another letter was received, purporting to come from a different writer, with
additional slanders. And one day, not a month
after their marriage, two men called upon Mr.




270       Women of New York.
Jewett, and stated that his wife had been detected in purloining some valuable laces from
the store in which they were employed. He
resented the charge, and threatened to pitch
them into the street; but, said one of them"She has the laces with her. She has not
yet returned, and if you will keep your temper,
you can prove her guilt by finding them on
her person, when she arrives."
Sure enough, when Mrs. Jewett came home,
a lot of lace was found under her mantle. She
was thunderstruck, and declared that she knew
nothing about it. Mr. Jewett went to the store
with the two men, and satisfying himself of the
theft, he offered to pay for the laces.
" Oh, no," said the storekeeper, " we do not
wish you to do any such thing. It's all right,
now. But, Mr. Jewett," said the storekeeper,
confidentially, " I would suggest that you keep
an eye on your wife in future, or she may get
into serious trouble, where they are not so lenient as I am."
This was only a beginning.  Complaints
came to Mr. Jewett almost every day, from
some new quarter, stating that his wife was
doing this or that to disgrace his name. And,
upon investigation, the evidence was always
conclusively against her, so that longer submission would have been more than human for



The Broken-Hearted.       271
bearance was capable of. She denied all the
charges, and cried herself sick about them so
often that her beauty was rapidly fading.
When Mr. Jewett made her his wife, she was
very pretty, and he really loved her-had he
not, he would have abandoned her long before
he did. But now, with every proof of her depravity, and a fading of her rosy cheeks, and a
dimming of her bright eyes, his attachment
was rapidly cooling down.
"Mrs. Jewett," said he, " we must separate.
I have loved you too well, but cannot live in
this way any longer. My lawyer has instructions to procure a divorce. If you defend it,
all your past offences shall, of course, come out
to strengthen my cause. If you yield, then
you may escape comparatively unexposed. I
shall quit New York as soon as the divorce is
decreed, and possibly may never return here
to live."
Mrs. Jewett had not the courage to resist.
Her hopes were all dead, and she made no defence.
When Mr. Jewett was absolved from matrimony, he quit the city, as he proposed, but left
their only child with his divorced wife. Soon
afterwards, the child died and its mother was
accused of taking its life. She was arrested,
and a notice of it in the papers drew us to the




272      Women of New York.
Police Court, as we described in the first part
of this sketch. We visited the court again on
the Monday following, and saw her. Her hearing was quickly over, and she was committed
for trial. A jury of men, after listening half a
day to the evidence, unanimously agreed upon
a verdict of guilty, without any appeal to the
mercy of the court.
She was remanded for sentence, three days
hence. But the second night after her conviction, Judge -, a worthy magistrate, then
presiding in the General Sessions, was suddenly summoned to the bedside of a dying woman.
She was nearly gone when he arrived, but still
sensible.
"Judge, there is a Bible, on the table," said
she. "I wish you to swear me. I have some
disclosures to make, and earnestly desire that
they should be accepted as the truth."
The Judge administered the oath.'And now," said she, "you will remember
that my testimony was the chief evidence
against Mrs. Jewett, in her trial for the murder of her child. My evidence was false!
Yes, Judge, false! It was I who poisoned the
child, and she is innocent. On my death-bed,
believe me, she is not guilty!"
"You are insane," said the Judge. "Calm
yourself. It is impossible that you could have




The Broken-Hearted.       273
had any motive strong enough to make you
commit such a horrible twofold crime! It is
but the wandering of your disturbed reason."
"No! no! no! I tell you the truth. Oh.
Judge! I am dying, and implore you to believe
me, and save her from further misery. I have
had revenge enough-oh, enough! There is a
great load of sin bearing me down, and it will
push me into eternal fire. Judge, listen to me.
Before Mr. Jewett married her, I loved him,
and prayed, and hoped, and tried to be his
wife. But I was poor, and he did not understand what a depth of passionate feeling lay in
my heart, nor did I then know what a demon
it would make of me, if it should not be appreciated and received. I was a domestic in
his house, and when he brought his beautiful
bride home, a sudden thirst seized me to torture her. I began by writing letters, and, with
the assistance of an expert shoplifter, continued my persecutions until Mr. Jewett obtained
a divorce. Oh! then I thought I would surely
gain his notice; but he was moody, and observed nothing. He quit the city, and did not
even bid me good bye. I was now more demoniacal than ever. His slight made me a
perfect fiend. I remained in her employ, and
nursed the child, and gave it poison; and after
it was buried, I caused her to be accused of its
I




274        Women of New York.
death. Oh I Judge, you know what followed.
I am now dying, and implore that you will let
the innocent mother escape.'
Newmans witnessed the disclosures of the
woman, and then she died.
*    *     *    *    *    *    *
But the confessions of poor Mrs. Jewett's
enemy did not come in time to disabuse her
husband's mind. He went to Cuba, and there
the fever soon terminated his life.
Mrs. Jewett's history would make an interesting volume, but we must now leave her
there behind the counter of that fashionable
millinery store, where she is struggling and
toiling to gain an honest living. At the age
of only twenty-five, there she stands, a brokenhearted woman.








Wift, 6: 1467 c
i~~~~/i
I   fA
MA)DAME RANI).




MADAME RAND:
THE     FORTUrN        -TELLEI.
Lady, throw back thy flaxen hair,
And lay thy brow to the moonlight bare,
Then I'll look on thy stars and look on thee,
And tell thee a tale of thy destiny."
HERE was a time when astrologers
-Z)^ — were highly esteemed by people of?~    great distinction. Indeed, fortune.
-=-   tellers have always been more or
less consulted, from the earliest ages down
to the present time. But, with the introduction of electrical telegraphs and lightning
printing presses, superstition should be entirely rooted out, and its place occupied by intelligence and reason. Now, in the nineteenth
century, with thousands of railroads, hundreds
of steamships, and every conceivable invention
of art, there should be more thinking and less
dreaming. With free schools all over the land,
and three thousand periodicals yearly cast be



278       Women of New York.
fore the people, at prices so cheap that beggars even can afford to read, none should be
devoid of learning. Ah, we are repeating the
word should, while, as an experienced journalist, we know that it is useless to moralize over
such things. We have written volumes, explanatory of what ought to be, and what ought
not to be, and, after all our well-meant labor,
have discovered that if we wish to gain the attention of our readers, we must entertain and
please them, and not take upon ourself the liberty of dictation. We will therefore revert
to Madame Rand, who occupies apartments in
the second story of a frame tenement, on the
corner of two dingy streets, wihin half a mile
of the East river. The first floor is used as a
grocery store, where a few stale vegetables,
and cheap teas and sugars, etc., are retailed
out to a very destitute class of buyers. Liquor
is the principal traffic of the grocery. A German artist has painted numerous signs on the
outside, announcing what may be had to drink
within. But there is no connection between
the grocery and Madame Rand. The groceryman's name is painted " Mulligen," in large
letters, over the entrance, while, on the doorpost leading up stairs, there is a small tin sign,
which reads-" MADAME RAND, tells of the past,
the present, and the future, and may be consulted
I




The Fortune-Teller.       279
on all questions of law or love. Young ladies will
also be shown the portraits of their future husbands."
By ringing the bell, we could easily gain access to Madame's presence. We are half inclined to give the bell a pull, and take a peep
up stairs; but, dear reader, we would not like
to be seen coming out again.
However, we must tell you what this old hag
once did. A merchant, whom we shall call
Krumps, doing business in the lower part of
the city, conceived a strong passion for his partner's daughter. She was an only child, and
very pretty, and he remembered that he had
heard of women who made it a business to entrap young girls, and he applied to Madame
Rand.
She first found out the school which the
daughter attended, and then she gained admission into it for a young woman named Mollie,
about the same age of the daughter. Mollie
was to obtain her confidence, and aid the hag.
*    *    *    *   *    * *     *
"It's all working out as you desire," said the
hag, in reply to Krumps' urgent inquiries.
" Mollie has the girl's mind pretty well prepared, and we shall soon bag the game."
"' Mollie I who's Mollie?" inquired Krumps.
" Oh, she's one of my most reliable assistants.




280        Women of New York.
She is young, pretty, and seemingly artless,
and has such a refined way about her, that I've
no difficulty in getting her into companionship
with the daughters of the first gentlemen of
the city. Why, even now, she is on the most
intimate terms with a little beauty, whom I am
securing for another patron."
When Krumps left, which he did under cover
of an umbrella, on a wet night, the hag opened
the door of an adjoining room, and called in
Mr. Thornley, who was in a merry humor.
"Well, if that wasn't old Krumps I" laughed
Thornley. "And, would you believe it, it is
his daughter you and Mollie are after for me 1"
" What l" ejaculated the hag, really amazed.
"Yes I Capital, capital I While old Krumps
is employing you to corrupt somebody else's
daughter, you are actually deluding his own
for me. The best joke I ever knew."'
Thornley actually rolled over on the sofa, he
was so tickled with his discovery.
"I did not know that Krumps had any
daughters," said the hag, seriously.
"Oh, yes. You see, we chaps don't give our
real names; we ain't so green as all that comes
to. What name did Krumps give you-eh?"
"Brooks," replied the hag.
" The scoundrel I" exclaimed Thornley. "Why




The Fortune-Teller.       281
that's-aheml Krumps is a villainous fellow,
that he is!"
" Oh, go on and finisb what you began to say
-that your real name is Brooks, and that
Krumps has taken it to save his own. I see
how it is."
" Well, if you must know, then have it so.
My name is Brooks."
"And you live in Tenth street?"
" Exactly."
Madame Rand jumped as though she had
been struck a violent blow. And well she
might-for she discovered that Krumps and
Thornley were partners in business, and that
she was employed by them to corrupt each other's daughter. Under assumed names, they
came to her with exactly similar designs, and
the villainy was nearly complete. Her situation was a critical one, and she began to be
frightened; but gold was tempting, and she
choked her terror down.
"What's up, now?" queried Thornley, noticing her manner.
" Nothing but a confounded pain in my side."
Thornley took his hat and departed.
In Greenwood Cemetery there are two
graves, almost side by side. These graves
contain the remains of two young girls, who




282       Women of New York.
died, it was said, from natural causes. One
was the daughter of Krumps-the other was
the daughter of Thornley. Madame Rand did
all she was paid to perform, and two fathers
now live to repent of their evil passions, and
mourn over that which all their gold cannot
repair. They now know what fools they have
been, and when they meet, they dare not look
each other in the face.
If parents knew all the terrible mischief
made by fortune-tellers, they would never permit their daughters to go near them. A worse
class of miscreants do not infest the city.
Three years ago, a beautiful, though weakminded young lady, was deluded by a fortuneteller into marrying her father's coachman.
She was the heiress apparent to great wealth,
but the spell of the sorceress was too strong
to break, and she refused to listen to parents
or anybody but her enchantress and her coachman husband. In rage and despair, the father
made a will to her prejudice. He recently died,
and it has since transpired that the coachman
was really the fortune-teller's own son, the
whole affair being a shrewd but unsuccessful
plan to gain a fortune. We do not know
where the daughter is now.








>%\  t;'~~Oi~JI1 \ TV! N~~~~tU  F




SOPHIA RENVILLE:
TRE PEn    FE T   LADY.
" I think of thee, sweet lady, as of one
Too pure to mix with others, like some star,
Shining in pensive beauty all alone,
Kindred with those around, yet brighter far."
LOOK at Sophia's portrait tells the
whole story. Faceslike hers are not
seen every hour in the great highways, or in gay or sober assemblages.
There is an indescribable grace in Sophia's
every movement, which charms the beholder,
and commands respect even from those who
seldom show deference to any one. Say what
you please about the claim every woman has
to being called a lady, there is a vast difference
between the multitude and Sophia Renville.
How unlike Miss iJenkins I If"' Miss" is not
prefixed to her name, she is greatly offended,
and will plumply tell the person who neglects




286       Women of New York.
its use, that, as a lady, she expects to be addressed in proper terms. Such an omission
would never annoy Sophia, for, having no desire to be over-estimated, she is entirely free
from airs.
Sophia's father is one of the wealthiest merchants in New York, and she rides out daily in
the family carriage, with a splendid pair of
black horses, and two servants in livery of blue
and gold. Her father has erected one of those
palaces, which cost a hundred thousand dollars.
She is now past twenty, and has seen all that
can be seen in the sphere of the fashionable,
high-born, and wealthy, and many suitors have
tremblingly asked for her hand.
"I don't like her," says Miss Jenkins, who
saw her once at the opera. "She is too inanimate for me. I like to see a lady have some
life, and she's a perfect stick. She's so very
precise."
"You are much mistaken," responds Miss
J.'s companion, who, by the way, is a rejected
admirer of Sophia's. " Miss Renville is neither
inanimate, nor is she a stick; and I cannot perceive that she is any too precise. She is dignified, and yet, so easy and gentle that no effort
is ever visible."
"She's stuck up, though," pouts Miss J.
"Not so." says her companion. "Though




The Perfect Lady.        287
she is consideped the belle of the city, and occupies a position far more wealthy than many
around her, she is the least assuming lady I
ever met with, in all my life."
Sophia's parents were both poor, when they
began life together, he twenty-two, and she
only nineteen. But that was many years ago.
Fortunes are sometimes quickly made, and
lost, and made again, in the city of New York.
Mr. Renville had barely one hundred dollars
to commence on, and now the tax assessor puts
him down for several millions. He was the
only son of a poor widow, who died in an asylum for the insane, when he was scarcely a
year old. He then passed over to the guardianship of a rich old uncle, who endeavored to
educate him in the best manner. His uncle
lived until he was a fine, promising youth of
seventeen, and then suddenly went to his grave,
without leaving the nephew a dollar. During
infancy, his good nurse, whom he learned to
call "Aunty," was, to him, all the mother he
ever felt or knew, and he always loved her.
But while he was away at school, "Aunty " accompanied some of her friends to a distant
part of the world, and he never heard from
her again. But the good counsel she instilled
into his mind when a child, often restrained
him from falling into the temptations surround



288       Women of New York.
ing his path through the upward struggle of
his life. He married an educated and sensible
lady, and no man could love a wife better than
he does Mrs. Renville, to this day. Some of
his friends say that he adores her. And she
merits all the love he gives her. We do not
believe there is a happier couple living. We
mention the fact as a rare example now-a-days.
But Sophia owes much to her parents. Their
education fitted them to rear her so as to be
worthy of the title of a perfect lady. While
they lavished upon her all the accomplishments of the age and the circle in which she
was to move and live, they did not forget the
more solid branches of learning. She was
taught that she must be useful to her fellow
mortals, as well as an ornament in the world.
To wait upon herself, and to even mend her
own clothes, were among the earliest haibts
taught her. That she was only mortal, and
made of the same flesh and blood that the
poorest women are, became fixed in her memory, and with it, the belief that a lady should
never treat even the humblest being unkindly.
Above all, she was taught to read the Bible,
and to fear God. When she was scarcely three
years old, she never thought of going to bed
without voluntarily getting down on her little
knees, and commending her youthful soul to




The Perfect Lady.        289
the keeping of her Father in Heaven. Oh,
how Mr. and Mrs. Renville have always idolized their sweet child!
"But,"' said the mother, "we should do our
duty, and, despite the pernicious examples
which are about us, we must keep close watch
on her, and direct her mind into the right
channel, that the future may be happy, both
for her and for us."
" Yes," replied the father, " we must devote
our lives to her, and, while we carefully watch
over and instruct her, let us continue to ask
assistance and aid from above."
Happy Sophia Renville! She is not like
the thousands of her sex who laugh and giggle
one moment, and cry and pout the next; nor
is she one of the kind who never think of anybody but themselves. When she talks, it is
not of herself. There is no egotism or vanity
in her. But, had she been reared as the most
of girls are, it is very reasonable to suppose
that she would now be as short-witted and as
ill-behaved as any of them. We do not, for a
moment, wish to have it inferred that nature
made Sophia Renville such a perfect lady. Oh,
no I If she had only what nature gave her, we
fear she would have been quite the opposite of
what she now is. Left to grow up without
proper teaching and good example, the best of




290       Women of New York.
us would be far below the standard of a lady.
Education is what makes the character, or what
developes it, at least. Though, we are not all
possessed of the best natural qualitiesand it
would require a great deal of teaching to make
a brilliant lady of a stupid, idiot child. Again,
many natures will not toil for advancement,
preferring to remain as they are, and live
trusting to chance. Parents, and especially
mothers, have the future happiness of their
children in their hands, and if they are competent to perform their duty well, and will take
the trouble and pains to teach them by precept
and example, they will not only promote the
happiness of the present generation, but benefit their own posterity, and the posterity of
others, in ages yet to come.
We could tell many anecdotes, showing
wherein Sophia Renville differs so much from
the general mass of those who claim to be ladies.
Only the other day, when the pavements
were very wet, and the crossings on Broadway
so slippery that the surest footed could not
stand, an old woman waited on the curbstone
to pass over, as soon as there should be any
opening between the endless throng of vehicles. She was quite feeble and tottering, and
her dress was only a faded calico. Her ap



The Perfect Lady.        291
pearance was poor and wretched. Twice she
essayed to cross, but each time she returned,
afraid to venture.  Once more she stepped
down into the slippery mud, and moved as
quickly as her strength would permit. She
had gone nearly half the distance across, when
a brutal Irish "carman," such as infest New
York by the thousand, ran his horse against
her and threw her down. The brute saw the
old woman in time, and yellec out at her, derisively. He saw that she could not run, and he
might have turned his horse's head to avoid
her; but he kept straight on, and, after striking
her, cursed her for being in his way. Just
then, a magnificent private equipage was rolling past, and, in less time than we require to
write the fact, it came to a sudden halt. A
beautiful young lady alighted, and, with her
delicate, kid-gloved hands, helped the old
woman to stand erect. The lady's costly robe
was spread out in the mud, and great spots
were daubed over her white lace mantle.
"Get down, Thomas," she called, to the exquisitely attired footman, who sat up in his
place by the coachman's side, quite stiff and
grand. " Get down here, quickly, and help me
assist this poor woman."
Thomas was amazed at the conduct of his
lady, and, just then, could not collect his scat



292       Women of New York.
tered wits. He and John, the coachman, both
saw the carman run against the poor woman,
but they had no idea that their lady would
risk her pretty self, and spoil her elegant apparel, by cutting such a figure in the most public part of Broadway.  Thomas looked into
John's face, and John looked into Thomas'.
"'Thomas! Thomas! Why don't you come
down?" cried the lady, seeing that he made no
move to obey.
"Yes, ma'am! Coming I" said Thomas, now
understanding matters a little better. But he
got down very carefully, and stepped on tiptoe, and touched everything with only just the
tips of his fingers.
"Why, Thomas! take hold and help her out
of the street. Certainly, you need not fear to
spoil your livery, when I risk my dress in this
way. Come, get her to the curbstone."
A few moments ago, the omnibus drivers and
carmen did not care whether they run the old
woman down or not, but now that a grand
equipage, with its gay-liveried servants and
majestic horses stood there, and such a richly
dressed lady was in the way, they all turned
aside, respectfully, and passed by, extremely
curious to know what it all meant.
It required only a moment to regain the curbstone. The coachman drew up to one side, and




The Perfect Lady.        293
a multitude began to gather. Some one said:
" Go into the store." The hint was a timely
ones and the lady acted upon it immediately.
Thomas led the old woman in, and she followed.
But, had it not been for the fine carriage, and
the lady, and her liveried attendants, that
storekeeper would not have permitted the old
woman to enter his doors, at least, in the sorry
condition she was just then. He is a selfish
man, and has no pleasant corner in his cold
heart, save for courting favor with the rich.
But, no matter-he did admit her.
" Oh, thank you, dear, sweet angel!" said the
old woman, while tears ran down her cheeks.
" I am not hurt-only frightened. Thank you I
thank you!" And she kissed the lady's gloved
hand with no pretended feeling. " I am able
to go or, now. But, oh! what a dear, good,
kind lady you are, to get out of your fine carriage to help a poor, miserable creature, like
me; and then, to spoil all your silks and laces
so, in the nasty mud I Oh I must kiss you
again, and again I" And she did kiss her hand,
a dozen times.
There were large tears in the lady's eyes,
also, but she brushed them away, and slipped
three pieces of bright gold into the old woman's
hand.
"Accept these, now," whispered the lady,




294      Women of New York.
" and when you need more, come to me. You
will find my name and address on this card."
The old woman did not wish to tax her
bounty in such a way, and pushed back the
gold; but the lady fairly forced the pieces
upon her.
" Tell me your name, good lady," said the old
woman. " My eyesight is very dim, and cannot
make out what is on the card."
" Sophi Renville," replied the lady.
"l enville!" exclaimed the old woman, catching her hand. "Not the daughter of George
Renville, the great merchant-are you?"
"I am his daughter."
"Heaven be praised!" cried the old woman.
"I am even now on my way to his store, to see
him, and ask him if he will not do a little
towards helping along his old nursenow that
she is good for nothing.  The daughter of
George Renville!  Oh! I nursed him-'little
Georgey'-from the hour that he was born until
he went away to school. Oh I he'll remember
his old'Aunty,' as he used to call me. He'll
remember me —aye, that he will And you are
his daughter! I knew that you were an angel 1" The old woman wept tears of joy."
When Mr. Renville returned to his dwelling
that night, he did remember the nurse he used
to call "Aunty."  Sophia had taken the old




The Perfect Lady.        295
woman home with her in the carriage, to the
great mortification of Thomas and John, who
thought it was a rather shabby exploit. Mrs.
Renville gave her a warm welcome, but when
Mr. Renville saw her, he actually folded his
arms around her, and something like tear-drops
were in the corners of his eyes, for her presence recalled the days of his childhood, and it
seemed as only yesterday that" Aunty " was
so good and so kind to him.
Before retiring to bed that night, Mr. Renville knelt beside his old nurse, and prayed,
just as she had taught him to when he was a
little child. It was a holy picture. The rich
man kneeling on the velvet carpet in his mansion, before that poor, old woman, with his devoted wife and their good daughter by his side.
" And now,' Aunty,"' said Mr. Renville, when
he had finished his prayer, "let my house be
your home while you live."
Judging Mr. Renville by the generality of
men in business around him, hardly one in a
thousand would ever imagine his true character at home.  In Wall street, he is only
one of the many, who are but types of each
other in dress and manners. Their garments
are cut in the latest fashion, and made of costly
materials, and their language is always easy




296       Women of New York.
and affable. They have a smile and a bow for
everybody in the "sphere of money," and
stand ready to " negotiate " in any way desired
by their customers. Mr. Renville made a fortune by being a "Wall street man," and the
outside world have no idea of his true character at home. Knowing what little we do of
Wall street, we cannot help ejaculating-" Oh,
how unlike other men he is l" Would that
there were a few more such as he, and then
we should have a different state of morals
among the wealthy daughters who make up
the " beauty and fashion " of the great city.
*      *      o     *      *
Sophia Renville has at last found a heart
which seems to beat in unison with her own.
They say that a wedding will soon take place.
If so, we hope her husband will be worthy of
such a jewel, and that their wedded life may be
a long and a happy one.








\ ^^.^I ^DQ? \ J &O1} \
^F.DU~~vA JACOBS.




MEDORA JACOBS:
TIE     CO   F IB   NCE    WOI AN..
<A creature of amphibious nature,
On land a beast, a fish in water,
That always preys on grace or sin,
A sheep without, a wolf within."
U       p^^ ~~ ITH such a repulsive face, it
/_^,iB-D must require great skill for
Medora Jacobs to succeed as
a confidence woman. There is
not a clever point in all her features, and it is
somewhat remarkable to us, that she ever accomplished a single undertaking.  Yet, the
race she sprang from have ever been noted for
their perseverance in anything to avoid actual,
legitimate labor, and perhaps this is why she
does succeed, under the serious disadvantage of
her ugliness. We need not say that she is a
pure descendant of the ancient Israelites-her
countenance shows the fact plainly enough.




300       Women of New York.
It is said that her birth-place was in Mulberry
street, and that she manifested some of the
striking peculiarities of her character at a very
early age. When her old father was put on
the witness' stand to testify, in a trial she recently had for false pretences, he stated, among
other facts, that she made a collecting tour on
her own account, when she was oniy about nine
years old. She persuaded a schoolmate, not so
young as herself, to assist her in preparing a
written appeal to the humane and charitable,
in behalf of a destitute family of small children,
whose father had fallen and dislocated his back.
Prevailing upon her schoolmate to accompany
her, she then applied at the doors of houses in
a remote part of the city, and collected several
dollars in one afternoon.  She repeated the
operation as often as she could absent herself
from school, which she sometimes did by carrying forged excuses to the teacher.  Prudently going into a different street every time
shf went out, she continued to collect donations
until she had accumulated over a hundred dollars. She was cunning enough to keep her
money out of sight, and her parents, whose
circumstances were comfortable and easy, had
no thought that their child was at mischief
of any kind. However, Medora was suddenly
stopped in her enterprise by a crabbed police



The Confidence Wonan.       301
man, who took her to the station house. He
had questioned her, a week or so before, and
finding that she told him falsehoods, he concluded she must be an impostor, acting under
the direction of an older head. The captain
of the police tried to make her tell where she
lived, but she refused to answer any questions.
He then opened a cell door, and told her she
must be locked up in there, unless she answered. Other children would have screamed,
and begged off, and freely disclosed anything
asked them, but Medora only bit her lips and
hung down her head.
" She's a hard little case," said the captain,
to one of his men, " and I don't believe it possible to get anything out of her."
"Set her at liberty again," whispered the
man.   "The chances are that she will go
straight home. It is an easy matter to follow
her."
" Good!" coincided the captain.  Then approaching Medora, he said —"Now, my girl, if
you'll promise me to go home, and never be
caught out in the same way another time, I'll
let you off. What do you say to that-eh?"
Medora only gave a single affirmative nod.
She did not move her tongue.   The door
opened, and she darted off, followed by one of
the men, who endeavored to keep his eyes on
L.. _.




302       Women of New      York.
her, without being seen. The trick was successful, and Medora was traced home. Her
father had much difficulty in settling the matter.
At the age of fourteen, Medora quit her
father's roof entirely, and resorting to different guises, she imposed upon all classes of
people. Among the first of her victims was a
boarding-house keeper. She represented herself to be the daughter of some great man of
wealth, and thus obtained not only the best
rooms in the house, but actually borrowed various sums of money. When the boardinghouse keeper found out the swindle, there was
a terrible rumpus; but Medora coolly packed
her trunks, and deliberately had them removed,
before the eyes of her victim.
" Oh, you cheat!" stormed the aggrieved.
Medora smiled, and replied thus:" Well, Madame, you see there is no law permitting you to keep my trunks, and as I may
want them myself, I'll just take them with me.
Good day, Madame; I shall be delighted to
call again."
It would fill a thousand pages like these, to
relate the impositions of Medora, and therefore we can select only a few of them. A very
common trick of hers was to apply at a new
hotel, where she had never been known, or to




The Confidence Woman.        303
a boarding-house, and engage the best rooms
for herself and husband, and sometimes a few
children, and a servant or two. She proposes
to come immediately, but, as her family are out
of the city, they will not arrive for a week or
ten days. She dresses magnificently, and has
a great number of diamonds. A.whole cartload of trunks come with her, and no one would
dare presume that she was not a woman of
wealth and high connections. The best the
house can afford is placed before her, and she
enjoys herself very much.  A week or ten
days pass, and no husband arrives, nor do any
other members of her family, and she puts on
a serious face to appear disappointed. Possibly
she may shed a few tears, when two or three
more days have passed, without bringing her
dear " George," or her dear "Nathan." And
she so wants to see her youngest boy, " Botty."
" Oh, what has happened!" she grieves, loud
enough for the ears of some one, if it's only the
chambermaid.   She inquires repeatedly and
urgently for a letter. " None I no letter, either?"
she exclaims, incredulously. " Oh, there must
be something wrong-I'm sure there is" I'll
go to the post-office, and see what is there."
"'Tis kind of funny," thinks the person she
is duping. " She said they would be here in a
week, and it's now nearly a month. I don't




304        Women of New York.
know about it; and I begin to want my pay;
her little bill is considerably over a hundred
dollars, now."
But Medora gets a letter, at last, and then
she jumps and dances for joy.
"It's all right! nothing is wrong; only detained longer than he expected to be. Now I
shall see dear Nathan and little Botty!
She kisses the letter, and seems so happy.
Two weeks more pass, and no "dear Nathan" nor "little Botty " arrives. The truth
begins to dawn, and a sharp voice demands the
payment of a large bill for rooms and board.
" Oh, I can't pay it till Nathan comes," replies Medora, with mingled regret and indignation. "I never pay such bills; he always
atteAds to them himself."
Again Medora moves, to try her luck elsewhere. Meanwhile, she is practicing all manner of tricks upon storekeepers and shopmen,
to get possession of goods without paying
money for them. She gets sixty dollar mantles, five hundred dollar furs, seventy dollar
robes, and hundred dollar'kerchiefs, to say
nothing about the endless variety of et ceteras,
in the way of under-clothi-ng. and shoes, and
gloves, all for nothing but skillful falsehoods
and shrewd calculations. It is very seldom
that she is actually circumvented; should she




The Confidence Woman.        305
be, it is an easy matter to pay a small bill now
and then, and settle any case that threatens to
be dangerous and troublesome. Nine-tenths
of what she gets possession of, goes almost
directly to an acquaintance of hers, who keeps
a pawn-shop in the Bowery; and in this way,
she continually increases her stock of money.
And it is a rule of hers, never to let an acquaintance slip unfleeced.  She borrows of
everybody she can. At first, she will ask for
only a small sum, and return it promptly; then
she will borrow again and again, gradually increasing the amount, and returning it so faithfully that she can readily get a larger sum.
When she has reached what she considers the
extreme amount, she suddenly neglects to return it as before, and another victim is added
to the list already so long.
The reader may well ask, how a woman with
a face like Medora Jacobs' can be so successful
as a trickster. We have asked ourself the
same question, and the only way we can account for it is, that she was never known to
look cross or to speak unpleasantly to any one.
She is peculiarly insensible to many little influences which would irritate, annoy, and really
distract other women, and can, therefore, keep
tranquil under the most exciting circumstances.
There is much power in a smile. We have




306       Women of New York.
seen frightfully ugly women gain friends upon
all sides, by smiling sweetly and speaking
gently, when, if they had not spoken or smiled
at all, they would have been set down as very
disagreeable persons. Beauty is a great assistance for a woman in her journey through life,
whether she has her own living to provide for
or not; but unless it is accompanied with winning smiles, gentleness of speech and placid
demeanor, it cannot avail her much in the hour
of difficulty. A beautiful woman is also more
liable to be suspected of fraud than she would
be if downright ugly. There seems to be a
general -suspicion in the minds of a great majority of New Yorkers, that every pretty woman
they see who is not possessed of an independent income or supported by some relative,
must certainly be a sharper-more particularly if she happens to be a stranger.
Spiteful remarks uttered against pretty
women are so common, that if we were influenced by what we hear, it would be impossible
to believe that honesty and beauty ever existed
together beyond the sight of parents or relatives. The reader may think us a little too
severe, but we know that many and many a
good, honest woman, unfortunately possessed
of a pretty face and comely form, and having
herself to maintain, has been seriously dis



The Confidence Woman.         307
graced by the malicious tongues of spiteful old
maids and girls, and revengeful mothers, and
more fatally so by the heartless winks and
hints of young men and gray-haired sinners,
who wish to appear important among their
companions. Only the other day, a man whose
wife was at one time in really very bad repute,
remarked, in the presence of a table-full of
guests at a hotel, that a certain married lady,
who formerly boarded there with her husband,
was " a hard case."
" A hard case I" responded a gentleman who
heard the remark. " Why do you say that?"
" Well, her husband doesn't live with her,
and there must be some cause for it."
" Do you know anything against her?"
" Oh, no;-but they say she is not what she
ought to be."
" Who say so?"
"Friends of mine."
" Did they say they know anything against
her?"
" No; they only said they had heard so."
The man appeared to think that he was
doing a clever thing, and smiled meaningly to
those who sat near; but the gentleman he
conversed with thought differently, and, by
way of a lesson, went on to lecture him thus:
"It is very easy, sir, to cast reflections




308       Women of New York.
against an innocent woman: and from a single
careless or heartless remark, bye and bye thousands may be repeating what you have just
said, that' she is not exactly what she ought to be,'
or, that'she is a hard case,' until, eventually,
the whole community actually believe the slander, while she, good and pure, with no thought
that such terrible mischief is at work blasting
her reputation, innocently wonders why men
stare at her so rudely, and why women look at
her askance. What if I, or any man, should
hear another say that your wife is'not what
she ought to be,' or that'she is a hard case,'
and should go on repeating it in the hearing
of others? Suppose, sir, that even now, the
people around you are remarking the same
things against your wife, behind your backwhat would you think of that?"
The subject was suddenly dropped, for the
man left his dinner unfinished, and went out
to take a little air. And as he withdrew, at
least twenty grinning countenances looked
after him.
Oh! slander is a cruel injury   And it
seems to us that one half of the people of New
York want no better amusement.
But such women as Medora Jacobs seldom
get slandered or abused without the most substantial causes. In the first place, she is too




The Confidence Woman.        309
ugly to attract the notice of smart young men,
and if she did, none of them would care to
boast of knowing anything about her, either
good or bad. In the second place, her beauty
never excites the enmity of her own sex, and
as she is forever smiling on them, and talking
so blandly, and doing all manner of little kindnesses to win their confidence, she runs no risk
in that quarter. The only people who say bitter things against Medora Jacobs, are those
whom she has duped. Among her associates
are no enemies, for she retains the friendship
of all as long as she can, and then parts with
their society forever, carrying with her the
most valuable tokens of their former regard,
in the shape of borrowed clothes or money.
But all Confidence Women are not precisely
after the pattern of Medora Jacobs. There
are a great many very pretty young widows,
and fascinating ladies, who scorn honest employments, and subsist entirely upon what they
can gain by their wits. Yet, their experience
is just the reverse of Medora's, for, being attractive to the opposite sex, and obnoxious to
their own, they are sure to get into frequent
dilemmas. Indeed, they are so sought after by
the one, and persecuted by the other, that they
have hardly a fair chance to test their ingenuity as Medora does. But, as a general rule,
L______




310       Women of New York.
we believe that pretty Confidence Women, on
the average, do not take in their victims as
badly as they get taken in themselves.
It is quite easy for a skillful physiologist, or
student of city life, to distinguish a Confidence
Woman, and it is only over-credulous or thoughtless people who get taken in by them.
Medora thus explains one of her best plans:
" Only just get'em to think they'll make
something from you," says she. " Just get'em
to calculating the profit you'll be to'em, and,
ten chances to one, they'll let you have it all
your own way. Money'll blind the best of'em,"
says Medora. " So, while they are feeling for
your portemonnaie, just you peep into all their
pockets."
*    *    *.    *    *    *X   *
Medora Jacobs is now doing penance out in
the country. She did not go there of her own
accord. Some of her victims resolved to "join
issue," and bring her to justice. In a body,
they were too much for her, and she is now
safely locked up in Sing Sing prison.








-S        N
r,




MISS JOHANNAS:
TIE       B   US      LAIDY.
"'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool,
And scarce in human wisdom to do more."
S   T often happens that cars and stages are
-6j  full of passengers; but when Miss Johannas enters, it is certainly expected
on her part, that somebody shall instantly rise and offer her a seat. Occasionally,
there is nobody in the humor of doing so, and
then she will walk through the car, or stand up
in the stage, and look like a thunder cloud. If
her frown is not sufficient to frighten a man
out of his seat, she says to Miss Dumps, her
companion:" They're not gentlemen, that's quite plain.
You wouldn't'spect anything better of sich as
them."
She speaks mutteringly, but loud enough for




314       Women of New York.
the hearing of others, and glances at the nearest gentleman, as though she would be highly
delighted to kick his shins.
Possibly, an old gentleman, with a ruddy
complexion, and gold headed cane, motions
her to sit upon his knee, and she does not wait
for a second invitation, but plumps herself all
over his lap, and thrusts her furs or her mantle
into his face, and almost srnothers him. She's
none of your mincing paragons of modesty, to
content herself just on the tip of the gentleman's knee, and all the time feeling as though
she ought to apologize for sitting there at all,
not she. Miss Johannas looks upon herself as
a lady; and she wishes it to be distinctly understood by everybody she meets, that she is
rather above the average. But, unfortunately,
Miss Johannas's ideas of what constitutes a lady
are frightfully erroneous. Her mother before
her, had just such notions, with the exception
that she is very much ahead of her mother.
She has been taught, that ladies are something
to be sought after and admired by the entire
whiskered gender.-That no man should so far
forget the duties of a gentleman, as to think of
his own person, or the comfort thereof, when a
lady needs his assistance, or deserves his courtesy. A man is only a man, but ladies are quite
different beings. They are angels, to be pet



The Bogus Lady.          315
ted, caressed, and adored by gallant beaux,
and afterwards elegantly maintained by indulgent and munificent husbands.
Miss Johannas is now and then shocked at
the conduct of other females, and, to our positive knowledge, she has expressed herself in
this wise, more than once:" Oh, dear! how some ladies can behave so,
I don't understand. 1My sensibilities is too
delicate, and my feelings is too refined, to act
as they do."
And while Miss Johannas is trying to find a
defect in the conduct of another, she puts all
modesty to blush, by her quick and alarming
familiarity with a gentleman, introduced to her
only a. moment ago. The words of introduction are hardly spoken, before she rushes at
the stranger, exclaiming"Glad to make your acquaintance, sir. Happy to have that pleasure. How do you do?
Dear, me! it's sich a warm day, and has been
since last night. I always suffer with the heat
so I —why just feel of my hand!-see how very
moist it is — oh, I sweat so terribly 1"
She stares directly into his eyes, and feels
sure that she is fascinating him. He, completely nonplused, is only able to mumble out
a feeble response, ere she starts off again. In
less than half an hour, she will have him by
I




316      Women of New York.
the arm, a1IA when she fancies she has said
something very clever, she will clap him playfully on the knee, or push him, or dig her
straightened-out fingers into his shoulder, or
his short ribs. She manifests such violent
paroxysms of mental hydrophobia, that you
begin to wonder whether she really intends to
eat him, and is only waiting for him to melt,
and then take him in a liquid state, or whether
she is watching for a favorable opportunity to
swallow him whole. Just now. it matters very
little to her, whether he is rich or poor, lowborn or genteel. She is delirious with conquest, and feels insanely happy in the delusion
of the moment. He, poor fellow, can not get
a chance to speak. If she asks him a question,
she also rattles out a reply before he can say a
word. Her tongue goes until she is out of
breath, and then she takes a long respiration,
and continues to fly on. Her whole talk is
about herself.
Our readers may think this picture exaggerated, but if they could only see her as we
have seen her, they would say that we are not
half up to the mark. When there are several
persons in the room, ladies and gentlemen together, she is sure to answer any and every
question, that may be asked. No matter if
Mr. Hooper should say something to Miss




The Bogus Lady.          317
Brent, a reply will come from Miss Johannas.
The truth is simply this: Miss Johannas forgets that there is another person besides her
own dear self, in the whole world. Whatever
is to be had, she expects to get: if any body
is to be complimented, it should be her. Miss
Johannas is every thing and every body, and
as perfect as an angel. So her mother says, at
any rate; and it is reasonable to suppose that
mothers should know more than any body else,
about their own daughters.
Miss Johannas is ever on the look out for
presents, and frequently gets a ring, a fan, a
breastpin, a pair of gloves, or other trifle from
some new beau; but those who have enjoyed
her acquaintance for any length of time, do
not compliment in that way. Miss Johannas
says that when she gives up single life, she expects to marry " somebody,"-no common man
will do for her. He must be tall, handsome,
and of the most polished manners, and be able
to support her and her mother, in the style
they should be. Miss J. is only a poor girl,
the daughter of a widow, who has hard work
to make her income supply all her wants, and
if she can get a handsome, polished man, able
to keep her and her mother, as she talks about,
we are quite willing; but, to give our candid
opinion, we should say that no polished man of




318        Women of New York.
sound mind, will ever marry her; and as it is
not a stipulation in the marriage contract, to
maintain mother-in-laws, we may also predict
that she will be disappointed there too. To
come down to the truth, Miss Johannas is
neither fit to be the wife of a gentleman of
fortune, nor a help mate for a poor man. She
is ambitious enough, in all conscience sake, but
intrinsically, she is worth very little now, and
will decrease in value the longer she lives. If
she ever does marry-(and by the way she
will, some day, very suddenly, on purpose to
spite her previous lovers, if for no other reason)-she will make a miserable life of it for
the man whose admiration for her large eyes,
and red lips, made him forget what merits are
requisite in a wife.
We saw Miss Johannas riding in a Broadway stage, the other day. It is universally
known, that six persons may sit on either side
of an omnibus, but she occupied the space
usually allotted for four, thereby, compelling
three men, and one woman with an infant in
her arms, to stand. And the most remarkable
part of her impudence, was the fact that she
tried to do a little eye-coquetting with one of
the gentlemen her ill manners compelled to
stand in such a position that he was bumping
his head every now and then.
_____i




,                                                1
The Bogus Lady.         319
It is difficult to imagine what the destiny of
Miss Johannas will be, for with a face so fresh
and pretty, and having such a wonderful stock
of assurance, there is no telling what good fortune, or bad luck may lie in her path. We
know many instances of preferment, wherein
real ladies have been thrust aside, and bogus
ones accepted.
A bogus lady may have a tolerably pleasant
time of it, while her face retains its freshness
and natural beauty; and, indeed, she may keep
up the semblance of youth, for some years
after the real bloom of her cheeks has faded.
It costs only a trifle to buy a box of lily white,
and a bottle of vinegar rouge, and she learns
very aptly how to " put them on." Until her
eyes sink too far into their sockets, these simple colors can do much towards her external
preservation. Of course she will be obliged
to resort to such remedies, when her cheeks
grow sallow, for having nothing but looks to
depend upon, she will soon be pushed aside,
and get no notice. She was never taught that
any thing more than looks were required by a
lady. The mere fact that she was of the feminine gender, and rather prepossessing, was
quite enough to build upon. Education wanot thought of by her mother, and she had




320        Women of New York.
very little desire for knowledge, beyond what
pertained to dress and parties. She was born
a lady, and had no need of any finishing touch
from art. Who could help admiring her, and
what nice young man would not have gone into
"conniptions," at the prospect of getting her
for his wife? But she fades, and sallows, and
wrinkles, and may find a husband at the
eleventh hour, when she can no longer choose.
Ah, a very little while will make her sour and
crusty. Her husband must take to lager beer
and billiards, or become a politician, if he expects to get any more pleasure in this life.
With nothing but a face, the bogus lady may
begin high spirited, and entertain colossal expectations, and after a brief struggle, find herself moping in misery and disappointment,
with a husband who does not believe in angels,
and three cross children to nurse. Ah, we'll
not trace her up any farther, lest we find an
unpleasant picture.








Ia %          I                  -k'  i
JULIA MORRIS.




JULIA MORRIS:
THE A VENT URESS.
" To be honest as this world goes,
Is to be one man pick'd out of ten thousand."
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws
So much, as when we call our old debts in
At sixty, and draw the account of evil,
And find a deuced balance with the devil.-BYRON.
=~   w^'.."!'E will let Julia tell her own
story --
"I was born," she says, "in
the country, but do not know
the exact day or year. Though I do know
that I never fancied being a DEPENDENT in my
uncle's house, where I was compelled to mend
my own dresses, and darn my own stockings,
and then make myself generally useful, by assisting " aunt" in the daily routine of putting
the parlor and the chamber to rights, and in
the performance of a miscellaneous variety of




394       Women of New York.
domestic sewing. When father and mother
were alive, I never thought of mending my
own clothes; my mother always did it for me:
sometimes grandmother would. I don't believe in being a dependent, any how. Uncle
Josiah was a good, clever man, and always
treated me kindly, in his way; but then even
kindness from some folks, is about as unsatisfactory as the down-right coldness of strangers.
As to aunt Sarah, she had no more sympathy
in her than a loaf of rye bread. She may have
shown a little feeling when she wanted to, but
one thing certain, I never found any in her.
They said she was very fond of her daughter
Mary, before she died, and I guess all her affection was buried at the funeral. Why, I
never heard a laugh, nor saw a smile once a
month, in uncle Josiah's house. It was nothing but gloom, just in the Quaker style. Precisely'thee' in every thing. Even the cats,
the dog, and the pigs, were expected to use' plain speech' when they made a noise. Uncle
Josiah had four mules among his other stock,
and I never heard either of them neigh,but what
aunt Sarah would say they were a very profane
sort of animal, any how. Oh, I have seen so
many cold faces, and heard so many cold salutations, of'how does thee do?' and listened to
so many chilling adieus, spoken in whining




The Adventuress.         325'farewells,' that I almost shudder at the recollection of them. About me, were none but the
same sober voices, and melancholy faces, with
no warm-hearted companion to converse with,
and I grew sad and desolate within. I naturally took to crying, but soon tired of that; and
one morning, while I sat unpicking a tangled
skein of sewing silk, a fatal thought entered
my mind. There is a bright, happy world, beyond the atmosphere of this Quaker dwelling,
and what if I should leave uncle and aunt, and
go and try my fortune in the same way that
others do? I thought this over all day, and
when I lay down tlat night, my heart was
much more buoyant than it had been for a
long time. To-morrow, I shall begin preparing for departure. I then had no idea of earning my living,-indeed, did not know that I
could do it, if I should try. My plans were
soon perfected, and I left the gloomy abode,
without saying a word to a single being. No
one saw me leave!-no one, except I mention
Rover, a good old dog, who had enough affection in him to fill the entire hearts of a hundred women such as aunt Sarah. Poor Rover
had been my warmest friend, and found in me
a full return of feeling, for he and I were seldom far apart, and nothing ever pleased him
better than to lie upon the floor, when 1 helped




326       Women of New York.
aunt Sarah sew, and have me put my feet on
top of him. If I moved my feet, he would
wake out of his nap, and look up to see what
had happened. At night, he always slept
either in my bed room, or by the door in the
hall. Uncle and aunt both said that it was
any thing but lady-like, to have a Newfoundland dog tagging after me wherever I went,
but their notions in that particular did not
break my heart. Sometimes aunt took it into
her head, that the dog should not be lying
round the house so much, and then she would
say,'Go out doors, Rover-go long out.' But
if he saw'no' in my face, he never budged an
inch; and if aunt attempted to drive him, a
fierce growl and a sight of his terrible tushes,
would at once put an end to her undertaking.
Well, as I was saying, no one but Rover saw
me quit the house; and I was not aware that
he knew it, until after I had gone nearly two
miles on my road to the village where I expected to meet the stage. I then discovered
that he was following me. He touched the
cold tip end of his nose against my hand, and
fairly frightened me. I turned with a frown,
and began to scold him; but the poor fellow
crept along with his body almost on the ground,
and looked so sorry and miserable, that I could
not drive him back. But what was I to do?




The Adventuress.        327
To take him with me was impossible. I had
only a few dollars, and perhaps barely enough
to carry me to the city. The trouble and expense of a great animal like Rover, I naturally
reasoned, would be more than I could manage.
"Rover's presence started me to thinking,
and I sat down at the root of a large oak tree
and covered my face to weep. I thought over
all my past life, and recalled my days. of infancy, (which I can still remember-oh, how
vividly 1) and my dear mother, who died before my eyes in a fit, when I was in my fifth
year, and father, who soon joined my mother
in the other world. I thought over everything
that had been connected with my life. I was
now only seventeen, and what my destiny
might be, also troubled me much. I had a
good heart,-at least I thought I had,-and I
desired to merit the respect of every body.
Indeed, I was in a confused state of thought,
with honest feelings uppermost, but still bent
on venturing out into the uncertainties of what
I then fancied to be a bright and cheerful
world. I had read only a few books, and but
three of them were novels. The periodicals
taken by uncle Josiah, were of a kind poorly
calculated to inform an inexperienced mind of
anything except the doctrines and discipline
of Quakerism. One, I think, was called'The




328       Women of New York.
Friend,' another' The Banner of Truth,' and
a third,'The Friend's Miscellany.' They were
dry reading, and I seldom looked in them.A neighbor, a man of the world, as uncle used
to say, took a city newspaper, which contained
stories and other interesting matter, and I made
a visit to that neighbor's house every week, on
purpose to get a chance to read it. Another
neighbor, a man of the world too, was a subscriber to a popular magazine, and I had some
excuse to go there, as often as the magazine
came. Neither uncle nor aunt had any idea
that I was reading the entire contents of those
worldly publications, or they would have lessened the number of my visits, very quickly.
But I must confess that I gleaned more useful
knowledge from them, than I ever did in any
other way, before I ventured abroad. I may
have imbibed some of the evil contained in
them, but as their columns were always stored
with a greater preponderance of good, I am
quite thankful for what I gained. To those
periodicals I then owed all my knowledge of
the outer world, and hoping for the best, with
no dreams of evil, I had now begun my adventures. How I cried there alone, at the root of
the old oak tree. My tears ran down, and
poor Rover, who sat upon his hunches as near
me as possible, and looking at me pitifully, at




The Adventuress.         329
last ventured to lick a truant drop from my
hand. That little act of Rover's roused me.
I hugged his great, shaggy head, and said all
the affectionate words I could think of. Then;
arranging my attire, I put on the crossest expression I knew how to, and bade him'go
home.' I stamped my foot at him, and started.
I looked back now and then, and, as far as I
could see him, he still stood in the same position I left him, and gazing mournfully after me.
Oh, how my heart smote me for leaving him
behind  But what could I do? It was the
first cruel act forced upon me by the circumnstances of my life. Presently I crossed a hill,
and the top of it hid Rover from my sight. I
then mustered all my resolution, and hastened
towards the village. But upon looking back
once more, when I had gone full half a mile,
what should I see standing in the road on the
top of the hill but Rover, still gazing after
me!
o    ^    o Q?&;     o
Ah, seven years have passed since I last saw
Rover standing on the top of that hill gazing
after me. Seven years are a long time. Little
did I then know where I should now be. I
need not tell you what I have felt or seen
during these seven years. My experience, I
now have good reason to know, is just what




330       Women of New York.
any other girl would have met with under the
same circumstances. If I have any wisdom
now, I can assure you that I bought it all, and
for some of it I paid a very great price. Many
persons will ask why I do not disclose all my
experience in those seven years, but I cannot
gratify them. Very few people, and especially
young adventuresses such as I am, would like
to lay bare all the mysteries of their career.
Although there is nothing very bad in my experience, there are many things I cannot mention. Look at my portrait, and then reflect
upon what I have already told you, remembering the fact that I am, at this moment, living
by my wits, and perhaps your own conclusions
will be near enough to the truth. I have never
deliberately wronged anyone, nor was I ever
guilty of fraud or deception. If people have
been deceived in me, the fault was all their
own. If I have always accepted and retained
what has been given me, it is no more than the
purest and the best are doing every hour. If
the donor's object and purpose is bad when he
gives, that does not defile the gift. We have
no right to question the motives of any one.
But if the donor loses his gift, and does not
gain the object for which he gave, it only
proves that he made a bad calculation. And
how many men make bad calculations when




The Adventuress.         331
they think a diamond ring can secure the voluntary acquiescence of whoever they choose
to flatter with their munificent bounty! I
often think it is very funny why so many men
stand ready to pay all my bills, and to present
me with the most costly apparel, and even to
loan me money, if I but hint that I need assistance, when their wives are frequently without
a nice bonnet to attend church in, or their own
daughters, quite as interesting as I am, I'm
sure, have not got an unsoiled silk to wear.
They owe me nothing, for I never saw them
before. They are not all very rich, and none
of them say what return I am to make for their
favors. It is funny —I will leave you to decide
if it is not very funny, why so many men treat
me in the most extravagant style, entirely reckless of cost, while those who have claims upon
them, and who really love them, at home, are
actually sighing for their attention, and would
be a thousand times happier to get even a
single smile from them, than I should be if they
were to sacrifice all their property, and their
lives beside, for me. Oh, I do not claim to be
an aigel, nor would I be considered a saint.
Indeed, I doubt if I have even the respect of
my own sex, or the real admiration of the opposite gender; for, on my knees, I might call
God to witness my innocence, and yet none




332        Women of New York.
would believe me. I have trifled with this
one, and tampered with that one, until all begin to despise me; and, though there is no one
who can point his or her finger at me and say
guilty, yet they all believe that if they cannot, there are enough others who could, if they
would. Ah! when a woman thinks she is the
gainer by receiving costly gifts from men with-.
out any return, she is really losing a hundred
fold more than she gets. They lose gold-she
loses reputation. They gain wisdom-she gains
only what they lose.
" In the day of settlement, when all our accounts are cast up, then I know I shall hide my
head and weep. AhI if I could but banish
that dreadful thought of judgment eternal,
when I am dead,'How sweetly could I lay my head
Within the cold grave's silent breast,
Where sorrow's tears no more are shed,
No more the ills of life molest."'
J




CONCLUSION:
A CONFIBENTIAL SERMON.
Ah, me! woman contains within herself
The seeds and sources of her own corruption;
The cankering rust corrodes the brightest steel;
The moth frets out our garments, and the worm
Eats its slow way into the solid oak;
But Idleness of all evil is surely worst,
The same to-day, to-morrow, and foreverSaps and consumes the heart in which it works.
C  C   NCE upon a time," as ancient
there was a certain clergyman,
-  who spent his days in trying to
promote the well-being of those who would
listen to the gospel. As a Christian, he knew
all that was needful, but the deceits and trickeries of the great world were quite beyond his
learning. He was conscientious and religious,
and sympathized with his " flock," and encouraged them in doing right.
337




338         Women of New York.
Now, in the same village where the clergyman lived and taught the gospel, there likewise dwelt a comely widow, who had an only
child, and he often found himself thinking of
her, with an irresistible inclination to gaze
upon her fair face, when " they met by chance,
in the usual way." Indeed, he succeeded in
winning her over to become a member of his
church. He imagined that would satisfy him,
but he was mistaken; and so he went on thinking.
The fair widow's only child fell sick, and the
physician said to her:"I cannot save its life.  Alas, it must die 1^
Then the clergyman repaired to the widow's
house to sympathize and to pray.
"'Tis mine, sweet one!" the mother said,
As her child lay at rest;
She smiled as she gazed on its cherub form
And fondly her babe caressed.
"Not so!'tis mine!" with chilling voice
Iowled the tyrant, Death, so grim;
As he snatch'd the child from its mother's arms,
Thinking naught could baffle him.
"What, ho, there-demon!" an angel spoke,
Laying the grim monster low;
" My Master hath need of this spotless lamb,
Ere sin shall defile its breast.
It must dwell in that'better land' on high,
Where alone is peace and rest."




A Confidential Sermon.      339.. = =:N       A. -—,
The angel vanished, and the widow's child
was dead.
And the clergyman took the widow's hand in
his, and said:



340         Women of New York.
"Weep not, thou afflicted one,
Check the gushing of thy sad tears;
Look up in simple faith to Heaven,
And pray for strength to bear tify grief
In calm resignation.
" Let me
With gentle touch efface those tears
That quiver on thine eyelashes,
And let thine eyes gaze into mineMine, which while yet I speak to thee
Are moist from very sympathy.
Pray weep not, unhappy oneTake me close home to thy heart,
And I'll share thy grief with theeLet us be one in sorrow."
The widow's child was carried away to its
grave, and she, in proper time, became the
clergyman's wife.
Worldly as it may seem, the widow not only
became the clergyman's wife, but she also bore
him  a daughter.    It was a cunl ning little elf, and      quickly got
into mischief as it learned to toddle about.
" Oh, nov I am doubly blest, and
=i   9,   very, very happy!" murmured the
clergyman to his wife.
i."         "'Tis well," she replied. "This:i   darling shall comfort me for the
cherub that died."
How quick the transit from the cradle to the
grave and how soon the child grew to riper




A Confidential Sermon.     341
years. The cunning little elf changed into a
pretty Miss, in her teens.
"'Twas but yesterday," said the father," that
our daughter wore babylclothes, and now she
is a full-blown rose. Ah, methinks the heart of
man will beat quickly when she comes near."
"Yes," replied the mother, " the years have
speedily flown, and our precious darling has
womanly grown."
But there was one great defect in ctheir
daughter's education. Although himself so
good a man, and his wife quite as proper as
he, yet in their love they neglected to encourage in her a spirit of Industry-the best of
principles-and so, like too many others, in
idleness she matured. Her parents were poor;
for the gospel was their only revenue, and the
people where they lived paid
very little for preaching.
Idleness begot Vanity, and 
then falsehood came in to 
cover up imaginary defects.
She would not cultivate her
mind, but grew up a beauty 
to' the eye, and an icicle to  K 
the heart. She did not even read the stories
in literary periodicals, which, of the better
class, if used, and not abused, tend to serve an
excellent purpose, for they will educate the




342       Women of New York.
heart, encourage its loftiest and purest feelings,
while teaching the heroism of bearing rightly
the trials of every-day life. (We ignore the
class of novels which excite improper or unhappy feelings, and from such books the honesthearted reader should ever shrink.) The clergyman's daughter seemed to care only for
dress, and to attract attention. IDLENESS was
her bane, and in the common phraseology of
female vanity, she uttered falsehoods in every
sentence. Being poor, she constantly did and
said things for outward appearance, to conceal
the plain truth, just as thousands of young
ladies, aye, and old ones too, are doing at this
very moment all over Christendom —pretending to be what they are not. Who ever heard
a would-be lady admit that she was poor, or
obliged to depend upon herself for support?
Why, out of every hundred poor girls, who are
daily applying for some employment more genteel than common work, at least ninety-nine,
when they enter, will twist and try to affect an
apology for making the application.
"I thought I'd try something of the kindjust for amusement, only. I am not obliged to;
I live with my relations."
You'll surely look at them in doubt. Their
garments are seedy, and there is nothing in
their features, their manner, or their speech, to




A Confidential Sermon.      343
show that they are either educated or refined
more than the general masses, and you naturally ask" Who do you reside with?"
"M y uncle."
" Ah I Your uncle is an old bachelorwealthy and retired?"
" Oh, no; he has a family; a wife, three boys,
a little girl and a baby. He is in business
down town."
"Indeed I A merchant, or a banker?"
"Neither. Ile has a situation in a hardware
store".
You mentally ejaculate-" A salary of twelve
dollars a week!" (You know he can't get
more.) And this young lady to maintain, in
addition to his own numerous family, while
she says she's not obliged to do anything!
How can she stand there and talk so?  Thy
should she deny the truth? We will tell you.
It is her Vanity. IDLENESS has taught her to
deceive. Why, there are thousands of "would
be ladies " in this great city who really earn
their living in some way, who would risk actual
starvation sooner than the world should know
that they are obliged to work. They entertain
a horrible fear of being looked upon as poor,
or industrious, or useful. They would rather
lodge in an attic, and dine on a crust, and se----. _ -_________.j




344        Women of New York.
cretly toil twenty hours per diem, and have
fashionable garments when they are seen in
public, than to be full fed and plainly what they
are, in an honest, straight forward way. It is
astonishing how many females suffer hunger
and cold from this one cause, when, if they
would but cast off their detestable Vanity, they
might easily earn a good, comfortable living, and
have the respect of all honest people. Vanity
is far from true pride.
But this source of evil is not confined to any
one class-it is universal. We perceive a similar spirit manifested whichever way we look.
And why?    Simply because girls, whether
rich or poor, mature with the belief that they
are ladies, as a matter of course, and that as
such, they should be appreciated by their own
sex and courted by the other. And they be
jeve that it is beneath the dignity of a lady to
engage in any useful occupation as a necessity.
In their estimation, it is more genteel to stealthily operate on a sewing machine day and night
in agarret, out of sight or hearing of their neighbors and the world, for four dollars a week,
than it would be to accept a genteel situation
yielding three or four times as much compensation, and have everybody to know it!  However, Vanity brings its own reward, and they
will eventually learn that very little happiness
can be gained by their mistaken notions.




A Confidential Sermon.      345
If the reader will pardon us for this digression, we will now return to the clergyman's
daughter. Though, by way of apology, permit us to remark, that our business experience
with women, has, perhaps, been more extensive than that of any other writer, and, therefore, some allowance must be made for the
bluntness of expressions pertaining to what
we so lamentably know. We have discovered
that the most common error of the women of
the present day, is that of looking for happiness somewhere outside of useful work. But
we are very confident that it has never yet been
found when thus sought, and never will be
while the world stands; and the louder this
truth is proclaimed, the better fdr our sex. If
any doubt the truth of our assertions, let them
glance around among their female acquaintances, and select those who appear to have the
most enjoyment in life. Are they Idlers and
Dissimulators, or are they honest workers?
we know what the answer will be. Of all miserable human beings it has been our fortune ormisfortune to know, they are the most wretched who have retired from useful employment
in order to enjoy themselves, or those who
never had any useful occupation. And as to
"opinion"-it is surely better to be looked
upon as an honest though humble laborer than




346      Women of New York.
to have enemies winking and blinking behind
your back, with hints as to " how she can live
and dress so, when she has neither income nor
any occupation." But, pray, excuse us. Our
book is nearly completed. A few pages more,
and then we are done.
*     * *       %*         * *
The clergyman's wife was called away to
heaven, ere their daughter attained her eighteenth year, and his heart was full of affliction.
But instead of twining himself around his
daughter all the closer, now that he was so
desolate, and she so loneTh, he took to his
closet, and studied and read gloomy books for
consolation, leaving her to find sympathy as
best she could. A little while longer, and she
loved a man quite odious to the sight of her
father. He was dissipated and wild; but she
loved him just as obstinately and headstrong as
daughters always do when they take a notion,
and, in defiance of her father's angry injunctions, and the warning looks of the neighbors,
she would marry the man of her heart, and so,
marry him she did. Then the clergyman said:
" Get thee gone! Thou hast seriously offended me, and I will own thee no longer."
" Pooh! What care I?" flouted the daughter.
"Haven't I got a husband?"
The clergyman buried himself still deeper




A Confidential Sermon.      347
in the dusty pages of his gloomy books, and
went on preaching the gospel, but he prayed
no more for his disobedient daughter. She
went away with her husband, and he never
heard her voice again.
*    *    *    *    *   *    I    *
One cold winter day, two'boys saw a dead
body floating in the North river. The tide
had nearly carried it past the city, when the
agents of the law fastened a rope to one of its
limbs and drew it ashore.
A paragraph in the newspapers told the
world that the body of a beautiful young
woman was found drowned, and many curious
people went to the dead-house with anxious
faces.
Days elapsed, and as no one claimed the
body, the undertaker was bidden to carry it
away.
" I should like to know her history," said an
old man, with white hair, a stranger, who last
came to view the body.
"Dare say," was the keeper's gruff reply.
"Everybody likes to know all about these hidden things, though they're not always satisfied,
I reckon."
"Pray remove the cloth from her face," said
the stranger, apparently heedless of the keeper's words. "I wish to see how the poor creature looks."




348       Women of New York.
"Dare say. Everybody likes to see. Can't
do it, though. Got orders to nail her up.
Been here long enough for all them to see her
as wanted to. So in goes the nails, and look
out for the hammer."
"Stay!" insisted the stranger, catching the
keeper by the arm, and looking him straight
in the face. "I ask only a moment's delay.
You can give me a glimpse of her features."
" Dare say. But can't and shan't!"
" Hold!" exclaimed the venerable man, who
seemed very resolute in his purpose.  " I
must see it before yofu nail the lid on-understand, I must!" As he spoke, he turned quite
pale, and the muscles of his face twitched in
nervous tremor.
" Dare say," retorted the keeper, in a harsh
tone; with a leer. " If you want to see it, you
ken go and dig it up, after it's buried. But
you don't see it now, unless you're stronger
nor I be. So take advice, and stand off."
"Will you grant the favor I ask?" again
urged the stranger.
" Out of my way, old chap!-haven't I said
NO?"
"Then I vill do it myself!" said the stranger,
suddenly jerking the corner of the cloth. His
eyes saw the ghastly visage, and with a cry of
horror he sank to the floor.
-i




A Confidential Sermon.        349
Do you see that old man kneeling there in
prayer? And
would you know
why he is thus
appealing to
XAHeaven? We
will tell you. He
ol cd i.s    is the clergyman
of whom we have; A            t i i \ Z1 a| been writing, and
l ht1/i ~he is there upon
his knees beside..:,;;!  |  E< a rude coffin in'::"         ~:t h e dead-house,
> where he found
the sad remains
of his daughter.
He is full of grief,
and now frantically appeals to God
that beyond the
grave, there may be a place of rest for the departed. And now, when it is too late, he sees
the error of having sacrificed the soul of his
only child in his over zeal to save the souls of
his congregation.
THE END.




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352       PICTORIAL "FAMILY NEWSPAPER."
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354              THE "NEEDLE WOMAN."
THE "NEEDLE WOMAN,"
A True Story of Real Life.
BY MARIE LOUISE HANKINS.
CONTENTS.-The Great City. Hypocrisy and Deceit. Secrets
of Life. The Needle Woman. Cold Winds of December. The Promenade. Children of Want. " Mamma is Sick."    A Friend in Need.
Food and Fire. The Squalid Home. Death in Waiting. Comfort and
Hope. The Mother's History. Parents and Love. Change of Fortune.
Happiness and Joy. A Social Glass. " Free Lunch." A Drunkard.
The March to Ruin. Friends Turn Away. A Benefactor. Work and
Consolation. A Plot Revealed. The Terrible Prison. A False Charge.
Crime and Innocence. The Temptation. Villain's Exultation. "Good
out of Evil." A "Tombs Lawyer." The Fatal Trap. Potency of Gold.
Right Triumphant. HopeOnce More. Searchfor Work. Repulseand
Wrong. A Widow's Sorrow. Needle Woman's Troubles. One Friend
Left. Cruel Calamity. Approach of Death. Trouble and Despair.
A Wicked Fraud. What Can' Woman Do? The Mother's Grave.
The Little Orphans. A Country Asylum. The Adopted Ieirs. A
Sequel. The Villain's DI)alhter. Revelations. Reminiscences of the
Past. From Riches to Want. The Authoress and the Wealthy Bachelor. Some Plain Talk. Their Skeletons lie in the C(ld Grave I
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