Portraits of my married friends, or, A peep into Hymen's kingdom
page: Illustration (TitlePage) [View Page Illustration (TitlePage) ]PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS; OE, 3 I39 n Into SPft^s Anghnm. UoNCLE BEN. NEW YORK: - D. APP .LETONT& CO., 846 & 348 BROADWAY. "ONDOi: 16, LIT-TTi BRITAIN. page: 0[View Page 0] PREFACE, UNCLE BEN is a bachelor, and how dares he at- tempt PORTAITS os f his MARRmD FRIENDS?"may be asked by rmoxe than one of my fair originals. It is a presumption, I admit; but it appeared to me, when I could not engagefin the interesting life of the married world, (for reasons better known to PROovDEiNE than to myself,) that the next best thing 1 culd do was to go around among those more fortunate, and see how much I might gain by studying their lives. It became a passion with me. I drew sketches of life and- character until I had material for a large gallery of Portraits, with which I was amused and instructed. I often sat hours in deep contemplation over the weary struggles of one, or the heroic triumphs, or vain follies of another. - It seemed selfish to hang so many inter- esting pictures upon the tablet of an old bachelor's page: 4-5 (Table of Contents) [View Page 4-5 (Table of Contents) ] A. I PREICE. memory, and I have selected a few, which I pre- sent to you, my friends and readers, well satisfied if they suggest any good thought, or incite to any wise or holy action. LE EN. -UNCLE BN NEw YoprK DeeOmber 1857. CONTENTS. PAGE ' I.--ALiCIE, 7 II.-'HARRY WEATHERALL, . . 23 "I.--SAM PERCOIVAL AND THE WIDOW, . 67. IV.-JEEoMB AND SuSANm DLY, . . 105 V.--RINGOLDD HOPxINS, . . 191 VI.--KATE EABNY, . A . N. 241 a * l page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] PORTRATTS OF M NARRTED FRTFJNDS. A PORTRAIT, NO. I. ALICE. THE little breakfast parlor into which we will enter will enchant you; pause a moment, and examine every thingdn it; jis it not the persomfication 5T ' egathly comfort? Eveiy thmng is new, you per. ceive, and arranged with elegance and good taste. The ufet is bountifully laden with appropriate lass, china and silver; just open the doors of the buffet and,see the delicacies inside Thefurniture of the room is not gaudy, but pleases the, eye and fancy; the curtains are left open, sufficiently to let in the softest light of the May morning. The table is laid for two; the silver coffee urn is small, and the fames that rise from it are pure old Java, the , page: 8 (Illustration) [View Page 8 (Illustration) ] 8 PORTRAITS OF MYARR1ED FRIENDS. toast is hot, and the rolls, the cook said, "will melt in your mouth." 'At the head of the table is seated a blonde of not more than eighteen summers. Is , she not beautiful. Her light blue robe fits becom- ingly; the tiny, little lace cap, covered with red roses, rests on the back of her head so, coquettishy; her hair, so soft and fine, is arranged with care, and -inmcates refinemnent; her little-feet (notice them under the table) are encased in kid of the finest texture. Is she alone? No, indeed ;, opposite this . charming bride (she was one month a bide) sits a -young man:of:handsome form and face, his hair Is dark, and his eyes of a still darker shade. His face is pale and has at this moment a discontented ex- pression., Discoqrtented with so many comforts around him Yes; he is married, hasa wifeof his )? own' choice, a delightful house, abunddant'wealth, -and youth to:enjoy it, and yet look att his discon- tne expression. He ehas taken ip the paper arid ilppose&lhis wife fancies thathesb ed intth Aw,-0o- the day $but she Iknow bet:; notice :-: i h :al a searching look she scrutinizes him./ trifle! Is he really in eamest- I'll speak to him, hand if wicmall be over. Strange he does not re- m ar that I do not'appear to notice his ill humor. TI'1 speak, thou -6 I ought not;. I've always heard page: -9[View Page -9] ALICE. 9 it spoils these husbands to indulge them in their tyranny."--"Fritz," said Alice, " your coffee will be cold; pray lay aside that dull paper, and let us begin with the resolution to devote the time at table to pleasant conversation." "I must keep myself informed of the news, Alice," he replied, "and a man of business has no time during the day for reading." "You must, I know, Fritz; but will nota little time after breakfast do as well you are longer at the table in consequence of reading. Let me have your thoughts in the morning, and I'll be con- tent all day if you are away." Frederick struggled with the obstinate spirit within him. He had been told &hat every thing depended upon his insisting upon his rights in the beginning, and he must not now yield at the outset. He made no reply to his sweet wife, but con- 'tinued reading and sipping his coffee at intervals, now and then breaking off a piece of toast with ,one hand while he held the paper in the other. Alice took a light breakfast in silence, and tried to choke down her first grief. 'Tis true it was not one deep and lasting, but it was the shadow of a heavier sorrow. Till that morning she was under the happy illusion that her husband was every thing that was generous, and noble, and faultless. Gen- erous and noble. he still was; she knew that; but 1I page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] 10 PORTRAITS OF MY RRED FRIENDS. he was not faultless,-le had expressed dissatisfac- tion with her' before breakfast for a very trifling cause, and now he had been moody and read the ,' paper while she sat near him! Alice left the breakfast parlor and shut herself in her room. It would be sacrilege for us to follow her, for we of a sterner nature cannot understand the little rills that flow in and out of a-female heart (and give their tribute to the ocean), whose waters color and- affect the pathway of life. .-- We will leave her with her little grief; but remember, "tall treesfrom little corns grow." Fritz laid aside the paper, of which he could not remember a word, looked mournfully at the vacant chair at the head of the table, and re- gretted that he had not indulged the " little angel." "All she said was very true; how very hard- -hearted I must have seemed. It is not right. I'll -go to her at once, and promise that I will never again displease her." He, acted on the impulse, and opening the door met an old crony who waK just coming in to see how the young people were getting on. Shaking Fritz's hand heartily, a-Ad laughiig with every breath, he ran on in the fol- owing strain: n "Well, Sir, how are you.--how are you? In heaven or on earth? My blessing on you, but I'd rather have my liberty than all the pretty women in Christendom." Peeping in at the door, and see- "CE " ing Alice was not there, he continued: "It must be dull business, Fritz, to be bound toe go and come * just as one woman wishes. Even one as angelic as your wife would make me miserable. How do you like it? Upon my word, you've a hang-dog look already. You don't mean to be such a spoony as our friend Harryv who lives opposite? To be frank with you, Fritz, it's -the worst policy in the world to begin wrong. Tell me, have you quarrel- led yet? The sooner you get up a quarrel and set- tle the question of the disputed territory-ha! ha! ha!--the sooner you are a free man--ha! ha! Were you at the theatre last night? Wife with youl How does it happen you aire alone in this charming room? If you were a bachelor I'd say you were in paradise, Fritz. But no man, more than Adam, can stay long in paradise after woman enters." While delivering these salutary senti- ments the old bachelor was examining every thing about the room, and, gonig to the sideboard, pock- eted half-a-ddsen cigars with a familiar nod of his head at Fritz. "You seem in a terrible humor," he continued, ' what the devil is to pay?" "I have a severe headache," replied Fritz, "and I will remain at home this morning, I believe. I think of driving out with Alice to see her mother." "I'll consent to. it on the condition that you * b page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 PORTRA3TS OF M MARRIED FRIENDS. will leave her at home one night. She will, no dodbt, wish it herself; and you must come with me to the billiard room. I've a debt of honor that must be paid, and I need not remind. you of the times I've come to your relief; so now no backing out. Let me depend upon you. Be sure to leave her with her mother, or she'll whine herself and you sick if you are not home at twelve o'clock." "I can't do it, Julius; I'll lend you the money, but I mean to give up my former habits and make myself worthy of the good opinion my wife has of me. I'd feel like u villain to do it, and you need not expect that I will in future meet our party at public places late at night. I am convinced it is wrong." Julius put his hands to his sides and laughed till he could laugh no more,; then helping himself from a bottle of brandy that stood near him upon the buffet he bowed to Fritz, and drank " to his poor lost friend who was bound hand and foot as the Archangel Michael bound Satan." Fritz was disgusted, and wondered how he could ever have taken pleasure in the coarse jokes of. Julius Spendall, and he resolved to release him- self from his society as soon as possible. He would not have /his wife make his acquaintance on any account. Scarcely had the thoughtU passed across his mind before Alice enJred, more pensive ALICE. 13 than usual, but her beauty heightened by the deeper tint of rose which the annoyances of the morning had given to her transparent complexion. "Mr. Julius Spendall, my dear," said Fritz, introducing his beautiful wife most reluctantly. Julius, in her presence, was tr sf^l^ to an an- gel of light. His manner, so p ereae, was mild and elegant; his languageras chosen and fascinating. He talked of the beautiful May morn- ing and its perfumed prayer that rose to heaven from the cups of the little violets and daisies, and compared it to the spring-time of their life, when all their hopes and joys were pure as that air and incense. Alice was young, and listened with delight to his long and poetic speeches, while Fritz looked angrily toward them seated side by side near the window. With the quickness of -perception with which God has blessed woman Alice read her hus- band's heart and sprang from her chair, playfully whispering in hex husband's ear: "I would not anger you for worlds; say to me I have not, and you may do just as you please." Fritz replied in a few words, and those few were charmed words. The burden was taken off from Alice's heart, and the reaction made her so happy, "it were almost worth the while to fall out for the pleasure of a reconciliation," thought the page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] " PORTRArTrS OF MY MABRIED FRIENDS. young bride. A dangerous experiment: my good friends. Julius left with adieus and ompliments:; and an explanation was given on both sides which we will not intrude upon. F'ritz proposed the visit home. The drive was delightful, and the meeting of the mother and daughter (she was an only child) I cannot hope to describe. lHere, again, my sterner nature is at fault. Fritz and Alice went once more to the old places of meeting, and told again their love and renewed their promises of devotion till death. The sky was clear, and the beautiful grounds around the old homestead were met like old familiar friends. The tall old trees seemed to waive their branches in welcome, and the little birds that had sung Alice to sleep in her cradle, now sang a song min her honeymoon, that chimed in with the joy of her young heart, and youth promised the young- bride that it would always be thus. Her mother t for joy at her return, and buried in her own Beast, as good mothers do, the pang the parting had h c her. To her new son she gave the treasure of he art, whose price to her was far above rubie, ,and kept not back the value of the priceless jewel. Julius continued to visit Fritz, and oftener called upon Alice in the morning. He read hei S ALICE. lf5 pure mind, and suited his conversation and deport- ment to her ideas and tastes; usually relating pleasant circumstances that occurred with Fritz and himself during their intimacy, and often read beautiful selections to her from Byron and Moore. Unconsciously she began to look for these visits with pleasure. He was intelligent and agreeable, and so fond of Fritz! Then, while she sewed it was delightful to hear one read; Fritz had no time. She often spoke to her husband of Julius, but he dared not offend his former companion, lest he might, in his anger, make disagreeable revela- tions of times gone by, and for some time he bore this intrusion upon his domestic happiness. Fritz brooded in silence over the dangers of the introduction of so unprincipled an acquaintance to his wife, and though in a thousand ways in his power, he decided to speak boldly to Julius, and tell him he feared his influence over his young wife's mind, and requested him -to make his visits in the evening, when he would be at home. This con- fession cost the proud spirit of Fritz much pain, but he made it, and Julius assented to the arrangement; in return for which Fritz promised to go regularly to- the billiard room once a week. "This can easily be arranged with Alice," said Julius, " can't you have a business engagement, or any other lie you choose to manufacture. I never 7 page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 16 PORTRAITS OF MY MRIED FRIENDS. saw so great a coward as you. If she objects, be positive; if she cries, rave and thunder." Fritz went weekly to the billiard room. At times he was elated and excited, and promised his little wife the world and its treasures ; at other times moody-and unreasonable, and said many things that his regret could not efface from the heart of his de- voted wife., A year :hadjassed; frequent were the returns / of these fitful humors, and poor Alice wept alone many a night while waiting for his return from revels, of what nature she dared not ask. Their parlor was usually dark and but little occupied. Its gaudy hangings and rich furniture illy-suited the feelings of the heart of his wife while she struggled to conceal its bitterness from hJer mother and her friends. She dared not question herself upon the probabilities of his course of life. She knew that of late many demands had remained unpaid, and every day added some new proof that all was not right. She expostulated, entreated, pleaded, butin vain, that he would tell her all. He took his friend's advice and grew angry, furious and excited, and warned her not to interfere in- his business. Alice was of the most delicate mould, and re- quired, sunshine. Shade made her droop and die, and like a tender plant she faded day by day. No one but the great God and her own heart knew why. ALICE. 17 Her husband did not notice the change, for the color of her cheek was still there, and the lustre of her eye bright and almost too beautiful. Fritz was more frequently from home in the evening than heretofore, and grew impatient if Alice expressed regret at the loss of his society. The more gently and tenderly she spoke, the more an- noyed he seemed, for conscience made him see that she was justified in her inquiries. One morning Fritz was more cheerful than usual, and Alice ven- tured on a little persuasion. He was ready to leave the house. "You'll come home early will you not, Fritz'? this will be my birth-night." He paused a moment, then replied, "If I can. I promised some friends to dine with them to-day, and if I can get away early, my love, I will come home. o You surely do not doubt my wish to come. Circumstafices often keep me away." "I do not doubt your love, Fritz-I'm weak enough to believe you love-me, but I doubt your strength of mind to resist temptation, and I have sometimes feared that Julius is not a good com- panion for you. Pray do not be angry with me, but let me tell you before you go all I have in my heart against you. I ought not to keep it from you. He sat down, half inclined from curiosityD hear % - ., page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] 18 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. all she had to say, and listened without reply till she had finished. She told him how true her love was, and how she could not live if he grew indiffer- ent and sought his happiness from honme; how often the tempter whispered in her ear that he was lead- / ing a life of dissipation and cared not for her, and how she drove the thoughts away; how she had avoided all society until they blamed her, because she would not have the world see his neglect; and she told him that his frequent absence from home was killing her, and begged him to give up the cause, whatever it might be, that made him forget his duty to her. He listened patiently, and assured Alice she need not fear, that he was kept out by business, [ and that he would--now reveal to her the sad state of his pecuniary affairs which his efforts seemed un- availing to save from total ruin. "I will Comle home to-night," said he, " invite some friends to visit you; we will have a little pleasure, though the last flicker of the candle light us- in it. I'm half distracted, Alice--I have a plan carried out which will succeed or fail to-day. Can you be prepared for either result-" , ' I will try, Fritz, but I cannot invite my friends :to-night. Let me spend the evening alone with you. How happy I could be with you. Let us e ? ALICE. 19 spend this evening quietly. Will you be sLre. to come early 2" "I cannot promise positively, but I will try. I insist upon a house full. It is your birth-night; prepare for at least twenty of our dearest friends, Alice, and puton your prettiest- dress. I must see you the fairest in the room. Smile, too, Alice, just as you used to do." He left the house and Alice made every prepa- ration for a little festivity; but her heart was too full of fearful anxiety to allow her to show any pleasure in the anticipation. Evening came. Alice was dressed in a favorite dress in which Fritz had often admired her in days gone by, and she looked, Fritz would have said, truly angelic. Friends came, and the long-closed parlor was lighted up for the guests and looked cheerful from the smiling faces around Alice. Every sound was caught by the quick ear of the anxious wife, and again and again she was disap- pointed. He did not come. She made repeated excuses to one and another, which were received. with an/expression that indicated very little belief in the- poor wife's happiness with such a husband. Alice thought she detected something like pity in more than one face while she tried to explain her husband's absence. It was late, and one by one the guests departed; the lights had burned low in the page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] 2v0 PORTRAIiS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. sockets, and still Alice sat at the window like a statue; she scarcely moved, and her eyes seemed fixed upon the door-step upon which she expected to see her husband every instant. One, two, three, the parlor mantel-clock struck, and Alice started as if a knell had sounded in her ear. Not till then had -she observed that both fire and candles had gone out, and the light of the lamp from the street was the only light in the room. She had become very chilly, and went to her room to get a shawl. The servants had long since retired, and her own footsteps were the only sounds she heard. How she envied those who could sleep quietly I But now fear began to cast his thousand, phantoms around her poor distracted heart, and she would forgive Fritz any offence if he could come home in safety. "Hark! "'Tis he! Tes, that footstep is his." She hastens to the door and opens it. But no! The watchman had rung to see if any one had entered the house. He thought he had seen figures flt through the parlor. Again the door was closed and Alice was seated at the win- dow. Day broke and he came not. Alice grew faint and sick from exhaustion and anxiety, and she was carried to her room by her faithful servant who had long wondered Miss Alice could bear up. She was for weeks unconscious. Poor Fritz had been led on step by step by Julius, who had gambled p* ALICE. . 21 away all his own and Fritz's means until but 'one resource was left to either-public disgrace by fail- ure, or a forgery. The latter was decided upon after repeated consultations, and the contemplated scheme was carried out. On the night of the little party Fritz was arrested and taken to the "Tombs," where he remained until his trial. Alice recovered sufficiently to speak to her friedds, who concealed the dreadful affliction of her husband's disgrace. Frequently she implored an interview with her dear husband and promised to be very good and quiet if they would grant her request. Day by day she grew more feeble/ till' her physician told her friends that she could only survive a few days. Her mother, who had not left her side since the fatal night, could not bear to tell her that she must die without seeing her husband. They had told her that he was absent from the city, but it did not satisfy her. She would cry in the most earnest tone, "Oh will he not come?" "He ,told me that he loved me when we. parted." "What have I done, mother?" These and other appeals frequently overcame her mother, who, to hide her agitation, would leave the room. After one of these paroxysms of grief she fell back upon the pillow and whispered, "Will he comet"It was her last breath, and her tried spirit fled to the bosom of her God. page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] 22 PORTRAITS OF MY MAZHH:Rn FlaiNDS. "et us drop the curtain. All have ere this heard of the fate of Fritz, and many a tear has been shed for him. But very few knew the anguish of Alice's heart. - UCoLE BEN. / / PORTRAIT, -NO II HARRY WEATHERALL. M[R. WE ArljuALL is somewhat advanced in life (though by no means soin his own estimation). His appearance would lead even an accurate observer to suppose that he was much younger than he is. Why is this? Between you and me, good reader, to the best of my knowledge and belief it is be- cause he is blessed with a temper that is invulnera- ble, if I may use the expression. The ordinary ills of life cannot disturb its equanimity ; nor can the little inconveniences of life molest his placid soul; consequently time has done but little mischief on the exterior of the " precious casket" which is, the subject of our pencil. Wrines (those weather- beaten, ugly milestones) have not yet furrowed his face where care makes her impress, but good-nature has marked the corners of his mou th vithher grace- ful lines, and--mark them well-are they not like page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 24 PORTRAITS OF MARRIED FRIENDS. ' / - ' beams of sunshine? How strange the magic effect of a few little, touches around the corners of the mouth, provided they do not turn downward! But our friend's do not. Look at his large dark eyes, not brilliant, but always lighted up with hope and content. Who is that near him? He seems very , much engaged in removing some disagreeable im- pression from the mind of his companion. I say "disagreeable impression," judging from the sad countenance she wears. Yes, good reader, he is laboring to do so-; but he has labored during the last ten years upon the same good work, and does he look disheartened or discouraged . Let us draw near and listen.-?They have just removed to a new home, where, so far as we can judge, nothing, is wanting. The lady, his wife, "Mrs. Weatherall," has just arrived at home after an absence of several. weeks, during which absence Mr. Weatherall has changed her abode, (which she had repeatedly de- clared was "intolerable,") and hoped (vain man) to surprise her with a little happiness, if only for a day, by a new house newly furnished and in a lo- cation which she had often expressed a wish to oc- cupy. "Now, my dear Harriet," said Mr. Weath- erall to his wife, "here is the house of which I wrote to you. Is it not comfortable .-' A place for every : thing, and every thing in its placer, carried out to, the letter of the law of housekeepers." , . . HARRE WrETHl'KALL. 25 "I never was a housekeeper, Mr. Weatherall," replied Mrs. W. in a mournfil tone, ' nor do I dare to trifle with my weak constitution so far as to try to take charge of this establishment, which to me will be only a continual cause of vexation and trouble." Here she threw herself upon a sofa near her, and laid down a parasol she held in her hand, which seemed a fatigue to her. Slowly untying i her bonnet-strings,'she gazed on the floor listlessly, continuing at the same time the strain she had be- gun on enterirg the parlor. t' I hope, Mr. Weath- erall, (here she took -breath,) that you will not be disappointed if I remaii here an hour or two before / going further. I know I am not exactly sick, but I feel very much-overcome by the surprise you have give:. :ne. You ought t- have remembered I never liked surprises; but you meant it well' and no matter. You can't understand my feelings: you are too robust in health." Mr. Weatherall looked disappointed, but the shadow upon his face was mo- mentary. Again the same pleasant smile beamed forth,and, seating himself near Mrs. Weatherall, he replied: "I ought, I know, to have remembered; well, rest awhile, and then you will go through the house with me. If you say so,I will advertise for a house- keeper, and you need not have a care; but if you were able, what delight it would give me to see my page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26- PORTRAITS OF Mt MARRIED FRIENDS. little wife the head of her house, ordering and di- recting every thing within her kingdom with energy and, spirit, making' even. me obey her royal will I ha! ha! What a willing slave I would be and am now, Hatty! :- What do you think of -my arrange- ment? Is the new furniture in the parlor to your taste?" ' "It is very good, Harry, but it is of little conse-! quence to an invalid like me whether the color of the walls is light or dark, or whether the hangings are red or blue; whether the mirrors are large or small; but it is of consequence whether the chairs are easy or uncomfortable, and that you seem to have lost sight of altogether I cannot sit in those largel arm-chairs; you know I'm not large enough to half fill them, nor can my -feet touch the floor in one of them'; how can I rest on one of these elegant sofas . It is all well enough for robust people like you or cousin Belle, who never lie down during the day; but I could not expect you to think of my comfort in all your arrangements; it is not likely either that I will long occupy this beautiful house." This complaint was made with a strength of voice and nerve that might have showed anvyone but a fond husband that the:good lady had the mis- Ifortune of fancying herself much more of an invalid than she really was. The truth was, she was too comfortable, and was growing sickly and indolent was- grwne HARRY WEATMHE . , 27 in mind and body, from pure good fortune in what the world calls its/goods. Mr. Weatherall looked pained and distressed when she expressed the opinion that she would not long occupy this beautiful house, and, seating him- self by her side, he replied in an affectionate and suppressed tone: , "You could not expect me to think of your comfort, Hatty! Of whom do you suppose I was thinking when I labored to provide and furnish this house before your return to the city?" "Labored,!" she repeated, looking up in his face, astonished at the idea of any thing being la- borious to any one but herself. "It was a trouble, a task, then. "No, my dear, it was a labor of love; for in it I thought I was making you happy. It was an ef- fort to accomplish it; that would have been a bet- ter word to express it; it was an effort, because our expenses during the past five years have exceeded my income, and we are living upon my capital; but this will not last long; you will soon be restored' to health, and then you can see where you can help me to retrench many expenditures which are now necessary." "I cannot hear you talk of business matters, Mr. Weatherall. You know it unnerves me, and why do you annoy me with them I There's my old page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] TRAIrrTS OF MY MA bml1I FRIENDS. headache back again; I knew it would be so. Oh dear! oh dear! ring the bell. Where is Lizzie? She's never here when she is needed. I might die and she never would know it. Hand me my vina- grette, Hlarry-ring the bell again-you are upset- ting every thing in my basket-I am fainting; do find the vinagrette quickly, or the ether, any thing." Mr. Weatherall, like one out of his mind, turned every thing into "pi " in the large basket, and then crammed it back again, and re-turned it over again, without any distinct idea of what he saw before him, and having -a confused sound in his ear of broken sentences uttered by his wife, which his anx- iety tortured into efforts of a person almost gone in a faint or fit. At last he grasped a bottle and rushed to her side. Tearing off her bonnet he emptied the contents hurriedly upon her heated brain. It ran down upon her face and neck in tor- rents. " You've deluged me with assafcetida !" screamed Mrs. Weatherall; " how could you be so stupid It must be yon did it in malice; oh, Harry, you will kill me," she sobbed, trying to wipe off the unwel- come restorative. By the time her head, neck, col- lar and embroidered handkerchief were well satu- rated with the 6dious perfume Lizzie, the nurse, en- tered, with four or five children following her " to IHARRY WEAI'H , - ATT. 29 see mamma," and "hear what she thought of the new house." Mamma," said Willie, a fine-looking boy of ten years, " is not this a beautiful place ? We have been with Lizzie from the attic to the cellar, and every thing is beautiful." "Lizzie says I may sleep in your room with you, mamma. Papa has bought a nice crib for me," said little Fanny, a beautiful, fairhaired girl, not over four years of age; " and baby must not be put in-it to sleep at all, it must be all mine." " You selfish little creature," said Willie, "does not baby want a crib as well as you ? Why should you be the only one in mamma's room ? " "Because she is mamma's pet," said Robert, a sullen-looking child, whose temper had evidently ,been under little control. This last speech aroused the attention of Mrs. Weatherall, who ordered Lizzie to take the children instantly to the nursery, and not destroy her nerves with their noise and wrangling. Little Fanny threw her doll across the room and herself upon the floor, where she remained kicking and screaming, and occasionally holding her breath, a trick she had learned, and which she found effectual in carrying any point, however difficult to'attain otherwise. "The child will die,' screamed Mrs. Weather. all. "Harry, Harry, do take her up, she has lost page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 30 PORTRAITS OF M MARRIED FRIENDS. her breath. ' Fanny, Fanny, mny deary, speak Fanny! There, now she's a darling-come to mamma. It will not do to cross her. Itis very dangerous. She need not leave mamma. (So had Mrs. Weatherall's mother thought before, and so had Hatty held her breath, and now--but no mat- ter-children will hold their breath, and mothers will yield, and parents will die broken-hearted till the end of time i it can't be, helped while Folly reigns and common sense is so rare.) Lizzie had hurried the boys out of the room, for which she received blows and kicks from (Bob in {ablmu:i^:. Willie tried to appease Lizzie and re- prove [Robert severely, which brought him little return but lamentations from Lizzie and bold words from Bob. ; Mr. Weatherall begged pardon again and again, for his unfortunate mistake, and assured Hatty he could never forgive himself; " but his anxiety for her had bewildered him," and she knew " how much he would do for her comfort if he could only give her a tithe of, all he desired for her." "-I know you think me -very unreasonable, and hard. to please, and disagreeable, and you don't sympathize withme; you don't make allowances for my nervous and weak state of health," said Mrs. Weatherall, bursting into tears, her' heart full of ' grief of her own m aking. Oh, Heaven forgive her; ,.ABRY WEAT'iRkLL. 31 such blessings within her reach rejected and de- spised as worthless, while thousands more worthy :are denied the gifts which a kind Father has show- ered upon her. "I do sympathize with you, my dear, and I would bear your sufferings willingly were it in my power. Will you not go to your room and take an hour's rest?" Mrs. Weantherall was preparing to leave the par- lor when company entered. The door had been opened by, the maid Betty unknown to them, and Mrs. Alltalk and her daughters were ushered in without a moments warning to the invalid; apolo- gies were lmade for the dreadful odor in the room! "Bless me, Mrs. Weatherall, how well you look; no one living, except .your poor deluded husband, would suspect you were out of health. - ve just come from Mr. Blake's store, and while I was look- ing at some new silks I overheard a conversation that amused me very much. You remember, our old friend Barckly? -Well, do you know, he was praising your husband to the skies, and thought it such a pity that he should have chosen you instead of your cousin Belle. You know it's no harm to tell you now, since you were the chosen one, that Harry- was quite attentive to Belle before he saw you, and she would have given: her eyes for him. I don't know that I ought to say what the lady page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] 32 PQ;RTRAITS OF UMY 3RRIED FRIENDS. -who was with him. replied to what Barckly was saying." "Now, ma!' lisped Lavinia Alltalk, "it's toe : , bad to tease poor Mr. Weatherall so much." Mr. Weatherall looked at his watch, made ar apology, and hoped the ladies would excuse his de- parture; an important business engagement had been made between him and hig partner; the houn had passed; he-feared that the consequences might be serious if he found the office closed. Mrs. Weatherall talked of her late visit to Sara- toga, of her new acquaintances formed there, and of the: surprise Mr. Weatherall had for her on her return--which last topic renewed the very subject she wished to avoid. Rosa Alltalk was too much taken up with her own figure, which was reflected ,in the large mirror before which she had seated herself, to hear the conversation which had passed, and awaking from the reverie in which self-contem- plationahad held her, she asked Mrs. Weatherall if it was true her cousin Belle had, superintended the furnishing of her new house in her absentee and asked her if she never had been jealous of :Belle's rosy cheeks? ] "IfI was as delicate as you,v' she continued, "I'd be jealous of every healthy face, for io one can deny that health is a charm." Rosa glanced ,again at her own round full figure, and arranged a HARRY WEATHERALL. 33, stray curl that fell too far below her cheek to be becoming. Mrs. Weatherall replied that she could never be jealous while her husband showed so much attention and care. "You can't depend -upon these hustands," replied Mrs. Alltalk; ' it is not well to tempt them too far. For my part I make it a point to conceal my aches and pains, for {fear of being disagreeable. IBut you need'not fear that, Mrs. Weatherall; depend upon it you are no more sick than I am. It is a habit you've fallen into of indulgence, which has brought with it its punish- ment; first indolence, and then discontent and in- digestion. If you had to work as hard as I do you'd be, well enough. Come, girls, we can't stay so long in a place, or we'll never end our calls." Thus ended the entertaining, agreeable, intellectual call of the Misses Alltalk. How much good they accomplished in their afternoon calls can be seen by reading the reports issued by Madame Gossip. t Mrs. Weatherall glanced around the room after their departure, and saw in every thing the taste and handiwork of Cousin Belle, and though her heart whispered it was done for her, and that it was kind, yet jealousy stifled every good thought. She glanced in the mirror, and her discontented coun- tenance-even self-love could not admire. For the first time she acknowledged that Belle's joyous face was beautiful. She resolved to try to be like her, 20 t i ' page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] ,TRAITS OF MY MARRIED FIRIENDS. and the first step towards it she thought would be to gain her health, and to make home as 'pleasant as she could to her husband. She turned from the mirror, and picked up the scattered things upon the sofa and chairs, and rang the bell for Lizzie to take them to her room which she now felt a curiosity to see. Lizzie soon entered and muttered that she was tired of life, and could not bear any longer the cuffs and blows of the ill-bred children; that "baby" had been nearly killed by the fright Master Bob had given her with a mask; and that Fanny had cut her best dress in ribbons because she could not have the razors to play shave with after Bob had lathered her face. Mrs. Weatherall listened with patience, and replied that "she believed there never was a woman who had so much trouble as she was born to suffer;" never dreaming that it was all of her own making. While Lizzie was complaining Mr. Weatherall entered, hoping to find a change in the weather during his absence. I mentioned before that during ten years past he had been laboring in the work of love, trying to make Mrs. Weatherall happy, -and) had not despaired. But there is a point beyond which the most valiant will falter. Beware, ye husbands and wives, be- ware of this point. Tempt not the stoutest heart, and remember the ounce that breaks the camel's back. HARRY WEATHIEIiALL. After Mr. Weatherall left the parlor he felt the reaction that followed the excitement of his wife's arrival. Her dissatisfaction and his disappoint- ment now weighed upon him. For the first time since they were married he blamed her, and to do so pained him, more than can be expressed. He walked on towards the office with his eyes cast upon' the ground, his mind)not there but carried back to the unalloyed pleasure the furnishing of the house had given him; every thing purchased had been associated with thoughts of how happy it would make Hatty. Then he had asked ' Cousin Belle," whom his wife loved so much, to arrange every thing. How cheerfully she labored and never complained. How they worked early and late to get all finished in time; and when done, with what a disinterested satisfaction had Belle exclaimed," I'm sure cousin Hatty will' like it very much; she can't help it." Hatty had come home, had not appre- ciated their efforts, was discontented, and had ac- cused him of not caring for her as he ought. The children had been sent away from her sight, and' they too were unhappy. How much more he thought (thoughts will come) I dare not say. There are recesses in the heart into which we would not enter if we could; and from which even self must fly, or sin. He reached the office door. It was closed. page: 36[View Page 36] 36 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. He had come too late. It was of importance to him to have kept the engagement. He returned home with a heart full of--what? Just what every married man who has not a, home such as he ought to have has to carry, but which few bear cheerfully. "I am now rested,' said Mrs. Weatherall, "and am ready to see yoknga new home; I feel bet- ter, and would soon be well if these children did not annoy me so much. Willie and Bob must go to school, and Fanny might be sent to your mother, who has spoiled her; then Lizzie can get along with baby, and I will have a little comfort." Mr. Weatherall loved his children dearly; and his home without them would be cheerless indeed, but Mrs;. Weatherall had said she -would have a lit- tle comfort without them, and her happiness was to him above every other consideration. She took his arm and they went to her room. Tizzie picked up the scattered bundles and baskets and followed them. The windows and bed were hung in pretty colored chintz; the carpet was of a soft green color, pleasant to the eye; there was a sofa, or couch, with down pillows, and a luxurious easy chair, cov- f ered with green and gold. Mrs. Weatherall was fond of books dight reading). A neat small rose- wood book-case was filled with prettily bound vol- umes suited to her taste. She was fond of embroid- page: Illustration-37[View Page Illustration-37] HARRYR WE'1ATIUXALL. 37 ery; plain sewing she could not endure. It was so pleasant to embroider a pair of slippers, or a watch- case for a friend (provided that friend was rich)! A pretty work-basket of goodly dimensions lined with rose-colored satin was filled with every-col- ored silk and worsted, and a portfolio filled with designs was laid upon the table. Mrs. Weatherall was fond of writing (that is, billet-doux of her health); near the sofa was a table upon which was placed every kind of writing material. A bunch 1; of fresh-blown flowers placed upon the mantel per- fumed the air. Nothing seemed to have been for- gotten for the comfort of the invalid. When they had examined every thing in the room, Mrs. Weath- erall expressed her satisfaction--to be sure not with much enthusiasm. The other rooms were gone through and- commented upon. The nursery was in a most deplorable state of commotion and topsy- turviness, and seemed more like a prison for wild t animals than for children. Every pane of glass was stuck with bits of chewed paper; the table was i upside down on the floor with the legs curtained around for a menagerie; inside were two dogs fas- tened by a rope attached to the bedstead. Bob was playing fiddle with the shovel and tongs, with a mask upon his face, while strange to say, baby lay sleeping in the cradle through the whole, after having, as Lizzie said, "cried herself sick with page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] F 38 PORTRAITS OF MY 'MARRIED FRIENDS. firight." Willie lay curled in a corner, reading Pe- terk Parley's Tales, now and then disturbed by a "whack " from Bob.' Fanny was stuffing her little pocket with peanuts and candy, which she was steal- ing from Lizzie's basket during her absence to the parlor. What a school for these poor children I At an age, too, when impressions for good or evil are so easily made. What a precious season of their ex- istence lost, irretrievably lost! As soon as the parents entered the door, the children threw down:their playthings and flew to Mr. Weatherall, begging him to sit down awhile with them or release them from their Bondage and permit them to go down to the parlor, " from which mamma thrust us," muttered Bob, sullenly. "Oh! Bob," said Willie, "mamma felt sick, and sent us away because we made too much noise." "I don't care," continued Bob, " we are always in the way; I wish I was dead." The last part of the sentence Mr. Weatherall did not hear, for little Fanny was climbing up upon her' mother's lap (she had seated herself upon the bed in the room), and was urging her mamma to let Lizzie go with her to buy a new doll. Mrs. Weath- erall had refused, and Faany's screams on the de- nial prevented the unfortunate mother from hearing the dreadful wish of the sullen boy, which to a pa- HARRY WE/'ATH EKAT.*. 39 rent of wisdom would have been prophetic of much evil to come, unless the seed which the enemy was sowing could be rooted out in time. Mr. Weatherall would gladly have spent a little time with the children, and could have restored peace and happiness to their little hearts; but it did not occur to him that he could do so, and TLizzie was left to fight it out with them as best she could, and to put the younger ones to bed as soon as their supper was taken, which would be sent to the nur- sery to them. -As may be supposed, they went to bed discontented and irritable, and dreamed of, wolves and giants who stood ready to devour them. Mrs. Weatherall sank into her chair when she reached her room, quite overcome with the excite- ment which the children had caused her, and burst- ing into tears, " wondered why her children should have been born so much worse than any other per- sons whom she knew. She believed Lizzie made them so;' she had often seen her out of patience with them." Poor patient Lizziel "Now, my love," said Mr. Weatherall, "do not distress yourself; you have no reason to be unhappy; we will try to mend matters; come, cheer up--why, you have spoiled your eyes with crying." Mrs. Weatherall had been told and believed that tears were Cupid's weapons, and that no man could resist their power; consequently they were page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] !H'{"!: 40 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. used!on all occasions without rhyme or reason. A fatal mistake, good reader. "There is a time to cry," says the wise man; and it's only in that time that tears are interesting. o Mr. Weatherall tried in vain to cheer his wife, and it was determined during their evening confab that Willie ana Bob should be sent to boarding- school, and that Mr. W. would take lFanny to his mother, to remain during the winter. This was a hard decision for poor Mr. Weatherall: but he had made it, and he would abide by it. That night he went to the nursery after the children had gone to sleep, and stood by the bedside where Willie and Bob were sleeping. Willie's fine and handsome countenance expressed even in sleep the nobility of his soul, and his father gazed upon him with a father's pride. In a second, thought travelled in the future over years to come, and Mr. Weatherall saw his child a man. "God bless him," he whis- pered, and ipmprinted a kiss upon his forehead. Bob, poor Bob, seemed restless, and muttered in his sleep strange threats. They must leave me,-thought DMr. Weatherall, as he left the room. It can't be helped. Did he blame his wife? or - was he blind to the causes-which were undermining his heart's peace and slowly eating away its love? He felt a change, he knew not what. It was so HARRY WEATR ' TTiiL. 41 gradual that like an evil spirit unseen it had its power. The following week the children were prepared and sent away, with a promise that a trunk full of fine clothes should follow them. Little Fanny Mr. Weatherall took himself to his mother's, twenty miles distant, first persuading her that he was going to take her to buy the new doll-which her resolute will still clung to. Arrived there, he explained to his mother that Harriet was not able to have the care of the children, and he had brought Fanny to her. Mrs. Weatherall (the .mother) truly pitied her son; but, like a wise woman, "kept her own coun- sel," and expressed the delight it would be to her to make the little darling happy. "Poor Harry!" she sighed as he drove away, "you married in haste and must abide the conse- quences. A heartless, coquettish beauty to have such power over my noble- Harry! Who but he could be blind to her selfish, indolent disposition." He was out of sight, and was soon lost in reflec- tion. He saw trees and fences, fields and streams fly by, but they were only shadowed upon the sur- face of his eye. His soul was wrapt in other thoughts.: In the little parlor in his mother's house there hung a picture so like to- Cousin Belle," that many supposed it had been taken for her. tHow very cheerful! How sunnywas that face! He page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 42 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. liked her--yes, he liked her. Suppose that he had loved her. But he never had-no never; but sup- pose he had. -Whoever loves her will be fortunate -what a home! how kind and good she is. Here Harry started at the dangerous thoughts with which Satan was tempting him in his trial. Trial-and yet -he did not know how much he had to bear; he did not know his loss of happiness. Hte started, and frowned down the Evil One, and for the first time in his life from his heart prayed, Oh Lord! de- liver me from evil." "Forgive me, my poor weak Hatty, if I have wronged you; no, it is not right. I must be patient and kind and affectionate, and more tender and loving, because she is delicate- my poor little birdling. Oh, how wicked it would be of me to get weary of her, and ill-natured! I'm -not so bad as that yet-no, thank God, I'm not. How beautiful she looked' as a bride-how much too old I seemed for her then, she was so delicate- looking, so childlike, a spoiled child;" " and will always be so," again whispered Satan. "Child- like!" sounded interesting once--but it won't do for mothers, it won't do for heads of families to be babies. These and many other thoughts of the same kind were intermingled with busy worldly speculative reflections as varied and changeable as the skies above him, coming and going and assum- ing all kinds of shapes in his mind, possible and HARRY WEATlHElALL. 43 impossible, until he-reached his own door again and entered the quiet, soulless house he called his home. Some time had elapsed since the children left home. Occasionally Mrs. Weatherall sighed and' wished she could see them, but could neveItDng herself to propose their coming home. "She was nearly well now, and it was only wise to preserve her health." Harry felt extremely the loss of his children's society, but consoled himself with .the idea that it was better as it was. He was fond of society, and would gladly hlave welcomed his friends at his house, as his heart dictated, but Harriet did not like the care which -company brought, and he would deny himself that pleasure and more for her sake. He would have wished, however, for business-purposes to have invited an occasional stranger home with him to dine; but Harriet did not like those sur- prises. What did she like? her own dear self, good reader.' One afternoon, seated at his office table, a note came addressed to him from an old uncle many years absent from New York, and who, it had been supposed, had long since departed from this life. "Uncle Joe," exclaimed Harry in surprise, "how gladly I will welcome you!"Scarcely were the thoughts uttered when Uncle Joe entered and threw his arms around his nephew. 4' Harry, you 7 page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] 1t4:4 3PORTRAI'rS OF 'MY MARRIED FRIENDS. dog, what a great fellow you have grown; why, you rascal, you have made a man (meaning an old man), of yourself before your time,--how are you? married, of course; a jovial soul like yours would not sing alone in the cage, my word for it." Both sat down and Harry told the story of his love, his courtship with it trials, his marriage, and his mar- rifilfe so far, giving Uncle Joe a -very different idea of Harriet- from the one you and I have formed, fair reader; well, God bless him for it. God bless him for the generous charity;vand let us try to fol- low the example if ever we are tried in like man- ner. "Uncle Joe" accompanied Harry home. All the way Harry-was half fearing and whole hoping (you know how large his hope -is) that Harriet would give them a kind reception. When he reach- ed the door his heart just sunk a little, but instant- ly it bounded again with pleasure, and he ushered Uncle Joe into the handsomely furnished parlor which frowned upon them with a dark and discon- tented light, like a pouting beauty whose charms were wasting unloved, unseen. He threw open the blinds and rolled out a large arm-chair upon which the dust of days lay gathered, and after seeing that his good uncle was made comfortable, Harry hur- ried to his wife's room (she always lived in her room) to announce the arrival. Uncle Joe was not HARRY WEATStrs ALL. 45 blind, and he looked around upon the dismal ne- glected finery, and whistled a mournful tune that to his mind was a fit requsiern for departed comfor which mole than straws showed him was long sypce ) gone. Uncle Joe was not simple nor a dotard, though very old, and like a Prophet he read the secret of Harry's home. "Better a thousand times never marry,",thought the old man, " than tie you,- self to an inefficient idle woman." Just then Har- ry entered with Harriet--she had been pretty once, but the inanimate life she had led had checked the current in her veins; and heart, mind, and body seemed paralyzed.. She met the stranger with a cold and lifeless salutation that some mistake for polite self-possession, and inquired in a drawling tone, "when he arrived and how long he would remain." "That depends upon Harry," replied Uncle Joe. "I would like to spend a few weeks with you if you would not find an old piece of furniture like me in the way. I've a great affection for Harry." Harriet, after a pause, answered in a tone that showed her surprise: "A few weeks! I'm afraid you would find it rather dull here'for that length of time, and I've just been telling Harry that I have so much trouble with my servants that I must give up housekeeping soon; but if you will put up with. all the inconven- page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] - 46 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. iences with which you will be annoyed here I will be very glad to accommodate you." "Accommodate 'you!" thought Uncle Joe. Poor Harry looked pained in the extreme, but like a wise man began to ask questions of his uncle's travels and adventures, which occupied the time pleasantly enough till tea was handed around. A little spread bread and butter, cut very thin, with some weak tea and dry sponge cake, were hand- ed round by Betty, a slovenly-looking girl, who, partaking of her mistress's spirit, looked sullen and thought company a great pague. After tea Mrs. Weatherall retired, having per- formed an unusual act of self-denial in remaining so long, and hastened to her room to finish one of Eugene Sue's lasi novels. Cigars were smoked by Harry and Uncle Joe, and in their fumes both forgot for the time every thing but the pleasures of early days, long past. Over and over again they related this and that pleasant occurrence, and wandered over the old grounds to- gether, not a vestige of which could now be seen. "I've travelled East and North and South, Harry," said Uncle Joe," and never have I met a spot like the-old home.". , They talked till late, and when Harry rang the bell not a servant was up. He took the light and asked Uncle Joe to follow him. The room usually f . a. *'; " , ' ' HARRY W iEA'TiEA'I'. 47 given to strangers was all in confusion, and he asked pardon for a moment till he could ask Hatty which room was intended for his uncle. BHatty, love," said- Harry, "where will Uncle Joe sleep? He is very much fatigued, I hope he will not be obliged to go up another story." She replied, "To be sure he will; how could I know that he was coming? I do not keep a room prepared for visitors-the very thing I wished to Void. The room above is good enough for any ox, and from your Uncle's appearance I should judge better than he was accustomed to indulge in. I did not ask Betty, but no doubt the room is in order." ; Harry showed his Uncle to his room. Knowing there was no remedy for any thing that might be wanting, he concluded to be as blind as possible and barely open the door- and wish his Uncle " good night." The old man seated himself upon the side of the bed, clasped his hands and gave a' searching look into every corner of the room. The furniture was good, but it looked dingy, soiled and neglected. In one corner of the room upon the ceiling a heavy cobweb stretched a quarter of a yard and hung in festoons over the cornice. The coal inl the grate showed that at some time previous a fire had been made and gone out half lighted. The bed had not \ ' page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 48 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS; ,\I , been occupied, but the covering was dusty and un- comfortable. S "Hang me," said Uncle Joe, "if- I leave one sous to Harry,: such a -wife would ruin any mlan- I(might as well put my money into a dirty sieve; he'll have ;to come to want; there's no remedy; what could the fellow have been thnking of to marry such a nonentity?" Withl these reflections Uncle Joe closed his eyes in sleep, and dreamed of witches around his bed on broomsticks till morning. Morning came and Uncle Joe departed. He made his will soon after, leaving a large fortune tO an orphan asylum. He took good care that the reason for the change in his mind should reach Har- riet's ears, hoping that it might produce some good result. Letters came frequently from the school in which Willie and Bob were placed. Willie stood well in his class, but was, kept' depressed by the constant and daily punishments which Bob had to endure for his bad conduct. i l Mrs. Weatherall knew it was the teacher's fault, and wished her husband would take him to a new school. But Mr. Weatherhall firmly opposed this plan, assuring his wife that the boy would be ruin ed if indulged in this wish. One morning news came that Bob had run I EHARRY WEATxHALL. 49 I' away, and Wilhe had got leave to go home a few - days; his health seemed to require it. When he ?A,I reacdied home his parents were alarmed at his ;- changed appearance, and after a close investigation : it was ascertained that Wilhe had slept by the open :;! window when he first went to school to guard it, as Pob threatened to jump out of it if he could not do as lie liked. Poor Wilhe had taken a severe cold, and a rapid decline was-threatening his life. Mrs. Weatherall cried a great deal when the family physician announced the sad fears, not for -one moment, however, accusing herself for any ormissions of duty towards either of her children, - : nor will she till the last day when the Great Judge of all will require those precious gifts with which he had intrusted her. Oh! the fearful responsibility of mothers. How many realize its magnitude . ?' . Willie's sickness was not of long duration. His ; soul was called home after a short struggle, and his ^:;: parents stood by the side of the lifeless form of the !I once noble boy. It would be in vain to attempt to describe Mr. Weatherall's grief. He was calin and resigned to the will of God; but his heart swelled almost to breaking in the effort. He was alone in i] his grief, for though Mrs. Weatherall wept continu- ", ally, and he consoled her, yet she could not sympa- : thize-with him in his deep heartfelt sorrow, for she i had never loved the child as he had done. 3 page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRENDS. Bob was found and sent to sea after much oppo- sition from Mrs. WeatheraU, and many bitter words and reproaches towards her husband, all of which Mr. Weatherall bore with almost superhuman pa- tience. Little Fanny had been sent home once or twice, but she was so unhappy and mourned so much for " dear Grandmamma," that it was decided best to allow her to remain with Harry's mother. It need not be told that the life of Harry Weath- erall was one of disappointment and trial. His heart, too often taxed, in time lost its fervor and elasticity, and he sought that happiness which his own fireside denied him in other scenes and places. He was a man of sterling principle and well tried integrity. The inferior and degrading amusements and pastimes which the city affords to men of low tastes had no charms for him, and consequently offered no temptation. Political friends drew him into their clubs and engaged his mind in the inter- esting topics of the day. The fate of the country, they said, depended upon the exertions of men of mind and character such as his, and now that he had retired from business it was his duty to become a statesman. Harry's judgment told him that to become a politician home and its sweet blessings must be bartered; but what had lihe to lose? His children had been neglected and driven from home, and his house made a dull dreary prison-house from r ISvs - HARRY WEATHEKALL. 51 the complaints and unreasonable petulance of his :!$s *wife, who was weeping more than half her time over ' the unhappiness of the cruel fate to which she had been doomed and from which she never expected to be released." $His friends urged and pleaded and fairly drove him to a decision,-and he yielded. The excitement of the new life, in which he en- gaged with all his energies, at first gave Harry an unnatural gaiety of manner and a decision of cha- racter which astonished himself. Regardless of Hatty's remonstrances and fainting fits (!) he threw open the house and had a thoroughly renovat- ing process gone through, which I assure you it needed. Painters, upholsterers, and carpenters, were busily employed for a week or more. The store-room and wine cellar were generously filled. The broken glass and china replaced. New carpets laid down and new curtains hung in the parlor put a new face upon it. The door-plate, which had be- come rusty from neglect, was taken off and a new bright one put in its place. During the carrying out of Harry's resolution he kept up a cheerfulness of manner in spite of Hatty's tears and reproaches that we must own seemed unnatural;- but he had resolved to become a public man, and to do so he could no longer lead the selfish, concealed, snail- like life in which he had indulged Mrs. Weatherall page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] 52; PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. too long, as he had now become convinced he had done. Once thoroughly roused to see the error of his ways, he had the nature to be resolute, or " ob- stinate,' as Hatty called it! He was made chairman of several committees; and frequently attended meetings for political and benevolent purposes, at many of which he often re- mained out late at night. He became very popular as a speaker and was called out on every occasion. -When he rose to speak he called forth the most rapturous applause, and the cheers of the crowd continued some time after he had retired. There was a truthfulness in his character and noble heart that gave his words an uncommon power, that took the feelings captive, and won the multitude over to his views and sentiments, which were always just, and such as could be adopted by honest mene. Harry one morning in his usual cheerful tone announced to his wife that he had desired Mrs. Phillips, the housekeeper, to prepare for company to dinner on the following day, when the Governor of the State and several of his political friends had been invited to meet a foreign minister of distinction. "You have desired Mrs.' Phillips to prepare dinner," repeated Mrs. Weatherall, " without first consulting me," she added, in an offended tone. "Yes, my love," said Harry, " your health is too delicate to permit you to think of any thing but HARRY WEATHERALL. 53 its recovery; and let me entreat you, my dear, not to allow any one to disturb you. Let no one enter your room to annoy you with questions; Mrs. Phillips is a competent woman, and has so far managed the house admirably. I'm sure if your strength permit- ted you to examine it you would find every thing in its place, and the greatest order and comfort pre- vailing; but, my sweet wife, Fm troubling you too much, there-do dry up those tears for my sake; will you not?" "Harry," she replied, "I cannot endure"-- here Harry determined not to listen to her lamenta- tions, and as gently as possible interrupted her, and looking at his watch left her room to keep an en- gagement, after saying " good bye " affectionately, and telling her " to take care of herself." Hatty had more than once protested, and with' tears and hysterics, against the changes which Harry was making; but he was resolute, though still in other respects the same kind indulgent husband. After he left the room she remained some time halt stupefied by astonishment and the contending thoughts of indignation and jealousy which filled her mind. Suddenly she rose from the lounge upon which she spent the greater part of her time, and began preparing to go out. She rang the bell vio- lently, and ordered the maid who answered the summons " to say to Mr. Weatherall, that she had page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] ORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. left town for a few days and hoped he would give himself no uneasiness about her." "I'm sure he can't help feeling uneasement of mind," said Elly, "and if Miss Clara should come home from boarding-school, marm?" Clara is the " baby " of whom we spoke before. She was now a girl of twelve or fourteen years of age and placed as a boarder at a. fashionable board- ing school in the city. - "Miss Clara will not return this week," said Mrs. Weatherall; "I have forbidden her coming home during vacation. She is better off at school." Mrs. Weattierall ordered her carriage and drove to the house of her friend, Mrs. Alltalk, who lived in a palace of princely magnificence, so far as the building and its adornments could make it such; but the moment one entered the house the want of comfort and of the soul of life was felt. It was like a splendid tomb in which its inmates were buried. There was within no active earnest life, no inter- change of good thoughts and deeds; no kindly offices tendered to the poor and sad of heart; no swelling hearts of prayer and praise in appreciation of Heaven's gifts; no happy, cheerful voices heard. It was silent and desolate to a heart that could yearn for something more than vanity and pride of life. HARRY WEATH ^IKALL. 55 -Mrs. Weatherall entered the imposing vestibule and remained a moment awaiting the answer to the bell which her footman had rung. An emaciated, pale-faced, aged woman, scarcely able to support herself upon the crutch which she held under her, paused on the sidewalk before the door and raised her eyes imploringly to Mrs. Weatherall. "For the sake of God, give a poor woman a little help to keep her from starvation, and may you never have to ask in vain from Him who will judge us all," said the poor woman in almost a whisper. Mrs. Weatherall took out her purse and looked, in it. Finding no smaller piece than a gold dollar, she hesitated, drew it out, looked at it, returned it to her purse, took it out again, returned it and re- plied, "Good woman, I've no change." The poor old woman made no answer but moved her lips in prayer to Him who feeds the raven, and can supply the wants of his suffering poor without our aid if we refuse them. The door was opened and Mrs. Weatherall was ushered into the drawing-room with much ceremony and no hospitality; not a sound was heard by her, except the receding steps of the servant who went to announce the visitor. The marble statuary looked coldly down upon her, and the gloomy light that forced its way through the closed blinds and page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] 56 .PORTRAITS OF 'kY MARRIED FRIENDS. displayed the studied' regularity and order of the gaudy furniture, gave her an uncomfortable feelinD that she would meet with a soulless, welcome and be expected to make a formal call of etiquette While things around were producing their chilling influence upon the unhappy woman, Mrs. Alltall and her daughters were lamenting the intrusioi upon their times "These dresses must be finished,' said Lavina, " and if you can't do better, Ma, you must invite her up to the sewing-room. Why or earth was John so stupid ' Did you not tell hin we were out?." Silks, laces, ribbons and velvets were strewed in every direction about the room, or the bed, sofa and chairs, and two sickly young girll were sewing for dear life, while Mrs. Alltalk and Lavina remained in the room to help a little, bul more particularly to watch them and see that they worked unceasingly. Heaven help poor, dress makers! and fine ladies who have "nothing t( wear." "Good morning, Mrs. Weatherall," said Mrs Alltalk, "you don't look in spirits; not wel enough to enjoy life, I suppose?" "INever expect to be again,"5 replied Mrs Weatherall' in a mournful tone; " this is a sad life we are born to. I don't see how you can take things so easy. I suppose my nature is more sensi tive than yours." i. -H HA&RRY WEMrRERALL. 57 Mrs. Alltalk 'inquired for Irs. Weatherall's health; and then followed a confidential confession -:'::+: of the trials and troubles under which Mrs. Weath- '-.: . erall was suffering, and with floods of tears she related the great change that had come over her husband; and she would not conceal the fact, that he seemed to disregard her wishes entirely; that he had engaged a housekeeper who had taken posses- sion as if she was mistress, and -that company was invited to dine without any regard to her at all, and for her part " she did not know where it would end." "I said, replied Mrs. Alltalk, " when I heard of the doings at your house, that if Mr. Weatherall was a widower, I could understand them all. He means to be all ready for a new wife and not give people a chance to talk about him; you are very delicate, you know, and it is not to be expected that you will live long; and perhaps, after all, Mrs. Weatherall, it is all for the best that things should i be left in a comfortable decent condition at your funeral. You know mankind well enough to know as I do that if they were not in apple-pie order they soon would be; and though I must doMr. Weath- ^. ?erall the justice to say I don't believe he ever thought of such a thing himself, yet he is the very X, man that would console himself as soon as possible in any affliction.5 S * ' i^ 8 * page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] 58 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS, ]Mrs. Weatherall sighed and agreed with her friend (!) that it was the most natural thing to ex- pect; but the idea of a second Mrs. Weatherall excited her feelings so much that she got a violent fit of hysterics that alarmed the house and gathered a dozen people around her, who would never have been supposed to live in the house but for this un- expected occurrence. Mrs. Weatherall, when re- covered sufficiently, was handed into the carriage-. Next day it was whispered in Mrs. Alltalk's select circle, that Mrs. Weatherall was dying from neglect and ill-treatment. "You may drive home, Jolln," said Mrs. Weath- erall, "' I have changed my mind about going out of town." All the way home the good lady gave herself up to reflections of the most earnest charac- ter. It had never occurred to her before what could have induced Harry to make such changes in the house, and to become so changed in many ways. So anxious for popularity; so resolute; so, obstinate'; so fond of company; so ready to believe her very sick; only that morning he had told her she was very delicate. It was evident he was tired of her, and would not mourn much if she were to die; it was very clear to her mind that some one would soon fill her place; she wondered who it would be; perhaps Cousin Belle; at this point Mrs. Weatherall's feelings became so much excited 0ot HARRY WEATHE1'EAL. 59 that she was almost frantic with jealousy, and she did not notice that she had reached her own house. ,Mr. Weatherall was on the steps when the car- riage stopped, and came out to assist her with a look of pleasure at her unexpected return. ( This is an unexpected return, my love," said Harry. "You are disappointed, no doubt," she replied. "You supposed I had gone to remain several days. I know more of your plans probably than, you are aware of." "I do not understand you, my dear," said Harry. "I hoped you would remain so long as you felt it agreeable and beneficial to your health; but you must know, Harriet, that I could not but be happy at your return so soon." "I wish and request, Harry, that you will never again allude to my delicacy of health. It is very- disagreeable to me, however agreeable the subject may be to you." Mr. Weatherall could not comprehend this un- expected change of humor, for on other occasions her delicacy was the only theme discoursed upon with any interest. But supposing it was only a new phase of her unaccountable state of health or "nervousness," he bore it in silence, and left the house to make preparations for a meeting to be held that evening for the purpose of raising means page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] 60 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. to -educate poor boys who were obliged to labor for their support and that of their widowed mothers, and who had ambition and talent if an opportunity could be given them forfedudation. It was to be proposed to raise a fund to pay good teachers and to hire a suitable building for the purpose. Appli- cants should be enrolled who could bring testimo- nials of good conduct and morals and a faithful discharge of their duty to their parents. A mem- bership should entitle them to a suit of clothes (to be worn in school, which must be necessarily, an evening one) as well as books and all things neces- sary for their improvement; the instruction should continue until they had acquired a good education, unless a complaint should be made against them for bad conduct in or out of school. Mr.'Weatherall was the more engaged in this good work from hav- ing failed in the education of his own children! The following day,: when the company had ar- rived and dinner was announced, Mrs. Weatherall astonished her husband by:making her appearance in the parlor. -She had taken more than ordinary care in her toilet, and looked so well that Mr. :Weatherall scarcely recognized her, having so many 'years seen her in the negligd of ain invalid. He met her when she entered the room and in- troduced. her with pride to his friends, which she could not fail to see. In a manner most unusual HARRY WEATHRRA TI,. 61 to her, she apologized for not appearing before, and entered into a pleasant conversation with a gentle- man near her. - She took her seat at the table and was attentive and agreeable to all, during the time when the lady of the house is expected to remain. When she left the table, she went to her room, overcome by the great exertion she had made. He shall not think me inferior to any one living. I will be mistress, and the only one, of my house; he shall be proud of me; he shall love me and no other," thought Harriet, and she threw herself upon. -the couch and gave way for a time to the tears and reaction which her exertions had caused. She had hoped to go to the parlor when the gen- tlemen left the table, but -was too weak to do so, and remained in her room listening to the sound of -their merry voices. "How happy he can be with- out me," she thought; "I am not necessary to him, then; ought not Hto make his home happy? .What is his home2 It is independent of me. -I am not a part of it. I belong to his household.. I am his care. He provides for me. What am I more than one of his servants; not so much to him as his housekeeper. She can add to his comfort; I can only give him care and anxiety. .I think of late he has grown indifferent. Hear him laugh 1 what can I do? He must not- see or know my fears. If I G tM page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] 62 'PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. were to die and he were to marry another, and she were to,make him happy---No, it cannot be. I'll live, please God, and I'll make him wish to live for me!"It was late that evening before the last guest departed, political topics of vital importance having been discussed after some of the party had left. Harry paused a moment and listened at Hatty's door on his way to his own room, and, hearing no sound within, passed on, fearing to disturb her. She had frequently angrily reproved him for awak- ,ing her, but now she bitterly regretted it, and would. gladly have welcomed him. She had ex- pected that he would come in and express his sur- prise and pleasure at her unexpected appearance in the parlor. She heard him coming; she had not slept, though it wag past one o'clock; she heard him pause; her heart beat quickly with emotion; he passed, and again she was left to her sad reflec- tions. Weak and exhausted from the unusual ex- citement of the day, she imagined neglect and unkindness in the act of which until now she had not only approved but insisted upon. "He could not love her!"Wearily she tost from side to side, her mind filled with self-accusations and wild fan- cies of eomiig ill. Again and again the suggestions of Mrs.,Alltalk!came before her, assuming hideous forms when she fell into the lightest slumber. HARRY WEATRHATtL. 63 The next morning Harry stole into her room very early, unheard, and stood by her bed-side. She was sleeping uneasily, and yet he feared to awake her. She looked pale and really sick, and he was extremely sorry lest the exertion had been too much for her. "How very well she looked; I'd like to tell her how much I thanked her for coming down, but I dare not awake her; poor Hatty I " thought Harry. She moved a little, and he glided out of the room. "Tell Mrs. Weatherall," said Harry to Mrs. Phillips before leaving the house, " that; I was obliged to leave in. the early train for Philadelphia; not till late last night did I know that it would be aecessary for me to be in Washington so soon. Say to her that I went to her rootn but feared to awaken her." When Mrs. Phillips gave jthe message, Harriet was very much disappointed and unhappy. It was a new feeling for her to manifest, for it had seldom given her much concern whether he was at home or absent, provided that she had sufficient money to spend for her own gratification, and was kept free froim annoyances of every kind. From Washington she received an affectionate letter, which expressed much of- all he had desired to say to her before leaving home, and concluded by hoping that her health would be above every page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] ", PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. other consideration with her. He would return the following day, and hoped to see her looking as well as when last he saw her, which was at the table. The -appointed time came for his return, but with'it came the dreadful news of an accident on the railroad and a fearful loss of life. It was first announced to Mrs. Weatherall by . the newsboys in the street, which threw her into fainting fits from which it was difficult "to restore her. The account of those who were killed or in- jured was watched for with painful impatience by his-friends; and when it came, the dreadful reality of 'his death was forced upon Harriet. His friends came to try to console her; but the world gave her little credit for the sincerity of her deep grief. The papers were filled with the highest eulogies upon his character; and the public suffered a loss' not easily forgotten. "A good man has departed to meet his reward, " was said by more than one poor soul whom his bounty had saved from want. Clara was brought from school to console her mother in her grief, but the poor woman found little comfort in the society of her child to whom she -was a stranger, and it is our painful duty to say that there was much, very much to be lamented in the char- actel of this neglected girl whose nature was9 wilful and selfishh in the e:xtreme, and whose heart was worse than uncultivated. HARRY WEATHERALL. 65 In the sorrow and gloom of this heavy trial, and in the disappointment which the unfortunate mother endured in her child, penitence came to her heart and held up before her her past life, its omissions and commissions, from which she shrank with hor- ror; and for a time she almost sank in despair under its contemplation. But the sweet voice of Mercy whispered-in her ear, "It is I, be not afraid," and in an humble and prostrate spirit her heart thanked GOD for his chastisements, which, though terrible, had come in love and- not in anger. UNCLE BEN. S, page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] PORTRAIT NO. III. SAM PERCIVAL AND THE WlUOW. IDA COLTON and her mother, a widow of forty eventful summers-and, we must add, winters, for even gay widows must have winters in their exist- ence-were looking over a box of laces which a Jewess was offering at a a' very low price." '"Col- lars and sleeves only twenty dollars," and " a love- ly bertha for fifty!"Then there were " veils for sixty "-but they were real!--who that thought any thing of herself would wear imitation! The ladies admired all, but "which would you take, Ma'. " said the lisping Ida. She lisped from affec- tation, and not from nature. "Don't know, dear, they are all so pretty; but don't know that I can buy any; I've spent my quarter's money a week ago; must wait till next quarter." This was said in a half soliloquizing tone, while Mrs. Colton was turning over every lace in page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] 68 PORTrRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. the box, and had no idea of allowing the woman to go away, for "Miss Ida must have the bertha, and she must have the veil." So said the Jewess. Still Mrs. Colton lingered over the box with a yearning towards them all X first this one, then that was laid aside, as if selected; and then all were crowded into 'the box again, and Mrs. Screw was desired 'to tie them up. "Could not purchase to- day," said Mrs, Colton: "had not-the money." '"Never mind the money," said the Jewess," I'm in no hurry. I can wait till next month. Do please yourselves, ladies; you know I'm not dependent upon my day's sales, though it's hard work enough to go about. I declare to you I've great vexation,; so many ladies never pay.- There's Mrs. Dashwood has bought $1,000 worth of laces this tear from me, and I caltt get a dollar of it!" "If Mrs. Dashwood has bought $1,000 without paying a cent," thought Mrs. Colton, "I can afford to buy $500 worth, and pay it next quarter." ,' Well," said Mrs. Colton, "I'll take some of your prettiest; but, remember, I can't pay you for three months." "All right," said Mrs. Screw. "Now, Miss, take your choice; here is the bertha you looked at, but if. you will allow me to advise, you'll take the poiint lace I have here. I've put it up carefully out of sight in this paper, for I meant some lady of SAM PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOV. 69 quality should get this.- I have but one other, and that Miss Douglass, niece of old Earl Douglass, bought, for a grand ball at the President's palace, and I know she'd feel satisfied if I told her you got the mate. Indeed, I promised her when she paid me ten dollars extra, that Hwould see that no vul- gar mechanic's daughter purchased this one." While Mrs. Screw was tWlking off her merchandise, she was carefully unfolding several envelopes of soft paper, until the sought-for bertha was produced to the wondering, we can't say admiring, eyes of the ladies, for'they could not see the beauty or the value of it. To them it was not as pretty as the transfer-point one at $50, and yet' the mark on this was $250. "I suppose this is very superior," said Mrs. Colton, "but really to me " "', Ma,'" interrupted Ida, "can't you see the exquisite workmanship! You must admit it is superb " - firs. Colton did admit it, but that did not help her to see it. "A lady of your taste," said the Jewess, "and accustomed as you are to buy only the best, need mnothe told'the value of such lace as that. You know as well as I do, my lady, that I'm losing on it at that price. My husband made favor with a manufacturer at Brussels, and he sent these out - as specimens. Whicli will you take? I must be off, page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. Mrs. Tindall is waiting for me. Please decide ladies ; bless me! bless me! dooking, at her watch) , bless me! I've been here three mortal hours.", Mrs. Colton ran over in her:mind, with the rapidity of thought, all the advantages that might accrue from the purchase. Ida would look beautiful in them: she would appear to be rich in them, and no one else but the niece of Earl Douglass had a bertha like it. But the President's ball!-she had not heard of it. Mrs. Screw interrupted her medi- tations, which she supposed were upon the merits of her laces. "I never had a lady doubt my laces," said Mrs. Screw, with a little bitterness; "pray allow Miss Ida to make choice, and let me go, ladies." Mrs. Colton, laid aside the $250 bertha, several collars, and a black lace veil for herself. "I Here is a love of a shawl,! real, too," said Ida. "O, Ma! how superb it would look thrown over your shoulders; do let me try it on you. There! Mrs. Screw, does it not look queenly? Upon my word it is elegant; why, Ma, you'll cut me out!" Mrs. Colton turned slowly around-before a full- length mirror, and held her head as high as -if she were a queen. "It is decidedly becoming," said t Mrs. Colton. "Well, put that in the bill;, what is the: price A " "$100 to you," replied Mrs. Screw; ,but I sy "u SAM PEROIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 71 partly promised it to Miss Dashwood at $125. But no matter; I know'you'll be a good customer. Never mind; when I meet a lady, I treat her like one. Take it at $100.5" "Give me your bill now," said Mrs. Colton, "and I'll pay you next quarter." "Never mind the bill," replied the Jewess. "I'm late. You won't forget it, and be sure I ,won't; so, good bye." Mrs. Screw packed up her boxes, and tied them up in a piece of brown linen, and might have passed for the poorest of German saleswomen from her appearance, though she owned thousands of dollars' worth of expensive laces, as well as hun- dreds of imitation, which she sold for real when she found a lady who could not distinguish one from the other. The shawl which she had just sold Mrs. Colton was one of these, its real value being $15 or $20. After she left the house, Mrs. Colton and Ida looked over their purchase. It seemed very little for the money to be paid; but it was too late to regret it-Mrs. Screw was: out of sight. Mrs. Colton had expended several thousand dollars in her own and Ida's wardrobe during the year, since she had left off mourning for; the la- mented Mr. Oolton, and she meant the expenditure should tell. To be sure, no one but her own heart page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] -T 2 PORTRAITr OF MYI MARRIED FRIENDS. knew this. At least, she thought so. *Who, could see through her designs, unless she chose to tell them? NoSo one, of course. Why, my dear reader, they were as transparent as her own brain, and all the world were talking of her management! Mrs. Colton -and Ida were boarding; -" but," said' Mrs. O., "Ida, my dear, this house is altogether too quiet. I am well acquainted with all the gentlemen here; there is not one that's worth catching."' "O, Ma," replied Ida, " how can you talk so 2" All the while' it had been her own thought, day and night, since the last " catch " had been won by Miss Primrose.' ,: ,':iri not joking, my love. Do you suppose I can go on in this wa y iorever . I don't dare now to ask my banker 'how my funds stand. But my opinion is, that unless you or I make a rich match, we're lost." "Lost, Ma ." BeWell, beggared, then, if you understand that betterl Now, I'll tell you what it is, Ida; yoi must give up that ridiculous country merchant with whom you've been in: love thesae three years. His whole store couldn't supply you in gaiters and kidgs; and after all I've spent on you, it will 'be ah pretty come down to have me settle with youin a little white house with green blinds, in the country, near (', tie stxore." SAM PEROIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 73 "I am engaged to Henry, Ma; what can I do?" "Do? you simpleton! You must do something. Let him call repeatedly, and send word you're en- gagld. You must give it up, and do it in the best way you can. I never will consent to it; and now, depend upon it, you must make a good match this winter, or-" Mrs. Colton was interrupted by a knock at the door. One of the ladies from the next floor (below) called to spend an hour with Mrs. Colton.. Mrs. Fountain flourished in her dress and hoops, filling the whole doorway. She threw herself into a large Turkish chair, covered with crimson satin. Her dark blue silk morning-dress was relieved by a richly French-worked skirt, and her hair was dressed with great taste, in which a beautiful piece of lace was fastened on each side of the back comb by diamond pins. Mrs. Fountain occupied the lower suite of rooms, and must be treated accord- ingly. She was very rich, too; so said the board- ers, and they always know. "Dear me, Mrs. Colton, I'm exhausted coming ap- those vile stairs!" said Mrs. Fountain, drawing out of her pocket a beautifully carved fan, which she opened and began fanning herself, and displayed at the same time her white hand, which was covered with diamond and opal rings; "I wonder you can 4 page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74Z PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED KIENDIS. content yourself on a third floor." Mi.. Colton not replying, she continued: "Ida, I've a beau for you, but you must not be introduced up here. He is a ' great catch,' rich, noble blood, and very handsome. I've told him of you, but take care your mother don't cut you0out." f "I'm going to give up these rooms," said Mrs. Colton (it was the-thought of the moment); I'm / going to a more fashionable boarding-house than this. I thinkl the people here are very common." Mrs. Fountain fanned herself quickly and replied: "Yes, I agree with you, there are some very common people in the house." Then followed a little skirmish between the ladies, such as sometimes will occur in these fashionable places, and Mrs.- Fountain-left the room quite indignant. The next day Mrs. Colton made her removal a subject of profound meditation, and, "putting her whole mind to it," hit upon a plan worthy of the class to which she belonged. "She'd take a splendid 'brown stone front up town, put in a housekeeper who should pass for the landlady, and she, Mrs. -Colton, when the rest of the house- was well filled, would take the first floor. Then she'd have a suite of rooms all to herself; the rent of the other rooms would enable her to keep this for very little, It was an admirable thought! and should be carried out; Ida should know no- SAM PERrOVAL AND THE WIDOW. 75 thing of it, for these young girls were so foolish, so fearful. If the expense was more than she could accomplish, why Ida would certainly marry rich before the year was over; and Ida and she could manage to put by enough to pay up these little tri- fles. They would be trifles compared to Ida's for- tune then." The house was found, and the housekeeper was also found after some days of advertising in several papers; and the ladies were busily engaged in fit- ting up the new establishment, or the net we might more appropriately call it. "Come to my little house, said the spider to the fly," the widow might -have sung to -her poor victims! The house was fur- nished as such a house should be. A large uphol- sterer in Broadway was willing to furnish the house for poor Mrs. Earrington, provided Mrs. Colton, who was going to take the entire first floor, would go security. "She is very rich," said Mrs. Har- rington, " and dresses magnificently." This satis- fied Mr. Holt, and the house was furnished "in style." Boarders came to apply at once, attracted by the elegance of the house and the neat and-lady- like appearance of the landlady, who']could let them any rooms except the first floor, which was engaged by: a rich -widow lady for herself and daughter." Every room was soon taken, principally by gen- page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] -76 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED LANIDS.) - tlemen; for Mrs. Harrington had her orders to make her prices or requirements such as would pre- vent ladies from engaging the Rooms; they were too troublesome. Mrs. Colton called one evening upon Mrs. Harrington. "Who are your boarders?"said Mrs. Colton. Tcl Mr. Button- has second story front room, a quiet man who has a piano and flute, and a canary-bird, and a few flowers, all which furni- ture occupies - his leisure hours. He pays punctu- ally, and makes no complaints. The second story backroom is occupied by two noisy clerks, who have a great deal of company, and seldom are at home to dinner. I'll keep my eye on them. I charge them fifteen dollars a week, and the wine they drink \ makes it come to twenty-five or thirty. The fourth story front room I had to give to an old maid. She was willing to pay me any price for it, because she is rheumatic, and must be near her church. She pays me twelve dollars, and extra to the cham-' bermaid; that helps to pay her wages. The fourth story back room a widower has taken. He is plain- looking, but seems to have plenty of money. e is a broker in Wall street, and gives me very little trouble. He is a little melancholy now, but that will soon wear off. The end hall rooms are all let to rich young men. 'One is a Mr. Darby, who is in a bank and wears a diamond ring as big as a pea. Another is let to Mr Percival, who any one might SAM PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOW. " see was rich.' le dresses elegant! such a breast- pin! and such shirts! Oh, law! Mrs. Colton, those shirts never cost less than five dollars apiece." "Mr. Percival," repeated Mrs. Colton, "I think I've met him; is he handsome?" "Not to speak of, so fare as my eye goes; but what is beauty in a man, Mrs. Colton? The third story hall bedrooms are let to one gentleman; he has one fitted up as a reading and smoking room, the other is his bed- room. He has a great eye to comfort; you'd think so if you saw. all the little superb cigar ash-holders and writing materials, and the grand dressing-gown and smoking-cap he wears, and 'the writing-desk and dressing-box, and I can't tell what he hasn't thought of. But he is the stillest man I ever saw breathe. He has not noticed a soul of the boarders yet; and, between you and me, I guess he feels above them." "Your house is full, then, Mrs. :Iarrington? I can give up my rooms to-morrowr, and the following day I will come and take possession here." Mrs. Harrington knew her business well enough to know how to make remarks at table upon the ex- pected arrival, the wealth and beauty of the young heiress, who she hoped " would not break the hearts of the young gentlemen." Unfortunately for Mrs. Harrington's high hopes these gentlemen had long lived in a boarding-house, and were old birds who page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] t8 PORTRAITS OF MY 'ARRMEI) FRIENDS. could It be easily caught with chaff. At least so each one in his own wise head thought and believed. !Not a head was raised from their plates by her re- - marks. Gentlemein in boarding-houses are taught great deference towards their plates, and they usually regard them with a fixed and grateful atten- tion during their meals, which -is in most cases a melancholy necessity. At least it would be so re- garded by a looker-on; for more gravity is seldom seen at the best regulated funerals than is preserved around the tables of these fashionable houses. The remark, as I mentioned, caused no interest that could be seen; but the arrival was more fortunate. At the time when the gentlemen were sauntering about the parlor, waiting for the dinner-hour to j come, which a wit remarked "had long since passed," a carriage arrived at the door, from which the charming widow and her lovely daughter looked out,' all smiles, at the front door! for -there was no one to be seen to whom they could be smiling. Behind them followed an express-wagon, in which were several large trunks and four or five small ones, hat-boxes, and band-boxes, and dressing-boxes in leathern cases, and carpet-and leather travelling bags.; "Those look like something,' remarked the third story hall bedroom, to which the second story front SAM -PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 79 room replied, "I'll have use for my flowers if that pretty girl remains all winter." Mrs. Cotton with her daughter entered the parlor, as unconscious in her air and manner of the presence of a room full of gentlemen as such widows can be; and they seated themselves listlessly upon the sofa, awaiting the arrival of the maid to show them their apartments, which were in a few moments an- nounced in readiness. Mrs. Colton was very reserved, and her daughter still more-so, seldom coming to meals during the first week, during which time she made her obser- vations and chose her victim. It is painful, dear reader, to paint these blemishes; but, true to my profession, I must draw my portraits-with an artist's skill-to life. As may be supposed, the fourth story hall bed- rooms bore away the palm, and the watchful eye of Miss Craft discovered that in an incredibly short . time the widow and Mr. Percival were the best friends possible. They were often in the parlor,l amusing themselves over a game of chess with the patience and innocence of little children; and Ida, "(who was but a child," her mother said, was sent to boarding-school, because " the boarding-house was not sufficiently retired for one so artless as her dear Ida. Mr. Percival was a gentleman of leisure; at page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] s0 - PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. least-appeared to be so. Every one in the house had heard of the father of young Percival, who had died a few months before, and left an immense es- tate to this only son, whose grief, it was supposed, had driven him to this quiet house. All the rooms being engaged at the time he applied except the one he now occupied, he had decided- to take it and make himself as comfortable as possible. So much Mrs. Harrington knew, and so much the boarders knew, and no more. Mr. Percival, Miss Craft noticed, often went out in a beautiful barouche. No one accompanied him except the drivers who always called him "Master Sam;" and from this little circumstance Miss Craft drew the conclusion that it was the old, family car- riage, and that the driver was an old family ser- vant. A little girl of twelve or fourteen sometimes came and inquired for him, and he often sat in the parlor hours together with her, and gave her beau- tiful boxesof French candy. From this:Miss Craft argued that his niece came to see him, and was very fond of him, and that he must be a good man, or she, would not be so much attached to him. Miss Craft put on 'a new cap, and set it for [Mr. Percival, for which innocent weakness the widow never forgave her. The news soon spread, as such news will, that at No. 50 --- street, there lived a beautiful and SAM PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 81 very rich widow. Young and old, middle-aged, and gentlemen of " no particular age," came, and with little difficulty found access to the widow's smiles; but they sighed, and vowed to love as none had loved before in vain.-Their course of love which led through "Opera tickets," "balls," and "flowers," was soon ended, and the widow with the most provoking air told them " she could not, had not loved them." Mr. Percival had grown experienced in the art, and was for some time a quiet and amused observer of all these discarded veterans. He would wait; it was not safe or well to be impulsive-it might be worth his efforts. One day a carriage came to the door, and a servant in livery asked for Mdr. Harris, the broker in Wall street. Mr. Harris soon ap- peared, leading Mrs. Colton, all smiles, to the car- riage. After both had entered and were seated, she waved and then kissed her hand to Mr. Per- cival who sat in the window--and they drove away. "This was too much for poor Sam. "Il give my head," said he, aloud, "if the widower has not cut us out." "Your heart, you mean," said Miss Craft, who sat in the other window knitting a tidy. "Ah! are you there, Miss Craft? no, not my heart. I'd rather give, my head than- heart to a giddy woman.7" 4* . page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 PORTRAITS OF MY MA ED FRIENDS. "Oh now, Mr. Percival, how you do talk; you don't mean what you say, - know;' but I don't blame you for thinking Mrs. Colton a giddy woman, for I never saw such boldness before. If she was not rich she would have been invited to leave here long ago." - * ' I did not say Mrs. Colton was giddy." "Oh; now; oh, now, Mr. PercivaI! but no matter, you know I won't repeat it. You're the last one -that, I could say any thing against, for Il must say, I've always respected you, and hope Pve given you no reason to dislike me, though I am alone in the world, and have very few to Scare for me, or speak to me, or defend me (here Miss Craft put her handkerchief to her eye). "I'll defend you, Miss Craft," said Mr. Percival. "If you have reason, come to me." "Thank you," said Miss Craft, "you are not really in earnest. Come to you, did you say?" "Yes, come to me," said Mr. Percival, hardly knowing what he was saying, for the widow was bothering his brain; " come to me," he repeated, and at that moment the folding doors opened and in walked Mk s. Harrington: Miiss Craft had literally come to him, and Mrs. Harrington raised both hands! "WeH done!" said'the good lady, and withdrew. That evening Miss Craft privately toldMrs. Harring- j SAM PEROIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 83 ton that Mr. Percival had " the same as proposed," and they both remained up till past midnight talk- ing over " how things would turn out; what for- tune some people were born to; and they talked over all the world would say, when they saw Sam Percival lead XMiss Dorothy Craft to the altar!" Miss Craft could not sleep, and as she couldn't she sat tp in bed, and while crimping the borders of her night cap, which she took off to cool her brain,- she thought and thought again how she had man- aged. that affair so well, and how she would carry ,out her plans. The next day the widow took particular pains to remark at table upon the drive and the beauty of the country, and expressed her delight at having had the opportunity of so much pleasure. "She had never met more agreeable people than the family of Mr. Harris." "Ah!" thought Perciyal, " he has invited her out to introduce her to his family; I'll find out after dinner." The widow strolled into the parlor as usual, and seated herself in a bow window--to iwoite a fiend to joim her." Percival took the seat by her side. "It seems we are soon to lose you," said Percival. "Ah!" sighed the widow, and played with a little gold heart that dangled from her bracelet. "So report says," said Percival. \ page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED b;'lKNUS. "Who is the fortunate man?" continued the widow, "who is to be, my slave, for -my adorer must be all that," and she laughed, and tossed her head, and unclasped her bracelet by accident, which Percival fastened. "Who is the happy man?" again asked the widow. ' "That must depend on your choice," replied Percival. "The queen who has so many loving subjects must be independent in her will.'? "Am I free to make a choice . " said the widow, looking in Percival's face with a changed expres- sion of seriousness. "You are, I hope," replied Percival. ' Then I'm yours," answered the widow; and she would have fainted in his arms had she not re- membered that the dinner-table was still standing, and that the servants who were removing the china would be a miserably commonplace background to so affecting a scene as she tould have liked her second engagement should bed "You, you, a--r c milTwas all the aston- ished man was able to stammer out, so wild was he with surprise and joy. The widow--soon begged to be excused, lest the servants might suspect and report the story of the engagement. She hastened to her room, and met Mrs. Har- rington just at her door. SAM PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 85 "( Come in, come in," said Mrs. Colton, " it's all over." "Oh, I know n't I know it," said Mrs. Harrington, flinging the tumbler-towel in her hand across the room; " don't I know it; and I'm so mad I can't contain my anger; I came up to talk with. you about it." "How did you hefart, and why are you mad ." asked Mrs. Colton in suprise. "Why, didn't I guess something was going on, and I listened; and didn't I hear the fellow say, ' come to me,' and didn't I see her go." "' What do you mean? speak quickly," said Mrs. Colton. "Mean? I mean I saw Miss Craft sit close by Mr. Percival's side, when he said, ' Come to me.' It's all over with you, sure enough? 3 "No! no!" replied Mrs. Colton; " be calm and I'll tell you all about it." She then related how she had asked Mr. Harris to drive her out merely to hasten Mr. Percival's proposal; how she had suc- ceeded, and that he had just now proposed and had been accepted, and she meant to have a short en- gagement, or he'd find out how little she possessed beyond her own sweet charms; which were worth more than Miss Craft could boast of, at all events! "You'll place me beyond any fear of exposure," said Mrs. Harrington. page: 86[View Page 86] 86 YORTRAITS: OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. "Certainly; wait till we are three months ma ried, and then present your bill. I must sell E once this furniture and see what it will bring; tl rest of my debts I'll pay when I'm once his wif The sale will hasten our marriage, and this is a saf and important point to gain." The following week it was announced to Mr Harrington's astonished boarders, that they mum leave, for unexpected trouble would oblige her t give up the house. After much grumbling and discontent it we vacated, and all had gone except the wealthy youn Percival and his intended bride. Mrs. Harringto said that their wedding was to be so soon solen nized, they might stay a week or more. The trousseau of the widow was elegant and es pensive. She went to friends to whom she told th secret of her success, her '" decided hit '; and the loaned her money when she could not obtain exter at, , sive credit, and all was ready for the sacred oblig' tions which were. to be sworn to at the altar befor :':i the All-Seeing Eye that can read the hearts of th wise Sand the simple. Or, : page: Illustration-87[View Page Illustration-87] Mrs. Percival looked provokingly while she held up an empty purse-p, 87. SAM PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 87 CHAPTER II. IT is three months after the marriage. Let us call and see them. But like fairies we'll enter and steal into one corner and see their loving hearts. Ah! they have a splendid house. -The dinner is waiting. Why do they not partake of it? Mr. Percival is 'walking up and down the room, his hands just now behind him. Mrs. Percival is leaning back in a large Turkish chair, into which she sinks languidly, and looks provokingly at Mr. Percival, while she holds up an empty purse. '"My dear, I can't help it if I spend money. I've always done it; didn't I do it when you first met me? Had I any one to tell me I should not do it. "No," replied Mr. Percival angrily, "and I wish to goodness you hadn't any one now." "'Do you mean that, Mr. Percival?" said his wife. "Yes, I do mean it. You've been a perfect- enigma ever since I married you; I can't find out what you mean. You won't spend: your own money; you come to me for every thing.' I fur- nished this house, bought a carriage, and have kept it in style, expecting it would come out of your property; and no t not a sixpence will you give towards it.- And, what is worse, I've been dunned page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. in the streets, in court, every where, for your bills, for your wedding/outfit! I won't stand it, Mrs. Percival! I won't bear it any longer it is out- rageous penuriousness! Z ]Mrs. Percival rose, shook the empty purse in his face, and laughing, said, "WWhy, you simpleton! I had not a sous to my name when I married you. What did you suppose that I married you for, but to be taken care of." - "Is that true a." "True as I stand here, your wife." Mr. Percival raved awhile, and then stopped- beat his foot rapidly on the floor, atd gave a loud laughof irony. ,';Well, you're nicely taken in," said he in a tone of bitterness, " for there's not a poorer devil living than you see now before you as your will 'loving husband, who will stick to you till death." I It was now Mrs. Percival's turn to grow frantic and tear her hair, and fall back into hysterics. "It's no use, now we are one foir life; but if I don't make you sorry you ever duped me," said Sam. "You deceived me," said Mrs. Percival, in tears. "You gave out that you were rich. What else did you suppose I'd marry you for, you disa- greeable old bachelor?" "Inever did. Yoz courted me and proposed for me. I'd rather have been dead than had you SAM PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 89 only for your money, which you led me to suppose you had." "Oh, I suppose you'd rather marry old Dorothy Craft! Don't be uneasy, she is going to bring a suit against you, and I'll help her all I can, for I despise you now and never cared for you. Did you not tell me you were the son,of Mr. Percival who died so rich a ". "Never! Are there not more than one of the family of rSmiths'" "Oh, you deceitful wretch!" murmured Mrs. Percival, as she fell into a faint. Mr. Percival rang the bell violently. The alarmed maid entered, amazed at the agitation and excited manner of the newly married pair, who ,had till then kept up an appearance of devoted love. ' - "Take that woman to her room," said Percival, and when you have unclasped her diamond neck- lace and bracelet (they were his bridal present for which he still owed) bring them to me." This roused lkrs. Percival from her faint, and, like an offended Dido, she rose and raised her hand in a theatrical attitude and pointed her taper finger towards Mr, Percival, who had gone to the window and was looking out, envying the poorest man that passed before him. "If you dare to obey that man," said Mrs. Per- page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] 90 PORLTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. cival, "I'll dismiss you in an hour without a cent. Let me see the one who will lay finger upon my jewels. I'll go to ffiy room, and you may follow me, Mary, but not to please you, Sir." Mrs. Per- cival had crossed the hall to enter her room, which was opposite the parlor, when another servant an- nounced that :Mrs. Screw was waiting in,the recep- tion-room to see Mrs. Percival. "Say to her that I'm ill," said Mrs. P. In a few moments the man returned with word that "Mrs. Screw would not be put ofQf without at least seeing M1rs. Percival, and that from all she was saying in the servants' hall, it wauld be well, if he dared advise, to let her come u p." Mrs. Percival was angry enough to 'dare any thing, and just in the humor to take -a pleasure in adding to her distracted husband's -ill nature and disappointment. ( Send her in to, Mr. Percival," said Mrs. Percival. The Jewess stole up stairs with a stealthy step, and looked as if she felt too poor to make so free in so grand a house, and with all humility she curtsied at the parlor door, which John had opened for her. Mrs. P. listened to hear the result, which -she had every reason to believe would not be very agreeable to Mrs. Screw I :First there were high words, and curses upon the "pilfering Jewish knaves," and then a muttering sound in a woman's voice, and then high words again. A moment more, the door ? / SAM PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 91 flew open and Mr. Percival appeared behind Mrs. Screw, acting the part of a locomotive for her. 1Ee made her go faster out the-door than she came in, and closed it after her with a threat to John "that he would teach him the same way to walk if he let in any more such creatures." Mr. Percival took his hat and walked out to find relief in the open air. The astonished servants met to discuss the wonderful uproar and decide the cause, but Mary was sent to tell them " that -Master was a little out of his mind from wine he took before dinner, and, not being very well it had crazed him, as they all might see." Mr. Percival had scarcely walked a block before he met the widower Mr. Harris, who was on his way to make a call upon the bride and groom; and after tea, the former occupants of No. 3 and 4 were," he said, "to drop in, and pay their re- spects to, the handsome Mrs. Percival." "Thank you," said Mr.- Percival, "-could you r wait an hour or so. I just left Mrs. Percival a little ill." ' "Indeed! I'm prodigious sorrv; -'hope it's nothing serious " "Oh nothing, nothing more than I fear she'll suffer from all- her life, and yet it will not prove fatal." "Disease of the heart, suppose," said Mr. Harris, g page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] 92 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. raising his eyebrows to express both sympathy and fear-' Oh no, she'll never die from that," replied } Mr. P. "Thank God," said Mr. Harlis. "Well, Perci- vel,"' he continued, "you were a lucky dog, I came near winning the prize myself!" "Perhaps," said Mr. Percival, "you'd better come to-morrow evening and bring your friends with you, and let them see how happily we live. Mr. Harris bowed and passed on, and Mr. Percival walked to- / wards Madison Square, intending to go in and reflect while undisturbed upon what course he had best pursue. The shock had nearly made his heart ?^ :, stand still, and, seating himself upon a bench under :: H-- a large willow tree, he felt his pulse and thought it very' low for one so lately a happy groom. The willow waved its branches over his head, and he , could not help wishing it was over his grave. :-Poor Colton! happy man,!" said Percival aloud. A woman's parasol hit him as she passed; "Beg pardon," said Miss Craft; " why, who could have thought I'd meet you here, Mr. Percival! I never meant to see you again. My heart has been racked and torn -by the bitter disappointment your decep- tion cost me, but I hope to get redress, and you had better now compromise the matter while you can. Percival would have looked amazed 'had not SAM PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 93 Mrs. Percival given him a hint of what he might expect; but what grounds there were for supposing that he had ever broken the spinster's heart was more than he could possibly conjecture. He rose, and without saying a word in reply, with a quick and nervous step left the Park. "The villain," said Miss Craft, looking after him and raising her parasol high above her head to see him better,- "All the money I spent in ribbon and Lubin's best," thought Miss Craft, "all to no purpose. Well, there's a day of retribution coming when the hearts of lone, single, disappointed women will be gath- ered, and their sorrows shown to the astonished world; when their-" here Miss Craft drew out a 'handkerchief from her pocket which had gotcaught and took some time to extricate it from tangled ends of cotion, silk and tape, and the delay made : Miss Craft forget what she had intended it for; shea shook it out and returned it to its abiding-place,- arranged her collar which was-turned nearly around, and then walked on to her boarding-house, which was now mucl less aspiring than the " brown stone front' " / Mr. Percival returned home at a late hour at night, and found Mrs. P. still in her room, writing notes. With a smile and tone of irony she called out to him as she had done each time he returned before, page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] " aTRaITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. "Well, love, is that you? what news?" she added, still smiling., "I've met your old admirers, and they will spend to-morrow evening with us. Takp care you don't let your temper out before them. If the world gets hold of our discontent, we'll soon be placarded on everlyifence.", "You threw out that woman, Sam, without any mercy; I owe her near $1)000, and it is worth while to keep her good will and favor for a time." "$1,00O!" said Mr. Percival; "then you will owe it; I could not pay 1000 cents if I were to be hung for not doing it," and he added oaths to his words. "There's nothing gained by those low words, -am. You've been deceived and so have I,'and there is nothing but disgrace and ruin before us -- if unless we leave the city. A steamer leaves next - week. Suppose we go and start anew elsewhere. Let these poor dupes of ours -get back their money as b4est they/aca: It will serve them right, for rnany of -the iw my, credit would be good or bad according to the hit I made; and since ' I 'drew' a 'blank,' they and I must make the best of lhim/." The lady's suggestion struck Sam as a good one, ; and he made uphis mind to keep the peace and leave the city quietly. The next morning he and SAM PERGIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 95 Mrs. Percival appeared all smiles at the breakfast table, although they felt daggers' towards one an- -other! and the servants concluded that 'the wine had been too 'much for Master, and they'd say nothing about-it." The evening's entertainment for the expected friends was prepared, and a ,game supper laid out upon the table. ",Its is game, sure enough," thought Sam, as he stood before a large canvas- back duck. "I wish I was that duck," sighed Sam, but it was no use; he couldn't be the duck,'and he must appear to be the loving husband of " the beautiful, the rich widow Colton, who had seemed- so fasci- nating!" The house was expensively furnished and the cellar was well stored. All the young men- who % had known Sam, talked him over, and his suc-k cess had started a dozen more on-the same track.; "Of course there were still left as : many such fish as ever were caught, and why eouldrit they be as lucky as Sam Percival V" so said ared-aired youth as he stood before his little glass min:S attic in a boarding-house well known to most of our readers. "So I might," thought the pale youth 'while he tried on a red;neckcloth that did not suit, and then a pea green, and that would nibt do; a buff lay before him---"Ah the buff, that's it, buff neckcloth, page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] 96 PORTRAITS OF MARRIED FRIENDS. buff vest, buff pants and red hair, harmonized beau- tifully"' The young man fin'shed his toilette, added extra perfume to a white handkerchief with a buff border, and went down to show himself to; "'Miss Sall/," the pattern of kind ladies, and she pro- nounced him " charming." There was not much of Solon Saunders, and therefore it was easy satis- fying his self-love. "Miss: Sally's" opinion was sufficient.. Solon started out, hoping to fall in with a widow; " didn't see why he couldn't as well as Sam Percival." In another part of the city might -be seen a gentleman )of a large figure which showed the traces of age and good living. His hair was bushy- and coarse, and suited his dark sallow com- plexion very'well. He had on a new suit of black,' a dark blue satin neckcloth, and linen of the purest : - white, whose hundred little plaits were fastened with diamond studs. He wore an eye-glass sus- *pended by a black ribbon, and a large seal ring guarded by on which a diamond sparkled. In his' vest p wa ys kept an ivory memoran- dum o- whch he had a tiny gold pencil of dates andr days. "It-Was a pretty ^finish to his toilette and looked rich-!q -His cane was mounted by a head so like his 6wn that if you did not look closely you would not see that it was, an ass. He had given the last touch to his well-dyed moustache, and was issuing from his SAIM PERCIVAL -AND THE WIDOW. .9 room when he came in contact with a dirty basket, behind which, meekly stood a distressed and ragged woman who begged for her last month's money for his washing!" " He shook his head and hurried past her to the parlor, where a young friend was waiting for him. They were going to a friend's house, and expected to meet a widow such as Sam has wooed and won! 1- A dozen more like these were on the search for fortunes such as his, and if they met his fate, who can pity them? Not I. Not T ncle Ben, who has respected and followed to the letter the advice of Sam'Weller! But we have left poor Sam too I ng before that duck. Mrs. Percivalentered the parlor, dressed in a rich brocade, made, as Fashion dictates, to display the charms, and leave to public gaze more than even the shameless goddess Folly could think becoming. Around her throat was clasped the diamond neck- lace, and n her arm the bracelet w k had been the envy of her bridesmaids and :he!r-,nog friends, who secretly mourned that they haid ilnet with rich Mr. Percival before the widow saw him! In her hand she held a fan, the gift of one of her de- luded victims whom she held up toher large circle as one of her rejected; and on her fingers were 5 page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] 98 PORTRAITS OF *MY MARRIED FRIENDS. many of these tokens which she kept to,display as' trophies of triumphs won. 'She looked so handsome, even poor Sam could not but acknowledge that there had been some ex- cuse for his folly. "But take off the jewels and fine clothes and dress her in plain garments, remove the paint and powder," whispered Satan, "what have you left?" The evening was spent pleasantly enough by the "old friends," who could not keep their minds and hearts free from envy, every thing looked so comfortable. "Sam has feathered his nest," said Mr. Harris on their way home. "Yes, by Jove," replied Mr.- Tinkum, " such a bird is worth catch- ring.'- "Who'd have thought that Sam Percival could have taken the eye of such a woman," added Mr. tBrewster. "'Ie's as ugly a dog as a woman would care to look at, I'd suppose." "There's something about her manner of dressing," said Mr. Tinkum, "that makes ;me think Sam can't trust her judg- ment; I'd wager my life that I could flatter that woman's vanity in one hour if I made the attempt, ; for I never saw a woman who could dress indeli- cately who was not weak and to be pitied." Just as the conversation had gone so farinto the merits and demerits of the- Bride; a number of angry German men and women were hastening SAM PERCIVAL AND TE wiDOW. 99 past them, so excited in their manner that :r. Harris called out-- "Htallo! which way2 " But they took no notice of his question; some muttered and others talked in a loud and excited tone. It was evident they were intent on some desperate onset. They would have been stopped had not a policeman headed their band, and he was endeavoring to check their angry threats. "Can't you be patient a you'll have justice done you just as soon, and sooner, if you act like orderly, decent men," said officer Bragg. "No, I can't be patient," said a sullen Dutch- man. "Didn't he beat and abuse my wife, and push her down, and then kick her off the steps? How can you tell me to be patient? Do you think I'd see the man live that would do that? And he owes me $1000. I'll drain every drop in his veins before I'll lose that." "Come, come," said officer Bragg, "such talk as that will soon lock you up. Don't you know threatening a man's life would get a suspicion hold of you pretty quick, and as to your-- $1000 you'll stand no chance to get it unless you are quiet and give up your threats." "I would have the money any how," said a half a dozen. "Mercy, don't mind the wife," said a ' } " " :- * page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] 100 PORTBAITS OF MY MABRIED FRIENDS. woman, "if you can get your money by keeping quiet.") They ran on talking in so loud a tone that every passer-by was attracted by their angry voices, and many paused to listen, while others joined them, boys and ragged women% who happened to be lurk- , ing about the streets at that late hour, and half-clad, barefooted little girls, who hung around the lamp- posts, all fell in, and swelled the crowd that were hurrying to the house of the envied groom! Har- ris -and his friend stood still till they heard the 7 sound die away in the distance, and then walked on. .Some riqtous Germans taken at a dance," said Harris; and then they talked of this and. that 'odd chance for gain until they reached their homes. Sam and his fair one were still in the parlor, ,planning how best they could get off without a noise. "They would close the house or leaveit with the servants," Mrs. P. remarked. "It would be considered their bridal trip; and by the time the world began to wonder why they did not re- turn, they could be far away out of danger.5" "But that d-d Jew," said Sam. "We might escape the .Devil, but not her." Scarcely were the words spoken when the sound of voices and the tread of many feet were at the door, and a ring, and knocks upon the parlor blinds,:,showed them that a mob was, near if not close? -l SAM PEECrVA,; AND THE WIDOW. i 101 "'What can it mean!" hurriedly exclaimed Mrs. Percival, turning pale with fright. "For Heaven's sake don't faint, I may require your aid," said Sam, his hair standing on end with fear. , "Let us -in!" said a dozen voices; another ring--"John hasten to the door," said Sam. The door was opened, and officer Bragg ,entered -with Mrs. Screw upon his arm. The mob crowded into the parlor door. At once the mystery was over. "Oh, Mrs. Screw," said Mrs. Percival, assuming an indifferent air, and going forward to meet her. "I'an sorry you've come at this late hour; my hus- band did not know you yesterday. I'm sorry you were so badly treated, but pray don't mind it." The crowd stood gaping at the handsome lady, and were so taken up with the dress and jewelry about her that they for a moment forgot their anger. "My bill must' now be paid, or"- "Oh here," said Mrs. Percival, at once perceiv- ing her danger, and unclasping her rich necklace, ,' here is your security till I see you again." I'll have the bracelet too," growled her hus- band, perceiving they were diamonds of value. She hesitated, but the mutter in the crowd decided her, and she gave the bracelet. Mrs. Screw; thanked her obsequiously, and hoped she'd done , a-,she meant none." page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 1p02 PORTAIfTS O9 MY MARRIED FRIENDS. The rabble dispersed, and the alarmed inmates : went to their rooms, not to quiet sleep; for from master to servant strange fekrs disturbed their minds. Mr. Percival was very angry for the loss 'of the diamonds, but it could not be helped. Bitter disputes followed between the married pair, and assurances of detestation were repeated. Preparations were made as quietly as possible for their European tour, and the day arrived for their departure. The noble vessel th't was to bear the precious freight was lying in theTy, and the busy sailors running to and fro in haste. The time was near at hand when the signal "All ashore," would part weeping friends. Mr. and Mrs. Percival had retired to the cabin, and were watching the coming and going of the ladies and gentlemen who were to be their compan- ions on the way, and from whom they expected all their comfort. A man, dressed in a gray suit, well worn, touched Percival's shoulder, and asked him to step aside. He did so, and his countenance soon showed that he was in trouble. Their trunks were put on shore, and ]ir. and Mrs. P. were soon in a carriage on'their way back to their house. The wrangling all the way home it would do us no good to hear, and we will leave them till they reach:the door. It is unnecessary to say a credito ered an ar- , . , SAM PERCIVAL AND THE WIDOW. 103 rest; and this was followed by so many others that with all their sins, one could hardly help pitying the unutterable, never-ending misery which they had brought upon themselves. They reached home to make a new lie to the pervants for their return, which before many hours was doubted, for strange things occurred during that and the coming week. The house and all its contents save the "happy pair" were sold, but they were left to live on together, in broils and strife, such as some suffer here in this world below. -Can we throw in a ray of light to brighten this dark picture? No, not one. Let us in mercy draw a veil over the Portraits, and only Sift it when re- -quired to do so as a warning to the' young, and to those who would dare to trifle with their heart's af- fections for the love of wealth. UNCLE BEN. page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] l PORTRAIT NO. IV. JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. CHAPTER I. SuSAN HOLLY was the prettiest girl in the village of A----; every color of the rainbow took kindly to her beauty and set it off to advantage, and, strange to say, her companions never thought of envying her. She was the favorite of every one, and all alike shared her smiles and good-will. The children of the village loved her because she let them take tea in' the garden when they visited her; and because every morning as they passed the cot- tage she had a pleasant word for them, and now and then gave them a bunch of sweet pinks and roses. lThe aged loved her for her considerate def- erence towards them; and Jerome Daly loved her for more reasons than we can telL Jerome was a mason. He was the oldest of a large family who were much respected. It had been with difficulty 5# -A page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] 106 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. that he had served his time, and at odd moments , earned a shilling or- more 0to "help on."' Jeerome had loved Susan from childhood; had often carried her milk-pail across the fields, and had seen her safely home of a dark night, and then turned skip- ping and jumping away from the door, scarcely pausing .an instant, from pure delight, at having been so fortunate, and then, how he thought of her, and dreamed of her, and worlied for her, and won- dered if hle would ever live in a cottage, and have her for a wife, and come home- and find her glad to see him; and see every thing 'shining bright, just as it was now in. Widow :Holly's cottage!. , These dreams gave him heart, and he worked on the hap- piest of the happy, until a shadow crossed his path of love. Susan's beauty had attracted the attention of the only son of a big merchant in the village, and he took every opportunity, to show her his prefer- ence. The widow soon heard the news which gos- sip spread of the Wright prospects which the poor girl had offered to 'her, and no one doubted the ready acceptance of the young merchant's proposal. But Susan grew thoughtful and seldom left home, except when obliged to do so. H Her mother watched her child with a mother's-tender love, and left to herself:the choice for life, a choice too sacred to trifle with, or barter for hope of gold or gain. JEROME AND -SUSAN-DALY . . 107 Susan loved Jerome, and him only, but he named not his love to her till Hal, the -merchant, had been denied. Then with fear he approached the village beauty and she smiled upon him. The little village was dressed in its Sunday garb, and rich and poor assembled in the parish church to see the happy marriage. Jerome took homle his bride, and welcomed her beneath his father'sroof, wher e met a more than hearty greeting, then softly whispered to her grateful ear, " that the widow would be lonely, and they would not remain away from her long." How kinds! how thoughtful! even in his wild and& happy joy to forget himself. She answered with: "G od bless you, Jerome, for 'the thought; it was more than I had expected." But it was not more than the fond mother had expected. She had prepared a little feast, toxwhich' many added a kind token, and the widow gave her blessing to the young-and happy pair. We must pause, and draw # veil over the, pic- ture. Again we see them. Time has slightly touched their forms and faces, and around them is. a group of healthy children. God bless their rosy cheeks and',happy,:hearts! Jerome is not less gay but more self-possessed, and Susan's beauty has not lost one charm; look at page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 108 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. that jaunty little cap! What fortune could pur. chase the content and peace that are here 2 A group of children? Yes, a group all theirs, and " not one too many;" so says the fond mother, to which Jerome adds, " not one, nor half enough;" and then, to draw him out, she answers, "But, Je- rome, where are the food and fuel to be found -for such a'host?" "Susy, it's not for me to say? ; Who ever thought thiat we, could tell where the means cane from that filled our store? Have we not often noticed how with each new-comer I was blessed with gain, with full and plenty, and your broad' shoulders, too, strengthened to bear the care?" "Yes, Jerome, I like to hear you say so. What think you of the offer our good neighbor has made us to take Philip (their eldest son) to the city 8 " "I do not like to decide too soon, Susy. I don't know my own heart well enough; I wouldn't like to lose a good chance to my boy, but I must be sure it is a good one. It seems fine to think of him in a nice grand store, and perhaps by-and-by he Knight be a great man--and he might take care of you if I was taken away, and he might not, and it's be- cause he night not, that I'd like to consider on it a little, and:ask OUr FATHER to direct us, and you do so too, Susan, and, why, after that I'll do whatever you and I thinkr best." JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 109 Susan remained silent some time. It was natural she should be ambitious, and her son was -so good, so handsome, so like a gentleman's son, that no wonder Mr. Hal -Henderson (her old beau) should take a fancy to him, and like to help him on in the world. When Jerome saw that she did not reply, he took her hand, and kindly drawing her to the other side of the room, motioned her to sit down on a little bench by hi& -side, and speak to him while the children were enjoying a merry game of blind man's buff." . "I never have, and, help me GOD, I never will ",hide a corner of my heart from you, Susy, and if it is ever too dark for you to see I'd better not enter -it myself, for are we not one, and let us not sepa- rate until death parts us. Now I will tell you, duckling," (he always had a habit of saying " duck- ling," when he was very sorry) "I hav'n't an objec- tion on earth that's good for any thing, except that Hal was once a lover of yours. and I can't bear to be raised in the world by a ladder of his making. Now, there it is, and out with it, and now do what you like," "Jerome" she replied, "was it such a -sin to have loved me? What care you so long as I never cared for him? - Wasn't your empty hand of more value to me than his full purse? But, Jerome, let us think well of it, and -ask God to direct .us, and' page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] "O PORTRAITS OFMY MA RRIED FIENDS. then we'll do whatever we think right. But while you live never again think of, Mr. Henderson but as a friend, or the devil will make a weaponof it against our peace and happiness." "Never," said Jerome, " and now promise me that you won't think me foolish and unkind, and good for nothing. I do not know how I ever got you; such a rough, clownish, poor savage of a look- ing fellow, while the dandy Hal made his bow." "Well you did," .said Susy, " and now try as hard to ikeep me as you did to get me, and we will jog on the happiest couple in the world, come what will." "You are right, Susy; when were you wrong? and I'll always come to you next to the priest for advice." The children were uproarious in their fun, and the cottage rang with laughter from happy and light young hearts, while the summer winds blew around the windows and doors, as if trying to join the chorus of the cheer within. Susan and Jerome arose from their seats and approached the blinded gipsy, who caught them and called out "here you are,:now IlL keep you," snatching off the bandage, and insisting that " mother should be blinded next.". Jerome and Susan joined with all their hearts, and the little .ones laughed until they could laugh no more, and then they were obliged to give up and /]'.. JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 1 prepare -for rest. Before-saying "good night," all knelt together, and Jerome thanked God for his mercies, and asked for his protection. Think you the palace could be found where so much content and happiness reposed, as dwelt in that humble cottage that night? or think you sleep comes to' the lids of mere worldlings . s No, fair one; your downy pillows and luxurious couches are surrounded by heavy silken hangings, that shut out the pure breath of heaven and its dews. Think you that angels linger around your bed to guard you in your sleep, when avarice or ambition had your last thoughts-when not one aspiration had ascended from'your lips to the throne of Mercy, from whence all blessings come .a Mr. Henderson had removed to New York and had become a rich merchant, and finding it difficult to procure good and trustworthy clerks, he remem- bered Philip Daly, and having the greatest re- spect for Susan and Jerome, he made them the of- fer to take Philip, and if' satisfactory to all parties,' he might remain until he was capable of starting for, himself in the world. It was not impossible that he would be taken in as partner at a future day. After careful deliberation, the good parents de- cided to let Philip go as, soon as his clothes could be put in good order. He lihad now reached his page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "2 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIEND. eighteenth year. His sister Mary, two years younger, worked industriously to expedite the de- parture, while the younger sisters did their share with good-will; and Joseph, the youngest of the little flock, packed up his little toys as a keepsake for " dear Phip " - To say that Philip left home without regret would not do him justice. 'Tis true his youthful imagination had pictured- such wild- dreams of happiness and fortune, as none but Al- ladin's lamp could bring, and yet brighlt as they were they could not outshine the comforts of that blessed home, and his stout heart swelled with emo- tion when he thought of leaving it-perhaps for ever! Oh no, he never thought that could be; he was too young. Hope still steered his little bark that was just starting from the shore, and he- dwelt upon the time when he could return Again. He was so like his mother, her large dark eyes and his were just the same, and his pleasant countenance and bearing were but her second self. The day arrived (such -days will come in spite of us), and the son bid adieu to home, and left the cottage with a grief that only can be known to lov- ing natures such as theirs. ; He had received his parents' blessing and ad- vice, and promised to wear. them next his heart. His mother watdhed him in the doorway until he was out of sight, and then she closed the door, and JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 113 with her children around her fell upon her knees and prayed that her dear child might ever walk in virtue's ways, and seek to serve that God alone whom from his infancy she had taught him to love and worship. Jerome tried to cheer the little'flock, but it was useless, and he gave them their way for a few days. The sun soon shone again, and letters came from Philip filled with the wonders of the town, which in part made up for the loss they felt so much. He was received into Mr. Henderson's family and treated with great kindness. His attentive and obliging disposition soon won for him the esteem and, good-will of his employers, and Philip felt as happy as he could feel while separated from his loved home, which though very, very humble when compared to the elegant mansion of the city merchant, was. still dearer to his heart than any other spot on earth could be. Its shady walks and pleasant quiet streams and climbing vines possessed a beauty, in his eyes, that art could not equal, and with which no glitter of wealth could compare; and the honest, simple, loving, truthful hearts of his family seemed far above the superficial heartlessness that pervaded the crowded city. He often wished that Mfary could have an op- portunity of cultivating her mind more than she could do at home, although his mother, who had a page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] RTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. good common education, encouraged her to read' and study, and a neighbor had offered her the loan of books from her well-stored library, which Mary had accepted. Mary was like her father, plain- looking, but her sweet and amiable disposition had made her friends fancy that she was handsome. She was the light of the house, and the comfort of her mother's heart. The younger children were instructed by her after their domestic duties had been performed in the morning. It would delight any one to enter the cottage at any hour of the day; the garden walks had been swept clean while the dew was upon the grass, and while the fresh air im- parted its rosy.hue to their cheeks, which bloomed with health; then the breakfast was taken, so neatly spread; the' snow-white cloth, and polished ware, laden with fiesh brown bread and milk, and fruit just from the garden, might tempt a king; the windows, opened wide to catch the first rays of the morning sun, were partly shaded by sweet-scented vines and honeysuckle, whose perfume filled the air some distance round; on their slender branches the sweetest birds came daily and sang their mrorn- ing carol to the cottagers, who often paused during their simple meal to listen and comment upon the sweet sounds., Jerome was usually prepared for his daily work when seated at breakfast, and his good wife, all smiles, close by his side; her cleanest cap and kerchief, with a little flower or bow upon her breast, was always put on before coming to breakfast-for Susan had still a coquettish pride to appear well in Jerome's eyes-the breakfasttaken, each to her allotted work- went cheerfully and without delay, and simple though that home was it looked like a little paradise. a Mary assembled the younger children in her room, and taught them simple lessons, both by books and words, while Susan sewed, or visited the poor, or sick, or dying. At evening they again met for sports and play, or read aloud some inter- esting tale, often interrupted by visits which were always welcome, for Jerome thought ,no angels came unawares where strangers were shut out. Philip's departure had caused the first shadow to fall upon their hearth, but it was a shadow of the morn- ing sun. His letters came less frequently of late, but that was accounted for by him; his occupations grew more varied and important, and afforded him less time for writing home. In his 1tst letter he spoke of a new acquaintance he had formed, and to whom he was very much attached. He was a fine dashing fellow, and just the one he knew his parents would like. He again urged Mary to go to school, if it could be done, and offered to lay by a portion of his salary to help to pay the expense. page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] WTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. This was very kind, and Jerome and Susan made every Eertion to accomplish the desired object. Jerome had paid for the cottage and the little grounds around it that sloped to the water's side, whose banks were shaded. The hill-side from the cottage to the water was covered with large elms and cedar-trees. This grove completely concealed the house from view when one stood upon the bank, and in summer afforded a delightful and cool retreat. Mary often retired here after the duties of the day were over, to read, and sometimes lingered longer than was prudent. Every tree and bush was dear to her, and spoke of her earliest days; the chestnut trees were valued friends-how many a merry play had she enjoyed with her young companions under their pleasant branches, while gathering the nuts for winter's store !-how often had she sat for hours and thrown the pebbles down the hill to hear them dip into the smooth water below, starting sticks and leaves, and sometimes stones, on their downward course, to the same descent! How many a little stone thrown thoughtlessly in an idle hour has done the same! But Mary had not learned to phi- losophize; her life was simple as her heart, and her thoughts only rested on the beautiful in nature. The only shadows she had known were shadows cast upon a beautiful landscape by an intervening cloud, that only veiled the sun's rays. A heart more pure and trusting it would be difficult to find. Her home was to her a paradise, and the world an Eden of delight. She saw the sun and earth, the moon and stars, just as they had come fresh from the hand of God, for she had been taught that they had been made for man by a loving father, and had learned to love them because IE made them. Her education was simple, and consisted more in a cul- tivation of the heart than the head, and gave her a gentle and engaging countenance that would fasci- nate at first sight, without exactly knowing why. The summer had passed, and the cold Decem- ber winds whistled through the branchef the old elms and chestnut-trees, and the little garden was piled mountain-high with drifted snow. The chil- dren had built a snow-house in the grove, and sta- tioned a guard at the door of colossal size made of the same cold material; his enormous nose and eyes had terrified little Joe, for the eyes were made of pumpkin scraped thin, behind which was placed a lighted/ candle well sheltered by the shell, which made the old man in the night most terrific. These sports gave health and vigor to the little ones, and were remembered after their locks were gray, and shed their bright light a long way down, down, down the vista of life. Christmas was coming, and with it Philip was to return home to spend the holy, happy season. Christmas What treasures page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] STRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. of joy, of happiness, of fun and frolic, are locked in that word, to be poured out with abundance upon all "men of good will," so often as the season returns, to commemorate the rising of the little star that led to the crib of Bethlehem. The house was decorated with evergreens, and tle snow-white curtains contrasted well with their rich dark green. The best room had been fitted up for Philip, partly in a spirit of merriment, to show how the city gentleman should be treated, and partly from the pleasure it gave Susan and Mary to do it. Jerome walked out to meet Philip a mile from the cottage, where the road turned off from the main one, which led to the village, and wound to the little "nest" so sweetly sheltered by the trees. As Philip approached the house his heart bounded with joy, and not till then had he realized how dear that spot had been to him. The trees, though bare and laden with snow, were dear to him; the very stones on the road made his heart glad, and he talked on with his father in an excited tone, interrupting his sentences at every step with a salutation to this or that newly-met friend in nature. Tray, his faithful dog, leaped and jumped, and rolled in the snow before them with delight, and then ran on, shaking his shaggy mane; then Philip paused to scuffle with him and toss him in the snow. They reached the door; it needed no "open sesame " to unbar its bolts, for it was opened wide, like magic, and Philip was in -his mother's arms. What moments are like these? That mother's overflowing heart and the children's unbounded joy we could not attempt to describe, nor could we hope to paint young Philip's happiness. Till then he had not known what sacrifices he had made. Once more the little band united, the good father knelt with his children, and thanked God for the meeting and for all his mercies. \ Philip was made to stand in the circle, and wheeled round and round to see the cut and fit of his fine suit, and all agreed that he had grown at least half a head; and then they noticed his hair so neatly parted! Little Joe was caught pulling out a fine handkerchief from his outside pocket, and with it came a paper of candies, which fell and scattered its contents over the floor. This released iPhilip from the inquisitorial gaze, and after di- tributing the candy among the happy faces around him he sat down, his mother nearest to him, and told them all the wonders of his first year of city life; how lonely he had felt in the crowded streets; how hard and cold the faces looked that passed him to and fro, and what dark, dismal streets those were where men f business met, with only a nar- row strip of sky above them; how he hurried home page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 120 PORTRAI S OF- MY MARRIED FRIENDS. at night and shut his door, and tried to live on what he had enjoyed in the free pure air of home, and spent his evenings studying and reading to make himself more like the young men with whom he associated daily; how kind Mr. and Mrs. lHen- derson were to him-what a fine mansion they had bought, and yet how little they seemed to know of happiness in it, for when not opened for company all the house was dark and unoccupied, except their private room. All listened with an, eager ear, and Philip re- lated how he had received this and that token of :" approbation from his fellow-clerks, for staying after -hours, or delivering notes- and packages for them when desired, and these had given him means to come home "so fine," as Mary said. His small trunk was opened, aid presents to all-not one for- gotten-were distributed. 'Tis true, they, were of little value except as gifts from Philip, but as such -they were real treasures. Philip could see a'great improvement in Mary, and said, in half-joke, half earnest: . "Why, Molly, you are prettier than I thought you when I left home; those city belles cannot compare with my blooming sister." -Mary blushed and laughed, and told him "not toflatter her, or she might take up the notion, too." Every part of the cottage was gone over, as if he JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 121 had been absent years, and not a corner but seemed the abode of perfect happiness to Philip. "They may talk as they please," said Philip, "but I tell you these city people are in gilded prisons, and they don't know it. Whly this is para- dise to one of them. Already I feel like another being.'" The following day Philip told .i31s mother that 7 he had invited his friend, of whom he had written, to come out and spend a day or two, fter Christmas with them, and he hoped it would be agreeable. "I have so often visited his family in the city," said Philip, " and was received like a son. I have told Albert that my family were poor, but I have an idea that he has concealed this fact from his mother and sisters. He has a sister who is vcry proud, and perhaps he feared she would not liE -me so well if I was poor; but, mother, lam bound to be rioc," said the enthusiastic boy. This startled poor Susan. "IMy son, neverdesire great riches; they are too dangerous for us, poor weak mortals. Let me entreat you to avoid this desire. Ln bor to be inde- pendent, and to lay by a support for old age; but, as you value your soul, seek nof to be rich." Mary joined them at this moment. "My friend;" con- tinued Philip, "is one of the finest fellows in the page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 .PORTRAITS E6 MY ARRTRD YRmENDS. world; he is so generous and good-so kind in his manner, and, to me, he's like a brother." ; "Who is he . " asked Mary. "Albert Allston," said Philip; "and if you were only old enough, Molly, I'd say you might make him my brother yet; but he told me, or led me to think, or some one told me, that he is en- gaged to a city belle, so my good sister need not 'Iet her cap."' He related many things which cer- tainly were calculated to excite both an interest and curiosity to, see the young friend. "He will be here to-morrow or the day following, probably not until the day after Christmas. He knows that Christmas is a day when we would like to be with- out the restraint a stranger would give." Jerome claimed a little time from Philip alone, and they withdrew to the little parlor on the oppo- site side of the hall--that little parlor, the personi- fication of peace and' comfort--but we will not V pause to examine it now, for we have come in to talk a little in private, and will defer until another time a particular notice of its furniture, etc. Both sat down on a sofa covered with chintz, which was drawn near a bright hickory-wood fire that was crackling on the hearth, aid would have encouraged the most reserved to open their hearts freely, so genial was- its heat. Night was stealing upon them unawares, so rapidly had time flown by, and JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 123 the fire cast a broad shining light upon the ceiling, that gave a softened hue to every thing around them. "You are pleased with your situation," said Jerome, "and think you can do well in it, I hope?." "Very much," said Philip; " there is but one objection to it that I can see, and that is the tempt- ation'to dishonesty which it offers to young men if not well guarded." "That, my son, is everywhere, in every call- ing, in every walk of life, and must be shunned as you would shun an evil spirit. I do not fear for you, my boy; but what Hfear most is the love of gain, for pride and show, which is vainer than to build a house of sand or straw. I never saw one built that was not a delusion to the builder, while the passers-by would see and laugh. at the folly. Now, what I would impress on you is, to begin with a good hard rough material that will stand against the rain and wind, and then with honest weld-made mortar cement the stones one- by one till you have a work no man need blush to own." Philip spoke bf his new acquaintances, and how often he was invited to join in amusements and pleasures, which he had declined because he could not ask them in return; and/ here again he got ad- vice, which we need not intrude upon, and which page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] 124 PORTRAITS OF MY WMRmD 'mi s EN. might have been prolonged had not Susan entered to call them to their "Christmas Eve,' which was a tea laid out with what seemed to them fairy dain- ties; but which to some of my readers might seem very trifling luxuries. "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith," thought Philip; but he- did not say it, for that would have let out the little secret in his heart of how plain every thing on the table looked since he had been accus- tomed to the rich china and silver at Mr. Hender- - sons table; but, then, their table was' not -half so liberal., The china' and silver, though not meant to be eaten, had to, be looked at as though they Were. Christmas came, and with it such heartfelt) happy cheer-such happiness-such thankful ac- knowledgments to Heaven-such pure joy in the children's hearts-such presents from St. Nicholasg (which could not have delighted the eyes of city children, but which called- forth from Susan's flock wild shouts of joy). It came, and, like all joy on earth, it departed. - The following day, while the older members of the family were gathered in the little parlor, and the children were decorating the snow-giant's head with sticks of colored candy, Albert Allston arrived, and before going in introduced himself to the chil- JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 125 dren outside, and added so much to their enjoy- ment and merriment by the improvements he made in the giant's grotesque appearance that he forgot how much of a stranger he was to all the family except Philip. He inquired the names of each of the children, and snow-balled this one, and tossed another into a snow-bank, put a third on top of the snow-house, and got wel show ered himself from them in return, until his Spirits rose to a height unaccountable to himself. Who has not felt the exhilarating effects of snow? Shaking off a part of the loose snow from his hat, head, and shoulders, he knocked at the'door, half out of breath with excitement, and made his debut like an old friend of the family. No one answering the knock, he entered, and passed through to the little parlor door, from whence he heard voices and laughter, and knocked again. The door was opened, and Albert introduced himself with-a hearty laugh at the surprise which all ex- pressed on their countenances, and said he had not enjoyed so much fimn as he had had with the chil- dren in the garden since he was a boy, and assured Mrs. Daly that she knew how to make home happy; he had often heard it from Philip, but he hoped now to see it himself. / Philip went through with introductions to his father, mother, Mary, and Kitty, the second daugh- page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 126 POPRTRAITS OF MO Y MARRIED FRIENDS. ter, ai young girl of about twelve years of age, timid in the extreme, but very pretty and engaging. And then followed questions from Philip of all that had occurred in New York since he left, and the answers as anxiously listened to as if he had been gone a month, or more. "I suppose," said Albert to Mary, "this young man pretends to you all that he is very steady and business-like;- don't believe him, we have not a wilder goat in the firm. I never saw any one take so naturally to city sports as he did, though he used sometimes check his wildness when he thought of mother or sister Mary." Philip laughed and -blushed as if really guilty, and poor Kitty looked terrified. "Don't mind him, Kitty," said Philip, "he does not mean half he says." "Except when he flatters brother Philip," re- plied Albert. "Has he told you how home-sick 'he was when he firstswent to the city?-but, upon my honor, I can't blame him now," said Albert, glancing around the little parlor. "I tried to. con- sole him, but, finding it was useless, I changed my tactics, and ridiculed the idea of a man (you know we are, all men' in the city) showing a feeling ot that kind; and I believe ridicule accomplished what reason could not; and since then Philip and I have been fast friends." JEOME AND SUSAN DALY. 127 Mary felt inclined to join in the conversation, but a reserve before unknown to her seemed to de- prive her of all power to speak. Perhaps it was the appearance of the handsome gentleman, so far superior in manner and education to any of her associates, or the desire to be very agreeable to one who had been so kind to Philip. Whatever was the cause, Mary sat silent and embarrassed, and this embarrassment deprived her of half her charms. Philip noticed this, and felt anxious that his sis- ter should make a favorable impression upon his friend, to whom he had often praised Mary until Albert had created in his own mind a being of an- gelic mould. And so was Mary, but one must know her well to see it. The next day was passed by Philip and Albert in walking over the neighboring country, though in many places almost impassable from the snow- drifts; but this difficulty only added a little adven- ture to their rambles, and they returned home with good appetites for the well-prepared meals, at which Susan and Mary presided with a grace and ease far beyond their sphere in life, and which might have given a lesson to many a city lady. Why? Because their hearts were cultivated. This Albert noticed. That evening he drew Mary out in conversation, and was surprised to find her much more conversant with general literature than page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] 128 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. he had supposed. From a child, she had shown great taste for readipg, and the neighbor's library, -of which we have spoken before, had been of more advantage to her than she had supposed herself. Fond of poetry, she had almost by heart the choicest selections from many English poets, and even some translations from the German were ap- preciated by herl Never having had before an opportunity to cdnverse with a person who could unlock and draw to light her little store of knowl- edge, she was not aware herself how much she had gathered. It was a new delightto her, and, she grew quite animated, and satisfied even Philip's hopes. Susan and Jerome listened with pride and wonder at all their Mary knew. Albert re ained at the cottage longer than he had intended, and, as was very natural, found each day more pleasure in Mary's society. He left them with a feeling of pleasure that he had formed the acquaintance of a family so much to be respected for virtues andi habits of life which till then he had never seen except portrayed in, books. The day had come for Philip to leave home again, and tears and regrets at the shortness of the holidays succeeded the bright days of Christmas week., But with grateful hearts the good people looked back upon the past, and with confidence to the future- ( JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 129 Mary continued her reading, but with the in- ereased interest with which the pleasure of the sym- pathy of an educated mind had inspired her, and the enthusiasm of which can only be understood by one so long isolated as Mary had been. In spite of her efforts to the contrary, she found herself con- stantly in spirit presenting the beauties of this or that poet to Albert, and one day, reading the beau- tiful lines, "Oh, thou child of many prayers, Life hath quick-sands, life hath snares, looked up unconsciously to ask an explanation from him, and blushed at her own sadness on finding herself alone. oCHAPTER II. TuMh s grew dull in the village of A , and Jerome found his business much less profitable the follow- ing year than it had ever been before; but he was patient and hopeful, and knew that there must be times which were not so promising; and he and Susan were cheerful and contented. But one thing gave him a little uneasiness. Philip had not written very often of late, and when he wrote, his letters were short and hurried.- Je- rome hoped that Susanf had not noticed it, while 6* , page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 130 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. she at the same sitimconcealed her anxiety, and tried to drive even from her/own heart its fearful suggestions. It was well she did not know the dreadful dangers that lie hidden in city life, and are the more fearful because concealed. Spring came and passed, and summer came, and with it brought its beauties as before; but the cot- tage wore not its usual happy .dress. The vines were more luxuriant from time, and almost covered the little '"Nest,"5 as if to shelter it from -winds and rains, and the little birds sang their songs, but failed to cheer the inmates as perfectly as they had done before. Jerome and Susan were often seen in anxious conversation, and Mary, suspicious that some ill was near at hand, avoided/asking the cause; but the storm had been some time gathering, and heavy clouds hung over them which might break at any moment. It was decided best to tell her all. Mary was called one evening into the little parlor where Jerome and Susan were after the children had re- tired, and they related to her how Philip had been led on by bad advisers to engage in some stock ven- tures far beyond, his means to meet, with -a hope that before a payment (except a small sum paid down) Wbould be required, he could sell. out and re- alize a handsome profit. He had lost and gained, and-lost again in these attempts, until he was ruined, . . JEROME AND SUSA DALY. :131 and for a longtime dared not communicate the dreadful state of things to his father. It had preyed upon his young heart until he was wasted, and at times borne down to the depths of despair. Then his companions came and showed him chances of gaining all in one night's gambling, if he would give up his childish notions only fit for women, and join hem. They laughed and jeered, and called him silly and deserving to suffer while he acted such a baby part. But Philip stood firm. His mother came to him in tears at night in his dreams and stood by his bedside like an angel of light, and he awoke sobbing and resolved anew to listen only to what his conscience, told him. He could not write home because his letters would disclose his state of mind, and he could not go home until he had paid the heavy debt, and how could this be done? As well might he expect to move the sun or stop its onward course, as procure with honesty the necessary means; and this one thought preyed upon him night and day until he was a shadow. Mr. Henderson remarked the change, and feared that causes he could not bear to speak of were doing their dreadful work, and yet there seemed no ap- pearance of intemperance about Philip. Mr. Hen- derson put off from day to day, from mere want of time, any investigation into the matter. He might perhaps have saved him. Poor Philip was page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] 132 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. harassed, dogged, and abused by the vendor of the sham stock until the very light of day was painful to him, and death would have been a sweet mes- senger to his weary soul. His companions finding him in trouble and unwilling to take their advice, only met him to ridicule " his pious turn of mind " and leave him to his folly. But there was one ex- ception--Albert Allston gave him hope and en- couragement to'"write to his father. "His judg- ment and good sense," he said, " might suggest. a remedy, and if no more it would be a comfort to him to know that they who could sympathize knew the worst." But then his mother -and Ma-ry, how could they bear the blow? . It was a struggle, too, of pride. He had hoped to dso much for them, par- ticularly for Mary. But the advice was good and he would write. "He wrote," said Jerome, almost overcome with the recital, " and I have given you the contents of the letter I received a few weeks since; your mother and I have prayed and talked, and prayed again, Mary, and we see but one course left which in the sight of GoD is right, and being so, my child, we can do it with good will." Here Jerome paused, and Mary, pale and almost breath- less, awaited the result. "It will be hard for you, Mary, but your mother and I have brought our minds to do what is right and just to savo our darling boy from sin and dis- *i , , f , JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 133 grace." He paused again and wiped the large drops from his forehead, and then taking her hand as if to give her strength he continued, "Mary, we- must give up this little home; your mother and the children will take the farm-house near the brook. I will -go to New York, where I can get profitable employment, and you, Mary, must seek a place as nursery governess, where we know you can make yourself contented until we can meet again." Mary, stricken at the thought of separation, threw herself into- her father's arms, drew her mother nearer with a convulsive grasp, as if fearful they would be snatched away at once. "Oh, father, mother," was all her heart could utter. Jerome and Susan knew that the struggle would be great, but they did not know how closely their hearts and their children's were bound. They did not know how entirely they were one, and how it would rend their natures to separate. Yet theiy could bear it, and more too for duty. "My dar- ling Mary," said Susan, " let us not speak more of this to-night. Go to your room, my child,.and seek that support which God alone can give you, and let us all try to do our part cheerfully." Susan accom- panied Mary to her room, and after closing the door she clasped her to-her heart, and from the depth of her soul, with the fervor which a first grief brings, prayed- aloud to Heaven to shield her page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] 134 PORTRAITS OF iy MARRIED RIE NDS. child, and give them both strength to bear the trial with a Christian spirit. Morning came, and Mary awoke with the op- pression she had sometimes felt in dreadful dreams, but till now had never known in waking hours. She tried to sigh, but her breath was short, and her heart seemed more contracted by every effort she made to overcome her feelings. The sun shone through the leaves that shaded the windows, and shadows danced upon the floor and ceiling as they had done before, but how- changed did that sun- light seem to her tow. It came to her with a dis- colored hue, and the figures seemed a mockery. She wondered at herself. Was she or they so changed i Oh, it'is I," she exclaimed, as she hur- ried from her room to the oobded hill-side, where she went every morning at sunrise; "it is I, for how fresh and sweet this heavenly breeze is to me, how beautiful this morning sun upon the dewy grass,--and you, sweet birds, how kindly you sing to me; but you do not know my grief, you do not know that I cannot come long to hear you, and that the cottage will be filled with strange voices; you do not know this and you can sing on." -Zany other words arising from the outpourings of her pure and simple heart she addressed to the woods and streams, all of which'she had loved tenderly from her childhood. ' JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 135 Jerome had not replied to Philip's letter, except. to say in a few words how pained and anxious they were, and to warn him against any temptation to act any other than arnhonorable part. He did not wish to add to his pain -by telling him the decision which he and his mother had come to, of selling the old homestead to extricate him from his diffi- culties, nor did he allude to Mary's part or his own determination to go to the city. A few days before the good people were to leave the loved home of their early days of happiness and peace, Jerome and Susan sat at the window of the little parlor that looked out upon the pleasant road that for a mile wound in and out to the main road, through woods and fields and little shady glens, where mimic falls formed by tiny moun- tain streams came gurgling and foaming down the little precipices, with music as sweet and sweeter to the ear than the majestic cataract's roar. They spoke much and wisely, and each gave the other new strength to bear this trial, which, as Su- san said, "had-come from Heaven to warn them not to make idols here below of aught that seemed peace on earth, for danger lurked in every path." "We have loved this little 'nest' too well,' said Jerome, "and now we'll give it up; bunt, oh God, save my son from sin and shame," he ex- page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] 136 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. claimed, clasping his hands in earnest entreaty to Heaven. *-do not fear either," said the fond mother. "Philip's weakness has been love of wealth; may God forgive him, and grant that this trial, which seems to have been a heavy one, mif atone for any sin he may have committed. Let us, be cheerful, Jerome; I can bear a great deal if I know that you are cheerful. I'll take the children, they need not know why; it is not well to lay too heavy burdens upon young hearts; I'll take them to the old farm- house near the brook, and be as happy as a lark, thinking we can draw my darling boy from this dreadful. pit. You must work with a stout heart, and our sweet Mary"-here the poor mother paused; a something in that word, " sweet Mary," choked her utterance, and showed how hard it had been to keep up before Jerome the appearance of cheerful resignation. He did not speak, nor ask the cause; the unfinished sentence was understood, and the parents sat silently gazing out upon the beautiful and quiet-scene before them. + Mary had wandered out an hour before, and was seated in one of the little shady glens of which we have spoken. Just there the sky was al- most shut out by the thick leaves that covered the trees which grew close by the road-side, and en- twined their branches overhead. A little stream /- '*,- " \ , JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 137 murmured its song of praise as it passed over its pebbly bed and then was lost under a rustic bridge, -whose stones were covered with a rich green moss. Thed banks of this little stream were shaded too, and modest flowers sprang up on every side, Mary, scarcely conscious of why or how she came to this quiet little nook, seated herself upon a broken tree which had been struck by the lightning, and had fallen to the ground. She saw its gigantic trunk shattered to the root, while the smaller oaks and saplings still waved their branches in the air un- harmed. Bu Mary, though poetic, had not yet learned to compare life's lessons with- nature's, and her 'only thought was regret that so grand an old oak should have fallen; but even this was a pass- ing shadow in her mind, for -poor Mary had other thoughtsswhich the quiet of this lonely spot soothed. She listened to she rustling of the leaves and heard the light tread of the little forest warblers, some scarcely fledged, and her thoughts rose and dwelt on heavenly things until a whisper from above seemed to comfort her troubled heart with the words: "Are not two sparrows sold for afarthing, and yet not onefalleth to the ground rwithout your Father." She fell-upon her knees and raised her hands to Heaven. * How long Mary would have remained with-- these sweet and holy cpmmunings we cannot tell, page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] )RTRAITS OF MY MARIED FRIENDS. had not Albert Allston surprised her in her soli- tude. He had come from the city to see his friend Philip's father on special and painful business, and was now on his way to the house. He was startled seeing Mary on the wayside, and had paused some time in admiration of the young girl's innocent and interesting countenance. He had watched her ex- pression, and seen the workings of her heart, and saw the tears steal slowly down her face one by one; then her expression- changed, and a smile came while her eyes were filled with tears, and he saw her fall upon her knees. Though Albert was hot what the world calls a religious man, he was like all men in one respect-he liked religion in wo: man. This attitude took Albert's heart by storm. He had admired Mary before; indeed she had never left his thoughts since his first visit, but now he loved her, and his heart beat quickly with the newly acknowledged passion. He gave a little sig- nal of his approach, and then kept in the back- ground until Mary rose and seated herself upon the fallen tree. Advancing towards her with great respect he took her hand in salutations and inquired for her own' and the health of the family, to which Mary modestly replied, and expressed by her coun- tenance both surprise and pleasure at this unex- pected visit. JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 139 "Is my brother with you, Mr. -Allston?" said Mary, anxiously. "Will you not call me Albert, Mary? I am Philip's friend," he added, seeing her hesitate to reply. She answered him with a blush, and again in- quired, "Is Philip with you?" "No, I am alone. It is longer than I meant it should have been since I saw you, but we are not masters of our time in that workaday whirl of life in which we city people live. This little spot is heavenly, Mary; I could live in such a place for ever. It seems to me I could be wiser, better here." Albert seated himself near Mary, and continued: "I'd like to have my life as placid as that little brook, and noiselessly wend my way through shady groves like these." Mary looked up and simply replied, You would not be content." "No, not alone, Mary. I'd want you by my side." Mary rose, and remarked, "It is growing late; I ought not to have remained here so long; let us go to the house." "Mary," said Albert, "'I know it may seem to you that we are strangers, but to me you seem a long known friend. Your brother has so often lived over again with me every act of your life, that I cannot believe I have not seen your mind page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] RTRAITS :OF MYMRRIED FRIENDS. and heart in its daily growth, and if I treat you like a sister and speak more freely than you think I ought, will you forgive me and not respect me less?" , "I could not but respect my brother Philip's friend," said Mary, "of whom I've heard so much that's kind and good; but times have changed with us; we are not what we were when you first knew, us." "No change can come, Mary, that"can make me less a friend to you and yours." The young man looked so true and handsome, and he had come while she needed most a friend, what wonder if her heart responded to the sweet assurances he had given her of friendship. They talked on as friends and lovers talk until they reached the cottage door, but Mary thought it was only friendship for her brother that made him kind to her, and in this mistake gave greater power to Love, who was fast entangling the poor victim in his net. Jerome and Susan from the window saw them approaching, and hastened to the door to receive them. The glow upon Mary's:cheek did not escape the watchful mother's eye, but Jerome only noticed Albert, and with an anxiously inquir- ing expression asked first for his (Albert's) health and welfare, and then for Philip, and why he liad, not come. , JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. .141 Albert and Jerome entered the parlor, and af- ter a few moments' general conversation Jerome asked Albeit to walk out with him while tea was preparing. Albert as delicately as was possible then told the painful mission upon which he had come. Philip, he said, had been absent several days from the store, and it had greatly alarmed his friends. Search and inquiry had been made in ev- ery direction for him, and at last a letter had been found in a locked drawer in his room addressed to his father and mother, which Mr. Henderson would not allow out of his possession until he could give it to Jerome himsel. Business preventing Mr. Henderson from lea ng the city, Albert Allston had) offered to go to A and break the sad news to the parents, and request Jerome to go at once to New York. "My God!" was all Jerome replied to this new affliction, which made the others seem light in comparison. He reflected, and consulted with Al- bert, and both decided that it would be'better not to tell poor Susan of Philip's absence until the' let- ter was read, which might be of a nature to sothe her grief. It was difficult for Jerome to conceal the thoughts that occupied and weighed down his spirits, but he made a great effort, and succeeded. page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] RTRAITS ;OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. "I think, my dear Susan," said he at the tea- table, "I think I'll go to-morrow to New York. I do not wish to shorten Mr. Allstoh's visit, but since Philip allowed him to come up alone, perhaps it will be as well for me to go and let him know that I am going to sell this place to pay his debts."- "It will relieve the poor fellow's mind," replied Susan. "I am sorry we did not do so before." "Yes, I'm sorry too," said Jerome, "but it is too late to regret it. ,God grant it was for the best." , Albert looked up towards Mary when Jerome said the place was to be sold, and saw tears fast gathering in her eyes; but she wiped them away quickly, and began to talk pleasantly to Albert of other things, while Susan and Jerome were set- tling the arrangements for the coming journey. She told him of ,new studies she had entered upon, new books she had read since last they met, and astonished him by the improvement she had made, and by the great development of her mind duiing the past year'; and when he complimented her upon her conceptions of this or that book, she with the greatest naivete replied, that she might thank himfor interest in many works of which she could not' otherwise have heard. He promised, if she would permit it, to send her some new publications in prose and poetry, and some works on art, of JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. "3 which as yet she wag quite ignorant. But Mary, with some confusion in her manner, declined the kind offer, knowing that she must soon go to the city. But this confusion was mistaken by Albert for'a growing interest in himself that made her de- cline his gifts, and it flattered and pleased him. The next dy Jerome and Albert departed for the city, and the good wife awaited with anxiety the return which would bring tidings of her son. As troubles increased, strength came to bear them; for they were not like those who ask no aid from abov. Jerome arrived in Neo Yorkfand hastened to Mr. Henderson's house, here/he was received kindly, but not as he or Susa eould have received a sorrowing parent. The leter wVas given and read, and Jerome letting it drop upon the floor, clasped his hands to-his forehead,. and exclained in a softened tone, Thank God he has not yielded to temptation. May God bless him for it." "He is safe, I hope," said Mr. Henderson. "He is, I trust," answered Jerome, "but you will not ask me further if you please. I am very sorry that he should have proved so unworthy of your kindness. But I hope his youth and inexpe- rience will be something in his favor in your judg- ment upon him." "Oh yes, poor fellow," said Mr. Henderson; page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] "4 PORTAITS OF' MY MARRIEDj FRIENDS. -" he unfortunately found associates among the sons of wealthy citizens who, as a-general rule, I'm sorry to say, are profligate and worthless. He was hand- some, and in his disposition social and good-hearted, and just the one to suit their ends. They persuaded him that it was folly nowadays to make fortunes by toil and honest labor, when a little harmless speculation could achieve in one day what their fathers had taken years to accomplish." CHAPTER III. ONr a rainy, disagreeable afternoon in November, when the air at times was chilly and the sky dark and cold-looking, Jerome and Mary alighted from a carriage in front of an imposing mansion of brown stone, in one of the fashionable avenues of New York. A small travelling trunk was taken from the driver's box, and left upon the steps of the front door, and Mary, who had with a timid hand turned the bell as ,she would have done a door-knob, stood patiently waiting to be let in. No answer being made she turned it again, and waited with the same patience for fifteen minutes longer-no answer still. "Do not delay, dear father," said Mary; "Th / o JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 1:45 make my way, and I know you are in a hurry; good-bye, sir, don't think of me, I'll try not to be homesick. When will Philip come to she me a" "Good-bye, and God bless you, my child,;' said Jerome, not answering the last question, but huir- rying away lest she would repeat it. He left Mary standing on the door-step, where she remained until a postman came up and rang the bell.- Mary at once perceived the mistake she had made in her attempts to turn the bell. A colored servant man opened the door and looked-alittle surprised, seeing Mary and her trunk on the steps, and no appear- ance of carriage or means of conveyance there. '"Is this- Miss Daly, the nursery governess that Missis has been expecting a week past?" said John. "Yes," said Mary," and entered the large mar- ble hall, which was hung with paintings, and had an imposing air to the young country girl. John showed her the way to the nursery, and lost no time in seeing the trunk deposited in the small bed- room adjoining. When Mary looked around upon the uncomfort- able room allotted to her, her heart sank within her; its dreariness was not calculated to give her much aid in overcoming that first homesickness, the poignancy of which must be remembered by every one who has experienced it. Several unruly, noisy children were playing in page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] ITRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. the nursery, which they had strewn with toys and bits of cloth and cut paper. At her entrance they all stopped and stared at her, and after satisfying their curiosity Charley, about six years old, turned two or three somersets on the floor, byway of at- tracting Mary's attention. It was evident that the children owed any train- ing they had to the Irish nurse who had charge of them, and who could make but little impression even in her, own rude untaught way, because the moment she attempted any correction, however slight, the screams of the children were frightful. Mary went into the little room adjoining the nursery, which Magy, the nurse, told her was to be " all her own, and hoped it would please her, but she must get used to the noise of the children as soon as she could, for she'd have enough of it till they were sound asleep at night." Mary thanked her, and went in to change her dress and make herself presentable to the lady of the house, whom, as she supposed, she would see at tea (innocent girl!). She sat down and for a few moments she, could not move or speak, so strange did every thing seem to herlbewildered brain, which 'till the last few months had been so clear and light. Her room was a front one, and looked out upon the avenue, but it was so high Uip that passers-by were not recognized. The rain pattered against the win- dows, and the moisture inside ran down on the win- dow panes and added to the gloom; the window shutters had got loose, and were blowing back and forth, and joined the chorus of dull sounds that rose from, the street below, which to Mary's ear seemed strange enough. The curtains at the win- dow were soiled and torn, and the carpet old and worn. Mary saw it all. But she must rouse her- self! it would not do! had not her dear mother warned her against depression? And had she not promised her good father to keep up? These thoughts brought poor Mary back to the conscious- ness that she was not alone and unloved; and the tears that came to her relief, and flowed fast, made her feel better after a little time. Maggy put her head into the door to see. "if Miss Daly was dead or alive." "Sure, Miss, thank God it's living you are. You kept so still I was afeerd of my life to open the door. But there's a good creature, don't be cry- ing, and isn't it myself that knows how to feel for ye's?" said Maggy, wiping-her eyes; ( for isn't it myself cried day and night for a month after land- ding, but it's no use, they are but a drop in the ocean to wha you'll have rason to cry for, Miss. So, there's a darlint, don't make yourself sick or the missus wont kape you at all." Mary felt indlined to smile through her tears at " / . * y page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] "8 PORTRArs ITOF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. this, to her, new kind of companion; but she thanked Maggy for her sympathy,; and politely asked her to leave her till she could change her wet clothes. "Give me your word, Missi that when you un- 'lock that trunk -you won't cry again and I'll go," said Maggy.' M- ary waved her hand for her to leave, and as ter the door was closed opened- her trunk and took out a brown silk dress and plain muslin collar, to- gether with a change of clothing, the sight of which brought back other days too vividly to enable poor Mary to keep her promise with Maggy. Then in the sleeve of the night-dress which she laid upon her pillow she found a scrap of paper, upon which her sister Kitty had written "Dear sister Mo11y, think of me!"This was too much for her good resolutions. She kissed the sweet words again and again, 'and then laid them under her pillow. She took out her dressing-box, (Susan had taught her children habits of refinement far above their po- sition in life,)'she took out the box and after ar- ranging her hair neatly but beautifully, she locked it and put it on the soiled and greased toilet table under the glass. Her toilet made, she went to the nursery, where she found Tizzie, the housekeeper, talking to Mag- gy, who introduced "Miss Daly-" as soon as Mary JEROME AND SUSAN DA LY. 149 came out, and seemed to take a pride in Mary's re- spectable appearance. "Mrs, Smith would like to see you," said Liz- zie, "if you'll come with me I'll show. you her room." Mary followed silently. Mrs. Smith's room was large and elegantly furnished. The lady lay upon a blue satin couch, dressed in a fine white wrapper covered with exquisite French embroidery, and wore one of the prettiest of Paris caps for a negli- ge; her maid was taking out her dress for the eve- ning from a rosewood wardrobe, and continued preparations for her mistress's toilet, while Mrs. Smith questioned Mary in the most heartless -man. ner. "Ever taken charge of the education of chil- dren?" said Mrs. Smith. "' No, madam, not in town," - replied Mary tim- idly. - "Are you patient and healthy " " I hope I may say-I am." "are your parents living ' - ' "Yes, madam, thank God, they are." "Sorry for that," said Mrs. Smith; ;' that is, I'd rather employ an orphan. Young girls who. have parents are always thinking of home. I don't want any discontented looks in my nursery." -Mary's heart sank low enough, but she bore # page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] 150 PORTRAfTS aOF 'M MABRIED: BIB)S. these and many other interrogations better than she could have done had she anticipated them. It was all- so new to her that she was bewildered. "Any acquaintances in the city?" continued Mrs. Smith. "A -father and a /brother;" here- Mary paused an instant; " and a friend'; she added.- "A friend?" repeated Mrs. Smith. "Ah, I see how it is; that means a lover I suppose .a Worse than the parents; don't want any beaux around. Miss Daly, any notions of that sort would soon put you in bad odor here; I can't see what people like you that must earn your bread have to do with love; better think of a rainy day." Here Mrs. Smith paused a moment, and deignWed to look up at Mary. Till now she had been pulling off the feath- ers from a beautiful fan which she held in her hand, scarcely-knowing -what to do to pass the tedious time -till dinner. A glance at Mary's sweet face and lady-like figure was enough to convince Mrs. Smith that her position in her family was far infe- rior to her deserts, but this gave the good lady very little trouble; she had nothing to do with that. "The children," she continued, " are troublesome, and I wish therefore that you shall keep them six hours in school. Maggy will dress and take them to walk, after which I expect you will keep study hours till eight o'clock, when they can go to bed."' \. JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 151 -Mary bowed assent, and in a low tone of voice replied that she would endeavor to follow out her wishes, and hoped to give satisfaction." "Perhaps it is as well for me to mention now," said Mrs. Smith, " that I do not expect you to see any company here." "You would not object, I suppose, to my father or brother calling occasionally?" "Don't want any friends at all; never found any good come of it. Once a month you can go out a day. If these terms don't please you, Miss Daly, why you had better say so now." Poor Mary knew they did not suit her. But what to do, she did not know. It was all new to her, and she could not tell that any thing better could be found. Her brother's release from the heavy debts he had incurred was all she cared for now. These thoughts passed in rapid'succession through her mind as she stood before the selfish woman, and she answered, I'll try to please you, Mrs. Smith." Mrs. Smith waved her hand towards the door, and Mary went to her room intending on the mor- row to begin her lessons to the children. Passing through the nursery the two little girls, Ida and Sylvia, clung to her skirt. "Will you let me go into your room with you?" said Sylvia. page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] 152 PORTRAITS OF M MARRIED'FRIEENDS. "And' I too," said little Ida. Mary had not learned to refuse children any reasonable request, and she said," Yes, comne," tak- ing each by the hand. This act of kindness was more than the poor children were accustomed to experience, and they both looked up in Mary's face, smiled, and then looked at each other, and Ida said, " 1'll love you, may I X" Mary caught her up and kissed her, and told her how much she loved good children. This word of comfort,: '"t1 love you," went direct to Mary's heart, and gave her a ray of hope for better times. She told the children on entering the room that i:: they must sit quietly on their chairs while she ar- ranged her clothes. Taking out her dresses and hanging them in the' dirty stained wardrobe, and putting many little things in the drawers of an old bureau, amused the children very much. They asked ail kinds of questions, reasonable and unrea- sonable, until even Mary's patience was almost ex- hausted. Maggy knocked at the door and told Mary that her: tea was ready, and she would con- duct her to the dining-room, " where for a few min- utes she'd have pace and aise of mind from the children." , "They are very good little girls," :said Mary, en- couragipgly patting Ida's cheek. Maggy led Mary through the back hall and by XJEROME AND SUSAN ALY. 153 the back stairs to the dining-room. - The table was laid for one person, and John stood ready to answer any commands. But Mary had none. She took her tea scarcely looking up, and it was with diffi- culty she eat the scanty meal before her, so full was her heart with the loneliness of her new posi- tion. In spite of all efforts to the contrary the big tears rolled down and dropped upon her lap. Her own pleasant,-social cottage home would rise before her. Her dear mother's pleasant face at the head of the table, and her father's kind and hearty smile of approbation upon all they said and did, would come, and the last tea at home came too, and who could blame poor Mary's tears a John looked on and felt for her trouble, and tried to comfort her by offering all that- was on the table two or three times over, and proposing to get many things, which were not-in his-power :to get, should she say "I yBs." The dining-room was large and gaudily pa' ted; ;cornucopias of -fruit were poured out upon marble, tables, and game hung in profusion upon, the walls. The bbuffet shone -with heavy glass and silver, but the outward sign of things was a lie to the meagre reality of the house- hold comfort. After the children were in bed Maggy stole into Mary's room, but finding her upon her knees, wait- ed until she rose, and then began a confidential his- 7* page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 154 r PORTRAITS OF MY R -mED FBRENDS. tory of all the family of Smiths so far as her " know- ledge of them went, and sure that same was more than was good for her. She hoped Miss Daly would better herself as soon as convenient, for sure it was no place for a genteel young lady the likes of her." Mary replied Ithat neither she nor her mother were aware of the position which a nursery governess held in a family, but seeing Mrs. Smith's advertiser- ment in the paper in which she said " a nursery gov- erness will find a good homn," she lad answered it * ( A good home," repea d Maggy, " it's a poor crature that hasn't a better; :these grand people here, so far as my larning of them goes, makes them- selves as uncomfortable as it is well for the poorest sinner to be, and sure the Devil's laughing at them for it, for it isn't their purgatory they're suffering af- ter all; but that isn't here or there to me." Draw- ing out a soiled letter from her bosom, Maggy handed it to Miss Daly with the most respectful air, saying, "perhaps, Miss, you wouldn't be offend- ed if I showed you a letter that 1 have carried these three days waiting for some one to read it for me. It wasn't the likes of myself I'd ask the favor of, and Miss Lizzie has no more heart than the hardest stone, and it isn't to her I'd go either, but I know you wouldn't object to show me the contents, for it's a tear soul that sent it to me, and one my mother { -JEROM! AND SUSAN ALY. 155 (God be merciful to her) respicted and trated con- siderately." Mary took the letter and broke thb seal, while Maggy came close to her and knelt by her side, with her mouth wide open in breathless anxiety to hear what Mike had sent her. Mary began, after first spending a few minutes in deciphering the il- legible hand:- "DEAR MAGGY, MY DARLINT,-I take my pin -to show you the feelings which have agitated my lov- ing and torn heart, hoping that this may find you enjoying the same, thanks be to God, and that 'we who've loved and lived so 16ng, may never say or do whats wrong.' Your cousin Peter and his- fam- ily have gone to the fair, and Biddy sent her red cow to be sold. It was the last living member of the family." (He means. said Maggy, the last of the cows that was left Biddy by a priest, a first Cousin of her father's.) "The cow, poor crature, acted like a rasonable being when they dhrove her from the door, and it would have drawn tears from a tythe-proctor to hear the screams of the childhers. But Maggy, 'Our country must suffer, or we must rise, Unless we want the world's despise.' "Magg, my heart is- sore enough since you page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] 156 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. , i left us, and sure it isn't 'yourself that is happier for it; 'But your love for me must never end, My more than true and loving friend.' C( Your loving lover till death, ,A M'TFR BRADY." Maggy wiped her eyes, and Mary found it hard to control her countenance, though she really sym- pathized with the poor girl. It was all new to Mary, and she hardly knew what to say to poor Maggy. Kindly as possible she advised her to retire, which Maggy did, after the promise from Mary that she would answer the letter for her as soon as she could find a little time to do so without interfering with her duties. Mary's slumbers that night were far from tran quil, anld many a stifledsob might have been heard in her sleep. But there was in all this sorrow. a peace the world cannot give, for Mary felt much lighter ;of- heart after she had left the burden of the day at the feet of Him who has said, "Come to me all ye who are heavy laden and I will refresh you." Before Mary had been a week in the family she learned that Mrs. Smith was a lady of fashion, and had no idea of confining herself to the drudgery of , r,;- JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 157 taking any responsibility about her children; that her servants were not expected to have any ideas of comfort, rest, or recreation of any kind; Mary was to take the children sometimes to the parks in com- pany with the nurse, and, why, if she was above her business, the sooner she left the better. '"Where could I go?" thought Mary. "Fifteen dollars a month is an object to me now; perhaps when Philip calls to see me he will advise me." She knew she felt most unhappy and out of place, and had no hu- man being to speak to of her loneliness; but her father, perhaps, would soon call. Another week passed, and still she was alone. It was strange that Philip did not come. She had made friends with Lizzie, the Scotch housekeeper, who brought her books from the library, and when Mrs. Smith was abse had allowed her to go to the book-cases and choose for herself. ' This was a great treat for Mary, and she began to try to forget her discomforts and take advantage of the opportunity the library af- forded.' The children grew fond of Mary, though still very troublesome, and both Mr. and Mrs. Smith could not but notice the good effects of the sweet arid amiable influence which Mary exercised over them. Little Ida clung to Mary for all her com- fort, and had already nestled herself into a corner of the good girl's heart, and helped to soothe- her anxious spirit. \ , page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 158 PORTRAITS OF MY, MARRIED FRIENDS. Every-sound startled her, so nervously anxious had she become to hear from her father -or Philipj for not even a line from home had she, received to account for what they were doing. Letters had been written both by Susan and Kitty, but they had been left by Mr. Smith in his room with other: letters, and no one had taken the trouble to give them to Mary. - One day John came to the nursery and told Mary a man was waiting in the hall to see her. Mary's first thought was where can I take him? Where dare I ask him to sit a It must be my father or Philip. With a flushed face she flew down stairs, and in a moment was in her father's arms. After the first words of loving salutation were past, Jerome told Mary that he had not been well since his arrival in town; that he had failed to make a profitable engagement, and would leave the city the- following day; that he would like to see her alone awhile; perhaps she could go with him to his boarding-house; if not convenient, why he could write to her from home, and, after all, perhaps it would be better to do so, since he had little to say that could give her much comfort,-but what be most desired was to know how she liked her new home? "I Home,father!" said Mary, with a deep sigh. "Oh, father, this is not like home." * .AI+ JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 159 "Well, my child, I suppose not. The good lady will forgive you for thinking so, I'm sure; but after a little time, my- dear"-here John interrupted them. "Miss Daly," said John, " may I speak to you a moment?" Mary withdrew a little. "Miss, it isn't well to stay too long in the hall -( talking. Missus will be down in a moment; her carriage is waiting at the door, and she won't like to see you here." Mary turned to her father with a heart too full to allow her to speak at once. Taking his hand she pressed it to her heart a moment, and then whispered softly, 1 "Father, you had better go. I'll come by-and- bye." . Just then Mrs. Smith passed Mary dressed in a queenly style. She tossed her head with an indig- nant glance at Jerome, and said in a loud, impe- rious tone to John, "How do you dare to allow a common man like that to stand in my hall? If he did not know his place it was your duty to teach him better." The lady entered her carriage and drove away for pleasure! while Mary and Jerome were unable to speak for several minutes. Indig- nation rose high in Mary's breast, and she could have said much; but Jerome pressed her hand, and looking in the face of his darling child 4he smiled * --"-*' . page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] 160 PORTR IATS OF MY ARRIED IFRIENDS. and said with a superhuman calmness, ( My child, let us not be cast down." It was a great struggle to Jerome to stifle the feelings of natural pride that rose to his heart and crimsoned his face, but in a moment he was restored by that consciousness of his true merit which self- respect gives to a man who is elevated by a prac- tice of that holy religion which was taught by one "acquainted with grief." The blood receded from his face and left him pale and trembling. Seeing that Mary was weeping he tried to comfort her, and in a scarcey -audible tone he whispered in a trem- bling voice which could not hide his own emotion, ,My child, are wet better than our Saviour?" After a pause Mary replied with much spirit in her tone:-- , "I could bear any thing but seeing you insulted, father. Let me go home with you, father. You look so ill I cannot bear to see you go away alone. I'l go up and put on my bonnet and cloak and , walk with you to your house; pray let me, father." Jerome seated himself in a large iron chair which stood in the hall, and-awaited Mary's com- ing with impatience, for the servants who passed and repassed eyed him, with a suspicious 'gaze, which was not agreeable to one of Jerome's high- toned spirit. "These are the trials of poverty," thought Jerome; " but poverty with all its ills I'd rA ^ * . " , . JEROME n SUSAn DLY. 161 rather bear than wound one tender hteart as my poor Mary's has been wounded by that proud lady. God forgive her, God forgive her." Mary's delay was making Jerome impatient, but she appeared after a half hour's absence, and to his surprise un- prepared to accompany him. "Father," said Mary, "I cannot go. Little Ida fell upon the fendei, and is I fear seriously hurt. I must watch with her carefully until Mrs. Smith's return. I've sent for their family physician, and must not leave her side again till he comes. Good- bye, dear father. Can't I see you again .A" "No, my child, I leave to-morrow for home. Do your duty to the poor little creature; may God restore her and save her poor mother the pang of parting with her. Do your duty, my dear, and as soon as it ispossible I'll find a change for you. It may be soon; I trust it may, but keepl up a little longer and all will be well with us. God bless you,. Mary." / Jerome left the inhospitable roof where he had been thought unworthy to stand, and from which he would have been thrust had not the proud in- mate hastened to her carriage. But the God of Heaven looked down upon the two, and which, think you, stood in his sight prepared with the wed- ding garment for his feast? He left the house with D heavy heart, but no bitterness lurked i, his breast. A s page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] 162' PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. His dear child's mortifications were sorely felt, but why complain, he thought, when they can earn for her a crown in heaven. Mary returned" hastily to the nursery. The / child had struck her head and the wound was still bleeding. Maggy held her on her lap, and was bewailing '"the poor darlint's misfortune, and the scolding the mistress would give her, who was as innocent of the fall as the babe'unborn." The physician soon came, and seeing the noise, confusion, and discomfort of the nursery, he advised taking Ida to Mrs. Smith's room. She would not allow any one to hold her except Mary, who alone was able to pacify her while the doctor sewed up the wound and bound up her head, Maggy mean- time adding greatly to the poor child's fright by her wild exclamations and wails. When Mrs. Smith returned she was very much shocked to see her dear little Ida in her room, so pale and feeble-looking, and'it was with difficulty that Mary was able to make her listen till she could understand how it had occurred, and how attentive the doctor had been. She was so frantic in her manner, and so hysterical, that poor little Ida was alarmed. and thought her mother was blaming her for the accident. ; The poor little creature lay across Mary's lap and turned her large blue eyes towards -her, supplicating a defence. Mary stooped over * . ' .' A. ^h ( JEROME AD SUSAN DAL'. 16 her and kissed her, and said encouragingly, "Little Ida will soon be welD and then she'll read the story of the little fir-tree again." "She listened to it last night," continued Mary, " until I was tired of repeating it, and she felt so sorry for the poor tree when it was banished." Mary looked so amiable, so kind and felt so deeply for Mrs. Smith, that even her proud heart was moved; and after the sad accident had been talked over again and again she said in a careless tone, "Who was with you in the hall, Miss Daly?" "' My father," replied Mary, her face crimson. "I was sorry after I spoke to John, and hope your fa- ther did not hear what I said. I hope it did not hurt your feelings." - Mary could not deny the truth, and she ex- plained with as much modesty as possible the good- ness of her father, and how much he had been re- spected, and how, at first, she saw that he--was very much hurt, but that he had told her to bear the trial. Mrs. Smith listened attentively and seemed to regard Mary with astonishment, and felt uncom- fortable under the respect which the young girl commnanded from her; for in spite of her rich and gaudy attire and splendid room, she felt at thel mo- ment little in Mary's presence. It was strange, I confess, but it was true.' Have not some at least of *+ page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 PORTRArS OF MY MARRIED FIENDS. my readers felt the powerful influence at times of humble virtue over pride? She would not let' Mary see that she thought her so good and wise, and she. was provoked at herself for feeling so small. Per- haps it was the fright, it had made her nervous! Little Ida had fallen asleep, and Mrs. Smintl walked over to her bureau to lay aside some of her jewelry., She unclasped a bracelet and putting it in her jewel case, saw several letters lying near it, among which she found two for Mary, whichh had been there sev- eral days. "Here are two letters for you, Miss Daly," said Mrs. Smith, " lay Ida upon the bed and read them." Ida was laid -upon ,the bed, and Mary, with a A. beating heart, broke the seal of one letter; it was from her mother, written a few days after her de- parture, and full of love and affection and blessings upon those with whom her child had found favor, as she was sure Mary had, and much advice to her "poor innocent darling who knew so little of the world." The other letter was from Albert Allston, written after his return to the city. It was as letter a brother might have written to his sister, and Malry felt no hesitation in receiving it. It was full of en- couragement, but said little of Philip or his affairs. The letter had been sent to A , and Mrs. Daly re-directed it to New York. Albert had no 'idea that Mary was in New York, but she was O JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 165 constantly before him, and his mind dwelt on but one subject-how he could restore the little cottage to its owner again? Mary asked Mrs. Smith to excuse her a- few moments, and she went to her room where she again read both letters, and paused and re-read every loving line in her mother's letter, and every affectionate line in Albert's. It was very kind in Albert, thought Mary, how much he loves dear Philip. "Strange, very strange, that Philip has not been here to see me. Poor Philip! I wonder if those bad men will let him alone now that they know we will all work to pay his debts? What a good friend Albert is; he is very handsome, and very intelligent; how kind to notice me so much." These thoughts ,were interrupted by Maggy, who said Ida " was crying ready to break heri heart for Miss Daly, and her mother could not pacify her." XCHAPTER IV. ALBERT had been at a very early age adopted by Miss Clark, a maiden aunt, whose fortune was suf- ciently large at that time to secure the good-will of all her nephews and nieces, and it had' since then accumulated and doubled, and more, by the rise of - t page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] 166 PORTRAITS. OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. property. Albert was named after the first and only love of his aunt Bashy, (her name being Ba- sheba,) who died the day before the one which was to have made him the happy husband of the only daughter of a wealthy East India merchant. Aunt Bashy had since then lived in comparative retire- ment. Though now advanced in life she was ac- tively engaged as ever in all kinds of new' schemes and speculations for the advancement of good in the world, and a perfect enthusiast in private char- ities. Albert had always been a favorite, and could not be refused any thing by her that could be oft advantage to him.. He went to "'Aunt Bashy" with every thought of his heart, and his wildest plans were listened to with as much gravity as the wisest, and discussed with all due deference to his judgment! tHis cousin, Annette, was also an adopted child of-Aunt IBashy,. and lived at the mansion, as the house of Miss Clark was called by all who knew her, She too was a great pet, and "a little too much a damsel of her own way," Aunt Bashy often said in a whisper in her ear, Annette was now, sixteen, and considered very beautiful. She and Albert would be, every one knew, sole heirs to the large Clark estate, and this idea did not detract from An- nette's charms, which dazzled the eye of more than nette' chrs hc JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. i6 one adventurer, who had to go away and forget the arch smiles of the little coquette as best they could, for Cousin Albert was the only one whom she treated with any consideration or interest. Albert she loved, and loved with a respect w hich the praises of Aunt Bashy had converted into an idola- try, such as young girls indulge in when they see no fault in the object of their love, but all beauty and perfection! Innocent Aunt Bashy little knew the mischief?she was doing; but she could not help praising Albert; and though very guarded on all other occasions, it was strange but quite natural that on: the subject of " her boy Albert," as she always called him, she forgot all prudence. Consequently, all the young girls of her acquaintance (as you may guess, good reader, but don't look so quizzicaD were very much attached to "Aunt Bashy," and came very often to see her, and half of them allowed their heads to be turned with the idea that they would one day be mistress of the mansion, and in- dulged in all that pleasant little castle-building that rises up in the minds of prudential young ladies who are taught to believe that an establishment and a husband are synonymous terms! These butter- flies around "Aunt Bashy" were of all colors, and fluttered their gaudy wings with great display and self-complacency. Albert lived at home, but spent some portion of page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] 168 PORTRAIT S O MY MARRIED FRIENDS. his time daily at the mansion, and consulted his kood aunt on every point that ,gave him any trouble or perplexity. One morning he called earlier than usual, and asked his aunt to allow him a few moments alone with her in the library., We must give our readers a little idea of Aunt Bashy's appearance, in order to interest them in the mistress of " the mansion." She was nearly six feet high, with a figure of such dimensions as would leave the height and breadth no opportunity to remark upon one another. Her face was full of good nature, but so ordinary that it left no doubt that dame nature owed her a fortune to do justice to that equality with which she professes to pour out her gifts {upon the world. Her dress was jc what it had been many years before. A turban'Of white Swiss muslin was wound about her head and fastened in front by a crescent pin of an enormous size, and her neck, though not youthfill, left bare, though a half square of lace was crossed upon her chest, and lay in heavy folds, inside her open 'black satin dress. She always wore a black satin dress, but made up for this by a va- riety of colors in bows about her neck wrists, and belt. She had an antique look, and yet one that you could not set down to any particular age; a sort of blending of the past, present, and to come. Such taste and figure in the fashionable world in JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 19 New York now and then to be met with, and, when blessed with wealth, are always respectedi "Aunt Bashy" and Albert walked into the li- brary and closed the door. Albert related as much as he knew of the history of Philip's family, of his misfortune in yielding to the temptation of making a fortune by speculating in stock, of which -he knew no more than a child, and of his sudden disappear- ance ; of the agony of his parents, of their goodness, the sacrifices they had made to pay his debts, the sale of the homestead, and the failure of Jerome to find profitable employment in the city. All these. circumstances were related with an interest that, soon found way to "Aunt Bashy's " heart, and she inquired how many children Jerome had. Albert named all, and described Mary in such glowing terms that his aunt rose from her chair, walked quickly up and down the room, looked thoughtfully on the floor, and -after half a dozen turns up and down without speaking, she addressed herself sud- denly to Albert, and said in a half whisper:- "She's just the character I've dreamed of and' longed to meet; never expected to see; can't 'be- lieve I willl won't depend upon it; can't trust your judgment. Where has she lived to know- so little of the wicked world? Were did you se her? What does she look I? She won't live, 8 :. page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] "O PORTRATTS; oF MY .ARROD RIEND can't live. , Such flowers don't live; might as well expect miracles as to expect it." All this was said rapidly, half audibly, and as if not addressed to any one in particular, for the good woman's mind was full of how she could ex- tricate the family from their difficulties. - t This is a case, Albert, where all my money is not my own. Enough to save that home is theirs, just as much as if they had earned it. I couldn'tkeep it in my pocket another hour. It would be a theft from God's- afflicted. So now, my boy, set your wits to work to see how this can be done delicately, and -let no one but you and me hear of it. You hear me? Don't talk of it even to me again, but when you're ready and all is secure, draw from my bank the amount, and never, while you live, allude to it again. These are things I mean to, bury, to be dug out at the last day. What troubles you now? what more can I do You are like the grave, Albert, give, give." "Don't be angry with me, aunt," said Albert, (Aunt Bashy always grew angry when she heard of trouble or affliction; the wicked ways of people were a source of great vexation to her until she had drawn their victims from their net;) " don't be l . \,angry. I have something to tell you, antd I must see you look like yourself again before I can open my heart to you." -.. JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. " "W:ell, go' on, my boy; but how could you leave that poor old father so long in suffering, when you knew my soul "was covered with mould and rust for the want' of works like these that were waiting for me What do you think I live for? For food? Like the glutton -who pampers up his body for better eating for the worms? For cloth- ing8 in which to wrap my soul in hell like Dives, who wore purple and fine linen? For a house filled with gold and silver? that could only mock me and cry out 'thou fool, this night thy sotl shall be re- quired of thee ' or think you that I'm hoarding my wealth for your destruction or Annette's shame? No! I'd sooner leave you without one sou, than have you think me the cruel wretch I'd be to see such people as those you have described, crying to Heaven for help, while God knows my purse is full and overflowing. Lose no time," she dontinued, "Iose no time; go to A and save the prop- erty." "Well, aunt," saidJ Albert, "I must tell you more. I love Mary, and can I have your approba- tion in my choice? She is a noble-hearted girl, so innocent and truthful, too. I'm sure you'd like her." l Now, my boy, I've nothing more to say; your love and love affairs are your own; you must not ask my help there, (wiping her face from agitation;) page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] 172 ORTRAITSi -OF MY IED ENDS. you know your family are very proud, and might treat the poor child unkindly. Take care how you win her heart and disappoint her. Think well on all-these things:" Albert looked disappointed, but dare not push the matter further. He left the room, after having been again urged by 'Aunt Bashy " to lose no time." Passing through the large picture gallery that separated the library from the hall, Albert met An- nette, who looked so glad to see him that he couldc not pass by without a word. "Well, good cousin, j how does the world treat you to-day " said Albert, pausing to see a bouquet she held in her hand. 'Tell me who sent me this," said Annette, "and I'll tell you." Seeing him hesitate, she continued, "- 'know, and you know too. Here it will stay," said Annette, placing it in her belt, " until it loses all its beauty." And then you'll throw it out to fade and die alone," repliedl Albert. "No, I'll gather up the fallen leaves, and their perfume will last forever. And now can you deny who sent them?.? "I could not tell, indeed," said Albert. 4'They are very pretty, and worth your care, if the donor has half their charms, as he ought to have to pre- sume to venture upon suchYgifts to my fair cousin." JERtOME AND SU1SAN DALY. * "You never saw them before?" said Annette, with an inquiring glance. "Never," replied Albert. Here Aunt Bashy came out of the library and interrupted their con- versation, which was a relief to Albert and a great disappointment to Annette. "No delay, my boy," said Miss Clark. That evening Annette and Aunt Bashy sat alone in the parllr. The fire in the grate burned brightly, (Aunt Bashy always burnt soft coal,) and she or- dered the gas lowered and drew Annette nearer to her, to talk of a plan she had in her mind. Orders were given to admit .no visitors, and the old lady seated herself with an assurance that nothing would disturb her quiet chat with Annette. "My dear," said Aunt Bashy, "'I was once young like you, and I am old now, and I can tell you of hopes as high as any your young and ardent mind can have conceived, but it is time I told you that these hopes are as deceitful as the rainbow to the child who dreams to follow it, and reach its chest of locked-up treasures of gold and silver and diamonds. It is time I told you that I once loved and was loved, and set my heart on happiness that was snatched from me before I had tasted the first drop in the overflowing cup that was offered. And now, my child, don't be deceived; don't give your ! page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] 174 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FIENDS. heart until you are sure that you are loved; and even then, beware!" Annette had never been talked to before of lov- ing and being loved, and she felt so much the dig- nity of the occasion, and the importance of the age at which she had arrived when she could be advised on thoge subjects, that she paid very little attention to the merits of the case, and answered playfully, "Well, aunty, I'll be carefl; Imean to play awhile upon a harp of many strings, which I hope won't in the end 'hang on a willow tree.' This last allusion drew a sigh from Aunt Bashy, who reproved Annette for her heartlessness. ; "No, aunt, I am not heartless; 'but I mean to take my time, amusing myself with those lovers who sigh around me because they think me rich, and it won't kill them to be deni ed.' t"You rich,' said Miss Clari;; "I doubt whether you'llhave enough to buy your trousseau! What put it into your head that you would be rich?" "Well, I don't know, aunty, but it seems to me a very natural idea, don't you think so?" said An- nette, resting her chin on Aunt Bashy's lap, and looking up coaxingly in her face. "Don't depend upon it," said Miss Clark; "riches take to themselves wings and fly away. There's nothing sure or stable here, my dear." "Oh, aunty," said Annette, "don't talk so, it i EROME AND SUSAN DALY. 75 makes me feel so uncomfortable. Let'us turn up the gas, it looks so gloomy here." "First let me tell you a plan I have," said Miss Clark. "You are very lonely here, and I've been thinking it will be a great pleasure to youto have a companion. I know, or have heard, of a young lady whom I think of inviting to spend a year with you; and if she comes she must be in every respect as much my child as you are." "That will be delightful," said Annette, at once picturing to herself a heart to whom she could in- trust all her little confidences; and one to whom she could talk of Albert and find a willing ear. ' I'm glad you will be pleased with it," said Miss Clark. "I'll try to make you both happy, and see, child, you do your part. Well, now, my dear, I'll let you go to bed; and speak not of what I tell you to living being." - Annette knew her aunt too well to venture on repeating any thing that passed. But she would so like to tell Albert! She wondered how he would like it! The following evening Albert called to see Miss Clark, and told her he had been investigating the matter, and he thought from what he had seen that day that he could prove that the stock which those persons had persuaded Philip to purchase was a sham affair, which if exposed would be a fraud that yi, page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] ITRAITS OF MY MARRIED FUBIENDS. the venders would pay dearly for, and he had some fears that more than one whom the world called respectable, had been engaged in the operation which he found had ruined many. Search it to the bottom," said; Aunt Bashy, "if it cost you your life? Such wicked devices must be brought to light, if they cost the lives of innocent victims. Better die in a good cause than run the risk of a long life that may end on a gal- lows." "Hope, Aunt Bashy, you don't fear such a result for'me." "No, my boy, but the world is full of sand- pits, and the most innocent may be deceived. What is your plan for this affair?" "Well, aunt, rve an excellent friend, who 1 I think will find out every thing satisfactorily for me by the end of this coming week; and then they must comprbmise the matter, release Philip from all embarrassments, and pay him a handsome sum for his troubles, or we'll expose them all. Will it not be a glorious triumph?" The subject was talked over late and early, and many hopes indulged in of success by even Aunt Bashy, who never allowed Annette or Albert to hope for any thing. The following week came, and the investigation was going on. Several gentlenien of high stand- JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 1" ing had become implicated, and grew alarmed at the exposure which threatened them. They prom- ised to meet Albert and his friends privately, and see what could be done; but one was here, and one there, one absent, another sick, and they asked more time, which Albert was obliged to allow, until a month had passed. Then a week more was taken up in arranging what should be the terms of settle- ment. Two able lawyers were employed, whose press of business gave them only a limited time to devote to the settlement of this difficult affair, and this gave much delay; but there must be an end even to a lawsuit; and Albert had the happiness of arranging every thing as he desired. '- The pseu- do stockholders had met, and such a meeting! Such specimens of human nature as a physiogno- mist might enjoy! There was Mr. Sponge, a quiet man, who caught and drew in at every breath the weak points of this one, or the dangerous points-in that one; his pale face and thin lips showed his de- termination to leave the company as soon as a fa- vorable opportunity offered. Mr. Ketchum came in outi of breath, "so occupied couldn't stay, but would do whatever Mr. Sponge" (his second self) "would decide upon." Some sat leaning on their gold-headed canes, awaiting the result like hardened sinners. Others spoke loudly and vehemently like men who would talk down any suspicion of fraud I 8* page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] 178 PORTRAIT S OF Y MARRIED FRIENDS. but Albert in a quiet tone told the last gentleman who spoke, that there never had been a case in l which the advice " least said soonest mended " was more opportune, and that if they did not wish every man of them exposed to the world, they would at once give his friend Philip a release from all obli- gations, together with two thousand dollars for the damages theirivillany had caused him, and he closed an excellent speech by remarking that he would advise the company to be as little seen or heard of as possible, for their frauds throughout the country were making great disturbance among those who had suffered as Philip's family had done. Albert succeeded in getting all that he required, the release and the two thousand'dollars for Philip. But this concession to one creditor did not save the pretended stockjobbers. It was only like the mouthful cast to hungry wolves. Others andoth- ers came upon them, and they were driven out like locusts from the city, their names to be a bye-word A for years to come. Albert came, all joy, to his aunt, and told her of the battle and the capture, and reserved the privilege to draw upon her bank for a future occa- sion. He was now ready to start for the little vil- lage of A , and take to the good people the glad news of Philip's release, together with an ifivi- tation from his aunt to Mary to spend a few months JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 179 or more with her, Aunt Bashy insisting she would receive no refusal. But let us return to the time when Jerome, de- parting from the door of the wealthy broker, whose wife had ordered the servant to teach such common men as he a better lesson than dare to stand in her hall! ' Jerome was very sad and sick, and felt that yearning for sympathy which the sorrowing soul ever feels. He looked up and down the avenue, unsettled where to go, and saw many passing him. Some half paused and looked at him and passed on. Some pushed by him rudely, and muttered that he was in the way. Not one in that great crowd could sympathize with the afflicted father, and never had Jerome felt so lonely, so desolate. I'lrl go and. see Mr. Henderson," -thought he; "he knew Philip and liked him. He once loved Susan, too, and he'll be sorry to hear that poor Mary is unhappy. I'll go and tell him all my trouble, and I'll go home a little lighterrhearted." Jerome went to the merchant's house and rang the bell. , The servant asked him to walk into the libra- ry, there was company in the parlor. Mr. Hender- son met him coldly. , Jerome related his and Mary's trials, to which Mr. Henderson made little reply. "I was thinking;'" void Jerome, " that if Mrs. page: 180 (Illustration) [View Page 180 (Illustration) ] RTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. Henderson would ask Mary to come and see her once a month, it might give the poor child great comfort." Mr. Henderson, with a kind manner and gentle tone of voice said "Couldn't do it, Sir,famr very sorry for it; the rules of society here arbitrarily forbid it. Mrs; Henderson couldn't think of. invit- ing a nursery governess to her house. Am sorry." ;Poor Jerome left the house and walked slowly to his boarding-house, thinking all the way how few people in the world followed the rule of Him who came to teach us how to live so as to enter the king- dom:of Heaven. T he more he thought of the changed counte- nanne of his daughter, the more he felt impelled to take her home with him, or seek a happier home for her. "Oh, father, this is not like home," came to him again and again, and he dropped asleep with the -words on his lips,' "It is nothome." "No, it is not home," whispered a voice in his ear. Je- rome turned toward th sound, and a lady of angelic mould stood -,by5i side. .She smiled so sweetly upon him: that he coiuld not fear, and dipping hei hand in a silver vase near her, she bathed his head and temples, repeating "'No, child, this is not home; faint not by the way; pause not to find a resting place here; weary not, for your Father's mansion is not far distant; there He is waiting foi No, it i8 not home," whispered a voioe in his ear. Jerome turned towards the sound, and a lady of angelic mould stood by his side. page: -181[View Page -181] JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 181 you; He will comfort you, and take you to His arms, for your sufferings have been great, but you have been faithful and repined not." "Xo, this is not home," repeated the heavenly visitor, as she rose out of sight, and Jerome awoke, repeating "is is not home." "Why, yes it is, father," : said his gentle Kitty, delighted to hear him speak once more. "Yes, father, this is home, and we are all here, Mary is home, all but Philip. Don't you i know, father, you took sick in New York, and were brought home very carefully? Mother -went for you, poor mother, how she has suffered! ; Mother went for you, and she and Mary came home with you. But you did not know either of them; and ever since we've watched you day and night. Oh, how glad I am to hear your voice once more; I , will call mother. She has fallen asleep." X Jerome could not believe that he was in His right mind. It seemed to him that but last night he fell asleep, and all he knew since then was the sweet vision we have related. 'Tis true the night he went to Mr. Henderson's he felt quite ill. Indeed, Mary had remarked it. He reached his boarding- house and went to bed, thinking of Mary. When morning came he was found ill and delirious, and it was thought advisable to take him home. His sickness seemed more a wandering of his mind than any other serious sickness; and poor Susan came page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] 182 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. for him, and she and Mary with difficulty per- suaded him to accompany them home. Since then he had been much worse, and the physician de- spaired of his recovery; but that day he revived and spoke to Kitty! - She flew to her mother and Mary, who were soon by his bedside, and scarcely dared to speak aloud. They twept for joy, and knelt beside him, thanking God for his recovery, and asking pardop for any want of faith or resigna- tion. Jerome did not say much; he found it difficult to realize what had passed. The place, too, looked very strange. "Where am I, Susan?" said Je- rome. "In the farm-house, near the brook," said Su- san; " and when you are well we'll be happy and contented here. We must not trespass too much upon your strength, dear Jerome. To-morrow I'll tell-you all." ' , Mary and Susan the following day were talking of their great happiness. "He will get well," said Mary; "I'm sure he will." While they were speaking a gentleman was seen approaching the house. He alighted from' his horse *at the little gate. He was a stranger. He entered and asked for Miss Daly. Mary invited him to sit down in the little parlor, which- though humble was very neat. ie inquired if the cottage near the wooded JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 183 hill was for sale? Mary turned pale and hesitated; then apologizing for her manner, replied :-- "You will, I'm sure, excuse my feelings. Much as we have desired to sell that dear spot, now that you ask me for it the sad reality is more vividly before me that we must give it up; and we will try to do so cheerfully, as we ought." "Is the cottage occupied " asked the stranger,: "No, we have never been there since we left it; and we have failed to sell it." "What is the price of the cottage and ground?" ", One thousand dollars, I think. I cannot tell exactly. My father is very ill, and we would not like to disturb him now. As soon as he recovers, if you will call again he or my mother will speak with you." "I'm sure I saw a smoke from the chimney. Are you sure that no one occupies the house?" "Very sure; but if you have an idea of buying the house, my mother and I will walk over with you and see the place." Susan and Mary were soon prepared. Susan bowed to the stranger, when she entered the room, and they walked over to the foot of the hill by the water side, which was about a mile from-the brook- farm. It was in February. The trees were leafless, and the country wore a dreary appearance. The wind whistled through the branches of the old trees, page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] RTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. and Mary had learned a lesson since last she had been there, which she could read in the mournful sound; and as she approached the cottage her heart sank within her, so many recollections of happy days gone by crowded upon her. Susan was more calm. "There is smoke from the chimney," both ex- claimed, whnl they ascended the hill. The stran- ger smiled, and watched their expression. ' "It is a pretty house," he observed; "in sum- mer it must be beautiful." "It is beautiful," said Mary, "and the little grove on the hill is a little paradise. I'm glad you like it. I would so wish to have a person occupy it who could appreciate its beauties. Every tree is dear to me." While she paused to admire again the view from the hill-- The stranger gazed at her, and thought he had never seen a more interesting face. "The sun is setting beautifully," said Mary, "and promises a pleasant morrow. They cannot take the sun from us," she continued, "nor the beautiful sky, nor the landscape." "Who would take any thing from you?" said the stranger. They reached the cottage, and--Al- bert Allston met them at the door;! Ahis eyes spark- ling with joy. Both Susan and Mary were bewildered by the surprise. The cottage was newly furnished, and a JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. pleasant fire burning on the hearth in the little par- lor. " ave you taken the cottage?" said Mary, scarcely able to speak. "Yes, Mary, not for myself, but for your good parents, who deserve more than I can do for them." "Albert," said Mary, (it was the first time she had called him ' Albert,") "Albert, I cannot thank you. Words seem incapable of expressing my gratitude." "Do not thank me, Mary; the money that re- fitted this little paradise was not mine." After a few moments Albert told them to sit down, and he related how it had been done, and that he had yet one thousand dollars for Jerome to invest as he thought best. "But I have been rude enough to forget to introduce my good friend who was instru- mental in bringing about this happy event." 'Mrs. Daly, Miss Daly, my friend; William Beaufort." Susan and Mary expressed their thanks and sur- prise, and grew quite elated, going from room to room, looking at the beautiful things which Albert had purchased. "Look at these beautiful books," said Mary; "you did not forget my taste!" "Forget you, Mary," answered Albert, in a whisper, while looking over her shoulder at a beau- tiful picture of Venice. Mary turned quickly towards the stranger, to avoid the appearance of page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] 186 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. particular attention t9 Albert, and found his eye fixed upon her. Fearing he had heard Albert's last remark, she blushed deeply, which Albert did not fail to observe, and gathered from it a hope that her heart was not indifferent to him. "What can I say to you, Mr. Beaufort, and to you, Mr. Allston?" said Susan. "May Heaven reward you. I never can." i: Mary joined in repeating thanks, and praised every thing in the. house. "When will you return to the cottage?" said Albert; " you must come at once." To-morrow," said Susan, " if Jerome can be removed. Will you forgive us if we leave now, and relieve the dear children's minds? The, poor little creature suspected some trouble, I'm sure. 'Will you not return with us, and partake of our simple fare?" ' Thank you,", said Albert, " we must go to a neighboring town, where we have a business ap- pointment, and may be detained a week. On our return we will call and see you here, with your permission." Susan and Mary left, the cottage and walked rapidly to -the farm-house, talking all the way of the wonderful ways of Providence, who had led the hearts of those good people to restore them their dearly loved home. "And now," said Susan, JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 187 "my child, let us return to it with grateful hearts, but with resignation to God's will under all cir- cumstances. Let us not attach ourselves too much again to home, but be ready to give it up, and more, if called upon to do so." They reached the-house and found Jerome had just awoke from a quiet sleep, during which time patient Kitty had watched every breath. He awoke feeling quite natural, and like himself again, and was so free from pain that he could not realize that he had been suffering several weeks from a nervous fever. They waited till morning to break the good news to him, and then it was done so carefully that Jerome bore it very well. He raised his hands to Heaven and thanked God from his inmost heart, begging that their trials might make them more worthy of His favors. CHAPTER V. Two years after the incidents related at the close of' the foregoing chapter, one morning before one of our largest churches in the lower part of the city, a long row of carriages were seen waiting for a wedding party in the church. The bride, it was said, looked beautifully; her pearls, (a' beautiful set,) pure as herself, were pre- page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] RTRAITS OF M BRRED FRIENDS. ;sented by the groom, who looked to be the happiest man then living. She was dressed in exquisite taste, and nearly covered by a full veil of blonde, fastened in her hair with a wreath of white orange buds and blossoms. She seemed lost in devotion while at the altar, and looked more like an angel of heaven than a creature of earth. The ceremony performed, friends came up to congratulate the happy pair, and first came the mother of Mary, who had given her up cheerfully to Albert, as one worthy of the choice he had made; and his mother and sisters came, and "Aunt Bashy " came, and clasped Mary in her arms. "God bless you, child!" said the good woman; and others came, and then the company dispersed, and in dispersing all praised the beauty of the bride and groom. Who is that handsome groomsman.? Do you iot remember Philip? He has returned from a long voyage, and has bitterly repented his folly, for which we can all forgive him. He is talking to Annette, who does not seem displeased, and I heard in the crowd a whisper that' "one wedding would soon bring ons another." Susan and Jerome have left the village during the winter months, and reside in the upper part of the city, to be near their darling 'Mary, who has the most comfortable home your imagination can pos- sibly picture. Philip is very often at Aunt Ba- JEROME AND SUSAN DALY. 189 shy's mansion, and seems very fond of her; but people have been queer enough to suspect that An- nette is the attraction. The little "nest" is still sheltered in the green wood, and its inmates during the summer are as happy again as before their spirits were tried by affliction. Susan's and Jerome's family are now nearly grown, and the sun of their married life and of their old age is likely to set in a cloudless sky. God grant it may. UNCLE BEN. page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] "1- . PORTRAIT NO. V. RINGOLD HOPKINS. WHLE seated in his dark, dusty, uncomfortable back office in Wall street, the bright thought came ^to the mind of ingold Hopkins that it was very foolish in him to be such a lone, wretched wanderer as he was, dropping in here and there to pick up the crumbs of comfort that fell from his neighbor's table, and spending hundreds'of dollars to buy the good-will of their little rosy cherubs, that were nothing to him after all. It was very 'foolish; he wondered he'd never thought of it before seriously! Why not have a home' and cherubs of his own? To be sure he might; why not? Hopkins cast a glance at his figure, and drew himself up with complacency. I know Pm not young, but then I've money; plenty of money; and that will buy what beauty and youth could not. Thus thought Eingold, as he sat looking intently upon a large ledger that was open before him. The clerks one page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] 192 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRENDS. ( after another stole out and left him, as they thought, busied in the investigation of a long-standing ac- count, Hopkrls was very exacting in the office; never made a mistake and never excused one. It was a strange idea to come into the old bachelor's head at such a time and place; but it came, and was not driven out of the office as an intruder. Hopkins would have been married long ago only from a fright he got frogm having once lived with a married friend, who was unfortunately not as, happy as, he seemed to be, or as blessed as the world thought himL! Hopkins always had an indescribable feel- ing that he might not do better; and he often re- marked: " that hanging would be preferable to the life that-man leads." He had kept as clear of any temptation to do -likewise, as if his marriage would sign his death warrant! Strange, then, that he should so far forget, his good resolves. Hopkins' closed the ledger, and repeated "it's no use to live alone, while a man has health and wealth to make a woman happy." He strolled home, or rather to his abiding plaice, for a small room in the Astor House, with a privilege of the dining and reading V oms, can hardly be called a home. -He meditated upon the new life he had proposed to himself; why, ho ould not tell; it must be that his time had come, RINGOLD HOPluNS. 198 Ringold was past forty; how much, it is unne- cessary to say, and as plain and precise his ledger. His life had been one given up to busi- ness and money-making since he was a boy of twelve.; For many years the- accumulation of wealth was his only pleasure, and he had amassed a very large fortune, which it seemed to him had been safely invested, and must yield a handsome income that would satisfy the most extravagant ideas of which he could ever be guilty. His ap- pearance was decidedly against him for the ball- room; but it was well known that he was respect- able and wealthy, and it would not signify what his face or figure were. S' thought Hopkins; and he made up his mind to be among the first at Sara- toga, and the last at Newport during the coming season. His- hair was very thin, and refused 'positively to grow at all on the top of his head. However, this could be remedied by a well-made wig, which Doolittle assured him would not be recognized as false by the closest observer, although he pr;oposed one of-full jet black hair curled to suit a face of twenty I is dentist after examining his teeth, ad- vised him to have " the remains " pulled out, and he would give him a set that would dd service, for which he would not grudge $100. The process was a painful one to contemplate, but Hopkins con- 9 page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] 194 PORTRAITS OF M RRD FRIENDS. rented to it, and yielded himself up like a man, and came out in the course of a-few months with a new ,set of ivory. But oh! the melancholy fears, and hopes, and sorrows: of those months!-- But time will end. our bitterest woes, and it ended the wig and the teeth, and JRingold saw himself-a new-made man. The next train saw him on his road to Sara- toga. All the:way his mind was agitated by con- tending thoughts of " if she would," or- "she wouldnit;?" and failing to answer the query he left himnself to fate, resolving to make love to the first lady to whom he could make himself agreeable, or who made herself agreeable to him. The long porches of the spacious hotel were filled with fashion and beauty, that might have in- terested a harder heart than that of our New York broker. Here a young girl of sixteen was seen walking by the side of an admiring gallant, who could with difficulty draw her into a conversation which at all satisfied his self-love. There a blonde of twenty, who: could keep a half -dozen beaux in her train, and each fancy himself the favored one; and there a confidinag, hopeful pair, whose low tones and measured step told the tale of theit happiness; while poor Ringold marched alone behind the van, without a sympathizing spirit -near to share his loleliness. - It was melancholy to see him! "Who is that singular-looking man. " said a r ECNOOLD HOMDJS. 195 little brunette of sixteen or seventeen to her mother, while they were looking out the window of the par. lor, and making remarks on the passers-by. "I do not know," t she replied; " his face is fa- miliar, and yet he is not I am sure one I ever' saw: before. He is a very odd-looking character, to be sure!" "He seems out of place,"' said the brunette. "I do not believe he ever indulged in so much gaiety before. A wealthy bachelor come to shake off a little city dust, no doubt; what gravity! what propriety of demeanor! Look, mother, he sees us; watch him ; when he passes I'll engage he'll notice us. If he does I'll bow to him. My word for it he does not know one young lady here." ' My dear," said Mrs. Allchance, " how giddy you are; would you run the risk of being bored with the company of such an extraordinary-looking fellow as he is?" "'^I'd like to make our party wonder," replied Effie Allchance. "After all, ma, he may be a great man, Here he comes. I'll bow if he looks this way." He looked that way and Effie bowed, and her mother was obliged to do the same, and then .apol- ogize, - mistaking him for a friend; " "hoped he'd excuse," and other little speeches, all of which made page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] 196 PORTRAITS OF -,MY MARRIED FRIENDS. Hopkins suire he had found the one for whom he'd come. He hoped the ladies would permit him to intro- duce himself, and he drew out of his pocket a pack- age of visiting cards, upon which "RINGOLD HOP- -EINS, ASTOR H0uSrfEj' was printed in large gold let- ters Mrs. Allchance drew her card from her lit- tle reticule, and handed it to the astonished bache- lor, who saw himself fairly on the road to happi- ness! One week sufficed to tell She tale of Ringold's wealth, and Effie's readiness to accept his devoted attentions. But the little coquette did not intend to accept a proposal should he make one, until she was satisfied he was no adventurer. After all, there was something she liked about him. Effie rode out:and walked constantly with other admirers; and one day left poor Ringold looking at the picture of Sir Peter Dismal, standing on the porch, playing with his heavy gold fob chain, which always came to his relief in an embarrassed mo- ment:- Shepassed him with a slight bow of recog- nition, and. stepped into a carriage with a young Wfofwho had just left college. ningold could have forgiven any thing easier than his extreme youth. Effie out of sight, he stood gazing vacantly into the street, and: did not observe an arrival. A large family came through the long hall covered with .r -RMnGOLD O1x im S., 197 dust, and were endeavoring to get out of sight before being recognized in their travelling dresses. The gentleman of the party touched Ringold upon the shoulder, and exclaimed in an, amused tone, "Hopkins! you here? Upon my honor I'd as soon have expected to see Trinity steeple leave its place and come to this tower of Babel. i We are all here building up something-fortune-reputa- tion, or a marriage, ha! ha! ha! Is that your ob- ject, 4opkins? Upon my honor I believe it is; for what the d 1 has changed you so much? What is it?."- Ringold felt uncomfortable. He was afraid his wig would be noticed, and he had not yet become accustomed to his appearance in it. . When he looked, in the glass he could not get over the idea that he was making a new'acquaintance! The ladies' im- patience to go to their room, relieved Hopkins from the necessity of replying to these questions. "I'll see you again," said he to his friend, who went off to prepare ,limself for his debut at the dinner-table, where he hoped to captivate a rich Southern lady, who -had just left school, and whose mamma had resolved should " come oit" at this fashionable watering-place. Young Ketchum, a dissipated idle law-student had heard of this heiress through his sister, a schoolmate, and without an hour's delay he persuaded his mother and sisters to page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] 198 PORTRAITS OF MY MAYBEE FRIENDS. pack up and be in-time fore the young belle's arri- val e She had come the day before, and was already the envy of all the last year blossoms. After dinner Ketchum revealed to Hopkins the desire of his heart, and promised to say a good word for him to Effie, whom he knew, if Ringold would get a word to the mother of the heiress for his benefit. It was all arranged, and in a few days a flirtation was rapidly progressing between Mr. Ketchum and the young lady, and her mother was charmed to see her daughter the belle of tie sea- son, and the handsome young lawyer her devoted admirer I . - Ketchum kept: his promise, and took the first good opportunity for whispering in Mrs. Allchance's ear: that if age was no objection to her daugh- ter, there was not a better match to be 'found than Hopkins would be for Effie. .All the world-at least that part' that calls itself the world-knows what is un erstood by a good match and Mrs. A1- ' chance at once took a great fancy to the old bache- lor, which she did not " hide under a bushel;" and had-she been a widow it would have been difficult for Ringold to decide which he preferred, the mother or daughter! . Ringold had never been at Saratoga. He never thought it necessary. His motto had ever been ,business before pleasurej" and with him it had **,' . TINGOLD HOPKINS. . 99 kept -befofe it until now. iHe remarked that im- mediately after breakfast the company went to the spring, a short distance only, and then returned to the house,'rode out and then returned to dinner, walked on the porches, and dressed for tea, an even- ing ball, or a concert. But all this seemed to the matter-of-fact mind of Hopkins dull business after the fifst day or two. He met several acquaint- ances, brother brokers, who seemed as much out of place as he did, and were like him playing " like it." One poor husband who had been there three weeks, and had already spent more than he in- tended for the season, looked the picture of ennui. "( What there is here that is worth coming for I have not been able to find out," said Mr. Snivell, a tall, lank, sallow-faced man, addressing Hopkins. I'm half dead; these are the longest days I ever endured, and here I'm paying for this d--d non- sense at the rate of fifty dollars a day. My wite and daughters are crazy with the delightful excite- ment. I can't get them away; what would you do " ' "Go me and leave them," muttered Snod- grass; "tnat's my way. I'd rather walk a tread- mill than be obliged to keep up this farcical sham. It's the greatest take-in ever got up in my opinion. I told Mrs. Snodgrass last night that r I'd rather be put in a straight-jacket than be kept dancing at- page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] 200 PORTRAITS OF MY ARRIED FRIENDS. tendance on -her and the girls here another week. There are fools enough here to do it, and let us go off to a more sensible plaoe of enjoyment. What say0yon to a trip to Lake George?" Before Mr. Snivell could reply, a flauntingly dressed girl of fifteen came up and looked so bashful while she pulled a rose shev held in her hahd to pieces. (, Pa, pa," she whispered, "Hmust speak to you a mo- ment."' Mr. ;Smvnell stepped one side, and lalvina told him that S:iiut. Fanning had invited her to go and ride out with him. Ma thought she ought not to refuse the- invitation. She or ma wanted to know if he had changed his mind about the lace shawlS. If she had it at all icmust be now. Ele- nor-Wallingford6s pa had just bought one for her. Snivell after writhing a moment -opened his pocket- book aid gave her the $100 she desired, with which 'he danced off in great spirits, forgetting her timid- ity.- Two or: three gentlemen had gathered around Shnodgrass by this time, and were amusing them- selves watching the leeching which Snivell was un- dergoinllg. :"fIt- is death to the man,"' said one. "Why does he put up with it ." said a second. "What can a man do " said a third. - -You are a lucky dog, Hopkins," said Snivell; "no-one but yourself to please ; but- didn't I see BRINGOLD HOPKINS. 201 / you walling with that little brunette they call Ef- fie? Take care, Ringold; you surely don't mean to take that child to your heart!" The very idea that he could do so raised the old bachelor in his own estimation considerably. He laughed, stood oni tiptoe, and made some remarks which were deemed witty by the circle, and the conversation again turned upon life in Saratoga. "It is shallow," said Snodgrass, who aimed at being a wit, "as shallow as the dish the fox pre- pared for the stork when he invited him to dine. I remember wondering when a child how patiently the stork took the insult; but upon my word, gen- tlemen, we are worse than the storks of that day to bear this thing. Come, sirs, I move that we in a body demand our rights as husbands, and all start for-home to-morrow-wives, daughters, trunksi and bandboxes; this life is intolerable."' The sound of the gong broke up the indignation meeting, which resulted as such meetings usually do. One night's rest, one night closeted with Mrs. Snodgrass, made the good husband's resolves vapory as the mist, and he owned to the club " it was no use; he -had to give -it up." Nearly all the middle-aged and el- derly men, Ringold remarked, were pl'my , vic- tims," The ladies, however, seemed -lost-in contem- plation of their own charming toilette, and in scru- tinizing that of their neighbors. 9* page: 202-203[View Page 202-203] 202 ' ORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. :- "an this be Saratoga?" thought Hopkins. But he had not seen half. All he saw was that whibh :appeared on the surface. Could he have joined t3l' and that club, or this and that set, and have wititessed the chains and nets which each were weaving for their own happiness or destruc- tion, he could have realized the. workings: of the inner -life of that great crowd. Who could bear -the; sight, -! the .hearts of that assembly laid bare ; -Yet'i. were those even there -of angelic purity of life, and purpose. It was singular that of all who sighed at the feet of young:Effie, Hopkins should have been the fa- vorite. -It must be remembered, however, that the mother's will had been in time secured. No tri- fling advantage gained! We will not fatigue our fair. readers with -our hero's courtship; It was like many others, and the difficulty with which the old bachelor achieved the grand success can only be understood by his brother bachelors..- The number of times which he selected as thetfavorable one for -throwing-himself and his fortune :at the feet of his -adored, and the disap pointments and interruptions with: which he: was crossed,' Were deplorably provoking. Then he had written: out a half a dozen :times the speech he in- tended'for- the' occasion; and as many times when the opportunity offered, of which he might -have , RINGOLD HOPKINS. 203 taken advantage, he found himself dumb as if born so. * One day he resolved to know his fate, come what would, and if the little coquette wafs trifling with his heart's affections he'd return to his ledger a reformed man, and denounce for ever the illusive charms of womankind., Perhaps in tall the motley crowd at Saratoga, not one was more sincere in his intentions, or more anx- ious to add to his own and anoth appiness in a laudable manner, than poor Ringold. But, alas! the blindness of trusting to a selection made in such a grand masquerade as this must be, where no one wears a true dress or face. It might. or it might not be a fortunate one. Ringold proposed and was accepted; and Effie whispered to her friends to whom she confided all her little secrets, " that he was really very good, and besides could give her an establishment worth having; and, why, if he was many years older than she was-what matter? "Husbands nowa- days are seldom at home, and if they are who no- tices them?" said Miss Snivell. "Provided you have money enough," another friend remarked, what more can you desire . Time passed and the wedding-day came. Friends were invited and passed their remarks upon the youth of Effie and Ringold's undoujbted maturity. page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] 204 PORTRAITS OF MY 3SARMED ENDS. But every one ended the sentence with the consol- ing idea, "he's rick." Mrs. Allchance lived up town in pretty style. Her house was opened, and- great liberality was shown in the preparations for the nuptials. The bride's dress was beautiful, and her presents from relatives, and friends were rich and expensive. The hour to make her his for ever had come, and she stood:,by his side young and handsome, just entering upont lifes threshold, while he had already passed its meridian. The words were said that made themn one, and- Ringold Hopkins found him- self released from the order of Bachelors, in less than six months from the time he set out upon the eventful pleasure trip to Saratoga! After the honeymoon had passed, which passed like all' honeymoons in these days of worldly wis- dom, the hmarried pair--I wish I could say happy pair-returned to New York not happy! I'll tell you how it was. Hopkins had never in his life before lost so much time and money, and been so constantly kept to the side of one person. All this was a great restraint at first, and he felt as if clad in a double': coat of mail, from which he saw no hope of extricating himself. This annoyed and dis-c appointed him, and he could not conceal his dis- : content, "She was so childish; woVld laugh and talk with every beardless boy; and sometimes had RIGoOLD HOPKCIS. 205 gone so far as to run off with school-girls whom she had met, and seemed more glad to see them than he thought right or proper; and would often prefer to walk and talk with them, and leave him to while away the time as best he could." "He'd seen her laugh when he was in 'the gravest mood, gnd then look sad when he was more inclined to jest ; ' and so it went till Ringold wished 'twere but a dream from which he might awake. '; Oh no, that's the point," sighed Hopkins. "Never again can I awake a; free and unfettered man!" "I wish, my dear Mdrs. Hopkins," said Ringold in a churlish tone, "you would be awoman, and give up your childish ways. They-are not proper or becoming, I do assure you." "To an old man like you I have no doubt they are very disagreeable," said Effie; L but what a pity you did not find it out before you: made me your wife. I'd be under ten thousand obligations if you could release me."' ; I suppose, said Hopkins, "you wish me to throw myself out the window, or shoot myself, or, or, or -- "Any thing, my love, you like," replied the provoking little coquette, ' but take me-with you, dear, if you do!" Hopkins turned towards her, to see if she was really in earnest, and she added, "I'd die of grief -S page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] 206 PORTRAITS OF yA IBRIED FRIENDS. if you left me a widow so soon!" and saying this she threw herself into a chair near her, and laughed till she was nearly convulsed to see the astonish- ,ment with which her husband regarded her jokes, for she meant them only as such. "I cannot understand your frivolity, Effie," said Hopkins. "I hope I've not married a lunatic." Thiswas an unfortunate remark, fir it gave Effie a newidea. : 'Did not mamma tell you," said Effie, assuming a grave air, " that I was afflicted at times with ab- erration of mind?"- ( "What -what!" said Hopkins, "what have I done, married a woman who at times is-is "- "You have turned your wig a little too far on one side, my dear," said the provoking little minx, still laughing immoderately. "No doubt you thought that I supposed you were a phenomenon, who had preserved the youth and beauty of your hair" ! ," Are you deranged or sane?" inquired the' alarmed husband. "I'm in doubt myself," answered the young wife,' almost hysterical from the comical appearance of her old bachelor husband, who stood 'before her perplexed and alarmed. "What can I do for you?" asked the bewildered groom. RINGOLD HOPKINS. 207 "Throw me your purse and leave me awhile alone," replied the crazy little piece of mischief. Hopkins obeyed the last request, and left the room. And thus ended what might have been a family skirmish, had not Effie, who saw the weak points of poor Ringold, resolved to overcome them by pleasantry and good humor if possible. He soon returned, and found her calm and f thoughtful; grave and even graver than he could have desired, and ready to listen to any advice he chose to offer. He approached her with caution, however, and guarded his speech lest an incautious word might bring on a return of insanity! an affliction which he had all his life regarded with peculiar terror. Death would be sweet to him when compared to the suffering which he saw his most intimate friend endure, who had been obliged to put his wife in an asylum. Ringold ventured to ask with as much gentleness as possible, "What usually- produced these spasms?" \ Injustce or unreasonable restraint," replied Ef- fie, scarcely able to restrain her disposition to laugh. A "Injustice or unreasonable restraint," repeated Hopkins, thoughtfully; " ah! indeed!" "May I ask you what induced you to marry me, Effief' said he in a doleful tone, " without tell- ing me of this affliction?" page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] 208 ,4ORToAITS OF MY M3BBIED FRIENDMS. This same insanity, no doubt. I can't con- ceive what else," she replied, rising from her chair, to conceal her amusement. ' Poor ingold was miserable,-and walked up and down the room in an absent, melancholy mood, un- til-tcarriage which he had ordered was ready to take them to: see a pretty country-seat about five miles distant, which was considered very beautiful andr picturesque. Efiie: without :any delay prepared for the drive, and put on her prettiest riding-dress, and straw gipsy hat, which was trimmed with wild flowers. She looked charmingly, and 'passing some old friends on the, piazza who had come to visit'her, she excused herself anid regretted the engagement. They ventured a compliment, which Hopkins con. sidered pery improper, and looked angrily- towards them and then at Effie, seating himself by her side inthe carriage, the picture of sullen discontent. Y -ou are very frivolous, Effie, to allow those impertinent dandies to remark upon your beauty; and if it is continued, I will soon see what can be done to prevent it." "They made a very innocent remark," said Ef- Y.0, fie. "IndeedI could not remember it now." .. One of them offered to hold your parasol while , sid R gold. you put ohn your glove, Hnoticed," said ingold. -\-^ "B13ut you were engaged arranging some thiings RrNtoLD ot10PKMS. 209 in the carriage," said the little wife. "What harm in that?" No matter, I will not-allow these improper liberties, and you shall not encourage them," said Hoplkins, forgetting himself. "Oh! oh!" replied Effie, " will not and s]all not, pretty well, upon my word; what else have you to complain of? Let me know." "You kept your eye on the door the whole time at dinner to-day; you expected some one; I know you did; you need not deny it now; and, Mrs. Hopkins, let me tell you I can bear any thing better than these childish ways of yours.": "Why then did you not marry a matron of years to suit your own age?" said Effie, a littled piqued. Because-because "- "Because you loved me," said Effie, and now for goodness sake, my dear, give up this foolish jealousy, or I'll never keep my senses." Well, yes, it was because I loved you," :said Ringold; " and now, pray, Why did you marry me.?" "Well, I'll tell you. From a child I've heard the old proverb, 'better be an old man's darling than a young man's slave,' and I believed it! Fool- ish child that you say I am, I was surely! I knew you were old; I can't tell how I took the fancy, but I did}: and now it will depend upon you how long page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] 210 PORTRAITS OF MY EMRRIED FRIENDS. I kee it; but of this rest assured,.that once lost, it's gone-for ever!" Ringold was silent for several minutes. Effie Ihad spoken wisely-beyond her years--and her last suggestion was worthy of consideration. Yet how could he tell that she was not deranged a The cun- ning of lunatics was proverbial. "Perhaps," said Ringold, "I amn too exacting; I must remember you are very young, and must al- low you some childish hours for a while; but if you could be more womanly, I think the, difference in our years would not be so apparent, Effie." Effie assented to the justness of the remark, and they were as good friends as ever before they re- turned home. The fear of the lunacy to which Effie had confessed, filled poor Hopkins' mind with gloom and horror. Injustice and unreasonable restraint," he repeated again and again, and he turned over in his mi what might be considered "nreasonable restraint." "'ll not restrain her in money matters," thought he, " but I mzst restrain her frivolity." For- some'- months Ringold and Effie were con- gratulated upon their happiness, and gave and re- ceived the wedding parties, to which the young people of their acquaintance had looked forward with pleasure. e To say that Effie was truly happy, w d be i . - ' RINGOLD HOPKINS. 2" more than could be supposed or expected, She had made her choice hastily. She saw excellent traits of character in the old bachelor; but after all, the chief motive which had induced her to marry him, was the one which she had confessed to her husband-" to be an old man's dar-ling "-an infat- uation which has blinded more than one young girl! True, the young lady must be very young to indulge in this illusion. Effie was of a very sensi- tive nature, and to be loved was in her mind the greatest earthly happiness, and to be the pet -of a wealthy old bachelor was all she had ever desired. Her' dream had been realized in marrying an old bachelor, and now she -must make herself as happy as the circumstances would allow, if she was not his darling! She had seen difficulties in the way of happiness during these first months of expe- rience, of which her young heart had never dreamed; but her buoyant spirit could not be crushed by them. "I will study his disposition, and endeavor to learn the art of controlling him," thought Effie -an art which every woman holds within her power, and which if she has the wisdom to use it, can govern and subdue the proudest and most way- ward spirit in man. She had amused herself by allowing him a little salutary fright respecting the stateof her mind,. and it would perhaps be better now, she thought, to un- page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] 212 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. deceive him, for she remembered having heard from her mother that there should be no deceptions in married life. That evening she sat by his side, and in the most coaxing manner confessed the mischievous part she had played; and promised never to do so again if he would not be angry, "and throw his wigin thefire!e"Ringold smiled and forgave her, and in his joy at the avowal thought he had never before known how much he loved her. But -he told her not to joke about his wig. "Men did not like it!" he said. He in turn acknowledged his fault, and made a new resolution to allow his wife more freedom. He was wise, good reader, to prom- ise it; and let me warn you against allowing your Grst little misznderstanding in the honeymoon to pass without full explanations on both sides, and remember that the happiness of married life de- pends much upon " trifles light as air." Ringold bought a fine house, and furnished it handsomely, not according to the fashion of the present day. lHe had outlived the desire to vie with his neighbors, and measure his respectability according to the number of friends whom he sur- passed in show and extravagance; and Effie yielded to his desire of h&ving a house for their comfort, and not for their neighbors' ,envyi, But poor Effie's heart'- sank low indeed at the RINGOLD HOPKINS. 213 thought of being mistress of a house, and suiting the tastes and ideas of comfort of a man who had lived all his life in a good hotel. "The very reason, my dear," said her mother, "that he will value a home even with its discom- forts. Don't fear, my child; you'can learn, and he will be patient if he loves you." Every thing was provided that Effie could sug- gest for the convenience of the most experienced housekeeper. The linen-press was ample, and well provided with fine and beautifully made linen. The windows of the bedrooms were hung in old English chintz, and furnished in old English style. The little sewing-room was well provided with every kind of sewing material, as .well as baskets for the convenience of the seamstress, that would tempt the most idle to industry. The parlors were filled with works of art. And the little library was so comfortably furnished with valuable books and writing materials, that Effie thought she would never wish to leave it. The dining-room was light and cheerful, and the china closet was well supplied for use and breakage. Effie was delighted with the arrangements. The kitchen was perfect; not a thing had been for- gotten for that part of the house, which a good housekeeper so, delights in seeing well furnished. Little patty-pans, whip-churns, muffin-rings, waffle- page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] 214 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. irons, pudding-dishes, rice-boilers, ice-cream-free- zers, all were hung up shining and new, ready to )be put in requisition. The laundry had its mangle, fluting irons, and. other appointments, and Effie de- clared "' it would be a pity if she could not keep house after every thing had been provided with such care and generosity." During their absence the house had been fur- nished according to Ringold's orders; "but no one," he said, ,"must enter until Mrs. Hopkins could take possession." i Effie felt pleased and grateful for the considera- tion, and delighted with the generosity shown in the bountiful supplies; but, as we have- said befo6re, her heart, misgave her when she'thought of assum- ing the place of MSTRESS in the est lishment. " Will you be patient with m( Ringold, until I learn?" said Effie, the first day of their house- keeping. "Provided you do not try my patience too long," replied. Hopkins, disappointed by the request. "No provisos in the case. I'm young and can improve, and you must wait; and in return I'll be patient with you. You have peculiarities, time can- not change," said she, with a smile; "but: 'lIl be patient. Will you a." Ringold\ smiled, but the most 'that he could promise was, "-that he would try." RINGOLD HOPINS. 215 Servants were engaged. A: cook, according to her own account, of surpassing qualities and expe- rience, a chamnbermaid, a seamstress, and a waiter, all with good recommendations. Effie felt more important than she had done be- fore, and wondered if all married ladies had her cares! The first week many little mistakes were over- looked by Hopkins. The eggs were boiled too hard for breakfast. The toast was burned; and the steak sometimes overdone, and sometimes scarcely done at all! At dinner the mutton was boiled to a jam; and the beef had to be removed from the ta- ble, after taking off from'it, steaks to broil? Poor Effie labored hard to remedy these mishaps; but not knowing herself, the art of cooking, it was im- possible for her to give any directions to the cook. Once or twice she ventured upon advice, which was received with ill-natured looks and words. "Would it not be better to put your beef to roast very ear-; ly, Biddy, and that would give you time to see if it would be well done before dinner," said Effie. "Shure, mam, is it dried to a herring you'd like it, as it would be, if I obeyed orders?"Effie made no reply. "Master has sent home salmon," said Biddy, in a surly voice. "How do you wish it cooked?"I- Effie hesitated, puzzled her brain a few minutes, page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] 216 PORTRAITs OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. trying to remember how it should be cooked; but the truth was, she had never given a thought in her life as to how these things were done. "You'd better stuf it," said Effie, and left the kitchen to avoid another question respecting the dinner!" That day several bachelor friends dropped in at the office to congratulate Hopkins upon his happy change of life, and he invited them to go home with him to dine. Punctual to the second, Hopkins and his friends entered the door. Effie had been attempting some whip for det, after a new receipt, and had so fa- tigued an "-rheated herself by the efforts that she met them flushed and nervously excited. Hop- kins whispered in her ear, "I hope, Effie, there will be no mistakes at din- ner. Our breakfast was abominable." Effie hoped not, as well, but she could not answer for the result until-time could prove it. The poor creature made great efforts to be pleasant and amusing; ibut eggs, cream, sugar, spice and beef were whirling through her mind, and confusing every idea she had. The cook and kitchen were vividly impressed upon her vision, and though she seemed to hear what Mr. Sparks 'said, yet he could plainly see that he had made very little impressicn. Her eye seemed in- tent upon the folding-doors, which she hoped would soon open and relieve her suspense. RINW OLD HOPJUNS. 217 Dinner- was announced, and the guests were seated. The soup was, so far as appearances could be depended on, a little colored water thickened with rice, that passed; then came-what? "What is this, my dear 2 " said Hopkins, look- ing at some steaming balls of something which were laid before him, and from which rose the strongest odor of onions and thyme. "It must be the salmon," replied Effie, looking somewhat confused; " but, Ringold, please let it pass, if it is not done to your taste.- I'll remember next time how you like it." Ringold looked very an- gry and mortified, but said nothing, except in a loud tone to order the dish removed. Then came the beef, cooked literally to death; its substance dried out, till it crackled under the knife; and the veget- ables were cooked and dished in keeping with the rest. Poor Effie saw that it was all wrong, but it seemed to her useless to hope any longer. "This beef," said Hopkins, pale with anger, "cannot be eaten. It is outrageous beyond endurance, Effie. Gentlemen, I am mortified in the extreme, but I insist that you come with me to the Astor to dine; I cannot allow you to be deprived of your dinner because -y wife is a baby." "Oh, Ringold!" replied Effie, trying to smile, "could you do such a thing " The gentlemen in- ,sisted it was all very good; that they would be 10 page: 218[View Page 218] 218 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED JbllNADS. willing to eat such a dinner with such a wife every day; but it would not do. Hopkins insisted that that they should go with him. "It was the only way to give the cook a lesson," he said, and rose from the table; and his -friends, who knew his dis. position, dared not remain with Effie, The door was closed after them, and Effie still sat at the table, looking at the ill-cooked dishes be- fore her. "It was cruel," thought Effie, " it was cruel to treat me in this manner. I have tried so hard to-day to please him." She burst into tears, and bitterly lamented her ignorance of domestic af- fairs. "He looked!so angry, so mortified, what will I do 2 How can I remedy it? . , The bell rang; a young friend called, and would not be refused. Effie went to the parlor, her face and eyes red from crying. - ;'Why! Effie rn tears!" said Sophy Murray; "what can be the cause ' I was just telling Molly Waters I never envied any one but you. Do you not remember how often you and I hhave talked of the handsome old men we meant to marry, and be their darlings8 Well, how do you like it Is it not delightfull. Come, now, Effie,' you shan't keep any secrets from me,- You know you prom- ised you would not before you were married; not from me, you know. What isthe matter?" the recollection of old times and old school-days over. / page: Illustration-219[View Page Illustration-219] RINOGOLD HOPES. 219 came Effie, for she had not outlived her romantic attachment for school friends, and she could not speak until she had cried anew, "Come, now,' said Sophy, "what is it, dear Effie?" "Oh nothing," replied Effie; "nothing but the dinner;"' here she paused; "and Ringola called me ' a baby.'" "What about the dinner " asked Sophy, -, "It was'not well-cooked or; served, and -he;'had friends come home. with him'to-iine, -andlhe-was. very angry, and left the house to go out and-:dine with. them at the"Astor' House." ' Scarcely: abble^ t finish -the sentence, Effie again gave wayto .a ftood of tears--while Sophy put her' arms around her an assured. her "-it was" not worth her tears." "I-- would not mind him at all, Effie; don't you cry for him; he. is a disagreeable old bachelor, and it was a/.shame to treat you so, hardly'three/ months :mar- - 'ied. 1' wish you had never seen him. Thre, now, Effie, don't you mind him. Tell him-., don't care-; .he may go out every day if he likesgT go away, altogether..,T 'li y^e: ^od..l ,"/-., ::' , "No, Sophyj that would npot- do.- :He, ehad rea- son to complain of me," said Effie, still crying., ".He has lived very -uncomfortable from my igno rance of housekeeping, and the only way for me is to see how I can remedyit. I think I'll dis- page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] 220 PORTRAITS f OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. miss this cook, and see what I can do with a new one." "Well, you are an angel, Effie; Icouldn't do it, and I don't think it the better way; you'll make a tyrant of him. I've heard ma say a hundred times, that men must be treated like the spaniel or you could not live with them. 1Pd like to see pa complain of any thing!" "I can see Ringold's- faults, Sophy, but his want of patience would not excuse me. He is very good after all." Sophy found her advice of little use. After a long talk and many invectives against Hop- kins, she left her friend, quite dissatisfied that she had not been able to make Effie - act like a ioman -of spirit, as -she would do. She made several calls that morning, and confidentially related the news she gathered; and, like all news, it lost nothing in its course among the gossips! Effie dismissed the cook, and this gave offence to the other servants, who gave warning that they too would leave on the following dayiunless Mrs. Hopkins would "take back her word;" but Effie was resolute. The dinner at the Astor House was not as agreeable to Hopkins or his friends as he had anticipated. They reproved his stern manner to so young a creature; but he assured them he could not live without the comforts which a good ... ? , !::??. RINGOLD HOPINS. 221 table afforded, and that his course would teach her a lesson. Effie had not retired when Ringold returned. He had remained later than he had intended. All the way home he was turning over in his mind the most prudent course to take with his wife; how would he meet her e what would he say what would she think of his stem manner Having reached home, he went to his room. Passing the parlor door, he saw Effie seated by the window. The gas was turned low, and cast' but a faint light upon every thing around her. She saw him enter, but did not go to meet him as usual. She thought he would soon colne down, and she would wait for him to come to her and make some excuse for what he had-done. She was quite sure he would do so. But Hopkins had no ideas of this kind. He had lived his life long alone, with no one to govern- or control his acts. His own comfoit and convenience were all that had ever occupied his thoughts. Lit- tle did poor Effie know the heart she had to mould! The diamond was so imbedded in hard rock and earth, that it required both time and care to bring it to the surface, where the light and sun would - make it shine and sparkle. She had not yet the wisdom to see and reason thus, for she was but a child. Yet in her nature there was that deep principle and sense of right that led her to act wisely. page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] RTRAITS OF MY MA RED REDIEs. Ringold did not come to the parlor. It was late, and it would be better for her to wait no longer. She went to their room, and found him reading a foreign journal, while smoking a cigar, quite un concerned it seemed to her. " Are you over your little pout?" said Hopkins " perhaps you thought I'd come for you " " Ringold, is this right ?" said Effie; we are both, to blame. Would you wish me to do as you have done to-day, should I find that you interfered with my comfort, or mortified me, as I am sorry I have you to-day ?" "Both to blame!" repeated Hopkins. "What the d-1 had I to do with the dinner, except to buy the best the market afforded ?" "You were to blame for leaving home, and blaming me before you had heard how hard I had tried to pleisyou." " I was wrong in blaming you, I know," said Ringold, sulkily. "Your mother is the one to blame. What fortune could long support the waste and destruction such ignorance as yours will bring, Effie? " . ."Do not blame my dear mother, Ringold. 'll do my best to learn; and will bear all the blame if you will not speak against my dear mother, who did so much for me." Ringold was soothed by Ef- fie's gentle tone; but his manner was still cold and RINGOLD HOP'KINS. 223 distant, from the moody humor the ill-cooked meal had given his sensual nature. He shook the ashes from- his cigar, and left it half-burned, while more than once a thought crossed his mind of Effie's sweetness, which ought to have shamed his sullen temper. Had he owned it to her, how light her heart might have been; but in the darkness of the dead of night she dried up her tears, which mois- tened her pillow; and resolved anew to try to learn what she from her heart regretted she had not been taught before. Again Effie's spirits rose. A new set of ser- vants, all colored, were installed; and in Effie's eyes they were all any one could desire. She might have asked advice from home, but that would not do. Her mother was ill, and would be made unr happy by a knowledge of her troubles. The new cook complained that many articles were lacking, quite indispensable to a gentleman's kitchen, which Effie readily purchased, promising her at the same time any thing she would require, and any assist- ance she deemed necessary. "Have you every thing in the quantity, Missus " said I)orcus;--a wo- man of immense size, who had taken her place as mistress of the larder, "caze I never cooks with dribblings." "I think you will find every thing in this closet which I have locked," replied Effie, "but if you page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] 224. PORTRAITS OF 'MY MARRIED,- FRIENDS. prefer it, here is the key, she added, seeing the toss Dorcus gave her head, at the idea of a locked closet where she was cook. Dorcus had a husband whom she said would do for chores, -"if Missus would let himn stay there." Effie could not tell what " chores " there might be, though she did not know of any to be done, but for peace and comfort she consented. "And now, Missus," said Dorcus, "you can leave this place to me, and go to the par- lor, where ladies like yourself belongs. It isn't the thing to see you coming to mouse it over me, and if I don't suit master then I goes.'" Dorcus did suit master for a while. The din- ners were cooked to suit a Mogul's taste, and Effie was once again happy. Dinner, supper, and eve- ning parties were given and went off like a charm. Effie found home so- quiet and lonely in her hus- band's absence, that she often passed days away, and only came home in time for dinner. She no- ticed after a while, that the house was not as neat -and orderly as it might be, and that the silver was much abused, and the china cracked and broken. But she dared not complain. A change might be worse. Ringold often complained, and sometimes swore when his slippers were mislaid, or his linen could not be found, and when his cambric hand- kerchiefs disappeared in couples! One evening he returned late at night, bringing home with him a RINGOLD HOPKINS. 225' gentleman, for whom he was transacting important business, and who must leave the following morning in the steamer for Europe. Ringold desired Effie to order that breakfast should be served punctually at eight, for they had many letters and papers to arrange at the office before the steamer sailed. Effie ventured to the kitchen, that Dorcus should receive the order from her own lips, and to make sure that she was well; for of late nervos head- ache had often kept her in bed I At -least, so Effie thought. "Dorcus didn't see what ladies wanted in the dirty kitchen, and Couldn't Miss Effie have sent word by John, or sent for her to the dining-room?" It is a dirty kitchen, thought Effie, and to-morrow I must see the true state of it, even at the risk of of- fending Dorcus. Dorcus promnised that master should be pleased. The next morning Hopkins looked at his watch at one minute past eight, and frowned at Effie. Ef- fie nodded and smiled pleasantly, and awaited the summons for breakfast with a comparative compo- sure of mind, until a quarter-past eight. She dared not hurry Dorcus so near the time, lest the old wo- man out of spite would delay them longer. Half- past eight-no breakfast! 'It's very singular, Mrs. Hopkins" (Ringold always saidMrs. Hop- 10* page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] -226 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. / kins when he was angry). "It's very singular-that you allow)such disappointments as these." : "Its too bad," replied Effie, " but you know I did all I could. I gave-the order." "Gave the order,s" repeateq Hopkins, "what the d-1 does -that signify unless you see that it is -obeyed? It is of the greatest importance that we should be at the office at nine o'clock." "I'll go and see what causes the delay," said Effse, controlling her feelings. She hurried to the kitchen. Dorcus was wash- ing some laces for herself, and singing as merrily as a lark. No appearance of cooking appeared on the range. Effie exclaimed, "Dorcus, where is your breakfast? We have waited a half an hour over the time." "Law, Missus, I'se done with the kettle long ago, and washed it, spout and all, and put it in the closet."e "Done with the tea-kettfle?" inquired Effie, "you have to rinse your coffee-urn and egg-boiler yet. Where will you get hot water?? ' - Laws Missus, I'll rinse them with hot coffee. 'se plenty; didn't I grind ten mIills full this morn- ing j '"Where is the fresh fish?." inquired Effie, de- spairingly; " didn't your master say it must be well done I " RINGOLD ,HOPKINS. 227 (' Done to a turn, Missus," said Dorcus, opening the oven door, where Effie saw the fish which Rin- gold had received as a present burned to a coal. She could not tell what to do, but, childlike, she burst into tears and sat down in the hall, not daring to appear again in the parlor till breakfast was ready. She called the chambermaid, and told her as quickly as possible to get breakfast. This order roused Dorcus, who insisted that in twenty minutes she could have as fine a breakfast on the table as ever was laid before a gentleman. Effie felt a little encouraged, and went up to her room to bathe her face and await the summons to breakfast. At nine o'clock the breakfast was on the table, and Hopkins and his friends were nowhere to be seen! Effie came down stairs prepared to explain that shefound the cook intoxicated, and had been under the unfortunate necessity of delaying them.; but they had gone, and poor Effie, was again in trouble. On Hopkins's return Effie told him, without a complaint, of his having gone without seeing her; that the delay had not been her fault, and that Dorcus had promised never again to be guilty of such a mistake. "It was the red berries put up in alcohol for a headache that turned my head, Mas- ter," said Dorcus. "IPse can 'void em 'nother time."5 page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] 228 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. "Red berries put up in alcohol!" repeated Ef- fie; 'let me- see them." -Effie found they were brandy cherries; and this discovery induced her to examine her sweetmeats, which till then she had never thought of doing. She found very few left, and broken glass in every direction on the floor and shelves. Dorcus said she had nearly killed herself the night before going in the dark for the berries. She upset something that upset Something else, and all she heard was a great rattling, but from that moment to this she'd never once thought of it." This neglect on Effie's part, together -with others quite apparent to a good housekeeper, led Ringold to see pretty well how every thing else was going about the house, and he decided upon giving -up housekeeping and boarding at a hotel, until his wife would, according to his ideds, arrive at years of discretion; by which time, good reader, he wouldl probably be ready to make his last will and testament. Effie consented to the arrangement, not because she was unwilling to learn, but because she hoped her-^husband would be better satisfied. It was a life to which he had been accustomed, and no doubt both would be happier.. Accordingly- a suite of rooms were taken at the fashionable hotel for the coming winter, and who could doubt the young wife's happiness, when their private parlor RINGOLD HOPrINS. 229 was hung in green and gold damask satin, and the carpet lay like a bed of flowers under their feet? The easy and luxurious chairs invited them to re- pose, and the great mirrors reflected all their charms and beauties, and then the tables were marble, and upon one stood a silver pitcher and goblet, offering a glass of water! The first evening after their arrival at the hotel, Ringold went around his room in search of a com- fortable place to write a note. In vain he searched; there were little marble tables, with what not toys poan them, and etegeres and gilded chairs; but these he could not write upon ' There's no comfort here," said Ringold. "Why the deuce do they not furnish these rooms with- something we can use? They are the coldest pris- ons I ever saw invented, built, I verily believe, with a view to try men's temper and ruin women." "Better buy a table and writing-desks" sug- gested Effie.. "It would not suit this flimsy flashy furniture," replied Hopkins, but I must do it; I can't be an- noyed in this way." The next day Effie dressed herself -becomingly for dinner. Every eye was turned towa:ds her as she entered, leaning on Ringold. Not one sup: posed her to be his wife, until he called her "Mrs. / page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] $30 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. Hopkins," which he took pains to do aloud, that all might hear her title. Effie preserved the greatest gravity at table, and scarcely, raised her eyes; but this prudence did not save her from severe reproof. An old friend rec- ognized her at the door, when she was leaving the dining-room, and begged the number of her parlor, wishing to pay his respects to her and her "fortu- nate husband." "Pretty words," said Ringold, 'to use to a married lady; but he would not have done so had not yotur mann:r authorized it, Mrs. Hopkins." "He is a friend of my childhood," said Effie. "He loves me as a sister, and is as far from sus- pecting evil as you should be from blaming me," replied Effie, with dignity. "'All very well, very well,!' said Ringold, speak- ing rapidly, and making his gold fob chain :fy, "all very well, but I can assure you, Mrs. Hopkins, that the world will condemn your light manner as much as I do." "Light manner, Ringold Oh, for shame!" said-ie, with spirit. Take care that yourm- reasonable restraint does not drive me to forget my love for 3Gu," "And give it to another, no doubt," replied Hopkins. "No, never," said Effie, "that could not be. * , z RINGOLD HOPKINS. 2831 Do you not know that you are treading upon dan- gerous ground, teaching your 'baby wife'-what she might never know but- for your suspicious ac- cusations?" Ringold could not deny the justness of the' re- mark, and wondered at her wisdom. Scarcely had they closed their door, before a knock announced the coming of the friend of whom Effie had spoken. Ringold opened the door, and Frank Somerville bowed and congratulated Ringold upon his pleasant rooms, and pretty wife; and talked, as sometimes men of the world will talk, without remembing one-half hour after a word of all they had said I Ringold scowled and would have left the room to hide his discontent, had not a lady entered just at that moment, for whom he had the greatest ab- horrence; and to -leave Aer with his wife, would have been worse than any gentleman he knew. "Mrs. Ho h, I suppose," said Mrs. Whittle- all, bowing to Effie, and seating herself near Mr. Somerville. "Mrs. Hovkins, Mr. Somerville," said Ringold, taking a chair on the other side of the roofI "Did you hear of the runaway match,.we had here?" said the lady. "Such a time I Over saw; the house has been all in commotion these three days, watching the couple. Her room was next to mine, and I saw all the proceedings. The board- page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] 232 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. ing-houses and hotels in New York are the places to see' life. Upon my word, I've seen more and learned more in one winter here, than I ever learned in all my life; but to go back. He was old; say as old, perhaps older than you, Hopkins-no mat-, ter about your age, and she was a young creature like Mrs. Hopkins. Well, that fellow, (the one she ran off with) I've seen a hundred times, just now like you, Mr. Somerville, though closer, nearer to her, and who could wonder what would happen But I can't blame her, for her husband was a crooked stick; gs crabbed as a-but this I'd forgive if he hadn't tormented the poor young thing with his jealousy. She could not speak to man or wo- man, without he'd lecture her till the poor thing was sick from crying; and no wonder she wanted to fly from such a jealous old tyrant. I hope you'll never do-so, Hopkins." Ringold laughed a forced laugh, and Effie smiled, and from her heart thanked Mrs. Whittle- all for the lesson she had given Ringold. The good woman continued a strain of senseless talk and gos- sip, dad then asked Ringold to go over to the other side of the room; she wished to speak to him. "I caime to tell you to look out for that pretty young creature. What could have induced a man ;of your age to make such a choice ' No one at ; ' ' RINGOLD HOPJ S. - .23m ;the table supposed her to be your wife. She can't love you as she would a younger man." Ringold felt inclined to pitch the woman out of the window, but she was the wife of a vey -influ- ential brother broker, whom he could not offend by even turning his wife out 'the door, and he pocketed the insult as best he could. "Your money must have induced her," she continued; she always spoke so fast that an answer could seldom be given to her questions, until she paused for breath. "No doubt," replied Ringold, "she would not have married me without money; but I flatter my- self she cared for me d little " "Well, well, I hope so," said the gossip, "but you must be very gentle, and ndever let her see you are jealous, or my word for it she'll run off as quick as--ah, there! who is that? As I live, there is Mrs. H. La Granige gone out again with the young officer. Well, what a fool her husband is! This is the fourth time I've seen him gallanting her in that way, and her husband laughs and says, 'it saves him a world of trouble!' Excuse mbTIll just cross over to her room, and see if her husband knows of this." The lady rushed out, but soon re- turned, put her head in the door, and asked Effie "if she would see her at the hop that evening " Effie said " she thought not." page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] RTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. "That will never do," said Mrs. Whittleall; "you must appear, or my word for it every one in the house will be down upon my old friend Hop- kins. No one will believe that you do not wish to go, and I need not say (nodding to Ringold) upon whom the blame will rest. If you- are too sleepy after dinner, Mr. Hopkins, Mr. Somerville, I know, would be too happy to take charge of Mrs. Hop- kins, who will, I am sure, be all propriety." "Certainly," said Mr. Somerville, .nothing could give me more pleasure, if Mr. Hopkins de- sires it' "I-thank you," replied Hopkins, raising his eyebrows, and trying to look pleased and compli- mented, "thank you, I think I'll be able to go down to the parlor myself. I suppose it will not do in a place like- this to consult one's own pleasure in any thing. At least so it appears to me." Mr. Somerville laughed, andy enjoyed what he supposed to be a joke, and said in a low tone to Ef- fie, "that no doubt these hops would be a bore to a man of his age."' Another knock; several young ladies, and one married lady, Mrs. Simper, had called to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Hopkins, and were delighted "that they had so agreeable an addition to their circle, as she and Mr. Hopkins would be." " You must come down with us," said Mrs. Simper, "to the hall.; all the ladies and gentlemen are promenading, and they do look magnificent." "Did you not notice that little Hebe in blue silk, Mrs. Simper ?" said Miss Myrtle. "She was walking with Major Henry. She is the veriest flirt imaginable, and keeps her poor victims in torture as long as possible. She has not a particle of heart or principle. She will get caught yet, and won't she deserve it!" "I saw it all," said Mrs. Simper; "but that is nothing. I don't mind how much young ladies flirt; but I do dislike to see ladies of Mrs. Prink- wood's age making themselves ridiculous. She is, we must all own, very handsome, when, she has used with care and taste both rouge and chalk, and it is no wonder that the gentlemen at the table, both old and young, are fascinated by her. Would you believe it, Mrs. Hopkins, she has beeneevery day these two months lpast sitting for her portrait, and she has invited us' all to go and look at it. The gentlemen of the house have all been; and the poor simpleton does not seem to suppose that we will notice the vanity she, displays." Mr. Hopkins took the opportunity to give his views on the subject of these flirtations and mani- festations of weakness, and concluded by saying "that so far as he could judge from his limited ex- perience, never before having seen much of ladies' 4 page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] 236 PORTRA!;TS OF MY A4tiED FRIENDS. society at hotels, he must confess he considered it almost a moral impossighility for a woman to breathe such an atmosphere and preserve her purity of heart and purpose. And he didn't see why husbands were blind enough to run into the folly of exposing their wives to such dangers." The ladies all laughed heartily at the idea of husbands having any authority in the matter. "I suppose," said Miss Myrtle, "that Mr. Hopkins would, be very jealous of your pretty face, Mrs. Hopkins, and I can't say I would blame him; for if he heard all the remarks I heard after you left the table to-day, he might as well prepare for ' coffee and pistols for;itwo."' Effie looked embarrassed and troubled, and tried to change the subject to something more agreeable and sensible. It was in vain. She might -as well have spoken in an un- known tongue. Another knock at the door. One of the wait- ers entered, with -a large bouquet of choice flowers, and handed them to Mrs. Hopkins. "A gentleman in a dark-green coat, marm, desired'me to give you these flowers," said the waiter. "The devil he did?" said Hopkins, catching poor John by the collar, and with a kick hurried him out the door. "There, you scoundrel,' said Hopkins, nearly out of breath with rage, ' there, you d-d rascal; you dare to bring flowers or let- / t RINGOLD HOPKINS. 237 ters to my wife, if you value your head or your heels." The ladies threw themselves into theatrical atti- tudes of amazement and terror, and Miss Myrtlej throwing herself upon her knees before Ringold, expostulated and prayed him ( to spare rs. 'Hop- kins' life." "What the deuce do you all mean? Are you crazy? For what are you in tears, Effie. It's nothing to laugh at, Mr. Somerville," said Hop- kins, in one breath, wiping his brow, and endeavor- ing to compose his thoughts. "Upon my honor," he continued, "either you or I have lost-our senses." "I should suppose you had," said Effie, "if-a bouquet from dear brother Philip could make you so angry." "From Philip!" said Ringold, trying to laugh. "Never mind, it's all over now, and I'm sorry, but I became so indignantly exasperated at the stories these ladies were kind enough to tell you, that I almost fancied I saw-you going off with a"- "Oh Ringold!" interrupted Effie, recovering herself. The ladies hastened away, to relate the precious bit of gossip, in every private parlor to which they had access, and before the music called them to the hop, Effie had been left in a dead faint upon the floor! the waiter severely injured, -and page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] 838 PORTRAITS OP MY MA-alhEU FRIENDS. Hopkins in danger of death from excessive an- ger! ; It was not long before Hopkins saw that he had made a great mistakein his choice of a home, and he humbly begged Effie to make another attempt at housekeeping. Hotel life to her was dreary and j irksome, heartless, idle and unsatisfactory in the ex- treme, and, she could plainly see, calculated to de- stroy all domestic comfort. Again Ringold went to housekeepiig, an altered man in some respects. Gossips had, without in- tending the good, read him a lesson he could not soon forget; and Effie's prudent and modest de- meanor, while surrounded by temptations and bad example, had won his profound respect in spite of his unreasonable complaints, which he had really set about correcting. Her patience with his exact- ing disposition in time brought its own rewaaid,and though her influence was but a daily drop upon the stone, it wore its way and worked a channel to the fountains of his heart, which lay so deeply covered. Years, years have passed since then, and now his head is white with age, and his step is feeble and, tottering, while she is young and active, full of hope and cheerfulness, but subdued. From his own lips have I drawn the portrait of his first year of mar- ried life. He delights in telling what his little wife, his darling Effie, has made him by her goodness, mINooLD HOrUI8s. 239 and he hopes to drop into the grave supported by her gentle, loving arms. If she has regretted he- choice the world never knew it. Let her be a model which all foolish girls must follow who sigh to be "an old man's darling." UNCixE BEN. UscL BF. page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] PORTRAIT NO. VI. KATE KEARNEY. CHAPTER I. THIS is a fine house. Pause a moment in front of it. The heavy silk and lace hangings at the windows shut out a full view of the interior; but we can get a peep through that little opening, if we stoop a lit- tle. How cheerful every thing looks within. The lights burn brightly, and every face-is beaming with smiles. What a large family.! children of all ages. See them here and there in merry chat. There are an old lady and gentleman seated in one corner over a game 0f chess. Would you ever sup- pose from their placid brows, that the storms'of life had tossed theii'bark? It has been tossed to and fro almost to sinking; but while the winds blew and the waves dashed high, the sweet voice, "It is 1, be not afraid," was ever near them. They are now safely moored. Their children and grandchildren " page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] -242 POETEAITS OF MY M MRRIED FEIENDS. gather around them, and are the comfort and bless- ing of their declining years. See that little bright- eyed girl, dressed in white, leaning upon the lap of the old lady, looking up in her face with a smile. On the opposite side of the room from the chess- table are Mr. and Mrs. Edgerton, entering into the Children's sport with a content and happiness whichl is only found in such a home. It is a delightful picture. Those merry peals of laughter are irre- sistible. We must join the little company. "Take care, granidma," said "'Chee Chee," the little fairy in white, who had received that pet name on account of her delicate beauty; "take care, I wouldn't have grandpapa beat you for my wax doll." Grandpapa laughed and caught her ii his arms, and said the doll must be his now if he wonJthe game, while she ran off for consolation to her sister Mary, a few years older, who was finish- ing an opera hood of white zephyr worsted for this same wax doll. "Sister Mary, I love you, you are so kind to me." "Or to your doll?" replied Mary, laughing. "To me, dear sister; don't you know I love you 8" said Chee Chee, earnestly. Before Mary could reply the opera-hood was spirited away, and * Indian for "Fairy." KATE KARNEy. ) 243 for a moment not a sign of it could be seen; but the rogue Willie, who looked unnaturally demure, lean- ing against the mantle with an innocent, quiet countenance, must have stolen behind her and taken it out of her hand. ( 'Twas you, brother Willie; 'twas you!" said Chee Chee, " and now please give it to sister Mary." Wilhe had a little argument with her, which gave him time to steal slyly to the chess-table and de- posit the stolen goods in grandmamma's pocket. "Check," said the old lady, just as Wilhe had withdrawn his hand, which made him start and laugh heartily. "Grandmama took it, Chee Chee," said Willie; "Iook in her pocket." "Oh, grandmamma!" said Chee Chee. While these innocent little tricks were amusing the younger ones, three older children Charles, a boy of sixteen, and- two girls younger, Ainie and Helen, were seated around a little table, listening to a German legend which Henry Edgerton, the oldest son, was reading aloud to them. Annie and Helen were embroidering; and now and then dropped their spools of floss under the table, which Willie drew away;with a-lasso made of light wire, and kept his post at the mantel, to see their aston- ishment at the sudden disappearance of their sew- ing materials; but unwilling to interrupt the read- page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] 244i PORTRAI'rTS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. ing, they bore the loss without remark. The rogue was. caught at last. He attached his wire to a hat in the hall, and drew it in so dexterously that no v one saw any thing more than the hat, in slow leaps coming across the parlor towards Willie. All sprang to see the wonder, and Wilhe was hustled out of the room,? amid screams of laughter from all, young and old. Quiet- was again restored, and Willie "' bound over to keep the peace." Rose, the eldest daughter, was in the recess of the window, partly shaded from view by the heavy, drapery that hung around her, in conversation -with Clifford Howard, an old friend. She held in her hand adiamond ring of great value. "It is, very beautiful," said Rose. "Isabella is worthy of it; when will you present it? Are you yet engaged?" Clifford Howard, who sat near her, looked in her face astonished and pained by the question. He t )' had long loved Rose, and, could it be that she had mistaken his attentions to his cousin Isabella? He could not believe it,;:anud yet it, must be so. Bewil- 'dered by these and other reflections, he' placed the ring in the case again andreplied, '"':No, we are nobt engaged." ' Rese would have wished to believe: that:they'never! would be. She knew -that Isabella" toved Clifford with- a devotion: seldom seen, and fromi:many circumstanes she had reason to believe that -Clifford was not indifferent RATE KFARNEY. . 245 to her charms, which Rose in her heart thought far superior to any attractions which she could offer. Clifford took advantage of the uproar the walking hat had caused, and bade "good night," with a heart less light than he had ever borne before. E Rose left the window when she had seen the last glimpse of Clifford, and retired: to her room, after having received the blessing and a fond " good night " from her parents, and a kiss from all in the room, down to little "Chee Chee," who so loved " dear Rose." 'We must leave this happy circle with reluc- tance, and take a peep into one of the many fash- ionable French dress-making establishments in the city of New York. We pass through the recep- tion-room and enter the work-room. It is large; the floor uncarpeted. There are several sofas and couches covered with faded chintz, upon which are laid silks, satins, muslins, laces, velvets Iand tarl- tans; some, made into dresses, some to be made, and some partly finished, are awaiting the coming of the fair ones, who are hourly expected to call and try them on, before the last finishing touches are given, which madanme calls la;finale. How beauti- ful they look, thrown in graceful confusion on those half-worn couches. Robes of every dye, from royal purple to the faintest tint of green, are here. How many hearts beat with joy at the anticipated pleas- ure-scenes for which they are prepared. How many page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] 246 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. a tale is bound up and associated with those dresses. Some perhaps of woe and sadness; some of trials and temptations, and others of happiness, to be re- - membered long after the last thread of the fabric will have lost its beauty. In the centre of the room, over the mantel, is a large clock, which is of- ten watched with anxious eyes by the tired seam- stresses, who must come punctually at seven and work till eleven, twelve or one at night as the hurry and press of business may require. They must sew faithfully and cheerfully, and uncomplain- ingly bear the reproofs, just or unjust, which the too tried temper of Madam Va Bien may deal out, sometimes in anger, for which she is truly sorry whenl the cause of annoyance is passed. Seated on low chairs at one end of the room are fifteen or twenty young girls, of ages varying from twelve and fourteen to twenty, all simply dressed, but each one with some attempt at finery or coquettish fashion of bow or flounce. Some are fair and with features of birth above their present position, and some are lowly in face and form. But there is one among the- group whose beauty must strike the eye of every one who enters. She is nearest the window, and has sought the most re- tired spot to avoid being noticed. She seldom looks up except when spoken to, and seems unconscious of what is passing- around her. Her attention is KATE KEARNEY. 247 given at this moment to the finishing of a beauti- ful bridal dress which lies upon her lap. Her lux- uriant head of hair, dressed with the, greatest sim- plicity; her dark, full eyes softened by their long silken lashes, beam with a sweet confiding gentle- ness that would repel the first thought of wrong. Her complexion is transparently fair, and her fea- -tures so delicately moulded that her beauty might grace a throne. Her hands are beautiful and deli- cate in form, and you cannot help wondering why she is here. Her manner is lady-like and gentle; ;a little timid, but it is the timidity of a natural re- finement of mind. "Who is she, Madam Va Bien . " is asked by every one who enters the sew- ing-room, and notices the silent group of girls. "A Limerick beauty," whispers Madam. The clack on the mantel had struck twelve. It was Saturday night. At that instant Kate laid aside her work. It was a beautiful dress for a party to be given on the following Monday night. Madam Ya Bien called out with great excitement of tone and manner, '- Kate, it is my wish that you remain until the store is closed. That work must be finished, and who do you suppose will finish it if not you 2 I don't like these airs. They are not allowed here. I insist upon your remaining, or you need not re- turn on Monday. Do now as you please." page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] 248 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. The- color came to the cheeks of poor Kate as she stood before Madam Va Bien with her cloak and bonnet on, the object of remark. She heard the whispers of discontent around her, and more than one unkind remark upon the care she took of her- self, and why she was better than they. Her eyes filled with tears, and she replied timidly, 'Any other night, Madam, yeou may require double duty, and I will not complain; but I cannot work on Sunday morning. Please excuse me for refusing." "Pretty well, indeed," said Madam Va Bien. "Girls, you see what a model of piety we have here!" (All laughed.) "I'd like to know if you do not all belong to the same church, and yet you do not set yourself up for saints like this. It is a piece of impertinence to which I will notsubmit, and- to teach you better, Kate, here is your money," (pull- ing out her purse from her pocket, from which she took the sum required, trembling from head to foot with rage.) "We'll see how soon you'll be brought to terms. It was only yesterday your aunt was here with a tale of distress, and told me that she had made you the fine lady you are, by days and by nights of toil; and now what do you think she will say when you go home and tell her you have thrown yourself out of an honest employment through your own fault 2 " KATE KEARNEY. 249 Kate made no reply, but waited till a-pause was made by Madam Ya Bien, that would enable her to retire without seeming to be rude. She reached the street. It was bitter cold. She drew her cloak closely about her, and hurried to the desolate place she called her home. It was in an old building, fast going to decay, that was hid from the street by be- ing in an alley-way. Never did Kate enter this dreary abode of poverty without. shrinking from contact with its inmates, and a feeling of degrada- tion from which her spirit struggled to be free. She knew not why, for she had known no other home for many years. Her aunt was a woman of coarse mould and feature, and Kate's "dainty q'tas" had ever been an unsolved mystery to her. The wind blew and the cutting sleet beat unre- lentingly upon poor Kate, who, trembling with fear at the late hour of the night, was almost overcome when she reached the house. A drauinken man who lived in the fourth story lay across the doorway, and threatened her life if she dared " to enter his dominions, for sure was not he "King George," or "the Lord Lieutenant," or " the River Shannon." "Please let me pass," said Kate, " and I'll do you no harm." - "Not a bit of it, my pretty lass," -replied the drunken man; " sure what right has the likes of ye to be out at this hour disturbing the pace and quiet I1* page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] 250 PORTRAITS OF MY MAIREIED FRIENS. repose of-of-his Majesty's subjects and inimies to the republic ." EHere he caught her and held her fast till her screams aroused the sleeping po- liceman who was near, and came to see the cause 5f disturbance. Twenty heads of all sizes and ap- pearance were thrust out of the windows, and! a dozen half-awake children set up cries and screams, which were soon silenced by harsh words and heavy blows. A scuffle ensued, and "The River Shannon " was locked up in the station-house for the night. It was a strange place for the beautiful young girl to enter, and how unlike those around she appeared. Bridget Kearney, her aunt, was sleeping on a small cot upon a bed of straw in one corner of the room. Several old chairs, a chest, a small table, some odd pieces of crockery, two wash-tubs, an old clock and a small stove comprised the furniture of this apartment. Upon the'walls were hung some colored engravings, in stained wood frames, of our Saviour fainting under the Cross, the. Archangel Michael trampling upon Satan, the Holy Family, Saint Patrick, and Dianiel O'Connell. -Upon the mantel were plaster-of-paris baskets of fruit and flowers, and some gilt cups and tumblers that had been broken but were mended with putty, and took their place as ornaments. Kate's supper had been left upon the table. As noiselessly as possi- KATE KEARNEY. 251 ble she took off her cloak, heavy with the sleet, and laid aside her bonnet, from which the water was running down upon her neck and shoulders. The old building shook, and the windows rattled, and -the wind came in through the large open spaces Con every side. Kate sat down to the simple -meal, but her heart was too anxious to allow her to partake of it with much appetite. She dreaded the harsh treatment she must expect from her aunt, when she would hear that she had lost her place with Madam Va Bien; and again and again she thought of the probable result of the step she had taken. "But GOD will not leave me to suffer for obedience to his law,". thought Kate. "Why should I fear? it is a want of faith. I am so easily cast down. Is it not easy for him to open another way for me? But Aunt Bridget will be so cross with me if I am long idle." Bridget turned in her bed, and called out in a half audible voice, "Are you there, Kate a Come, don't be medithating over the cinders there.. Isn't it enough to burn the light till twelve o'clock for you every night "Just then a step was heard outside the door, and a hand was laid gently upon the latch. A- moment more and Mrs. Innis, who lived in an upper room, came in on tip-toe. and asked pardon for disturbing Kate; but she knew from the light that shone from under the door, that page: 252-253[View Page 252-253] 2X52 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. Kate had not yet retired, and she had ventured down to ask the loan of a candle. She had noth- ing for-her sick husband, and she was sitting up to finish some sewing that must be taken home on Monday morning early, or she could not get her money, of which she was in so much need. Little Wilhe was with, her, she said. - "Is your sewing done," asked Kate. Mrs. In- nis sat down on the floor a moment near Kate, glad to give herself even momentary rest. "Bless you, yes," she replied; " you don't think I'd do that, I hope. It is but little comfort I have here, and wouldn't it be a poor thing for me to have less in the next world, where they say the suffering poor shall have their reward for all their trials. I've done my sewing, but must put my room in order. It is poor enough, but for all that I like to be clean." Kate glanced around her own neglected, disorderly abode and sighed. "Then after?that I must prepare' barley-water for poor Henry, and by the time I've said my prayers and rosary it will be near to break of day. Look at that sweet face, Kate," pointing to the picture of our Saviour bearing the cross. ' I cannot com- plain when I look at that; and do you know, now, I wouldn't give up my lot to take the place of the grandest lady in this town. Would you:?" "I'm afraid I would," said Kate. "I'm rot as -KATE lrEARNEY. -253 good as you. You have been sorely tied, and are so patient with it all, that I'm ashamecdo tell you how I complain. I am cast down at the smallest trial." "Well, you are young, dear. I was once so, too; but it is trouble that gives strength, and if you'll think when trouble comes, that you are walk- ing side by side with the blessed, cross, you don't know how easy it will be to carry it. You are troubled now. I see it. Tell me what is it." "Aunt Bridget is waking; another time," said Kate, wiping the tears from her eyes, which had come at the kind words of Mrs. TnnAis Mrs. Innis took the light from Kate, who insisted she could prepare for bed without it, and went back to her room. Little Willie sat by his father's -bed- side, and laid his little hand upon the cover to feel the slightest movement he would make, and answer the poor man's simple wants. "Mother," said Willie, " father has been call- ing you, and I'm afraidhe is much worse, he has groaned and sighed so much.". Mrs. Jnnis hurried to the bedside, and stooping over him whispered, "Henry, did' you call me?a I'm here now." He -reached towards her, and held- both her hands in his. "Mary," said he, , do you love me? Have I not killed you? How can I appear before page: 254-255[View Page 254-255] 254 PORTRAIT S OF- MY MARRIED FRIENDS. GoD, as I fer I must, when I have treated you so badly.? You dear, patient creature, why did you not spurn me, leave me, despise me, let me die as I deserved to die in the street, where the dogs might eat nmy miserable body ' Oh, Mary, Mary, do not cry, you'll kill me. Tell me you forgive me. Tell me I am not a wretch, a murderer; but I would not believe you. I am a vile, loathsome monster. Have pity on me. Mary, pray for me." Mary, for years, had heard only curses and harsh words from her husband, and she had some- times received heavy biws, which she bore with meek forbearance, and ffered them to God. She was greatly blamed byvadies for whom she sewed for living with him; but when reproved by them she answered, Oh, madam, he was very kind and fond of me. I cannot turn against himi now. I pity him." No wonder then that poor Mary was too much overcome by this unexpected appeal to reply at once. She laid her head upon his breast, and while he still held her hands in his she wept, till it seemed to her that she had -blotted out those dreadful years of his cruel harshness, and they were once again happy and loving, as they were when she left all for him.. She was lost in the hap- piness of that moment, and could not answer him until --he had raised her heart to God. i KATE KEARNEY. 255 "You can't forgive me, Mary.' I know you can't," said Henry. "Forgive you,"' said the devoted wife, "with all my heart; you are again yourself, dear Harry. I used to call you ' Harry;' do you remember?" Yes, until I was cruel and-and-O GoD for- give me." "Harry, don't let us say any more of this. You are sorry and ask God's pardon. I've always loved you, and stood by you, for I knew it was. the work of that dreadful sin that changed you so. There, let us never speak of it again. And if you get well, oh how happy we will be." "Mary, I have not long to live. I know it, and I would like to see good lFather Jerome. Will you go at break-of-day and tell him I can't live? Ask him to come, and then he will pray for me, and God will hear me. But oh, Mary, what a life! How will I dare to appear --z "? He grew faint, and gradually sunk into a heavy sleep, from which poor Mary feared he never could awake. Little Willie sat crouched at his mother?s feet. The scene was almost too much for his little heart to bear. Mary was the only child of a respectable mechanic, who had given her some opportunities of educa- tion, but in her religion she had been thoroughly instructed, and lived up to the teachings of her faith with a fidelity that might have edified many page: 256-257[View Page 256-257] 256 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. in the highest walks of life. Henry was young when they were married, and for two or three years was an exemplary, devoted husband, who provided a comfortable and happy home for his- wife. But the sad story- of his fall is too familiar in the book of life to be repeated. Many, many a wife could tell it, and could tell how she had marked the weary way with tears and blood. How she had nearly- fainted by his side with cold and hunger, and with shame, and yet prayed to live on and try to save him; how she had in return for this devoted, unwearied love, received but stripes, and scoffs, and taunts, until she had become a bye-word of shame among her people. All this and more, yes, more, could MaryS tell; but not a whisper of reproach had once escaped her lips. But the great GOD-had seen and known it all, and her- name had been written in the Book of Life, and a place was prepared for her where but few can sit, for she had walked side by side with her suffering Lord, and must partake of. His glory in Heaven. It is no overwrought pic- ture. It is truthful as the Word of God. Who would not suffer? The following day Henry was too insensible to derive any benefit from the visit of Father Jerome. But at dawn of day a woman was seen kneeling be- fore the altar of one-of the churches. The sanctu- ary lamp was dimly burning, and the figure of our RAT WEAtRNEY. 257 Saviour in the Crucifixion, which hung over the Tabernacle, could be seen but indistinctly. But. Mary's eyes were fixed upon it, and her hands were clasped in an agony of supplication. ;Was she pleading for herself? for a release from poverty and degradation? or for the soul of her repentant husband? She whispered "Father, forgive him!" and think you she was not heard? Early on Monday morning she hurried home with the sewing, which it had been so difficult to finish while taking care of her sick husband, and suffering from hunger. But it had been accom- plished, and Mary stood in the basement hall of a great house where there was abundance, and "pur- ple and- fine linen." The servant, a housekeeper, returned the work without giving her any compen- sation, and said some of it had been improperly done. Mary hesitated a few moments, and then made known her great distress, and the sickness of her husband. "Probably a drunken fit," was the reply. "Can't advance money; when the work is done I'll pay for it." Mary's cheek flushed with mortification. A moment more it had passed, and she was again deathly pale. Trembling from weakness she stag- gered home, and more than one, as they passed her, made remarks upon her " intoxication." Oh the trials of GOD's suffering poor! page: 258-259[View Page 258-259] 258 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. : "Mother, dear, don't cry; it- is not long you will have to -wait for comfort and rest, and plenty of money,' said Willie, who stood beside his ,-mother wiping his eyes with his' coat sleeve, and laughing at the same time, hoping to disguise his feelings. "Don't cry. .When I'm a man I'll work and learn so much money; and I'll give it all to you. and not one of these hard-hearted ladies shall ask you then, to sew for them. There," kicking a basket of fine linen work that Mrs. Innis had -laid by her side on coming in, " there! that's the way I'll kick the -work out of the house, if they dare to ask my mother to sew herself sick when I'm a man,' paid Willie, indignantly. , "Willie, my darling boy, be quiet," said the poor woman, struggling to control the hysterical sobbing-iato which she had fallen, from disappoint- ment andexhaustion. "Don't complain. 'mvery thankful for the lady's work. What would I do, what: would yoer: poor father do, and -what would you do but for the sewing? You did very wrong to get angry, my boy. I hope you are sorry for it, my child." "I am afraid I don't feel sorry, mother, for I feel yet as if T could burn up the basket and all that's in it. You- staid up all :night to -finish those things, and then you brought them all home again. Why did you, mother?t I know that disagreeable, - ATE KEARNEY. 259 hard-hearted, wicked lady didn't pay you, and sent them all home again for an excuse." "Willie, my boy, where is your charity?" "I don't know, mother. I don't think it right to have any for such people." "Towards whom, my dear, would you feel Char. ity if not for those whose hearts cannot feel for the poor 2 They are more to be pitied, my dear, than we. I took home the work, and some of the but- ton-holes were too small. I will have to alter them. The lady will pay me then, she said. My child, you are hungry. You look pale. What will I do? Hark! I hear your father call. Run, Willie tell him I'll soon come with a little broth. I'll go anc try to get something for him. It was keeping him waiting for it that made me cry. God forgive me. I was too impatient. Oh, Willie, don't get angry again; it is imurmuring against: God's goodness." The child softly opened a door which separated the little bedroom from the outer room, and stole to the bedside, where his poor father lay emaciated and almost spent. His eyes were closed, and his hands were clasped across his breast. Tears were slowly trickling down his- cheeks, but not a muscle of his face moved. They had lost their power of action. "Thy will be done," in the lowest whisper murmured the poor man. ;"Mary, Mary, one drop page: 260-261[View Page 260-261] 260 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. of water; one word more, Mary. A little more- broth." ' Father," said Willie, " can you wait till mothei comes She will be here in one little minute more." Willie wiped the tears from off his father' cheeks, and kissed his lips again and again, his own tears falling meanwhile too fast to check them. for his little heart was ready to burst with grief Sorrow and poverty had made him wise, and the little child was only a child in form and face. His face was still simple, trusting, hopeful. An ex- pression of sweetness almost heavenly beamed in his countenance. The little fellow had been taught by his mother that- suffering here was, if properly borne, a mark of favor from -above, and it was not often that his heart rebelled as it had done that morning. "Poor mother," sighed Willie; "I wish I was a man. I ought not to have been so angry. I'in so sorry. There she comes." Willie stole out of the room as gently as possible, and open the outside door. -He was sure he had heard some one. A dark-looking man was walking up and down in :front of the building, surveying the premises, and attracted by Willie's uncommon appearance paused a moment, and after glancing at him said, ' My lad, do you live in this rickety old shell? I should suppose your father and mother, if you have any, would expect to be buried in it some night. It's KATE KEARNEY. 261 no place for decent people to live in. There is lnore gI drunkenness and filth in this alley than would kill a regiment. How have you lived? How long I have you lived here?" -u "Over a year, sir," replied Willie. - "Father got sick, and mother had to pay so much to the doctors that she couldn't pay much rent. It is very cheap here, and we don't speak much to the neigh- bors. But the landlord is very exact. , He told mother she must leave this week if the rent wasn't paid. I don't see how she can pay it, for she can't get her money half the time from the rich ladies she works for, and father is so sick she must give him something several times a day." The conversation was interrupted by the appear- ance of Mrs. Innis, who came slowly towards them, for she was faint and sick at heart, and heavily in- deed did the cross she was carrying bear upon her. "Goods morning, ma'am," said ,the stranger. 'I've been isking your little son here how you could live in such a tumble-down rookery as this. He tells me that little as the sum is, you can't pay it, and that your husband is sick. Now I will make a proposition to you. Let me take this boy home with me' daying his hand on Willie's shoulders), :and I'll put your husband in the hospital, where he shall have the best of care, and I know a lady who wants just such a person as I should judge you to page: 262-263[View Page 262-263] 262 Y .ORTRAITS OF MC MARRIED FriENDS. be." Mrs. Innis sank upon the door-step, unable to speak for a moment. She shook her head mournfully, and after a few moments looked into the stranger's face with an eloquently appealing earnestness of expression, that would have an- swered the request without a word. With much difficulty she said in a half whisper, "Are you a husband, sir? Have you a wife? Have you children? Take my life by depriving me of food; turn me into the street to beg, but leave me my husband; leave me my child." "It is no wonder that- the city is filled with paupers,' replied the stranger, "when poolr, idle wretches prefer herding, like swine, and wallowing in filth, to comfortable homes. But they don't like to work. I understand it. Very well, go on, but let me warn you thatd f you or your boy are seen begging, the law won't be long doing its duty. You'd better let the boy go with me." Willie turned deadly pale, and :trembled vio- lently with fear. He had heard of children who had been forced away, and his imagination at once, exaggerated the horrors of the separation from his good mother. "I'd die first," said Willie, clinging to his mother's dress. '"Let us go in; dear mother," he contintled; " father looks very faint. What-did you get;? '" "A little broth from the poor widow on the next . on KATE ARAEY. 26W3 block, Willie, and God help her, or I do not know how she will bear the hardships she has to en- dure." Willie and his mother entered the desolate abode, and hastened to blow up the dying embers upon the hearth, to warm the soup for the sick man. While they were laboring to light a few wet shavings, Wilhe said, "Mother, I'm afraid I drove God away from us this morning. Can He be here, dear mother, and let us die of hunger?" " "Yes, dear child, He is nearest to us when we suffer most. Never despair. He would send the ravens to feed us before we die of hunger, if we trust in Him. I feel better now that I have prayed to Him, for all the way when I went for the broth I asked Him to give me patience to wait His time. Hark! Who is that? Some one at the door.'" Willie shrieked wildly, and leaped into his mother's lap, who sat fanning the little flame Junder the tin cup upon the hearth. "Mother, dear mother, he'll take me," screamed the terrified child. The door opened and Rose Edgerton entered, with her arm full of nice little delicacies for "'por Henry. How is he, Mary? HaveI not been very unkind? I've been away so long; what are you doing? How are you supplied? 1 were questions asked softly, but so rapidly- that Mary could not page: 264-265[View Page 264-265] 26-4: PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. answer, and arose from the hearth and tried, to shake off the child, who still clung to her. "Willie, Willie," said Mary. His eyes were fixed, and his-"teeth closed. "My darling boy! My dear, dear Willie, speak. Oh, Miss Rose, what -will I do? The poor child would sit up with me all night. He never closed his eyes, and he was fasting, too. He got a great fright from a dark- looking man this morning, and when you knocked -oh, Miss Rose I Miss Rose! dear Willie, he's dy- ing! 'My darling is dying. Oh God! oh God, help me!" Rose hastily laid asider bonnet and shawl, and took the child from tilistracted mother. It could not be denied that he was dying. The blood began to flow from histnose and mouth, which told the secret. His, little heart was too full of fear. :Hehad by the exertion he had made when fright- ened, ruptured a blood-vessel, and his life was fast - flowing away. The rigid muscles of-the face gave way, and a beautiful smile rested on his sweet face. He lay across Rose's lap, and Mary knelt by him, holding his little hand to her own heart, which seemedscarcely to beat. The half-distracted moth- er was: pouring out her very soul to Hteaven, and, oceasionally -addressing the mqott tender and lovi'n; appeals to her dying'child. "eMy dear, dear child, my good, my; darling :Willie, you are going to your uATE CAR A RNE.0 - 265 God. You are going to rest, and why should I be so wicked as to wish to keep you here? Yet I do. Oh God, chastise me; humble me to the earth; smite me with poverty; but leave me, if possible, this darling child. But not my will-Miss Rose, pray for me, pray for me, or I can't say it. He's going; pray for me. Willie! Willie! say one word more to your poor, heart-broken mother." Rose tried to speak, tried to say one word of comfort to poor Mary, but she could not utter a word. Her voice was gone, and she was choked almost to suffocation. Mentally she prayed ear- nestly for comfort for tafflicted mother, and re- signation to sustain her.;:: "Not my will but thine be done," said Mary, gazing fixedly upon her beloved child. He turned his large, dark eyes towards her, and smiled as if he had understood the words. Painter and more faint became ,the sound of his dying breath. ," Miss Rose," exclaimed Mary, "did you see him smile? - He is gone!"-M-ary seemed to have followed his blessed spirit, for she was lost for several min- utes to all on -earth. Then drawing a heavy sigh, she wiped the large drops from her face, and ressed her lips convulsively. After a little while, "Leave him to me, Mary," said Rose. I will do all for the little angel." Mary obeyed reluctantly. She opened the parcel which 12 page: 266-267[View Page 266-267] 266 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. Rose had brought, and poured out a small glass of wine for Henry, then taking a cracker from the basket, she opened the door gently and went in. Poor Henry was too ill to be conscious of any thing that passed. Mary put a little wine to his lips, -which revived him, and made a great effort to con- ceal her grief. Several of the neighbors soon gathered, of whom we cannot say much that would be to their advantage. Mrs. Flynn had such a black eye from a blow, that she didn't look as if she had an eye at all, for which" her husband got a scratching he re- membered. Mrs. O'ByrneT s husband had left her for parts unknown, and had, it was whispered, "made love to the lips that were near," which threw the poor, deserted wife into a state of melan- choly, from which she was not likely to recover. Mrs. Hans' husbanda:played the second flute in a company of strolling players, and had long since left Mrs. Hans to shift for herself, and a poor shift she" made of it, for there seemed to be so little of any thing in her, in common with her female asso- ciates, that she was called by them" the woman without taste;; and sure enough she looked like it; tall, lank, and large-featured, with a head,-,p small you'd wonder where there was room on it for such a face. Her dress made up, like Josephs coat, of /many colors, and her cap fantastically decked in RATE KR{EAEY. 267 dirty streamers of ends of ribbon and soiled lace. There was the shoemaker's wife, a little, pinched-lp looking woman, of a figure so slender you'd be afraid to see her walk about, lest her breath would -go. Rose looked around -at the group of strange- looking figures, as they stood gazing at Willie, whom she had laid upon two chairs. Even the roughest of these women were moved to tears, and Rose could not help thinking, "Poor things, who knows what they might have been, with kind treat- ment and less poverty,5' "It was a dear childfG od bless him," said tihe woman without taste, "and it's a sore heart his poor mother will carry about her now." "Sure she ought to be content," said Mrs. Flynn, with the black eye. Isn't a living trouble worse than a dead- one? There's pace and ase in the grave; the poor little cratur."' "But its hard to lose the likes of Willie," said the shoemakers wife. "I knew he wasn't for this world. . It was asy seeing it." Rose asked the women to stay till she could re- turn, but not to touch the child. She would go home and return with clean clothes, and order all things necessary. The carriage was at-the door, and she would be only a short time gone. page: 268-269[View Page 268-269] 268 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. -CHAPTER II. ON Monday morning when Kate could not return to take her place in the work-room in Madam a Bien's establishment, her aunt was more than ever abusive and unreasonable. Kate was told " to pack up her finery and look out for herself. If she couldn't keep such a situation as that, she might as well beg or any thing else she liked." The poor girl was sad enough. She gathered the few little things of which she was possessed, but knew not where to go, or of whonito ask employment. The intelligence offices were already crowded, and her face had been more than once the innocent cause of insult in those places. She could not go there. Her eyes were red from crying, and her voice al- most gone from mental excitement. Taking the little parcel which held her all, she bade a respect- ful good bye to her aunt, and thanked her for haw- ing done so much for her, and hoped it would be in her power at a future day to return the money she had paid to bring her to this country. Bridget made no reply, except to mutter that " the likes of her would never come to good." She went to Mrs. Innis's room to inquire for Henry, but the door was closed and no one answered. Kate walked several KATE KEARNEY. 269 blocks without knowing which way she was going, lost and, stupefied by the weight upon her. young heart. "Alone in the world," thought Kate ; "not one to care for me. Where can I go? Who will believe that one young and in health could be so destitute without some blame?." "Take care, my blossom," said a young man, who caught hold of her rather roughly, " take care, you were within a step of that open grating. What would your pretty face have brought Iyou after such a fall?"Kate blushed deeply, and was star- tled by the danger .which had been so near. But before she could recover sufficiently from her con- fusion to thank him, her unknown friend was out of- sight, and she stood still, gazing down the deep vault below, into which she must have fallen but for the timely admonition. A gentleman passed her, and returned to see what had attracted her at- tention. He was a foreigner, and spoke and under- stood English with difficulty. Kate was so grateful for,the escape she had made, and the alarm had excited her so much, she was ready to relate the circumstances to any one who might inquire. He was kind in his manner, respectful and in- r terested, and she spoke with the most confiding simplicity to him. He was remarkably handsome in form and face, and there was so much unaffected earnestness in his inquiries, that she answered them page: 270-271[View Page 270-271] 270 PORTRAITS OF: MY B ERRiED FRIENDS. , all without thinking of herself. The moment he passed/her her uncommon beauty struck him, and he ventured to return. When she looked up her face beamed, he thought, with more sweet intelli- gent gentleness than he had ever seen before. The color in her cheek was unusually brilliant when e first he spoke, but as she gained confidence it grad-: ually passed away, and left a beautiful tint of the most delicate softness. CC You have been so much alarmed," said the" stranger, in very broken Eng- lish; " permit me to see you safely home." Kate hesitated, pressed her lips, and burst into tears. "She had no- home!" ' I will not distress you; pardon me if I have offended oun," said the stranger. ' Good morning. May God bless-you.5"He passed on. - "God bless you" was strange language for a fine young gentleman like him to use. "God bless you,", thought:Kate. She grew more and more be- wildered, and feared to look up pKaround her, lest some one would speak to her, and she began to fear there was something in her face that gave the idea that it-was her wish to attract attention. She scarcely knew which way to go, but without look- ing up she followed close, behind a poor woman who was carrying a basket. The woman paused before a church and -then went Lin, leaving her basket at the door. Kate followed her, glad of the retreat KATE KEARNEY. 271 from the outer world for a little while. Kate knelt before the altar some time unnoticed, and told her troubles there. Night came, and still Kate had not succeeded in finding employment, and necessity drove her to, return to her aunt, and to ask her to al- low her to remain a few days longer. She met no kindly welcome, but was permitted to remain. CHAPTER III. ROSE had hastened home after leaving Willie with the poor neighbors, and related the sad story to her mother. "Mrs. Edgerton assembled the females of her household, children and servants, and told them of the trials of the afflicted wife, whose patience had been so praiseworthy. "Is it not strange, mamma," .said Helen, the second daughter, " that so good and patient a wo- man as Mrs. Innis should be so afflicted? I've heard that her husband turns her out of the house the coldest nights in winter, and has often eaten the only bread they had, and left poor Mrs. Innis and Willie hungry, and they say she has never said a word against him to any one." "And now GoD has taken away the only com fort she had," said Annie. "How strange!" page: 272-273[View Page 272-273] 272 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. "Yes, my children, it is strange to us. But if we could see why it is done, we would no doubt see : that it is because -GOD loves her, and knows that she loves Him well enough to bear a cross'as He did. It is strange that we should shrink from what we know will bring great reward. It, has been promised by one whose word cannot fail." -( The poor little fellow looked so sweetly," said Rose, 'when he smiled in his mother's face." Chee Chee burst into tears, but was soon consoled by Rose, who told her he was in heaven, and very, very happy. - Mrs. Edgerton took advantage of occasions like this to impress upon - their minds, and put - in, prac- tice the lessons which she daily taught her children and she allowed her servants as well to have their share in the performance of the corporal works of mercy. Life in Mrs. Edgerton's household,was ac- tive, real. i Its simplest duties were performed with purity of intention, and the constant daily advance- ment in virtue was what she endeavored to teach ' her children. The adornment of the mind was carefully attended to, but it was, secondary. The cultivation of 'the heart-was the-main object of her care. "'The love of G6p, and thy neighbor as thy- self," were the great lessons taught. In the love of, thy :neighbor was included all those littler kind at- tentions: and etiquette which society require;, and ) KATE 7EEY. 273 which without proper motives and instruction be- come vapid, unreal, vainglorious ceremonies. This same law included also a kindly spirit towards the failings of the rich and the poor, and a kind word as well as act in bestowing alms. I said Mrs. Edg- erton had called her household to relate what Rose had witnessed, and to allow each one to do some- thing for the sufferers. Willie stood-behind his mother's chair, and his tears fell fast. "He would go and watch awhile with .'poor Henry?.' Henry was known to be a cruel, drunken fellow, but'so good-natured and kind when not intoxicated, that he was called " poor Henry " by most people who knew' him. "Mrs. Innis would miss her- little Wil- lie so much now."' Annie and Helen were to make the little shroud at once, while Rose would go to the garden and purchase some flowers, and Mrs. Edger- ton would give directions necessary for the funeral. The servants were very ;much moved 'by the trials of poor' Mrs. Innis, and wished, if they could be allowed, to do something for her. ; Nora, the chambermaid, was desired to go and. prepare -the room decently for theifuneral, and take with her a basket of provisions and a dozen: candles; and A1- . ice, the seamstress, shiould sit up that night with Willie. The bell rang, and visitors broke up the little family group. 120 page: 274-275[View Page 274-275] 2T4 PORTRAITS OF MY MABRRIED FRIENDS. It was Mrs.'Edgerton's reception-day., She re- lated the sad story to several fashionable wealthy ladies who called. Some listened with a cold -at- tention, and made no further reply than "Ahl how sad.'"One or two shook out their embroidered handkerchiefs and wiped their eyes, but were too much affected to speak! The Misses Barton had given up private charities. "Ma had been so often imposed upon. Indeed, she believed this very Mrs. Innis had Ibeen reported to Ma in the society as a w6oman in great distress, and Ma went one day in the carriage, and whei she got there the man- was dU-nk, and Ma was frightened to death, and had never been out visiting the poor since." Mrs. Hart thought there need not be any poor if they would all work; and, for her part, she thought it was not the duty of one half the world to support the other. She had given up troubling herself long ago about them. - ":But,i"^ replied Mrs. Edgerton, our Saviour said, 'The poor you have always with you. As often as you do for one of these you do it for me.'- I've always looked upon it as a :privilege which our Lord has granted us that there should be poor, and then He gives such great reward -to the poor for their sufferings. How could we, who have every coimforthere, gain Heaven if there were no poor to plead for us?" - . ]KATE FT:ARNEY. 275 "I'm sure I've never given it a thought. I don't pretend to be a professor of religion, or per- haps-I might. I've trouble -enough without looking into other people's misfortunes," replied the lady. "Indeed, I have no time to do it." Mrs. Soft" wondered how Mrs. Edgerton could bear to have the dirty creatures coming every day to her house. The neighbors opposite said that there was a stream of them from morning till night at Mrs. Edgerton's hall door bell. For her part, she would not allow it." Mrs. Edgerton smiled,-and would have replied, had not humility prevented her, " that she felt hon- ored by these visits, and that when none came she felt that day as if our Lord had found her unworthy to do any thing for Him." She did not express her feelings, for a worldly mind like that of Mrs. Soft could not have understood them. That evening Mrs. Edgerton's carriage stopped in street, before the entrance-way to the al- ley. The footman took out several parcels, and fol- lowed her to Mrs. Innis's room, while the carriage, liveried servants, and the beautiful horses were as much a; matter of wonder to the crowd of ragged, gaping children, as if they had all walked out of the pumpkin which the kind fairy had provided for poor Cinderella. Helen, the second daughter, had accompanied page: 276-277[View Page 276-277] 2763 PORTRAI'TS OF MY MAR FRIE NDS. her mother. 'Visitors might come in the evening, and Annie had remained at home to receive them, and to apologize for her mother's and Rose's ab- sence. -' My dear Rose," said Mrs. Edgerton, on enter- ing the house of mourning, "I fear you are fa- tigued. How sweetly the little fellow looks. Who could regret his change You have every thing very nicely arranged for the poor mother." & iaas sdone it all," replied Rose. '.t "J :M/iss Rose's direction," said Nora, tim- '^*^J-l^ ^ ld have insisted upon poor Mary's takV:ih!: e- rest," Rose wlhispered,. but Henry ^hn:slnking very fast, and I fear cannot live thri the night. Are not her trials almost more than ihe can bear TI'm glad you've brought some refreshments, mamma; the poor thing has nothing in the house. The lady for whom she was sewing sent an impudent servant for the work. I sent it all -home to her, without saying a word to poor Mary, for I knew the sight of it would bring back little Willie to. her mind.: I think, mamma, we will not- disturb Mary, unless you -particularly de- sire to see her. I looked- into, the room a few mo- ments since, 'and her head lay upon the'bed by her husband's side as if-she had fallen asleep."' "Very well," replied Mrs. Edgerton; "it is e it is , KATE BiARNEY. 2" better not to disturb her. Come, my dear, prepare to go home. It is too late to be out. - Nora, you may remain until I go home. I will send Alice to take yosur place." The baskets were emptied, and the little delica- cies, together with bread and meat, were carefully put away. The good ladies departed quietly, and Nora seated herself by the lifeless form of little Willie, until relieved by Alice, who, when she re- turned the following morning, brought thisad news that Henry was s--low-that it was no6n ::is.:-In- nis's power to leave him, and strangeri-%:-ust see little Willie laid in his grave. 7 - :? "There would be no funeral, M d ;aid "no more than that a few of the neig t d go with him." "Poor woman," said Mrs. Edgerton, "what trials are required of some in this life." C HAPTER-IV. EUGENE LA GRANGFE was the son of a respectable physician in France, and the youngest of E large family. His mother died when he was but seven years old, and the youngling of the flock was pet- page: 278-279[View Page 278-279] 27-8 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. ted and caressed with the interest and affection that is often bestowed upon the child who is de- prived of a mother's care and love. It seems as if it becomes the object upon which one can manifest the love for the departed. It was so with Eugene's- fond-father and brothers. He had no sisters. He was delicate in constitution, and in his na- ture sensitive in the extreme. His dark hair and delicate complexion increased the pensive expres- sion ofhis full, deep blue eyes. You could not help fe ling. hat the contact with the rough world would in many, many instances be a severe trial to his heart. "Like many others of his retiring dispo- sitionfate had destined him to become a wanderer firnme, as if it were necessary in order to teach himself-reliance, and break those silken bonds of love that -fettered him. lHe- chose the profession of civil engineer, and cwith a struggle tore himself away from his family. For many months he remained in France, -and wrote and received letters frequently. But an op- portunity offered&for great success, as it was repre- sented, andihe turned his'-face towards the setting sun with a heavy but a valiant heart. : - His father -encouraged him, for he hoped a change of clime -might - give him. vigorous health, and- that the exertion- to depend upon himself for KATE KEARNEY. 279 friends anid fame, would lessen his extreme sensi- tiveness. He had taken his passage for New York. He sat alone on deck. It was twilight; the last shadow of the Old-World faded in mist and mingled with the clouds. "Farewell, dear France," sighed Eu- gene. His hands were clasped, and he seemed lost in a painful reverie. "It has disappeared, it has faded away. My dear, dear home, adieu; such a life was too sweet to last. Oh loved ones, farewell, perhaps for ever. Why did I leave, :i: :What scruel impulse led me here? For wh at:!Gone is the last hold of my childhood. My dear, kind old father I how he wept when he leaned over:me, and what strength was in his grasp in -that last,' Eugene, my son, God bless you!" The sailors were running to and fro, and hauling the ropes in coils, and once or twice tripped over Eugene, but he did not heed them.. It grew dark. The moon rose slowly from the ocean, and seemed to whisper comfort in her mild rays, so congenial were they to the. saddened thoughts of the young adventurer. All the way on the voyage Eugene was reserved and avoided society. The passengers remarked this.- -Many conjectures were made of his life-and prospects, that would have - amused --him could he have heard them. One time he was a nobleman in page: 280-281[View Page 280-281] 280 PORTrRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. disguise; at an6ther a lovesick swain; again, a Jes uit, an author, a poet, an exile! Still the secret had-not been told; and the ladies put foot on shore", with the weary, heavy drag upon their unsatisfied minds;! It was so strange, so unaccountable; so un- pardonably strange, that one so handsome should care so little for' their company, and seek so little the favor he might have won. A stranger in the city of New York, he sought those places -where his own people were-most likely to congreate, and soon found faces familiar in fea- ture./ 'Sweeter than music was the sound of his own loved language -in a foreign land! Eugene fomundbut few with whom he could sympathize and communicate freely. In time he formed a circle, aud the little band were more closely united from their peculiar loneliness and similarity of pursuits, and day by day became more bound to one another. There was one of the number, Francis Gilbert, in whom Eugene confided more particularly, and from whom he scarcely withheld a thought. The day he met Kate near the open grating, for it was Eugene who paused and asked her cause of trouble,;he was so struck by her beauty, that from that hour. its impress had been vividly stamped upon his heart, and grew brighter until his imagi- nation could see nothing like it in any thing. So sad, so lonely; she looked so earnestly towards him, / KATE RlEARNEY. 281 that he had blamed himself for having left her un- protected. The enthusiasm so natural to his couln- try, and the appreciation which he had of one in the situation he fancied she might be, led him be- yond what might be expected in one of his temper- ament. Day and night he sought- her, but could not meether. Would he ever see such a face againt The thought haunted him that she was lonely like himself, and of his nature too. In business he had become successful. But there was ever still the same sweet, gentle, pensive; saddened face in tears before him as he saw Kate when his protection had been offered and refused. Again and again he visited the spot, examined the grating, and walked up and down the street. He often went into the church that was not far distant, and waited hours to see if she would chance that way. But no, she did not come. His talent for drawing was very great, and had .been cultivated. He had drawn and painted her miniature on ivory, and wore it on his neck, and it might have been recognized as hers, .so faithfully did memory retain the impress love had made. News from home came frequently, and always brought expressions of regret that he had left them. The family had in the short two years been scattered, and had left the old home rather desolate; but they hoped he'd soon page: 282-283[View Page 282-283] 282 PORTRAITS OF' MY ARRED FRIENDS. come home, and make his aged father happy once again. The little band of friends met often, and in their convivial cheer seemed for the time at least to for- get all care. Eugene was loved by all, and though sadder than the rest togq a lively; interest in all their happiness. They thought of late he had grown more absent, and all but Francis joked him on the cause. They declared if he were searched, the pic- ture of the fair one would be found worn next his heart In sport they made the search, and Eugene saw Kate's' picture passed around. Each as he looked upon it grew grave and spell-bound. There was no more lightness in the jest. "She's angel- ic," " queenly,e' "lovely," was repeated till Eu- gene's brow relaxed, and he forgave the insult. They wondered where he'd met so fair a face, and -how Weree they engaged? They must be, or how could he have procured her portrait? Eu- gene soon- left them and walked slowly home. It was late at night, and but few were in the street. The places of amusement were all closed, and only now AFnd then 'A person passed him. The police- manas whistle, or the heavy-sounding club upon the pavement, were almost the only: signs of life so far up town. Even the lamps burned with a sleepy light,)and the long rows of brick -and mortar were ,but a mass of dull, lifeless matter, except where ATE 3 IENEY. 283- here and there a flickering light shone out to tell death, or sickness, or sorrow might be inmates there. Eugene fell into -a reverie, and was not aware that he was following, as if intentionally, two females, who were walking rapidly before him, and who occasionally looked bacr to be sure they were not mistaken. 'iHe is following us," said one. ' "What will we do?" Not a policeman near," re- plied the other. "Letus go on till we find a house lighted. We can ring the bell, as if we had reached home, and let him pass." They walked some dis- tance and still he followed on, and the poor girls grew troubled. A light shone out from an upper window about a block ahead, to which they has- tened, and rang the bell -- The stranger passed them and looked up. Rate involuntarily exclaimed, "Oh, Alice, it is he.". Eugene- passed on, but marked the house, while his heart beat so tumul- tuously that he could not control it. '"Out at this hour alone! What can it mean? thought he. The door was opened by a young lady, who had stolen down from a sick room to answer the bell, she being the only one awake in the house. She started when she saw the young girls alone at that late hour, and one so b-autiful. Alice told the story with earnestness, in which Kate joined, and they prayed to be allowed to sleep -upon the floor; any where, till daylight. page: 284-285[View Page 284-285] 284 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. "It is so strange, but no doubt true," said the young lady, j' that I cannot decide till I consult mamma. Come with me to the sick room of my little sister, and remain with her till I've inquired what's best to do. Perhaps you could now get home; he must have passed." The girls followed her to the nursery, where a child lay sleeping on a -beautiful little crib hung in blue silk. Its pale face showed that it was very ill. The young lady. soon returned, and said "it was not quite twelve, and they had better go."; Alice and Kate left the house. It seemed as if they could never reach home with all their speed. Watchmen stopped and turned their lanterns upon their faces, and half intoxicated men, and boys ut- tered oaths, and laughed and jeered. Kate and Alice Mullen had been that day to visit a sick friend, who had worked with Kate at Madame Va Bien's. She had sunk under the fa- tigue and confinement of the situation,. and from ex- posure to cold and rain at night had increased a cough, with which she had suffered for months. An agedamother depended upon her daily exertions.' This necessity obliged her to continue longer than she ought at work, frequently fasting from morning nntil night. ,The physician had pronounced her-in a rapid decline. Kate and Alice found her very lonely and dejected that day, and had remained -\ ' - ' . RATE REARNEY. 285 later than usual. Kate opened the door when she reached home as gently as possible, hoping to avoid 'waking Bridget. "This is a pretty hour to jbe seen coming through the street," said Bridget, in her. usual gruff tone. "Now that you are playing the fine lady, I suppose you -think you can do as you like, but I can tell you I won't be working like a dog to feed you in your idleness. Here you've been this month past out of work, too fine to take a servant's -place, which is too good for the likes of ye. It's a sorry day to me that I saw you put foot on my floor, -and little luck you'll ever bring me,- I'm thinking, either." Kate remained silent; she laid aside her bonnet and shawl. While standing she drank the cold tea, and ate the dry crust that was on the table; put out the smoky oil lamp, and sunk upon her knees by her bedside. ' "Wasn't your mother sick with me a twelve- month, and didn't I bury her decently, and the d-1 a penny have I ever got from you for it?" continued Bridget. Tears fell fast from poor Kate's eyes, but it was dark and no one saw them. , .' page: 286-287[View Page 286-287] 286 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. OHEAPTER V. GHOST ALLEY was the name which had been years ago given to the rookery in which EKate and Mrs. Innis lived, from the assertion of one of the inmates that he had seen a ghost night after night walking about the .premises, with a bag of gold on his shonl- der. Ghost Alley was preparing to pay the last respects to the memory of "Poor Henry," who had died. - '- It was a strange picture. In the room in which he was laid the inmates of the building had gath- ered, while :twenty noisy children were playing in the yard below. Mrs. Innis sat at the head of the coffin, dressed in a suit of half-worn black, which Mrs, Edgerton had provided; and around her were Mrs. Flynn, and "The River Shannon" her hus- band, and Mrs. Ians, " the woman without taste," the shoemaker's wife, and several others -from the :adjoining building. A dozen uncombed, unwashed, ragged'children came in now and then,- and 'helped themselves to the roundhearts, that lay on a tray, and had been provided for the occasion. Kate, came last, and took her seat in-the most retired cor- ner of- the room. Little Willie's hat and some- of his playthings were hung upon the wall. , AITE EaiNES. 287 "The poor fellow might have been living now," whispered "The River Shaannon," " if he'd minded himself. It don't do to trifle with the constertu- tion, but it wouldn't have been- himself, indeed, if he'd let a thrate go by, and sure what is life with- out a drop of consolation in it?" " It don't become ye, Pether," replied his wife, "to lay down the law, for isn't it -yourself that ought to be lying there instead of poor Henry,. God be merciful to him, if justice was done ye " "Well, faith you're right, but that isn't here or there now. What keeps the music-so late.?"Hen- ry had belonged to a "Burial Society," and would therefore be buried with all .the honors of-'a mem- ber. "What a nice coffin he has," said the shoema- ker's wife. "I declare the finest gentleman couldn't have better.", "Mr. Edgerton sent it, then, and may his own be lined with gold," replied the woman without taste, " for it's he that deserves it, God be praised." Bridget Kearney, dressed in a new yellow mus- lin, came in, and with her several others whose car- riages were waiting in the street-! "Who is that with you?" said Bridget to Ally Mullen. "It's Biddy Flannagan's first cousin," said Al- fly. "She never had a ride in a carriage, poor page: 288-289[View Page 288-289] '88" PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. thing,and I asked her to come. It wasn't much out-of my pocket to give the crature a bit of rec- reation." "Is -she long been here? ' said Bridget. "No, indeed, she's as innocent as the day she was born." ' The conversation was interrupted by the an- nouncement, that U all was ready.' The procession (what a procession, God help' them!) formed. Three or four carriages were filled, and others walked, and Henry was carried to his grave with music, followed by his heart-broken wife, the only one liv- ing to weep for him. Had you seen that funeral slowly wind its way through the gay streets of the city, and -heard the mournful music that accompa- nied it, you might have paused a moment, and sighed for the departed. But could you have known-the trials of the living in that procession, you would have wondered, and perhaps exclaimed, "Life!-theirs is life. What am I doing in the great struggle, in 'which victory will be crowned with honor, and glory, and everlasting joy?" - As the last one of the procession left the alley, Kate, who had followed to -the entrance on the street, was -turning back to her-own room, not in- tending to go to the grave. A hand was laid on her shoulder; she started; a man in a black coat and gray vest, whose-appearance was ferocious and bru- 1ATE - EANErY - 289 tal, stood before her. "You must come with nme and ask no questions," said he, in a whisper. "Now it won't do to talk about it here; if you want your liberty come quietly, and-give me no trouble. You needn't cry) or get up a scene, unless you wish me to use force. Get into- the carriage at the door as if you were going to the funeral, and that will be the safest cours6 for you I can tell you, for you must come with me. I don't want to harm you, but I must do my duty, and obey orders "I Poor Kate was stupefied by the sudden occurrence, and scarcely knew whether to believe herself in her right mind. "Is it not a dream " said Kate, after hearing his reason for obliging her to accompany him. "Not, a very agreeable one any how," said the man, "so come along, or Ghost Alley will be in an uproar. I have come for you in a carriage to spare your feelings, for I can't help believing that you have decent blood in your veins." Kate obeyed. Why? She could scarcely tell. The procession had not yet left the street, and the m -an in black handed her into the carriage, while she was weeping violently, which the bystanders attributed to sympathy for poor HMs. Innis, who was at that moment a little subdued, and passing in her mind the events of the day bf her marriage, when she and Henry were so happy. "And now page: 290-291[View Page 290-291] 290 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. i'-s ended, all ended, and rI7 soon follow him," said Mrs. Innis, aloud. ".-I'm so-glad I never gave him ?an-angry word, poor fellow . . The mourners returned, but Kate- did not return. Night came, and a dreadful- night it was. The rain fell in' torrents,-and she did not come. At day- break the following-morning Bridget rose andwent like a wild woman from room to room, inq-uiring foriher niece, and in each expressing her grief; by -invectives against the imprudence, and idleness, and conceit-bf the girl, who had given her trouble- from -the day she set foot on the shore of America; and now she supposed she'd gone off with a fine gentle- man. .Shehad been seen by several getting into the carriage with a gentleman; a half dozen de- -scribed him, and no two agreed in the description, C HAPTER VI. : was night, a darik and dreary ght without. 3The- convent bellU had tolled, and the nuns of -the :Oonvent o0f Mercy might be seen hasteningto their littlefie Capel, whose /uiet and trepose were refresh- Ming asthe-watel tlihat floWedfrom the thrice smote ?rock./ Above the altar hung a beautiful painting ro ti ,.. t- - KATE KTSAltpyi. - - 291 of Jesus with Mary and Martha.- One representing active, the other contemplative life; upon the al- tar, in front of the tabernacle, were vases of fresh flowers. The light of the faintly burning lamp of the sanctuary was in keeping with the softened but earnest tones of the chant and response, that rose fromi the lips and hearts of these sisters. It was delightful to witness this pause on the roadside of busy life, and one might fancy angels, as in Jacob's dream, ascending and- descending from that holy spot, bearing their prayers to the Throne of Mercy, and returning laden with blessings *for those for whom they pleaded. The storm was violent without; the thunder rolled and muttered through A:the blackened sky, and then broke with a crash that threatened de- struction on every side., The lightning flashed and sped in fiery darts here and there, until it seemed as if the angry heavens were on fire: Each flash revealed the city and its deserted streets. Scarcely a human being was to be seen, except here and there in a carriage that drove with furious speed, Bor a poor, ragged, half-deluged child, in tatters, clinging to a lamp-post. Another dreadful crash, and then a gleam of startling brightness that shone upon the figure of a terrified female, who flew through the street, and -then crouched at the con- vent door, and hid her :face in. her {hands till the page: 292-293[View Page 292-293] u- i o - i - - liott:l: o;' efany- Mnd: hl':?, lr 1^iii^?Nff^s ' : ' ethei li the ehape1l, 'an i- -pereadim . .' ,athre'eo: wao liee:ig. bt -ii for" an i'in"tant prayed,!ther n ros e tl d fl- Ttl- i** Sihe - hl 'd she" - t k Isest Gr..' e 't ' :-- pbredi cntin edahk Ood,:she is not hdeads, -:ne i to; the -heapelandieaSister Marr, and wewill're '?e tfer totheiifiyrmi." "-O ;ata f eadfurpead l,"' sataid Sister Agnes, --nedehastend eg, darkhta ll ' m',The stormni&terxifi, t :.-:, '*.-a -.,: ' :he 6i" Whoanc an she ioe:"d. ';- ?.., "'.l th:-o ar e lto"o .aet presefiif re)e-W., Ohe Mther: :.,he hasie d dStrivn?,r d8or'f;" tn- ;er it:.^ -": ,te ep r ' -door; ..iBst ikfen- ff -thtertg- ,? heShe?.:,as?-ar-ed.: ,. t mnfirm ; . It-.,:a not are-. '!liha shing -!:.-natp ,hdieng;.-:the - r - theS im W- an treo Kwm KEArBNB. 293 thhree o-or for single beds, 'm snowwhite drapery ;a table-, bythe side of each bed,- upon- which lay a rosar,. orn cifix, or statue of the Blessed: ;iin-; a spofa :oered ith chintz; picturesoftthe . principal ee ts in .ur 'Sainour'-.life hnngupon the wall. H ging at: the foot of the: beds, -in order .toi give e4nmva^lidsi e po wer of repeating them withttle on r htepaper, . , '"Be careful; don't hurt her,". said Mother. ". Poor-child! -Bring me-some camphor and- harts- horn,' She- must. have sUffered ;-how pained her /expression is. Can it be she:;has a mother,or a hogm e- - Perhaps .neither. 'Perhaps: unfortunate, -God help her!" Mherer Catiharine bathed her forehead, and she was gradually. restored - She looked up bewildered. and asked, "Amc I saved " ' Where am H' ".. ow .came I here?^ ".Is-this Heaven t" 'I ,thought-I saw, my' moth er. ' , . :..,o, dear- child,". replied .the M:other, (" rest quietly, and. dont talk.' ,To-morrow -you- may. tell meal,- W: w, ill. take good -care: of you, and: then yo shall go hoe'. ' , - 'Qshoime,', he replied, "I ,ve, no i hotme." - ; 'Y ,a-es:a ho you hae home yomay stay here, said ,i,.Othe . Bnne, : :, : :: :-:. ' -.- ::.May;8V.',nlaid: -he/ 'yo ung.- irfaintly.. Then , ,- page: 294-295[View Page 294-295] 294. PORTRBA TBbF- MY'-MAR FRIENDS. slowl spellnmghu t the words that hung at the foot of her' bed, in/ awhisper she read-&"Come--to-- m e-allt ye that, are heavyqladen, and--I .--wil-e fresh-you."- .' Thathare--lavdy'ade, she eon4 tinued going back to the first part of 'the sentn-ce. Her tears,- for the first time since she had beeniirle- - stoed from the-faint, began to flow, and the -good- sisters ;were quite overcome.- Mother, Cattharine desired the infirmarian to get her some 'food, and told her, that thien she: must try to sIeep. It was several weeks before Kate recoveredf from-the shock which this-alarm and exposure had given:her, during which time the sisters adminis-- tered to-her- every comfort and consolation. They had heard 'er sad story and cause of flight to their protection and, they sympathized with her, promiis- ing, to do; all in ;their' power to shield -her. -When able to- do so, she was -allowed to join in the rou- tine 'of duty in which, all were engaged, and some- times had been permitted to visit thie sick' and 'the prisons with:Mother :atharine.- She always went closely veiled, -and avoided being, remarked. :"I woiuldi like' to; remain always here," , said: Kate-one day-to Mother Catharine, who had- come from the parlortto advise her to take a situation with:a lady well. :known:to the-' sisters :. Your-life is :so 'calm and regular, I feel happy and contented with-: :you. ' Pray let -meitaay with yo-u,3Oa, id Kate.: Pky: !"S KATE KEANEY. 295 "That could not be,"9 said Mother Catharine. "Y our vocation is not here , my child. You must go- into the world again, and try to do your part well. It may be a weary one, but keep up good courage. You have been sorely tried; why, God only can tell. No doubt it is for greater -glory in leaven; but, my child, keep yourself in the- pres- ence of Him who has counted the hairs of your head, and will not forsake you, and allwill be well with you. JIt is better that you should leave us now, before you become attached to a life for which we see no signs of:a vocation in you. Now,'my dear child, you may go to the parlor. A lady is waiting to engage a seamstress, and you will accept her offer. She will pay you well, and treat you Mkindly. I know the family, God bless you," Kate wept much at the thought of parting from such friends, but was told it should be her home to come to in time of need. She had learned obedi- ence from their example, and went to the parlor. -ose Edgerton was waiting for her. She and Clifford were soon to be married, and it was neces- sary to employ an extra seamstress to assist in mak- ing her trousseau. Kate's appearance pleased Rose, and an engagement was made. She was de sired to come on the following morning. , Sister Agneswrote Mrs. Edgerton's address on a card for Kate, for which Kate thanked her and /N page: 296-297[View Page 296-297] 296 PORTRAITS OE JMY* MARERIED FRIENDS. ,bliished '. She ould neiter write nor read writing! ,It was -the firft timle in -her life she had hesitat'ed to "owfn it. -!" ought to tell it to sister," thought Kate. - : "Go0, myrdear," ;said Sister Agnes, seeing her panse. -- ' She :went towards the door, aMd hesitated again. "Is itnOt ode6ception . 2 thought Eate. "But why nI eed I tell her- unless she asks, me'?"Kate was crying at leaving the convent, and Sister Agnes comforted her and urged her to go, whitch prevented an avowal of Her ignorance, - Until: she reached the street in which Mr. Edg- erton lived, she was absorbed in thoughts of 'the kindness and affection that had been bestowed upon her, and did not perceive a person who had walked very near: her since she left the convent door. Having :come to the place, as she supposed, from the direction given her by Rose, she looked at the written direction, and tried in vain to decipher it. "Can I assist you?" said Eugene, with so much ]- indness of imanner, that9 Kate replied, though :;gteatly eibarrassed, . - ' If yo please, sir i He took the card and walked on by 'her side silently, until they had re"ahed the'houise. .: ' Do you live liere?" said Eugene, timidly, afraid ofraimigher, and again iosng sig of ^ *-]^;^-:- ;-'-"^---, i, I, KATE KFARtPE. 297 , "Miss Edgerton has engaged me,". replied Eate. Eugene dared riot ask more, It was evident 'she was obliged to support herself. She was never in- tended by nature for such a position, and it should be his happiness to remove her from it., He bade her good morning, and Kate was astonished at her calm confidence in him. "Washe not the very gen- tlemaan who had offered to go home with her 'once,. and the one who had followed her and Alice Mul- len" . - A few weeks after Kate had come to live with Mrs. Edgerton, she, was sent to make - some' pur- chases for Rose, and returned much excited in man- ner. , What is the matter, Kate " said Rose. "Oh, Miss Rose, I met -the lady in 'the store who accused me of stealing the bracelet, and she was so sorry for it.; she- said she could never for-' give herself for all the pain she -must' have caused me. She found the bracelet in albook she had been reading the night she :came down to open the door for Ally Xullen-and me. She thought that wheat she left us in- the nursery alone,-I took- the bracelet." ' ' ' ' Whiy did she not look well for it before; accu- sing you!" said Rose, indignantly. . "She says, isS. ose, that she remembers- be- ing very tired and sleepy -and she took off the didA' 13* page: 298-299[View Page 298-299] 298 PORTRAITS or: -M M 'IED FRIENDS., toonithracelet/ antd must have lad it on the book, and :then-closed it without thinking of it- again. The next morning the-bookwaslaid upon the high- ;/est shelf in the: bokcaase,/and no one-thought of it after. Ai s no one -except Alice 'and I .was in' the room4 I1'was suspected and arrested, as H have A t1ld - you, -Miss Rose.) -^BDidl you. tell her all the trouble it had cost - yo W : '.' - . ; - - o, "Yes, Miss, I told her God let me escape from the-officer that dreadful night. She knew me the ' moment I came into the store. She turned very pale, and: cae -over to me, and said she' in a whis- per, 'You are the girl who was suspected and ar- rested for-stealing my diamond bracelet, the night you, asked to be let in- to stay all night.' I trem- bled- as- if I had -been guilty, and think I would have fainted if she had not told me quickly that she had: found it, and was sorry, and wished me to go and see her. She wished to make -amends. I do -not care to go, Miss,- but pray let me go to Mother Oatiharine, and-- iell her the newS. She will whe So -.rejoiJed, a sure. .Oh I am so happy now. It-is dreadful, Miss Rose, to be unjustly accuised-: QOh dear, yes. --Yopu don't know, Miss, all I suffered. You could not know?.. . : ^.-. Eat e went to Mother Oatharinie: so light oftheart that she .almost flewalong:the.. streets, and wootld * . ' /. * 3RA-TE-s WARNEY. 299 not have paused had not Eugene, who met her by chance, stopped her, and begged that she would al- low-him to speak but one word to her. He told her how interested he had -been, and : how he had sought her. She listened and believed him. Not for months, however, till she had sought advice from Rose, and tried him well, did she accept his attentions. He came frequently to Mr. Edgerton's, where Kate re- mained. She told him she was poor, and -simple, and far below him, and feared that he might tire of her, and grow cold, and-perhaps repent his choice when it would be too late, as often had been done. But he was earnest in his promises, and- confident in his own strength, and spurned the thought, the possibility of coldness and neglect. When Mrs. Edgerton heard from Kate the ro- mantic story, she advised her, if she loved him, not to-delay the day he was so anxious to appoint. -It was appointed, and Mrs. Edgerton took great pleasure in aiding Kate with means to prepare a suitable outfit for her marriage. In the church, with but few present, Kate, dressed in a simple muslin dress and--plain lace veil, stood before the altar a beautiful bride. Eugene had bought a pretty house of moderate size, and furnished it in true French style. It, was in :order, and they went from- the, church to the page: 300-301[View Page 300-301] -300 PORTRAITS -F -MY MARRIED FRIEDS. ; house, where a :feast-had-been prepared in his wn :little parlor for the occasion. Several friends were there,:-and received the" bfide; with, congratulations, and many wishes forlong life andlhappiness-. K ate t:- : received them all with a gratefutl heart, but silently and'withhmuch embarrassment, which was naturaliy attribud to her timidity, but which was ih triith a -sense - of her :'own inferiority. Those gentleien seemed so learned and said so much she could 'not understand. CHAPTER VII . KATE, made Eugene the, best of housekeepers, and was the most devoted of'wives. There seemed for a time no happiness equal to hers. 'It is a new 'life to ime, dear Kate,:' said Eugene, "to have a ::6hnre,land a ittle wife to meet me with a loving welcomei . , : ..,I've:often :wondered," said Kate, " that you -didanot tc;hoose a lady, and not. a simple ,girl like ' ee,; '.but adear Eugene, .il try to :bo all :that she could be to you, and then you /won't regret it, awill you -,? If yo - should- ' "INemer,;' initerrupted, :Eugene, ",and don t,:let Us speak -of it. You-are just what Iwish you to -'did -not'6hoose a lady, and,- notD a si-mple girl lrike , . . . , r ,mS'bu;'a'Egn,-Il r o-el-tht-h RATE KAR NEY . 301 be;, you are simple, truthful. What could I wish more?" A year -after this conversation Kate called on Mrs. Edgerton, and seemed in trouble. When' the. door of Mrs. Edgerton's room was closed, she seated . herself near the kind lady, and drew fromther pocket two letters written in French that had come from France to Eugene. They .were from hisl fam- ily - "I feel so much afraid,"' said Kate, "that his family are not satisfied with me, for, Mrs. Edgerton, he is far above me, and I've been thinking that he- is afraid to tell them how different we are*"Mrs. Edgerton took the letters and. read them aloud for her. They were full of love for Eugene, and anx- iety to hear of his little daughter, who was only one month old, and there were kind messages to Kate. On the margin' of one was written, "We would have wished. that you had not ma red Kate Eear- ney, bult now that she is your wife we will love her for your sake," "You need nott fear ,'5 'said, M s. E dgerto, -see- ing. Kate's eyes fill with tears :while. she, rdtd Ahs; , if. he is kind to you don't trouble -yourself about it. You have not deceived him!"a "Not intentionally said Kate, flushing .with mortification, ,' but, I think he athought .me better educated. He- dpoes not know- that I cannot read ' * ' , : - Y\ - ' page: 302-303[View Page 302-303] 302 ; PORTRAITS ,OF:-MY- MARRIED FRIENDS. 'well arid thatn . eannot write at all; and I fear when he knows it he will be -disappointed. How shall; I :tell:Mm ' ' '. .. .. (' t " ist no-t necessary , eate, I replied Mrs. Edg: , erton;,. 4it: would have been better' had he known it before yourwere' married, but now I do not- see :any help'for;it." Kate sighed and seemed geatly distressed, inmind. "I love Eugene more than I can tell," thought Kate- as she. walked slowly home, "but it would have been -better if he had never, seen me. Why- :has he given up, many of his- old fiMends? It is, I fear, that,.they may not know that I am not hi- ,equal.-: It must, be. . And. yet he is good 'and pa- tient,aiad:is:very fond of little Mary." When' she reached home Eugene was waiting for her at the door. - ...... : '"' ate, dear, I must-leave you in ten minutes," said :he, looking -at his watch. ." It isunexpected, ' and tob" short notice; butI'il soon be back again I hope. TillI come, my little bird must sing and feel -happy and: not droop, for our little- Mary needs her best spirits' - :Here are some papers which you will +sgh! .Some: money:will' be paid you for me, and you must put your name just there,' pointing to the plaee:fori:her signature. Kqate had- been standing bhis idle;: She w:as stricken^ with the painful be- wilderment of intense shame-and sank into a hiair 1 , * , ' k- .R WRARNEY. . 303 near-her and almost fainted.- She looked upon the floor without uttering a:word.- The truth flashed across Eugene's mind. He looked surprised and trotibled, but seeing her distress-made an effort to conceal his annoyance. He took her hand. It was ,Cold'as marble. ' - :Th onugh you will: despise me,-Eugene," said Kate, "I cannot tell ,a lie "-with an 'effort-she con- tinued-,-"I canwot-write my name.' .. , , "You cannot write your name, Kate! repeated Eugenep in astonishment. - Kate buried her face ini her hands. Eugene remained in deep thought for several minutes, his arms folded and his head bowed down ; his brow painfiilly contracted, and his lips pressed tightly., "I know not what-toa do,' said he, in a half whisper. "The receipt mstf-be given if the money is paid. I cannot remain at home to receive it. This business is of importance to me. I do not, wish: to ask a stranger tot receive the money." 'Kate made no reply, but remained almost im- movable, -- "I could not have anticipated this, Kate," said Eugene. ' Wiy- have- you deceved me soo -long- If you had not done so I might have remedied-the difficulty- before now." - "Deceived you, Eugene?'" replied .ate, rising suddenly from-- her^chair; and going over to him. /- - page: 304[View Page 304] 304 PORETAITS OF MY MARRIED FjAENDS. She laid her hiaid upon his arm, and looked up in his face earnestly. He paused, and when he saw her agitation, from his heart he pitied her, but his own chagrin occupied his thoughts too much to allow, Ihim to appreciate the depth of Kate's suffering. "Deceived-you, Eugene?" repeated Eate). , "Un- til your letters came from yolur family, which I could not read, I did not know the value of an ed- ucation. I did not- understand till then of how much I had been deprived by being born lowly and in poverty. And if you, dear Eugene, have ret moved me- from the position in which - God placed me, and if it has been' your happiness to teach me - the advantages there are in the life to which you have raised-?se, oh let it not be a cause of sorrow to -me to hag learned it. I told you I as - poor, and simple. Do not say I deceived you. Say I am poorer, meaner, more contemptible than you thought me; -but-do not say, Eugene, that I have d-ceived you. Eate- sobbed with emotion when, she had fin- ished this appeal. It seemed to her that the words had floWied from her heart without an effort of her own, and had expressed her: thoughts more truth- fully than-she had ever been able to do before.' . Eugene was astonished at her earnestness -of manner, and would have asked forgiveness for his hasty words, had he acted -according to the good page: Illustration-305[View Page Illustration-305] No, Eugene," sh replied, ina tone of sadnesi;--p. 305. KATE XEA1grEY. 305 impulses of his nature; but he had been too long accustomed to indulgence, and-was little practised in acts of humility. :He looked kindly towards her and replied, , "I know,; Kate, that you have not intentionally:; deceived me. Do not- distress yourself any more about it. It is to- b regretted. There is no rem- edy just now, that I can see. I am greatly per- plexed to know what to do." "Yes," replied Kate, sighing heavily, "'it i- very bad. Can you not sign the papers, and-leave them with me to give to the -persons who will caGt' "I can do that," said Eugene, brightening -with the thought. "Run, Kate; bring me my little ta- ble, pens and paper." Kate ran away, smiling through her tears once more, and in a few moments all was in readiness, and Eugene sat down and signed receipts for' sums large and small, and laid them out one'by one upon the table. Kate stood behind him looking on at the'process. He turned suddenly towards her, and said in a hurried tone, "Can you read writing, Kate."' ," ' "No, Eugene," she replied, in a tone of sadness. He threw down his pen, gathered up the papers, and knit his brow. "Of what use will these be to you, then?" he muttered angrily. "You might give a fifty dollar page: 306-307[View Page 306-307] )RTRIAITS OF MY MARIED FRIENDS. receipt for a five dollar one, and not know the dif- ference." He put on his hat, pushed by the nurse roughly, who just then came in to show him how nicely little Mary had been prepared for a walk, and told Kate it might be late at night before he would return. Poor Kate followed him to the door, hoping to hear one word of adieu, and she tried to ask him not to love her less, but her tongue seemed palsied. Bowed to the very dust, she shut herself in her room, and could remember but little that passed in her mind after she had closed the door. A storm of bewildering thoughts rushed through her brain in great confusion, followed by sudden flashes of light, and after-all was darkness and a dead repose. When she awoke Eugene was bending, over her in anxious watchfulness, and one or two physicians were by her bedside. "What is the matter?" asked Kate. "You have been very ill all night, my dear," said Eugene, "but, 'thank God, you are better now.", She drew him towards her, and whispered very low, "Have you forgiven me, Eugene, for deceiv- ng you?" . "Yes, dear Kate, don't think of it; -it will be ill right," said Eugene. The physicians left the louse. Eugene, who had been in an agony of mind KATE IECARNEY. 307 lest he had killed poor Kate, was now as elated as he had been depressed, and he renewed his prom- ises of love and almost superhuman devotion. CHAPTER VIII. EUGENE was obliged to leave home in a few days after the interview just described. He had made his friend, Francis Gilbert, his business confidant, and he prepared to attend to the business from which he had been unexpectedly delayed. The work might detain him a month, he thought, not longer, and he bade adieu to Kate and little Mary with an aching heart, and a saddened spirit. He had awoke to a sense of the truth that Kate was like a beautiful picture, upon which he could gaze for a time with pleasure. It was true there were traits of charac- ter in her to love and admire. But there was but little companionship between them. Her mind and his were strangers. This was a breach that could not, he thought, be filled up. ]Mrs. Edgerton proposed to Kate to' learn tto write. Rose gladly offered herself as the teacher, and poor Kate set'to work with all her heart, blot- ting page after page with her tears, before she could page: 308-309[View Page 308-309] 308 PORTRAITS OF MY -MARRIED FRIENDS. show one to Miss Rose. In a month she could put sentences' together that could be read. Then the forms of expression and manner of address in let- ter-writing, with other instructions upon the place of date and other details, were given. Kate aston- ished Rose by her improvement. -It was beautiful to see them together; Rose so earnest in her work of charity,and poor, pensive Kate laboring zeal- ously to profit by those kind instructions, while her heart beat quickly at the thought of how' happy Eugene would be. Three, four, five and six months passed before X - Eugene returned. When he came, he seemed to Kate, to whom absence had made him more dear, changed. Was it true? She dared not reply to the question. "Why did I not hear from yoil, dear Eugene?" said Kate, the second day after his return. Hear from me 2" he replied, rather harshy, "' did your expect, Kate, that I could have my let- ; ters :carried aroulnd to be read to you by strangers, as often as you might wish to hear them?" "Oh iio," said Xate, "I forgot.' It was very thoughtless of me to expect it. You could not write to me. Why did I not think of it before? But you wished to write, I am sure, Eugene." iHe madelno reply. - Some friends came in, and he sat down with them to talk over the events of ' , * KATE RRARNEY. 309 his journey. He laughed and seemed happy while they remained, but soon grew thoughtful and de- jected when left alone with Kate. She dared not ask the cause. Perhaps disappointment in busi- ness troubled him, thought she. It was touching to see her efforts to please him, and to conceal her fears. She tried to make home, pleasant. It was all in vain. He grew daily more careless of her happiness, and sought his pleasure at the club or French caf6s. Kate continued her exertions to improve under Rose's instructions, and had not yet told Eugene that she could :write. She read daily, but even this little improvement opened to her vision such mountains of unlearned matter that lay before her, that she felt like a pigmy ant endeavoring to re- move them. "In tears, Katea " said Eugene, coming in un- expectedly one day. "What is the matter? I did not know that any thing could trouble you but the baby, or my coming late to supper, or a disappoint- ment in the dinner." Kate understood the cruel insinuation, and blushed deeply, and then for the first time since he married her, he saw her eyes flash with indignation. -- "Eugene," she replied, "have I deserved this? Is it because I am simple-hearted and untaught, that you think I cannot feel your- neglect, your mortifi- page: 310-311[View Page 310-311] 310 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. cation or your trouble, when you have any Am I not now all I was when you sought me with fair words and promises? Did I not tell you I feared you would grow weary of -me .? Oh, Eugene, this is a cruel return for my love for you." "I am not weary -of you, Kate. It is a fancy of your own imagination. , I have business that oc- cupies the, most of my time. I can't be at home much. If you wish to drive me away altogether, you will annoy me with these foolish complaints and jealousies." Kate said in'a whisper, "I was wrong, Eugene, forgive me; but feel so much how little I can do to make you happy, I feared you felt it, too." Eugene, while absent, had formed the acquaint- -ance of Edward Gaston, a young gentleman who was, like himself, an engineer, but who, finding that Eugene had learned many things of advantage to the profession with which he was unacquainted, begged that Eugene would consent to give hina a few lessons in the evening at his father's-house. The arrangement was made, and poor Kate sat evening after evening alone. After the lesson was over Eugene was frequently invited to join the family in the parlor, where there Was music, dancing, and pleasant conversation. Eugene was agreeable and accomplished, and could contribute his share to the pleasure of the circle. *} '* { ' t] ' * , KATE KEAERNEY. 3" What wonder then if he sometimes accepted the pressing invitations offered. Poor KFate often suffered to the comparisons ; drawn in his mind after an evening at Mr. Gaston's. A close observer might have noticed that a shadow was stealing upon the sunny beauty of the young wife, whose brightness the trials of poverty had failed to lessen. Eugene had, never spoken of his wife to Edward Gaston, and the family had sup- t posed him to be unmarried. It was not long before Eugene saw this, and indulged his vanity in allow- ing the impression to remain. -Miss Emily Gaston was an accomplished and intelligent young lady. She found pleasure in Eugene's society. His con versation was instructive, and his address prepos- sessing. More thahn once she drew him into argu- ments in which, without intending to do so, she ap- peared to great advantage. Eugene was very fond of drawing, and fre- quently of late, after the lesson was over, stopped in the library to look over Miss Gaston's portfolio of sketches and paintings. He praised some and pointed out defects in others, which he noticed with pleasure she always corrected before he saw them again. "What picture is this, Miss Gaston?" said Eiz- gene, drawing out of the portfolio an exquisitely page: 312-313[View Page 312-313] 312 PORTRAITr OF MyT MABXLE FRIENDS. painted miniature. He colored deeply while ga- zing upon it. It was so like Kate! "That is a picture I painted," Miss Gaston re- plied, 'c partly from fancy and partly from memory. The original, whom I met by accident, was a lovely creature. Her sweet face haunted me until I at- tempted a likeness; but I have not done her jus- tice; oh no, not at all. Perhaps her expression lacked great intellectual cultivation, but there was a depth of soul that gave life and beauty to the most perfectly formed features you ever beheld." Eughne still gazed upon the picture. "You seem entranced with my picture, Mr. La Grange," con- tinued Miss Gaston. "Is it the face or the paint- ing with which you have fallen in love . ". "Both," replied Eugene. "May I ask, Miss Gaston, where you saw this lady?" "Certainly," replied Miss Gaston; "but pray be seated. I was alone one night with my little sister ,Ada, who was sick. The family anid servants had retired. The bell rang violently. I feared some one might be sick or in distress, and hastened myself to'the door. When I opened it two young girls, who seemed alarmed, asked to be permitted to enter and remain until morning. I heard their story, and told them to follow me, and remain with my little sister until I could ask mamma. Mamma KATB KEADRNEY. O 313 thought it better to refuse, fearing to admit stran- gers at such an hour. "A short time after they left, I missed a valua- ble diamond bracelet, which I had taken from my arm on coming from the parlor. Since no one but these girls had been in the room with me, it was natural to suspect them. It was our painful duty to send in -the morning to a policeman, and give him an account of it. I had no difficulty in de- scribing them. One was very beautiful. The po- liceman said he was very sure he knew the girl, from having often seen her in the street, and some- times at a late hour, but had always supposed her to be an honest, quiet person, whom necessity had obliged to be out alone at that hour. He would arrest her before night, he was very sure, He did so, but she escaped from him. The night was ter- rific. I can-never forget it; and he could not find her. I found the bracelet a short time after. I had laid it, when I took it off, upon the open book which I was reading. When the bell rang I closed it. lNot reading again that night, the book was laid carelessly into the library, without observing the bracelet in it, and it remained there till taken one day from the shelf by chance, when the brace- let was found. I painted this miniature from what I could remember of the face I had so wronged. I " page: 314-315[View Page 314-315] 314 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. saw her once since, and asked pardon for the pain I had inflicted." Eugene had) become pale as marble. He was sure it was Kate's portrait. "Did you reside here at that time? ' asked Eu- gene, assuming an indifferent manner. - No," she replied, "we lived in street, No. 5 .. "The very house," thought Eugene, in which I saw Kate- and a young girl with her enter!"He made some remark upon the mistake, and the good fortune of having discovered the bracelet, and ex- cused his hasty departure. Eugene knew that he had chosen one in humble position in life, but he had not heard of the arrest. "Perhaps," thought he, " her name was chronicled 7 in the Police Gazette, with an account of the af- fair!"It was a struggle for his proud nature to bear the thought. When he reached home he took no notice of lit- -tle Mary, andbut little of Kate. He sat down moodily, anrd rested his head on his hands. Kate, with the most tender solicitude, endeavored to cheer him, but in vain. Whenever she approached him, he waived his hand for her to leave him alone; and it was evident even to her generous mind, that her presence was disagreeable to him. This was a new -* '^- EATE TRAtNEY. 315 grief to the poor wife, and one which she. tried in vain to understand. Kate grew so unhappy at the thought of being in any way the cause of Eugene's unhappiness, that she resolved to ask the cause of his coldness of manner towards her. He repulsed her harshy,.and forbid her troubling him with such jealous charges. The next evening that Eugene went to Mr. Gaston's to give the usual lesson, Miss Gaston joked him upon the impression her picture had made upon his heart. She would read, one day, she said, of a romantic marriage in high life, in which the hero had eloped with a lowly beauty, much to the annoyance of his thousand and one fair admirers in his own circle. "I pray, ]Mr. La Grange," she continued, " that I may not be the innocent cause of such a calamity. It is one of the most fearful mistakes ever made, in my opinion." Seeing that Eugene was annoyed by the jest, she continued, "I wonder how long the illusion lasts? What a painful state of mind the return to one's senses must. produce!" Eugene made some unintelligible remarks upon the subject, which made Miss Gaston laugh heart- ily, attributing his absence of mind to the annoy- ance produced by the supposition that he could fall in love with any one but herself! "I suppose you have heard of the affair which page: 316-317[View Page 316-317] r316 PORTRAITS OF MY MYAi4c1iU FRIENDS. not a hundred years ago gave life to the gossips of London I Not heard it? Why, a learned pro- fessor had the courage to avow that he was so wea- ried with literary pursuits and science, that he had resolved to marry a woman whose heart was more cultivated than her head. I believe he preferred that she should neither read nor write I He sought out one of Erin's daughters, not very fair I assure you, and asked her to leave the sweet lakes of 'Kil- Iarney, for life with him in the fashionable world in London. After a second refusal (she doubted his sincerity for some time), he succeeded, and they were married. The Duke of Sussex, the Queen's uncle, was the first name on the list of guests at the wedding! The professor has had soul enough to treat'her kindly. He says it is delightful after a day of mental labor, to turn to one whose head is not filled, and whose thoughts are not absorbed, in abstruse science. There is'a freshness in her sim- plicity that soothes him. This 'sounds poetic, but, entre nous, I fancy it must be sometimes a little prosy l" Miss Gaston laughed at -the idea, and drew some amusing domestic scenes, which she fancied must occur between the professor and his lady'! Eugene listened attentively, and was going to reply to her remarks, when a surprise party of twenty or thirty friends entered, and; relieved him KATE IReARNEY. 317 from his embarrassment. Before he left, Miss Gas- ton asked him to accompany her to the opera on the following evening. Her brother had an engage- ment, and she knew Mr. La Grange's fondness for music. BHe was obliged to thank her for the invi- tation, and accept itj All the way home he thought of the net he was weaving, and how the difficulty of extricating him- self was daily increasing. But he must wait for a chance opportunity to reveal the truth. He had -not courage to do it; he would appear to have acted with so much weakness, and so dishonorably. When he reached home he found Kate waiting for his return, and, as usual, laboring with patient endeavor to please him. She sat down by his side, and said she had long wished to tell him the short story of her life before she married him, and if he was not too tired to lis- ten to her, it would relieve her mind of a weary thought that had troubled her in spite of all she could do, ever since he had accused her of deceiv- ing him. He told her to go on. Without raising her eyes from the floor, she related in a low voice, with the greatest simplicity, her whole life, and its trials, to the time when she left the convent. Eu- gene was saddened by the recital, and more than once was moved to tears. And since then," said page: 318-319[View Page 318-319] 318 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIEND@S Kate-she paused, sighed, and tried to go on. "Since then you know the rest, Eugene." Eugene felt guilty. He knew that since then s poor Kate's life might have been happier than he had madeit, and he resolved to do his part better in fiture, and, if possible, make amends for the hours of sorrow his fitful humor had caused her. Doubting his'own strength, he dared not ;promise anew. He had so often promised and failed, could Eate- believe him? He threw himself upon her mercy. Who has not found, woman's charity am- ple as the vaulted heavens above usE Who has not:found her love enduring as time? Several days had passed, and Eugene had: not been at Mr. Gaston's.. On the evening appointed to go to the opera,- Miss Gaston had waited in vain for his coming, and it was charitably decided that sickness had prevented him fromm keeping his en- gagement. But it' was- strange, Miss, Gaston thought, that neither messenger nor note had been sent to apologize for the disappointment. Edward had- frequently met Eugene at a French hotel in the lower iart of the city, and had supposed, that he lived there. On inquiry he found it was not the case. He then remembered having heard Eugene speak of his friend Francis Gilbe,t. After much difficulty he found him, and- learned that- Eugene had been taken suddenly and dangerously ill. It KATE TriAREY. 319 was feared from the frequent spitting of blood dur- ing the past week, with which he had been af- flicted, that a rapid decline would follow. Indeed it was certain. "His poor wife is in the greatest distress of mind," said Mr. Gilbert. "His wife " exclaimed Edward Gaston, in a surprised tone. "I was not aware, that he was mar- ried." "Yes, he is married," said Mr. Gilbert, " but for some unaccountable reason he seldom speaks of his wife; why, I do not know. She is a very beau- tiful woman; young and inltelligent-looking., I never conversed much with her. Usually when I am at Eugene's house we are occupied in busi- ness matters, and I think she is naturally timid and silent." That evening the subject of Mr. La Grange's marriage, his illness and probable position were discussed freely in the library by Mr. and Mrs. Gaston, and many doubts and surmises were raised, Miss Gaston could not believe there could be blame attached to his silence on the subject of his mar- riage. "Can it be," said she, "that my miniature which seemed to agitate him so much, resembles his wife . I would like very much to see her." It was decided that it might be painful to Eugene: if page: 320-321[View Page 320-321] 320 PORTRAITS 'OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. Edward called upon Mrs. La Grange, but a mes- senger could be sent to inquire for his health. The delicacy of constitution with which Eugene had suffered from his infancy, had given Kate great anxiety of mind since her marriage. But now-she saw him fast declining. His physician had already told hinmof his danger. Hle had been obliged to give up business and avoid all excitement of mind. Kindly and tenderly, did Kate attend him, for she loved him devotedly; and when he was irritable and unreasonable, she bore his changeful humor with sweet patience. There was a grief in her mind that was daily wearing away her cheerful spirit, but there was left in her heart a calm and holy re- signation, that- sanctified the life she had chosen, which otherwise would have been one of deep re- gret, Bitterly did Eugene repent of the -trials to which he had subjected Kate, for he now saw them all; but he could not bring his proud spirit to acknow- ledge it to her. He endeavored to make amends by writing to his father, that he feared before his letter could reach him he would have departed from this world, and imploring him to receive Kate into his family as a daughter, -and to love her: be- cause she was his wife. He told Kate that he had done so, and made her. promise to accept the invi- tation, if his father complied with his request. EATE TECVARNEY.. 321 "-It will be the only means by which little Mary can be educated," said he one day, when Kate raised objections to leaving her country. Kate promised, and a new trial was presented to her. A month from this time and, Eugene was no more. Kate was again desolate and lonely in-the world. CHAPTER IX. A FEW weeks after Eugene's death it was with a painful struggle that Kate examined his papers,. and took from them all that seemed to relate to busi- ness. She had sufficient money (which Eugene had given her from time to time) to defray the ex- penses of the funeral, but she must now ask Mr. Gilbert to supply her. with means of support. It had been Eugene's request that she should do so. He told her Mr. Gilbert held a small sum in trust for her. -Mr. Gilbert sent her money without wait- ing for her to call upon him. The time had now come when it was necessary to settle up Mr. La Grange's affairs, and Mr. Gilbert had called fre. quently upon Kate to talk wit r on the subject. -Each time she had become so much- agitated that he had made but little'progress. A letter came to "O' page: 322-323[View Page 322-323] 322 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. Kate from France. It was written in French. She hastened to Mrs. Edgerton' to ask her to read it for her. It was a kind letter from her father-in- law, offering her a home with him, and requesting her to sail in the next steamer. He desired her to call upon Mr. IGilbert for any money necessary foi her outfit and expenses, and to hasten to them, where she and her little daughter should be re- ceived with open arms. Kate remained silent a few moments after Mrs. Edgerton laid aside the let- ter, and was much troubled. She told Mrs. Edger- ton what difficulty she found in going among stran.. gers, who might perhaps despise her when they found her a poor, uneducated woman, so far infe- rior to her lamented husband. Poor Kate's tears fell fast, and Mrs. Edgerton found it impossible to control her own, Kate looked so young and inex- perienced to go alone into a new and foreign home, where she could not understand a word, and where she must necessarily appear to great disadvantage. "But it must, be," said Mrs. Edgerton. "It will not do for you to refuse the offer. Little Mary must remain uneducated if you do not go. Until you sail you must come daily to us and practise your writing, and receive all the instruction we can give you. It will be two weeks' before you leave. Much can be learned, and many instructions can be written out for you in that time." He .. KATE ]TzA mOxY. 323 "Mr. Gilbert has kindly offered to write to my father-in-law for me," said Kate, "but Hdo not like to see him again. He will ask me some questions, perhaps, that I could not answer. Here is his note to me, Mrs. Edgerton. Will you be kind enough to read it, and tell me if it would do as well to an- swer it by letter?" ' Certainly it will," replied Mrs. Edgerton, after reading it. "' May I ask Miss Rose to answer it for me a ' asked Kate, timidly. Mrs. Edgerton assented, and desired Kate to go to Rose's room; she would find her disengaged. Kate knocked gently at the door and entered. Her dress of deep mourning accorded well with her saddened countenance, and could not fail to excite the sympathy of a less interested per- son than Rose:. For several minutes after Kate was seated neither could speak from emotion, and then it was with difficulty that Kate related the events of the pasti three months with a touching pathos. Rose entered into the trials of her position with much earnestness, and gave all the encourage- ment in her power. After reading the note from Mr. Gilbert, she wrote the desired answer- to-it, which Kate read. Ringing for the servant, she de- sired him to take it at once to Mr. Gilbert's office, and to return as soon as possible with word to Mrs. -- ' ",l page: 324-325[View Page 324-325] 324 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. La Grange if -Mr. Gilbert's questions had been an- swered Satisfactorily. In an hour the messenger returned with a re- spectful note, requesting an interview with Madam La Grange, and saying that as soon as she could find it convenient to appoint -an hour, he would hold himself disengaged for that time. Poor Kate looked to Rose for advice. "When must I go, Miss?" she asked, coloring deeply. "You had better let John return," said Rose, "and say you will call at his office to-morrow at ten o'clock." John obeyed. The next morning Kate for the first time en- tered Mr. Gilbert's office. He was struck by her extremely interesting appearance. He remarked her embarrassment, and attributed it in part to her - grief, and to the difficulty she found in speaking upon the affairs of her- departed husband. "I wrote to your- father-in-law yesterday after I heard from you, Madam La Grange," said Mr. Gilbert, " and in order to ensure a favorable impression I enclosed your beautiful note which I had just -received, in which you s0 earnestly expressed your gratitude to your father-in-law and to me, for our kindness towards you since the loss of our dear Eugene. I beg, dear madarn, that you will allow me the grati. fication of aiding you in any way that it may be in my power. The receipt of your note has induced HATE KANEY. 325 me to remark to you that were you to wish to do so, you 'can be quite independent in France. I have mentioned that to your father-in-law. Should it be your own wish, you can teach English, being, as he must see, fully competent to do so. But I am quite sure there will be no necessity for it." Kate grew too much agitated and confused to reply. She had, it seemed to her, lost all power of speech. But a severe struggle was going on within her breast between conscience and pride. "How will I tell him I did not write the note?" thought she. Mr. Gilbert-saw her timidity, and pitied her embarrassment. He awaited a reply. Still she knew not how to begin, or what to say. After a few moments' pause he went to his desk, and took out some papers which it would be necessary for Kate to sign. At once Kate perceived that her writing would be different from that in the note, and that she would appear to have been passing herself off for what she was not!"Had I told Mr, Gilbert that the note had been written for me, before he proposed my writing my name," thought Kate, "it would have been well. But'to speak now, how can I? It will look as if I confessed from the cer- taintyof being found out. I cannot do it." Mr. Gilbert brought the papers and laid them before her, pointing out the place for her signature. She grew weak and her sight began to fail. He saw page: 326-327[View Page 326-327] 326 i PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. that she became deathly pale and :was fainting. He ordered one of the clerks to lgo quickly and bring a glass of wine. She took it and then with a trembling hand she wrote her name as he had desired. Kate left the office. All the way home she felt like one who had deceived and imposed upon a good friend. She went through the street without seeing or hearing any thing that passed around her. Many turned back to look at her, and regarded her as one very nearly if not quite bereft of reason, so abstracted did she seem. After a sleepless night she hastened at an early hour to confess her weakness to Rose, and ask her what she ought to do under the?circumstances. Rose was pained at having been the innocent cause of so much trouble to Kate, but could not decide what would be the wisest course to pursue, now that the mischief was done, "The letter is gone," said Rose, " and should Mr. Gilbert write that he had been mistaken, and state the exact truth, it might create a strong prejudice in their minds against you. It seems to me that since you did not design the deception, the only way now is to let it pass, and trust to making yourself beloved by your husband's family.- Afterwards, if necessary, you can eatrain to them how the mistake occurred. Not speaking English, it- will be a long time before they can know your- deficiencies, and meanwhile KATE KCARWEY. 327 you can improve yourself very much." The ad- vice was taken. But what labor, anxiety and dis- tress of mind it cost poor Kate to maintain the character of an educated person, or rather to avoid the exposure of her ignorance, can be in part under- stood from the following letters received by Rose and Helen from Kate after her arrival in France, and which we give verbally and literally as they were re- ceived. They show a perseverance and heroic effort almost unequalled, and which can hardly be fully appreciated except by a person in similar- circum- stances. The great-improvement-which each letter indicated showed the natural abilities of her mind, and the strong desire she felt to attain a higher po- sition and make herself worthy of the respect of her husband's family:- "DEAR Mss RosE,-I take the present oppor- tunity of Writing a few lines to you. I Wrote to you on the 22 of august. I received no answer yet, -but I think you have not received it on account of the direction been wrong, on my voyage, part of, my bagage had been mislade tin which it con- tained the Enveloppes that Miss Helen gave me. one month after my arrival I received it, in cace you did 1N'ot receive the letter I first wrote to you I will give you an idea of how I was received by my french family. on the 14th of August I ar- page: 328-329[View Page 328-329] 328 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. rived at my new home, they received very kinely, and with greate affectionate I feel very loansome. at present not Knowing to speak I take lessons ev- ery day, my family is very anxious that I should learn quick. but as you know I am not well Edu- cated it is a great difficult for me to learn the french verbs and all such, as I do not know the english verbs or anny that belong to it. I feel verry un- easy in'mind for fear that my family should suspect in the least anny thing about this great fault in me. My teacher I think does not know it yet. Miss rose if you would have the goodness to write to me imediately and let me know how manny verbs and genders-in english and what they are, and if you would have kindness to give me as much informa- tion in that line as possible I'shall count the ours till I hear from you my teacher is an english gen- tleman. if I had the hapenness of having a female I should let mny secret be nowing to her'. "in F - there are about ten thousand in- habitants among them there is not anny person who speaks english more than half a Dussin of per- sons. I had the pleasure of going to Confession since my arrival. there is not any english priests here- there are all firench priests and a great many of them, there is not any prodestons here all catho- lixs. (" at present it is very -cold here we are obliged \ AT! KRARNEY. 329 to weare wolon Dresses and thick socking, the same as in the mont of desember in New York the prayer of Saint anthony that Miss Helen wrote for me I unfortunately lost it if you would have the kindness to send it to me, I thank miss Annie in the kindest manner for going to holy communion for me I had not the least trouble in my trawling I hope that God will reward you-for it. "there is one thing that troubles me very much my father has a servent who is not a tall kind to me she lived with him "this fourteen years and on account of been with him so long she has great Control over him she is the cook and does all the house work you. may juge the work is not much only my father and me and little Mary and the lit- tle servant that carry her about she does not do the washing it is done once every year she does treat me with great disrespect and gives me to under-- stand that she is the mistress and me a servant, me not knowing to speak it makes it very disagreeable for me, my father would not allow it if he knew it, my sister in law has told him to seend her away he seemed not to' pay much attention, I would be very happy but for that - "they call me Eugenie, in remberance of my late husband and call my little girl Mary for the virgen Mary page: 330-331[View Page 330-331] 330 - PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. "I, send my love to all the family you will -Write soon 4-Direct your "Ietter to "Madame Eugenie La Grange "in care of Henri La Grange ' F France "if you write it in french I think it would be beter you will excuse my bad writing "I know I have mad many blundres "With many thanks for your kindness I remain your umble -- "Servant KATE. October 2th 1842 After the receipt of this letter several months passed, during which time Mrs. Edgerton heard nothing from Kate. Becoming anxious for her welfare, Rose wrote to Kate, and directed her letter to the care of Monsieur ]a Grange, her father-in- law. Rose in due time received the following reply, in which- a marked improvement in style and, ideas will be observed, and also some French idiom,: "F., Mardc the 12th, 1844. "' MY DEAM MSs ROSE,-Your kind letter dated the 9th of Nov. was received, and for which I re- ]rATE KEARNWEY. 381 turn you a thousand thanks. Believe me dear Miss Rose I feel truly grateful for your kindness and great attention to me. I should have written to you before but in fact my hours have been very limited since some time. You will I am sure be surprised to hear that I give English lessons. Dear Miss rose you may judge my position. This is my families wishes and I did not dare to object to it otherwise they would considered me as a burthen, and at the same time unworthy of having any claim in the family. Thanks be to the Almighty I have not had any Difficult as yet, for I have become ac- quainted with an English nun at the sacred heart at F . This lady is very kind to me she has given me french lessons for about ten months, and has also promised me an English Grammar, in fact does all in her power to assist me in giving my les- sons. This is done without my families nowing any thing of it, but unfortunately her stay here is very short, and were she to leave soon'I would be left entirely friendless. However I hope with the assistance -of: your- excellent prayers that the al- mighty will aid me. "I also beg of you dear; Miss Rose if you will have the kindness to send me a few remarks on the different sorts--of verbes and at-the same time the degree of heat and cold in New York and also the population. But I must apologize for giving you o page: 332-333[View Page 332-333] 332 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. this fresh trouble, but your kindness towards me and the interest you have taken in my behalf in- duced me to solicite this new and important ser- vice.. The servant whom I have mentioned to you before looks on me still with an evil eye; with her malicious and false reports she tries to deprive me of my father-in-law's good-will. Some persons who observed her unkindness towards me advised him to Discharge her but unfortunately she is at his ser- vice for a long time and consequently has gained too great an influence over his mind, for- him to think of sending her away. I do not feel at home, and were it not for my little Daughter I would very soon return to New York.' All the family is very fond of Mary but their affection towards me is not the same as I thought it would be in the com- mencement. As I told you before my life would be very miserable were I not to give lessons. -Now my father-in-law who is vetlf economical bords me and I clothe )myself and /ittle Mary: However, this is the will of the almighty and I am willing to suffer whatever he is willing to send in my way. I beg of yd again dear Miss Rose to pray for me very ha:rd and If I Did not fear that you would find me to( troublesome I would also beg those of you exceelnt aid charitable family such as I found idt,: I speak french with great facility but I cannot rite it as well as I speak I have the pleas- ; KATE KEARNEY. 333 ure of going to confession once every month since I arrived. ,Little Mary is a darling little girl, and is greatly advanced for her age; she still has the sil- ver medal that you were kind enough to give her. She repeats every day the little prayer for you. I hope you will write soon. Direct your letter to Madame Eugenie La Grange. "Chez Monsieur Henri La Grange, F .--- . France "You will I trust excuse all the incorrectness while I remain your humble servant- ' "EKATE." "F--- Marci 2ath 1844. "DEAR Miss ROSE,--I have just received your kind letter of the 22 February, or at least my fa- ther-in-law has. Dear Miss Rose I hope you will not consider me neglectful for not writing sooner for I assure you that it is not negligence that pre- vented me from doing so. I certainly am not worthy of this kind attention, and it grieves me when I think that I, a poor and miserable creature, can do nothing in recompense to all the kind and charitable actions that you have shown me. But I will beg of the Almighty to reward you for them. I wrote Miss Rose the 11th of this month to Miss Helen and therefore I shall not write you a long page: 334-335[View Page 334-335] 334 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. letter. I have begged of her to send me a few re- marks on the different sort of verbs but I thought since that I would rather have a little knowledge between the superlative and comparative. Will you be kind enough to tell me the distance between New York and Iiagro falls and alsd Sarotoga, and at the same time the population of New York. Remember me kindly to Miss Annie, and to all the young ladies. Please write soon, direct your letter to Madame Eugenie La Grange, chez Monsieur Henri La Grange. "(please seal your letter well for the family have the habit of opening all the letters that I receive and look over them before they give them to me. I will take the liberty of asking you another favour dear Miss Rose that is to remember me morning and evening in your prayers, and I promise you that I shall do the same for you While I remain "Your very humble Servant KATE." To this letter Rose replied immediately, gaving many rules in grammar, and many instructions on subjects that might naturally arise in conversation. She also laid down a plan of study for Kate, and encouraged her to continue her exertions, begging at the same time that she would freely ask any KATE REAENEY. 335 questions she desired answered. Helen soon after received the following from Kate:- "F--- May 17, 1844. "DEAR MSS HELEN,- Your kind letter dated the 14th April was received a few days since. 1 return you a thousand thanksfor your kindness and beg a thousand pardons for giving you so much trouble, but I hope you will excuse me. I per- fectly understood all the grammatical instructions that you and Miss Rose were kind enough to send me. They were of the greatest service to me. I never shall be able to thank you sufficiently for all the kindness that you and Miss Rose have shown me. I have been often asked what was the tem- perature of New York. I told them that the least was seventy degrees in summer time but they do not seem to believe it. When I received your kind letter, to convince those persons I showed some of them the side of your letter on which it was writ- ten. Now they say that the American degrees are not the same as the French ones and not knowing if there were any difference neither what a degree is'I thought better to say nothing. "Will you be kind enough to tell me what a degree is and if there is any difference. At pres- ent I have twelve pupils but in summer I will prob- page: 336-337[View Page 336-337] )RTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. bly have less for the greater part of them leave F in summer time. "There are but two who take lessons every day the others twice and three times a week. I had no difficulty as yet thanks be to the Almighty for it. Fortunately all my pupils are young and never learned English before, but the exception of one, a lady about thirty years of age, and who has already lear:ned English in her younger days. This nerson gives me more trouble than all the rest, she very often takes two lessons a day-and asks a great many questions. "My father-in-law asked me what was the price of French lessons in New York. In France or at least at F they charge one. Franc a lesson. Will you be kind enough to tell me this in your next letter, I forgot to let you know how I get on in regard to confession. The first ten months I found an English priest or at least one who spoke English but on the 20th of July last he was conse- crated Bishop of a town in France. Since then I confess in French. Mary is well. When- ever I speak to her in English she always answers me in French. Dear Miss Helen I hope you will remember me in your excellent prayers I remain dear Miss Helen "Your humble servant KATE." KATE KEARNEY. 337 ' F--- August 7, 1844. "MY DEAR Miss ROSEE,-Your kind letter of June 15th was received. I was very glad to hear that the family were all-well. Be persuaded my dear Miss Rose that I shall always and for ever pray for your kind parents and for all the family. I feel truly grateful to you for the kind encourage- ment you have given me in your letters. Indeed I shall be obliged to take advantage of them for I must tell you with regret that the Sacred Heart of F---- has been broken up on the 4th of this month, and the good Nun who aided me so much is gone. "It appears that this house has been supported since a long time by the other houses of the society for it has been much afflicted from sickness, and consequently they had but a very few pupils. So that Mother General who lives at Paris gave orders to have it broken up at this vacation, I cannot tell you, my dear Miss Rose, the loss this is to me. The fact is, I felt very miserable; for the English Nun of whom I have spoken to you of was very kind to me and used to explain all the difficulties to me. She has given me an English Grammar but I understand but very little in it for I cannot read more than a page at a time without meeting with many words which I do not understand. You told me, my dear -Miss Rose, that history and Geogra- 15 page: 338-339[View Page 338-339] 338 PORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. phy were necessary. They certainly are but in the first place it is impossible procure either without the family's knowledge, and in the second place I could never learn without somebody to explain the Difficulties. What I now find very difficult is to calculate, though I have learned the tables of mul- tiplication on 'the book that Miss Helen had the kindness to give me yet I cannot multiply. Will you be kind enough to tell me how many yards are "there in an English mile and league, and if New York is in North or South America. "My father in law seems to be more affection- ate to us now than when I wrote last. As to this old family servant I still suffer from her though I now pay less attention to her than at first, but X have made' up my mind to suffer with patience whatever the Almighty is willing to send in my way. I have three new pupils since I have writ- ten to you last, three Novises of the blessed Sacre- ment Order. I have no Difficulty with them for they know very little, I go to the convent three times a week; All my pupils come to the house but the exception of two. Will you have the kind- ness to tell me the difference between mnuch and many. I hope my dear Miss Rose you will excuse me for giving you so much trouble. ( I remain ever most gratefully yours KATEO ' ) ' EKATE KEARNEY. ' 339 This letter gave Rose much pleasure. It was written in a lady-like hand, and showed great im- provement. Poor ]Kate's unexampled efforts, and her resolution in overcoming difficulties, were fre- quent subjects of admiration and remark in the family, and Mr. Edgerton prophesied a bright flu- ture for the heroic wife. "F--- October 9th, 1844, "MY DEAR Miss RosE,-I acknowledge with pleasure the receipt of your kind letter, for which it is useless for me to attempt expressing my grati- tude. I must ask you not to write again until next month. Although I am in great need of your ex- cellent advice in regard to many things.. I fear that they might be opened by my fathers family and I would be lost. They are very inquisitive and curious and I can see by the constant surveillance kept over me that they have taken up the idea of a great mystery which hangs around me, and which they mean to discover. This gives me great trou- ble when I receive my letters. I have been in- vited to go to . to visit a gentleman who is a silk merchant and spends a great deal of his time in London. He has a family now visiting him whose acquaintance he formed when last there and I will be expected to talk a great deal with them. Indeed I believe it is to entertain them that I have page: 340-341[View Page 340-341] 340 PORTRAITS OF CMY MARRIED FRIENDS. been invited. Miss Rose you can understand my timidity and why this should cause me great trouble, for I know I shall often be embarrassed and mortify my friends. 'But when I think these crosses come from the Sacred Heart of Jesus and what comes from there is always good, and for my spiritual benefit I take courage and as you have often told me in your kind letters I put confidence in Him and trust that by your good prayers he will comfort me in my sorrows, and assist me in my difficulties. I must leave in a few moments. "Little Mary is a darling little girl she is full of intelligence. She speaks french distinctly and generally answers me in that language when I ad- dress her in English. "I hope you will excuse this letter I was obliged to write it in great haste for the stage coach will -leave at five this evening, "The grammar that the English Nun gave me. is Lindly Murray's (55th ed.) I have read the first part and the second as far as page 42 where I cal- not distinguish the difference between the adverb and the adjective-The book says that an, adverb is a part of speech joined to a verb or an adjective and sometimes toanother adverb to express some quality or circumstance respecting it. This I do not very well understand. JI do not either under- stand the difference between the present, imperfect, , KATE IWEFARNEY. 341 perfect, pluperfect, ist and second future tenses etc. When speaking and writing I do not know why one should be used instead of another. These rules are for myself only, that is they will not assist me with my pupils for the grammar that is for the. french to learn English is entirely different, the ex- planations are not given in the same manner. I hope my dear Miss Rose you will excuse my giv- ing you so much trouble, for indeed I give you and the family- enough of it but as I have said before, your kindness induces me to continue. You may be sure that I and little Mary will always and for- ever piay for you. "I feel the truth of what Miss Helen and Miss Anna have told me in their letters. I am sure when I am a few years more in France I shall for- get all my English for at present-I find my words a great deal easier in french than I do when I speak English at present all my pupils are in the coun- try. "Again Miss REose I promise to pray for you and all who are dear to you, and I hope you will do the same for your most grateful and humble ser- vant ' EUGENE LA GRANGE." Many years after the receipt of the last letter, Rose (now Mrs. Clifford Howard) was travelling in page: 342-343[View Page 342-343] 34:2 I'ORTRAITS OF MY MARRIED FRIENDS. Europe with her family, and visited the little town of F , in one of the French provinces. Going into a chapel early one morning with Clifford, she was struck with the appearance of a young lady who entered the door with them. The young girl, without noticing any one, hurried past the strangers, and knelt on the pavement in front of the- altar, before which Rose -now -stood ad- miring the beauty of a fine painting of the Cruci- fixion, executed by one of the old masters. The likeness of the young girl to Kate was so striking, that Mrs. Howard remained in the chapel until the young devotee had finished her devotions. Then following her, she found on inquiry that she had not been mistaken. It was' Mary La Grange! Rose soon learned from her that her mother, Eugenie La Grange, had died soon after Rose had received the last letter, of which we have given a copy, and that "little Mary" had become the support and comfort of her grandfather. "Poor Kate!" sighed Rose, as she and C rd stood by the grave pointed out as the last resting-place of Madame La Grange. "'Poor Kate hers was a weary life! But she bore its trials and disappointments with a brave and Christian spirit." "It is often a dangerous and doubtful charity," replied Clifford, -" to remove persons from. the po- sition in which they are born. Kate might have / KATE KFARNEY. 343 been happy in her own more humble spheie. May her trials here add to her greater glory and happi- ness hereafter." Upon the simple marble slab of snowy white- ness, upon which Rose and Clifford gazed was en- graven-"EuGENEm," and no more. But upon the hearts of many there will, I trust, be written kind memories of KATE RARNEY. TUNCLE BEN. THE END. page: 344-345 (Advertisement) [View Page 344-345 (Advertisement) ] D. APPLETON & COMPANY'S P UB LI C A T I O N S. ,sould it be impossible to procure any of the Books on this List, they will be for. warded by the Publishers to any address in the United States, POsT-PAI, on receipt of the rice afloed. MSCELLANEOUS. Acton; or the Circle of Life. 12mo ................... Clothb, 1 25 Aguilar G. 'The lother's Re. compenseo 12nio ....... 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Cloth, 1 00 Gilt edges, 1 50 Antique morocco, 2 50 The above 8 vols., in extra cloth, uniform, neat style, in case ... .. c ;0 page: 360 (Advertisement) -361[View Page 360 (Advertisement) -361] :ILLUS'TAT'D STANDARD POETS-(Col4Uu ed. A?PLETO ' N EW IBR R Y EDITION THE STANDARD BRITISH POETS. EDITED, WITH NOTES, BR; REV. GEO. GILFILTT,AN. Etegantly printed in large type, on superior paper, octavo size. Pubti,/ed at-the very low price of $1 ier volume, in cloth; or, in ftdl calf, etra, each vol. $2 50. VOLmnES NOW "EADY. The Complete Poetieal Works of the following Authors: John Milton -.Ax....... .... 2 vols. James Thomson - -... ...... 1 vol. Edward Young .......... . vol. Geo. Herbert........... 1 vol. Goldsmith, Collins, & War. ton ........ ..................... 1 vol. Cowper. ................*... 2 vols. Butler ..... ........... 2 vols. Shenstone ......................1 vol. Beattie, Blair, and Falconer. Ivol. Dryden....... -... .. ,.. 2 vols. W. Lisle Bowles.. ....... .....2 vols. Charles Churchill... 1 vol. Dr. Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett ..............1 vol. Robert Brns .......... ......... 2 vol. Pope .... ........ ..... 2 vols. *** The series will embrace the owhole range of British Poets, from Chaucer to the present day. A -volume will appear every two months. RELIGIOUS WORKS. Antlons Catechism on the Homilies. 18mo ....... Paper, G06 Early Catechism for Young Children. 18mo. Paper, 06 Barrett's Golden Reed; or, -,True Meas aure of a True Church. 12mo. 12mo..........Cloth, I00 ,?----Beauty for Ashes; org, the Old and New Doc. trine Concerning Infants After Death. 12mo..... Cloth, 60 Burnets Histhry of the Re- formation. 2dited by Dr. Nares. '8 vols.......... 2 50 On the Thirty-Nine Articles. Edited by Page. 8vo. 2 OC Bradleys -Family and Pnri sh Sermons. Complete in 1 vol... 2 PO Burns9 Cyclopaedia of Sert mons. Uniform with the "Pul- pit Cyclopuedia." 1 large vol. 8vo. Clothh, 2 50 Chasers Constitutions of the Holy Apostles, including the Canons. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, 2 50 Cotter. The Rlomish '!"ss ,and Rubrics. Translated. ISmo. 88 Coit, Dr. Puritanism Re- viewed. 12mo........ Cloth, 1 00 Graysons FTrue Theory of Christianity. 16mo..-. Cloth, I 00 Griffin, ng, The Gospel its own Advocate. 12mo. Clothi 1 00 HalI's Family Commentary on the Scriptures, for Episco- palians. To be published in neat 12mo. vols. 2 vols. Notes on the Gospels, nearlv readly.
