Old Maids’ Dogs

To be fair, there are still men ranting about women who get too obsessed with their dogs (and people who get too obsessed with their dogs in general) though I highly suspect that this was much more common before. When I mean by that, even if sentimental dog ownership did exist before it wasn’t so consistent or universal or consistently universal back then. It’s like before where if you got a dog, it ought to be useful.

As in it had to to hunt, herd and guard, which’s still the case elsewhere to whatever degree. (Coincidentally, hunting and herding were those few occasions where people did walk their dogs in the past and dog walking for pleasure used to be an old maid thing.) The very dogs despised for their uselessness were often lapdogs but also poodles, terriers and curs. The former were often owned by old maids and the sentiment still recurs among some African Americans (some white people too) and Russians, Chinese and Taiwanese when it comes to stray dog feeders.

Such people are known as zoodefenders in Russia and dog mothers in Sinophone media. (Though not all black people dislike cats and dogs, among some African Americans if the dog’s there it’s there for practical reasons, some AAs make a big deal out of being cleanly and some AAs resent that whites prioritise dogs over them.)

It’s not necessarily wrong to own dogs but that the idea of them as sentimental companions first and foremost en masse emerged more recently if it weren’t for religious beliefs and preference for utilitarianism.

National Stockman and Farmer, Volume 9 (Google Books)

Chillicothe, O,

A Caution to Girls.-I have not written much of late, but I have been an interested reader of this department. I feel thankful for Mrs. Throp’s letters and am glad she has time and a will to write. Mrs. Throp is above stopping to fight every little poodle that barks at her. I am of the same opinion as Aunt Jane, about gossi If there is any class of persons I despise it is that class. If one cannot say any good of another, keep silent. I do not worry over not having a chance to vote, but I do worry over not having laws made to put down the saloon business. In the South they license gambling; in the North they license men to sell rum and brandy, which is the worst of the two evils. One takes your money, the other takes your life. I would rather my girls would be old maids than drunkards’ wives, Old maids are honored, but the drunkard is abominable in the sight of God and man. Some say “I am glad I have no boys these times,” and rest on their oars. If there was nothing to do to save other people’s boys, as Rev. Sam Jones says, they will be caught in their sons in law. So you had better work while the day lasts, for none of us have any time to spare. Girls, shun all young men who drink, gamble or horse race. All these three go together. I have no sympathy for any one who will marry such men. think it is very much out of place for a wife to com: plain about her husband, in the Household or anywhere else. As you make your bed so you must lie. Look before you o:

Trumbull co, Ohio,

7he Woisy Brother.—Thanks to “Lotella” for her advice in regard to my plants. They are doing nicely now. , Will she please tell me when is the best time to start slips for winter bloomers. Can anyone tell me how to care for young canary birds, I have two females and should like to raise some young ones but don’t know how. I tried “Aunt Fatty’s” recipe for lemon pies and found them delicious. Susan, if brother’s nicely cleaned rocm, on wbict, you spent an hour to make it pleasant and attractive, is in less than half that time covered with nails, hammers, boards and such things as boys delight in, don’t scold him; let him pound, and hammer, and whistle, and sing, and make all the noise he wants to. By and by he will be able to make brackets, frames for your flowers, and he will do a thousand and one little things that girls are always wanting done. If he is clier and has reached the age of manhood, study his tastes, have his room arrayed the way he likes it, his books where he can find them, brush his clothes, fix his ties, and do for him the many little things that you can do so much neater and quicker than he can and what ever you do for him do it in a way that will show him it is a real pleasure for you to do it for him. Keep yourself always as meat as circumstances will allow, always be pleasant and sweet tempered, and you will not lack a brothel’s love, MINNEHAHA.

The Literary American, Volume 2 (Google Books)

The Love of a Lady,

We have, in this world of ours, pets of innumerable kinds—living things, that seem created only to be looked at and listened to, —pet poodles, pet parroquets, pet canaries, #. love birds, and pet ladies. The Lady Rondoletia is a charmer, whose smile is full of witchery. Is she not quite as admirable as a love bird, or a Charles’s spaniel ! She assents to everything that everybody o and reiterates, “Bless me!” and “Dear me!” and, “Well, I never,” as melodiously as the goldfinch sends his notes upon the odorous air. She never thinks— no more does the pet poodle. She listens wonderingly and silently to every speaker— so do the love birds. She disclaims all privilege of thinking for herself, and professes to be no judge. She is, in fact, better than a picture—for she is alive. She seems to be aware of nothing but that she has a pretty face, indicated by the studied arrangement of her curls and dress. She can sing a little and play a little, and is sometimes great at crotchet. She can paint butterflies, and read a French novel—has written verses in an album, and been commended for them a little—and Lionel Semibreve has promised to set them to music, but has not done it. Is not Lady Rondoletia, then, a pet—a darling Is she not an individual worthy to be regarded with as much admiration, and treated with as much care, as a piece of Dresden china Is she not a love of a lady ?

Beauties and the Beasts,

A writer in the “London Lancet,” says that carnivorous animals invariably prefer men as food, to women.

The above paragraph has been going the rounds of the press for some time accompanied with various comments.

Some editors commend the gallantry of wild beasts, in always preferring to devour the ruder sex, while they spare the gentle daughter of Eve. Others find in this fact an illustration of the lines of the poet:

“’Tis said that a lion will turn and flee
From a maid in the pride of her purity,”

and consider that this tendency of the brute
creation, applies only to unmarried females
—being a kind of seal of approbation set
by nature on virginity. Others, old bache-
lors chiefly, insist that the preference given
by carnivorous animals to male flesh, is
simply another proof of the superiority of
men—a superiority, we may remark, in
passing, which, if true, the gentler sex will
not be inclined to envy them; these also
contend, with that great philosophical
whirligig, Brownson, that men are more
sensitive than women, and accordingly that
it is fair to infer that their flesh is tenderer.
Others, and these are principally henpecked
husbands, secretly insinuate that it is ow-
ing to the tremendous screaming generally
set up by a lady when in danger, while
men think it cowardly and undignified to
make any noise; while beasts resemble the
human species in the respect that they like
to take their meals in peace. Others con-

If the world affords any perfect felicity, it is in a middle estate, equally distant from enury and from excess—it is in a calm }. a secure tranquillity, a thankful enjoyment of ourselves and all that is ours.

Fashion makes foolish parents, invalids of children, and servants of all.

The Family Herald: A Domestic Magazine of Useful Information and …, Volume 31 (Google Books)

Sydney Smith, in a letter to Mr. Howard of Corby, once observed:—“The only acquaintance I have made at Taunton is that of the clerk of the parish, a very sensible man, with great Amen-ity of disposition.” There is a difficulty in finding a jury when an Indian comes before, an Omaha court. One of a panel, being asked if he had any prejudice, replied, “No ; only I’ve been chased by ’em, been in several battles with ’em, and would hang every every man-jack of ’em at sight if I could.” “Get out of my way—what are you good forf” said a cross old man to a little bright-eyed urchin who o: to stand in his way. The little fellow, as he stepped on one side, replied, very gently, “They make men out of such things as we are.” The bridesmaids at a recent wedding in Georgia are thus described by a local paper: “It is no idle compliment to say they are like three Graces, their faces mirroring back the purity and softness of the skies, their eyes floating in a light of dewy tenderness, or throwing radiant flashes from the inner shrines of thought like jewel-tinted sparkles caught from broken rainbows.” A School Board authority, while lately examining some young children, asked them the following questions: – “Are there any mountains in Palestine f” “Yes,” replied the children. “How are they situated?” inquired the examiner. “Some are in clusters, and there are some isolated ones,” they answered. “What do you mean by the word ‘isolated’ F’’ asked the examiner. “Why, covered with ice, of course!” was the quick reply. “A charwoman whom I employ,” writes a correspondent, “has a nice little boy, seven years old, of whom she is very proud, and whom she always dresses most carefully, and in the latest fashion. All the poor woman’s earnings are spent upon clothes for her child. As I was blaming her the other day and o: that she ought to think of herself more, ‘Oh, sir, she replied, ‘don’t Flame me! Just think of it—I took little Tommy into the Park on Sunday for a walk, and people took me for his nurse!’” London changes colour on the day of the Oxford and Cambridge boat-race. It is in the blues, light and dark. Everybody wears blue; even babies are borne about in robes of the colours of the fancy crew of the “mamma” and “papa.” On the morning of the last boat-race a fat poodle waddled up Belgravia with a gorgeous and massive dark blue tie round his neck. The spinster lady who proudly led it was much shocked when she was accosted by a butcher-boy, a partisan of the other colour, with “I’d soon make Cambridge of him if I had him 1″ She knew instinctively that he alluded to sausages.

In the year 1848 an actress at the Théâtre des Variétés, Paris–Mademoiselle Boisgontier—was extraordinarily fond of birds. She had set her heart above all others upon a magnificent canary belonging to the box-keeper, which sa almost without ceasing from morning, till night. Her affection for the bir became a perfect passion, and every o she implored the owner to sell it to her; but, although she offered a v andsome sum, her efforts were all in vain. . At length one day, thanks to the political excitement into which the 1st of February threw the whole population, the actress managed to make away with the splendid bird, replacing it with another that she had just bought. Some days afterwards, however, her conscience smote her, and she returned to the theatre. “Sell me your canary,” said she to the box-keeper, hoping to ease her conscience. “Oh, less than ever !” was the indignant reply; of the oor little creature has not sung a single note since Louis-Philippe’s departure.” }: was a hen bird that Boisgontier had bought !

Counsellor Higgins, of the State of —, U.S., who died many years ago, was exceedingly adroit in defending a prisoner, and would sometimes laugh down an indictment for a small offence. A fellow (one so being on trial for stealing a turkey, the counsellor attempted to give a good, humane turn to the affair, “Why, gentlemen of the jury,” said he, “this is really a very small affair; I wonder any one could bring such a complaint into court; if we are going on at this rate, we shall have business enough on our hands. Why, I recollect when I was at college that nothing was more common than to go foraging. We used to have a good supper in this way. We did not get the ło too often in the same place, and there was no harm done, no fault ound.” No.; this appeal, the jury convicted the prisoner. After the Court had risen, one of the jury, a plain …}farmer, meeting the counsellor, complimented him on his ingenuity. “And now, squire,” said he, fixing a rather knowing look upon him, “I should like to ask you one question: which road do you take in going home, the upper or the lower P” “The lower,” said the counsellor. “Well, then, it’s no matter. I only wanted to observe i. you were going my way I would just jog on before you and lock up my en-house,”

AN ANIMATED SEAT.-A bench of magistrates. QUERY.—Can a girl, when she is a belle, be said to have a ringing laugh. AN INCIDENTAL INQUIRY.—Would artificial teeth enable a person to sing false-sett-o: * HoME AFFECTIONs.—Talk about the modern falling off of home affections! Our wives are becoming dearer every day.

Historical, CoN.—If a doctor were to tell the Siamese twins they could be safely separated, and they consented, what Roman emperor would they name *—Severus.

KEEPING TIME.-A San Francisco paper tells of a gentleman who gave his Chinese servant five hours’ leave of absence the other day, and was somewhat amused by seeing him walk out of the gate with a twelve-pound clock under his arm, which he took with him to keep the “run” of the time and be back in season.

THE OLD LADY’s Advice.—“Girls,” said a worthy old American lady to her grand-daughters, “whenever a fellow pops the question, don’t blush and stare at your foot. Just throw your arms around his neck, look him full in the face, and commence talking about the furniture. Young fellows are mighty nervous sometimes. I lost several good chances before I caught your fond, dear grandfather, by putting on airs, but I learnt how to do it after a while.”

WHERE *—Where is the railway passenger who, when he leaves the train, is so uncommonly polite as to shut the door after him f . Where is the public orator who can ever keep his promise to say a “few words only” P Where is the builder who never lets his bill exceed his given estimate? Where is the organ fiend who will move from your door without your fetching, a policeman? Where is the barber, who can manage to content himself by cutting our hair simply, without making any cutting observations on its scantiness? Yo… is the woman who is content not to have “the last word” P And, lastly, where is the young lady who can pack her own boxes and not leave half her “things” behind her?

“THE MATTER ExPLAINs ITSELF.” —An awkward affair which once occurred to one of the judges on the Western Circuit, has been the subject of much mirth. It appears that, having finished his labours and cast off his forensic wig at his lodgings, he had retired into the next room to wait for his brother judge, whom he was about to accompany to meet some of the local . aristocracy at dinner. The female servant of the house had entered the bedchamber by a side-door, and, not knowing that the judge was in the next room, in a frolic arrayed herself in his wig. Just at the moment when the fair Mopsy was #. herself in the folio the † *. entered the room ; and poor Mopsy, catching a sight of the stern countenance looking over her shoulder in the glass, was so alarmed that she fainted, and would have fallen to the ground if the learned judge, impelled by humanity, had not caught her in his arms. . At this critical moment his brother i. arrived, and, on opening the dressingroom door, with a view to see if he was ready, discovered his searned brother with the fainting maid in his arms. The intruder quickly attempted to withdraw; when his brother judge vociferated, “For heaven’s sake, stop and hear this matter explained ” “Never mind, my dear brother—the matter explains itself;” and he left his learned brother to bring the fainting maid to as best he could.

MARK Twan’s StoRY of Poor LITTLE STEPHEN GIRARD.—“The man lives in Philadelphia who, when young and poor, entered a bank, and says he, ‘Please, sir, don’t you want a little boy P’. And the stately personage said, ‘No, little boy; I don’t want a little boy.’ The little boy, whose heart was too full for utterance, chewing a piece of liquorice stick he had bought with a cent he had stolen from his good and pious aunt, with sobs plainly audible, and with great globules of water running down his cheeks, glided silently down the marble steps of the bank. Bending his hoble form, the bank man dodged behind a door, for he thought the little boy was going to shy a stone at him. But the boy picked up something and stuck it j poor but ragged jacket. ‘Come here, little boy’—and the little boy did “come here;’ and the ank man said, “Lo what pickest thou up f” And he answered and said, “A pin.’ And the bank man said, ‘Little boy, are you good?’ and he said he was. And the bank man said, ‘How do you vote—excuse me, do you go to Sunday school P., And he said he did. Then the bank man took down a pen made of pure gold, and flowing with pure ink, and wrote on a piece of paper, ‘St. Peter, and asked the little boy what it stood for, and he said, “Salt Peter. Then the bank man said it meant ‘Saint Peter.’ . The little boy said, ‘Qh !’. The bank man took the little boy to his bosom, and the little boy said “Oh l’ again, for he squeezed him. Then the bank man took the little boy into a partnership, and gave him half the profits and all the capital, and he married the bank man’s daughter, and all he has is all his, and all his own too.–Story of Another Little Boy: My uncle told me the above story, and I spent six weeks picking up pins in front of a bank, I expected the bank man would call me in and say, Little boy, are you good?’ and I was going to say ‘Yes;’ and when he asked me what ‘St. John’stood for, I was going to say ‘Salt John.” But I guess the bank man wasn’t anxious to have a partner, and I guess the daughter was a son, for one day says he to me, ‘Little boy, what’s that you’re picking up f” Says I, awfully meek, “Pins.’, Says he, ‘Let’s see ’em.’ And he took ’em, and I took off my cap, all ready to go in the bank and become a partner and marry his daughter. But I didn’t get an invitation. He said, “Those pins, belong to the bank, and if I catch you hanging around here any more, I’ll set the dog on you!’ Then I left, and the mean oki cuss kept the pins. Such is life as I find it.”

Dorothea, a story of the pure in heart

Dorothea, a story of the pure in heart

The train started at about eight that evening, a Riviera
train de luxe. Sleeping-cars and restaurant-cars were newer in
those days than now; Dorothea had never seen them, nor had
she come in contact with the class of people who patronized
that superlatively expensive and uncomfortable modem mode of
travelling. A babel of nationalities filled the wide platform,
yet none of these presented any pleasing originality; rather
they all appeared parodies of one another. All of them were
self-conscious, and scornful (with reason) of their neighbors;
all of them gave themselves airs, probably because they had lost
the air of their ancestors; many were titled (with coronets on
their boxes) and most were too rich. Loud men and louder
women, carefully, and manifestly, made up to look younger


than they were, clothed in the eccentricities of checks, capes,
caps, covert-coats, etc., the whole extravaganza of horsiness dear
to the sporting taste of the day, which revels in a general aspect
and odor of leather and stable-cloths. Pyramids of trunks were
being carted right and left round Dorothea, but what astonished
her most were the torrents of superfine hand-baggage, dressing
bags, despatch-boxes, bouquets, lap-dogs, canaries, rugs, overalls,
furs, air-cushions, tennis-rackets, hot-water bottles, pouring
down on all available spaces in what seemed a hopeless pell-mell.
Without these things you and I know our daughters cannot
travel ; let us be thankful that there still exists backwoods even
in Europe, where a girl may grow up quite simple, yet refined.

” ‘Now, here’s your sleeper,” said Colonel Sandring, turning
up, perfectly cool, in the hubbub, his interminable cigarette
between his lips. “There’s an awful crush, at this season. I
was very lucky in being able to effect an exchange.”

” And yourself ? ” asked Dorothea.

” Oh, I’m an old stager. I shall go on, by another train,
with your maid. There’s no danger, Dolly.” He laughed to her,
but she hadn’t understood.

” Here’s a couple of napoleons for the journey. Don’t speak
to any one, especially not your companion in this hole for the
night. Drive straight to the Grand Hotel at Nice on arriving.
My train comes in an hour or two later. It couldn’t be helped.
I tried hard enough to get a third — a second berth yesterday.”

” It’s your discomfort I was thinking of,” replied Dorothea.
** Please father, I must just speak to my maid.”

” I don’t mind,” replied Rebecca tartly. ” It’s you, Freule,
that’s going to be killed in that little box. Good-night.” She
went and established herself on a trunkful of luggage, from
which she had first carefully removed a black poodle, right under
the gold glasses and Wellington nose of its painted and pow-
dered proprietress.

” Marquise, it is a peasant ! ” explained a sickly little male
creature in a pink and white collar. “I can see that, mon
cher,” retorted the harridan, “but my father would have shot
the impudent dead ! ” The unconscious Rebecca sat grimly
confronting the poodle, which was a marvellous ” First Prize,”
curled, tasselled and trimmed.

” Satan ! ” she exploded, like a thunderbolt. The poodle
showed his teeth, not because she likened him to an angel, but
because she had thrust him from his high estate. Rebecca
smiled fearlessly back, and, as she gazed across her surround-


ings, the rugged smile broadened. She approved of the Devil,
and his doings. He fitted into her system. A sort of moral
shower-bath to the righteous. Bracing.

In front of Dorothea’s cabin a female voice, that was authori-
tatively summoning the conductor, stopped, in a loud rustle of
silk underskirts. A strong smell of violets filled the little
chamber. A big, florid lady, in black feathers and the fashion-
able hair-dye, obstructed the door.

” Ah, c’est ici,” she said. ” Bien I Bonjour, madame.”

Dorothea started to her feet, her heart full of a nameless
terror which she was doing her best to keep back from her eyes.
Stammering some incoherent apology, she pushed past the new-
comer, who was leisurely examining her quarters, and, breath-
less, caught the Colonel by the arm, where he calmly stood
buying a Figaro.

” Father I ” she stuttered, ” I can’t travel in that compart-
ment. There’s a person come in that — ^the woman with the

” Calm yourself, for goodness sake — people are looking,” said
the Colonel angrily. ” Good gracious, how pale you are ! ” —
all the anger had died out of his voice. ” Don’t be a fool, Dolly.
Of course there’s another passenger. She won’t speak to you.
And if she does, just reply, yes or no.” Thus far the Colonel,
who considered he had admirably solved a rather awkward
dilemma at no slight inconvenience to himself. He had been
very anxious that Dorothea should come away to him at once,
for fear of never getting her at all.

” But you don’t understand,” she cried in anguish. ” It’s
the woman we saw at the hotel. I can’t spend a night with that
woman ! ”

” Well, she was at the hotel last night, and she’s going on,
probably, to Nice. What more natural ? Are you afraid ? ”

Dorothea drew back a step. ” Afraid ? ” she said. ” Of her
hitting me? No.”

” Of her hurting you ? ” He smiled.

« Yes.”

” En voiture, s’il vous plait ! ” said a passing conductor.

” Come, Dorothy, you’re behaving like a baby. Look here,
I got this for you ! ” He ran after her, as she turned, feeling the
hopelessness of all argument, and pushed into her hand a dainty
parcel of chocolates. ” Sleep well ! Bon voyage ! Meet me at
Nice with a smile ! ”

Long after the train had started, Dorothea sat, squeezed as


tight as she could squeeze into the far corner by the window,
quite still, shrinking away. ‘She looked out a good deal into the
night, but you soon get tired of that. The cabin was full of the
heavy odor of violets; the neighbor, less immovable, rustled all
the time. Once, in turning to get something out of her bag,
which she was constantly opening and shutting, she put down
her white-gloved hand on a fold of Dorothy’s skirt. The girPs
heart gave a horrible leap, and went on bumping. As her
thoughts grew a little calmer, she felt ashamed of herself, yet
she knew there was no other impulse at work in her bosom than
grief and compassion, grief above all. Through the long, long
hours, when the light had been veiled and the train went crash-
ing through the darkness, Dorothea lay on her narrow top-shelf,
not undressed — she could not have undressed — ^lay with troubled
eyes she hardly dared to close. Yet, from time to time she
closed them, for long periods, praying with all her innocent
heart and soul, in passionate strainings of the lips, for the
woman tranquilly snoring beneath her.

And for herself she prayed, in deep humility, with tender
liftings of the heart to God, who had kept her from- great
temptation. She hid away her watch under her pillow, and also
the diamond star. !N’ot that she distinctly doubted the person’s
honesty, but she vaguely knew, from the Book of Proverbs, that
such women lived by plunder. She knew nothing, except that all
we like sheep have gone astray, yet that between this sort of
sinners and all others a great gulf lay fixed, into which her
flock could never wander, but from which, in all their strayings,
they shudderingly turned away. Sleep would have been im-
possible in any case. The train banged and rattled on with
frequent stops, loud bumpings, a blowing of horns that might
wake the dead: the air in the tiny compartment was stifling,
the cramping boards caused every limb to ache. And she lay,
through the lengthening hours of persistent creaking and heav-
ing, lay praying, praying, praying for the woman who snored

She climbed down from her perch in ,the morning, stiff and
soiled, feeling as if she would never be clean again. Early light
did not suit the French lady’s complexion, but, being an ex-
perienced traveller, she got herself far more easily into some
sort of trim. She seemed to ignore the presence of anyone else
in the crowded car : she said ” Pardon, madame,” a good many
times, but otherwise acted exactly as she liked.

She rushed away for lengthy meals, and ate fruit and sweet-


meats and other thmgs promiscuously in between. She also
drank something out of a bottle. In the early morning Doro-
thea profited by a moment of solitude to read her usual chapter
in the Bible, and, having finished it, turned with pardonable
curiosity to that same Book of Proverbs, which gives so graphic
a description both of the wisest woman and also of the wickedest
that philosopher can realize, exx>erience, or invent. She looked
up presently from the volume on her knees, to meet the French-
woman’s gaze fixed coolly upon her, and she gave a sharp start
of surprise, for it seemed to her, in her first alarm and embar-
rassment, as if her companion must have been perusing the
sacred passage upside down, or even now could read its meaning
in her face. As if Madame Blanche would have understood a
single word of it, even had it not been in Dutch I

” Pardon, madame,” said the Frenchwoman. Dorothea’s tell-
tale eyes glanced hastily away to the strange clear southern
landscape that had gradually revealed itself in the growing
morning light, the landscape of silver-grey olives and aloes, the
long grey stretches of rock and of clouded Mediterranean, the
whiteness and brightness of the houses under the strong grey
sky. She hid away her shabby little book and took out a
Tauchnitz volume. In those days the train de luxe — ^was there
ever name invented more appropriately vulgar? — did not reach
Nice till after noon; Dorothea, going to lunch, found herself
seated opposite a table at which two men were laughing loudly.
ITear her sat Madame, serenely pensive, behind a cup of coffee
and a glass of Chartreuse. Dorothea ate hastily off the dim-blue
plates : it was not till she rose to attract the waiter’s attention
that she found her purse was gone I

” Oui, madame,” said the waiter, standing expectant. ” Trois
francs cinquante et un seltz, qa fait quatre francs ving:t-cinq.”

” I have lost my purse I ” gasped Dorothea. She remembered
having put it in her pocket as she passed up the corrider. The
men stopped talking. Madame did not turn her head.

The waiter looked intelligent interest, without any personal
bias. ” Perhaps Madame had dropped it ? ” he pretended to L>ok
under the table. ” Perhaps she was sitting on it ? ‘No ? ”

” Well, there were always pickpockets at Marseilles. It was
written up everywhere. ‘ Beware ‘ ”

” I haven’t left the train since Paris I ” exclaimed Dorothea.
And then, to her amazement, the man turned nasty, with the
swift insolence of all these employes when once they see their
chance. ” Do you think that the company’s servants have taken


it? Or one of the passengers, the aristocracy of Europe? If
you haven’t the money to pay ^”

” Can I be of service? ” asked one of the men from the side-
table, bending forward — oh, he was manifestly a gentleman, and
plainly “no better than he should be” — a curious phrase, by
the bye, which shows with how exceedingly little the world is
agreed to be content. ” Don’t, pray, look so distressed, although
it suits you admirably. Pray iet me pay this man : it will be too
cheap a pleasure ^^

“Take your money and be gone,” said the Frenchwoman,
turning suddenly with a five-franc piece to the waiter. ” This
young lady travels in my compartment : we shall doubtless find
the purse there. Shall we go and look for it ? ” And she led the
way. Dorothea followed dumbly. Terrible visions had risen
up before her of magistrates and policemen. What fearful fate
was reserved for strangers who made debts of four francs
twenty-five and had no money to pay?

“It is no use looking: it is stolen,” she cried as she sank
back on the seat, her hands before her eyes. ” Oh, how shall I
ever thank you for your kindness, your very great kindness ? ”
She was humbled to the dust.

” Pooh, it is nothing I You will want a few francs on arriv-
ing: shall I put them down here, in your lap. Will you smell
these salts? I am going on to Monte Carlo. No doubt your
pocket was picked by one of these fine gentlemen in the corridor.
You must realize, mademoiselle, that you are now on the coast
where the cream and the scum of the world float uppermost.
You will find the worst editions of humanity here — ^hil hi I —
black letter inside, bound in gold.”

“I can never repay you,” said Dorothea, struggling with
her repugnance, “but still, you must give me an address to
which I can send these few francs.”

And now it was the other lady’s turn to look embarrassed,
under her powder. ” For ten francs I ” she said. ” Pooh ; it is
not worth while. You will give them to the poor ! ”

Dorothea drew herself up. “I cannot remain indebted to
you for more than your kindness,” she said.

The Frenchwoman paused, then, with an extra rustle she
wrote down a few words on a scrap of her ” Gil Bias ” and
handed them to Dorothea, who read:

“Madame de Barvielle,
” Poste Restante,

” Monaco.”

The Australian Journal: A Weekly Record of Literature, Science …, Volume 13 (Google Books)


Fautt? Lenton sat stitching at some delicate embroidery in a luxuriously furnished apartment. She was companion to old Mrs. Rook, and had every comfort, kind treatment, and a good salary. But the dull monotony of her daily life was irksome to the girl, who was bright and young and. fond of frolic. To embroider Mrs. Eook’s collars and kerchiefs; pet the poodle, and take him out to walk; feed the canary-bird, and clean his cage, and dress Mrs. Eook’s white hair—-these v? J Fanny Lenton’s duties. But she was treated rather like a daughter than one merely hired. She had nothing to complain of.

“I almost wish I had,” she sighed. “It would be less tedious to be ill used than to settle down in this way to spend my youth as a sort of genteel ladies’ maid and dio an old maid at last.”

“My grandson, Fanny. Henry, this is my friend and companion, Miss Lenton,” said a voice behind her.

And turning she saw her patroness leaning on the ‘arm of a very handsome young man. She arose and bowed. He also bowed low. Very littlo was said. But afterward, when the young man had strolled away to smoke his cigar on the piazza, Mrs. Book said:

“My grandson is to live with me henceforth. We need some protection in this lonely house. I tremble with dread of burglars every night.”

So it began. And life that had been so dull grew bright. A new step, a new face, a new voice drove away the monotony. There was music in the parlour in the long evenings. The three went together to places of amusement—friends dropped in. Fanny felt that life was very bright indeed to her, even before Henry Book actually became her professed lover.

But this happened very soon—a month from the day on which Fanny Lenton bewailed her dull fate over her embroidery in Mrs. Book’s boudoir.

He had said: “I love you;” and she wore his engagement ring. Where Mrs. Book’s eyes had been before, or of what she had been thinking, it is hard to guess; but on the first day when this emblematic jewel sparkled upon Fanny’s fore-finger she pounced down upon her like a hawk, and cried out:

“Who gave youthat ring, Miss Lenton F”

“Your grandson, Henry Book,” said Fanny.

“So you’ve been angling for him, eh ?” cried Mrs. Book. “Is this your gratitude P But I’ll not bear it; it must come to an end. Take that ring off your finger, miss. If Henry marries you I’ll disinherit him, and he’ll be a pauper.”

“I do not want your fortune, madam,” said Fanny. “I regret that you are displeased; but unless Henry gives me up, I will not abandon him.

Away flew the old lady to her grandson.

“Henry,” she cried, “youVe acted liko an idiot. You must break off this affair with a girl who has not a penny. I want you to marry young Miss Diamond, who is a great fortune; and if you disobey me—if you actually stick to your engagement with this girl—I’ll send for the lawyer and alter my will, leave everything to a hospital, and cut you off without a shilling. You hear me?”

“I hear-you, madam,” said Henry. “I regret you disapprove of the step I have taken, but you must do with your money as you will. I am not thinking of it, I assure you. I have hands and brains and can earn my own livelihood; unless indeed Fanny declines to share the fate of so poor a man.”

“I fancy she will,” said Mrs. Book; “I fancy she will. Advise her to do so. Love in a cottage—what is it Tom Hood says ?—love in a cottage really is, leaky roofs and a draught under the door, I believe. No, no, that’s not her idea, I’ll be bound. And, mind you, I shan’t relent; I’m adamant 1”

Henry Book at once wont in search of his fiancee. He found her in tears, in the little boudoir, where he had first met her.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, have I destroyed your prospects of wealth I I cannot bear the thought. You would reproach me in your heart; let us part.”

“Because you fear poverty V asked Henry.

“With you I would fear nothing,” said Fanny. “But it is too great a sacrifice.”

“What would wealth be without you, my darling?” cried Henry. “No. Grandmamma has always been good to me, until to-day. I love her, but let her keep her money ; let us keep each other.”

“You will never repent?” sobbed Fanny.

“Never !” said Henry, and sealed the promise with a kiss.

Together they went to the parlour, where old Mrs. Book sat in State, fanning herself. J

“Madam,” said Fanny, “Henry refuses to give me up. What can I do? I love him.”

“Grandmamma,” said Henry, “this is my betrothed wife. Would you have me sell her for a fortune? You yourself told me how fair she was, how good, how sweet. You were right in your description of her. Keep your money, but give us your blessing.”

“Ah, very fine?” sneered the old lady. “Well, take my blessing. That is quite a cheap present. Now I shall send for my lawyer. I shall leave my money to the hospital for inebriates, or a foundling protectory, or something, or I shall adopt your cousin Peter, sir. As for a companion, I’ll never have another. Now, go and be married, and keep house on the blessing. Peter shall marry Miss Diamond. Peter is a plain boy, but he’ll obey me, I am sure. You can pack, miss. So can you, sir!” and she turned her back upon them.

Fanny went up to her room and began to put her few belongings into her trunk.

Henry stuffed his into his portmanteau. In the hall they met.

“I shall go to my aunt’s,” said Fanny.

“I shall see you this evening,” said Henry. “You must set our wedding day then, my dear, and we’ll begin life’s battle together.”

“Hey?” cried the voioe of Mrs. Rook. “You defy me, do


She stood before them shaking her old head.

“I must marry Fanny ; we love each other,” said Henry.

“He’s a beggar, young woman,” said Mrs. Rook.

“Then I’ll help him beg,” said Fanny.

Suddenly Mrs. Book’s face changed. She burst into a laugh.

“Why you silly children!” she cried “Have I been so good an actress? Do you really think me so mercenary a wretch P I have only been trying you both; and indeed I should have disinherited you, Henry, if you could have broken faith with Fanny for my money’s sake. As for Fanny, how did I know she did not want your fortune and not your love, until I tried her? But you have been tested, and have proved to have hearts of pure gold. My home must be yours. My heart you already fill. I have found that there is a little romance left in this world, and I am glad of it.

Then she embraced them both, and her face was as happy as theirs, upon their wedding day.